Murakami and Alchohol Don't Mix
Jan. 27th, 2009 09:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blacklillyThere appears so be some contention as to which day exactly is the worst day of the year - January 19th or 24th. I think I can probably say that mine so far was a mixture of the 24th and 25th. After a late night on Friday (a friend of mine is being transferred to Sapporo, so we gave him a send off until 2.30am at the local), and a Saturday which was full of its normal stress, I got home and fell into a very very bad mood. I was in a bad mood when I went to bed and still in a bad mood when I woke up. In fact, I didn't shift the bad mood until lunchtime when a bowl of miso soup had its usual magical effect upon me.
My friend Rachel called me up yesterday morning and started to tell me that on Sunday morning she also Sunday descended into a slough of despair, and had to sleep it off. We were trying to find a reason for all this, and there were two factors. First, we had both been drinking, which is normally enough to make ones headache, though not always enough to highlight the pointlessness of existence. However, we both than realised that we were almost in exactly the same place in the Murakami novel we've been simultaneously reading (Dance, Dance, Dance). On Saturday night I was about 80-100 pages from finishing the book, and on Sunday so was Rachel. Now, I think reading Murakami is the most important factor here. His characters do have this tendency to just let things happen to them. They rarely seem to make decisions, and they don't really react to anything that happens to them; unless it's their wife leaving them, in which case they shut themselves in the house for six months, or got sit down a well. Anyway, these stories so have a tendency to make you wonder why we're here.
So today's advice: if you going to read Murakami, do not mix with alcohol.
In other news, I finally got out of the house on Sunday and went to an art exhibition in Ginza. Then I had dinner with the artist and a few other people in a heavy metal bar.
My friend Rachel called me up yesterday morning and started to tell me that on Sunday morning she also Sunday descended into a slough of despair, and had to sleep it off. We were trying to find a reason for all this, and there were two factors. First, we had both been drinking, which is normally enough to make ones headache, though not always enough to highlight the pointlessness of existence. However, we both than realised that we were almost in exactly the same place in the Murakami novel we've been simultaneously reading (Dance, Dance, Dance). On Saturday night I was about 80-100 pages from finishing the book, and on Sunday so was Rachel. Now, I think reading Murakami is the most important factor here. His characters do have this tendency to just let things happen to them. They rarely seem to make decisions, and they don't really react to anything that happens to them; unless it's their wife leaving them, in which case they shut themselves in the house for six months, or got sit down a well. Anyway, these stories so have a tendency to make you wonder why we're here.
So today's advice: if you going to read Murakami, do not mix with alcohol.
In other news, I finally got out of the house on Sunday and went to an art exhibition in Ginza. Then I had dinner with the artist and a few other people in a heavy metal bar.