The Forgiveness of Blood

Modern world clashes with ancient law in Albania in the dark 'The Forgiveness of Blood'

By BETSY SHARKEY (Los Angeles Times)

LOS ANGELES -- "The Forgiveness of Blood," a dark saga about the clash of modern times and ancient traditions in rural Albania, is more a story of whispers when cries are what's called for with lives, livelihoods and family honor on the line.

The eye-for-an-eye price of settling such disputes, and the hope of a new generation to escape the sins of their fathers, drives cowriter-director Joshua Marston's fitful new film.

Though Marston is once again rooting around in the harsh realities of cultural mores, particularly for the young, the movie lacks the emotional jolt of his splendid "Maria Full of Grace" in 2004. For the pregnant Columbian teen in "Maria," it was both the escape promised and the toll exacted of being a drug mule. For Nik (Tristan Halilaj), the young Albanian in the middle of "Forgiveness," it is the repercussions of his father's fight, one that leaves the teenager a virtual prisoner in his own home.The film opens with the contrasting realities of Nik's life. He's a typical teenager, finishing up high school, obsessing over his looks, flirting with a classmate. He's also the oldest son, helping his father, Mark (Refet Abazi), hitch an ox to the wagon, which is both the family's main source of income and its only transportation. His father's days are spent delivering fresh-baked bread around the village, while Nik spends his texting friends, retooling computers and dreaming of opening an Internet cafe.

Natura Morta or Still Life

How is life? Is it a canvas? Do we just slosh the sunset on a piece of plaster? Yes, it is. We can change what we want to, erase that black smudge, but we cannot change what we have done in the past. With focus and determination, your painting can be as well-known as DaVinci's greatest masterpiece. There is no limit. I created both paintings with a bit of assistance and patience, which is hard to seek in a character like I. Your canvas lies in your artistic hands. You make the most out of it.

Ide Kayla

Rags or Riches....which is better?

Two girls. What stands between them are riches, piled to the brim. Lovely gold coins spill on oak floors covered with elegant carpets. Velvet seats, smooth are scattered. What is another life? How is it like, to step into a different world. Friends, let us find out. Picture sitting on a coal box, the harsh, bitter wind beating your face. Feet bare, resting on ice, causing to create black and blue gashes.

There is a girl, spoiled rotten, tresses expensively curled and bursting with ribbons. Never exposed to the world of hard work, leave out that she worked at all. Treated as well as a king, this girl hides within the lavish furnishing and never has met a peasant.  There is a girl, clothed in rags and a slick of mud. Once being handsome, life treated this girl despite her gentle nature, as a torrent. Stomach growling loudly, the child bypasses through the bust streets of yesterday's London, scavenging for something to engulf.

Now, the story I tell you, you would think how a wealthy girl can meet such a poor child. "Why, your dressings are absolutely filthy!" she gawks. Having nothing to defend herself, the scrawny girl shrugs, in attempt to drive the other child away. What's she lollygagging in a place like this, anyways?

The otherwise rich girl shook her head, muttering: "Oh, lord, what sorts of family do you own anyways?" Repeating her gesture, the other child mumbles, "Got no family..." Scowling, the wealthy heiress says, "Impossible, you damned, wretched thing. There has to be some family of yours." The poor "thing" glared at her.

"I'm sooo unhappy! My lame father treats me like a dog," whined the spoiled one. "I suppose you feel the same," she continues, unsure of her footing. Sticking her snout in the air, the poor one uttered a whisper "Then I am much happier than you." Surprisingly, the whiner's face crumbled as she burst into tears. The day faded long ago, foreign to history.

What is better readers, you tell me. Why did the wealthy one cry? Which side would you choose? Question at your own limit.

Ide Kayla

The universe in a couple of words.......

Sometimes I wonder what the universe is exactly, just a silky back drop over a variety of marbles? Life has taught me well that everything is not what it seems to appear. For example, that nice boy over the street murdered 3 others. No, it appears more practical. "Does god exist?" Young readers would ask me. My message to you, The universe has no limit. As I have watched on the television, you need three ingredients to create a universe. One- SPACE. You need SOMEWHERE to put this universe. What else? Two- Matter.  What are you going to make it out of? Three- Time. Ah, yes, the dreaded time is needed. Go ask Father Time to get you an hourglass. Not easy, right? Are you going to pull space out of your pocket? Take my advice, young-ins. Just leave a piece of fruit in the sun and very soon you will have your own colony of ants. Trust my expertise, you would be way better off.

No one knows where the universe came from. Scientists believe what they call "The Big Bang" theory. This says that the universe just came out of......nowhere?? I was stupefied at first....all this pulled out of nothing, out of a murky pit? It is told god existed BEFORE time, which was during this period. One thing....that could not happen. Nothing existed before there was the universe, leave out god. This is caused for there being no time. A confusing puzzle, is it not?

All before time. This is just a measly theory, so don't go beating down doors for it. I always wonder if there is anything beyond space. Is there? Choose your own path. Choose wisely.

Writer, Smart-Aleck and yours truly,
Ide Kayla

A New Poem

Dead Land

By Ide Kayla

Gloomy Dead Trees stand,

Jade vines crawling over damp bark.

There used to be a time when the wind blew,

Scattering lush petals of olive, gold and lavender over

Emerald pasture.

There used to be a time when magpies tittered, hopping branch to branch

On glorious willow trees,

Limp branches waved in the breeze.

There used to be a time that was serene,

Never overtaken by glass buildings or

Silly cars running on black gravel roads.

No rubbish spilling on the street.

Until now.

No life surrounds but

A dead paradise.

Dead land.

Two Poems

Imperfect

By Ide Kayla (my 10 year old daughter)

For years I have been hiding in the shadows,

In my own shell of a life.

Tears splattering the blood-covered ground.

Knees wobbling,

Chest tightened,

I shuffle downwards to what seemed like death.

Her beady snake eyes scanned me,

Holding its icy blue stare.

Snarl that can curdle milk,

Was carved by angels to perfection.

Girls and boys gawk,

Making me sag to the ground.

For my pathetic imperfection,

Stank the school yard,

Causing the Magpies to flitter away,

In  a frenzy full of feathers.

A tear, this time,

Red with blood,

Rolled down my flushed cheeks.

It seems like the girl had damaged me with words,

Leaving the crowd to point and laugh.

I squint and almost die this time.

Familiar faces grin like demon's

In front of mine, which was pale and bitter, with frost.

Same hair, same eyes, same faces.....

I gasp with horror.

The tear of blood has repeated, leaving a mark on my other cheek.

Then, almost rapidly, a third rolled down, then a fourth,

And so on, the blood flowed at an amazing speed.

I became paler, which only added to my despicable face,

Which, now was the color of a sheet.

I took a deep breath, then accepted my tragic death.

I waited.

And waited

And waited.

I was no longer in this world anymore.

I vanished.

11/12/2011

Standing in the Rain

By Ide Kayla

O, god what have we done, to make sinners,

To change? The world is thy golden,

We are trinkets, spreading

A wildfire. Burning.

Keep Burning. The skies stained with blood of fallen

Warriors. The rain pelts like an inferno,

Stinging ‘round my neck.

Midnight looms over the silky dark sky,

Tracing bright stars.

I grip a palm. Shivering,

Dripping down my back,

Tears flow. I grip the smooth hand

Tighter, feeling a familiar warmth. My veins run ice cold.

My hard plunged in my throat.

Stubbornly, I crane my neck, seeing a man.

He, not solid, transparent with a sickly

Blue tinge. My grey eyes look in to

His warm, silver ones.

A peculiar feeling shoots through me.

No, it couldn't be...............

“F-father,”

I squeak, my voice reaching a peak.

The man does not answer,

Thy just stares at me solemnly,

As if we shared a secret.

And we did.

“Father....”

I repeat, a little most courageous.

“Is that you?”

No answer.

The man is gone.

02/04/2012

Rite de Passage

Nga Gonxhe në Nënë Tereza

Nga Altin Topi 
Shekulli

Me një këndvështrim të freskët sapo është hedhur në treg nga enti botues amerikan Time Inc, një numër special rreth Nënë Terezën në përvjetorin një shekullor të lindjes te saj. Midis dyjëzimeve historike në rrjedhat e turbullta që përjetonte Ballkani i një shekulli më parë, fëmijëria dhe rinia e herëshme e Agnes Gonxhe Bojaxhiut, nuk mbeten më në terrin e tymnajes të një “vajze prej Ballkani”.

Duke u marrë si shkas një fotografi e Terezës së ardhëshme dalë ne 1928, në moshe 18 vjecare, Time shkruan ajo çka e përcakton fotografinë, janë sytë e Gonxhes, plot ngrohtësi, e që kallzojnë shumë. Vështrimi i saj është i kthjellët, e megjithatë i vendosur, shënjon një lloj padurimi. Fotoja nuk është një çast, një kapje fotografike e një provinciale naïve. Vajza në foto “ di diçka rreth rrugës ku po futet”, çfare drejtimi ështe duke marrë jeta e saj. Prej këtij moment na hapet një domethënie, interpretim i ri në shkrimin e revistës amerikane e prejardhjes etnike e familjare të Gonxhes të re për të shpjeguar Nëne Terezën.