Echo

he asked me to try his drink, this vitamin C fruit drink. insisted.

the way he was watching me gave me the feeling this was a test.

i tried to remember if he drank from the rim or the straw but couldn’t remember, so i drank from the rim, my eyes watching him watching me.

you didn’t drink from the straw!

you were testing me!

yeah i was. and you failed.

did i fail, or because i knew it was a test, decline to be tested?

you’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?

not necessarily.

really? you would say that when you want things you don’t usually get them?

i think about it.

okay, fine. i usually get what i want.

i don’t trust anyone who’s glib. just a thing. i said i would come by on monday night, so i did. later, i caught him staring and i asked what he was thinking about.

how gorgeous you are. how glad i am that you came in and sat down. how i would be terrified if you were ever mad at me.

then he ran off and busied himself on the other side of the room.

flattering, but red flags down on the field. there’s something in the space between the man and his words that i don’t trust. and i’m getting that feeling that this is one of those moments that i’ll be mad at in hindsight for what i clearly already knew, if i don’t make the right decisions right now.

yesterday was a rainy night so the place around the corner was empty except for me and this table of 14. i was taking notes on the night, and so the only people to watch were the people who worked there and that table of people. at one point, i just sat staring at them.

after a few minutes, i noticed a guy in the middle of the table was staring back. and he was also mirroring me–chin in his hand, thumb out.

interesting.

so i kept staring but i didn’t focus on him, just on the table in general though i was watching him. i shifted my hand and he did as well.

okay, so i knew i definitely had his attention. but did he have mine?

i knew he wasn’t sure if i was looking at him or someone else.

then…he yawned.

i laughed inside. the social yawn. by the mysteries of human nature, often when people yawn, others who see it will yawn as well. for a split second i thought, maybe he’s not looking at me because a guy never yawns when a girl may be watching him. unless he’s testing to see if i am watching him, because i would have yawned, too.

but because i was conscious of this, i didn’t yawn, just kept looking in that direction, watching.

he looked around, like he was trying to figure out who i was looking at since his test had failed.

but i was watching him.

that was interesting. i managed to watch someone without him being sure that i was watching him by being conscious of what would normally be subconscious mirroring, and not doing it.

i’m still up because i’m anxious about tomorrow. i have to tread lightly. i’ve got a lot of power inside me right now.

snake eyes=

1. be loyal
2. be my friend
3. be someone i can feel deeply connected to
4. be mindblowing in bed
5. be committed to never letting my future husband know there was ever anything between us.
6. be thinking of me on your deathbed.

apply now

writing that last story really swept me up. felt like i was trapped in another world today, half here, half away.

my dad emailed me and asked me where i got the idea for it.

i knew i had to write a drama for a chance to win. the academy always awards dramas. but because i know the judges are fickle, i didn’t want to depart from trying to write a good story into trying to write a good competition entry. so i figured to make this story the greatest challenge on myself yet, and let the competition be secondary.

i’ve never written a historical drama. in fact, anything that requires attention to verifiable detail intimidates me, because there are too many ways your inaccuracy can detract from the story.

my first idea was of two warring families from neighboring provinces in medieval china. generations of assassinations to avenge assassinations from each side. a female assassin from one family meets a male assassin from the other, and they fight, nearly kill each other into a draw, realize ridiculous sexual chemistry, and get down. they become secret lovers, she has his child, and they each agree they will never kill again. they agree this feud can not go on, that this child will bring peace between the two families. the lord of the man’s family hears a prophecy that a child has been born in X village that will change his reign as he knows it. so he sends out assassins dressed as beggars into this village to kill all newborns. so the assassin finds the place where the female assassin is living with the baby, and a huge fight ensues in which she kills the beggar assassins but is mortally wounded. the father of the baby realizes it is his own clan that killed the mother of his child. the clan the woman belonged to must avenge her death. in an act of sacrifice, her lover calls a meeting of the clans, presents the child as that which belongs equally to each family and they must agree to either tear this child apart or unite. and to balance out the deaths, he kills himself so that his lover’s family will have been avenged with the death of a member of his family.

but that wasn’t going to fit in 5 pages. so i woke up early but stayed in a meditative dream-state trying to dream up something. with the nursery and the wig parameter, i centered possibilities around a baby, and a mother dying of cancer. i wanted to frame it in a story about war and home. and then it all came out as i was reading survivor transcripts from hiroshima.

now i look at the words in front of me, and i think how simple and caricatured it is, this fictional piece. but then i think of these characters as though they were real people who lived these experiences, what their life was like from that point after, and sometimes, i cry. so the aftermath of this story has been a slow swim back to shore.

i was definitely introverted today, but content. it made people around me softer. warmer. more kind.

i want to admit that one of my greatest weaknesses as a writer, is i don’t think i can kill.

the truth:

i am doing a 9 to 9 one-year living and writing sabbatical, calibrating.

update re: saturday amber night

the bartender asked me what happened with the last guy who was talking to me that night. he said he left for a moment, and when he came back, lena, the asian bartender, was spraying the angry asian robot with the soda gun, and the security guys were escorting him out.

is that unusual?, i asked.

yes that’s unusual, he said.

he thought maybe the asian robot had been rude to her, but found out she did it for whatever he was saying to me. amazing. an asian woman stood up for me.

really? was i there?

yes, he said. it was all happening right next to you.

i had no awareness of it. i was hardcore blocking that guy out of my world, not acknowledging he existed, so i missed a whole scene.

ps-i had one on sunday.

i have agreed to a date tomorrow.

last night’s dream

i was on a cruise with my family and my loyal friend, whitney. she’s a scorpio with sage-like wisdom.

i discovered that a man i know, someone i wasn’t sure if i would ever see again, was also on the boat with his family.

i was overjoyed–i’ve been wondering how it would be if we ever saw each other again.

we were both so happy to see each other, neither of us having expected it. finally, our moment had come. it felt amazing. he was wearing a red shirt.

but then something happened. we were around a lot of people–his family, my family, and there were these girls on the boat, the standard dumb, shallow american girls who were just looking for a good time.

i held my feelings close. i didn’t spill my most honest words. i didn’t want to tell him all i’d been holding for him, in case he didn’t feel the same way. i wanted him to break the ice, tell me that it’s been the same for him, this longing. but then this girl with long curly, blond hair, she wasn’t pretty but she was drunk and aggressive, kept hitting on him. and i was patiently biding my time for us to be alone. there was so much to say. i wanted him to open it.

but then he disappeared with her. just left. and i asked whitney where he was and i can always tell when she knows the truth but doesn’t want to tell me because she knows it will hurt.

so we just hung out, had a good time, and i tried not to think about it. dinner was formal that night, and when we showed up at the dining room, i looked over at his table and he wasn’t there.

he’s fucking her, isn’t he?, i asked whitney. i could see him taking off his red shirt and fucking this empty, empty girl in my mind. i knew it wasn’t imagination or fear.

she didn’t answer right away, choosing her words carefully.

sometimes guys will choose a lesser girl because it’s easier, she said. being with someone like you can be a lot of pressure for a guy who’s not good enough, or doesn’t think he’s good enough. it just means he’s a lesser guy. lesser guys go for lesser girls.

i felt so defeated. didn’t know if i was more disappointed in him, or in myself for believing in him. i had waited a long time for this moment, and by fate and chance, we found each other on this boat, a perfect reunion, proof of magic, and he’d run off with another girl. i had already been told about the rules of us–that we would have to give each other maximum freedom to allow each other to be ourselves…to be tied to this person means we each must give each other a long leash, even if that meant losing the person in the arms of someone else.

i couldn’t believe it was happening again, but this time, it really hurt. it was insulting. i was angry. i was jealous. i felt so stupid for everything i’d ever believed in.

my group and i were in our cabin, hanging out, and i didn’t want to go out and see them together. i looked over and whitney was sitting in a chair nearby, reading, and i realized what a faithful friend she is. and that i was preventing her from fully enjoying her vacation.

let’s get out of here, i said. i was filled with fire, a need to get beyond this or burn up trying. i was going to throw my belief in fate and destiny into the fire because i didn’t want it anymore–i would use it as fuel to get me past this caring, because i didn’t want to care anymore. this was just one stupid boy who didn’t want me, so i didn’t want him anymore either.

so we got ready and i was going to wear a red shirt, but i couldn’t find it. instead, i found an identical one, but it was white.

and i went out, eyes filled with burning. i didn’t know if i was going to go take ownership of my man, rip his world inside out with all that could have been then leave him standing alone, naked, or tear the night up around us. power was surging through me because i was burning it all up, and i’d lost my faith.

i woke up before i saw what happened next. i kept falling asleep and it kept returning to the boat, but now i was aware it was a dream, so all the characters were kind of fuzzy and unreal; it was like they interacted like people but i knew they were figments of a dream world, therefore meaningless. but this guy, he didn’t waver. he was real. and no matter how many times i woke up and fell back to sleep, everyone else was a fuzzy dream figment that i could control, but he was there as solid as day, standing in front of me. watching me. with this little smile like he already knows, but he’s just waiting for me to know it, too.

You just have to see her
You just have to see her
You just have to see her
You just have to see her
You just have to see her

and you know that she’ll break you in two.

–the airborne toxic event

The Union: The Business of Getting High

Great documentary. Poses lots of questions. It really makes no sense for alcohol and cigarettes to be regulated while marijuana is illegal and classed as a drug with no medical benefits.

i totally break the voice-over rule, but fuck-it. it’s about packing it into 5 pages.

Hiroshima

INT. CHILD’S NURSERY/JAPANESE HOUSE – DAY

INSERT TITLE: MAY, 1945

A small, bare Japanese bedroom with a tatami bed is being
transformed into a joint bedroom-nursery.

An elderly handyman (MR. YAMAMOTO), his face and hands world
worn, assembles a bamboo crib as a luminescent pregnant woman
in her 20’s, her long, beautiful hair neatly pleated to frame
her smooth, radiant face, sits near a window, knitting. This
is HANA TAKAHASHI, 6 months pregnant. On the dresser, is a
black & white wedding photo of her with her husband, TAKAO, a
handsome man in a pilot’s uniform.

MR. YAMAMOTO
Where is Takao now?

HANA
Flying supplies in Manchukuo. He
can’t say much about his missions,
but he hopes to be home in time for
the baby.

Hana looks out the window towards the blue skies. Her face is
stoic but can not hide the worry.

MR. YAMAMOTO
(kindly)
You and Takao will have a long and
blessed life with this child.

HANA
Thank you, Mr. Yamamoto.

There is a knock at the door, and Hana lumbers to her feet to
answer. It is a TELEGRAM MESSENGER, a young boy with head
bowed, hands her a telegram. He can not meet her eyes. She
rips open the envelope and reads.

HANA
No…

Mr. Yamamoto runs and catches her before her body hits the
ground.

INT. CHILD’S NURSERY/JAPANESE HOUSE – LATER

Hana wakes to see the worried face of Mr. Yamamoto. She is
laying on the tatami, a wet towel over her forehead.

MR. YAMAMOTO
I made tea if you’d like…

Hana struggles to sit up.

MR. YAMAMOTO
Please, lay. Too much excitement is
not good for the baby.

HANA
Takao–

MR. YAMAMOTO
Yes, the telegram.

HANA
Dead.

MR. YAMAMOTO
Missing.

HANA
Missing means they haven’t
recovered the body.

MR. YAMAMOTO
You must not think such thoughts.
Until you know, do not open your
door to darkness.

Outside, the sound of low-flying planes buzzes the air, a
patrol squadron, but the sound floods Hana’s heart, a single
tear falling, leaving a wet trail of sorrow.

INT. CHILD’S NURSERY/JAPANESE HOUSE – DAY

INSERT TITLE: JULY, 1945

Hana is sitting in her usual spot by the window, knitting.
Her stomach is bigger now. In the corner, the crib sits,
assembled. Every sound of planes draws her eyes to the sky. A
KNOCK comes at the front door. It’s the MAILMAN with a
letter. She opens it and lets out a scream of joy.

TAKAO (V.O.)
Dearest Hana. I am writing to let
you know I am alive.

EXT. PLAINS/MANCHUKUO – DAY

A plane crashes to the ground. It’s a terrible crash. The
navigator slumps in the back, the pilot is bloody but
breathing.

TAKAO (V.O.)
Our plane went down in the
uninhabited plains of the mainland,
my navigator Kenji was killed on
impact. It was only by sheer
miracle that I lived, though my
body was crushed and useless. For 4
days, I lay trapped, the only water
from light rainfall, no food,
waiting to be rescued, waiting to
die, waiting for some way out of
the twisted metal that had become
my world. Days into night, I felt
the crushing hopelessness, as
overwhelming as the pain of my
broken body. I would have gone
insane if it wasn’t for you–your
spirit, your voice, whispering in
my ear at my most desperate
moments, to hold on. By the 3rd
night, I was overcome by fever,
convinced I was nearing the end.

EXT. OCEAN – NIGHT

A man is struggling in the water under a full moon.

TAKAO (V.O.)
In fever, I dreamed, of a dark
ocean smelling of metal, burning
and death. The smells of war. In
the distance, I could hear the
moans of the dying. I was drowning
in it, wave after wave like human
hatred, pushing my head underwater.
I screamed your name over and over,
Hana…I wasn’t ready to let you
go. Suddenly, I looked up, and
there was a little girl standing
above me. You wouldn’t believe it.
She had your eyes, your long,
beautiful hair, an angel. She said
her name was Fumiko, and she’d come
to save me. She reached out a tiny
hand, and I took it, and with
complete ease, she pulled me into
the moon, a place so white and full
of grace, the black waters could no
longer drown me. I knew I was
saved. When I woke, I was in a
hospital in Changchun, having spent
weeks in and out of consciousness.
Hana, they say as soon as I can
walk, I’m coming home. Please
forgive me for what grief I have
caused you, a husband lost for
dead. My body is broken, but your
love saved my life. Just know that
I am fighting to get back to you,
and soon our lives will be one.

INT. CHILD’S NURSERY/JAPANESE HOUSE – DUSK

Hana clutches the letter to her chest, looking out the window
at the darkening sky. She cries tears of relief.

INT. CHILD’S NURSERY/JAPANESE HOUSE – EARLY MORNING

INSERT TITLE: August 6, 1945

Mr. Yamamoto is painting the walls a clean, cream color. Hana
brings in a tray of tea. She hands him a small cup and he
comes to sit next to her.

MR. YAMAMOTO
Takao will be here by the end of
the month?

HANA
Yes, he’s coming by train. He uses
a cane, but he can walk.

MR. YAMAMOTO
A miracle. You can’t ask for more.

Suddenly, Mr. Yamamoto’s expression changes to one of
confusion. Hana follows his gaze out the window.

MR. YAMAMOTO
I saw a flash.

As they look out the window, the sky suddenly turns red and
the air in the room wavers with heat, the glass of the window
seeming to bend. Air raid sirens SCREAM. Mr. Yamamoto pulls
Hana to the floor just before the glass bursts. Everything
rumbles around them.

Hana cries in pain. Her water breaks.

EXT/INT. TRAIN – DAY

Takao sits on a train, staring at the passing scenery. A
group of soldiers nearby are tuning a handheld radio
broadcasting Emperor Hirohito’s address of surrender. ANGRY
UPROAR. A SOLDIER with a bandaged arm that ends with a stump
sits down next to him.

SOLDIER
It’s over now. We’ve lost.

Takeo shakes his head.

SOLDIER
Where’s home, brother?

TAKAO
Hiroshima.

INT. CHILD’S NURSERY/JAPANESE HOUSE – NIGHT

Takao rushes in, leaning on a cane.

TAKAO
Hana?

By the window, Hana turns, a warm bundle in her arms. Her
hair is long and sleek, down to her back. She bounds towards
him and they embrace, tears flowing. She holds out the baby.

HANA
Fumiko.

TAKAO
The angel who saved my life.

Takao takes the bundle, and holds her, her tiny hand reaching
out for him. He clasps it in his.

TAKAO
And to think, each day, her hands
will never be this small again.

He looks at his wife, eyes full of love. He embraces her like
he’ll never let her go and kisses her. But something’s wrong.
Her hair hangs limply against her back from his hand. He
looks up and sees that she is bald, her hair a wig that’s
fallen. She’s sick. Her face is wet with tears.

HANA
I’m so sorry, Takao.

done. sick of this contest. or maybe i’m always like this at the end of things, when it’s time to let go of the writing. to be honest, i never like anything i write once it’s done. i wonder if other writers feel the same way. there’s a sense of elation when you’re finished. followed by a sense of self-loathing. maybe it’s the fact that you’re being judged that creates the self-loathing.

oh jesus christ, not again.

zero 7 concert tonight. really missed sia, who’s not on this tour.

went to amber to people watch and think about the story. met a dave, charles, seth, john–a line of guys who just kept taking the spot next to me, trying some angle with me. i was polite but kind of irritated because they would assume i was “bored” and could use some “company,” and i would tell them that this is my regular neighborhood spot and i’m actually working right now, thinking out a story. it was kind of irritating, but it’s what happens when you think better in crowded places and you’re in a bar (i wish they had late night cafes open around here, but most late-night food places are all bars). some guy came up just to cuss me out, mumbling how much he didn’t want me. i kept asking him to repeat what he said and he would say “nevermind,” but just get angrier at me, an angry little asian robot.

end of the night, the bartender who had periodically come by to chat and comment that i’m very popular, asked for my phone number, and i wouldn’t give it to him. so he told the little angry asian robot that i needed a walk home. i wrote “muthafucker” on a piece of paper and gave it to him as my phone number. the guy was wearing a wedding band. i told him i don’t mess around with married guys, yet he says he wears it because he gets more tips even though he’s not really married.

actually, in la, the bartenders DON’T wear their wedding bands to get better tips.

lies. all around. men lying to get my attention. and all i’m looking for is some truth. a home. someone whose arms i can fall asleep in. or at the very least, tonight, a good story to write about.

i think it’s because i wore red today. that was the issue. and it was like a break in the dam that wouldn’t stop flowing. i’d been avoiding wearing red in seattle, joking to myself that the men of seattle can’t handle me wearing red. but i wanted the red today to aid my creativity.

and so that was the course for the night–men, women–as soon as i got rid of one, another one would sidle up. even when i was talking to the bartender, telling him i only have room for 1 in my entourage, and unless he can fit into snake eyes’ outfit and be willing to die for me, i’m closed–these guys were filing by and touching my back, one by one.

more of your fans, the bartender said.

flattering, okay. but not the way i want it to be. i’m ready for next level shit. not idiots spitting game, acting like i’m a creature from some other place.

tonight felt like one of those throwaway nights. mildly irritating. i think i would have felt better about it and more celebratory if i knew what i’m going to write about.

last round for the finals.

i’m now in 3rd place overall. should be in 2nd at least, but whatever. dock me points because the majority of my last script wasn’t limited to a pawn shop but i don’t care. you’re just giving me a runway.

genre: open
location: a nursery
object: a wig

yippeekiyay, motherfuckers. either my legs catch fire in the final lap, or i burn up in space. either way, i’m going for the win.

please, god, i want to find my leopard. my great-grandmother gave him to me when i was a baby. i know the way he feels. i know the way he smells. i chewed one of his ears whenever i was scared. no one knows how he disappeared and it terrifies me to think someone threw him out.

it’s not just lesbians. it’s usually straight women. they watch, they approach, their eyes flickering uncertainty over why they’re here, and yet, they are here, looking for something.