July 2 – “nm”

Twitter would be so much quicker, but this has to stay private. I’m neurotic. Nate found me, and I think everything’s going to be ok. I need to find Eve. She’s here.

Signed,

Thee Arte

Advertisements

July 2 – I Hate You

There she was. Right in front of me, like a blooming flower in midday, it was so impossible, yet here the contradictory laid. I couldn’t imagine something so real and so fictional all at the same time. It almost made my heart break. I held back the tears, the memories, the “what if’s” crawling around my mind these past few days. I felt sick… And of all places Miss 626 had to be lying in the bed of my only communication line between my film and our first encouter: Nate. Why did it have to be like this…

After days of writing in this journal, I’ve finally learned the craft behind writing a good story. It’s been good practice for my grammar and format, by pen I’m almost a master in my own eyes, but by speech I am still, well, speechless. As much of it I have been taking care of, it didn’t help me prepare for the real thing. Not like this.

Early this morning, I came to pick up my phone from Nate’s apartment. I didn’t want to be disturbed while I was finishing my submission for the Grant, so I made sure he kept it away from me, in case I had another temptation to call Miss 626 in the middle of the night. Now that I know she’s more abused than loose, a tragedy like that would go unsaid until someone else can do something about it. A car door was too much for me. I imagined myself as her hero at that particular moment, when her date made her cry at that stop, but I suppose I needed to be faster, stronger, more of a man. I considered myself a coward for not acting so quickly. Damn my nerves, I swear…

But of all times, right when I completed my project and submitted the final cut to the upcoming film festival, I return to my phone, to Nate’s alcohol, to her…lying unconscious on his bed…his bed. I swore I woke to a nightmare when I found Eve. The walls came crashing down, and my lungs suffocated under a thick mist of jealousy. Was he to become her hero? What was there left for me? I signed the form for the Grant, confessing my ardent piece, revealing my soul through her face, Shakespeare, and stupid rap music! It was suppose to be art, it was suppose to be a masterpiece, but right then, just as I saw her snoring in between his sheets and my cell phone, I affirmed the pervert Nate had to be. The Bartender and my bane. GOD, WHY!!!

Why did she sit there with her dry lips and dampened face, sounding like a trumpet — young strumpet, are you real at all?  What was all this for, if it were to just to end in humiliation? I think, I do think too much, and much too much am I finding myself more and more hysterical, lyrical, but hysterical. God, why-God-why???

I left my car, and walked home. I have my phone, but I don’t think I’ll be able to pick it up for another year. I wish I were quicker, stronger, more of a man. Maybe none of this would have happened. Eve can stay as Miss 626, for all I care. I’ll stay in hellish Northridge forever, and forget that day of paradise between her smile and voice and shoulder and phone number. My fingers can be wiped clean now, her number’s no consolation anymore. I hate the world, I hate being me — twenty-something and a stupid artist, as if I didn’t feel isolated enough for being only half Asian, my friends have to rub it in my face how slow and weak I really really am! I hate you Nate, I hate you. And Eve, how could you?

I’m in the bus and I

I didn’t take a shower, and I’m here at Ho

I’m about to flush the toilet, my film’s about to show. At least if I get this Grant, I’ll be rich enough to move out of this city. I hate Hollywood, but the festival is here, maybe if I make it in the Indie scene, I can go to the festivals in Texas instead. But for now, the Egytian Theater is all I got left. If I lose, at least I can end my career in Art today, and get a job at some Insurance company in the Midwest, where dreams are just another TV episode on Lifetime.

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…

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 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