Monday, October 25, 2010
Two More Books and 124 Days of I.
How I stumble upon the time to read is a sort of a low-level miracle. It’s like discovering you had a stash of money you thought you didn’t have anymore.
Aside from Miguel Syjuco’s Illustrado and Martin Amis’ The Rachel Papers, I managed to tuck in two more books to the shelves over the past couple of months. Those were Yann Martel’s Life of Pi and Italo Calvino’s Marcovaldo or Seasons in the City. I bought both of these from BookSale, where book-buying need not be profligate, and buying itself is a cheap thrill. While they aren’t as nasally pleasant as the freshly-printed copies in more expensive bookstores, the joy of finding them amongst straight-to-the-bargain-books is an unmatched, unexpected happiness. And these copies are in mint condition.
I’ve been reading these books with I., and even D. admits to having a childlike sense of wonder and anticipation in hearing the stories. Both these books were a wild ride, and reading them and enjoying about them together as a family is like going on a trip to Disneyland.
I imagine that the beautifully simple language where a mirage of flatness masks the deeply ingenious stories would sound familiar to I. We read Italo Calvino to him when he was in the womb. I’m making excuses now, but when I find the time I’ll write down a full inkwell of thoughts around Life of Pi.
My guess is I will find the time. I’m saying that because since our I. was born, I had it all, including some of the things I thought I’d lose. In 124 days of I.’s being-in-this-world, he grew and grew and cooed and cooed.
And I understood why I should long, even more intensely, to repeat the last 124 days and the twenty-nine years of my life. Because in some parallel universe, I.’s fond smiles are flashing again, I am hushing him again, telling him stories of the lower-class Italian families in the 50s and 60s, or shipwrecked Indian Boys in a lifeboat with a Bengal tiger. I am listening to music with him again. I am watching him sleep with his D. in the morning, or watching him sleep with mama before I leave for work at night, making my woes vanish into thin air. I. is staring wide-eyed into me again, and we peer into each other’s souls.
In truth, I didn’t just manage to read two other books in 124 days of I.’s being-in-the-world. In the selfless pace of the past four months, everything seemed to have happened. A few days back, I ran my second 21k this year (in a borderline-decent 2:10 finish). I have two serious offers for a promotion that would double my basic income. I recently had two articles published in a respectable online music/culture magazine (getting paid made me feel like a legitimate writer). I’ve gained a few pounds, but I’ve given up smoking entirely. I have spent a lot of time with my families – my own, my parents, and in-laws.
In having I. I have bowed, as I am humbled and selfless, I have to trust in something greater than myself. Much to my relief, I jumped into the abyss feeling more awakened. I have knelt in prayer to God, thankful for the happy arrangement where I arrived amidst all the inscrutable order or chaos.
In scaling myself down, my life fled to an upward trend.
No comments:
Post a Comment