Ghosts on the Shore
How are bonds being formed and forged? Where is the infliction point between inertia of relationships, and true, mutual emotional investment? And who bears the duty of offering up one's heart, at all costs?
THINK. Every now and then, I come across a book that I cannot fully comprehend or deconstruct, yet it has this mesmerizing effect. Half nostalgic, half spiritual. I devour chapters knowing I will not be able to fully understand motivations of the character, not intricacies of the plot. But most possibly the experience is bound to accepting mystery, lack of completeness, rather than certainty?
Haruki Murakami's 'Kafka on the Shore' is one of these novels. Written in between two sets of characters, it pivots between reality, memory and dream; childhood and adulthood. Kafka Tamura, a 15-year-old boy who escaped home to untangle the mysterious disappearance of his mother and sister, seems to be travelling to a safe harbour of private library. Nakata, an intellectually challenged elderly man who talks to cats, a victim of mysterious (extra-terrestrial?) incident, travels to meet his destiny, a feeling he cannot even explain. They both meet a range of characters on their way, each aiding their mission in their own, peculiar ways.
Does this even matter what happen at the clearing? Who were the guardians of the forest? Was the girl in library a dream, an illusion, a ghost from the past? And who killed the artist? I was hoping to get some answers but half-way through I already knew they aren't coming. Now I believe it is for the best.
We often get so stuck in our rational paradigms and expectations that we overlook the wonders in plain sight.
FEEL. Books have been an important part of my life. A random memory hit me earlier in the week. The year is 1990, communist system has just collapsed in all of Central & Eastern Europe, any my country overnight opened to free market economy. That included publishing, translations, and common access to modern literature.
My father was travelling for work, and I can recall how, multiple times, he came home carrying a freshly printed book for me. Not that I can recall any titles anymore - but it mattered how it became our little ritual.
Access to the Western World also meant cable networks, MTV, NBA, soda drinks, denim, and tracksuits. Some of my photos from that age are simply too embarrassing to be unseen, so I would spare the reader the trauma of it. What also arrived amidst the wave of western culture were Marvel and DC comics.
Imagine there are only four or five titles published every month. Imagination is sparking at pace when you are a twelve-year-old and you lay your hands on these issues. The world was all grey, clouded, and dull, and suddenly colours exploded and you have been teleported right into the middle of New York City, Gotham, or planet Krypton. My school's best friend and I spent all our allowances (and tons of time) reading every issue backwards and forwards. It became one more thread that knit our friendship together.
It is fascinating how we connect and bond over fiction yet find it difficult to work through everyday reality of a relation. More elusive than ghosts on the shore.
DO. Isn't it hilarious that I, preacher of consistency, am recently absorbing the impact of utterly inconsistent behavior?
Sparing details, I feel I am ready to drink my own Kool-Aid and take better care of my health, one step at a time. Starting from chronic back pains. If you sit most of the day with your hands on keyboard, drive long distance, or have been an active sportsperson, you certainly know what I mean. I am amazed how human beings nearly need to trick themselves into doing what's right though!
We are going away for a few days as a family which could be my shot at slower pace, more reflection and exploration. I definitely have things to work through - but so does every one of us.
