Vicarious living through novels

So I'm almost done with Life of Pi, a book that took me a while to get through. Initially, I found the protagonist obnoxious and found the first 100 pages a rough going. I've put that book back on the shelf, literally, about 3 times during that time and this last time I restarted it from the beginning, so as to look at it in a new light as well as have a more fluid lead-up to the point where I'd read to. It proved worth it as I finally delved into the book with a fresh perspective.

There are some books that are like that, the book that I finished before this one was Pygmy, a book written by someone that grew up with a Far East linguistic approach that was applied to English, and so the writing was, at times, tedious to decipher. This book was far more straightforward and what I immediately liked about it was the rich, dense prose, a staple of mine and writers that inspire me. He's also very philosophical, something that I've enjoyed since I was a teen. What turned me off, in the beginning, was the slow start, midway through the plot takes off and carried me to the point where I can't wait to find out what's going to happen next, when will he be rescued, how, how will he react ... there are lots of questions swirling about my noggin.

What I found myself thinking today as I rode the J train was how involved I feel in the book, as I read about his horrid suffering I can't help but feel it, really feel it. It reminded me of when I was reading Shantaram, of the protagonist and how he would pick at lice all day in an overcrowded Indian prison, of his bouts with heroin and opium, of the hardships of living in a slum in Bombay ... all these things I could feel, not just see with my mind's eye.

I took a break from reading, from writing, from that aspect of myself because I felt saturated in it, like a glutton walking away from a feast. As I begin to enjoy a good novel, as I begin to write again it's inspiring to not just read great literature again, but to immerse myself in the Pacific waters of it.

Ruminations (El payaso triste)

There are a few thoughts rolling around my head ... I just found out that my cousin's uncle passed away. I didn't know him well, though I'll never forget his smile, I recall him being a very genial guy, very affable. It got me thinking about my own dad, all the trials and tribulations we've been through, how eventually I'll lose him too. Nothing in this life is forever, our family and friends, we, I, take things for granted. I'm not familiar with that, that type of coping, my cousin Uli has lived with it for most of his life and though I try and ease the pain, I try and understand what he's going though, I'll never truly know until Death raps his knock on our door.

It kind of makes the ordinary pains of my life petty, but I know that that pain is all I know, it's relative, isn't it? The loss I live with has its own melancholy, its own distinct mourning. I can't believe it's been over 2 years and I'm still harping on about it, I realized the other day as I mentioned her yet again, that I haven't let her go. Why is letting go so hard? Why are some memories welcome while others lay oppressive siege to my heart, Troy without Helen.

Don't think I'm trying to equate the pains, either, it's just that I've decided to embrace the phantasms that haunt me, the doldrums that plague my nights, the solace that smothers my waking life. How am I to exorcise these poltergeists if not through the power of the page, the release of the ink, the acceptance of my pain. As a person that wants others to have a great time around them, I'm selfish with certain emotions, even my close friends don't often hear me talk about being depressed, about what's really going on my head but most of the time I feel like un payaso triste and that's okay, I suppose.