Finishing reading “We” by Zamyatin, pioneer Russian political satirist, cast me with provoking thoughts about the state of Communism, or, in literary jargon, ”social dystopia”. My present mental state is now a scrambled, uncoordinated, yet not inexpressible, mixture of thoughts, feelings and reflections. Having been able to lay my hand back on my first crush Pianissimo, black Icene, ever since the earthquake in Northeastern Japan, was like being brought back to “second childhood”. But this is by no means quite near Morris’s intended meaning of the word. It was more like some vague fresh memory of exactly one year ago, when I first made my entrance into this world of “unproductive pleasure”: the quiet, unstirred evening, when I and she sat outside my previous apartment, under the deep unblemished pale dark sky. “Oh it tastes like chocolate”. Now all those memories like a old recording tape rewinds itself in my head now, sweet, old yet fresh and soothing pills.
Then onto my next sub-topic of a fabulous life of Me. It would necessarily be said that from when I have fallen prey to this autism so-called misanthropist, state of being, I have not yet been quite able to grasp. Yet, these days the frequency of getting outside my own room, not to mention meeting and talking to people, has reduced close to a magnificent zero. Zero, by the words of the enesthesia-struck Zamyatin, an “enormous, silent, narrow, knife-sharp crag”. Yet the being called Me has not been through any ordeal or life-changing experience like those of Prendick on the island of Doctor Moreau, or Gulliver after all his travels, to the extent that the mere sight or idea of meeting people would deem too unendurable, painful task to deal with from the first place. In my own fixed and willful state of mind it should be only interpreted and understood as a transient phase in which one would necessarily go through at one or another point in this two-dimensional, life-span axis of time. By two-dimensional I do mean that I view time as a kind of flat-paned, with only the past that stands at one end and future at the other. Well, at least, for the time being.
And with the unfailingly frustrating disconnection from the Cyberworld, I would not been any otherwise better to have my reader understand these lines of mine at the time I was writing them.
During all those short 3 months since I came back to Japan, not a few number of events, no matter how trivial or meaningful they seem to be, have happened to me, whereas I deem a good chance to take them all together, yet split them one-by-one, into reflection now. I have had a romance, though only a very fleeting one, with someone I first talked to on our modern, convenient social network. The affair turned out to be ending as abrupt, if not cold and painful, as how a typhoon would sweep onto one area and left not long after its first landing. But I would not talk about it now, since the period was all one too fragmented, a whirlpool of little events which I deem not beneficial to cast into details. I was hurt; yet being hurt is one necessity of life.
Then my GBLP thing. This is necessarily fluctuating: one time I was all heart and soul, applying to all kinds of internships available and eagerly exploring myself, squeezing the juice out of my brain for it; one time (which is now) I am so aloof, so neutral if not double-minded, or enigmatic, or hesitant, to touch further on the subject. I have come to finally yielding towards to idea that I am better suited to being a 学者、whereby “researcher” would be too cockney, but, otherwise, someone who is encouraged and merited for spending her time just reading and relaxing, with a fair amount of time to reflect, and collect, pieces of literature, or philosophy, that has been enacted and tread by our great numbers of preceding masterminds. Oh well.
Night has deepened and the air is turning increasingly hot and humid. I better turn in now.