words from paris, sent from america

I'm currently in America (specifically, Fresno, California) for the holidays. This is, as always, backlogged. I'm content, worried, full of snot and don't want to leave the couch. But it's good to be back home for 2 weeks.

23 Novembre 2008
Dimanche

Upon viewing all of my footage from today and yesterday, all my beautiful, beautiful footage, there are blue bars or mosaic pixelations that completely obscure the image. When I tried playing it on another shittier camera, nothing shows up other than the nice error message, “CLEAN PLAY HEADS. CLEAN THEM HARD.”

Then we realized one of the bambino lights broke. Wires were sticking out everywhere. Though when I came home I pulled out my thinking hat and managed to fix it, I feel as if my time in Paris is cursed.

Today on the lunch break, I filmed snow falling. I’ve never even seen snow falling. The only snow I’ve seen was 6 feet high and frozen, and any snowballs I threw resulted in bruises and lectures on why I mustn’t throw ice. The snow lasted about 10 minutes, then there was a lull. Afterwards came the rain, the rain on my shoot, the rain on my parade.

So my crew was miserable, I was miserable, my talent was miserable, all for the sake of some shots that may or may not show up. I’ve been researching it for the past 3 hours in preparation for a shoot on Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday. I don’t want the same problem happening to my other crew members.

After capturing about 40 minutes of footage (the first 10 being uncapturable, hopefully to be solved once I get me some cleaning tapes tomorrow), I decided I needed a cigarette, which turned out to be quite a walk. I felt compelled to walk for some reason. My great solace was the fact that after this walk, I found myself not too far from my house where I got lost. Because streets are crooked and poorly planned, I got lost on my first week here. Now I found my way back home quite easily, looking at which side the moss grew on, the north star, the landmark church in the distance, and my innate sense of direction. It felt good to be successful in at least one endeavor.

25 Novembre 2008
Mercredi

So I’m not exactly sure what it is, but everything seems to go wrong while I’m here in Paris. Camera broken? Check. No money? Check. Bureaucratic problems? Check. Phone breaks? Check. Loan problems? You bet. Hunger problems? Oh yeah. Relationship void? You bet your sweet ass.

If this is some test, some sort of thing to put into my A&E Director’s Special Biography, I’d like to just skip ahead to the end of the hour special – Nick Refuerzo: How a suburban Filipino-American became a successful and amazing film director. Or if that’s not possible, Nick Refuerzo: How a suburban, Filipino-American aspiring filmmaker lost his mind in Paris. Exciting, n’est-ce pas?

2 Decembre 2008
Mercredi

See, the trouble with my movies is that nothing ever happens. If something does happen, if a character goes through some semblance of an “arc,” it’s so subtle and so minor that nobody ever notices it. Of course I get it, and of course my select friends get it in the States. But frankly, 95% of others didn’t get it there, and I don’t think that’s a problem with them, I think it’s a problem with me.

It’s not you, it’s me.

I need a better understanding of the spectator and the film. I’ve written papers about it and I’ve had my stupid little thoughts about it – the public spectacle, the shared spectatorial experience, the apparatus theory, patiti patata…and I think I’ve only viewed it as theory. Maybe I should think of it in simpler terms. Let’s say it’s a loveless marriage.

Myself, the know-it-all smartass husband, feels he never needs to communicate too loudly or be, in any way, loquacious. My significant other(now illegal again in California) must be able to tune in to the signs I do give, however subtle they may be. Eye contact, gestures, word choice, clothes, movement. I say more with less words. But this hypothetical lover of mine – the audience, the spectator – is indeed just as intelligent as I am, but fail to understand me. Why is this happening?

It’s not you, it’s me.

I like cyclical stories. I like stories that don’t exactly reach full arcs, that aren’t concluded nicely, that don’t exactly fulfill the expectations and desires a person has. Life isn’t like that. And so I want to tell stories like this. To follow whatever metaphor I’ve already established, I want to be less communicative. I expect too much from the audience.

As a result, I’ve failed to keep a relationship longer than a month.

I just re-watched my last movie at UCI – Philistine – and I couldn’t stop smiling. Though nobody may agree, it’s by far the most well rounded script I could come up with. Every piece of information I revealed has a call back, everything is reflexive, everything self-referential. I watched it in pure, arrogant joy. Then I snapped out of it and realized nobody liked it. Nothing happened. It didn’t win anything.

I burned it on a DVD to possibly show my screenwriting class tomorrow. What chance is there that people here will get understand it when English is not their first language? Even Americans didn’t get it.

I don’t exactly what to change like the characters in trite movies…I’d rather evolve and be able to incorporate my fuck-story subtleties into a more sensible, tender understanding of my stupid lover. That’s it…a character mustn’t change, he must evolve. I must evolve here in Paris, like Pikachu to Raichu. Sure, I’ll be less cute…but I’ll have more hit points, be more powerful, and be able to make damn good movies that I’m finally happy with, and that an audience is happy with.

5 Decembre 2008
Vendredi

In an act of forgetfulness and stupidity, I finished making dinner…one of my all time favorites, spaghetti. I finished the pasta, finished the meat. Looks good, I thought. Looks damn good.

I reached into my “pantry” and noticed a lack of a secret, special, important ingredient. Something that makes my spaghetti extra amazing: pasta sauce. Having absolutely nothing else, I was forced to pour ketchup all over the dish.

I’ve reached a new low.

7 Decembre 2008
Dimanche

While smoking outside my apartment, I watched a fight breakout at a park across the street. To me the most exciting part was one of the man’s dogs. They seemed to know their master was in a skirmish, and barked furiously at the man being attacked. As he fell against a tree holding his head, the barks surrounded him, growled, and kept barking, holding him at bay.

I didn’t seem to care about the circumstances surrounding the fight, nor if anyone was okay. All I was interested was how cool the dogs were, supporting their owner, like little cute fuzzy minions with sharp teeth. After the fight ended and the wounded man stumbled away, the dogs happily sat next to his owner and looked up at him, and one of them jumped on his lap. He petted them gratefully, and they all seemed fairly content in their tag team victory.

Let’s see cats do that. Fuck them.

In other news, I may not go home for Christmas and I may not come back for my 2nd year at EICAR.

It’s too much of a financial burden, and for what? These next couple of months at school better give me a reason to fight to stay…it’s just too much on my family for a second rate education. I don’t want to give up halfway through a Masters Degree, but I may not have a choice. I have to find a well paying job, a massive scholarship, a winning lottery ticket, or a rich boyfriend. All of those would do quite nicely, but what I could really go for right now is a cigarette.

13 Decembre 2008
Samedi

After I mostly finished my first film/exercise here, it was far too long for the assignment. So I had to rethink the concept completely and cram it in 3 glorious minutes of music video montage. It sucked. So I rethought it again and again, again and again, and changed the tone slightly, made it far more confusing, added new music, and viola. 3 minute movie to turn in to EICAR. I’m more or less satisfied with it, but since it wasn’t planned this way there are obvious holes.

I have 10 spaceships made out of paper plates and UFO’s and I don’t know what to do with them. They’re somewhat sentimental, I guess, and I didn’t want to throw them out. As I finished my 3 minute edit, even as I was typing this, each UFO began to fall one by one. I tried to think of a meaningful interpretation of this metaphor, each UFO falling to its grave, each UFO representing something grandiose like…cheap paper plates covered with foil. I wouldn’t even bother to turn around and watch it fall…I recognized that plastic/aluminum/Styrofoam sound crashing onto the floor from the last movie I overloaded with pathetic symbolism.

A couple days ago I went into a pharmacy to buy some toothpaste. I eyed all the confusing brands, each proclaiming to stop gingivitis, picked the cheapest one, and took it ot the counter while the cashier was waiting, watching. He looked at my product, smiled, and said, “tres bien.”

Is this a cultural thing? Was my toothpaste pick really very good? I’m under the impression that salesmen only say “very good” when one chooses to purchase something like a fine cigar, a fancy car, or the best hooker in the lot. But toothpaste? When I got home I opened it up to see why it deserved my pharmacist’s approval. Maybe he knows something about this toothpaste that nobody else knows. Maybe it will help reverse the decay of my constant cigarette and coffee consumption. Maybe it’ll give me wings or help me get laid. Whatever it is, I am determined to find out. And next month, when I run out of toothpaste, I’ll opt for a different brand and see what the pharmacist says. If he eyes it suspiciously, shakes his head and says gravely, “Il y a une problem,” then I’ll know the brand I bought is the real deal. But if he says “tres bien” again, I’m afraid I cannot trust the opinions of pharmacists, salesmen, and the French.

15 Decembre 2008
Lundi

It’s not a matter of procrastination. I try and try, and find I do something wrong, or something isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.

If I don’t get my carte de sejour within 2 days, I don’t think I can go home for Christmas. And frankly, the way my life has been the past month (woe is me), I really, really want to go home.

When one says, “I’m sorry I don’t understand. I can’t speak French well,” the logical, humane response would be to speak slower, use more common words, and try and help the person who really needs this fucking piece of paper that’ll allow him to stay in an ass-backward bureaucratic mess of a country. The improper response, which I received, was “Yes, I can tell,” then she walked away.

And I know it’s not just me. I know I have bad luck with everything. One horrible wall lead to another horrible wall, and I can always attribute that to miscommunication and slow paperwork. But when I sit in a depressing room for 3 hours watching countless people leaving empty handed, cursing under their breath, actual FRENCH people too…it pisses me off.

I’ve come to the conclusion that French people in the workplace are just plain assholes. It’s usually the “I’m not paid to do that” mentality. I’ve received help from some odd men out in this country, but they were, in fact, paid to help give information.

I thought about a passage from the latest David Sedaris novel, where he says “Everyone just needs a good cry now and then.” No. That’s bullshit. Crying doesn’t get anything done. I think I’d rather punch a bureaucratic drone in their smug face. And if they’re sitting too far across their little table, well then, I guess I'll just have to cry.