Maybe time liquified.

I recently finished a collection of Murakami's short stories called After the Quake.  Published in 1995, each story references the tragedy of the Kobe earthquake-- what was horrible then remains horrible in the compounded complexity that another quake brought 16 years later.

I read the stories in a quick sitting and then re-read.  I sat alone and thought.  I finished some work and read again.  I came away with the following: alienation and solitude never grow old; they wax and wane until we accept them as natural conditions.

But maybe I'm saying that only because a box arrived for me in the middle of the afternoon.  Inside the box was every report card I received until I was 20.  News articles with my name in them.  Letters home inviting someone to an award ceremony.  Certificates.  A college entry essay and a booklet of poetry.  There were photos of friends doing things that shouldn't be photographed.  Photos of me with a drooping, rolled cigarette hanging on my lip.  Photos of my dad appearing sober or at least happy to see me.  All of this from another life that was long housed safely in a metal filing cabinet.  It would have been easier to control the girl described by all that paper if she'd been kept there too.  Now, I get the papers.

I finished a couple stories over the last couple weeks.  One is about family and the other about a movie star who lives next door.  Neither are experiential so don't worry.  I think now I'd like to work on something so all that paper finally gets to mean something.  Alternatively, I could put all that paper on the deck and watch the gales pick them up and take them away.

But I wouldn't do that.  That would be littering and my life really shouldn't be litter.