June 30 – Mockumentary

It’s day one of getting my life back together. The past journal entries have been taped to the first page, so I could continue using this fancy blank book for my personal logs. It cost me $15 at Barnes and Nobles, I am not throwing this thing away!

Anyways, I’ve been filming. The sound quality’s been off, and I’m thinking of buying a filter to take care of the hissing noise between scenes. I’ve been having a tough time balancing the sound, and editing with every program I’ve downloaded on my laptop’s no help! I’m not good at this stuff. I’m better off working from the source, and get it done right, at the time I record: as is.

I got to meet up with Nate earlier this morning, and he said that my stuff’s not anywhere near what it used to be. He tried translating my film, but it wasn’t making any sense to me at all. He said the word conceptual and religion in the same sentence, calling my shots askew and 80’s, like there was anything wrong with changing the color on the scene. There’s nothing wrong with re-saturating the garden scene to blue! I am perfectly capable of making artistic decisions on my own film! Who does he think he is, telling me what my work is really about? I just wanted him to see it, not tell me my soul’s flawed! There’s nothing wrong with it!

Anyways, he handed me another Duchess, the last beer from his last stash. I couldn’t remember much of what happened afterwards, but since I got back up from what seems to be a two hour nap, I’ve been doing nothing but edit my film. I don’t know if it’ll be done soon, but one thing’s for certain: I need to get that Grant!

I only have ten hours left until the deadline…

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June 29 – Moving On

It’s been five days since I called her back. I don’t want to try again. I’m not a stalker, not anymore. I don’t want to be one of those guys that chase after a woman, and get with them because she finally said yes, after months of “bumping into each other”. If anything, the internet taught me that I can talk to other people, and they’re willing to reply sooner than Miss 626. It’s not that I’m scared of rejection, or anything. I just don’t like the idea that I’ve been obsessed over a girl that I met only once, and scoured my list of potential links to her name…which I have in my possession now! It’s creepy, and I don’t like it.

I guess this is where the man is suppose to meditate on this lovely coincidence and romantically sing praise to the best day of his life, meeting her, right? I could say she was the girl that got away, but we only met once. I could say that I didn’t even try, but look what happened when I did? I could say that I did try, but to what effect? I’ve lost sleep, I’ve lost time, and even if I had my health, I must have lost it somewhere along the way too! There’s no point in chasing a girl, if I’m just going to lose myself in a tunnel of pity. What am I suppose to say? “Hi, I have no life, no money, and wasted my minutes on you, after losing my dignity calling the Huntington for your name?”

Sure…weirdo.

Forget that we clicked that day, forget that I became someone else when I sat next to her, forget what happened! Who was that anyway, chatting it up, getting into her personal space like that? I want to be me, myself, no one else. Leave me to my inspiration, and let my muse be my lover. She at least puts my heart at ease. I can roam where I want, do what I want, whenever I want, and SLEEP! …alone…in my studio apartment…like I’ve been for the past year…watching people from a distance, filming scenery, and talking to the only Bartender that won’t give me a decent conversation unless I get drunk with him.

Dear God…what’s wrong with me?

June 28 – Singing Telegrams

These past few days have been quite the turn of events. So much that this past week has simply been a whirlwind and I can only now write about it !

The phone calls got more frequent, Jack was leaving voice mails, and they were not just the “Hi it’s me” kind. No they would go on with his stuttering (Jack always stutters when he gets nervous) about reuniting for a good cause and get cut off before I could quite understand what the fuss was about. Well, after a week of the banter I went to the mobile store and had his number blocked. I even celebrated and got myself a new book at Vroman’s on the way back.

My plan was simple, I wanted to curl up to a good book and my current tea fling (Jasmine w/Rose Mmmm) and finally fall asleep in sheer lazy bliss. You’d think that this would happen as there was a blocked number and I’m become quite the isolated character, but just as my eyes got heavy THE PHONE RANG ONLY ONCE! It wasn’t a number that I recognized, but it was from the same 818 area code as Jack’s. I was fumed, had he finally sink so low?

Overwhelmed with frustration I did what I thought I would never do again, I unblocked Jack from my Facebook and messaged him to stop harassing me for the sake of decency. He instantly replied. My heart stung seeing his face pop up with his icon. I felt a bit of guilt. I was a few days off before a year and six months since the break-up, talking to him almost felt like I was cheating on my decency. In the conversation he had one bit of leverage, Henrietta. Long story short, I agreed to meet him on our old campus in agreement that he would stop harassing me after I helped him figure this out.

I didn’t sleep the whole night, I didn’t even read my book. I felt terrible, weak, and a little excited all the same time. All of my self doubts and slightest second thoughts were going to be indulged in a couple of hours. In a couple of hours I was going to see all my hard work of staying strong crumble. I didn’t even bother getting ready, I slipped into my hoodie and flip flops, and didn’t bother to change out of my pajamas.

Walking on campus again felt like I was going backwards. It was early enough in the morning where the sun was just about to peak through the marine layer, and the sound of sprinklers and lawn blowers encased me from the urban sounds of the bus and traffic of cars. There he stood at the administration steps in his distressed  jean jacket, gorgeous as he always was, like some hunk out of an 80s movie. He was obsessed with the 80s all the way to it’s fashion. It suited him well, as all I cared for was being swept away by the free spirited reject that he was.

…I forgot how good he looked in a tight clean t-shirt… freak.

…he even brought my Bavarian cream doughnuts from the shop near his house…

… the Styrofoam cup of Moroccan Mint tea had the words ‘I’M SORRY‘…

“Hey Bright Eyes.” He sighed, trying to keep from smiling. How dare he use my old pet name! It was almost instant that I remembered why I could never fully love him, his over confidence. At first I thought of it as a Marc Darcy and Elizabeth situation, but it never seemed to really fade. It wasn’t that he was never good to me, but sometimes when we kissed I felt like he was kissing himself, EW!

“Lets get this over with.” I told him.

I didn’t eat the doughnut, I tried to resist drinking the tea (but you know me and tea) which ended up to be me sipping it from time to time. He explained everything, desperate in his own way. There were times when he was running short of words and trust me, Jack’s a lyricist, there was definitely something wrong. He recently spoke to Henrietta, the girl that played matchmaker with us. Seems like she’s getting married! I had known Henrietta for less than Jack had, but were very close until she went to study abroad in England for a semester. That’s where she fell in love and has been in an online relationship with a guy for almost 3 years.

She invited us to the wedding. Yes US, the us that needs to die in soon-to-be a year and a half. Seems like the guy she fell in love with was the teacher. Its how she pulled the strings to stay in England and complete her major there even though her grades were sinking. Just as I was appalled with the thought of how many sluts I actually knew. I realized why Jack made such the effort to see me.

Henrietta swore that she believed in love again because of us and would kill herself if we ever broke up.

What else do you expect from an Emo/Goth Theatre major? The cutting was a nightmare, I won’t even get into her eating disorders. But Jack and I noticed something in the early stages of us getting together: she started to cut less and less and actually moved on. It was one of the reasons we were together for so long, I mean us as an item was actually a good thing. Jack lied to her that we were still together for this very reason.

Call it redemption for actually giving into my guilty pleasure, but I agreed that I would play along only if I was able to tell her after the wedding. Since he had no choice, he agreed. The ceremony is in late August at The Brewery where her parents live.  I’m sure it will be nothing less of Henrietta, artsy and all.

Here’s the strange part: As we were about to leave, I told him I would agree to unblock his number if he promised to stop calling me on strange hours and different numbers.

“What are you talking about?” He looked puzzled. I knew he wasn’t acting, he was horrible at lying. His reaction frightened me.

“This” I showed him the number on the phone log. I felt my heart stop. Who else would have called me? It couldn’t be… could it?

Taking the phone from me, he put it of speaker and dialed the number. I couldn’t seem to fight him, I was dying to know who it was as well… The phone rang until it hit the voice mail; strange enough it was a song, recorded from something else.

“Who does that anymore? That was an early decade thing, haven’t heard of that since high school.” Jack laughed at first, but he started to hum the song. I knew what he was doing, memorizing the lyrics.

We Googled some of the lyrics on his phone, it was Bjork’s I Miss You (Remix) from her Telegram album. None of knew anyone that listened to Bjork, let alone extensively to buy this remake album. I begged him not to call it again.

“Seems you have bigger problems than Henrietta, a stalker. Can’t say I’m not jealous.” He taunted, I was too shocked he easily took me in for a hug.

As he disappeared I realized I was eating the doughnut, stress eating. No wonder he was making fun of me. Still, I couldn’t deny the truth. I was losing my control, and a fragment of my reality was unraveling before my eyes…

June 24 – Noon…ish @ Nate’s

I had to see a friendly face. Nate’s always been there for me, when I needed a good boost. He lives only by the next city, and his apartment looks exactly like mine, but with his stuff…and lots of alcohol. I’m not a drinker, never was – WAS, until I met Nate. He’d always pass me these mixes he learned back at New York, and he’d make them hard. My whiskey was always neat, Vodka had to be pure, and Beer had to at least be Amber. He never held back.

Today, I expected to get drunk. This was Nate – a good friend, and a good Bartender. I told him my story, Miss 626, and the poem… The whole thing was a long howl for me. Edgar Allan Poe would have raised from the dead just to laugh at my misery, I swear. I murmured, grumbled, mumbled, fumbled, and cried on his table. I asked questions: rhetorical questions, obvious questions, tangible, intangible, hypothetical, and theoretical conundrums. I could have gone on, talking like some bad American Jane Eyre movie remake, but Nate had to refill my cup for the fourth time. The effects were amazing, I was swirling between each blink, my vision blurred and circulated like a kaleidoscope, strumming my voice like an old cord — sending my confession without a conscience. I had to ask what was in it.

“Water”, he said.

What-the-fudge??? I couldn’t believe it. The rule of thumb when coming to his place is you always leave Irish. Today was not one of those days. I felt ashamed at the tolerance level I had for this faucet water he served. The liquid had a nasty taste to it. But just like that, I knocked out.

Four hours later, he explained that I was dehydrated, and suffered from insomnia. I would have argued, but he reminded me that I’ve been staying up for three days already, preparing for that Grant, obsessively. He knew my situation better than anyone, and because of it, he had no patience for my whining. He told me frequently that I was always demanding for attention, as an Artist. He says that I needed an outlet beyond my Artwork. We’d go for drinks, but I think that’s when I started the habit of returning this his place every week. The alcohol put me to sleep easily. And it’s been three days since, and I’m still sober.

Nate only had one clock in his apartment, and that was my cell phone. He usually relied on his gut to tell him everything, and for some weird phenomenon, his gut was always right. This time, it told him he was late, and according to my phone, it was right. With a cracked iPhone, and a dead computer, he was removed from society…since last Tuesday. I was his only friend…outside of Facebook.

He was almost out the door, when I awoke, running late to work, and demanding that I try the new Duchess De Bourgogne lying on his counter. He’d offer a Jameson, but he says I needed to eat before I try anything hard again. To eat, really? As if Beer can feed a starving heart. I took a swig of that bottle, and for once I actually got to enjoy something different. Is this what wine tastes like? I thought to myself.

The door closed behind Nate about ten minutes before I took my sip, but he returned to conclude my visit early. He wanted to say a few words before he took the bus to work, and realized that staying over his place would compromise his new collection of Beer, thanks to my new ailing self. He didn’t trust me.

We didn’t really say much waiting at the bus stop, but right when the 90 arrived and opened it’s sliding door, he threw my Duchess in the trash, slapped my cheek, and told me “Call her already.”

He handed me my phone back (ironic that I didn’t even notice he had it at all), and left me alone, next to a dirty old bum, wearing the same gray shirt as me. He said his name was Arthur, and he had been waiting for the bus for six years. He started laughing, crying, and fell asleep, exactly where he was – snoring life away. Poor Arthur… I looked at his shirt, found the same logo on mine, and prayed he wasn’t some future-me, sent by Doc Brown. A Flux Capacitor couldn’t be far behind, right?

I checked my fingers, and her number was gone – ALL GONE! It had to be Nate. It had to. My tempered flared, and I was almost ready to slap him back for screwing with my digits. Call her back? With what number, Fathead!? I looked at future-me, and calmed myself down. I thought about walking back home, and not wait for the bus; but right when I turned away the snoring homeless guy, my pocket vibrated. I checked my phone, and I noticed I had one missed call. It was Eve.

 

Sign,

Thee Arte

June 24 – A Good Dose of Medicine

My writing turned out better than I had expected!

At first I started out nervous, shifting my eyes around looking at the strangers coming in and out of the store, but once I began to read my thoughts just melted into that moment in the garden. I heard the pattering of clapping and realized I had finished my piece.

The other writers mentioned overall that there was indeed room for improvement, but they could indefinitely feel the heart and the senses involved in it. I was so delighted that some good came out of it and slowly felt my wounded writers pride mend with the return of inspiration.

This nice old man from the writing group, Cleston, was particularly interested in my writing. We sat down after the meet and had a cup of tea in the cafe section of Borders. Apparently Cleston works with independent film productions and thinks that my writing clicks with that kind of crowd. He asked me to join him and meet some of his friends at this festival at the Egyptian Theatre next weekend.

As I am looking for a job, and/or the betterment of my stark resume I gladly accepted. Though I must say that the conversation was with Cleston was a little alienating. All these titles and names of people I know nothing about. His rambling made me daze in to my own land thinking about… well… Art.

Before I went to the Writer’s Meet I researched that the next BPAL Lunacy wasn’t due for another three whole weeks as the last one had passed. So even if he was real the idea of taking me on that date down Magnolia St wouldn’t be for some time. I’m sure with his charisma he would have found someone else by now.

Seems like a terrible taste of medicine that I’m getting friends that work in film, perhaps Art was a sign. I know that it’s crazy talk but if you really think about the turn of events he almost seems like the modern version of a Guardian Angel pointing me in the right path. The thought sends chills down my spine…

Cloaked Dark figure = Mysterious Muse

Camera = Something in film or modern media

BPAL Wilde = Old meets New?

I know that I’m thinking too much about this but can you blame me? I feel like I’ve been out of the loop for so long, seems ashamed since I’ve hardly written anything in it. Doesn’t help that Jack’s back. No not entirely, he’s been sending me emails asking me how I’m doing, he’s recently resorted to texting my phone again.

Even though Jack was my first serious relationship I got over him rather quickly. When he slept with my best friend/ room mate Penny I never through a tantrum of screamed about it. I just wanted to get away, I fantasized about it when the signs that we weren’t working out started to show up. We were good together, but it was one of those picture perfect types of love that never seemed to be more than that. So when things got ugly I just felt removed from it all and felt like it would all be nothing but sheer vanity for me to fight. I moved in with a distant relative and I even changed my classes from afternoon to early morning. The thought that I did it so smoothly bothers me a little.

The one thing that suffered was my writing. It’s been almost a year and that short piece was the only thing that I had written other than my journal. Perhaps this is my way of going numb. All I know is that getting woken up by his texts at late hours has been starting to draw my mind a blank. I have been doing nothing but trying to ignore the thought of him almost every hour of the day, leaving me to push my skeletons back into the dark closet. I’ve concluded that Art was probably a manifestation from my mind to fight the inner depression I have with my failed relationship with Jack.

The reason why I’m writing this and getting ahead of myself was after my chat with Cleston about independent films I saw could of sworn I saw art staring at me with a couple of my favorite films in his hands. Everything down to his silly black coat and Paul Frank book bag. When I got home, the piece of paper that I had with my writing had gone missing. 

I think Art is my repressed way of dealing with my failed relationship surfacing. And though I have some good news in my life, I can’t stop thinking of how great it would be to share it with someone who might actually be right for me.

And just like that I suffer from the legendary writers curse: The loneliness after isolation. Looks like I’m only starting to consider regret with all that happened between Jack and I, even Penny only now.

-Eve