Dance Dance Dance

Might I stress again that this are my afterthoughts on Dance Dance Dance. Just in case you’re planning to read this incredible book, I might have let slip a few spoilers. But rest assured, nothing that would ruin your experience.

So far I’ve read three of Murakami’s works, that includes South of the Border West of the Sun, Kafka on the Shore and now Dance Dance Dance. I began to realise a trend in Murakami’s writings. At the end of the day, you don’t always fully understand what he is writing about. Because I feel that I am not of a deserving caliber to break down a literary piece as profound as Dance Dance Dance, initially I was convinced that I could be the only ones who didn’t get it. After sniffing around the internet, it sems that most people could draw out the significant themes and ideas, not necessarily having to understand the considerably absurd plot in order to do so. Was it a natural flair of Murakami’s  or could it have been done on purpose to engage readers in such a disconnected reality? Perhaps such that it mirrors the protagonist’s state of mind?

Unlike Kafka on the Shore, whose protagonist takes on a similar journey of self-discovery, the protagonist in Dance Dance Dance is unnamed. Though to be downright honest, it only occurred to me halfway into the novel when I failed to tell my mom about said protagonist’s name. I would like to believe it was not my lack of observation but rather, the smooth and strangely hypnotic narration of the protagonist. I was drawn immediately into his quiet, disconnected world, so captivated by its mysteries that by the end of the first chapter, I had goosebumps. I suppose in remaining ‘unnamed’, it is easier for readers to relate with the narrator. He is such an ordinary being – no different from you and I – yet, his lack of desire to assimilate in Advanced Capitalist Japanese society, his detachment from the world itself makes him quite the subject of interest. Usually I’d find narration of everyday life to be dry past ten chapters. However Murakami has this genius ability to be (laugh-out-loud) humorous and eloquent while writing a murder mystery. By the end of Dance Dance Dance, I was once again, left in awe.

Here’s a few pointers for discussion, most of which I have taken online:

Importance of human connection?
Characters in Dance each carry a sort of emotional baggage of having been abandoned/neglected. It is clear that their sense of intense loneliness is perpetuated by society and even by the people who are close to them. The take away from the novel is  “Yougottadance. Aslongasthemusicplays. Yougotta dance.” (The Sheep Man). Meaning, never stop seeking for a human connection. The narrator himself makes an effort to stay in touch with the receptionist. He also tries to encourage Yuki’s mother to be more responsible. I guess the moment we stop trying, like Gotanda for example, “Starttothink, yourfeetstop. Yourfeetstop, wegetstuck. Wegetstuck, you’restuck.” all that is left is a downward spiral into our demise.

The Sheep Man?
I did not know Dance was was a sequel to A Wild Sheep Chase. It was not stated in the copy of my Dance. I didn’t mind though. I suppose if I had read A Wild Sheep Chase, the mysterious darkness wouldn’t have unnerved me as much.

Who is the 6th skeleton?
Likely to be the narrator. With regards to ‘dance’. To accept death and start living. It is quite a chilling discovery for me when I read about the skeletons together in an apartment, looking quite like a family.

I read on an online review that the “…currents behind the scene hold deep resentment for the American cultural invasion that has left Japan a hollow, faceless player in the corporate mind games of the Western power structure….The mysticism of the East that’s for so long been associated with Japan has all but vanished into the ‘other world’ of the Sheep Man…”
I question whether Murakami feels a ‘deep resentment for the American cultural invasion’. The objective of Dance could have been a satire of Advanced Capitalist Japan, so the ‘invasion’ of American products and music pans a clearer picture of Japanese cultural emptiness. I think loss of individuality and values are what Murakami ‘holds deep resentment for’. He was quoted, criticizing Israeli policies “Each of us possesses a tangible living soul. The system has no such thing. We must not allow the system to exploit us.” (source) Superficiality, career-mindedness and rampant desire to consume are prevalent in Dance. Murakami’s purpose was to criticize such mindsets of the Japanese people as a result of Japan’s rapid development. Hence, I do not think Murakami is unwelcoming of Americanization. But this is merely my side of the argument.

-end

If you don’t mind answering this question, may I ask for your age (or age range)? It’s just that your writing is extremely mature and the words you use are one of the kind. It makes me curious. I apologize if this question comes across as offensive.

I am 20. I’m thankful that you took time to read what I’ve written. I honestly do not consider my words as ‘one of a kind’, I have much to learn when it comes to writing.

Leave a trail of gold dust:

Will you ever love someone ?

I don’t know. I’ve never been in a steady relationship before, never been romantically involved with someone long enough to know if I have the capability to accept someone wholeheartedly. At this point I’m full of doubts but, who knows what the wind might blow in?

Leave a trail of gold dust:

what’s your inspiration for writing?

I draw inspiration from life experiences as I mature emotionally and psychologically. I’m always trying to send a message through my writing, which encompasses beliefs I hold dear. When I run dry of ideas, music and books are my best medicine. I like lyrics that are succinct and deep – I usually take one line and spin a short story from there. One of the reasons I love Murakami is because what & how he writes allows readers to transcend the reality that we only know of. (of course he is not the only writer who can achieve this but as his metaphysical fiction is most easily accessible and er, ‘tame’ as compared to eg. Edgar, he makes a good eg.) It is story-telling like his that inspires and encourages me all the time to be socially conscious in my writing and challenge what people are usually afraid of confronting. Hence, my writing is sometimes criticized as “dark” or “disturbing” but unnerving readers, leaving an imprint such that it lingers, is precisely what I am going for.

(sorry, I wrote a lot haha but it’s been awhile since I received a qn. So, thanks for asking.)

Leave a trail of gold dust:

wanderboy

cardigans & cattails

The Boy stood fearfully before the man.

I am warning you. Don’t let me catch you again, Boy.

The Boy was so frightened he could barely manage a nod.

The man was well known for his rough, weathered voice. When the man spoke, the Boy’s earth shook. Great boulders across the Boy’s land shuddered. Seismic waves split the hardened mud like brittle glass. The gashes spread out and ran deep into the roots. The Boy, tired of watching his world crumble into dust, would gather his arms and legs close to his chest. He clutched his limbs tightly, the way he held on to his life. He would tuck his head in between his knees and count his blessings, one by one, finger by finger.

I am still in one piece.

He would whisper to himself,

I am still here.

The earth would calm again and its dust would settle in thick, heavy layers. When it touched the Boy, it melted into his skin. It was drawn to the Boy the way florescent lights seduced little flies. The Boy wore the dust proudly as his uniform. The dust concealed him. With its protection, the man suffered great difficulty when locating the Boy. So the man began to speak lesser and his words grew fewer. Eventually after time, the man stopped speaking altogether.

And in his undisturbed lands and in his crusty suit, the Boy began to grow.

Years passed since the man last spoke. Days, he spent scouring the lands for the Boy. Nights, he cowered in caverns, praying for wind and rain. Desperately, wholeheartedly, he pleaded. His eyes squeezed so strongly, the spidery wrinkles thickened into permanent valleys.

He would whisper in between sleep and nightmare,

My son.

Sometimes, a gasp,

My boy.

Mostly, tears.

The earths evolved. The man aged. The Boy matured and became someone else.

The Boy whose face was forever changed, in the end, was never found.

a/n this story is intensely personal to me. this pain & guilt is what i’ve grown up with for most of my life.  as i am only just starting to let go, i’ve dedicated this to my brother – it is the last time i will apologise for how our family ties have become. live & let live.

their story

yyellowbird

Deep within, I already know you are not meant for me. You are not the one I can surrender myself completely to. You cannot reach past my faults and my troubles to take my heart. Alas, I realise that I have found the wrong person again. Perhaps, this is why I am mad. I am angry at myself, at what has already happened. I cry that it isn’t fair, that the world around me should find what they have been looking for while I am still waddling waist deep in murky waters, searching. Perhaps, this is why I feel so reckless these days. Out of anger, I wanted to tear the whole world down with me and watch it sink. Commit the wrong acts and forget regrets. My time that has become stagnant, only tempts me further, wishing I could simply take you away with me. And while it lasts, a month or two, we shall dance amongst unfamiliar lovers as if we are so madly in love with each other. And when gears of reality kick into motion again, bid goodbye like childhood friends, where our secret sleeps quietly behind our eyes, we will put on our smiling masks and whisper softly, “See you in the future.”

a/nv rough along the edges but it’s a part of me i’ve decided to tell.

wandering shadows

Vins Baratta

there’s only so much room for us partner-less shadows
sometimes they cannot understand our troubles
or why we shy away from peoples
they have hands to follow,
two pieces of hearts to patch one whole
but what we have inside is hollow
and our hands that raise up to the light
form lonely little shadows.

a/n: it’s vday tmr. i don’t like vday. at all. not a day meant for everybody, clearly.

between right and wrong we chose left

carl-w-heindl

It’s cold. Words escape her lips a whimper. He ignores her plea and lights another. He grips her waist and pulls her into his chest, locking her delicate body against the railings. He feels the subtle dips of her body line through their thin cotton. She reminded him of dandelions. He feels a sudden desperation to rattle her perfect neck so she could sway as beautifully as she would have had there been wind tonight. His leathery hands fold around her neck, kneading softly into her trachea. If you ever leave me, I will run you down with my car. Ya heard that? She heard his lust. She felt it throbbing, pouncing beneath skin like a predator. She looks away from the grime creeping up her thighs and watches where the busy roads are. She sees no light, only black and white. The city moved like a vintage film. It rolled on voicelessly. Do it. He laughed throatily, ya heard that? He pushes her onto her knees.

Do it.

He shattered her back from her slender waist up. Again and again, his knife impaled her. It pierced into her gut and out through her breast. She grazed the jagged floor like a mop ridding a stubborn stain. He tore her up with his bare fingers. He dyed her milky skin a green black. His strength alone dented her bones. Ya hear that?

Many times she felt herself scream but she could never be sure. And at the end she was left lying in a pool of white blood that was not hers, wondering to herself,

what if someone hits replay?

a/n planning on a writing project: 365. so this here is #1. I’m actully trying to send out a message thru this, I wonder if anybody got past the violence and really understood what this is about.

all flames die out, eventually

They say no matter how far you try to run, there will always be people you can never outrun.

They cling to your distorted shadows in tiny bits and pieces – parasites of our love stories. Some people say goodbye but they never actually leave for good. They are the Hansels and Gretels. And in their wake, they will leave a trail of bittersweet breadcrumbs. We never realise this, but we always end up picking up the pieces, unknowingly, leading ourselves right back to them. Some think it’s masochistic, others say it’s plain stupid. But I think I know the real reason we keep crawling back, back to the people who have ripped a hole in us. You see, we aren’t just returning to them.

We are returning home.

Because home is where the heart is.

Because long ago, we fell so intensely in love that we surrendered ourselves.

Because for a moment there, we actually believed in forever.

a/n a little choppy because again, it’s another train of thoughts roughly summed up in these few words. I have used it in another short fiction of mine called Secondfirsts (only posted up on Soompi Forums) and for now I’ll be working on this project. ps, rest in peace Daul.

rey says

“For now, I am utterly uninspired.

I am slowly becoming more detached from everything around me. But to look normal, I try hard to pay attention to conversations I care little about. I respond in expected ways but my heart is heavy and is sinking deeper every minute. I am losing myself as I speak. I forgot the writer in me. I lost her. I am now but, a mere memory. I can only write echoes of her old brilliance. Where is she?”

I didn’t mean to pour buckets of cold water over you, feeling or rather, being desolate is part of my everyday life as an aspiring writer. I worry continuously if I could keep dishing out words to fill up my Microsoft Word. Lately, things aren’t looking sunny. But I’m staying positive by drawing inspiration from songs and books. I’m still diggin into Murakami’s stack by the way, once you step into his world, it’s hard to come out. I was absent for awhile – working on my other lengthy stories which I prefer not to have them posted here. But since it’s the holiday season, I didn’t want to leave this place bare that’s why I’m posting more frequently.

2011 is just around the corner. I’m looking forward to it, trying to plan out my projects for 2011 so I can go out with a bang. The first half of the year will be my most crucial period. I’ll be applying for Universities (again) so I gotta get more drafts prepared. I’m thinking of doing some free-lance work, will update it here if I succeed. Most of my friends are already in the Uni and I was pretty discouraged by that but, nothing is set in stone, weather will change (thanks dumbfoundead), things will get better, I hope. 2010 was just a crap full of downs. I’ll skip the downsides and tell you some of my rare rays of sunshine for this year. I got my first tattoo (a feather a long my right ribs with the words: not all those who wander are lost), I was considered albeit momentarily by a major local publishing company, I got a simple desk job to pass time and write at work, I finally settled on where I’d see myself in 7 years’ time. Not much, like I said, but I think the unpleasant events re-shaped me and actually gave me my own path to stand on. No more a follower. No more conformity. I’ll take on 2011, a braver soul.

I’m looking to buy a new book, uh definitely not by Murakami though. People are starting to think I’m obsessed. If you can recommend me any, feel free to do so!

ps, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.