I need to cultivate my supapawa

There will be moments when I have entire posts planned in my head, even specific lines that get conjured up that beg to be written down -- but then, time moves on, and the plans and lines fade from my mind, losing their intensity. They missed their moment, and cannot be reproduced without them feeling fake.

Which is why, words are also time beings. Words are especially time beings. You've got to catch them when they form and grasp them tightly for transfer onto something more concrete, like paper, or video, or at least into someone's memory.

This story is intensely philosophical, moving, and made me cry unexpectedly; 

but written with the straightforwardness of a teenage girl.

It's the cold fish dying in your stomach feeling. You try to forget about it, but as soon as you do, the fish starts flopping around under your heart and reminds you that something truly horrible is happening.

Jiko felt like that when she learned that her only son was going to be killed in the war. I know, because I told her about the fish in my stomach and she said she knew exactly what I was talking about, and that she had a fish, too, for many years. In fact, she had lots of fishes, some that were small like sardines, some that were medium-sized like carp, and other ones that were as big as a bluefin tuna, but the biggest fish of all belonged to Haruki #1, and it was more like the size of a whale. She also said that after she became a nun and renounced the world, she learned how to open up her heart so that the whale could swim away. I'm trying to learn how to do that, too.


At one point, Nao, the teenage girl, asked if only depressed people cared about philosophy. And that line made me even sadder, because when I get into one of these philosophical moods, I do feel extra sad, extra like-an-outsider, and thinking how, my God, I don't think I'm made for this world at all. Oh well -- Nabi s.a.w. did say that some of the best people are the ones who travel this world light, knowing that we're really not here for forever.

It's amazing my love affair with books: how they affect me, and leave major imprints on my heart, on my mind.




I've been remembering this thought, this memory: I remember going for a scholarship interview years and years ago, and nerdily mentioning Lymond, in relation to either books I love, characters I admire or citing leadership quality maybe -- can't quite recall. And then the Indian man who interviewed me said something about how this book must be really popular, the boy who was in just before you mentioned him too! At which of course, I almost got entirely derailed from the purpose of my being there (i.e. a job/scholarship interview) -- because Lymond? Popular? A boy reading it? Are you kidding me??? My eyes must have been almost rolling out of their sockets in shock. I think I insinuated to the interviewer that he must have been mistaken, but he was like, Really! And I was like, Okaaay...

I concluded by the end though, that the interviewer really must have been mistaken about Lymond -- there was no way it could be true. I could not find a single human being in my vicinity who was reading Lymond when I was, and I had to force my friends to read the books just so I could have people to discuss with! That was how desperate I was.

If it was true though, then: who is this boy! That's what I wanted to know. We would have had lots to discuss.

My sister asked, "What would you do if your friend or the person you love does something really bad, or something you don't like?"

I said, "Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds."

Ahah.

Have I mentioned how I've ambitiously purchased Shakespeare's sonnets on my Kindle?

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alterations finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me prov'd,

I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

Subhanallah.

So angry. And I think I manifest anger in strange ways. I often say how anger in me usually transforms quickly into sadness and depression.

Maybe a couple of nights' sleep will do some good and then, I will get back some equanimity and deal with this in the best way possible, insya Allah.

I want to please You. I want to please Your Beloved. Forgive me if it has been otherwise. Forgive me that I am still trying.


I really don't understand how some people are just out to condemn. Such negative thoughts! Isn't there that aphorism: people live up to your expectations of them! Why constantly think the worst of other people! I am so sick of it, truly.

I read on a little further and found this.

In reality, every reader, while he is reading,
is the reader of his own self.
The writer's work is merely a kind of optical instrument,
which he offers to the reader to permit him to discern what,
without the book, he would perhaps never have seen in himself.
The reader's recognition in his own self of what the book says
is the proof of its truth.
-- Marcel Proust

The value of fiction is that ironically it helps us see the truths in ourselves? (:

So when I feel like I see parts of my life in a story, it's only because I'm reading a great piece of fiction that's teaching me more about myself.

And E reminded me of this great piece: Can Reading Make You Happier?

So I finally watched Interstellar after L completely bugged her eyes out at me when she learnt that I hadn't seen it yet. And especially after I said how much I love stories that incorporate some concept of time.

One of my favourite bits of dialogue here -- 

that made my heart thud at the possibility of this theory:

I need to sit and discuss this movie with someone. Because, uh, I am somewhat confused. Someone needs to explain certain things to me, like how I'm supposed to wrap my head around the concept of five-dimensional space or how the heck Cooper dropped through a black hole and ended up where he precisely needed to be? Are we saying we still don't know the "they" that have been mysteriously placing things in just the right places and times for them? Or are they themselves the "they"? Cooper said he brought himself there. Or are we not supposed to know the "they", we just know they're there and they have been helping and the whole point is to trust that there's a they out there looking out for us... out of love? Is it God? Is it us? Is it fate as a tangible thing? Is it future humans taking care of their ancestors? (Oh my god, did I just mention off the top of my head a series of divine beliefs including Chinese ancestral worship? GASP -- I just proved to myself why this movie is starting to build a cult following.)

Like what the heck, you Nolans! Storytelling geniuses, and way to not let me sleep tonight.




This movie and our current seriously-awesome bookclub read, A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki, are both making my head hurt, my heart hurt. Things are resonating painfully with what I feel in real life. And I don't know if I'm imbuing meaning to the text, or they really are messages to me -- how do I tell? How do I tell. It's like little Murph in tears, trying to convince her Dad that there's a message that's telling him to stay, except no one believes her. So how to keep faith? How.

This place is designed to break your heart. 

It was designed that way. 

If you're looking to be happy in the dunya, 

you're in the wrong place.

I never tire of that quote. 

Every time I hear it, it jars me again.

I really needed this.

Yoshi, ganbatte!

Let's work hard at life.

How is it already November.

This blog has started to crawl to almost a standstill. It hasn't been like this in more than 10 years.

I have no idea what this means, if anything.




Been revisiting old angsty feelings (are all these events connected somehow? -- the slow blogging of my early teenage days, the angst, the fanfic reading; yes, you heard me). I haven't felt like I want to break plates in a long time. But tonight, in between being properly adult and sane, there were brief flashes of angst.

Maybe it really is because of the fanfic I just got done with -- and you know how some people are 90% what they just read? Yes, maybe that's it. The protagonist is such an angry woman, I think she's rubbing off on me.


I should probably go read some proper literature.