A PALM TREE IN THE DISTANCE

In the distance stands a palm tree, so real yet so unreachable. Living and studying in Los Angeles for nearly three years, I must admit my distaste for this city. I don’t understand the reverence people have for California, nor do I comprehend why the song "California Dreamin'" is incessantly replayed. To me, this is not La La Land. The brilliant sunsets, towering palm trees, and charming pink houses here all seem like a vast set piece, using façades to mask desolation. Los Angeles, a city built on wheels, is sprawling and dispersed with scarce public transportation. Walking becomes a luxury, and lacking the means to afford a second-hand car, Uber becomes a significant part of my daily commute. Encounters that could happen during a stroll are replaced by sporadic conversations with drivers, becoming my primary form of interaction with strangers. I cherish these moments and gradually begin to observe each driver, drawing inspiration for my film’s character, Robert, from two drivers—one Japanese and one Korean—I met.

One evening, after dining in a Chinese restaurant in the Chinese district, I stepped out onto the street, surrounded by squares and streets diligently replicating scenes from back home, and found myself in a trance. Where am I? This kind of geographical disorientation happens often but is intriguing. Sometimes, waking from a dream, my memories overlap, and this “uncertainty” fascinates me, prompting me to use cinematic narrative techniques to tell stories.

Yet, like dreamers unaware they are dreaming, people often immerse themselves in self-created narratives, blurring time and place, lost between reality and illusion. Over the past three years, many of my Chinese friends and I have fallen into what we call "political depression," driven by a strange obsession to stay in the U.S.