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 19 – “626”

I don’t know her name, and it’s bugging me. I googled her number, I looked for her on the yellow pages, and I started asking around the Huntington about her…well, kinda. It was more like pretending to be interested in volunteering and then refusing, then changing my mind, just to get back to the point of asking if there were chicks involved in the Shakespeare garden. It was awkward. Never thought I’d be so desperate just to figure out a girl’s name…

I have her number, I rewrote it on my finger tips. I’m scared to write it anywhere else. I think it’s very representative of my intrastate of visual understanding – expressive to the nuance of my glossy picturesque memory. Not seeing it makes me doubt that the numbers are really in their order. I tried it earlier today, and it didn’t help that I couldn’t see it. The numbers 626 became 622 or 226 or 662 or 262 and so on and so forth. It’s a bit silly, but I have to admit, anything beyond a 323 area code makes me nervous. I remember taking the bus down to Pasadena, and seeing less and less brown people in the streets. It’s like Disneyland, without kids.

This is actually a little exaggerated, really. I’m not dialectical or anything, but the idea of losing her number just loses the point of meeting someone I’d like to date. Call me obsessive, but to call a pretty girl without knowing her name is embarrassing. I mean, what happens when she picks up and I guess her name? Wouldn’t that sound scandalous, like I was dating someone else at the same time? Or even if she didn’t think that, would she want to see me still? It’s kinda weird, right?

I’m feeling down. I’m gonna try facebook, and see if the Huntington has a group page for their volunteers. I have to know her name.


Thee Arte

June 18 – I’m Writing

My name is Art, and this is my first log. I’ve never really wrote anything outside of college. I feel like my cherry’s popped, a second virginity to something I thought I knew. It’s different when it’s not for a grade. Different, like that girl I met yesterday. The reason why I’m writing…

Before this, I was recording at the Huntington Library, where they have gardens from all around the world…or at least gardens that mimic what’s around the world. It was nice seeing the view. I saw Asian and European gardens, the ducks were interesting to shoot, and the Chinese garden was enough to keep me staring for days. I roamed the fields, crossed each bridge, and passed under every tree in the entire property. I had everything to start my own documentary, if I wanted to. Everything but the Shakespeare garden.

It takes me a while to digest everything in, being a visual person, learning had always been difficult blind-folded. Some would consider it A-D-D, others think it’s a stubborn trait of mine. Personally, I think that if there were no pictures, then it never happened. Books are another topic though. But among everything yesterday, I have to admit I wasn’t so much as intrigued by anything until I reached the Shakespeare garden. Not because it was small, or lacked a garden past its moat, but because I found her.

You remember that feeling you got when Romeo first set eyes on Juliet, how being in love was so mystifying that you couldn’t wait to be there someday? It was like that, except I was a Deer staring at headlights, looking for an excuse to just sit next to her. It’s no poetry, but Portho’s sounded just as good. She smelled nice too, a familiar scent from this occult shop in Magnolia Blvd, down at Burbank. We might be meeting soon. We will be meeting soon. In fact, we’re hanging out. it’s a date.

I have her number…and I forgot to write her name down.


Thee Arte