2002 APR 27 SLIDING PAST WATERLILLIES, MIND FILLED WITH FOG

Narrative at the edge of your neck, cutting at optimal speeds to penetrate reality, dictating the human condition one step at a time.

One of the things that excites me about other people's writing, whether professional or amateur, is their ability to write about everyday life, as typical as it may be, in a manner that's devoid of subjection. There are no judgments made on the part of the author in regards to the audience. The words flow honestly and poignantly, and the situation in question is told as objectively as possible (keeping in mind that by objective one cannot discount the author's instinctual emotions and personal style).

The primary reason I fall for this is because of its parallelism to my own everyday life and how it fulfills my escapist tendencies. Take, for example, this simple piece from Haruki Murakami's Wind-Up Bird Chronicle:

"I couldn't read anymore. I decided to iron shirts instead. Which is what I always do when I'm upset. It's an old habit. I divide the job into twelve precise stages, beginning with the collar (outer surface) and ending with the left-hand cuff. The order is always the same, and I count off each stage to myself. Otherwise, it won't come out right."

Not only can I identify with this (although, I prefer to start with the sleeves myself), I also don't find it over-the-top, filled with melodrama (as is often found in my own writing, admittedly) and like how its scaled down to bite-sized words with simple meanings.

Lately, I've been reading Nelson and wondering why I can't write as simply and to the point. My crime is that I venture off and pad my words, add lots of commas and hyphens and try to be as descriptive as possible. One thing he excels at is describing his mindset in an apparently mundane manner, but succeeds in making it concise and sharp in comprehension. An example:

"I've had this in mind for a while, but it was only today, once again on the late train, that I came up with a brilliant idea. I whipped out the stack of my old, never used business cards that I carry around for note-taking, and the cheap Holiday Inn pen that I kept along with it, and began to scribble down various phrases and paragraphs. I've been meaning to try writing on the train, since it's about the only down time I get these days where I'm not doing anything and words come unbidden, so I think I might continue to do this."

Note to self: Try that out. On somewhat of a tangent, I've noticed that I always come up with shit to write about while walking in the city. In New York, it's easy to lose yourself in thoughts as you corner streets and avenues. And with inspiration at every sight, it's even easier to find something to tell the world about. Somehow, this leads up to a chaotic, even congested mind that needs to be let out constantly. Yet, I don't write enough here because I always feel like whatever topic that it may be that's itching inside isn't appropriate or interesting enough.

And I guess, to come full circle, that's what makes Murakami and Nelson's stuff to wonderful. Making the ordinary extraordinary is a subtle and instinctual talent. Yah. Working on it.

2002 APR 23 LIKE VIETNAMESE SPRING ROLLS ON A RAINY HONG KONG NIGHT

I walked out of the elevator, and the rain welcomed me. Outside, hitting the concrete hard, were April showers, fast on the feet of a few days of blazing heat. It was about a quarter until eight, and I hurried for a friend awaiting me near St. Mark's Place.

A step out of the elevator and a step of the left to escape a table's hard wood, I noticed a girl to the northwest of me—smiling, beautiful, with shiny curly hair. With glistening eyes, she waved and I got confused: Why was she waving at me? She's beautiful, why would it be that I couldn't remember her? Keeping my feet in rhythm, I slowly walked toward the left, a direction that did not lead to my destination. I needed to go to another location to compose myself, to decipher the mystery of the girl.

And suddenly, among visions of momentary strobe lights and loud music and afterward thoughts of 75 cent hot dogs at Gray's Papaya came visions of her face and voice and suddenly I realized who it was. And by this time, I only felt dumb. How could I have forgotten her face? This question has no answer. It happens.

A few minutes later, I walked past her once again, waving back. She smiled and my heart caved. Sometimes chances fly away so easily in front of your eyes, mostly because you let it.

Sometimes it's not laziness that holds us back, but the big caution sign that flashes before our eyes before an intended action. Sometimes our mind can't calculate fast enough, our fuzzy transistors all going buck wild. Sometimes I'll say something and do something else or not do anything at all. Sometimes it happens and we don't realize it. We can't stop time. We can't jump space. We can't do things that would let us undo a thing or two.

I walked out into the rain without an umbrella and streaked past two avenues and a few streets on the way. Sometimes what's there for you is more important than what could be. And for that kind of speculation, taking chances against hard knock truths of reality isn't worth it.