Last night I finished Killing Commendatore; I have read it slowly over a couple of weeks, even though there has been nothing but time. Today marks my sixth consecutive day off work, tenth consecutive day if you include the weekends, and tomorrow will be the last, if things stay settled. I plan to return on Wednesday, and I do not particularly look forward to that, although I look forward to the notion of being normal again. I have never taken this many days off work in my entire career, and there's something about that I am enjoying, dipping into my enormous sick bank and spending it on myself.
For a while I have been telling myself I need to slow down a bit, focus on balance, when abruptly the decision was made for me. This sort of thing is irritating because I know my colleagues will cast sidelong glances at each other, nod knowingly, because this confirms what they have been thinking all along, that the best way to do this job is to put in the bare minimum, and I'm the stupid one for working so hard. And it makes me crazy because this is not caused by stress. I am more than willing to accept that it is exacerbated by stress, but my brain was doing this thing over the holidays too, completely stress-free.
Anyway, Killing Commendatore. It was satisfying as hell to find myself back at the bottom of a well again, fully immersed in Murakami for several days. I am always so drawn to this world, the world between worlds, between sleeping and dreaming, a place where nothing is impossible. Sometimes I read other people's reviews of Murakami and wonder what they're talking about. I see something, I feel something different when I read it.
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