June 17th – Fresh Start Fresh Faces

Hello there,
    

           Bound pieces of paper contained in a cover to keep you from spilling into the world so quickly; I am your keeper, more than willing to bring your pages daily nourishment into you every line. I’m rather excited to have you as my companion, keeping my brainstorms and epiphany within you. I am Eve Willows, a dreamer gifted with the talent of the written word (at least I would like to think so) and I look forward to our further acquaintance and soon to be intimate relationship.

Well that never gets old; if only introducing yourself to people were as easy… I was never a people person and I feel like I never will. People are so unpredictable and hold so many secrets behind their stories (pages I don’t wish to dig in to.) and judge you on the most ridiculous assumptions. …Goodness I made such a fool of myself today. Right, well to the itch of embarrassment off of my chest I am going to write what happened today EXACTLY how I remembered. I figured, a new journal should understand my current thoughts with no hidden agenda. (Like people, ugh…)

I’m nearing the end of my two year contract as a Volunteer at the Huntington Library, and I’m not so sure how to feel about it. The gardens and the museums have been such an inspiration to my writing, and to leave would be a shame. So on my lunch break I went to pacing in the Shakespeare Garden (cliche I know), nibbling on my sandwich. I was in a bit of a panic at a time; something made me realize, was it possible that my volunteering in the Huntington was my source of inspiration and I would lose it all once I leave?

I was distraught, talking to myself in much concentration when he appeared. Arms folded, highlighted messy long hair, with grin on his face in all black in the sweltering heat. He carried a Paul Frank book bag an expensive camera recording right at me! A fan boy was the last thing I needed I thought…

“The Japanese Garden is further down that way.” I pointed panting and hoping that he would move. I don’t know what came over me, I just wanted to be left alone. (Especially with a camera pointed at my face!)

“I hope I’m not bothering you, but could you tell me where the Shakespeare Garden is?” He asked right after he laughed at my earlier comment (I see it was rude now). That didn’t stop him from recording me…

“This is the Shakespeare Garden.” I tried smiling, I was sort of on shift, no point in being rude. He took a good long look, finally finding the bust in the middle.

“Really? Is that it?” He asked me disappointed.

 

“I’m afraid so.” I tried to humor him. He went further to explain that he was there recording in hopes of getting into Shakespeare’s thoughts. He was an installation artist using his writings as inspiration for his next works (hence the camera and the eccentric metro-esque outfit…)

“I just hate it when I forget something, so I’ve gotten to the habit of recording everything since I’m a visual person.” He sighed. “Sorry to bother you…” Call it guilt by association, or the fact that he caught me in the middle of a frenzy.

“I use a journal; it hasn’t failed me yet. But then again, I’m a writer which isn’t really a visual type…” I gushed. He instantly took a shine to me.

“Why should I keep a journal. What does it do for you?”

WARNING: never EVER ask a writer questions unless you have time. We adore talking about ourselves and our writing no matter how shy we are; I think it’s an unspoken timeless truth.

We started talking about everything and anything (more like I gave him choice with my endless banter) and what inspired both of us; soon laughing at the cliché of strolling through a garden to ‘find ourselves’. He took pictures of me in the garden, wading my way through the brush to the Shakespeare bust and kissing it on the cheek. We instantly became friends, by the common thread of chasing the insanity of creativity and artistry.  He gave the Shakespeare the bird and I couldn’t stop giggling. Then at the sound of my voice it hit me, “Was I flirting!?”

While I was stunned at the shock of myself he pulled a fast one and brought himself next to me so I could see the pictures he took of me smooching my beloved poet… Geez, I was flirting even with HIM! But it didn’t stop there, something familiar welcomed me.

“You smell nice…” I commented… “seems familiar.”

“It’s called Wilde, from a local company.” He basked in the reply.

“BPAL, I use their stuff as well!” I couldn’t stop smelling him, the oils smelled so sweet on him. “I’m using one of their smells right now, Ophelia.” I exclaimed with enthusiasm.
Just when I couldn’t stand myself any longer, he gently arched himself to smell my neck. (I still can’t believe it (OMG)!)

His name is Art and he took my number. Seems like we’ll be meeting at Porto’s sometime for some cheese rolls and the BPAL lunacy at Dark Delicacies. Before that he promises to pick up journal writing and call me the minute he get the hang of it.

           WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? I never act like this, not even when I met my last boyfriend Jack. …Perhaps he’ll never call back. …Or perhaps he will and he might be some creepy guy with chain and a whip in his basement…

Ok, I’m feeling a little better. Writing has proven that it was indeed bat crazy and it must have been the heat and the pressure of leaving the Huntington soon. Hopefully I’ll have better to report next time in my *new* journal.

-Eve

 

 

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