On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning
by Haruki Murakami __________________________________________________________________

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

Y repito y me repito. Y cada determinado tiempo vuelvo... Y me sorprendo, a ratos. A ratos como discutiendo. Para justificar al tiempo. Para darle sentido. Pero aún así, siempre queda algún sospechoso, alguna palabra libre de crítica o desdén, alguna sorpresa genuina atravesada por ráfagas de un desfase vertiginoso, ahí donde se repite y yo comprendo. Y dudo. Entonces dudo. Sufro por el instante de duda en el que repetir esporádicamente el vértigo no es más que el festejo de una eternidad sin espacio.




*

Vamos por caminos

d i f e r e n t e s

¿Por quéloleo?

¿Porque sí?

O, ¿porque no?



(problema filosófico literario, como siempre)


*

Some swimsuit dice:
mira a heidi
hln dice:
AY NOOOOOOOOO
noooooooo
Some swimsuit dice:
jajajaja baila!!
hln dice:
heidi en la pradera
hln dice:
claro, ella ya no tiene gripa
es que yo me acuerdo que cuando yo me leí ese libro y era chiquita estaba traumatizada porque ella se engordaba cuando llegaba a la pradera y así era más saludable y sana y robusta... no sé, me parecía horrible
hln dice:
lo que me parecía era raro.
porque todo el mundo decía que era fea cuando no era robusta y que era sana cuando era cachetona y gorda... y te lo juro, tenía como 8 años. era una niña superficial desde siempre

I know





We are all of us more or less echoes, repeating involuntarily the virtues, the defects, the movements, and the characters of those among whom we live. -Joseph Joubert

fffound!


Written on July 6, 2008
Y yo decía:

"Re-escribo un bonsái, el mismo, que da lo mismo, que tampoco tiene un final, que se comporta de verdad, como la historia de Julio. Porque las coincidencias son y no son suficientes, porque dependen de la ficción. A la luz de la muerte ya no hay miedo a nombrar: las cosas obtienen sus nombres solas, las ficciones todas existen sin justificación. Sin juego, pero habiendo conocido la curva: la descompensación."



Con esto inauguro el tag:
"Unknown, possibly wrong"

Ahora, es obvio que depende. Es lenguaje.

On. Say on. Be said on. Somehow on. Till nohow on. Said nohow on.

Say for be said. Missaid. From now say for be missaid.

Say a body. Where none. No mind. Where none. That at least. A place. Where none. For the body. To be in. Move in. Out of. Back in to. No. No out. No back. Only in. Stay in. On in. Still.

All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.

Samuel Beckett

Who knows.

With My Eyes Closed
I close my eyes
To hurt you
To live you
I never told you
That I
Could stay
It was never meant to
Be
For me
Everyone surely will tell you
That I will
Need you
But I don't believe you
Cause I've never had it
The way I'm
Supposed to
Believe me when I say
It was never meant to
Be
For me

Maybe that's it. And that's it.

fffound


lamusique todos mis amigos se están enamorando8:28 PM Jan 24th from web

lamusique they fall in love while I gladly take long baths8:33 PM Jan 24th from web

lamusique aunque sorda palpite la respiración bajo el agua8:34 PM Jan 24th from web




*lam: maple tree

¿Por qué las brechas? ¿los caminos cortados para hacerse valientes? (cuánta cobardía en provocar y aburrición en hacerlo a algo sin objetivo, ¿es valentía?)

Y las cosas coinciden para cambiar, para funcionar y entorpecerse, todas acertadas para dispararse por voluntades estúpidas.

(Cuando en pequeñas ráfagas se recuesta en ti, respira el alivio.)

Ahora, ahora yo no puedo hacer esto por partida doble. No sé si por ti o realmente por mí. Pero por probar fui, prolongado hasta mañana, un seré: soy responsable.


lam: no fit state. hot chip. bah a esta coincidencia.

La duda reside en la cuestión de la representación de las cosas. Las descripciones, los horarios y las fórmulas entran repentinas tantas veces como historias y narraciones "contrarias" a su prescripción. Tampoco sabría qué son según un "contrario" Un accidente hilado por memorias y palabras y sucesos sobre sucesos entre sucesos. Pero entonces, según eso, quienes logran traducir escenas tan acertadamente a la literatura no deberían tener, en la ráfaga de conmoción y puntualidad que producen, un status fotográfico de la realidad. Todo esto viene a que tantas veces me circula la duda sobre el punto intermedio, o mejor, la brecha tantas veces tan difusa entre palabras descriptivas y movimiento rítmico y acertado.

Me gustan los accidentes. No quiero que dejen de gustarme los accidentes, las inconsistencias, la consistencia en las brechas y las rupturas. La descripción, de repente sólo robando una forma de transcripción de la realidad, se justifica por escogerse entre miles de ojos, pero peligra a ser convertida en un vacío narrativo ruidoso necesitado de una lista constante para llenar las hojas en blanco. Sin embargo, me deja mi silencio también un desorden, el de la broma compartida pero en silencio, esa que internamente se goza y lucha contra la literalidad contrapuesta a su acción en el papel.

Pero suceden tan bien los placeres del crujido de una lechuga cuando Sylvia Plath lo dicta en voz alta, en sólo tres palabras, que la broma interna se despliega y se hace esencial a todas las formas y todos los campos. Son esos los únicos momentos en que la descripción me cautiva: no supera nunca las cuatro palabras, es un instante vivo aún dejándose al borde de ser un simple efecto fotográfico, cuando es, en realidad, una causa nunca conclusa.

lam: brot. ruido. pnau y ladyhawk. raymond carver y la infidelidad. un sorbo del té del gargajo de la felicidad.

*



¿Por qué tanto deber?
Que el sol me arranque, que mi voz cambie, que las letras vayan a donde mi sol impulse, porque sin poder mirarlo, por costumbre lo atraviesa una fisura.

Que me arranque.

Ahora, sólo esporádicamente, aparece algo como Burroughs con el 'Do Easy' y me recuerda algo de inocencia mía.




lam: Iamundernodisguise. School Of Seven Bells

Entre copas dudo, me dicen "vulnerabilidad a..." ¿A qué?

Este gusto por el disgusto, ¿hasta dónde? Este estado mismo en el que se encuentra, ¿no es acaso válido también?¿no es un desplazamiento? No quisiera volver, regresar a un punto de partida que nunca estuvo realmente más que permeado por múltiples inseguridades e insatisfacciones. Pero, la fractura reside en que, la insatisfacción, se dice imposibilidad, y la inteligencia evita creer que se pueda hacer convivir la totalidad con la vida. Y he ahí el dolor, un dolor antiguo que no volvió y sigue mudo. —Puede ser un complejo simple error de conceptos, pero nunca lo supe, el diccionario lo perdí hace ya mucho tiempo y me las he arreglado con algunas expediciones más interesantes y valientes de las que creí poder soportar. ¿Pero qué tanto lo soportable? ¿O acaso me justifico un poco más?— Y he ahí el desarrollo de la observación, los cambios de posición, y una apropiación inhóspita y pasiva, casi gratuita, del desencanto sin lugar. El accidente. La risa. El humor y las ficciones sin dueño. Un nuevo gusto por lo más, más extraño, a la vez. Así pasa la vida, ¿suspendiéndose? No soy lo suficientemente insensible aún para suspenderme toda, encuentro formas, alternas formas de intentar volver, pero no vuelvo. Porque estas formas hacen parte de la misma duda, la fractura, que se entretiene siempre con su posibilidad de ser un desplazamiento en sí, aún dentro del mismo relato accidentado y roto es fácil dejar de ser coherente con una ficción, sólo por vergüenza. También porque de cualquier manera lo es, es la fractura, es la consecuencia y el intento de no creer más; se reconoce a sí misma como consecuencia de un imposible, más que de un error, se observa y se concluye como parte de la inteligencia de entender la vida y la totalidad como antónimos, y con una resignación dolorosa, que no se siente completa sino en el regreso, alguno, de la sensibilidad. Pero ese regreso miedoso sucede esperanzado y confundido por el dolor a quien suspende parcialmente. En el medio soy un chiste que se toma como experimental: Estoy partida en dos. Y así, mis costumbres no me dejarían volver, o hacerlo sin mentir.




lam: beautiful mind. the verve