if i was the dead wife in a male protagonist’s tragic backstory my dead wife hazy memory montage would be me laughing while scrolling my own tumblr blog
The inherent violence of buildings you have known being destroyed. I’m not saying this from an activism perspective, I’m talking about the shock to the system and the incomprehensible nature of a whole building simply not existing anymore. Rooms that you will be unable to visit again or make more memories in. It’s like a death. And we very rarely hold funerals for it. Am I making sense? I feel like i’m going crazy
coming of age film where a girl is really good at shoplifting and her dad finds out and is all like no daughter of mine is gonna be a shoplifter! and she goes but dad you don’t understand I’m really good at it! maybe the best! this could be my calling! my purpose! and he goes absolutely not you’re grounded young lady and at the climax she sneaks out and nabs like hundreds of dollars in fishing equipment and walks out of the store and all her friends are there cheering and lifting her up on their shoulders and the dad is there with his arms crossed and he looks mad as hell but then he sees what she got and realizes she did this to support his fishing hobby he’s like well Christy I may not understand it but if it means this much to you… I guess it’s alright with me and then the movie ends with them on the lake having a couple beers
When my nineteen-year-old son turns on the kitchen tap and leans down over the sink and tilts his head sideways to drink directly from the stream of cool water, I think of my older brother, now almost ten years gone, who used to do the same thing at that age;
And when he lifts his head back up and, satisfied, wipes the water dripping from his cheek with his shirtsleeve, it’s the same casual gesture my brother used to make; and I don’t tell him to use a glass, the way our father told my brother,
because I like remembering my brother when he was young, decades before anything went wrong, and I like the way my son becomes a little more my brother for a moment through this small habit born of a simple need,
which, natural and unprompted, ties them together across the bounds of death, and across time … as if the clear stream flowed between two worlds and entered this one through the kitchen faucet, my son and brother drinking the same water.
