Last night I sat down to read Kafka on the Shore, by Haruki Murakami. I was about 3/4 of the way through and as I sat there on the couch, wrapped up in my rainbow afghan and munching on dried dates, I was sucked into the space of fiction and didn’t come out again until the book was done.
I can’t remember the last time that had happened to me recently, although I spent a great deal of my childhood lying motionless on my bed with my head full of whatever fictional world I was reading about. Sometimes I felt more connected to that world than I did to the world of my friends and classmates, and I would read every single book ever written by an author I enjoyed, simply to get more of the flavour of their fictional worlds.
When I put the book down last night and got into bed, I dreamed Japanese Surrealist dreams, which culminated with Tom and I adopting a little boy who had once been adopted by Brad and Angelina but they couldn’t keep him. He was named swim swim swim and when we finalized the adoption (at a checkout stand like those found in grocery stores), a troupe of baton twirlers dressed in red stretch satin sprang out and began to sing and dance, twirling their batons and smiling wide, plastic Hollywood smiles.

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