fact vs. fiction

after a regular day in the office, i came home to an empty apartment. well, not exactly empty. even though my husband is currently pulling a 2nd shift at the hostel and i'm the sole person in my apartment, i am and have been accompanied by the presence of two naughty, yet subdued feline friends, a 47 lb. amazon.com shipment of clay cat litter pellets (tidy cat breeze, you know - so much better than the regular litter (just keep telling yrself that, miss jodi)), a dinner consisting of yellow rice & red beans, approximately 4 cups of a 'treat yrself' $20 bottle of red wine from world market, and the final approximate 120 or so pages of the latest (but not greatest) novel from my favorite author, japanese surrealist fictional writer, haruki murakami.

ever since mr.sassana rolled outta bed that late october eve of the novel's release, and managed to cop me an autographed copy from the midnight release of 1Q84, i've been 'pokeassin' my way through the 924 page experience.

there were times when i flipped through the pages addicted, needing to finish the next paragraph, unable to set the clonker down and complete monotonous yet necessary tasks such as going to the bathroom. i needed to dig deeper, and find where these different paths connected, and to what mystical road this tale would turn down.

i read this on our honeymoon, in sunny jamaica. i read this on lonesome nights while vincent worked overnights. i read this on lazy sunday afternoons, and snuck glimpses into fictional parallel universe just because. and finally, yet still unknowingly inspired by the concept of literature and writing itself, i became motivated to finish it off.

so why am i wishing i had dwelled on facebook and failed at spider solitaire the past two hours instead? what is it, about murakami's latest that has failed to grasp my heartstrings and propel me into his unique lands? why do i feel, dare i say, disappointed? before i come to any conclusions that this book wasn't what i hoped for, i have the need to sit with peers, other fans of murakami, and discuss at length the pros, cons, dissect the characters, plot, symbolism. was it really a failure? or was it show your bones? the yeah yeah yeahs album that almost was, but never quite hit the mark they had set the bar for. but no way could 1Q84 be a case of the sophomore slump, murakami has been at his craft for decades, cranking out masterpiece after masterpiece, capturing the hearts of readers - dreamers and realists alike, for more time than i could appreciate literature.

so why do i feel saddened or let down? like i'm only pretending, to like that christmas gift my mother gave me 3 years past, of elastic waist banded stretch jeans from land's end? i need a book club, or a circle to discuss with. was it the fact that this was murakami's first attempt with a female protagonist in all his years of writing? was it the unnecessary drawn out length, the lost in translation effect of the never-ending stake out, that instead of suspense, only drew boredom?

still, the man is a beautiful writer. there's no fiction in that. his similes and metaphors are almost so obvious that they're genius. his lyrical prose is almost to a disadvantage, it's so clear. and you do hope for the good guys. you want them to win. yet still, i'm so accustomed to his past story telling records that i hoped it wouldn't work out for them. that some sickness would entrap the two main characters. their love would somehow, remain forbidden. and that shit would hit the fan. creating a sense of unavoidable gloom, reminding readers that the world, isn't always the beautiful fantasy we dream it to be.

but maybe that's just me. who am i to judge, anyway? i smell like stale rice and beans, with dried up siracha residue in my short, pink manicured fingernails. sweaty feet, tucked away in my crooked bedsheet and comforter. wearing my cousin lacy's old, blue and gold thin, cotton not quite plaid - definitely not flannel, dress shirt that she gave me when i was 9 years old, and for whatever reason, i still kept and wear some 20 years later, even though i haven't spoken with this cousin in over a decade. feeling the prickled hairs on my legs, tying knots in my messy mane, with oversized tiffany's black square frames sliding halfway down my nose. trying to reconnect with my past by listening to really not that great, even though i want them to be music albums on my ipod. department of eagles. cat power. sounds majestic on the 146 express bus, sure, but not quite so much after a long day of minimal speaking or enjoyment.

ok, enough about me. the facts are that i am still exercising my thoughts. trying to get on the path to writing once again. little by little, i'll release some sort of mental internal wd-brain40, and get my fingers typing the prose they once knew how to conduct. get over this brain blockage, find their way.

fiction will always remain. my polka-dotted tumbler glass of red wine on my nightstand will not. (at least not if miss elliott, who's paw currently dangles centimeters away from it, has anything to do with it).

so with this, i will run a bubble bath and call it a night. dream dreams of a parallel universe made up by one surrealist dreamer from another land. a land where 2 moons exist, and dangers lurk in the hidden crevices. where love beats all, and the unexplainable trumps reality. a fictional world simultaneously both worth dreaming of, but remaining apart of. my real world is much better than one of fiction, my facts are my everything. everyday will become a new mini chapter, in my own personal tale.