A Rumination on Pinpricks

Tags

heart-to-pocket dictionary, prose, writing, writing exercise

starts where you would not, usually, and this lets you know that beforehand you had thought nothing much of the compound word. Now that you think about it, was it ever so difficult? To shrink away, shuddering, from the thought of being pricked? But not only that, but to fear something sharp and cold (the terror of which comes really from the fact that it is so small), that is not content to do you harm, but also leaves a mark on you, from the inside out

(Because the truth is that one small dot on the surface means a scarring, deep, into the whole).

My troublesome (and still slightly swollen) right eye. I insist that you insist on being charmed.

‘There are very fine pinpricks in your eyes,’ the doctor tells you, after the thin film of bright yellow light has scanned your eyes and he has folded your eyelids back. ‘There is some swelling,’ he admits and he enumerates the culprits, which, more properly termed, are the details of your lifestyle:

the preservatives in your contact lens solution;
the traces of powder from your face;

and the fact, therefore, that your eyesight has been very bad for quite a long, long time, and that though you are not as blemished (pimply teenager that you were), you need still a touch of concealer and (thank God for the development of your skin into some kind of stability at this time, your early twenties), a light dusting of powder.

The latter you have no problems with, cosmetics are disposable; it is only the contacts solution that would merit real sacrifice, for you cannot wear your slim, compact little eyes, for the next two weeks.

You are told this is natural, as the preservatives are necessary. On the whole, he says, these do not affect your whole body but do your eyes; it is not in the brand but the need behind the preservatives to keep the solution sterile.

That is not what bothers you. After all, you are only morbidly fascinated.

His voice echoes in your mind: There are very fine pinpricks in your eyes There are very fine pinpricks in your eyes There are very fine pinpricks in your eyes.

You imagine now, holes like scars in your cornea every time you lean forward to look at your face in the mirror. You have been wearing contact lenses since you were about twelve or thirteen, and before that you used to play a game when you were much younger, touching the whites of your eyes in your brother’s full-length mirror.

But the thought of pinpricks is new, makes you think what would happen were something to actually prick the human eye, something small, something sharp, something quotidian, and therefore sinister because innocent enough. There are very fine pinpricks in your eyes There are very fine pinpricks in your eyes There are very fine pinpricks in your eyes.

And the only other comfort (aside from the knowledge that now you have Flourometholone to battle it out, one drop each, three times a day, for the next two weeks, leaving a strange taste at the back of your throat—natural, this is all natural) is this – go on, you can read as much as you can, only one other echo does exist in your mind’s eye hears all of this with the anticipation of your new glasses tomorrow.

Imagining life with glasses that are as up-to-date as my contact lenses.

Truth be told, perhaps you were too embarrassed to ask, but your mother who wrote you before you could utter language asked for you, if you could still go on from one word to the other, left to write, up and down.

And to your relief, the doctor replies,

‘There is no limit to the amount of activity of the eye.’

And deeper, more persistent still:

There are very fine pin pricks in your eyes

There are very fine pin pricks in your eyes

But you did not have the courage to ask, if they were as fine and thin and sheer and bright, as the film of light the doctor used to examine your eyes.

–

Pinprick: according to The Merriam-Webster Dictionary (copyright 1997), n. 1: a small puncture made by or as if by a pin. 2: a petty  irritation or annoyance.

Otherwise: this Other, as mine, without the wise (copyright 2012), n. 3: another body-betrayal. The truth is he didn’t know the finer details of the diagnosis: the stress of wearing the lenses all day long to work from home, reading at a distance that measures from your corneas to the laptop screen; a peso per word, a puncture per letter, and one more thing to be earned for every space between words on the document you were working on, three weeks before all of this.

“You’re Your Own Person. You Don’t Worry About Coloring Inside the Lines.”

Tags

Aladdin, Beverly Cleary, Dahil Mahal Na Mahal Kita, Disney, essay, Ginnifer Goodwin, Ingrid Michaelson, Joey King, Josh Duhamel, literature, Maalaala Mo Kaya, Madrasta, movies, music, nonfiction, Pocahontas, Ramona and Beezus, Sandra Oh, Selena Gomez, The Lion King

I don’t know what it’s like for anyone else, but in my head there’s a distinct line between movies I watched as a little girl and movies I watched as a pimply teenager or as a so-called kolehiyala. The movies I watched when I was a kid is invariably divided into a million other categories, but mainly whether or not I watched it my family with our trusty VHS player, or with them in a theater.

The movies I watched with my family in the theater were the usual: anything Disney, from Aladdin to Pocahontas to The Lion King. At home, we watched movies that were somewhere in the middle (and that’s a large “middle”considering my age gap with the rest of the family); that is, something live action without anything too, well, torrid. In between, I have memories of watching landmark Filipino films: Maalaala Mo Kaya: The Movie, Madrasta, and of course, Dahil Mahal Na Mahal Kita.

But Ramona and Beezus is a category all on its own. As a grade schooler, I remember reading Beverly Cleary, but because my memory sucks a certain manner, it’s either I read too many of her books to remember too many details clearly, or I only ever read a few and remember the handful of details that survived puberty, university, and whatever working experience I have recently*. I won’t wax poetic here and say it was the desire for a younger sibling (female, preferably) that made me love the Ramona and Beezus dynamic. All I know is that I love it: the way Ramona’s imagination runs wild, and the way Beezus’ explanations of the world only trigger said imagination to run on unicorn power, propelling said younger sister to great heights of trouble.

With the illustration art I remember so well

Saving the day for Aunt Beatrice (Ginnifer Goodwin in the 2010 movie)

A Crown of...Burs (Couldn't help the Wheel of Time reference, now could I)

Cue the reason for a post that attempts to explain why I’d go through such pains to understand why I just had to watch the Ramona and Beezus movie on Star Movies a couple of nights ago (and relatively near the beginning, too). For one thing, this movie has an impressive cast (for my part I like Selena Gomez, nevermind her boyfriend): Josh Duhamel, Sandra Oh, and Ginnifer Goodwin(!).

And for another, the movie makes the pessimistic adult in you smile, if not because you know it proposes an improbable solution to a complicated problem (but what else are children’s movies for?), but because it presents something familiar, and nudges at all the childish insecurities you may have had to go through: not understanding why parents fight; the disbelief upon discovery that no one will listen to you, after all; the feeling that nobody wants you, and that your little adventures don’t matter to anyone else.

IMDb will inform you that the movie “Follows the misadventures of young grade schooler Ramona Quimby from Beverly Cleary’s popular children’s book series,” while Wikipedia will let you know that the plot draws more from two particular books: Ramona Forever and Ramona’s World.

I will simply tell you that it is a movie about a little girl who believes she can do something to help her parents during a time of financial crisis, and through a series of failed attempts to make money so that they won’t have to sell their house, discovers that her big sister doesn’t hate her after all, and that even the most complex problems can be solved.

But you already knew that–or at least, guessed that the movie would end so well.

The question I was asking, though, is why people (myself included) fall for such movies. Maybe the answer is so obvious that it will seem a waste of Internet time and blog space that I even wrote about it, but in life (as in blogging), I realize that some things are so accepted that their eloquence is soon forgotten, until they need to be spelled out again:

It is because we like to imagine, or believe, or be reminded that some things in life can still be made simple–not in every moment, and certainly not always when the situation is too hurtful or just too difficult to accept–but it happens. Finances are worrying; friends can be unhelpfully strange (or strangely unhelpful); teachers aren’t always supportive, family sometimes even less so.

Then again there’s a movie on TV with a big problem simplified to a neat plot line, with some proportions exaggerated for slapstick comedy effect and a sweetheart soundtrack…and the distinct memory that once you were a child, and a book about Ramona and her older sister Beezus was enough to make you happy. Make you smile.

–

*For the record, the one clear thing I remember about a Ramona and Beezus book I read had Beezus in a panic about where Ramona could be; and then horror of all horrors she remembers that she had once told Ramona that if one were to draw a straight line from one point, to cover the entire world, one would end up at the exact same spot one started. Oh, no! Could Ramona have decided to try this out on her own to see if Beezus was correct?

Luksong Tinik

Tags

music, poetry, Rivermaya, writing exercise

Pinagharap natin ang ating mga paa upang malaman
kung natumbok na ba natin ang mga parehong daan at
nasugatan na sa mga lubak at bubog ng mga nauna na sa
atin. Tulad ng ikinatakot ko, binasa ng balat ko ang mga sugat
sa talampakan mo, habang napagtanto mo na makinis pa
ang mga pahina ng mga paa ko.

Sinubok mong abutin ang kamay ko, upang ipaalam sa akin
na ang pagod ay hinuhubog din nang kusa, ngunit hindi ko naman
inasam na malaman mo ang mga pagsubok na binitiwan ng aking mga
kamay, sa pagkakaalam ko na ang bawat patalim na hinaplos ng iyong
mga daliri sa pansamantalang pagkakapit, ay minahal mo rin
nang buong puso, sa pagharap mo sa kinabukasan mo.

Kahit na ninanais na kumapit din at makaraos nang buhay,
ay hindi rin naman kita masundan. Ang tindig ng iyong katawan,
ang pagbabalik-tanaw na kumukulay sa iyong mga mata’y ibang
kuwentong ‘di ko kayang sundan. Itinaas ko na lamang ang isa
pang paa, ngunit sa muling pag-iisip ay naramdamang gusto kong
haplusin ang iyong mukha, upang malaman kung may mga kagat
ang iyong labi: mga paalala na natakot ka rin at nagmahal at
buhay pa sa anino ng mga nakaraang ‘di man sa akin ngunit
ganunpama’y mga kuwentong nasa puso ko rin at nagtatanong,
‘Sa daan bang ito nahuhulog ang loob mo?’

Ngunit hindi ka pa rin pumayag na ayaw kong magpaaabot. Tila
hindi mo nakita ang kamay kong ninais basahin ang iyong
mukha at pilit mong inabot ang buhok ko, maaaring sa kagustuhang
maalala ang kagaspangan nito—marka ng mga sandaling naipon
na hindi ko ginustong malaman mo pa, ngayon o sa hinaharap man.

Pataas nang pataas ang naging paglalakbay ng ating mga pagtingin,
buhat ng ating mga kamay at paa (sana’y paakyat man lamang sa
kinaumagahan!). Tila habambuhay na ninais natin dalawang abutin
ang pagkakaintindi sa mga daang hindi naman tatahakin ngunit kilala
natin: sapagkat naapakan mo sa pagmamadali mo sa pinangakong paraiso
o baka nama’y ninais kong mapanaginipan dahil lamang narinig ng aking
pagkabata sa iba. Sa ganitong pagkahubog tayo natagpuan, ng lahat
ng ating minamahal, nang wala man lamang nabasa o naintindihan
mula sa isa’t-isa. Sa ganitong paraan tayo nilundagan ng kapanahunan, na
inisip lamang ang ating mga pinagdaanan bilang mga katanungang dapat
lamang pansamantala’y mahalin, tulad ng pagmamahal sa nakalipas
na mga iba’t-ibang larong pambata, at pagkatapos ng pawis at tawa’y
marapat din nama’y ating iyakan, tawanan, at sa huli’y kalimutan.

 

–

This, with the knowledge of course, that the metaphor of dance does not always play well with that of a game. Make what excuses (connections?) you will.

Enlightenment and One Lourd

Tags

book review, criticism, Filipino artists, literature, Lourd de Veyra, Myrza Sison, Philippines, society, SPOT.ph, Summit Media, This is a Crazy Planets

The Comic Link

Or, just Google him

Don’t ask me how–because my first literary encounter with this snarky intellectual (who would probably snort at being called such) is buried within the recesses of my memory–but I’ve always considered the name Lourd de Veyra as one inherently related to comedy, as though a post-modern dictionary that defines comedy and its related forms without the name of this Lourd must be, well, nothing less than a joke with a flat punchline.

But that’s an exaggeration of how much I’ve always connected comedy with him, when this is really supposed to be about my first foray into Lourd de Veyra’s essays. Sure, I’ve been to SPOT.ph (who hasn’t?), but if you hammered me now with questions about why I didn’t visit This is a Crazy Planets more often (Shame on you! Where have you been? Where else would you get a healthy amount of wit if not for the fountain of the Lourd?), I’d simply give you a withering look, particularly because I don’t care to count how many times I have read his blog.

This is a Crazy Mess

Myrza Sison, editor-in-chief of SPOT.ph, describes the collection of Lourd’s essays as such in the foreword to The Best of ‘This is a Crazy Planets’: A Collection of Essays from His Hit SPOT.ph Blog:

“With each piece he turns out week after week, he takes the reader on a crazy ride in search of meaning in an intrinsically meaningless world, making us thing: What do all the strange things happening around us mean? And what do they say about us and who we are? Because, who are we, anyway? Lourd is adamant about helping us find our identity, because we always seem to be losing our way. In a porma-obsessed world where contemporary demi-gods proclaim the joys of artifice on a billboardian scale; or on a more metaphysical level, where we are wont to accept things without qualm or question, Lourd pushes for authenticity and shuns affectation…”

Contents: for praise (and criticism)

And so on and so forth; if I could, I’d quote more than just that part of a paragraph from the foreword, but that would be pointless and well, pretty much illegal, yes? The foreword is part of the joy (and wit and insanity and tongue-twisting, language-effing) ride that is this collection of essays, but it’s only the tip of what I want to say.

This is me now, the girl who can tell you how and why Lourd is funny on television as well as on paper (that “Come hither and spar with me” look, his gang of potbellied, shirtless extras on his segment “Word of the Lourd,” his ability to quote literary critics while bemoaning the voice and thought process of Kris Aquino in one fell swoop), but not so much how he has become a staple in my mind as far as local television goes.

The Surprise Attack

To me, what I find impressive in his writing is not so much his control of language. Pero sandali lang; dito ko na rin dapat ipasok na hindi sapat na sabihin kong magaling siya sumulat sa Ingles. Dito ko na rin kailangan aminin na magaling siya magsulat sa Filipino hindi lamang sapagkat malalim ang nagawa niyang sabihin at tama ang paggamit o ika nga ang grammar niya (Dear Lourd, you had me at the right use of “ng” and “nang”). Sa totoo lang, nakakamangha siya magsulat sa Filipino sapagkat nagagawa niyang magsulat nang kung paano rin siya magsalita, at alam naman nating mahirap gawin ‘yon.

But to go back to a point I almost lost: it’s easy to think that language–when it is dressed in witty satire and speaking of everything from the lack of common sense in even having signs that say BAWAL TUMAE DITO and NO COUNTERFLOW to the celebrity statuses of Aling Dionisia and Jinky Pacquiao to sex scandals as discussed by the Senate–takes only one particular side. Lourd de Veyra’s writing about low IQ and low EQ bus drivers? He’s taking a stand against those very bus drivers and the management behind those bus lines. Lourd de Veyra points out to us that Kris is pointing the limelight on her brother’s receding hairline? He’s criticizing her and the media’s priorities. Lourd is complaining about people who call Boracay “Bora” and guys who sacrifice rice to get abs? He’s targeting the elite class.

But that isn’t so. If no proof has ever been presented before this (though that, too, is unlikely), let it now be known that his writing is true evidence that language is as much cause for understanding as it is for overlooking and misreading something. And that’s where the power of Lourd’s writing lies: in hitting its target without seeming to, but hitting it just the same, bullseye pa.

The best example for me so far? The essay entitled “Attack, Jejemons, Attack!” The first part of it suggests that the author has the same general opinion on people who eliminate vowels and are addicted to the letters H, Z, and X, even if it means elongating a word, whether on SMS or those strange, televised chatroom-slash-music channels.

of the Jejemons

But this is Lourd de Veyra, and just when you think he’s the swanky scholar who upholds the laws of grammar and structure with an iron hand–perhaps tongue, he turns everything around starting with a couple of sentences midway:

“One description of the jejemon is that he/she inhabits the dark and dank environs of Friendster and Multiply. This smacks of wrongheaded snobbery, As if being on Facebook and Twitter represents a quantum leap in intellectual development.”

Ah, the turning point. I’m a big fan of these, lately. The author then proceeds to remind us that language is a perennial development. Sounding almost Derrida-like (Gasp! Now I must ask myself whether that is what drew me to present this essay as a prime example), the swanky intellectual now reminds readers that the Filipino tongue of today is a bastard child (me now: but of course, a beautiful one at that), particularly of Spanish, English, and a heady mixture of what we can still (hopefully) call native.

So there you have it; I went from thinking I was finally reading an essay that would properly put into words what I felt for jejemons, when I was smacked with the cold facts: perhaps it is true that jeje-speak demeans language. And certainly this is not to ignore the fact that whether in English, Filipino, or any other language, proper grammar matters. But this was also to point out that behind every sneer and association of jeje-talk with people who supposedly hang out all day in dingy Internet cafes or wear those god-awful rainbow-striped, mushroom-puffed caps, people are really demeaning social class.

The morbid fascination of reading jeje-texts

In the words of the author himself: “But wait–what if it’s not really language we’re talking about?…What if what we’re really  sneering about is their lifestyle–their tastes in music, clothes, food, movies, television shows, reading materials, etc.?…(IMPORTANT: Every time we make jokes about how jologs someone’s school is, we are not insulting the poor student’s intellectual abilities but their parents’ financial capacity).”

So the double-edged sword: forgetting how “backwards” can easily become “progressive,” and that modes pf production are always a factor.

A Few Misses

Not that reading Lourd de Veyra doesn’t hit a few snags. There’s the ironic twist that, if Kris Aquino is everywhere mouthing an irrelevant discourse on reflex alone, then an endless foray into this phenomenon only adds to the layer of discourse.

Equal parts heavy and unbearable

There’s also the problem of the Tunay na Lalake, and the assertion that such a man wouldn’t skip carbs to maintain that six pack. Make no mistake, this is not to argue the aesthetic appeal of those things, but simply to point out that it seems unfair–to both sexes–to uphold one kind of lifestyle above another. Certainly there are habits that spell out Vanity (the capital letter a definite necessity), but to assume that the habit of exercise disqualifies someone from the ranks of being a “real man”–that smells of reduction, that it does.

There is, too the problem of vulgarity. Oh no, not of the author’s own crude language in expressing something, but the defense of Rico J. Puno when he publicly jokes around about impregnating women. But of course, which one of us have never cracked a green joke? But more publicity means more accountability, and to risk that readers will accept lewd jokes on live, nationwide television is part of the norm, is questionable–no matter the way in which any legendary singer can pull it off.

Then again, there are those who would agree, and then cap it off by saying, “Who cares about Rico J. Puno, anyway?” “Or worst, “I don’t even know who that is,” which then prompts a very Lourd-like answer, which then asks, why don’t you know him, particularly to Filipino readers. You were born long after his fame star began to fall? Big deal; you’ve heard of The Beatles, reminisce about the Spice Girls, and swoon at the mention of Old Blue Eyes, but you don’t know anything about Rico J. Puno. This isn’t a demand to go forth and research on everything Filipino, as much as it is the attempt to encourage curiosity.

Finger-Pointing

But to reassert the power of Lourd de Veyra’s blog entries (particularly as collected in this book): this is one kind of danger. Not only that it does not hold back when criticizing the society behind filthy public restrooms or the lackluster public transportation system or even the elitist view on the development of language, but that it sticks the middle finger up precisely to those who think that they uphold the best that society has to offer, good English, non-Hayden Kho fragrance and all:

Precisely because this kind of writing challenges those who are in power. And if you can access Lourd de Veyra’s blog, understand most of what he writes (even to comment on these entries)…heck, if you can even buy his book, then you’re in power.

And underneath all the kafkaesque language, nostalgia about the good ol’ days of Filipino action movies, and insistence that not everyone looks good on an EDSA billboard, if you aren’t doing anything to initiate change, well then Lourd de Veyra has two, very powerful words for you (a couple more, if you’d like them in the vernacular); one starts with an F, and the other, well…it’s all about you.

The Strange Nuances of Waiting

Tags

heart-to-pocket dictionary, prose, writing, writing exercise

involve the new senses and how they adapt to cheap thrills necessary for staying still in one place. Here, for example, the cup of warmth just enough of an excuse to stay in the temporary ground. Between the lines, the situation reads, Good thing you brought a book.

You cannot, as of yet, relax; there is no taking in the situation yet because the last time you took in the sights and smells and sounds which felt like silence (so used are you of the notes that they resemble the waterfall, unheard, by Tereza and Tomas), you knew–or made yourself believe you knew what you were doing.

Now, looking back at yourself waiting, and attempting to read in the waiting, who were you back then? Fresh into the new, scared and trying to tell tales about the people around you (but this is now):

The two women trying to study Spanish to your right; the table to your other side which seems an informal introduction of a Korean business man to Filipino food, care of his Filipino companions, the lot of them past middle age; the two men two tables from you there, like you, to simply pass the time with the ability to make small talk sound like shop.

An hour and fifteen minutes before this observation, you felt hollow, as you do now, but you keep telling yourself, Go!, You keep telling yourself: desire.

–

Waiting: according to The Merriam-Webster Dictionary (copyright 1997), vb. 1: to remain inactive in readiness of expectation.

Otherwise: this Other, as mine, without the wise (copyright 2012), vb. 2: to insist in anticipation, to let the cracks of realization open up to enlightenment; to be as Janus as possible, and still, to see the bigger picture without becoming dead to the moment.

Excuses for a Story # 3

Tags

fuzzy genre, music, nonpoetry/nonprose, Stars, writing, writing exercise

Pain: As Function of Stealth (Or, Notes for Utopia)*

They were all uneasy in their seats, in anticipation of a show that would proceed with genteel development. There were countless lives at stake–a definite number, yes, but since such a number would matter to only the pristine faces behind white-topped desks, the number was without name and therefore countless.

Those who waited were not allowed inside the room. Inside, those who feared every breath as the last were probed, questioned, and soothed momentarily. Those who waited were not allowed inside the room where posters assured their onlookers of impending safety and cautioned them against harm, as though color and words could lengthen their lives and paint boat-shapes on the mouths of those who waited outside.

On the rows of hard-backed seats painted green, the space between chairs was pathetic–a mere inching away of one discomfort from the next, in the row of metal that held all seats in place. Society deemed the uncomfortable solution, despite the pain: the horrific aftertaste, the limited options to the claim that more caution should have been in action and there was no point in wasting time. Hope, too, was to be allocated and defined by logic so that it could be applied to something more practical.

Only muted conversation could be heard from inside the room. The screams and the howls and the sobs were only in the mind, like pain. In the past, no one would have been allowed to stay alone in the room while a professional uttered the words and completed the tests, which, like physical questions, assaulted each guest inside the room. In the past, there would be the least semblance of happiness.

But that was the past. And this was the hospital of the future.

–

*Don’t you just wish that the pictures/videos/music for every excuse had a direct relationship to every excuse?

Oh, I don’t know.

Matres*

Tags

poetry, writing, writing exercise

In the bedroom where her mother left her, the tears of a strong-willed
child dried and cracked like paint best forgotten on the autumn skies of youth:
a mad orange glare, painted with the artistic manner in which the juvenile
goes down fighting into settled hormones. But this rage of immaturity bears
sweetness in its futility, as a mother lays hand on the shoulder of the daughter
facing away from her: a white marble tableau of non-questions. The movement
is in the struggle; because all daughters to their mothers become stubborn,
the way hands fisted in the womb, in the painful hours of movement in birth
reach for the imperfection of the world beyond—and this despite every particle
in the body that recoils in defense and doubt. The goal is only that, fully alive,
never to be still (for to be still is to die), in the hasty fever called womanhood
where the heart grows weary, never in a solitary existence that was once, so
easily achieved. It tells the story of a mother whose arms are in surrender
when they wrap around her babe. There!—her mouth croons like a white flag
for all the days and nights spent sleepless and moving to defy a lullaby sung
to the child who leaves her behind. The wings for a setting are a bedroom
where unshed tears have all but been painted a shade of unshed, in memories
where, in time and patience passing apathy, all tears crack and dry.

The denouement unfolds in almost passing, but ignorant bliss: there is nothing
can be done because the hours have also passed, from conflict to a daughter’s
one turning point, until she leaps. In time, there will be blood and consistency,
there will exist only this birthing again, a leave-taking page for the books.
The parting becomes unique only in its even folds, the distance between here
and there, the space for a coward silence of two women, unknown to both.

–

An exercise in line cuts; more or less what I expected (more than what I could have produced this time last year, less than the last piece I wrote, the one that cannot be as of yet found on this blog).

I remain unsatisfied with the second stanza, and am only confident in what I feel I know, equal parts feeling, equal parts an amateur confidence that this is actual knowing.

*The title is the Filipino term matres, which is the native word for uterus. Incidentally, of course, one usually finds a mattress in a bedroom. Make what connections you will.

Unwinding the Bird Chronicle: On Haruki Murakami

Tags

book review, books, criticism, Haruki Murakami, Kafkaesque, literature, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

To say that I’ve been bitten by the Murakami bug lately would be a sad understatement. And to say that Murakami-as-Japanese with Western influences and the struggle that comes with this (in writing, in readers, in criticism, in publishing) did not add to my obsession would be far from the truth. For an entire week, there was simply one thing I looked forward to: dinner done, chores accomplished, television on mute, it seemed only logical that I turn to my copy of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

Witching Hours

Instead of starting this review with a statement about simply, beautifully-put prose, I want to admit that Haruki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle scared me and, to a great extent, kept me up at night–and not just because I was too concerned for its main character, Toru Okada.

In the beginning of the book, the narrating Toru tells us that he and his wife Kumiko always hear an unseen bird outside their small garden. Even more strangely, this bird makes a very unique sound: the winding of a mechanical spring.  As the plot thickens and Toru becomes more and more lost, one thing becomes more certain: the sound of the wind-up bird brings misfortune to the one(s) who hear(s) it, and this misfortune is often accompanied by bloodshed and a world where resistance to the unknown is futile.

So there I lay, at nearly three or four am in the morning, fearing that, after listening to a few songs in my mobile, I’d hear the unmistakable winding of a spring. It doesn’t help that right behind my bed is a huge window that looks out into our backyard, where a cacophony of stray cats stepping on fallen leaves, a few gusts of wind, and random falling fruit or branches on the roof can make me jump. I was almost certain that the sound of a spring being wound was inevitable.

Threads that Bind

But I have survived both the novel and the fear of this sound. What has remained, for certain, is a fascination with how deeply Murakami can pull your interest. Setting aside all the fantastical elements in the novel (for the meantime at least), this is a work that, like Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, works primarily through the element of building curiosity and an excellent suspension of disbelief. This, in turn, is set up by the economic context of Toru himself.

Unemployed but with sufficient interest to last him a while, together with his savings and Kumiko’s salary, Toru is sucked into a world of mystery mainly because he becomes the most available agent to deal with seemingly mundane circumstances: the first of which is their missing cat, Noboru Wataya.

Strangely enough, there is no one thread that pulls together all the elements of the novel. There is nothing inherent in the characters themselves which makes their relationship organic, save for the husband-and-wife relationship of Toru and Kumiko. In fact, because the novel itself seems to work on a logic that is more it is what it is than actual a leads to b logic, I tried looking at related articles on the Internet and found something written by Jamie James for the New York Times, in which he discusses The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. 

Not meaning to be metafictive in this casual review, I will say only that the aforementioned article phrases perfectly what I found to be wanting in the novel: that is, when Toru finally sees a connection between Lieutenant Mamiya’s experiences in the Russo-Japanese struggle over Manchukuo and the disappearance of his wife, what could have been a “big reveal” seems only a flaky statement of mere coincidence. I even remember re-reading the short part of the novel where Toru realizes this, in the hopes that I would finally see how all the strange dreams, Mediterranean-inspired names, retreats into dry wells, and mysterious, sexually-laden phone calls were connected, but in the end I still found that the catharsis fell flat.

“Kafkaesque”

Still, I suppose it would be naive–careless, even, if I wrote about my experience of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle without admitting that now I do understand, more than ever, why Murakami’s fiction is considered Kafkaesque. That Toru resigns from his job not because it is a horrible one but because he realizes that staying there then would mean staying forever, that instead of becoming more certain of his identity and not questioning the identity of someone he thought he knew thoroughly (his wife Kumiko), he begins to realize that there is a darker, deeper meaning to every event that has happened in his life, and finally, that he only realizes this while unemployed–these are all Kafkaesque elements, but not quite in the textbook sense.

For it is not alienation while working within a capitalist system which arises in this novel, but ironically, displacement precisely after the decision to leave such an environment. Granted, Toru does not escape this system completely once he becomes a stay-at-home husband, but in being released from the duties of a professional gofer, he then discovers that even simple married life is subject to questions–or perhaps, being what it is, is precisely the perfect subject for questioning. Once able to focus on the quotidian, it is then the quotidian which begins to seem sinister: So this was how secrets got started, I thought to myself. People constructed them little by little, Toru realizes in Chapter 10 of Book One. It is a statement that sums up the underlying problems of the quotidian, the same problems which serve to haunt throughout the novel.

Multiple Choice(s)

With all the chaos that happens in Toru’s life, one theme seems to take charge in Book Three of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle: the idea that the “long arm” of fate reaches over and takes control of human life: not that we do not have the power to make choices, but that in the end, even our smallest choices seem predestined.

But that’s one particular thing that I love about this novel. Perhaps it is only my own personal insistence on the importance of choice, but examined carefully, at the root of things, choice also propels the unraveling of Toru’s life as he knows it. True, Kumiko’s issues may have sprung from fear of something that runs in her family; the emotional, physical, and psychological changes that Toru underwent, because of their morbidity and seemingly disconnected nature may have, equally, seemed to be something that was out of his control, but as much as themes and events in the novel were propelled by the apparent “long arm” of fate, choice was also at the root of things.

Case in point, Toru’s choice of action regarding Kumiko’s disappearance (the one particularly constant element in the novel) and Kumiko’s own turning point in the very end are just that: the insistence that fate, no matter, how seemingly “bigger” is actually but a minor detail encountered on a daily basis.

The novel was, undeniably, slow around three-fourths through. Many times, I had a despairing feeling about where the novel was going, and I even began asking myself if it was about time that I put the novel down and start thinking about the abundance of possible symbolism in it, instead of just reading and asking myself What can possibly come next?

But I am satisfied with this novel, and to be honest, my reason for loving it is the depth of realism that it created in my mind. The apparent concern for a fictional character who is facing otherwise realistic problems but which are in turn compounded by the fantastic–this was a concern which was possible only because of the novel’s suspension of disbelief and the relatable logic of a character who proceeds to accept the absurd because it is only in accepting it that he is able to make a choice.

That being said, I think it’ll be some time until I can pick this book up again and invest my emotions in it, because it was certainly one hell of a ride.

Excuses for a Story #2

Tags

fuzzy genre, Mumford & Sons, music, nonpoetry/nonprose, writing exercise

The Other Side of Fruition*

Filling in the blanks, his teachers said he must make his handwriting legible. There being no space for murder on the paper, his mother advised him: a steady hand, easy on the pressure, take the time with every letter. Later, his father, squinting at his adult hand: Son, why do you write like a woman?

Shooting blanks!, he tells himself, ashamed. He cannot get her with child. Here, the daughter she had in wedlock, sweet and clinging, thoroughly not his, stubby fingers holding crayon sticks. Not so hard, he tells her, as sun-bright yellow pierces Barbie’s head, spilling blonde into the next page. His wife comes home and they make love and oh!, how lonely the palms cupped around his face; she is glad he feels. He is sad that in her palms, there only being his tears.

Her blank, empty stare. His not-daughter and the Daddy-names she had for him, growing up. A blank stare for his disapproval: no, you cannot marry that young man (he is smart; he has made inquiries, knows the same young man supplies her with drugs). And then later, when the girl has written off her life on her wrists, his wife weeps but oh! How they both loved this girl-child, having vowed to give her siblings once. At the funeral, he wonders, if this is dead and I am alive, where do all the lovely feelings that are left, where do they ought to go?

–

*It would probably help to add that “White Blank Page” did not exactly inspire this piece, the way The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle only tangentially touches the post before this.

Excuses for a Story # 1

Tags

fuzzy genre, Haruki Murakami, nonpoetry/nonprose, writing, writing exercise

The search for something to write, I find, brings about questions that must be asked; so before I launch into the first piece in a series of shorts that I cannot [yet] transform into a full-fledged story, there are things to ask.

The first questions then, are thus:

How do you fill in the gaps, without actually dispelling the gaps? Remember, the goal here is to tell a story stripped to its muscles. You would say bones, but you are not a subtle enough for that.

Are they portraits? “Painting-snapshots of characters yet to be developed” launches us into something synonymous with sloth. If they are starting points, what are the chances that they will be continued?

Which launches us to a discussion of “prolific.” Perhaps everyone is prolific because they keep writing because they never stop because they are waist-deep in drafts. Now, we are to ask ourselves at what point is a piece no longer a draft? When even publication is neither final punctuation or a book slammed shut, what differentiates anything from the status of a draft? 

These are not questions for the past, or for the present, or the patterns you see now, rising like bubbles still unidentified.

The question then becomes, what are you what do you create now it exists what comes after what is now?

–

Nutmeg’s Shadow*

Always? She asked herself. Was she always asking too much of the world? Better aperitif, better service, higher grades, grander parties, more intense sex. Always? Colleagues, staff, children, husband. Always? The thought was paralyzing, but intensely fascinating. What hunger could be more passionate than this: bigger smiles, higher standards, later hours, always, always; not because she believed she wasn’t enough but because there must have been a dire mistake: this world was not at par with her. It was hell.

Ever punctual, she turned on his lateness. Always patient, always never understanding (what traffic jam, what  stomach ache?) She berated her countless lovers and three children in the consistency of punctuality the “I,” the “never,” the “late.” The impossibility of there ever being the right amount of time, neatly trimmed at the edges, centerpiece-perfect, and always for her needs.

It is late in the day when she realizes the house is dim but no one has bothered with the lights. Facing dusk and sunset streaming through the window, the room is scarred with the people she has trapped in the timeline of existence. There are picture frames, there are smiles that long ago were wiped out like greasy-fruity lipstick; the shine of wonder years. She is late for a nap; there is never enough sleep. Now she is alone; now she has arrived.

–

*I owe this name, in part, to Haruki Murakami, although I do not imagine it may be the final title, or that it is a kind of basis, or that this would flatter anyone, really.