do you ever wish you could just stop time for like a couple weeks so you could just sleep and do whatever you want and just get your shit together and then after that time would just start back up again and you wouldn’t have missed anything because you would just pick up where you left off
I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring that I shall ever see.
For still there are so many things that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think of people long ago,
and people who will see a world that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet and voices at the door.
I told Miyazaki I love the “gratuitous motion” in his films; instead of every movement being dictated by the story, sometimes people will just sit for a moment, or they will sigh, or look in a running stream, or do something extra, not to advance the story but only to give the sense of time and place and who they are.
"We have a word for that in Japanese," he said. "It’s called ma. Emptiness. It’s there intentionally.”
Is that like the “pillow words” that separate phrases in Japanese poetry?
"I don’t think it’s like the pillow word." He clapped his hands three or four times. "The time in between my clapping is ma. If you just have non-stop action with no breathing space at all, it’s just busyness. But if you take a moment, then the tension building in the film can grow into a wider dimension. If you just have constant tension at 80 degrees all the time you just get numb.
Unless I write “and then his Galaxy 4’s battery died” no one can ever get lost, forget an important fact, meet a partner outside of a dating site, or do anything that doesn’t eventually have them picking up a phone. So I’m stuck writing about an era where Ethan Hawke was considered the pinnacle of manliness.
This is such an interesting and terrifying point.
LMFAO Seriously? I can’t even get my thoughts together to express how many things are wrong with this.
Perhaps they don’t have service, or at least not enough to get the maps app to load properly. Perhaps they don’t even have a smartphone, because not everybody does, you classist fuck. Perhaps they’re just shit at reading maps, so they keep thinking they’re going the right way according to the map they pulled up, only to realize, no, that wasn’t it either. Perhaps they’re alone in their car and so they can only take quick glances at their phone so it’s really fucking hard to read their directions and they get lost anyway because they missed a step or didn’t realize that was their exit until they were past it.
Perhaps they don’t keep lists of shit to do on their phone. Perhaps they don’t have a hyper-developed “let me ask the internet!” reflex when confronted with the unknown. Perhaps they forgot to set a reminder for some important thing. Perhaps they were so sure they’d remember they didn’t bother to make a note of it. Perhaps, again, they don’t have signal. Perhaps they’re just shit at looking things up on the internet and give up in frustration after a moment or two.
Perhaps they don’t even do dating sites. Perhaps they just take their fucking phone with them while they’re out and about and meet people in other places, while carrying the phone, but not actively being on it. (Honestly, wtf was dating sites even doing on a list like this? Like they’re an intrinsic part of the smartphone user experience?)
Basically, perhaps you could engage your fucking imagination like a halfway decent writer and figure out how to work modernity into your plots, or at least shut the fuck up whining about how incompetent and ignorant you are, you fucking hack.
bolding mine because it’s embarrassing how lazy old male novelists are. young people are making plenty of modern fiction—there’s no excuse. also, is “they got lost” seriously your only plot point?
i have to reblog again though because i violated the Rule and looked in the comments and found the perfect rebuttal
What’s a “Galaxy 4”?
what do you mean people born in 1997 arent 3
n. the strange wistfulness of used bookstores, which are somehow infused with the passage of time—filled with thousands of old books you’ll never have time to read, each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated and papered over like an old room the author abandoned years ago, a hidden annex littered with thoughts left just as they were on the day they were captured.