This post originally published on fromtheseglasses.blogspot.com
---
Back then, I want to have a friend like Crow.
He pushes you into your limit, urge you into and do something, makes you realize, what you really want. He is a good friend. And also, a great influence.
I wanted to be like Kafka Tamura: running away from home, wander aimlessly on small city, went to the public library, digging my face into those pages of words and expression, stayed in a small cabin near the woods, reading books while only wear briefs. All hopes are lost - no money, no rules. Only waiting to be engulfed by time, books and darkness.
That was me, around five years ago, when I read this book for the first time. Also the first time I encounter one of Murakami's works. I did some research, which books of his that pleasurable to be read in the first time. I'm still in college back then, with very limited money, still sleeping under the same roof of my parents. Living alone was a wish-to-be-true. At least, I could read books with brief and bare chested without any interruptions on Sunday.
Until this moment, I've read it thrice. But yet, still a lot of things I just did discover. And every time I reread it, my visualization will always change. One time Kafka is a bush-haired kid with lean body, one time another he just a blank representation of a person - all white, no details. Once when Tanaka - a senior citizen who able to talk with cats - got caught in the Fish Rain, I visualized it on a bus stop, alienated on the top of a mountain, glimmered with neon lights and such; at another time, it was just happening on the bus terminal near my current office building. I pictured Ms. Saeki differently every time I reread it - but one thing always there: glasses and red haired woman.
While Crow, will be and always be the Crow.
---
I was very grateful I read Kafka when I'm still on the adolescent years. I read it right after I arrived home, and put it down seconds I wanted to sleep. There's something in this book that could reach me out, sometimes it slaps my face to make me realizing something.
Back then, I want to have a friend like Crow.
He pushes you into your limit, urge you into and do something, makes you realize, what you really want. He is a good friend. And also, a great influence.
I wanted to be like Kafka Tamura: running away from home, wander aimlessly on small city, went to the public library, digging my face into those pages of words and expression, stayed in a small cabin near the woods, reading books while only wear briefs. All hopes are lost - no money, no rules. Only waiting to be engulfed by time, books and darkness.
That was me, around five years ago, when I read this book for the first time. Also the first time I encounter one of Murakami's works. I did some research, which books of his that pleasurable to be read in the first time. I'm still in college back then, with very limited money, still sleeping under the same roof of my parents. Living alone was a wish-to-be-true. At least, I could read books with brief and bare chested without any interruptions on Sunday.
Until this moment, I've read it thrice. But yet, still a lot of things I just did discover. And every time I reread it, my visualization will always change. One time Kafka is a bush-haired kid with lean body, one time another he just a blank representation of a person - all white, no details. Once when Tanaka - a senior citizen who able to talk with cats - got caught in the Fish Rain, I visualized it on a bus stop, alienated on the top of a mountain, glimmered with neon lights and such; at another time, it was just happening on the bus terminal near my current office building. I pictured Ms. Saeki differently every time I reread it - but one thing always there: glasses and red haired woman.
While Crow, will be and always be the Crow.
---
I was very grateful I read Kafka when I'm still on the adolescent years. I read it right after I arrived home, and put it down seconds I wanted to sleep. There's something in this book that could reach me out, sometimes it slaps my face to make me realizing something.
I remembered these words that Crow said to Kafka, as he finished packing his things up. He closed his eyes, and Crow said to him:
"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about."
All the hardships and the problems I had back then, was meant nothing if I compare with what I met recently as I stride along the adulthood. Back then, I was living constantly in the future, very far future. All what-ifs were coming like typhoon, wrecking my mind and souls in single swept. Always thinking about "if and then" but never enjoyed the current moment - the present. Thinking way too far, never truly ever set my foot right underneath.
The adolescent was truly a scary phase of life. But also a one thrilling roller-coaster ride if you really try to enjoy it. Friends came and went, also with lovers and significant others. Fit in, blend in, trying to be perfect - a sole survival skill to be required in order to get almost everything you needed. Sometimes, we met wrong friends or someone that made the relationship feel like a sinking boat. But the other times, as like God Itself dragged the person out of nowhere to lead us into somewhere or maybe some point in your life, and decided to drag them away.
Some people had friends, some were a lot, some were none.
Some still struggling looking for their premature true love, some already losing their virginity, some still believe there is no such things as true love.
I believe what Crow said to Kafka is some kind of telling him what he might endure. Things he couldn't handle will meet his path, people who didn't like him will emerge, love will or will not spread in the sky. It might hurt him badly - emotionally, mentally and physically. The Holy Trifecta of Human Being might be scattered or maybe it just become a flesh wound that could only heal by time.
The existence of Crow - I perceived - was meant to prepare Kafka's mind, body and soul for anything that will lay ahead with his life. As similar as a mental note that sometimes need to be told early in the morning right after waking up; mantras that should be chanted while brushing teeth or tidying clothes before went to school or work; an amulet hidden deep inside a wallet. Crow is something that made Kafka aware about his situation, something he always kept in mind - something to grasp on when he got unbalanced.
---
Writing this essay while remembering those memories is a quite nostalgic activity. I remember how back then I was petrified about my future, withholding all those uncertainties inside my head, growing wild like tumors. Even right now, I still haven't figure it out all of it. What lies upon the horizon, waiting for me to discover.
I made my own Crow. And he said the same thing as the original Crow said to Kafka. Over, and over, and over, and over.
It was just the matter of time my own Crow will be dead like the original ones.
"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about."
All the hardships and the problems I had back then, was meant nothing if I compare with what I met recently as I stride along the adulthood. Back then, I was living constantly in the future, very far future. All what-ifs were coming like typhoon, wrecking my mind and souls in single swept. Always thinking about "if and then" but never enjoyed the current moment - the present. Thinking way too far, never truly ever set my foot right underneath.
The adolescent was truly a scary phase of life. But also a one thrilling roller-coaster ride if you really try to enjoy it. Friends came and went, also with lovers and significant others. Fit in, blend in, trying to be perfect - a sole survival skill to be required in order to get almost everything you needed. Sometimes, we met wrong friends or someone that made the relationship feel like a sinking boat. But the other times, as like God Itself dragged the person out of nowhere to lead us into somewhere or maybe some point in your life, and decided to drag them away.
Some people had friends, some were a lot, some were none.
Some still struggling looking for their premature true love, some already losing their virginity, some still believe there is no such things as true love.
I believe what Crow said to Kafka is some kind of telling him what he might endure. Things he couldn't handle will meet his path, people who didn't like him will emerge, love will or will not spread in the sky. It might hurt him badly - emotionally, mentally and physically. The Holy Trifecta of Human Being might be scattered or maybe it just become a flesh wound that could only heal by time.
The existence of Crow - I perceived - was meant to prepare Kafka's mind, body and soul for anything that will lay ahead with his life. As similar as a mental note that sometimes need to be told early in the morning right after waking up; mantras that should be chanted while brushing teeth or tidying clothes before went to school or work; an amulet hidden deep inside a wallet. Crow is something that made Kafka aware about his situation, something he always kept in mind - something to grasp on when he got unbalanced.
---
Writing this essay while remembering those memories is a quite nostalgic activity. I remember how back then I was petrified about my future, withholding all those uncertainties inside my head, growing wild like tumors. Even right now, I still haven't figure it out all of it. What lies upon the horizon, waiting for me to discover.
I made my own Crow. And he said the same thing as the original Crow said to Kafka. Over, and over, and over, and over.
It was just the matter of time my own Crow will be dead like the original ones.
But until that time, I'll keep hanging on his beak and listen to all he said to me.
A distraction while I hurdled inside the sandstorm.
