Scribbles about Murakami

(disclaimer: When I started this blog, the main objective was to get myself to write more, which turns out not to have been as good as my intentions were because now I write more but feel like posting every bit of garbage that comes into my head and I scribble down. And hence testing the patience of like, the 5 of you that actually read this shit. This is not meant to be coherent, exactly. I just wrote down what I was thinking when I was reading this collection of Murakami's short stories, my mind was really clouded. And oddly enough I just read a mail where Namita asked me about why I like Murakami so I thought I'd post it)

[dated 18 June, Sheffield]
Telefon Tel Aviv - John Thomas On The Inside Is Nothing But Foam.
Relative motion strikes you at the most unexpected times.
Grey clouds cover the sun while the silver ones claim his glow for their own. The rest of the sky is smudged as if by water flowing on a smooth rounded rock.
Murakami's stories talk of long and traditionally 'uneventful' periods of time. Where there is more free time than you know what to do with. I know that feeling. There is a story called 'The Mirror' where a young man has an uneasy feeling that his reflection is not him, but a parallel version of himself, a similar experience of which I might have described to some of you when intoxicated (along with the UFO story, both of which took place when I was fully sober).
The one I'm reading right now, the narrator talks about how his cat disappeared mysteriously one night (though mine went through this weird sexuality issue and then ran away to Bombay to become a movie star).
You know how sometimes you just have an odd affinity for some people (like my odd affinity for Shane Warne. Though that's not very hard to understand, he's a brash, beer guzzling skirtchaser, what's not to love?), except I can't tell what it is about Murakami, somehow his bizarre stories that appear to end abruptly and 'not make any sense' just resonate with me.
In a couple of the stories the narrator is on an island with his wife and they have endless empty hours. In the story I'm reading now, with the missing cat, they don't really have much to do on the island and the narrator feels a total disconnect with his previous life. If that ever happened to me, what would I do? Would I ever really be content with a 'simple life', 'empty' hours, complete disconnect? (would you?) It sounds both frightening and liberating.
Murakami writes in detail about mundanity, so does Kafka, and as you may have painfully learned, in my own way so do I (much more in private though than what I inflict on you guys). But what does it mean? There's always an atmosphere with their mundanity, a stamp in the sky, like different tones on different types of film reels. There's always something completely odd that happens which alters things, although not always perceptibly.
In one of the stories, 'Birthday Girl' a man supposedly grants an unspecified wish to the protagonist, but we don't really see what it's effects are. In the novel 'After Dark', there are extraordinary events that take place one night but things appear to go on as usual at the end. Does this calm at the surface really reflect the true state of affairs. Loss, minor or major affects people in the most unusual ways in Murakami's stories. So do memories and dreams. Sure, something like "The Rise and Fall of Sharpie Cakes has one going WTF while reading it.. but the ending manages to evoke a wry smile still. Things about his stories will sneak up on you when you're thinking about your own experiences. The surreal and the subconscious always go hand in hand.
One thing that I find puzzling is how mundanity, described with loving attention to detail can become a beautiful or fascinating thing. Ultimately it's all relative.

The boy and girl are back again on the black granite stairs of the entrance to the Velocity building, like all my days here. He's smoking, smiling and talking as usual, her back is turned to me. They'll hug and go back when the light fades. I always think that I can't make up engaging characters, I can only write about myself, or at best describe people I observe.
They're hugging now, I walk to the other side of my balcony where I can't see them. Does routine = mundanity?
They walk away now, holding hands.
Maybe the characters already exist and they find you. Like Murakami's "poor aunt" (also one of the stories in Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman). I picked up (but let go of) a book in a store recently where a discarded character follows around a writer and compels her to write about him.
Here I am, standing with my Paharganj pajamas balooning up in the wind. I must be a character for someone else...