Feeling John Malkovich
disconnect 012/237
[22 December 2024]
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Last Thursday night, I found myself in a space resembling a surgical room. The sterile white walls and gray floor created a clinical atmosphere, mechanical vessels floated in the room, suspended from the ceiling by thin nylon strings. They looked like minimalistic, see-through plastic versions of the body models used in biology class, with numerous tubes pumping liquid in and out of these figures.
I gazed at these odd body parts that were part of Ioana Vreme Moser’s sound art installation Fluid Anatomy, fascinated by how they were filled and emptied solely by the forces of water and air.
When I look at art, I usually ask myself how it relates to my own life and what it reminds me of. This particular work reminded me of the recurring cycles of everyday life: Sometimes, our tanks are empty, sometimes, they are full. What is empty will eventually refill. What is full will become empty at some point.
It's essential to recognize, accept, and embrace both highs and lows. During low moments, it can be challenging to see if or when a high will come again, but that’s a natural part of life. Often, we can use these low points to gain new insights. With that in mind, I’d like to share the story of how I watched a movie without understanding what was being said most of the time.
Fluid Anatomy by Ioana Vreme MoserI recently did. It happened sort of coincidentally and was sometimes challenging. Ultimately, it was an unexpectedly enjoyable and perspective-shifting experience though that made me notice and focus on aspects and details I typically overlook while watching movies, and often in everyday life as well.
Sometimes, there are periods when I feel as though I am only my mind, and my body isn’t a part of me. It feels like my mind is controlling a machine - my body. Interacting with my environment doesn't seem directly connected to my mind. It’s a bit like in Being John Malkovich, but instead of being inside Mr. Malkovich's head and controlling his actions, it feels as if my mind is remote-controlling my own body. I think this experience is a variation of dissociation, ‘the mental process of disconnecting from one’s thoughts, feelings, memories, or sense of identity.’
However, I don’t feel disconnected from any of those elements, just from my body.
Typically, this feeling comes with discomfort when interacting with people. Being by myself is completely fine during these times. Being around people is manageable. Engaging with them feels awkward.
Typically, this feeling fades away on its own after a day or sometimes a couple of days. While it lasts, I don't experience any specific negative emotions or feelings, as long as I avoid engaging in activities that contradict my lack of desire for human interaction beyond what is absolutely necessary.
About two weeks ago, I experienced this feeling. I became aware of it on a Wednesday. For Thursday, I had planned to attend a live sound installation performance in a small project space in Prenzlauer Berg. However, I felt that I wouldn’t be able to enjoy this intimate event given my current state. I’ve noticed that when I feel this way, the best approach is to create time and space for myself. Disconnecting intentionally and immersing myself in the feeling instead of fighting it, without being distracted by the world around me.
I can think of few (or maybe even no) activities that allow me to truly disconnect from my surroundings as much as going to the cinema by myself. Comfortable seating, dim lighting, a spacious environment, no talking or social interaction, and no everyday distractions and reminders that are inevitable at home - perfect conditions to immerse myself in my own world.
Therefore, I felt strongly drawn to going to the cinema instead of attending the sound performance and checked the program for that Thursday night. Out of all the movies being screened, only one caught my interest at first glance: Drive My Car, which was playing at the Babylon movie theater as part of a Japanese film week. After I read the description and discovered it was based on a story by Haruki Murakami, I immediately knew I had to watch this film.
Over the years, I have often noticed Murakami's books while browsing in bookstores. For some inexplicable reason, I have always chosen not to buy any of them.
I even recall the first time one of his books caught my attention: In 2012, while I was studying abroad in Córdoba, Spain, one of my nine flatmates was reading 1Q84. I still remember the moment I saw the book with its black, white, and green cover on the living room table vividly, even though it didn't seem particularly special at the time.
Also, since I began writing my newsletter earlier this year, two friends independently recommended Murakami's stories to me in connection with my writing. On top of that, I recently came across a quote by Haruki Murakami regarding his daily routines and mindset when writing a novel.
What he describes reads like the ultimate version of the creative routines and habits I’ve developed over the past six months while working on 40 Nights in Toronto. Reading that quote made me even more curious to explore the art created by someone who pursues it with intense dedication.
‘When I'm in writing mode for a novel, I get up at four A.M. and work for five to six hours. In the afternoon, I run for ten kilometers or swim for fifteen hundred meters (or do both), then I read a bit, and listen to some music. I go to bed at nine P.M. I keep to this routine every day without variation. The repetition itself becomes the important thing; it's a form of mesmerism. I mesmerize myself to reach a deeper state of mind. But to hold to such repetition for so long - six months to a year - requires a good amount of mental and physical strength. In that sense, writing a long novel is like survival training.’
Haruki Murakami
After crossing paths multiple times over more than ten years, occasionally at first and then more frequently recently, it was finally time to experience one of Murakami’s stories, even if it wasn’t in written form.
As I sat comfortably in my seat, calm and at peace amidst the other people around me who were focused on anything but me, I watched the first fifteen minutes or so through a soft gaze. The movie was primarily in Japanese, and I enjoyed the peaceful, atmosphere, the soft colors, and the beautiful scenery too much to bother reading the subtitles.
I didn’t mind that I didn’t understand the words the characters were saying to each other. I was still listening and comprehending in a different way. I immersed myself in the non-verbal aspects of the film and understood it through its images, sounds, the characters’ facial expressions, gestures, and intonation.
Eventually, I became curious about how my perceptions and interpretations - without understanding the spoken dialogue - matched the actual dialogue. For the rest of the movie, I alternated between reading the subtitles and ignoring them. I noticed how the things I perceived changed when I focused solely on observing and didn’t have to process the meaning of the dialogue.
Interestingly, one of the topics that the movie’s plot touched upon was related to the perception of language and everything beyond it when you stop focusing on what is being said.
The movie follows a Japanese theater director who directs a play with actors performing in both Japanese and Mandarin, some of whom don’t understand each other’s language. Additionally, there is another actor who cannot speak and, therefore, communicates in sign language.
In one scene, she sits at a table having dinner with the director and her husband, who serves as her translator. When the director asks if the rehearsals are sometimes too stressful for her, she replies that they are not. She then asks the director whether he poses the same question to all the other actors or if he asks her specifically, as if he believes she might be at a disadvantage simply because she cannot speak.
She goes on to explain that in a world of spoken language, she is used to not being part of conversations, and if you stop focusing on understanding the words themselves, you start noticing much more than words alone can convey.
While watching the movie, I completely lost track of time. When it ended after 179 minutes, I could tell it lasted a long time, as I noticed myself changing my seating position more frequently toward the end. However, I never felt that I wanted the movie to end so I could leave and go home.
The next morning, I did something that Murakami wouldn’t have done, at least not while writing a novel. I slept in a bit and got out of bed just before 9 A.M. instead of my usual 7 A.M. I still felt somewhat Malkovichesque. Detached from my body, and a bit exhausted, likely because I went to bed much later than usual. Another day passed with me mixing a song for 40 Nights in Toronto and having little social interaction.
The following day, I felt fully connected to my body again. And, I decided to attend the sound installation performance that I had missed two nights prior since they were presenting it once more as the closing event of the exhibition it was part of. There, I picked up a flyer for Fluid Anatomy.
Space without distractionsEnjoy your day or night!
glg Soda Paapi
PS: If you have any feedback, I’m curious to hear it.
Feeling John Malkovich
disconnect 012/237
[22 December 2024]
-----------------------
Last Thursday night, I found myself in a space resembling a surgical room. The sterile white walls and gray floor created a clinical atmosphere, mechanical vessels floated in the room, suspended from the ceiling by thin nylon strings. They looked like minimalistic, see-through plastic versions of the body models used in biology class, with numerous tubes pumping liquid in and out of these figures.
I gazed at these odd body parts that were part of Ioana Vreme Moser’s sound art installation Fluid Anatomy, fascinated by how they were filled and emptied solely by the forces of water and air.
When I look at art, I usually ask myself how it relates to my own life and what it reminds me of. This particular work reminded me of the recurring cycles of everyday life: Sometimes, our tanks are empty, sometimes, they are full. What is empty will eventually refill. What is full will become empty at some point.
It's essential to recognize, accept, and embrace both highs and lows. During low moments, it can be challenging to see if or when a high will come again, but that’s a natural part of life. Often, we can use these low points to gain new insights. With that in mind, I’d like to share the story of how I watched a movie without understanding what was being said most of the time.
Fluid Anatomy by Ioana Vreme MoserI recently did. It happened sort of coincidentally and was sometimes challenging. Ultimately, it was an unexpectedly enjoyable and perspective-shifting experience though that made me notice and focus on aspects and details I typically overlook while watching movies, and often in everyday life as well.
Sometimes, there are periods when I feel as though I am only my mind, and my body isn’t a part of me. It feels like my mind is controlling a machine - my body. Interacting with my environment doesn't seem directly connected to my mind. It’s a bit like in Being John Malkovich, but instead of being inside Mr. Malkovich's head and controlling his actions, it feels as if my mind is remote-controlling my own body. I think this experience is a variation of dissociation, ‘the mental process of disconnecting from one’s thoughts, feelings, memories, or sense of identity.’
However, I don’t feel disconnected from any of those elements, just from my body.
Typically, this feeling comes with discomfort when interacting with people. Being by myself is completely fine during these times. Being around people is manageable. Engaging with them feels awkward.
Typically, this feeling fades away on its own after a day or sometimes a couple of days. While it lasts, I don't experience any specific negative emotions or feelings, as long as I avoid engaging in activities that contradict my lack of desire for human interaction beyond what is absolutely necessary.
About two weeks ago, I experienced this feeling. I became aware of it on a Wednesday. For Thursday, I had planned to attend a live sound installation performance in a small project space in Prenzlauer Berg. However, I felt that I wouldn’t be able to enjoy this intimate event given my current state. I’ve noticed that when I feel this way, the best approach is to create time and space for myself. Disconnecting intentionally and immersing myself in the feeling instead of fighting it, without being distracted by the world around me.
I can think of few (or maybe even no) activities that allow me to truly disconnect from my surroundings as much as going to the cinema by myself. Comfortable seating, dim lighting, a spacious environment, no talking or social interaction, and no everyday distractions and reminders that are inevitable at home - perfect conditions to immerse myself in my own world.
Therefore, I felt strongly drawn to going to the cinema instead of attending the sound performance and checked the program for that Thursday night. Out of all the movies being screened, only one caught my interest at first glance: Drive My Car, which was playing at the Babylon movie theater as part of a Japanese film week. After I read the description and discovered it was based on a story by Haruki Murakami, I immediately knew I had to watch this film.
Over the years, I have often noticed Murakami's books while browsing in bookstores. For some inexplicable reason, I have always chosen not to buy any of them.
I even recall the first time one of his books caught my attention: In 2012, while I was studying abroad in Córdoba, Spain, one of my nine flatmates was reading 1Q84. I still remember the moment I saw the book with its black, white, and green cover on the living room table vividly, even though it didn't seem particularly special at the time.
Also, since I began writing my newsletter earlier this year, two friends independently recommended Murakami's stories to me in connection with my writing. On top of that, I recently came across a quote by Haruki Murakami regarding his daily routines and mindset when writing a novel.
What he describes reads like the ultimate version of the creative routines and habits I’ve developed over the past six months while working on 40 Nights in Toronto. Reading that quote made me even more curious to explore the art created by someone who pursues it with intense dedication.
‘When I'm in writing mode for a novel, I get up at four A.M. and work for five to six hours. In the afternoon, I run for ten kilometers or swim for fifteen hundred meters (or do both), then I read a bit, and listen to some music. I go to bed at nine P.M. I keep to this routine every day without variation. The repetition itself becomes the important thing; it's a form of mesmerism. I mesmerize myself to reach a deeper state of mind. But to hold to such repetition for so long - six months to a year - requires a good amount of mental and physical strength. In that sense, writing a long novel is like survival training.’
Haruki Murakami
After crossing paths multiple times over more than ten years, occasionally at first and then more frequently recently, it was finally time to experience one of Murakami’s stories, even if it wasn’t in written form.
As I sat comfortably in my seat, calm and at peace amidst the other people around me who were focused on anything but me, I watched the first fifteen minutes or so through a soft gaze. The movie was primarily in Japanese, and I enjoyed the peaceful, atmosphere, the soft colors, and the beautiful scenery too much to bother reading the subtitles.
I didn’t mind that I didn’t understand the words the characters were saying to each other. I was still listening and comprehending in a different way. I immersed myself in the non-verbal aspects of the film and understood it through its images, sounds, the characters’ facial expressions, gestures, and intonation.
Eventually, I became curious about how my perceptions and interpretations - without understanding the spoken dialogue - matched the actual dialogue. For the rest of the movie, I alternated between reading the subtitles and ignoring them. I noticed how the things I perceived changed when I focused solely on observing and didn’t have to process the meaning of the dialogue.
Interestingly, one of the topics that the movie’s plot touched upon was related to the perception of language and everything beyond it when you stop focusing on what is being said.
The movie follows a Japanese theater director who directs a play with actors performing in both Japanese and Mandarin, some of whom don’t understand each other’s language. Additionally, there is another actor who cannot speak and, therefore, communicates in sign language.
In one scene, she sits at a table having dinner with the director and her husband, who serves as her translator. When the director asks if the rehearsals are sometimes too stressful for her, she replies that they are not. She then asks the director whether he poses the same question to all the other actors or if he asks her specifically, as if he believes she might be at a disadvantage simply because she cannot speak.
She goes on to explain that in a world of spoken language, she is used to not being part of conversations, and if you stop focusing on understanding the words themselves, you start noticing much more than words alone can convey.
While watching the movie, I completely lost track of time. When it ended after 179 minutes, I could tell it lasted a long time, as I noticed myself changing my seating position more frequently toward the end. However, I never felt that I wanted the movie to end so I could leave and go home.
The next morning, I did something that Murakami wouldn’t have done, at least not while writing a novel. I slept in a bit and got out of bed just before 9 A.M. instead of my usual 7 A.M. I still felt somewhat Malkovichesque. Detached from my body, and a bit exhausted, likely because I went to bed much later than usual. Another day passed with me mixing a song for 40 Nights in Toronto and having little social interaction.
The following day, I felt fully connected to my body again. And, I decided to attend the sound installation performance that I had missed two nights prior since they were presenting it once more as the closing event of the exhibition it was part of. There, I picked up a flyer for Fluid Anatomy.
Space without distractionsEnjoy your day or night!
glg Soda Paapi