The Soul's Domain

So I come across articles like this quite often these days. Given my circumstances, and those of certain family members and friends, I am much more inclined to give them my attention than I was before.

"The lesson here is simple yet profound: Wholesome, seasonal food prepared with love is potent medicine, spending time connecting with mother nature’s life force can help rekindle an individual’s will to live, having a reason or purpose to continue living is essential for healing, and last but far from least sharing quality time with loved ones when sick and recuperating, can transform the depressed mind back to a state of innocence, gratitude and awe of the mystery called life. In the end, real healing is the soul’s domain."

I find myself believing pretty much everything in that paragraph, these days. I believe such a life would certainly yield better benefits than regular and expensive trips to typical doctors, a method I tried for two years with very disappointing results.

The diet I've been put on by my current doctor is helping. The rest of the recommended lifestyle is going to be harder to come by. I'm not moving to a Greek island any time soon (and even if I did, I wouldn't have a community and childhood friends waiting there for me). All I have is Facebook, which sucks. There are days when I hate everyone on my Facebook feed, whether they're posting about how happy or how miserable they are. I hate it all. I know it's unfair but I'm not exactly being rational all the time.

I miss the days when I saw real friends on a regular basis, days of talking for hours. I find myself wondering now whether those days happened just because we were young and had nothing better to do. Everyone is quite busy these days, and unwilling to inconvenience themselves. Of course I am the most unwilling of all, and I can barely make it across the street, so everything is an inconvenience, so I have no right to expect anything. I should be grateful for the occasional Messenger exchange, or an hour or so of face time.

Of course there are exceptions. The ones closest to me. I don't know why I sometimes find myself wanting or expecting more. I have more in terms of companionship than most at my age, I should say. We can't maintain the web of relationships we had n our teens and twenties indefinitely. And it's not as if I don't value my solitude as well. This is all just perhaps frustration with my circumstances finding expression in different ways.

I find myself thinking of the phrase "sick and tired," It is often used to mean "frustrated" or "exasperated," and not to denote actual illness, though perhaps it should be. I am sick and tired of my circumstances. I am sick and tired of expectations I cannot meet. I am sick and tired of other people's agendas. I am sick and tired of losing my enthusiasm and abilities for the few things that are still important to me. I am sick and tired of this life.

I have to find some way to that island. Metaphorically speaking.

A Short List of Short Novels

So I've been reading (and rereading) short novels. This is partially because sustained feats of reading are harder for my deteriorated eyes, and partially because I always preferred short works anyway, as opposed to generation-spanning brick-thick books to wallow in.

While I decide which book to tackle next (probably High-Rise by JG Ballard or a Stanislaw Lem), I present to you a list, off the top pf my head and in roughly alphabetical order, of some of my favorite short novels.

Abel's Island by William Steig
Considered a children's book, it has more depth and charm than many a grown-up classic.

Being There by Jerzy Kosinski
Sharply satirical and probably more relevant today than ever.

Bones of the Moon by Jonathan Carroll
A dreamlike book about dreaming and the worlds within us.

Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote
Truman Capote is the best.

Bright Lights, Big City by Jay McInerney
A sentimental favorite. Perhaps it doesn't hold up after the 80s, but I still love it anyway, because I read it at the right time.

The Cement Garden by Ian McEwan
Made quite an impression on me over twenty years ago. Probably due for a reread.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick
Do not read this just before watching Blade Runner if you do not want to be disappointed by the latter.

From the Mixed-Up Files... by EL Konigsburg
Again, a children's book that is better than most grown-up books.

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Apologies for being so obvious.

The Hand of the Enemy by Kerima Polotan
We need more books like this, and more writers like her.

Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto
Although it's actually the second "backup" story in the book that I love.

The Locked Room by Paul Auster
Probably the most mind-bending installment of the New York Trilogy.

Loser Takes All by Graham Greene
See previous post on Graham Greene and this book.

The Loved One by Evelyn Waugh
Found on my grandmother's shelf and enjoyed in a state of amused near-disbelief.

The Paradise Motel by Eric McCormack
Stories within  a larger story, fascinating and horrifying and wondrous.

Here's Where the Story Ends

And the short-novel reading streak continues, with The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes. Funny how a book given to philosophical digressions and something very much like nostalgia should be such a page-turner, and even take on a suspenseful grip in its latter half. The book starts off seemingly aimless, but it all comes together as it speeds to its conclusion (I read the last 40 pages or so on the edge of my seat, as it were, raring for revelations).

The ending is something I am unwilling to write about here, just in case anyone reading this (spambots excluded) should have it spoiled for them, but let's just say it will make you go "I see," and then afterwards, "Wait. did I really see?" I eventually found myself on some comment threads, looking for people who had similar theories about what was said and unsaid, and the reliability of narrators. 

I've always liked but never quite loved Julian Barnes' books, though I do love the last chapter of A History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters. And I loved reading Talking It Over, but did not love the book itself, if that makes sense. Despite some issues, this one is probably my favorite, for now. 

I might not have enjoyed this book as much, earlier in my life, but now, reading about someone near the end of theirs is almost comforting. My health continues to seesaw, though not from utter wellness to utter helplessness. Just minor tilts from slighter to greater difficulty getting through a day. I am starting to forget what it was like to get through an entire 24 hours without once thinking of how I might get around, without feeling any pain doing simple things like standing up or climbing stairs. (Although let's face it, I never had a great time with stairs even at the peak of my so-called health.) It is almost strange to be grateful for such things as still having the ability to read and write and bathe and dress myself, though really, these are things we should all be grateful for, every day.

The Wheel Spins

I reread Graham Greene's Loser Takes All yesterday. It was the very first Greene book I ever read; I remember finding a copy in a sale bin in a Makati NBS and taking a chance. The gamble paid off; reading it was sheer pleasure. It might still be the Greene book that I love the most (though of course Brighton Rock is brilliant). Of course that is probably more nostalgia for the grade-school boy that I was at the time I first read it than anything else.

But it doesn't matter. I am grateful for this little book's existence. Dismissed as a frivolity by its own author (it took me a while to understand how a writer could divide his output into "entertainments" and -- one presumes -- "real" books), it is nevertheless wonderfully written and engaging and even gives one some sort of hope -- for benevolence, for luck, for love -- false though that hope might be, ultimately. It is lightweight, no doubt, both literally and figuratively, but I will reread it again someday just for the pleasure of rereading it, which is more than I can say for The End of the Affair.

Later today I will see my doctor again. To extend the gambling metaphor, I have lost a lot, I feel, by seeing the wrong doctors. They have lasered my eyes and injected me with drugs and made me worse and worse in the process. It has taken me a long time to hit on a "system" that might work. It remains to be seen whether it actually will work, however. There are wins and losses. Everyone has to walk away from the table at some point.

Woke Up Like This

All I ever seem to dream about these days is the houses I used to live in, and the mother I lost.

What I Would Like

I would like to die soon.

Before my eyesight fades completely, before I become a complete burden to others, and before I disappoint any more people, I would like to leave. In my sleep, preferably (as if one could choose these things), like slipping into a dream, or rather, not waking up from a dream at all.

I don't think I can do it by my own hand, as much as I've thought about it in the past and especially recently. (Though it would be easy; my allergies are so extreme all I would need would be a handful of over-the-counter painkillers.) I'd rather not leave my family with that particular weight.

I don't think I'm going to be able to write the books I wanted to before I die, so I might as well go now, while I'm still a fairly independent, semi-functional human, before anyone else wastes any more time and effort on me. I don't know how I can make this happen though. Again, how does one choose these things, aside from straight-up suicide?

Maybe I'll get lucky.

It's funny, last night's dream was a positive one. I was back in my old room in Lola Cil's house in UP Campus, and I had finally cleaned up my huge heavy desk and I felt like I was starting with a clean slate, and ready for anything. It was a good feeling. Perhaps it's a preview of the afterlife. Perhaps dying is clearing your desk and getting ready for what's next.

I think I need more sleep.

The Strange

Last night I finished reading The Strange Library, Haruki Murakami's latest book (or at least the latest to be translated into English). I don't believe I've finished a Murakami since After Dark, all those years ago; of course, this one is so short that it takes less time to read than some short stories. (After Dark itself was one of his shorter novels; it seems it's been a while since I lost myself in a massive Murakami, though I remember my experiences with Wind-Up Bird and Norwegian Wood and especially Hard-Boiled Wonderland very fondly.) The illustration above was taken from the UK version, which seems to have nicer visuals all throughout than the US version designed by Chip Kidd (though admittedly the UK cover is uninspired). The vaguely annoying "oriental" imagery that always seems to accompany US Murakami releases (with the happy exception of the original hardcover edition of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle) plagues this one too. Not for the first time, I found myself wondering if Kidd is overrated, or perhaps just overworked.

As to the story itself, it was worth reading, though it will probably not stick for very long in my memory. The most affecting part of it was the last page, a sad sort of epilogue. This is not one of those uplifting fables to be given to teenagers upon graduation (this is a good thing, by the way).

I began this entry with some purpose in mind, but now feel my mind wandering, led astray by distractions. There was something there I wanted to say about childhood, and misfortune, and books, and mothers, and memory. But I am distracted by other voices, and by various aches and pains and worries. The past couple of weeks have not been easy; work has been more demanding than usual and my health more of a concern than usual. I find myself thinking, again, about how much longer I have.

I have trouble getting up, walking around, navigating stairs, breathing. Sessions with the doctor bring relief, but so far the relief has been temporary. We're increasing the frequency of the visits however and perhaps that will help. I dream of working my way back to a state of relative normalcy, but it seems like such a faraway dream, sometimes.

Perhaps for this reason, I find myself thinking a lot about childhood. Reading The Strange Library made me think, not of the libraries of my youth, but the malls I spent so much time growing up in. Specifically MCS, which is strange and labyrinthine in its own way. I may have to write a book about it someday, something akin to Downtown or Neverwhere, but different... (Virra Mall will require an entirely other volume to itself.)