Hello, Morning Pages #6

In The City And Its Uncertain Walls by Haruki Murakami, a boy and a man who are the same person live in different worlds, the younger unknowing what he will become and the older, has forgotten what he was. This is a story about losing the connection with your heart when the realities of life take hold. It is a story about identity in a world of uncertainty. A story about the unfortunate nature of pragmatism adults must adopt in order to exist in a dehumanizing world run by profit margins.

Yet, to reduce the book to a critique of capitalism would be unjust. The story focuses very little on the workings of the economic system, and delves far deeper into the barrier between what is real and what is fantasy.

As a 17-year-old, the protagonist is deeply in love with a 16-year-old girl. She vanishes. But not until after telling him of a city with a high wall and unicorns that die each winter and during mating season and then are burned by a gatekeeper with a large axe. It is this city she has gone to and the protagonist spends years trying to get there and to find her, but by the time he does, he is in his forties, and she has not aged at all, for there is no time in the city with the high wall. Everyone in the city has a job, and it is essential. There is no ambiguity of purpose and meaning.

The wall that protects the city is not to be taken literally. Like the city itself, it is metaphor through and through. The wall, like the city, is the space between our heads and our hearts. So often, hour heads know one thing, something practical and logical, but our hearts are telling us something far different, and it is not until they are united that we become whole. Ikigai, I believe, has something to do with this.

There are some beautiful passages in this book about love. The sense of longing and aching one has when in love for another person presence, attention, body. The book is genuine and heartfelt, and yet. . . it also tumbles into the trope of Literature (literature with a capital L) having characters with much to think and talk about, but little to do about their predicaments other than to talk more and wait until the walls between the real and the unreal, crumble.

Hello, Morning Pages #5

Quick author’s note here: This is a first draft of a piece I’ve been playing with called Everything Is Unreal. You can read the first 2 chapters here: https://www.wattpad.com/story/391714056-everything-is-unreal

Chapter 3: A Ghost From The Past

In stories with multiple plot threads and character arcs, it’s important to remind readers what to pay attention to every now and then. So, let’s recap a couple things: First, mystery weekend is usually just in L**. But since it was the 50th edition, the whole island was a part of it. You probably noticed there was a not so subtle mention of Erin’s brother. He’ll come up later. And then there were those suits, Neanderthal and Peach Fuzz, the old lady, and the pale, green light all over town. Even though I didn’t it at the time, these things are important and I wish I would have paid closer attention, or taken them more seriously.
***
Around eleven things really started to pick up. Tourists and locals alike lined the sidewalks outside. Many were in costumes of their own, so I couldn’t tell who was in on the Mystery Weekend plot and who was just a Player.

Erin showed me the clue the gallery was supposed to hand out.

“Only when people tell me it’s the last place the victim was seen, though,” she said.

It was a handbill with a poem on it. Or a riddle–sometimes they’re the same thing. It went like this:

The first of many yet to come,
They came here with their guns and rum
Landing here to seek more sacred land,
Taking what they would, and killing all by hand.
In their greed, they turned against themselves
And buried deep in blood, a treasure for which you delve.

“And this leads where?” I asked.

“No idea,” said Erin.

The door of the gallery opened. A group of five girls, probably eleven or twelves years old and all dressed in Sherlock Holmes hats and jackets, piled into the small space. Suddenly, the gallery felt very cramped. They were followed by an Asian woman in her early 30s; probably the mother of one of the girls.

“It just seems like it would be at a bigger store,” said one of the girls in a squeaky voice.

“Hello,” said the woman, politely.

“Welcome,” said Erin. “Enjoying the mystery?”

The woman smiled, but it was the girls who spoke–all at once.

Hello, Morning Pages: #4

Yesterday, I watched an NPR Tiny Desk Concert. The group was called Shakti. It consisted of five members. Two drummers, one on tablas, the other on a type of drum I don’t know the name of. One violin player, a guitarist, and a vocalist. They were incredible. I was particularly drawn to the drummers. Watching the way they play–it’s like a conversation. Their eyes dart back and forth between members, their mouths slightly open, each nodding as though they agree with what the others have said.

It’s a performance that just seems outlandish in its quality. I find myself wondering how anyone gets so good at something. In times like that, my own mediocrity is lain bear. I find myself shaking my head. I will never be as good at anything as those guys in that band–that seems bleak, but that is true about most people. We are all, by definition, mostly average. This is not to say we are average at everything we do. But rather that we are above average at some things and below average at others. But to be extraordinary–few people are that at anything. Part of life and again is becoming aware of which things go in which column.

In terms of this spectrum, I think. . . I think, mind you–I may have a woeful sense of self ability–I am above average in a few things. Writing, is one. I simply write a lot and consistently, so have plenty of practice. Yet, I am unable to finish a full novel. I get stuck every time. That is happening right now with my current work. When I get stuck, I have a new idea, and then I start working on that other idea, then I leave the first idea alone for so long, I forget what it was truly about, and it just feels like too much work to try and finish it.

So, in terms of attention span–I am definitely below where I’d like to be. I guess that’s where dedication comes in.

I’m going to try to work on that novel today. But the last few times I’ve tried, I’ve ended up just gazing out the window. Maybe that is part of the process. But it just feels like a waste of time.