merde!

4 Octobre 2008
Samedi

I’m still not used to all the sounds I hear at night. They’re not spooky sounds. It’s mostly the distant cars’ rumble or a métro somewhere. But there’s one sound I can’t place. It sounds like people are playing chess upstairs, only the chess pieces are life size. Every so often I’d hear someone dragging a pawn to its place, then someone overtakes it with a knight. Each move involves a slow dragging process of what simply has to be giant chess pieces. I intend on challenging them one night as soon as I know how to say “Predictable, I saw that coming three moves ago” in French.

Today was my sightseeing day. After getting off at the métro, I looked at my map to situate myself like the other hundreds of tourists around me. I honestly had no idea which way was north and scrutinized the confusing street signs that don’t actually say what street you are on, but rather point to major parts in Paris I’m not familiar with. I didn’t want to get lost again so early in the day. I scratched my noggin, looked up from the map and saw l’Arc de Triomphe over yonder. Oh, okay. It’s probably the most triumphant arc I’ve seen, though I drew some pretty good ones in geometry. Next stop was the Tour de l’Eiffel. I threw myself on the métro, consulted my map, and got lost when I looked at the squiggley lines. I looked for any stones to see which side the moss was growing on, and then at the sun to see which way it was rising. The north star was not yet visible. Then I looked a little to the right and saw the Eiffel Tower. Oh, okay.

So I meandered to the most celebrated and romantic monument in the world and ordered 2 sausages, fries and coffee. Immediately after sitting down, about a hundred pigeons had spotted my fries. I sat alone in Paris surrounded by thousands of pigeons and tourists, eating wieners and kicking pigeons. Luckily, there were dozens of German tourist children raising hell and chasing pigeons away. I saw them as the Fourth Reich, defending my right to guzzle down wieners. I hope they’re around when I try and marry a man. Though the pigeons were a nuisance, I admired their ferocity, keeping Paris’ streets clear of any digestible waste. I assume they must also be employed by the French sanitation department, while their human counterparts clean up the cardboard and cigarette butts they cannot consume. I fear when the pigeons unionize and strike for better wages. This place will smell terrible.

My next stop was the holy H&M. I needed me a black scarf. This is to be my only frivolity for a month. I stopped by some giant fountain and sat on its edges to consult my map and its address, then stopped when everyone began taking pictures of me. I paused to look at what I was wearing, first. Had I forgotten to wear pants? No, they’re on. Apparently I was sitting on the Place du Châtelet. Founded to celebrate the victories of Napoléon, it now stands as a resting spot for my H&M excursion. While shopping, I was sickened by the standards of dress by Parisienne youth. I need something to feel superior so I don’t feel completely out of place. But no, they were all impeccably dressed, beautiful, and speaking French. They win. My coat made me look frumpy, I tripped when saying “Bonjour,” and I had a bad hair day.

Today was also the first day I experienced the mega-ultra-crowded métro. After a string of bad luck of being forced to hug the homeless and the elderly, my trip back home finally forced an attractive person to be all over me. Instead of smelling soiled pants and sewage for 20 minutes, I smelled cheap cologne and aftershave as he fell into my arms numerous times. He’s now carrying my child.

When I came home and cooked dinner, I filled my entire apartment with smoke. I was completely absorbed comparing Internet and phone prices between two companies. I scrambled to open my window, fearful of a spider, then ran around my apartment waving a scarf around like a lasso. In all honesty, my life in Paris isn’t too much different from my life in Irvine.

5 Octobre 2008
Dimanche

Last night was “Nuit Blanche,” an event from 7PM – 7 AM Sunday. The first step outside my apartment, I almost twisted my ankle in front of what looked like a goddamn D&G model, a look of concern on his face as I rubbed my ankle. I decided from then on that the hotter someone is, the more I hurt.

I lasted about 4 hours in an all night event. Basically museums are all open and free with various installations scattered throughout Paris. The lines were incredibly long so I only checked out installations outside, which were usually video projections or some semblance of performance art. One of the main ones I visited was the Tour Saint-Jacques, where artist Gu Dexin projected a film of the Tour Saint-Jacques over the Tour Saint-Jacques. A big crowd gathered around the tower expecting some sort of moving picture show, complete with moving pictures. I admit, I did too for 15 minutes, then I read the description of the artist’s work: “…son travail touché à l’absurde et au paradoxe.” I gazed at the film of the Tour Sant-Jacques on the Tour Saint-Jacques, and realized I’ve been had. “I get it,” my face grimly read, and I walked down La Marais to seek some gay trouble.

I stumbled onto a big billion dollar eyesore, the Museé National D’art Moderne. Disappointed at another long line, I bought a crêpe and instead watched some fire dancers and some performance art. 2 people were inside a tiny aluminum room with one wall of glass to peer inside. Above them read the neon sign, “Chambre de l’hôtel.” Inside, a woman straight out of a Truffaut film was moving and posing in slow motion, while a man wrapped himself in leather straps and constantly grimaced into a mirror. I looked at the sign again and thought, “I get it,” then walked away. Those are just some of the silly things I saw.

Several people tonight spoke to me, asking what the hell we were watching, and I was just incredibly happy that I understood what they had asked. However, trying to explain the absurd, irony, or performance art in a nutshell – in another language, one I don’t command – is something to be avoided. “Je ne sais pas,” I responded. “C’est vraiment. Je….je ne sais pas.”

It’s not the individual art or video projections that impressed me. I could see that stuff at a good night of UC Irvine’s Catalyst shows. It’s the fact that the entire city of Paris had an entire night devoted to it, and the streets were swarming with young and old for the sake of art. It’s amazing, and I feel like I don’t deserve it.

My day of laundry turned out to be unsuccessful. The supermarket was closed so I couldn’t buy detergent. I didn’t want to use the detergent they sold on a machine at the laverie because I’m allergic to everything imaginable. So instead, I went to church. I needed something familiar, something to feel a part of again. Even if my views on religion were different from everyone there, I appreciated everyone’s faith, and the gorgeous architecture psychologically designed to make me feel insignificant.

Everything was fine until I remembered that Catholic mass, towards the end, has everyone shaking hands with their neighbor and saying “Peace be with you.” I grew afraid, knowing that I didn’t know how to say this. A thought bubble appeared with a French teacher saying, “Don’t get distracted by words you don’t know. Use words you do know.” The closest translation I could say was “Ne pas guerre avec vous,” which I thought meant “No war with you.” No, no, that won’t do. I had the idea to let them say it first, and to repeat it like a parrot. Well, they said it, and I couldn’t even decipher the sounds they made. So I mouthed words to make it appear I said something even though I didn’t, which is kind of what I do when I make promises. I figured if they can’t read lips, I would be safe.

And now, because everything appears to be closed and I feel a bit under the weather, I decided to (mostly) stay in. I finally have begun real work on my friend Ryan’s performance art show called “Anal Foreclosure” that I shot around August 1st. I also watched some of my Slow Through Eden documentary, and my last short film. It has come to my attention that I mean well. I really, really mean well. I think I edit phenomenally and can flesh out a film pretty damn well, but when it comes to actually directing and communicating with another human being I falter. These last few products I’ve made, for once, I’m actually proud of. Like actually, for once in my life, proud of. I know the faults of my own work better than anyone else can, but still, beyond it all…I believe I’ve done incredibly well for the resources I have/had. I told my main film professor here that I’d show him my work when I gained some courage, and though that has not happened yet, I’ll have my portfolio ready to hand over.

6 Octobre 2008
Lundi

One simply does not look cool eating a banana. I usually bring one with me whenever I go out, and while sitting in a lounge at my school, I noticed a group of the cool kids sitting next to me eating. It was like high school again, and I tried to look at least inviting or “cool,” but that could not happen when a banana is being eaten. When opening it, there’s this weird dark end that is mostly unappetizing, so I ripped it off and had to put it somewhere. I couldn’t find a place, so I put it on one of the hanging peels, but it repeatedly fell on my crotch. I tried to pick it off and put it somewhere else, but then half my banana fell off onto the table. Then I picked up the fallen banana and examined it, thought about the 5 second rule, then placed it back onto its other half. Meanwhile, the black spot I had earlier removed was stuck to my fingers, and I frowned.

See, I imagine if I was sitting in a room and saw a fairly attractive, well-dressed boy struggling to eat a banana, I would find it endearing. I’d smile and shrug it off, thinking he was just having a bad day. But no. I think realistically if you see this, you imagine the person to be incompetent with poor motor skills, and probably horrible in bed.

School officially began today, though it was only one class. In just about two hours our teacher/professor gave more advice than almost a years worth of my production class at UCI, though it was more of a generic “rules of making cinema” kind of thing. But once he teaches the formula and once you know the rules, then you can break them…right? Like Charlie Kaufman?

We were partnered up and given a short synopsis to storyboard and pitch in front of the class. It involved a frog chasing a fly that almost dies from 2 cars, then eventually dies from a bike. We were only given a limited amount of time, and though it’s a good exercise in quick thinking, though I would prefer to spend a lot more time thinking out shots. But it was cool and fun to hear him explain subjectivity, objectivism and what not being applied to simple storytelling – the kinds of things UCI film students would just write papers about.

I came home to a wonderful care package my parents sent me, full of tuna, salmon, top ramen, cookies, Simpsons DVDs, and last week’s Wall Street Journal. I love my parents. I should be starting on my next storyboarding project (involving a frog, a man, and a woman), but I’m full of spaghetti and about to pass out at 9:30 PM. I also have to pitch 3 story ideas on Wednesday, and I only have 2. I’m struggling with the last one because, well, I’d like to throw in a serious and more personal story idea. My first 2 ideas are familiar territories (the kitsch…zombies and time travel). The last I really want step past my restrictions and fears and actually do something…gay. That sounds gay. But I’ve been opposed to so much gay cinema and gay themes because I hate the stigma and label they receive. It’s as if, when there are gay characters, a whole new set of standards (usually lower) are applied, and it’s dismissed as a gay movie to be stocked in the indie or foreign section at Blockbuster. Fuck that. And yes, coming out stories are always incredibly traumatic, but I don’t want to do that. I also instantly want to throw in pirates and robots, or make it a gay musical Victorian era time piece. I think I’ll just sleep on it.

Tomorrow is my first full day of class which scares me…I still have to find time during the week to take care of my residency, my bank account, getting a loan, etc. C’est difficile, but I love it.