【1031】

Sitting in the Universal Props department stuttering a bag of potato chips, with a broken chandelier at his feet. Their office emailed me in the morning and said that the lampshade was broken when this thing came back, and you had to pay for it. I pretended to be calm and said sure I am happy to pay for the damage.

When they asked me again, you are missing some props, do you think you can still find it, or pay for it, I took a closer look and found that the bill was 328 dollars. I said mercy, I'll go back and look for it. I rushed back to the house I photographed four days ago, and thanks to the inertia of capitalism, the American community only drops out the garbage once a week. I dragged the huge garbage bags out and found some oddly shaped Chinese knots and three-star paintings of Fu Shou Lu inside. I counted it, and the number was just right. I emailed and said wait I'm coming.

Although this pile of things really looks like stalls, the lack of a distinction between props and trash boils down to the fact that the art team is too chaotic. I took the car to the world with the stack of 20 dollars in the old blessing characters. I feel a little desolate. When I had returned it, I told them that since I had apparently paid the full price for the broken lamp, I wanted to know if I could take it away.

The prop guy said you think you can fix this thing. I said yes, and they took her off the ceiling of the warehouse and gave it to me, and I felt very sorry for the cracked lamp. Look at the clock at three o'clock, I sat in the door and bought a bag of potato chips from the vending machine.

Today, Halloween, a phoenix version of a clown floats by on a skateboard. On a bench next to it sat a rainbow-colored unicorn smoking a cigarette. I looked at the unicorn and thought to myself that I could hang this last century-style chandelier in my own house, and that there were never overhead lights in American rental houses anyway, and this thing was pretty appropriate.

The past three weeks have left me physically and mentally exhausted. Physically and mentally exhausted is really an understatement. On Monday, we photographed until 4 a.m., loading equipment onto a truck and stepping into the grass full of icy muddy water. I went home and slept for two hours, grabbed a handful of chocolate chips, and got up to contact someone to help unload and return furniture. When you carry it, you can feel that your toes are so cold that you don't feel it. First return the light camera, then restore the house where the photo was filmed, and then go to return the furniture borrowed from Sony and Universal in two parts. The car drove to Universal and found that the driver did not have a driver's license, and the doorman did not let the car in. After mediating for a long time, there was no way, so I said forget it, I'll come tomorrow. The truck was away with furniture, and I took a taxi home, passing by Getty, where the annual California wildfires burned the roadside forest into three distinct sections of gray, red, and green. Highway 405 was blocked, the sky was full of helicopters, and the roads were lined with angry fire trucks honking their horns.

At this time, at four o'clock in the afternoon, the driver was eating melon seeds and cursed quietly, saying that he was in trouble and would not be able to leave for a while. I said I was in no hurry, and I sat groggily in the cab in circles, watching the bushes burn outside the window, feeling like it was the most restful three hours in three weeks.

When I finally got home at seven o'clock, I found that I had made an appointment to talk to seven-thirty, and I looked at the email, and the three departments wanted to talk to me, because they all found that some of the equipment they had returned was wet. The story is so funny that I don't know how to explain it. I sat down and fried myself an egg to eat. It was half past ten in the evening after seeing the editing, and the wind on the driveway made me shiver. The house needed clothes for the background, and all my clothes became props, and they all ended up in the water. I wore the only remaining T-shirt to clean up the house I was shooting. The producer told me that the wall skin was peeling off, and I said it didn't matter, I would bring paint to paint it. It took us three hours to restore the house to its original state. I went home and slept. There was almost no foothold at home, and I dismantled the bed that day when there was a bed frame on set.

When I woke up on Tuesday morning, I finally had the opportunity to tell the story of the equipment. I told the professor that it was going to rain that day – it seemed understandable to everyone, but it wasn't at all. We had to hit the eaves with a hose in front of the door and pretend it was raining, so we moved all our equipment to the farther lawn to avoid getting wet. It doesn't seem like anything wrong with that, but at about 12 p.m., the extravagant gardening system of the U.S. imperialist residential community, the automatic sprinklers in the middle and edges of the lawn, begins to water the flowers automatically.

I couldn't stop laughing at this, and the professor said it wasn't funny, it was a serious safety incident. I said yes, yes, but since it's all like this, you can laugh at it. He said in that case, how did your film go. Alas, it scares you when I say it, in all these messes in my life, the only thing that is not bad is the film.

It was written that I fell asleep in the car and woke up with twenty other unresolved matters. Life is like a wildfire in California, and the heat is full of black ash, and I send a message to my classmates: Let's go to a bar.