Max Titov

Let’s talk about it

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I spend a considerable amount of time putting my thoughts down on paper but the majority of what I write never reaches the open public.

I write to friends. We exchange emails and do so often.

Although I find writing to be comforting I’ve struggled with the idea of getting my thoughts across in to the public domain.  There are many reasons why and it took me some time to figure out the majority of them.

And, no!  I don’t have it all figured out yet.

 

Vulnerability: Writing or any type of creativity requires some back-bone, some trust and the ability to be vulnerable with your audience.  It’s one thing to open up to your trusted friends [those few who’ve been with you through the though times and lived to tell the tale – or perhaps keep it to themselves]; it’s a complete different experience to throw yourself at the mercy of the public.

Everyone has an opinion and everyone has the right to speak their mind.  It does take a certain level of strength to be authentic, to speak your thoughts and to accept associated challenges.

 

You’re not a real writer and what you have to say doesn’t really matter: The dreadful self-ridiculing voice that keeps us at bay.  I try to focus on the positives but in the process I think I miss the opportunity to deal with the root problem.  If I am honest with myself: I think this impacts my struggle with putting my thoughts online.

High school and a single creative writing course in university were the only sources of formal exposure to writing curriculum that I had. The creative writing course was amazing but it wasn’t enough to sufficiently break through a formula/algorithm based discipline of Computer Science.

Public writing always took a back-seat to life.

Now that I realize this: I will try to be more proactive and address my fears directly.  Do the work: write, because you love it, forget the fears and move forward.

 

Who are you writing for? I haven’t fully figured that out yet.  And this might be the biggest road block that prevented me from moving forward.  What is the purpose?  Who will read this?  In this vast digital space who will actually take the time and what value will my words have?

I like to do things for a reason.

A big part of me is an extrovert  so I draw energy from communicating and sharing with others.  As a result: there’s a great fear that all of this is for nothing, that all of this is a waste of time and simply just another “whim” that I took on a spur of the moment.

Conclusion

My dear reader, my unknown confidant: what can I say? I am not quite sure where this will take me, but I’ll give it an honest try.  I’ll write for myself and I’ll write for you; hoping that somehow we can both find some meaning in the process.

 

Your’s truly,

Max

 

 

Max Titov

Cooking: Talapia on a bed of Pan Fried Potatoes

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Ingredients

  • 4 potatoes
  • 1 onion
  • 1 slice of talapia
  • Salt
  • Ground pepper
  • Italian seasoning
  • Sunflower oil

Instructions

  • Cut potatoes in to small pieces
  • Finely dice onion
  • Heat up a pan with generous amount of oil
  • When hot add potatoes & stir frequently
  • Add onions

    When potatoes get a little colour, add onions & continue stirring frequently until done

  • Season

    Roughly at a 3/4 mark of when the potatoes are ready season the contents of the pan

Max Titov

Broken Smile

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There is a large construction site located adjacent to our building. I remember there used to be a playground there. Swings and carrousels, filled with kids and laughter. Now there are piles of gray construction blocks and a mangled wooden fence surrounding the property.

I hear my mother call my name, it is noon, time for us to go on our daily walk. I rush into my room and quickly find a pair of slightly worn out pants. The stains of dirt and torn chunks of dark grey fabric don’t bother me. I am excited about playing outside.

I run through the front door swinging it wide open. The air rushes through my lugs and the sun gently wrinkles my forehead. I feel like I haven’t been outside for so long. The semi-circular street surrounding our apartment building is packed with cars. It’s quiet now, I hear a kindergarten teacher talking to her students. I squeeze my mother’s hand and we continue walking. She has a strong grip. She looks down at me and smiles.

We pass a large shrub of bushes. It’s warm enough for little red fruits to start blooming. I rip one of them and hide it in my front pocket; my mom doesn’t notice. A neighbouring boy runs up to us; it’s Sergey. He is wearing neat black shorts and a plain dark t-shirt. Out of breath, he asks “Can Max play?” I look up with a smile and see my mother nods to me “Go on”.

Sergey runs around the corner and disappears in a large jagged opening of a crackled wooden fence. I follow him without hesitation. On the other side, I feel like I am in a maze. Piles of large cement blocks, some curved, some rectangular are surrounding me. I climb on top of one and see my friends talking in a group. Sergey is there, he invites me in; they want to play a game. I see my mother in the distance, I wave to her, and she waves back.

We start playing hide and seek; it’s my turn to search. I turn around and start counting; I like a challenge so I don’t peek. When I reach a hundred I turn. Quickly scouting the area I start walking forward. I clip my leg on a rusty metal bar and fall. Slowly and in shock, I push my self off the ground. I feel like my face was hit by a hammer, it hurts; it hurts so badly, I scream.

Sergey along with a few other boys appear. They have stunned expressions of horror. Without hesitation, Sergey rushes to the fence in search of my mother. In seconds my mother is here, she is terrified. She grabs me and rushes me to the apartment. Stumbling trying to catch her pace I cry, “It hurts”.

I want to wash my hands and face, mommy runs into the living room to call my father. I grab a clump of cheap soap, look in the mirror and freeze. My mouth is covered in blood. Three pieces of flesh and a broken bone are dangling from the top of my jaw. I scream “What have I done?” Mommy grabs a soft cloth and dabs it in to warm water. She wipes the blood off my hands and face. She tells me everything is going to be ok.

I can’t talk, it hurts.