J is for jogging

ust the thought of becoming like my father is enough to motivate me to do something about it. Not that he's a bad man (I'm sure I've mentioned this before), it's just that he has traits which I don't like. His ability to form and defend viewpoints which are just based on ignorance. His super-short patience. His negativity. In this instance, it was his portly stature that was motivation to me. I don't know how much my dad weighs, but he stands about 5'10", and he has a belly on him. I reckon 14, 15 stone. I shudder to think what his waist measurement is -- 38"? 40"?

So, the desire for my stomach not to double in size by the time I'm forty has pushed me into jogging, for fitness, weight-loss and peace of mind. Around here, the jogging community is huge. I was amazed, the first time I walked around my neighbourhood, how many people were running at all times of the day and night. So it was relatively easy to pick up a pair of trainers and join them. There's a park a block away from here which is a haven for runners, and the paths are well-trodden. I decided, one Sunday, to just do it.

I should explain that there was some scepticism here. I used to play sport, hockey in particular, but had to stop due to crippling shin splints. I couldn't last a half, let alone a full match. I haven't really played sport competitively since then. The shin splints even started happening when I walked too fast (which I do a lot), and there's nothing you can do about them apart from rest. I found that rushing for that train that I had two minutes to get is likely to end in disappointment because my shin splits left me whimpering by the side of the road in agony. I thought moving on to running was going to be a futile endeavour, but since I didn't really know for sure, and faced with impending doom, I thought I'd give it a shot. The first time I jogged, it was fine. No shin splints. The second, third, fourth times... same thing. Wonderful!

The rest of my legs, however, were absolutely on fire. I probably ran two miles each time, not terribly far, but enough to work up a sweat and burn some calories. The second day my legs would hardly bend. The third was somewhat better, the fourth not so good. But after that things improved. Until the injuries started. Not just aching, but tangible pain. First it was my right calf stiffening up, making it painful to run. When that eased up after a few days, my right knee started hurting, followed by my left calf and then my right Achilles started getting tight. The final nail in the coffin was my left knee, just under the patella. It hurt quite a lot to run on it, so I rested it for two weeks. And then I ran on it again, and got pain after a mile or so. It was (and is) painful to touch. I found that icing it did a lot of good, and so had another couple of days off and ran again. Ouch. So I guess my body is telling me that running is no good.

Sadly, I really got to enjoy it. It's quite liberating getting up early in the morning and running into the rising Sun. You get into a rhythm, a kind of gait that makes you feel like you can run anywhere. And of course, there are the endorphins... ah, sweet endorphins. Running a couple of miles, coming home to have breakfast and a hot shower... it really sets you up for the day, it's energising. I'm going to miss my brief flirtation with it. I think my last hope is going to be a knee support; if that strengthens my knee and means I can run, great. If it doesn't, hello 40" waist jeans.

H is for Haruki Murakami

aving never been to Japan*, my only impressions of it come from pictures, films, the media, and in this case, its literature. One of my favourite films is "Lost in translation", because it's a beautiful and fleeting coming together of two people in a culture where it seems (from the outside looking in) that touching relationships are very rare. I find that I can relate to both main characters because they're Western, and they're so obviously adrift in the Eastern culture, not really understanding what's going on around them, and not being understood.

Something of that ability to relate is probably what makes the writing of Haruki Murakami appealing to me too, but there is also something else. Murakami is a Japanese author who brings a lot of Western influences to his work. Having grown up in the 60s and 70s, he was heavily influenced by American writers of the time, and particularly American music. Often his writing references Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley. Some of the titles of his novels are songs from that era -- "Norwegian wood" (The Beatles), "Dance, dance, dance" (The Dells/The Beach Boys). He also references American movies of the time, particularly classics starring film legends like John Wayne, Henry Fonda, and of course, Humphrey Bogart. But despite all these Western influences, his books are very much Japanese. They're set in Japan, they're led by Japanese protagonists, they're even written in Japanese (and translated). And my impression is that they're like Japanese food, too... delicious to look at, delicate on the palate, but completely insubstantial, like a good tempura batter.

When you pick up a Murakami novel, you know exactly what you're going to get. The plot will be different, and the locations will change, but the real bulk of the novel is exactly the same. And that's somewhat comforting (like comfort food), but also a little wearying. The recipe is so reproducable that it can be parodied, and I'll share an amusing example of that later. You can guarantee certain ingredients:

The protagonists are always going to be clean, ordered individuals. The kind that is meticulous about everything, from their appearance to their style of cooking to their style of speech to their obsession with cleaning. Everything is very precise, and you get the impression that they live in the amazingly manicured apartments that you see in Dwell and Wallpaper. They usually are Westernised to some degree, like Murakami himself, and this usually comes out in their preferences in movies and music. And alcohol: Murakami's protagonists will undoubtedly have an acquired taste for beer (usually Western, e.g., Budweiser), and whiskey (again, usually American bourbons).

Murakami often pairs up his male leads with a series of female counterparts. Usually these women are femmes fatales, straight out of film noire.

       She wasn't the type to turn heads, though she was certainly attractive. She was wearing an expensive green silk dress. I guessed that she was about thirty-two. She could easily have made herself look younger, but she didn't seem to think it was worth the trouble. Three rings graced her fingers, and a faint smile played on her lips.
       'You look exactly like someone I know,' she said. 'Your facial features, your back, the way you talk, your overall mood -- it's an amazing likeness. I've been watching you ever since you came in.'
       'If he's that much like me, I'd like to meet the man,' I said. I had no idea what else to say.
...
       Her smile deepended for an instant, then softened. 'But that's impossible,' she said. 'He died five years ago. When he was about the same age as you are now.'
       'Is that right?' I said.
       'I killed him.'

(New York Mining Disaster, from Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman.)

I really appreciate the film noire touch, because it nicely balances the airy lightness (and dare I say it, innocence) of the males. And in fact, if you take the novels in general, each one will either be dominated by light or dark (although each one will contain elements of both). "Dance dance dance" is a particularly dark novel.

All of Murakami's characters are loopy. At some point during the story that will become evident. Whether it's chasing sheep-men around, or having delusions at the bottom of a well, or having a penchant for going to zoos in the middle of typhoons, there will be something bizarrely odd about them. But Murakami will generally portray these things as normal, and although the characters may realise that something is a little out of the ordinary, they will convince themselves that they're on a spiritual journey to some kind of enlightenment or discovery. Perhaps this is more common in Eastern literature, whereas in Western the journey is more often physical or emotional rather than spiritual. And this transportation will be the subject of the novel.

Let me just comment on Murakami's writing style, because it is incredibly idiosyncratic. Generally the language he uses is simple and clean, and sentences are short. He often rephrases himself, changing the words he uses to slightly alter the angle at which he addresses something:

       She picked up the ballpoint pen lying on the table, and played with it for a few seconds, but then she looked at the clock again. It had done its job: in the five minutes since her last look, it had advanced five minutes' worth.

(Aeroplane, from Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman.)

This also gives an example of another Murakami trademark: stating the obvious. He also is a big proponent of contradictions in his writing and in his characters:

       I felt that I knew what he was getting at. At the same time I felt I had no idea what he meant.

(New York Mining Disaster, from Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman.)

There are many other Murakami devices, including some really bizarre similies, and some really awkwardly stilted conversation. I found this great parody which apes Murakami's writing style very well (only exaggerating a little, for humour. Please read it after finishing this post.)

Finally, let me come back to Murakami's storytelling. For me, the overwhelming thing about Murakami's writing, and the reason I have read all of his novels (the ones which have been translated to English, anyway; his first two novels are only available in Japanese) is that his stories take reality and skew it. Sometimes severely, and sometimes only slightly, but always enough to make you start wondering, "What if?". And they're always so beautifully crafted, so clean and exact. They also take Japanese society, its traditions and practices that are otherwise hidden to us Westerners, and make them accessible. However, there is a flipside, and it is very frustrating for me... the stories at best leave you feeling a bit lost and thinking something along the lines of "Hmm, that was interesting... I think" and at worst thinking "What the heck was that all about?". For example, the plot of the short story "New York Mining Disaster", from which I have already quoted, is: man visits neighbour, to borrow a suit for his fifth funeral in a year -- man returns suit, post-funeral, and drinks with the neighbour -- man visits restaurant and meets femme fatale -- some miners are trapped in a mine. I mean, what on earth? I'm fairly okay with being a literary dunce and missing some hidden meaning, but surely I'm not stupid enough to miss it every time? I think I'll just have to be satisfied with savouring the most light and delicious tempura batter while it lasts, but ultimately come away with a rumbling tummy.

* I was due to visit Japan for the first time a few days after the large earthquake in March 2011, but for obvious reasons cancelled.