COLORLESS TSUKURU TAZAKI AND HIS YEARS OF PILGRAMAGE

I've just closed this book filled with a desire to write, but not just to write, to write beautifully, to write expressively. I'm also filled with longing for the company of men like Haruki Murakami who can explore the psyche so eloquently. Immersed in Tsukuru Tazaki's emotional life, seeing him stripped bare, utterly vulnerable is so opposite to the men I know. Feelings rarely float to the surface, they are stitched up, slicked over with banter and bonhomie. Crushed out of existence by cynicism. To be fair ignoring feelings is not just the domain of men. Our society is purposely designed to distract citizens away from introspection - no need to be self-aware when we can be self-absorbed. It reminds me of Cloud Atlas - a world where thinking is discouraged and consuming is encouraged.

The character of Tsukuru Tazaki resonates because he is a reader, because he has been rejected by his group, because he is isolated, because he is a thinker and because he doubts his appeal to other people. All of this is true in my own life so to see it written is naturally alluring. We are attracted to our own version of the world. Knowing this though does not lessen the deep contentment I feel after reading this book. I'm still taking deep breathes as admiring thoughts swirl through my mind. Inhale! Exhale!

Driving to Dutton Park on Wednesday I experienced ROAD RAGE - well I was on the road and rage coursed through me. I turned right off Merivale Road and came to an abrupt stop. One of our city's ubiquitous stop/go people was wielding the stop side of the sign while a large truck reversed out of a construction site. I braked so my bumper was a comfortable car space away from the signholders kneecaps. Unsatisfied with this he beckoned me forward, then pointed to a spot directly in front of his feet. This is when I felt the rage welling up through my body with its accompanying toxins. My mind's immediate reaction was FUCK OFF, so I didn't move. He repeated the gesture a few more times in case I missed them, so I cast my eyes downwards. When I noticed that the truck was finishing it's manoeuvres I watched the road again and the signholder treated me to an elaborate eye roll (I think he may have strained them).

I'm interested in why my reaction was so strong. Was it:

My disdain for the overzealous WHS in Australia?
My anti-authoritarian streak?
Tapping into my avid wish for freedom?
The fact he was male, representing the overwhelm I fell from time to time of the burden of living in a patriarchal society?
ALL OF THE ABOVE?

Strangely, this meaningless rebellion was a harmless way to release my safety valve. Though once I reached my destination I did have to spend ten minutes deep breathing before I was fit for company.