Life Among the Pastures

Dear Valeria,

First off: Eagles shall prevail! I am happy to hear that you have been handpicked to participate in the live-action of "Monster". It was one of the few stories I have encountered that portrayed the sense of realism that was woven into the characters and settings. Something about the protagonist, Kenzo Tenma, settling in Germany as a minority in a predominantly western surrounding with European characters. Something about Kenzo Tenma in a western society is much of a parallel example to American society—a place where everyone looks like every-day people, but with venomous vile tucked away behind their tongues with a degree of malice towards people that weren't deemed full-blooded originators of the country. If you read the story, you would know that most characters carried a contemptuous aura whenever Kenzo Tenma was around—whether it was fueled by discriminatory views or jealousy because of the man's surgical capabilities as a surgeon, it was for the readers to decide. That's when I realized the dire consequences that the sons and daughters of immigrants had to face for the exchange of their American citizenship in a land stripped away by Europeans rooted in ignorance. It was a chain that was bound to the sons and daughters of immigrants and are forced to repeat the unbreakable cycle while we, the children of immigrants, are forced to endure the weight of their ignorance just because of our blood and identity. That is why I became a novelist, Valeria, and you know that—because I wanted to "change" things.

I fell in love with Japanese literature in the beginning since there were no books in the states that reflected my Asian roots. I got into Haruki Murakami's works of magical realism stories and have been fully indulged in Japanese literature during my university years. His works were twisted in bizarre ways, but that's what fiction and fantasy are really about, right——making sense of the senseless. It was that time when I came back from our band's gig after a long day. It was adrenaline-pumping, and I had to water down the adrenaline still pulsating through my body. Going to the library and easing myself in a book was always a therapeutic transition from going beyond the outskirts of society and back to the boring conventional society called "life". Well, I wouldn't necessarily say it was fully "boring," but I just detest the certain etiquette and standards everyone has to follow. Almost to the point it dehumanizes the essence of our identity as we become enslaved to society.

In my punk leather jacket and ripped jeans, I scampered along the bricks of buildings, away from where the indigenous people walked. It was as if there was an imaginary walk-lane that separated the people that embraced the norm from the rebellious youngsters like myself. The black nails that were seen as vicious claws by the others, stood out as a message to the indigenous people to pry open the bitter truth of society. Black polished nails, black leather, ripped jeans were all deemed abnormal and associated me with some form of hoodlum or satanic worshipper. I could feel their eyes dart from behind me while I became immune to it by listening to "War Pigs" by Black Sabbath or, "People = Shit" by Slipknot, on my way to the campus library.
In terms of architecture, the library design was an enormous cavern with gothic textures among the pillars and walls. The library had so many books that it was extended to a couple of floors. Scattered in the center of the library were those studious kids that plummeted themselves in their book studies without the slightest interest in literature, or that's what it seemed. I received some twisted expression as I walked past them to the stairwell in search of more books. My fingers grazed over the bookshelves until my instinct told me it was the right book. Some days, that didn't occur and became a waste of time, but today just so happened to be a lucky day. I found myself in the Japanese literature section and pulled out a random copy of Norwegian Wood by Haruki Marakami and sat down and took a brisk scan. The writing was meandering in the beginning to say the least and had a touch of realism in the concoction of literary devices used throughout the book. After reading a few pages, my watch struck one pm, just in time for class which surprisingly was just across the street.

After a few strides across from the library, I sunk down in my seat, just right in the back row of the auditorium so I could hide my book behind students. It was in a Japanese setting which I found quite a unique novelty since the cultural essence of Asia was never portrayed this well in a book. Before I knew it, an hour passed and class ended. The cluster of screeching of seats and the shuffling of footsteps could never hinder my concentration of that book as I was subconsciously hypnotized into the world of the characters and the setting.

"Hey," a lady said, and poked me from behind. That was when I receded back to reality and saw you slid next to me. At that point, everyone had suddenly vanished, and the auditorium only echoed the voice of me and you.

"Is that Norwegian Wood?" you inquired, and I only responded with a nod since I wasn't a talker. Also, I was somewhat awestruck at the sudden approach since rational people wouldn't take the initiative to approach somebody like me.

"I actually saw that movie last night," you said. "It was really good. I never knew that it was originally a book."

"There was a movie?"

What struck me at first were those sharp penetrations of your pronunciations that my mind could never wrap around. The way the words float on your tongue were muffled by your immovable jaw and the words fluttered out in a way that gave me deja vu of people I've met before. And, it occurred to me that those people that moved their mouths apace to the same level of your absurdity were the news anchors I've seen babbling away in historical footages. Those black and white colorless screens were the depressing moments in history. The lack of color also portrayed the absence of time of solemnity and mirrored the colorless minds of the people back then, who couldn't see the colors of the world, because their heavy-woven ignorance only let them see it that way.

"You sound weird." I finally said and propped my chin against my fist.

"I do?"
"I believe it's called a 'trans-Atlantic' accent."

You leaned forward with a grin that stretched as wide as a crescent moon that hung on a night sky and carried a hint of amusement that lingered in your expression. The tip of your nose shaped like a mountain cliff while its tip brushed against mine as if you were going to steal a kiss.

"Oh really? That's the first time I've ever heard of someone pointing that out. Is it that noticeable?"

I nodded and my head slowly drew away, feeling uneasy after my face felt a spark of a slight tingle from the expresso breath, I assume, you had this morning. To be quite frankly honest, you were bizarre in a way, and I've never come across a girl that was just as peculiar as you. Then you fished out your phone from those baggy jeans, that looked as if you stole it from peasants or truck drivers, and drew out your phone and showed me some scenes of Norwegian Wood recorded on your memory card.

When the shaky screen revealed a scene of two people exchanging a deep kiss, my eyes darted away. I didn't want you to spoil the book for me.

"Why do you record it on your phone?"

"Because I want to rewatch the scenes that I thought were memorable. I like the scene when..."

Before I let you finish, I thought of walking out on you and left you behind in order to avoid the discomfort you brought forth. You continue to chatter on about the movie, and I stared into the distant while submerged in my subconsciousness, contemplating if I should leave while you persistently gnawed my ears at your words.
And those were my first impressions of you, Valeria.