Icarus falling from the sky

In Brueghal's 'Icarus', for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the plowman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

W.H. Auden

the double well

But enough, enough. All that disgusting mess is due to the inertia, pigheadedness, prejudice of humans, failing to recognise me in the corpse of my flawless double. I accept, with a feeling of bitterness and contempt, the bare fact of unrecognition but I keep on firmly believing in my double's perfection.

Vladimir Nabokov

***

i was stark deep the four days past. rethinking the meaning of my life and what it all meant to me and when it all started.
the catalyst- a screen-shot in a dark room, whispering to me things that i had lost, things that i never had, taunting me with empty promises that could never exist.
the dark room and closed eyes that could not open.

Toru in the dark well in the backyard of the house with the sculpture of the wind-up bird with wings outstretched and awaiting flight.

i could not think. the music spun around me, surrounding me and sending pierces that were unusually loud or soft into my ear. the floor spun. i think of a ship. i repeated words in my head, unable to think of what came after them when they were already ingrained deep into me. unable to think of right or wrong. my bag. is it still there? what to do next? to go with the flow.

Toru was in a dream and in his dream he was in the hotel. It always brought him to the same hotel room with the waiter pushing around a new bottle of Cutty Sark. The waiter whistled merrily. The hotel was unlike any other hotel. The rooms were in a maze and you could get lost in the maze. he enters the room with the waiter.

i think of nails and tissue hidden under nails. sinew, limbs. i wore the pants for graduation. the shoes i still wear at times, pointy mules.
i like to give. lines and squares. scissors to cut paper.

He received calls from a strange woman. The woman keeps silent and speaks at times. She does not identify herself. Malta comes along and tries to help Toru look for his missing cat, Noburu Wataya.

Because it just happened, not for any particular reason. but because of this, there is a catalyst. To represent that which is missing in me, and that which i will never possess. To raise discontent in me and the willingness to search for what i should be getting in life.

Toru visits May Kasahara in the wig factory where she makes wigs all day. May Kasahara has written many letters to him that have never reached him. He leaves her and falls into a deep sleep on the train back.

Perhaps I should go work in a wig factory.

painful flashes

i get flashes of deja-vu that innuduate my insipid brain, programmed to think of work: piles in terms of urgency and brings a sharp, brain-splitting, brain-numbing pain to my head as i try to recall what exactly it was that i knew before i experienced it.
i can't spell well now because words and alphabets are appearing in front of me like mist in a fog and i am unable to see the outline of them clearly- exactly what distinguishes one word or alphabet from another i do not know.
all of a sudden it is clear that our fate is written on the stars and that somehow we already know how our lives are going to turn out.

and the phone line.

There are silences, and many unsaid words expand and fill up the silence along the telephone lines, signifying how much there is to say till there is no way to begin, and in this way, time snowballs and elapses.

the things

the things i've thought of until this point have deserted me and i am like a dry stone, without any running thoughts left.
it's amazing how the attempt to write itself can be the be-all and then end-all of all writing or inspiration.
i'd be the worst person in the world to be a writer because i lack a vivid imagination. paint the sky a multitude of colours and i can spell how the sky was painted. insert a philosophical verse of crap or two, even, but hand me the paintbrush and i'll be dumbfounded.

***

reading about two halves of the self has made me go bonkers over someone having two selves. two detachable selves of oneself so that you can either exist in one self or another and forget totally about the other self. or perhaps not. we're but human, but human and being human, we're all fucking flawed to our annoyance.

***

looking back on this, i feel so uninspired and demoralized. we can never change others until we change ourselves. and there is always something to be changed about ourselves. and we cannot change ourselves until we really know ourselves. and how many of us really know ourselves? i don't.

***

i also know that every experience comes along with its' set of similarities and differences that differentiate it from another set of experiences for example and it's too much of a pity to lose out on anything that life has to offer. that doesn't mean that i want to be so richly indulgent in experiencing so much that i lose myself in the process.

***

she walks away unhurt because she forgets to unbuckle her seatbelt before the crash - i mean, how dumb is that? so remind me to unbuckle it.
but of course i'm not going to do that. i've not done enough crazy things in this lifetime to end it with a bang in some suicide biggie. if i die, actually i'd like it to be in some air crash. then i'd be on the list of missing passengers first and everyone will be sad. then they'll find scraps of my DNA somewhere around the wreckage of the plane some weeks after the crash. hope still hangs, a tiny almost invisible thread to my few friends and family. but then scraps of me are found and then i'm on the list of "the dead".
a celebrated life and people wil be asked about how i was. a small report on my life would satisfy me. No one speaks ill of "the dead", so in the papers, i'll be celebrated.

***

the end.