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Somewhere only we know
There was this one particular conversation that stayed with me over the years. It was between me and the first boy I ever loved (before we ever loved).
It was early afternoon, we were sitting on the grass in a little secluded garden behind school property. There was a wire fence directly in front of us—the only thing separating our little garden from the grounds of the airport runway.
Strangely, I still remember that day being particularly windy.
It was early afternoon, we were sitting on the grass in a little secluded garden behind school property. There was a wire fence directly in front of us—the only thing separating our little garden from the grounds of the airport runway.
Strangely, I still remember that day being particularly windy.
"I had a dream last night, Aura"
He was much taller than me then. And we probably looked silly sitting side by side but there we were, overlooking a maze of cement intertwined with the green, evenly trimmed grass. Not very remarkable by airport standards of course, but it was enough of a view for us.
"Was it about the love of your life?" I joked. I didn't want to think about the fact that I dreamt about him often (in fear that he might read my mind). Repressing feelings was not my specialty back then but it was going to be.
"Kind of? I was flying a plane. God, the horizon looked so beautiful." He picked up a pebble from the ground and threw it over the fence. "But I heard screaming. When I looked down, I saw lots of fighting, lots of death."
I tilted my head in his direction and listened intently as he narrated the contents of his dream.
"It was war, Aura. I was fighting for our country. On a plane."
There was a slight tug on his lips—the verge of a smile—but I couldn't help the crinkle of my nose as he began describing the fight going on in the battlefield with elaborate hand gestures and sound effects. We laughed at his attempts at imitating explosions.
"I want that you know, as morbid as that sounds. I want to fight. And I want something to fight for"
There was a slight tug on his lips—the verge of a smile—but I couldn't help the crinkle of my nose as he began describing the fight going on in the battlefield with elaborate hand gestures and sound effects. We laughed at his attempts at imitating explosions.
"I want that you know, as morbid as that sounds. I want to fight. And I want something to fight for"
In that moment, I understood that we weren't talking about dreams of sleep anymore. These were dreams of the heart. Little goals that would manifest later in life—and there I was witnessing them unfold for this young man.
It was only after a few minutes of silence that he spoke,
"Hey no fair. Tell me about yours"
"My dream?"
"Yeah."
"My dream?"
"Yeah."
I talked about medicine then—a goal my younger self wanted to pursue. A goal that I didn't pursue, as goals change over the years. It's strange, how different that version of myself was. I could only imagine how different that version of him was as well. You know, relative to the present.
Relative to this reality.
This boy turned out to be my first love but this particular memory was simply a conversation between two friends. Our friendship held plenty of firsts.
I think he was the first boy to genuinely call me beautiful out loud in a room full of people. It shocked me so much you see, as I've always been bullied for how my eyes looked for years and years.
The first time somebody told me my eyes were too big, I was in kindergarten—barely even six years old. It got worse after first grade, when the name tarsier stuck with all the little boys. You know how they get. I vividly remember a younger version of myself actively trying to squint a little everyday to make herself seem more normal. It was an insecurity all throughout my younger years and entering high school, although the teasing got less and less I was still definitely far from loving my own features.
So yes, it was that singular booming voice during class, with a very nonchalant use of my name, that first called me beautiful.
He was one of the first people to ever wipe tears from my face.
First steady shoulder to cry on. First person to give me a song he wrote.
I guess we're vulnerable in our adolescence this way. How our little firsts are never truly so little.
Anyway, after a series of very complicated events that deserve to be told at another time, bloomed a young love that suddenly held pretty things in its hands. Literally.
He'd slip me handwritten songs in my palms and he would play them later when he could get a hold of a guitar. I was always in awe of the way he played the strings; it was magic to me. In a way, he was one of my many influences when I started writing poetry as well.
He always looked out for the little things that I say.
Like the one time I joked about wanting a hamster for Christmas. Well guess what? I got two that year and I named one after him.
He was very good to me. Still, to be honest with you though, even if I knew what good was at the time, I did not understand it. As much as I tried to tell myself that I was lucky, I would never fully comprehend the rawness and purity of it all until later. In the moment, it was not pure or untainted, it just is. It simply exists.
It's simply here.
Perhaps, because of that, with first loves you often don't think about the aftermath. Because somehow it's like it's going to be everything you'll ever experience. I also didn't know how to choose love. I thought if I knew love, it would keep me. I thought, if what I had was the real thing then it would never go away. It would be years ahead before I would learn that this was not the case—and that staying in love is a conscious choice you make every single day. It's like your own mini battlefield in this grand war.
So that's how it ended. In slowly forgetting to choose.
My heart wore itself out long before the words 'I kissed someone else' reached me one evening.
I guess that first young heartbreak was inevitable. Inevitable in my naivety of what I believed to be love; my mistreatment of it. Inevitable in the timeline and environment we were given.
What followed were weeks and weeks of unanswered messages. Every single day he greeted me good morning and good night; with a little story about his day and a question about mine at the end of it like he was hoping I might answer him still. What followed were a plethora of messages from his friends, and some less than friendly ones from people who did not understand. What followed was silence.
It's been a few years and we've since regained our friendship. I'd like to believe that it was conversations like the one I shared that made this possible. We're happy for each other's relationships. Happy for each other's little wins in life. I will forever thank my lucky stars for my lovely introduction of what love is—as firsts aren't always so kind.
I guess it's a comforting thought;
that there is a place in our hearts dedicated for the very first time it beats for somebody. A little space unique to the both of you.
I address this to you, my lovely friend. If you have a story about your first love (or lack thereof), I'd like to hear about it! Thank you for taking the time to accompany me in my thoughts and I can't wait to write to you again.
Aura ♥
NOVEMBER LIPS
Adventure Time is playing on the television.
Funny how, mere hours before this moment you had written in ink that you’re finally laying off boys—not laying with one.
Perhaps it was exhaustion that led your mind to wander.
Your surroundings change, like a fade-in from a movie—suddenly you're laying in another room, in another time, with another person. Everything is different save from the red walls around you (and maybe that singular similarity can mean something if you actually bothered) but you were not about to think about the implications of things.
Not tonight.
Person From The Past is stroking your hair with a gentle hand, as if the same sinful fingers didn’t corrupt you mere minutes before. Out of nowhere he said, “You know what I realized? You should never have sex with someone you don't love".
Not tonight.
Person From The Past is stroking your hair with a gentle hand, as if the same sinful fingers didn’t corrupt you mere minutes before. Out of nowhere he said, “You know what I realized? You should never have sex with someone you don't love".
I look up at him from beneath my lashes. I was tired. Physically. Emotionally.
“Do you?” A pause, a beat. “Love me, I mean.”
A frown, a smile. “More than anything in this world.”
A sniffle,
a tear.
"Then how could you—"
A sniffle,
a tear.
"Then how could you—"
Perhaps it was exhaustion that led you back to where you were.
Things fall back into place. You don't know if you hate how memories still bubble to the surface even after all you've done to place them somewhere far away. You know it only means you're human. You don't know if you still want to be human at all.
It's not much of a memory now I guess. Memories are liars.
It was just something that happened.
An event in your timeline that falls somewhere before This Moment.
Adventure Time is still on.
Your gaze lands on The Person Who Is Not Your Ex and you ask yourself if you feel worse now after what just happened. It’s a taxing thing, to delve that deep into your emotions since you have yet to do that tonight. Still, you found the answer struggling to reach the surface; you don't know yet. Or maybe that was a no.
But was that a no, you don’t feel worse or
worse, no you don’t feel anything?
Ah, so fucking taxing.
You gave up on the thought and examined This Person. In the few hours that you've spent together, you made two observations: 1) He's more comfortable with kissing your lips than looking into your eyes. 2) He doesn't use his lips for talking much.
A month of talking on and off and you’ve established a ‘scope of limitations’ of sorts. It’s so foreign, being detached like this. As if a switch was flipped and your emotions are placed on hold. Like a body without a soul; but a body with feeling nonetheless. You remember him asking one morning if he could be part of your ‘casual’ (whatever that is) and you said ‘yes’ (whatever that means).
You have no clue what you’re getting into. Let alone what you want. All you know is that you don't care to know more about him.
That didn’t stop you from asking his favorite color before you took him to bed though. You were sitting on the edge of it, taking off your shoes. A few feet northwest of you he was taking off his socks as well. Your black leggings were a stark contrast to the white sheets which in turn was a stark contrast to the red of your blood (circulating in your body at record speed).
At least your fingers weren't shaking.
It scared you in the moment you see—that you were going to sleep with him when you didn’t even know if he preferred green to yellow or orange to pink. It drove you crazy. So that’s when you decided to open your mouth (but not to kiss).
"What's your favorite color?" You asked. He took a step closer towards you then.
When he said "Blue" his chest was level with your face.
Before you stood up and kissed him, you answered, "God, how typical"
And that was that.
Your favorite color was blue.
It’s yellow now. Why? Because you realized you didn’t like blue anymore.
Actually, you never really liked blue that much. You loved teal though.
But now you decided yellow was prettier.
And that was that too.
Now hours later, you face him. Continuing your careful observation, you note the shadows that fill the spaces between the curves of his body and how his beautiful sculpted face was illuminated by a single television screen spewing cartoons. Out of all the faces you've kissed, his was the prettiest. Out of all the kisses you’ve had, his was the greediest.
But honestly. Who gave him the right to be so beautiful?
I mean, he is a model. He's also a photographer. And an artist. And a singer. And he dances? God.
Maybe it was a small mercy that his laugh was so hideous you had to cover your mouth.
I mean, he is a model. He's also a photographer. And an artist. And a singer. And he dances? God.
Maybe it was a small mercy that his laugh was so hideous you had to cover your mouth.
There, his laugh is where he balances out with the rest of us.
But that isn't his fatal flaw. It's actually quite charming.
It's the little furrow between his eyebrows. The tilt of his lips. It's the empty look he gets when he's running on default. It's the way he talks to you in early mornings, as if sleep was an enemy. You observed the tornado within him and shuddered at the thought of being caught in it, worse, at the thought of his winds colliding with the tsunami that is you.
A Great Ruining Of Sorts.
You remember a message he sent to you a few days ago, at 2 am. Something about relationships, something about being hurt, something about being scared to cause pain. It was around the same time as tonight when he said:
Funny. We’re two fucked up people.
No. That wasn't funny at all.
You know what’s funny? The urge to touch his cheek. The feeling in your fingertips was just out of habit. Some simple muscle memory, but you stop yourself anyway because that would be too romantic (and romance was out of the question). You didn’t feel at all for the guy but you wondered: when did he become so untouchable? Weren’t you in his arms just a few minutes ago?
"You're bored" he said, eyes still on the screen, not at all bothering to turn his head towards you.
"No I was just thinking."
Thinking, observing, and trying to remember how everything happened—if only to store it in your journal for later. Perhaps look back on it in a few years. Each information was tucked in your brain and filed neatly for safekeeping. At least when you come back to it in, say, ten years, you’ll remember that the first man you kissed after your breakup was a pessimist. Someone who throws the word 'hate' around when describing movies and things but never people. Someone who believes in God but not the church. Someone who likes movies like 500 Days of Summer and Love Rosie but hates Me Before You. Someone who resents his family—his mom especially. He who kisses like a madman. He, the man who’s done this a million times before and would probably forget this ever happened.
But you’ll try anything once, won't you?
Midnight Cherry Cola;
It’s a feeling, you know.
Midnight Cherry Cola, to me, was a specific point in time. It was a new house, a new boy, a new nighttime drinking habit.
It was a playlist that I played all night as I tried to sleep in my new bed.
Last year, months into settling in this city—after the rush of college wore off a tad bit for me to finally give my heart a rest—I listened to those songs again. Just like that, I was back in my room sipping cherry cola as the clock hit twelve. It stuck to me because it wasn't something I tried to remember, it simply clung to me like clothes would after getting soaked from the rain.
It was a playlist that I played all night as I tried to sleep in my new bed.
Last year, months into settling in this city—after the rush of college wore off a tad bit for me to finally give my heart a rest—I listened to those songs again. Just like that, I was back in my room sipping cherry cola as the clock hit twelve. It stuck to me because it wasn't something I tried to remember, it simply clung to me like clothes would after getting soaked from the rain.
So yeah like I said, it’s a feeling.
I can go on and on about what these words mean in my head but ultimately all I really want to say is that we all have this one thing. Heck, maybe even two or three or seventeen things that we define a little differently—something specific and mundane and unremarkable. Something that, sometimes, doesn't even make sense to the rest of the world unless you take the time to explain it. Something that, even in different contexts, would mean the same thing to you when you revisit it.
I was eating a cheesecake at a nearby coffee shop when I realized I was finally free from the ugly grasps of a previous toxic relationship. As soon as I realized this it became a checkpoint of sorts for me; something tangible I can go back to from time to time.
And I guess I'm there again these days.
So here. From my screen to yours, a string of words that I define a little differently:
I was eating a cheesecake at a nearby coffee shop when I realized I was finally free from the ugly grasps of a previous toxic relationship. As soon as I realized this it became a checkpoint of sorts for me; something tangible I can go back to from time to time.
And I guess I'm there again these days.
So here. From my screen to yours, a string of words that I define a little differently:
Classic New York Cheesecake
My emotions are mine again.
It was a scary thought, to not know how to feel by myself anymore (for a while perhaps that was the case). Who am I when I’m alone?
My emotions are mine again
and I didn’t know if it was strange. To let adrenaline define who I was (even for a short while). It had a more fitting ring to it than my own name.
If everything was stripped and I was down to my own flesh and bone, would I recognize my reflection or will I see a ghost in the mirror (like those horror stories we were so afraid of as kids). Maybe fear grows up like we do and it too, wears a new face.Would I get chills gazing into myself, a stranger in my own skin?
My emotions are mine again.
And I wonder how long it would take for someone to slice a piece of me for themselves. how long until I am crumbs on someone else’s plate
when they’ve had their fill
-Aura
-Aura
To Speak (is to bleed sometimes)
Struggle is such a difficult thing to manifest into words.
Sometimes, we internalize such complex things that the moment we try to speak up about it, language could do no justice. Sometimes, there's this huge dissonance between the things we feel and the words we use to describe them.
And that's what makes it hard.
People deal with their own things their own way, and struggle is not always vocalized. I know that there's beauty in simmering in your thoughts but there's a fine line between that and being drowned in it. In my case though, this difficulty of assigning a string of words to a string of feelings made me more quiet. It was easier not to talk. And, in some aspects of my life, this became a problem. Especially with org work, where I honestly felt like I was disappointing a respectable group of people who only wanted to come together to be part of something meaningful to them. This only fueled my afflictions, which in turn fueled my silence. And when my words needed me most, none came.
So yes, I've been silencing myself a lot these past few months for a variety of reasons. Some that cut deeper than others. For a while I was sure of the fact that knowing yourself also means knowing what you want to say. Maybe it's the fact that I feel myself changing so much that scares me—would I believe in my words tomorrow?
Sometimes, we internalize such complex things that the moment we try to speak up about it, language could do no justice. Sometimes, there's this huge dissonance between the things we feel and the words we use to describe them.
And that's what makes it hard.
People deal with their own things their own way, and struggle is not always vocalized. I know that there's beauty in simmering in your thoughts but there's a fine line between that and being drowned in it. In my case though, this difficulty of assigning a string of words to a string of feelings made me more quiet. It was easier not to talk. And, in some aspects of my life, this became a problem. Especially with org work, where I honestly felt like I was disappointing a respectable group of people who only wanted to come together to be part of something meaningful to them. This only fueled my afflictions, which in turn fueled my silence. And when my words needed me most, none came.
So yes, I've been silencing myself a lot these past few months for a variety of reasons. Some that cut deeper than others. For a while I was sure of the fact that knowing yourself also means knowing what you want to say. Maybe it's the fact that I feel myself changing so much that scares me—would I believe in my words tomorrow?
It's not much of an epiphany but on a Monday morning, after realizing that I told myself to Shut Up a million times the previous weekend I decided to just (excuse my language) Fuck It.
Actually, I take that back. It is a great epiphany.
Unless I'm taking away from other people's truths I should be allowed to live mine.
And guess what? Nobody cares that much.
Honestly.
Most of us are so critical of ourselves that ultimately we become our own greatest roadblock from our goals. This is a perpetual observation I make. Not saying it's bad, but too much of anything is never good.
Even the most horrendous of sins get forgotten, our mistakes and grief shouldn't be on our shoulders forever. So I guess to speak means to bleed sometimes.
But we'll heal anyway.
"This is what you do"
It has been almost two years since I took a chance on my Big Dream of being a filmmaker and I'm still at it. Truly, it was one of those things that I didn't know I could even choose up until I was 18 and college and I were face to face (but I loved it even before then). I practically grew up in the field of sciences and technology, eventually took up STEM, competed in robotics, and even tried to convince myself I'd pursue either medicine or engineering while everyone around me did the same. It was a typical case of being terrified to do something so different.
So maybe the reason why I love it so much is because I never thought I'd be here.
By now I've learned quite a bit about film theory, history, and production. However, one of the first things I knew about film came way before my Film 101 class and it's to always make sure that you keep the story in mind. I went into this major thinking that there couldn't possibly be a variable more important than that.
So far, this little theory has stayed true*
It has been months since I've seen the 2018 Japanese film, Shoplifters (dir. Hirokazu Kore-eda) but its story has yet to unlatch itself from me. I'm not going to talk about what happens much to avoid spoiling the experience for those who haven't seen it. I will, however, talk about a particular scene that punched me in the gut with such a force I had to walk away for a minute. Keep in mind that the ramblings going forward won't speak for the entirety of the movie; just a fraction of it.
For me to write about it properly it would be apt to tell you what happens in this scene. Don't worry if you haven't watched as this won't spoil any main details. There are only two important characters here: Nobuyo (a woman), and Lin (a little girl). Lin was previously rescued from a child abuse situation.
Both facing the fire, Nobuyo talks to the little girl as they cuddle up for warmth:
So maybe the reason why I love it so much is because I never thought I'd be here.
By now I've learned quite a bit about film theory, history, and production. However, one of the first things I knew about film came way before my Film 101 class and it's to always make sure that you keep the story in mind. I went into this major thinking that there couldn't possibly be a variable more important than that.
So far, this little theory has stayed true*
It has been months since I've seen the 2018 Japanese film, Shoplifters (dir. Hirokazu Kore-eda) but its story has yet to unlatch itself from me. I'm not going to talk about what happens much to avoid spoiling the experience for those who haven't seen it. I will, however, talk about a particular scene that punched me in the gut with such a force I had to walk away for a minute. Keep in mind that the ramblings going forward won't speak for the entirety of the movie; just a fraction of it.
For me to write about it properly it would be apt to tell you what happens in this scene. Don't worry if you haven't watched as this won't spoil any main details. There are only two important characters here: Nobuyo (a woman), and Lin (a little girl). Lin was previously rescued from a child abuse situation.
Both facing the fire, Nobuyo talks to the little girl as they cuddle up for warmth:
"The reason they hit you
isn't because you are bad.
If they say they hit you because they love you, that is a lie.
If they loved you,
if they really loved you,
this is what you do
this is what you do."
Nobuyo, crying, pulls the little girl in for an embrace.
The child wipes her tears, a gesture she smiles at.
What Nobuyo said was both personal and universal and I guess that is why this part of the film affected me so much.
Some of us, when we were younger, have taken beatings for things before we even knew they were wrong; maybe even for things that weren't wrong at all. I for one, remember having my fair share of that for simply taking too long in the bathtub, for going outside to play with butterflies, or even for playing the flute a little too loud. Instead of a proper explanation as to why it was wrong, there were multiple moments where I was met with anger and as a young child, I could not comprehend why that was. Jokes about daddy issues aside, I believe that most of what I experienced can be rooted back to the macho and patriarchal environment my father grew up in. Given that I had to unlearn all the stereotypical boxes taught to me that, intentionally or not, made me feel like I should act and become small as a girl all the while being told it was because I as loved (not because of the conventions he decided to project upon me). Of course this is not as bad as the worst of them, as I still have felt selfless love from my parents and am aware of the privilege afforded to me by our class bracket. However, I will not deny that some methods of parenting I witnessed surely wouldn't get passed on to my own children.
So my string of thoughts started in this way—in the reflection of personal experiences.
For some, this fear of physical or emotional trauma became the driving force for what we should and shouldn't do in the household. In the cases where the abuse is random, basing solely on the mood of the guardian, the household will cease to exist as a safe space at all. However, apparently, this was love. So some of us grew up to look for love in the same kind of packaging; even worse, they give 'love' the same way. Of course, I am not talking about a light pinch on the arm here. I'm talking about manipulation and bruises and blood and heavy hands for things that should've been met with understanding, like an opposing belief outside of the conservative, or coming out of the closet, or being in love for the first time, or even having a lower grade at school than usual.
Ah, the guise of discipline.
Perhaps some parents or guardians had it worse too, and were subject to tougher love than some of us.
What I'm trying to get to is that, while it is unfair that we're left to heal ourselves after a love that hurts, or while we find ourselves hurting those who try to love us because that is what we know how to do, our personal growth depends on how we acknowledge both ends of the spectrum. Getting out of that stage of denial, whether hurt or hurting, is likely the first step.
That is not to say we were never victims or we shouldn't be held accountable, but our books will never move forward if we don't face certain chapters. This is harder of course for individuals living with very real effects of mental illnesses and can never be truly be addressed simply by nonchalance or tolerance but with professional help or proper intervention.
The same goes for deliberate assholes (the kind equipped with only fake remorse).
This leads me to another important thing that I learned the hard way, not just from films but from harsh reality: romanticizing abuse will not help you get better. It [the truth] goes hand in hand with moving forward. That might mean cutting people out of your life, or you having to finally look at yourself and what you've become, or letting those you've hurt move on with their lives while you work on yourself (truly work on yourself).
Going even further, this applies to the state of the country. In how some of us are so keen on seeing a fatherly figure of a fascist who doesn't grant due justice to his own people. When will all of us realize that the oppressor does not love?
I realize that this wasn't much of a letter about the movie but rather because of it. And isn't that the beauty of film anyway? To share things like this?
isn't because you are bad.
If they say they hit you because they love you, that is a lie.
If they loved you,
if they really loved you,
this is what you do
this is what you do."
Nobuyo, crying, pulls the little girl in for an embrace.
The child wipes her tears, a gesture she smiles at.
What Nobuyo said was both personal and universal and I guess that is why this part of the film affected me so much.
Some of us, when we were younger, have taken beatings for things before we even knew they were wrong; maybe even for things that weren't wrong at all. I for one, remember having my fair share of that for simply taking too long in the bathtub, for going outside to play with butterflies, or even for playing the flute a little too loud. Instead of a proper explanation as to why it was wrong, there were multiple moments where I was met with anger and as a young child, I could not comprehend why that was. Jokes about daddy issues aside, I believe that most of what I experienced can be rooted back to the macho and patriarchal environment my father grew up in. Given that I had to unlearn all the stereotypical boxes taught to me that, intentionally or not, made me feel like I should act and become small as a girl all the while being told it was because I as loved (not because of the conventions he decided to project upon me). Of course this is not as bad as the worst of them, as I still have felt selfless love from my parents and am aware of the privilege afforded to me by our class bracket. However, I will not deny that some methods of parenting I witnessed surely wouldn't get passed on to my own children.
So my string of thoughts started in this way—in the reflection of personal experiences.
For some, this fear of physical or emotional trauma became the driving force for what we should and shouldn't do in the household. In the cases where the abuse is random, basing solely on the mood of the guardian, the household will cease to exist as a safe space at all. However, apparently, this was love. So some of us grew up to look for love in the same kind of packaging; even worse, they give 'love' the same way. Of course, I am not talking about a light pinch on the arm here. I'm talking about manipulation and bruises and blood and heavy hands for things that should've been met with understanding, like an opposing belief outside of the conservative, or coming out of the closet, or being in love for the first time, or even having a lower grade at school than usual.
Ah, the guise of discipline.
Perhaps some parents or guardians had it worse too, and were subject to tougher love than some of us.
What I'm trying to get to is that, while it is unfair that we're left to heal ourselves after a love that hurts, or while we find ourselves hurting those who try to love us because that is what we know how to do, our personal growth depends on how we acknowledge both ends of the spectrum. Getting out of that stage of denial, whether hurt or hurting, is likely the first step.
That is not to say we were never victims or we shouldn't be held accountable, but our books will never move forward if we don't face certain chapters. This is harder of course for individuals living with very real effects of mental illnesses and can never be truly be addressed simply by nonchalance or tolerance but with professional help or proper intervention.
The same goes for deliberate assholes (the kind equipped with only fake remorse).
This leads me to another important thing that I learned the hard way, not just from films but from harsh reality: romanticizing abuse will not help you get better. It [the truth] goes hand in hand with moving forward. That might mean cutting people out of your life, or you having to finally look at yourself and what you've become, or letting those you've hurt move on with their lives while you work on yourself (truly work on yourself).
Going even further, this applies to the state of the country. In how some of us are so keen on seeing a fatherly figure of a fascist who doesn't grant due justice to his own people. When will all of us realize that the oppressor does not love?
I realize that this wasn't much of a letter about the movie but rather because of it. And isn't that the beauty of film anyway? To share things like this?
**
* to those who want to say that experimental films have no story, yes they do! Sometimes it may not be the conventional narrative we are used to. However, there are key driving forces into the creation of experimental films and even that in itself is a story as well. Plus, the 'story' does not lie merely on the screen but also in the hands of its creators, in the context of its viewing, and the very people watching it. I argue that cinema, ever since its inception, has never only been about moving images. Take the nonsense and satire nature of Dadaism, for example. How even then, it provided a striking commentary against traditional views of war (even class and technology) out of gibberish.
(!! SPOILER !!) In the end of the movie, Nobuyo confesses that she could not bear children. Furthermore, it turns out that she faced abuse in the hands of her ex-husband. I believe what she told Lin were things she wanted to tell her younger, more naive self. Her pain is deeper in this way and the unfolding of events makes it such that we do not understand the gravity of her words until the very end. Of course, I can talk about how this unpacks the more sinister things she's done like the kidnapping and/or saving of Lin, and the killing of her ex-husband when he caught her and her current partner together. Suffice to say that even if I do not condone some behaviors of the characters, I can very much appreciate the way they were written. It was like a soothing lullaby that turned into loud screams. I mean, even the elements we see on the screen in the scene I talked about echoes their narrative. Notice how they are in front of a homemade fireplace; this very thing is what protects them from the cold but at the same time has the capacity to burn them to oblivion.
This one came from my drafts. It's been a little clogged in there lately.
Ironically, even though this was written months ago, the message of the scene especially applies today — with the way we are being governed in the midst of the pandemic.
Hugs to all who are exhausted, angry, sad, and/or lonely.
Let me know your thoughts?
Aura ♥