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I finished reading a review of a Murakami novel, his new one, in the NYT (yes, with me its always the NYT I'm afraid) and it made me realize that like I have become with television I may have become with fiction. I like reading reviews of television shows, because then I can relate to the people who watch them and know what the popular culture is about. But I have zero interest in watching TV shows. I enjoyed the NYT review, but I have zero interest in reading the novel. Murakami is a tricky one, though. I don't like authors who have repetitive quirks, and his is an obsession with describing foreheads, so every time I run into that I get annoyed. And as the reviewer said- "I am troubled... by the general ethical impassivity pervading this book" which is a quality I find in all his work.

Then for some reason thinking of Murakami made my brain take a turn down a bad path. I've been losing my hair, lots of it, strands of it sit around the house in little faint golden heaps which I eventually sweep up and it occurred to me that this was something that seemed like something out of a Murakami novel... and I started crafting a literary metaphor out of it. But then I put the breaks on that thought train, hard with some screeching wheels and sparks flying. Treating ones own life like fiction and analyzing it as such isn't a step away from madness, I think it is madness. I've seen people do this and really, it convinced me that they were bonkers. And it made them miserable to boot. A total loss of perspective. So no, I won't be going there. I do wonder what is causing me to lose my hair, however. I have a feeling if I went to a doctor the diagnosis would be stress. But I don't think that's it. I just hope the hair loss stops soon as its become annoyingly messy and worrisome.


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October 2013

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