that daughterhood feeling of wanting to blame your mother for how you turned out, wanting to be angry at her for how you’ve inherited her pain and her insecurities, but at the same time wanting to keep coming home to her, out of everyone else in the universe, because you know that if there’s anyone who might be anything like you–if there’s anyone who might even have a clue of what it’s like to be you–it could only be her. and no matter how many times you’ve hurt each other, no matter how difficult it might be to get her to truly see you, you still just want her to love you as you are, to tell you that this isn’t your fault, and to show you that she would keep letting you come home to her.
everything everywhere all at once is about intergenerational trauma. about depression and passive suicidality and the gravitational appeal of nothingness. about aging, getting older in your twenties and getting older in your fifties. about the specific hurt mothers can cause their daughters and daughters their mothers. about the harsh reality of the immigrant experience and the american dream. but it’s mostly about kindness and family and it’s about choosing to sit at home talking about taxes with someone who loves you, and it’s about telling your daughter that you’d choose her over the entire universe, and it’s about how even in the universes where life didn’t form, love can still exist. and it’s really all of that at once.
I like pursuing new endeavors. That’s part of the reason I wanted to direct. I like to create things. I’m a Gemini. I’m always looking for something new.
thinking abt when someone rests their head on your shoulder and suddenly you’re barely breathing because you don’t want to disrupt their comfort by moving. will never get over how there can be so much love held in silent gestures.
