G Dawg Sings & Whistles

Follow the link below and download the mp3 file for a rare recording of G Dawg demonstrating what it really takes to be a top flight whistler. Excuse him the poor recording quality and enjoy.

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=OVQZGS6O

Structuralism

[Yet another Murakami short story from the Spider Monkey collection]

Please don't ask me anything about Roppongi. Concerning the area of Roppongi, I have absolutely nothing I can teach you. If I have any kind of business there (and naturally, if I didn't have business there, I wouldn't go) I always alight at the Roppongi train station. In that instant of exiting the train, I am already confused. Is it Kamiyacho that is Roppongi? Or is this Roppongi? No matter how many times I've been there, I can never remember. Well, in any case, I stick it out and alight at Roppongi proper. Whilst being frightened by some distasteful foreboding - Today's going to be a bad day, for sure - I climb the stairs, then exit above ground. I regulate my breathing and all too soon I'm glancing about the place. Over there's the Mitsubishi Bank, and that's, um, the Almond Cafe and... As my thinking progresses, the inside of my head becomes confused, like wet mud spreading outwards slickly in the middle of a darkness. In my mind's eye I try to put together some kind of map but I always lose sight of the buildings and their interrelation. Which one is the Actors' Stage? Which one is the Defense Agency? Which is the WAVE Building? ...

I don't want you to misunderstand me: I am definitely not bad with directions. Rather, I think it must be something to do with the place. When I'm in Aoyama, or Shibuya, or Ginza, or Shinjuku, or any other place, and I'm walking around, I have not once become lost. But I want you to believe me: it's only Roppongi that's bad. I can't find my way anywhere in that place. I don't know the reason why, but it's bad there. Some kind of strange magnetic field or something like that might be having a strong effect on my spirit. Or maybe the Defense Agency is using a secret electronic device in some strange experiments. Or it could be that some aspect to do with Roppongi is stimulating some aspect of my subconscious, and in turn confusing some aspect within my frontal lobes, perhaps. Beyond that, there is no further reason I can imagine. There is no reason why Roppongi should make me so violently confused to such an extent.

So, to get back to the point, please don't ask me anything about Roppongi. And also don't ask me anything about structuralism. Concerning structuralism, I have absolutely nothing I can teach you.

Well, anyway, take care of yourself.



[In this translation I have attempted to be quite literal, as far as structure, content, and grammar are concerned. You might find some of the phrasing a little awkward, perhaps a little out of place or repetitive, and this might in part be attributable to its alien sound. If I were to translate it how I normally do, sentences would be moved around & chopped up, little phrases added to make the flow of it more natural sounding, and a general effort would have been made to give the translation a more English feel.

[Interesting vocabulary alert: bad at directions in Japanese is: 方向音痴 (ほうこうおんち) which breaks down into direction (方向) and tone-deaf (音痴). In the original it struck me as quite a Murakamiesque word to use, when one considers how much music permeates his work. When reading Murakami one can't help but notice the frequency of such sign-posts; his constant references to darkness & subtle strangeness on the one hand, and music & sports on the other. They are the symbols which give meaning to his world.]

Another Self Portrait もう一つの自画像

Recently I haven't been posting that much, and for that I apologise. Reasons are, my wife one month ago finally came over to the UK, after a two month delay, and at the same time we moved into a new apartment in Queen's Park, London. So I've been a little preoccupied -- enjoying the good life, dining out, walking about the big city, and catching up in general.

This little number below I started around New Year and finished a couple of months ago. Quite happy with the results. I made this self portrait initially from looking in a mirror, and finally just by looking at the canvas and figuring out what colours should be what and what lines and shapes looked best. A long time ago, I remember speaking with a girl who maintained, staunchly, that one should never paint without consulting the subject: that is, never paint from your head. Well, she was (and is, I suppose) a great painter, and I guess that method works for her. Different horses, different courses, as they say. I personally think that every artist, whether they want to or not, will always be influenced by their own impressions and imagination. The difference between her and I is, I actively seek my own head for inspiration, and for her, it just leaks in anyway.

Well, anyway, whatever she or I or anyone thinks, I suppose, at the end of the day, the paintings will take care of themselves.

Self Portrait, oil, 8 x 10 inches.

The Night-time Spider Monkey

[The eponymous story at the heart of Murakami's collection of ultra short stories, Night of the Spider Monkey (to give an alternative translation of the title). You can see my other Murakami translations here, mostly from the same collection.]



It's two o'clock in the middle of the night, I am facing my desk, working on a story, when a spider monkey has somehow broken open the window and entered.

"Woah! Who are you?" I asked.

"Woah! Who are you?" The spider monkey said.

"Don't copy me," I said.

"Don't copy me," the spider monkey said.

"Doon't copee mee," I said, also copying.

"Doon't copee mee," said the spider monkey in italics.

Man, I thought, this is going to become a problem. If I get caught by this night-time spider monkey mimicry maniac, I'll never see the end of it. At some point I've got to throw this bastard out. There's some work I have to do by morning, no matter what. I can't just let this continue until God-knows-when.

"Heppo kurakura shiman ga totemu ya, kuri ni kamasu to kimi wa koru, pocopoco," I quickly said.

"Heppo kurakura shiman ga totemu ya, kuri ni kamasu to kimi wa koru, pocopoco," the spider monkey said.

Even spoken like that, because I had spoken at random, I couldn't judge whether the spider monkey was right or not. Bit of a waste of time.

"Yoseyona," I said.

"Yoseyona," the spider monkey said.

"Wrong! I wasn't speaking in italics."

"Wrong! I wasn't speaking in italiques."

"Is that the right spelling?"

"Is that the write spelling?"

I let out a sigh. Whatever I said, it had no influence over the spider monkey. Without speaking any further, I decided to continue my work in silence. But whenever I pressed a key into my word processor, the spider monkey silently pressed the copy key. Tap. But whenever I pressed a key into my word processor, the spider monkey silently pressed the copy key. Tap. Yoseyona. Yoseyona.



[This particular story presents a few interesting problems for the translator. Where I used italics as opposed to a normal font ("Doon't copee mee,") in the original Japanese Murakami uses katakana and hiragana ("マネヲスルルンジャナイ"). Also, where I make the spider monkey give the wrong spellings, Murakami made the spider monkey talk using different kanji. (Or maybe it was the spider monkey in the driving seat?) The last couplet of conversation is, I feel, difficult to translate. In the original Murakami says, 「字が違ってるじゃないか」 which translates roughly to "Aren't the characters different?" And in reply the spider monkey changes the first kanji, 字, to 時 which has the same pronunciation but instead of meaning "characters" means "time". So what the monkey says in response is, "Isn't the time different?" Which I think is a quite witty (if senseless) repost. To do the same thing in English, a language of far fewer homophones than Japanese, might well be impossible. As I said, it's difficult.

[On another note, the title, Yoru no Kumozaru, could be translated in a few ways. Until I had read the actual story, I always assumed it was "night of the spider monkey". However, in the story, the expression is used in such a way as to necessitate the translation, "night-time spider monkey". I'm not sure if I was just wrong before, but, well, in any case, it does work both ways, and both translations do come up if you google them...]

Surfaces 表面

Here are some photos I took; various surfaces from about Japan; the seaside, a cave, a train, &c.

2 More Murakami Stories

Old Man Mushikubo's Ambush*

As he cleared his throat, Old Man Mushikubo said, "I'm Old Man Mushikubo."

"Yes, I am aware of that," I replied. In this part of town, there were none who hadn't heard of him.

"I know I'm being abrupt, but I'd like to say to you one thing about my young daughter's virginity."

"Hold it. Hold it right there. I'm right in the middle of preparing my dinner. If you want to talk about that, some other day--" Disconcerted, I tried to maneuver him out, but Old Man Mushikubo must have sensed something because all of a sudden he quickly pushed half of his body in through the door.

"I won't keep you all that long. If you like, you're welcome to make your meal here, and while you're doing that we can talk."

Well, that's it, I thought, game over, as I cut the aubergine and garlic, chop-chop-chop. He must have planned this really carefully, calling at this time, coming to the kitchen door. Even though Old Man Mushikubo normally acts like a dope, it's at times like these he has a mind like a steel trap.

"May I ask what you are making?" he questioned me, appearing to show a deep interest.

"Um, aubergine and garlic spaghetti, with a haricot bean salad."

"Is that your dinner?"

"Yes," I answered. What a person eats for dinner is no-one else's business. If he wants to eat haricot beans, he eats them; if he wants butter-squash, it's butter-squash. And much like his young daughter's virginity, he has no right to go around talking about it. I was of a mind to open my mouth and tell him just that. But if Old Man Mushikubo were to dislike me there's no telling what he might spread around the neighbourhood, so I held my tongue. Once he's said what he wants to say, he'll go home after all.

Right up until after I'd eaten my spaghetti and salad and washed the dishes, Old Man Mushikubo kept droning on from the doorway, without pause, about the importance of virginity. His voice was so horribly loud, after he had left, my ears were left growling and barking. Such unbelievable misfortune. Then again, I suddenly thought, virginity has become remarkably uncommon these days.




The Spanner

The young man whose collar bone was smashed by Mayumi drove a white Nissan Skyline with an attached spoiler. She didn't know his name. On Sunday she was walking near her home when she was asked, "Won't you come for a drive?" For no real reason she got in the car, but then she was in Enoshima, against her will, being taken it seemed to a motel, so she took up a spanner from somewhere beside her and struck at the man's shoulder as hard as she could. With a snap, the collar bone broke.

Grunting, she escaped from the car, leaving the stricken man, and ran to nearby Odakyuu Station. She then went to buy a ticket from an automatic machine, when she noticed for the first time that she was still holding in her right hand a large spanner. The surrounding people were all staring at her and the spanner with undisguised suspicion. No shit they were. I mean, if a beautiful young girl walks onto train gripping a spanner, who wouldn't think "What the hell is this?"

Assuming an innocent attitude, she placed the spanner into her hand bag, boarded the train, and went home.

"Since then, I've always carried this spanner with me in my bag," she said to me. "Of course, I don't take it to parties or anything like that."

"Right," I said, pretending to be nonchalant. "Have you had any opportunities to use it since?"

"Yeah," she replied, looking into a pocket mirror and applying lipstick. "Two times. Once, in a Fair Lady; the other time, in a Silvia. Why is it only Nissans, I wonder?"

"Both times, collar bones?"

"That's right. Collar bones are the easiest to aim for. Not life-threatening either."

"Huh," I said. Though inside, once more, I grimaced. A smashed collar bone must be really painful. Just thinking about it made me shudder.

"But you know what?" She said, closing her make-up pouch with a click. "There are guys out there who deserve to get their collar bones smashed."

"Yeah, I guess so," I replied.

I guess so.




*The name Mushikubo looks like this in Japanese: 虫窪 and it means, taken literally, insect pit. At first, I didn't realise it was a real name (I'd never come across it before) so my first draft contained the moniker Old Man Fly Hole, which certainly lent the story a different flavour. It's lucky I checked it out on the internet. I should say, though, that it is rather a rare name, has an almost Dickensian flavour, and might cause the same stir as when an English speaker sees a funny name like, say, Bottomley. While this could be seen as a cautionary anecdote (it reminds me a little bit of a translation gaff made by another translator of Murakami stories) I guess it also makes you think about how deeply you could translate any Japanese text, say, by giving all the names their literal meanings. Yamashita (山下) would become Undermountain, for example; and Murakami (村上) would become Overvillage. If I recall, one famous Japanese text was actually translated this way, but I can't quite remember where I read it, or which one... Certainly, most translators, myself included, give names the phonetic treatment. Speaking for myself, if someone were to translate my name, George, into Japanese as 農業者 (nougyousha; farmer) I would feel perhaps less well represented than by the phoneticization, ジョージ (Jyouji). I don't think I am so far removed from common thought in believing that it is the sound of our names we are more attached to. Of course, Japanese people do have their own way of thinking about names, and when they name their children, the meanings of the constituent kanji are very important among other things. Though I can honestly say, I don't think you will ever meet a Japanese person who would introduce themselves as, for example, using given names, Exceptional Beauty (Nozomi; 希美) or Spring Tree (Haruki; 春樹)... In any case, whichever way you choose, it certainly goes to show there is always something lost in translation.

3 Murakami Stories

[The three following translations I have taken again from Haruki Murakami's collection of ultra short stories, Night of the Spider Monkey. I chose these three specifically because they all contain the character of Noboru Watanabe. Of course, this is a name Murakami uses quite freely in his writing, and I don't think they are all supposed to be the same person, even if they do share a name. Murakami fans might recall that the missing cat from The Wind-up Bird Chronicles was also called Noboru Watanabe. Here, the first two stories, no doubt, do share the same character, but the third could be incidental. By the way, here's a link to another story I translated from the same collection.]

Pencil Sharpeners (or, Luck in the Form of Noboru Watanabe, No. 1)

If it were not for Noboru Watanabe, I would most probably still be using that dingy old pencil sharpener. Thanks to him, I was able to come into possession of a brand spanking new one. This kind of good luck is not such an everyday occurrence.

No sooner had he entered the room than his eyes halted on my old pencil sharpener atop the table. On that day I was doing my work in the kitchen for a change of mood; and so it was that the pencil sharpener was placed between a bottle of soy sauce and the salt.

As Noboru Watanabe repaired the drainage pipe on the sink -- he was after all in the plumbing business -- he occasionally made furtive sideways glances at the table. At the time, though, I had no way of knowing that he was an obsessive pencil sharpener collector, so wherever on earth his sharp eyes were being drawn to I hadn't the faintest idea. There was stuff scattered all over the table.

"If you don't mind me saying, that's a nifty pencil sharpener you've got there," he said after he'd finished his repairs.

"This?" I said, surprised, holding it in my hand. It was one of those regular hand-operated pencil sharpeners, and one which I'd been using for the past twenty years, since junior high. If you compared it to any other, you wouldn't notice any differences. The metallic parts were for the most part rusty, and an Astro Boy sticker was stuck on top. In other words, it was old and dirty.

"That's a 1963 Max PSD, and I can tell you, it's pretty rare," he said. "The setting of the blade on this model is a little different from other types, and so the shape of pencil shavings are subtly changed."

"You don't say?" I replied.

And so it was that I was put in possession of a brand spanking new pencil sharpener, and Noboru Watanabe took my 1963 Max PSD (with Astro Boy sticker). Apparently he always walks around with new pencil sharpeners he can trade in his bag. I know I'm repeating myself, but in my life this kind of good luck is just not such a common thing.

Time Machines (or, Luck in the Form of Noboru Watanabe, No. 2)

There was a knock.

I placed the rind of my half-eaten tangerine on the kotatsu, and when I went to the front door Noboru Watanabe (the pencil sharpener enthusiast plumber guy) was standing there.

It being already 6 o'clock in the evening, he said to me, "Good evening."

"Good evening," I replied, not really knowing what was going on. "I, um, can't remember calling for any repair work."

"Yes, that's not why I'm here. The reason I came today is to ask a small favour of you. I was wondering if in your home you might not have an old time machine, and if so, might I be able to exchange it for a newer model?"

Time machine, I said to myself, a little shocked, though I didn't let it show on my face. "Yes, I have one," I spoke without any discernible emotion. "Do you want to see it?"

"Oh, yes, if you would be so kind."

So I went with Noboru Watanabe to my four-and-a-half tatami mat sized room, and I showed him my electric kotatsu with the rind of the half-eaten tangerine still there. "Look, a time machine!" I declared. It cannot be said that I do not have a sense of humour.

But Noboru Watanabe did not laugh. He picked up the rug covering the kotatsu, and with a serious face he turned the dials, checked the temperature gauge, and tugged on each of the four table legs.

"I have to say, sir, this is a real rarity," he said with a sigh. "Unbelievable. What you've got here is a 1971 'Toasty Warm' by National. This must have given you some good times, right?"

"Yeah, I suppose," I replied without thinking. One of the legs was a little shaky, but it certainly did keep me warm.

He asked me if I would like to exchange it for a newer model, so I replied, "Sure." He went outside, and from a van parked in front of my house he brought out a new electric kotatsu (or, rather, a time machine) kept I imagine for occasions such as these, which he then carried to my room and in exchange took away my National 'Toasty Warm' (or, rather, my time machine).

"Thanks for everything," he said waving from the driver's seat. I waved back, then I returned to my room to continue eating my tangerine.


Octopus

Noboru Watanabe sent me a postcard with a drawing of an octopus on it. Underneath the picture of the octopus were these words, written in his typically messy hand.

"Thank you so much the other day on the subway for taking such good care of my daughter. Let's meet up over a meal of octopus some time soon."

I was surprised when I read this. I'd just been on holiday for a short while, I hadn't ridden a train for the past two months or so, and I definitely couldn't remember taking care of Mr Watanabe's daughter. I mean, in the first place, I didn't even know he had a daughter. Perhaps he's mistaken me for somebody else.

Although eating octopus doesn't sound too bad.

I wrote Noboru Watanabe a letter. I drew a picture of a dusky thrush, and underneath that I wrote, "Thanks for the postcard. Octopus doesn't sound like a bad idea at all. Let's do it. Contact me at the end of the month."

However, after a full month had passed, I received no reply. Perhaps, as per usual, he had forgotten, I thought. Strangely, in that last month I'd had cravings for octopus, but I figured I'd eat it with Mr Watanabe, so in the end, while waiting for it I missed my chance.

It was around the time I'd forgotten both about octopus and Noboru Watanabe when I received another postcard from him. This time there was a picture of a sun fish. Beneath that, there was some writing.

"Wasn't that meal the other day delicious? It's been a long time since I've been able to eat such exemplary octopus. However, I must say, I do object a little to the views you stated that day. As the father of a daughter of marriageable age, I cannot bring myself round to your way of thinking regarding the value of sex. Let's meet up some time soon and talk about it over a pot of hot stew."

Well, well, I sighed. It seems Noboru Watanabe has mistaken me for somebody else again.

A couple of portraits from 2006 平成18年に描いた二つの自画像

Back in England, life is good. In spite of our poor performance in the World Cup, my bowel movements have become far more regular, so I'm happy.

Looking through my old paintings, I was struck by a couple - I could hardly believe I'd done them to be honest. Has that ever happened to you? Where you've read an old essay, or, in my case, looked at a painting you did long ago, and sincerely believe that another person did it? Well, anyway, I recommend them to you as fine examples of paintings done in oil. The depth of them, the richness of colour despite the darkness, is incomparable. I maintain of course that good paintings can be done in any medium, but it's like the difference between LPs and CDs, or analog and digital; one approximates the other, and in many cases is a poor substitute.

Self portrait of old G Dawg. Size, 20x30 inches.

"Faceless Portrait". Size, 24x30 inches.

粘土頭 Clay Head

Sometimes, too, for the heck and the thrill of it, I like to mess around with clay. For this one I took a bunch of photos of my own head, and using them as a guide, just to keep the right proportions in mind, I made this kind of quasi-classical bust. It's quite small in real life, about fifteen centimeters tall.

Ms Noriko Takayama & My Sexual Appetite

[What follows is my translation of a super-short story of Haruki Murakami's, from his collection Night of the Spider Monkey. "These stories were originally part of an advertising campaign commissioned by a Japanese stationary company. The stories, with Mizumaru's accompanying illustrations, appeared as full-page spreads in magazines and as poster adverts on commuter trains. Their short length (1-2 pages, on average) enabled commuters throughout Japan to briefly enter Murakami's fantastic, dream-like world, even if for just a short time, before returning to the bland reality of daily life."]

Up until now, in the process of my life, I have walked side by side with quite a number of women, yet I know of none who walks with such speed as Ms Noriko Takayama (age 25). You can almost imagine her saying, "I've only just been oiled!" as she pumps her arms delightfully back and forth, and with great steps and a fair amount of obvious enjoyment she walks her way. Observing from a slight distance, she looks almost like a water beetle who's been given wings; nimbly and smoothly, when she's walking, she seems as happy as a shaft of sunlight after the rain.

The first time we walked together, just the two of us (we were both going from Sendagaya Elementary School to Aoyama's First District) I was astonished by such swiftness, to the extent that I believed she found being with me a nuisance, and her singular speed was a means to distance herself from me without a moment's delay. Or, alternatively, I postulated that she was, by walking at such a tremendous pace, aiming to calm my sexual appetite (though, of course, since I have in me no sexual longing towards Ms Noriko Takayama, I am unable to say whether or not this method was effective).

That there was no ulterior motive behind her quick pace, and that she walked as if she were flying simply because she liked to do so, I did not learn until several months later. It was at the beginning of winter in front of Yotsuya Station when I saw her walking by herself through a throng of people. Not surprisingly, she was moving across that stretch of earth known for convenience as Tokyo at a ridiculously frightening speed. In her right hand she clutched firmly the strap of her handbag, while the hem of her trench coat fluttered in the wind. She walked with her head held high.

By the time I had taken five or six steps towards her and tried calling out she had already gone far away into the distance, and I was left standing all alone, quite clumsily, like Rossano Brazzi in that Katherine Hepburn movie, Summertime. But I was very happy, because I knew Ms Noriko Takayama had harboured no misunderstandings concerning my sexual appetite.

[Summertime in Japan goes by the name 旅情 (ryojou) which means roughly, I suppose, travel emotion. A quick look in my electronic dictionary informs me it is "the emotion felt when setting out on a journey, or the nostalgia evoked when contemplating past travels." I myself haven't seen Summertime, though I do want to see it now. I inserted Katherine Hepburn's name into my translation, simply to flesh out the sentence, for better scansion, and also because while Haruki may credit his readers with a knowledge of movies equal to his, I do not. So bah.]

乞食礼拝 Graspers, Worshippers

Size, 6x8 inches.

Painting from the old head, acrylic again. I dropped this one the other day and put a hole in it. Probably wouldn't have happened if I'd used a decent canvas. You can say what you want about acrylics, but I feel like a dumbass now for using cheap shit to paint on. I taped up the back and painted over the scar, but it's not going to last.
I guess you could say that about all art, of course, but still...

血流月 Blood Moon Ran

Size, 6x8 inches.

Introducing: Dead Heat On A Merry-go-round

[What follows is the introduction to Haruki Murakami's Dead Heat on a Merry-go-round, a collection of short stories as yet unpublished in English, released in Japan in 1985, the same year as Hard-boiled Wonderland and The End of The World. Daniel Morales, at his website How to Japonese, and at Neojaponisme.com, speaks much more intelligently than I could ever hope to on Murakami, and on this collection of short stories. I merely attempt a translation of what I found to be a fascinating read.]

I have a certain reservation about calling the sentences gathered here stories. That is to say, they are not stories in a technical sense.

When I go about writing a story, I take all the factual material -- I mean, if that stuff can even be said to exist -- and I throw it into a big pot, higgledy-piggledy, and melt it down until I can't even tell what it used to be. Then, later, I take a ladle of whatever grabs my fancy, and I run with it. It's more or less what you might call a story. Reality is, of course, much the same. The reality of a bakery, for example, exists in the bread rather than the flour it's made from.

The sentences collected here, however, have a fundamental correspondence with the facts. I heard a lot of people's stories: I wrote them down. Of course, in order not to receive any complaints, I played with a few of the stories' details, so they're not completely factual, but the important parts are 100% true. I haven't exaggerated any places to make the stories more interesting, and I haven't added anything. I shuffled some sentences around, but only so as not not to break up the atmosphere.

When I started out writing these kind of strung together sentences -- for now, let's just call them sketches -- it was with the intention of warming up before moving on to a bigger project. It also occurred to me that this business of getting down facts as factually as possible might somehow be useful later on. So you see, in the beginning, I had no intention at all of letting these sketches go to print. They were written on a whim, my only resolve to toss them into the desk in my study, where they would meet the same fate as countless other fragmentary writings.

However, while in the process of writing the third or fourth story, it came to be felt by me that each of them held a common trait, which was wanting to be told. That was, for me, a strange experience.

To give an example, when I'm writing, I select the bits of material I use pretty much without thinking, as my writing style or the development of the story requires. However, the words I write and the life I lead in reality do not always have a one to one correspondence (which is to say, my true self and my actual life do not match perfectly) and so however much I try a sediment will always collect up inside me of things I cannot use in my stories. It is from this kind of stuff I make my sketches. This sediment, then, at the very bottom of my consciousness, is just waiting for an opportunity to be given form and spoken.

I think one of the reasons these various residues gather up inside me is that I like to listen to other people's stories. Honestly speaking, I prefer to listen to other people's stories than to tell my own. Plus, I kind of feel like I have an ability to detect the extraordinary at the heart of them. The majority of people's stories are actually much more entertaining than my own; an average Joe's story especially is always much more interesting than some Indiana Jones' adventure.

This kind of skill, the ability to enjoy listening to another's story, doesn't necessarily have any tangible use. In the years I've spent writing, I've not had one experience where it's helped me out. I suppose there's a chance it might have once, but I can't remember it. People talk to me; I pay attention; and the stories gather up inside: that's all.

If this ability has in any way contributed to me as an author, I think it would be that it has made me a master of a certain kind of endurance. With extraordinary things, before they reveal themselves, I think, they have to pass through a filter of this endurance; and the sentences which go into the stories I write, for the most part, arise from this process. After all, extraordinary things are not the kind to turn on the tap, fill up a glass, and offer themselves to you saying, "Please, drink me!" There are times when all you have left is rain dancing. But that's another story. Let's take a step back.

In one of Carson McCullers' novels there is this gentle young character who's also mute. Now, this guy, whoever is speaking to him, whatever they say, he always lends a friendly ear; at times sympathetically, at other times in good camaraderie. Drawn to him almost without knowing why, people gather about him, make all sorts of confessions, and confide in him. However, in the end the young man takes his own life. Of course, it's then that everybody realises; they pushed all their problems onto him and not one person asked how he was feeling.

I mean, of course, my position and the mute guy's don't exactly overlap. With me, people tell me their stories and then I write them down. But, even so, what I want to say is that these sediments are definitely building up inside.

And it's for exactly this reason that, whenever I take a break from writing, this collection of material rises quite naturally to the surface of my consciousness. To me, these sketch-like materials feel like abandoned orphans. Being included in neither story nor phrase, their sleeping just goes on and on. It gives me bad vibes just thinking about it.

The thing is, even if I do write them down, it's not like I'll be able to let off any steam; and this last point especially, for whatever modicum of pride I possess, I have to emphasise: I am not writing and publishing these sketches so I can make myself feel better. It's like I said at the beginning, these sketches wanted to be written, and I sensed it. Whether or not my spirit can even be set free is another problem altogether, but as for the things I've written here, there's not even the slightest hint of salvation.

The notion that self expression can in any way liberate the spirit is a superstition; at best a myth; and as far as self-expression through the written word goes, it won't save anyone. If such a person existed, one who was aiming for freedom through writing, they would do well to stop. All expression is good for is breaking the soul down, and that doesn't get anyone anywhere. If you get the feeling you have got somewhere, well, you must be dreaming. People write because they can't help it. There's neither rhyme nor reason; and no light at the end of the tunnel.

So these sediments as per usual remain in me. Someday I might change them completely and include them in a new book. Then again, maybe not. No doubt if I did include them in something they would disappear to some dark inaccessible part of my soul.

With regard to what I'm doing here, there was no other way to bring together and give form to these things inside me. Whether this really is actual work or not, I don't know. If someone says to me, you should write a real novel, I can only shrug my shoulders and quote the oft-heard murderer's platitude, "All my actions are for the greater good." For me, there was no other way to present these materials than in the style given here.

The reason I call the sentences gathered here "sketches" is because they are neither fiction nor non-fiction. The material is completely factual, and the vehicle, the container, is entirely that of the novel. If, within the stories, you find something strange or unnatural that is because they are from reality; and if, in your turning of pages, you find yourself without need to pause, that is due to it being a novel.

Listening to other people's stories, and through them catching glimpses of people's lives, it becomes apparent that everyone is held prisoner by a certain kind of helplessness. The essense of this helplessness, as with the sediment inside of me, is the inability to go anywhere. The deal we humans get, and what we all become a part of, is the big human clockwork; always moving, but in completely predetermined ways. Kind of like a merry-go-round; always spinning in the same place, at the same speed. There's nowhere to go: No getting off, no transfers; no overtaking, and no falling behind. In spite of all this, however, on top of our merry-go-round, it seems as if we are locked in a fierce dead-heat, pretending as we are that the people we face are our opponents.

That life in certain situations seems strange or unnatural is most likely for this reason: That, in the overwhelming majority of cases, as soon as free will manifests itself, the supposed gift of humankind, it dies; and though we don't see it happening, it is from these dead spaces that the peculiar and unusual distortions in the structure of our lives come about.

Is what I think, kind of.

狸 Tanuki

On Monday evening, whilst talking with my housemate over dinner -- a veritable feast of salmon baked in tin-foil with white wine sauce, brussel sprouts, enoki, and mashed potato -- she began telling me a curious story of her grandfather's, where he meets a tanuki -- what we might call a badger in England, or a raccoon in America.

As the story goes, her grandfather was walking alone through a forest one day, in the middle of a long journey, and in his travels he found himself eventually keeping pace alongside a young man. They soon fell into conversation, and the talk was so pleasant and engaging, such a welcome break from monotony, he was able to forget completely the burden he carried, the aches in his feet, and the long distance he still had to go. They talked for what seemed like hours, but eventually his and the young man's paths diverged, and so after bidding each other friendly farewells he found himself alone again in the forest. At first, of course, walking along merrily, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But soon enough he began to experience a strange kind of deja vu. A particularly haggard tree he had noted earlier in his journey suddenly loomed again on his right, and he was damned if it wasn't the same. No, no, he said to himself, it must just look the same. Not long after, however, he experienced a similar echo from his recent past, as he found himself crossing a stream he had crossed before. No! He exclaimed to himself, in utter disbelief. If this is the stream I crossed this morning, then, if I remember correctly, and if this is really happening, up ahead there must be a small shrine on the right-hand side. Of course, as he had unwillingly predicted, and to his horror, he saw soon after the same shrine he had walked past that morning.

What on Earth has happened to me, to bring me back here? He bemoaned to the forest. Dropping his pack to the ground he sat down and searched for the sun to see if he had only been dreaming and it was still morning. But, no; alas, it was well into the day, the sun deep on its westerly journey. How can a man walk in circles on a straight path? He questioned himself bitterly, deeply troubled. He scratched his head, and searched his mind, but he found it to be curiously empty. The only image he could recall was the smiling, wolfish face of the young man he had journeyed with. He tried to remember the conversation they had so enjoyed but to no avail. It was then that his suspicion was aroused. Surely I have been deceived by a fox or a tanuki, he said to himself.

Before shouldering his pack, he turned to the shrine and prayed fervently for the forest's protection. He clapped his hands twice and placed a rice cake at the shrine' s

small altar. Perhaps, he said to himself wistfully as he began his journey again, I should have done this before, and no sooner had the thought crossed his mind, then out of the corner of his eye he espied a lone tanuki staring at him from the depths of the forest. He turned quickly to look but the tanuki had vanished. Ah, he spoke to himself quietly, it was a tanuki, after all.

迷宮の玄関 Entrance to the Labyrinth

Size, 6x8 inches.

I painted this last year, from my head, in acrylic. I guess I prefer to use oil paints, they're more versatile, but acrylics are blessedly quick to work with, and if you put in some time and think about it a little bit, you can get quite nice depth. I mean, you can make deep paintings. Shit, I don't know. But I do know a bunch of artists who are dead-set against acrylics, and I think they're crazy. To say nothing of a workman blaming his tools...

G Dawg Hisself

A page from my sketch book. Size, 4x7 inches.