“It’s about misunderstandings between people and places, being disconnected and looking for moments of connection. There are so many moments in life when people don’t say what they mean, when they are just missing each other, waiting to run into each other in a hallway.”—Sofia Coppola (explaining what Lost In Translation is about)
“Farewells can be shattering, but returns are surely worse. Solid flesh can never live up to the bright shadow cast by its absence. Time and distance blur the edges; then suddenly the beloved has arrived, and it’s noon with its merciless light, and every spot and pore and wrinkle and bristle stands clear.”—Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin
discover long lost norman rockwell oil painting of summer camp and americana in the attic… craft confectionery dollhouse cake of marzipan and sugar plums based on portrait… borrow old-timey kodak to shoot 35mm prints… take pictures of the pictures with instagram and saturate with “whimsical twee” filter… finally, stitch together precious, stop-action flipbook set to a francois hardy record playing on a phonograph… show bill murray.
INVENTORY OF PRECIOUS PROPS AND TIMELESS TROPES
1. a boy named sam (undersized, orphan) 2. a girl named suzy (left-handed, troubled child) 3. a fictional new england islet named “new penzance” 4. over-sized binoculars 5. tortoise shell eyeglasses 6. a lighthouse (with a lookout perch) 7. hand-written letters in brown crayon (for epistolary exposition) 8. a troop of “khaki scouts” (troop #55) 9. cuffed shorts with cuffed socks for boys 10. black eye-liner and eye shadow for girls 11. knee-high socks for everyone 12. wool cardigans for everyone
❁ - Already answered this! But honestly, I’m also super insecure about “the future.” I’m suddenly feeling so lost lately. And there are all these thoughts like, “what will I be doing? Will I even have a job? where would I live? where do I even want to live? will I finally become a financially-‘independent’ person?”
✌ - Whenever I hear It’s Too Late, I remember the quiet, summer afternoons I had with my dad when my mom, Ana, and I were still living in the Philippines. After my dad brought home a Carole King’s Tapestry CD, we listened to the songs on a small, red boom box while drinking orange juice and eating sweet bread from our bakery. I remember lying on the floor, with the CD booklet, trying to memorize the lyrics. And how I would ask my dad questions - ranging from the weather in Alaska, whether he loves my mom, when I could finally ride his blue, Kawasaki sport motorcycle, and if he’d send me another birthday card like last year.
☮ - This is the “relationship” story I had with M. He was older than me and living in Toronto. My best friend gushed about how hot he was and how she would build a shrine for his body, and how she couldn’t wait to introduce me to him. She never did, but M and I eventually met randomly months later in a stuffy room. We talked—about our mutual Canadian friends who were in the same room, how he and I both disliked Sarah Palin, and Canadian thanksgiving. And that was the last time I talked to him that year. After New Year’s, we started talking again and I fell for how genuinely nice he was. And how he would do physics to fall asleep, or whenever he had nothing to do.
Our long conversations ultimately deprived me of sleep. That, and we both became addicted to iilwy/OMGPOP’s tetris game. The more I talked to him, the more I liked him. Anyways, there wasn’t a happy ending to this.
"Still I’m glad for what we had and how I once loved you / But it’s too late, / though we really did try to make it. (We can’t make it.)"
“Home again, I sat at the kitchen table as usual, drinking a beer and listening to music on the radio. It then occurred to me that I wanted to talk to someone—about the weather, about political stupidity; it didn’t matter what. I just wanted to talk to somebody, but I couldn’t think of anyone, not one person I could talk to. I didn’t even have the cat.”—The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami
“The neighborhood looked a little different to me. The people I passed on the street all had unnatural, even artificial look to them. I examined each face as I walked by, and I wondered what kind of people these could be. What kind of houses did they live in? What kind of families did they have? What kind of lives do they lead? Did they sleep with women other than their wives, or men other than their husbands? Were they happy? Did they know how unnatural and artificial they looked?”—The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami