On self-expression.

I suppose it's fair enough to start where (I imagine) every writer starts. Take a pick to the walls of the self, excavate and roughly polish every rock with the slightest potential to be a gem. Hone self-awareness without self-consciousness, if you get my drift. Everything's an autobiography.

This holds a certain undeniable appeal. After all, why do I want to write? Why have I, half-heartedly and sporadically maybe, but to the extent of my capacity for persistence, continued to try? Because as a reader, I know how it is to get in touch with another mind. And I can see how, as a writer, there exists the dizzying possibility of reaching out and connecting. Of performing, perhaps in the only realistic sense, telepathy. My thoughts, if I'm good enough, can become yours.

The challenge lies, then, in making my self seem just a little more interesting than your self. At least for the little while that we're together. Truthfully, sometimes, it's hard to convince even myself of this necessary conceit. But things go on, moods change, and the words eventually - thankfully - come.

So, sigh, yes. Self-expression. I've always felt that term to be vaguely distasteful. But, nevertheless, it is a relatively easy default mode that provides adequate practice as I strive for greater precision of language.

Cheers!

The world is always better when I’m tipsy. Better because it’s just a little further away. At least for a little while, I feel like I have the right to focus solely on the pleasant fact of moderate inebriation. It doesn’t even matter whether I was more happy than sad before I got a bit sloshed. The feeling of goodwill is inevitable. I suppose I’m a cheerful drunk.

It probably helps that I’ve never really had a bad experience with drink. Sure, I’ve had my share of puking into the bushes. But I’ve only had hangovers up to perhaps 60% on the horribleness scale. I’ve blacked out once, but I was in a safe place surrounded by friends – and, reportedly, was capable of making basic responses!

To be honest, I think I’d be better off if I could somehow make permanent the lowering of inhibitions due to alcohol. People seem to like me better tipsy, at any rate. Sad, but true. Just goes to show, I need to stop thinking too much. I need to lighten up, open up, be more willing to make a fool of myself.

Easier said than done. In the meantime, cheers!

Maybe not so funny.

It’s a funny thing, time. One day I’m spending eight hours a day minding someone else’s problems. The next, I’m minding just my own. You could say that I never really did actually mind anything but myself. But the point is, I tried, whether I felt obliged, or bound by an actual or implicit contract. Of course, the more I think about it, the more difficult it becomes to get a grasp of How long? or How long ago? The distance in time between now and then can be put into words, as exact as I’d like, but what good would that do anyone? One day is not the same as every other day. Hilarious.

They say one can’t step into the same river twice. Me? I’ve never even once stepped into a river, even though I tend to go with the flow. Going with the flow: story of my life. Question is, if a river changes course, do the fish notice? What I do know is that I have never had what it takes to turn stirrings in the depths into actual, honest-to-goodness waves on the surface. A lot of people would advise diving in, but I don’t know how to swim. That could be the point.

You know what else is funny? Thinking about the past. Thinking about the future. There’s this funny gap between either memory or prediction and reality. Ah, another slippery unquantifiable. Sometimes the gap seems merely a crack, sometimes it’s just as long as a jump, sometimes this space in between is as wide as the one that got away. Or if you’re stubborn, the one that keeps getting away.

Yeah, stretch out my arms as I might, it’s hopeless.

Isn't it good?

I finished re-reading Norwegian Wood today. I am still feeling the familiar ache and sense of loss at having to leave Murakami's story, at having to go back to continuing to slap together my own personal narrative.

Norwegian Wood is perhaps one of the simplest of his novels. It's essentially a coming-of-age love story, set in Tokyo in the late sixties. Of course it's by no means "just" a love story - his typical humor, penchant for the metaphysical, and cool, smooth style are all still there.

(I am reading Murakami again as research for an essay about him I'm working on for a local newspaper contest. Not much to say about it, except that I'm now wondering how to fit a substantial review of his work in just over a thousand words.

I found myself re-reading with greater awareness, paying greater attention to my experience. Of course, since I am trying to put into my own words why I've fallen in love with Murakami's work.)

He's a natural storyteller, with an impeccable grasp of rhythm and timing.

His protagonists are admirably self-aware, articulate, and empathetic. Much more so than I am or have ever been, although, I hope, not too much more than I can hope to be. This is what makes them so compelling and likeable, to my mind.

I am at a loss as to expressing the emotional affect the book (and Murakami in general) has on me. I am beginning to have the suspicion that this is exactly what I need to focus on for that essay. Hrm.

But to take a stab at it, it's a combination of how strongly I identify with his pensive, solitary first person narrator, the lulling "natural-ness" of the prose/ stream of consciousness or its quality of being "in rhythm", and the melancholy permeating the fabric and every thread of the story.

On the other hand, perhaps because of the subtle humor throughout, I came away from Norwegian Wood, as from most of Murakami's other novels and stories, with a not-insignificant feeling of, I don't know if this is the exact word, hope.

Keepin' on keepin' on

It took too long, I think, but nonetheless, I managed to finish the first draft of an essay on Murakami (for submission to this newspaper contest) today. I'll edit it later this week, but just to note down some initial thoughts on revision: needs cohesion, could probably stand trimming/refocusing, the introductory part needs to be reworked.

There isn't much else to report, sadly. Still keeping up with my workout routine, still doing great at squats but not very well at situps and pushups.

Still no news on possible employment; I'm following this up tomorrow, it's been a week! (I'm beginning to get more worried that I shouldn't just be waiting on this single opportunity, but instead also actively seeking others. Meh.)

It seems I've simply fallen into a slightly different rut. Sure, I'm exercising, but that's pretty much it. Good thing I've come up with this essay project or else I might not be doing anything else productive at all.

I think I'll do a more thorough state of the Momeng address later tonight, or tomorrow. Allowing self to be distracted for a while.

Boredom. (What's new?)

Bored. I need something new to do. (Like at a job, but they haven't called me yet!)

I just might perform a delayed New Year's clean-up: clear the clutter in my room, organize my things. Organize the data in my laptop, and so on.

It's been a boring week. My biggest accomplishment has to be keeping up a regular workout routine: 30 minutes of jumping rope every other day, and 15 minutes of jumping rope plus strength training exercises (either pushups/situps/squats or doing weights on the machine) in between. I really hope I can turn this into a habit before I get a job again: so far I might just be succeeding in getting myself to exercise for lack of better things to do!

Lust, Caution; Zatoichi

Finally got around to watching these movies (impulse buys from that shop in SC) - Lust, Caution yesterday and Zatoichi just tonight. Impressions (and spoilers) follow.

Lust, Caution

Tony Leung. Case closed.

Seriously, though, they could film Tony Leung sitting in a chair for two hours and I'd probably enjoy watching it. The man has screen presence. I couldn't quite reconcile him with his villain role in this movie, though.

I enjoyed the attention to detail, and the languor of the film, though near the end it did feel a little... stretched too thin. Still, one can't fault the immersion.

Zatoichi

I was expecting an old-fashioned samurai flick, and boy was I surprised. (My fault for not reading the blurb closely enough.)

Takeshi Kitano plays the titular role, a blind master swordsman (apparently an iconic character in Japanese culture), in this energetic romp of a period piece. Excellent comedic timing, wonderfully-choreographed action scenes (and percussion interludes!), and, all in all, a pervasive sense of plain old fun make the movie a crowd-pleaser you won't feel guilty watching.