You should read more poems.
No.
Why not?
They’re relatively new to me. Perhaps I’ll steal.
But you’ve already stolen the way you sing.
I know I’ll be okay in that.
How do you know?
Look. I’m standing heavy here with water and vegetable juice. And I’m soon heading for a new PTA film.
And drink.
No. I quit. You know, I cried over what I wrote. It was an accident but...anyway, I have to go. I always felt that I'm much more articulate in English, bar perfect grammar, so I'll get in touch.
That young Chinese art school woman told you that you were the cleverest person she'd ever met, and you
---Communication Lost ---
I need a break. Writing floats me away from the reality. Office relieves me. Talking to sane people. I’m looking forward to the visit. Once a week.
But don’t you feel the most sane when writing? Aren’t the regular people insane?
I would just answer like this. You need the ground. I know the value that a regular work provides you with. A feeeling of being needed. And it could be love, if you worked on it. It’s no sane/insane issue.
May you feel the same way without any paychecks?
Off course I have to make a living, but I suppose so. All the juicy stuff are in there.
Good for you. So, that Chinese grad student from London.
What about her?
She meant it.
She was young.
She was 25.
Young.
She loved Milan Kundera. And you had prepared yourself to be yourself by getting off alcohol.
Only a week. I only joked. She was mistaken. What of it?
Stay sober.
…Right. An endnote to my previous answer. People love craziness. And you can incite craziness in the most banal situation, if you’re rightly crazy.
Sounds refreshing, rightly so. How was the film last night?
Which one?
Paul Thomas Anderson.
He was like my ideal older brother until There Will Be Blood. The way he speaks. The way he behaves. Magnolia. Audacity of a privileged kid. I found him so attractive. He seemed to have everything that I was desperately in lack of as a teenager. I fell in love with him.
His spirit.
Yeah.
The film.
This curry is fucking insane. The taste of inspirations. Two hints. Named after a jazz record label. Yellow rice.
The film.
You don’t want to pressure me, do you? It’s a three hour long movie, after all. You know, the curry has given me this. I’ll only try French poems with English translation. The symbolists in one of those bilingual ones, then I
—Communication Lost—
A great performance. They probably hire you. Nonetheless, we get back to the suspicion regarding your singing.
Wait. I didn’t finish the last…
You think you won’t be writing like them.
Oh.
Let us see. Now the singing. You’re an imitator. It should make you feel sad.
I’ll write my own material, words and music. Trace the history of singers. They all imitate. Especially the best ones. A strong smell of other singers.
Morrissey doesn’t.
No. He’s different. Literally. He’s impossible.
Maybe you just sing well.
I hate the “well” part, and I don’t believe you.
—Communication Lost—
I heard your “fuck off,” clear and loud.
I just got my own voice, that’s all. And I need wellness only for my health.
You don’t want to sound like anybody else.
Yeah, for better or worse. And I reckon that most songs are too conventional.
Even the ones that you cherish.
I suppose so. With exceptions, off course.
So you think you can do something about it.
There may be a seat.
That’s the spirit. Now you’re looking tired. Go home and take a nap. Meet the girl.
Meet the girl? I haven’t any girls.
You’re free for today.
—Communication Lost—
You’ve been very inaccurate, which is much worse than being inarticulate.
I’ll rectify, as much as possible, and I never said I was an articulate person. I just touched on a language difference.
You can fall into a student talk, just like that.
Whatever. I crave for this final element to a complete identity. For my soul to be convinced, I guess.
You got the identity. You earned it. Round and nice from here. Aren’t you satisfied? You may be shattering it to pieces. You’re self-destructive.
God. I can miss this another Anderson movie. I shouldn’t have taken a bath. I need a water.
Take your time. And it’s you who summoned me. I thought you’d be resting.
Fucking take my time. I see you gone, then I rest.
You’re smoking too much.
I’ll quit. But not tonight.
Smoking is bullshit. You’re full of bullshit.
Oh. You swear. I didn’t know that.
You die, I die.
Don’t let me get too sentimental. This isn’t a Spielberg film. I said I’d quit.
When?
There’s no bottles here, you see? I haven’t had a drop for weeks. That’s tough enough. Should be steps to every achievement.
Tomorrow?
—Communication Lost—
Joni Mitchell said it’s an herb. She’s still alive, isn’t she? Vonnegut tried to smoke himself to death but failed. Those chimneys. On and on and on.
So what?
Well, there’s Joao Gilberto. He didn’t smoke, but look at his diet. Steaks. Sent to his door form the same restaurant every evening. He wouldn’t go out. Whereas you know how I eat. I don’t have shit almost all the time, and I walk…
You’re not them.
Certainly not.
If you don’t quit it within a week, I’ll be sticking to you, never missing a second. Like breathing. For life. Albeit of your stinking breath.
A week? I don’t need you when I’m with a woman.
It’s love. Think about it.
—Communication Lost—
You are simply wrong in some points.
I have noticed. I feel foolish doing this. I’m a fool. That’s a fact. A no education factor. A loneliness factor. Such a fucking idiot.
You don’t want to start a day like that. You got a few good points, actually.
I embrace you. I’ll do what I can do to what’s said and done.
Your memo from last night reads “hard-earned self-love.”
I’d rather call it a peace of mind, this morning. Everything’s mixed up in there.
You’re afraid of losing it in the course of this new enterprise.
There’s been no rest since, and I leave it at that.
But you’ve been writing these,…what do you call it?
Snippets.
Don’t they make you feel insecure?
No.
Why?
I forgot the perfect offerings there, as Leonard Cohen said. In the process, I heard my own voice.
They appear to be unfinished.
It finished off my doubt in terms of prose writing. Not that it’s perfect, mind you please. I’ll use my findings when I’m ready for a complete story.
You quote a tune or two in those short pieces.
Originally, I wanted them to be like a pop song. Stories that sound like tunes. Then I wanted them to project like movies with a soundtrack.
You were after visual and audio through your prose text.
That’s right. I’m so comfortable here. I’m definitely aspiring to be a filmmaker of words. God, I wish I were born to be a filmmaker kid, running around hometown, all actions, with friends and beauties.
You played football instead.
I was good. Watching the games relaxes me. And I shout and jump like a coach, sometimes.
Quite emotional.
Cannot help it. Packed with real characters and their stories.
So, I was wondering why you hadn’t used black music. You love them.
Have to work.
See you at lunchtime.
No, I got a dead
—Communication Lost—
So why don’t you use a black music track?
Maybe it’s too physical. Too sexual. I don’t know.
Elaborate.
You know, some people like to have sex to music.
What is your best sex soundtrack?
This is not the PLAYBOY magazine.
Have you ever read it?
No. I may take a look at it afterwards. I cannot use any music.
You may have been missing out on something.
Penises are delicate, this woman said.
What woman?
An instructor, obviously.
A professional.
She sighed after a few cocktails.
A work problem.
A wisdom. Anyway, I mean, it’s just that I cannot come up with too many marriages between black music and art. I’m talking about classic song genres like blues, soul, R&B, or hip hop. And serious art, or contemporary art, whatever.
Or you may be just ignorant. Go on.
I don’t want to be misunderstood. I love —a list— tons of them. And I don’t really believe this is white-dominance in art world or anything like that.
Are you sure?
Off course not. Only close to my fingers. And you go through your life blindfolded, Kundera wrote.
Blind in that moment.
Yes, you can only get a sight by looking back. I finished my soba. And time is up.
Talk to you at dinner time.
Sure. I’ll be back to look back.
—Communication Lost—
You skipped me last night.
I did. I got the power over you. Think about it.
And you’re still smoking.
I got another five days, didn’t I? And I got the willpower.
You sound confident today. Something happend to you. What is it?
I got an idea.
That show business. Not literally.
Yeah.
You’re crazy.
The crazier the better. A better life.
I didn’t know you wanted to be a comedian.
Actually I did, and I’ve become sure that I want my poems to be funny…and lovable.
Now you’re being cute. The forsaken child’s mind claiming for love and attention.
Attention? Who cares what I do? Answer: Nobody. And nobody’s business but mine.
What is your business?
To use all I got for my own project, and this exuberance of knowing what I really want to do for the day, you know.
No. You’re not a radio producer. You should be focusing on writing songs, poems, and when will you finish a decent story?
This radio can include everything. And this is for Christmas. I got the merriness. A new merit.
There are steps. You’re an early patient.
I’m recovered. I’ve been reborn like, like…cannot come up with this.
You’re a lunatic.
Very probably the last night’s super moon did it.
You didn’t watch it.
It’s a feeling, brother.
—Communication Lost—
You're exhausted. All work today.
Or all talk today.
The meetings.
I'm not sure if I met anybody.
You met the ball a few times, and one of them was a home run.
It's not clear. It's lost. I can believe you. I would not sleep until I got something straight. I mean, I think I'm only a letter writer.
Pursue that career. Be an AI beater. A hero.
Seriously.
Clarify then.
I don't know. My inspirations are like, exactly knowing what I want to cook, what I want to eat, or what I want to wear, something like that. For example.
I know what's coming.
What?
You're making an excuse that you're not a poet.
I'm not a poet, and it's no excuse.
A letter writer, huh?
Sure, you know what you want to eat, wear, or whatever. You got desires. But to know exactly what is a different thing. That won't come everyday. You only wait for a feeling to come.
What's that got to do with letter writing? Eat or wear what you want. Inspirations. I'm waiting for a letter to come. And I write back.
I'm not a letter. Go to sleep.
—Communication Lost—
It's a perversion that commercials are louder than those boys.
Which boys?
I just recalled, the other day, I came across the two uniformed boys, junior high school students, I suppose. They passed me on a bicycle, riding double, singing this tune called "Aozora (Blue Sky)" by a Japanese band back from the eighties. Their laughing defiance. They were clearly sending their messages to the world. To me. To You.
What messages?
Their own messages. Not the band's. The song was a vehicle, and they were carrying an urgent letter. They were WRTING BACK.
Now I understand.
This morning, I happened to come across a few demo recordings of the band on YouTube, sung by the songwriter himself. He is WRITING BACK. Clearly.
Off course.
This is unnecessary, but the band's live performances of those British bands are magnificent, replacing the lyrics with their own words.
It's rare that you mention a Japanese band.
That's not intentional. It's a feeling...
Yes, brother. Continue to look back. Weather’s superb, good day.
—Communication Lost—
I don’t write for anybody. I don’t want anything back. I feel misunderstood.
That’s a writer’s curse. Live with it.
I don’t want them to take it personally.
They always do.
I want them to…to cheer me up. That’s all.
Dream on. As you know, it’s quite usual that family members or close people of a given writer would choose to stop reading his or her works. And that’s a wise decision.
Kenzaburo Oe, Truman Capote, and…
And on and on and on and on. So it goes.
This makes me nervous. I stopped singing Love’s In Need Of Love Today.
Don’t worry. Sing it again.
I love them.
I know. Wake up. You'll be dead as a writer if you care such thing too much. Bite your teeth and go on.
My take on that writing back thing is…
OKAY, OKAY.
I’m hungry.
You want to be truthful, and you are too soulful, unwantedly, and meaninglessly, too often times. A bad combination. Deathly, actually.
I’m eating.
—Communication Lost—
I'm not a philanthropist. I'm not even an altruistic person.
Everybody knows. What are you getting at?
The pumpkin salad and burdock salad from Seven Eleven the Good Feeling.
Finish them first and then talk.
This woman revenged me. She'd called herself a philanthropist. She said she was in touch with the universe, and told me I was too. And she revenged me.
Oh that woman. I didn’t like her.
This fortune telling old lady on the street told me that there’s only one thing that you should be careful of.
What was that?
Don’t say anything unnecessary.
Take that word. She knew.
Not as simple as that. It’s a super connudrum. Or it seems. God it’s difficult. You’re useless tonight.
Thank you very much. I leave you alone with this shit. You hurt people. Grow up. Or shut up.
—Communication Lost—
Now I’ve finished eating and I love them and won’t be hurting listen you non-physical cherry boy altruist nonsense I’ll make you shut the fuck up very very necessarily.
—Communication Lost—
Who said I’m an altruist?
—Communication Lost—
You can make people laugh. Really. For that merit I forgive your impertinence last night.
I’m tired. I feel empty.
Letting smiles arise. You should be glad.
I know, but it happed so quickly. I feel like I’m a conman.
What is it that happened?
I may have exhausted all the fun in the societal sense. I feel like I lost my desire…something like having lost an interest in friendship.
Don’t you miss your friends?
Hardly.
But you needed them.
I used to, and very strongly.
They’ve been waiting for you. And look at your condition now. You smile they smile, you’re certainly magnetic.
I vomit. I mean, I don’t feel well.
Just too much coffee and god awful cigarettes.
I hope so.
You’re so extreme. Control.
I will.
Everyone liked you today. You conquered every one of them. You saw their faces. Beaming. Radiant.
But I know I’m not supposed to. Something’s terribly wrong. Perhaps this is my new…no, an old issue. And if so, I could deal with it.
What issue?
I was secretly critical of the way my parents used their charms. It felt somehow dishonest to me.
You said that you’d be using all you got. Use it.
Not for this. I can only say I’ll have fun in my own way.
You’ll be all right in the morning. A letter will come. Letters will come to you.
—Communication Lost—
I saw an old man slowly going downhill on a bicycle, waving to another old man who was waiting in front of the bathhouse.
I watched them too. They are angels.
I'm feeling fabulous again.
I don't blame you for that. Now rest.
No.
—Communication Lost—
Stop waving.
—Communication Lost—
I woke up to recall what Chomsky said about his way of speaking in public.
What did he say?
He’s a Jewish, you know. He’s extra careful not to instigate.
Hitler.
He speaks very very quietly.
It’s his ethical decision.
Right. Or he simply finds it wrong for what he’s talking about. And it permeates.
What permeates?
His fucking soul.
Look who’s instigated now.
I’ll make my own decision on how to use my admiration for him.
Don’t get too emotional.
Yeah thanks.
—Communocation Lost—
That book from Amazon. Don’t get upset.
He doesn’t know Dylan.
He’s a Tokyo University Professor. And he loves Dylan, so he says.
He may be a fan.
Why should you read his lyrics in Japanese anyway? Put it down. Throw it away.
I’ll burn this and take a picture of it. Just to make sure. Not kidding.
You are. It’s an expensive hardcover book. What did you get that for?
I felt like checking it as it said it’s the latest translation, and it came out like in the past ten years or so, I guess. I wanted to know how Dylan would “sound” in Japanese. And it’s the shittiest…
Oh oh.
His voice is lost. I’m not talking about mistranslation. Young people reading this.
Well, it’s always so that it gets lost in translation.
Sure, but this professor got an arrogance of replacing Dylan’s voice with his own, and he’s enjoying it.
He’s a super star scholar who knows much much more than you about American literature and culture and history and everything, so with music and even pop songs too.
If you knew Dylan you wouldn’t do this. Nobody wants to hear the scholar’s voice, unless he or she is an artist-scholar.
An artist-scholar? What do you mean by that? A scholar who creates art besides his academic papers or critique?
No. Not necessarily. Carrying something urgent to tell and that dictates their voice.
Got it. The guy’s urgency level is way lower than…
Stop. I was just figuring it out for myself. I’ll sing Dylan today. It’s raining anyway.
I’ll be with you. Not to say a word.
—Communication Lost—
Don’t get muddled again in your necessary/unnecessary issue. Sing.
—Communication Lost—
I want to be a fun and cheer. I don’t want to let their spirit down.
I know.
I’m not self-righteous. I was fucking never. I love so many things.
I KNOW.
I’ll go jogging.
That’d be good too. Don’t get rained. You’ll get a cold.
—Communication Lost—
Yusuke Narita is a gamer. Masahiro Higashide is a hunter.
Apropos of nothing.
I like these men, but I have no interest in games and hunting. Zero in games, and super zero minus in hunting.
Okay.
And I know that they both like attractive women. They flirt. They’re a flirting sort of guys.
Hey.
A womanizer artist-professor and an womanizer artist-performer. Potentially and actually, I imagine.
You lost it for today. Don’t have to push it.
It’s only that Chinese lunch. The blood sugar rise will be passing over now.
No, you can pass out anytime. Go home and sleep.
I’m disappointed by my writing. I mean, just for today.
You just started it. It takes time. Just slow down a bit.
I’ve got to nail it and there’s all the stuff…
Stop walking thinking get a cab immediately.
I love my bed and blanket. I love them.
Dive on it and let it hold you. Tight sleep.
Got a cab.
—Communication Lost—
Welcome back to your one-man AAA program.
I can get my shit together. My voice and my words and my feelings. I KNOW I CAN.
Definitely.
I won’t be knocked by the fact that these semi-poems are too rigid, too meaningful, or just not right.
You’ve been covering the bases for your base, no pun intended. These exercises were necessary. Just for yourself.
I should be pursuing the sound in poems that’ll work when read out loud as the Dylan’s lyrics do.
That’s one option.
I’m too fuckinglogical. A small closed room with a tiny iron door. No air. Suffocating.
You can clear it out. Explode.
And I’m already a decent singer. I’ll write a dynamite song. Revolution songs.
Make sure that you stay getting carried away.
I’ll do it all wrong in a right way.
Just don’t hurry. It will come someday.
Yeah.
—Commmunication Lost—
I forgot to tell you. I’m scared of Higashide. And I’m mystified by Narita. Thank god they’re on TV or YouTube or whatever.
What was that womanizer part?
Dunno. Just felt like saying it.
Be polite. Completely unnecessary.
I just wanted to say that they’re sexy, so they cannot help it, I mean…
Unnecessary.
—Communication Lost—
Too obvious. Too clear. I lost, but they beat Brazil for me, for the day.
Do you really believe that you can finish a poem over night? Over hours?
Dunno. Dylan wrote some great songs within 30 minutes. He said so.
Forget DYLAN. Leonard Cohen took years to finish his songs. Remember?
Kaishu Sano is a monster. I’m scared of his getting injured. He’s that sort of player, you know, pushing himself so hard. And we need Tomiyasu back, come back Tomy, where’s Tomy?
No Tomy for some time, he’s still recovering from his injury, you know that, and no “great”poetry in an hour.
Two hours. I worked. I watched the game. I sang. And I wrote. I’ll watch a movie.
Sleep.
No.
You have to. You got a deadline which is tomorrow, today.
I won’t.
Suit yourself then.
I just don’t know how to end this. I’m feeling miserable.
Nobody expects you to know anything. Remember it.
—Communication Lost—
I’m heartbroken by the way Tomiyasu trains against all the odds for his full recovery for such a long time.
You’re still awake.
His will to get back to the pitch. Perhaps when I finished something good I’d be on the pitch for the first time. And it’d be like a recovery. For my life.
He’s a great great player.
Yes.
Don’t injure yourself.
No more. Good night.
—Communication Lost—
I'm a bit calm. My poems are getting tuned. I can tune. Satisfied? Already?
Off course not. but I'm relieved that I can let them grow, which makes me have some hopes.
They are not great.
Thanks a lot.
Rely on time.
Yeah. I don't like this simile, which is certainly a cliche, but writing is like having a bowel movement. I know it comes everyday. I'm a shitting kind of person.
Good for you.
I'm recalling a radio conversation between Haruomi Hosono and Rei Harakami.
A musician talk.
Right. Hosono eats music, consuming and digesting other people's works. Like all the time, and he releases his own stuff. He ended this story of his creative process there.
That's just a healthy talk.
Then Harakami said, "we poop, don't we?" Hosono hated it. I hated it. Hosono was like, "Why did you have to say that?"
Harakami was on the money.
But it was unnecessary. It was dinnertime.
You can shit tomorrow too.
Hey.
Good for you.
--Communication Lost--
A woman’s love is incredibly soft and warm when it’s real. Like having a cute koala child breathing to your soul, for instance. No, I’m not right on this one.
You must write about it.
Yes, so I could hold this feeling.
You want to make it special.
Absolutely. This love is pastel-color-coded. A pure swell of benign passion...don’t know. And I know.
You’re catching things in the air.
Somebody made love to me.
That's a delusion. I know your type.
Believe it or not.
Don’t say a word to anybody. You’ll get hospitalized.
Glad to be a happy patient for tonight. It was fantastic.
It could be a ghost.
No, and if so, a fucking beautiful-mind ghost with a super gentle soft body. And soul.
How can you live that way?
I’m totally straight. You’re non-physical, why can’t you get it?
I don’t want to get it.
You’re a real cheery boy. How old are you anyway?
I’m your age.
Pitiful.
So is your cherry boy repetition. All right, live in your sex fantasy, but don’t talk about it. Never ever.
I’m allowed to write about it though.
In poems and fiction I’ll give you a permission. It’s the only way for a nutty like you to survive.
It’s just what I can do.
What you can do? For Christ’s sake. Alcohol must have done it.
Or you just don’t know what love is.
You do?
No.
Then write it.
Yeah. I still have some time.
--Communication Lost--
In love you crack. If I know love, it's cracking.
What do you mean?
It opens you in a magical way. And you're not the same person anymore.
We cannot know what love is.
No, but that moment I thought I knew it. And I'm writing through that crack.
How it happened?
It happened in a human contact. It was a hard embrace. A very heavy embrace that launched me into a...space.
Sounds more like a transformational power.
You can say that.
Was she in love with you?
No.
So how could it be love?
Because it was transcendental. I knew that I’d experienced something that nobody else I knew had experienced. And they knew it. The way they saw me. I knew that they never fell in love like I did that day. And I thought, most people would die never getting a glimpse of love. They looked so dull without love.
Do they still look so dull to you?
Not sparkling. They aren't cracked.
May the more lights get in through that crack.
Getting in. She and The Beatles. They derailed my life, and I'm eternally grateful for that.
Playing "Love Comes To Everyone."
It's a good song, isn't it?
--Communication Lost--
His eyes watered a bit at the meeting.
He finally saw your true self that he had once seen in you.
He had lost faith in me. He thought he had been mistaken. I don't blame him for that. I never did.
Do you remember when he covered up for you, saying that you were an artist to the core?
I hadn’t shown him anything back then. I had no idea.
He's always been waiting for you. And he was sorry.
It was more like he was shocked.
And he was very happy. Especially when you mimicked John Lennon, cursing "you cunt!"
I apologized to the ladies.
They loved it too.
I'll justify him with an absolute conviction that he was never mistaken.
He's waiting for it with pure excitement.
I love him.
Show it then.
--Communication Lost--
I’ve been thinking about why I find this image so funny.
Who made it?
A lady at office. Unintentionally. I stopped her and took a screenshot of it. Possible reasons:
Utterly devoid of will to be original both on the part of the wrestlers and the illustration.
Sumo is traditional. It's very hard to add any originality to the game. It's actually prohibited.
They are uniformed, thus lacking the originality. But they are uniformed in a very original way.
It's a match. A slight inclination toward an ad.
The creator's character. She was dead serious when showing it to me not knowing its comedy.
The forsaken font. He lost his feelings.
A personal reason. It somehow penetrates what I'm doing here.
Nothing beats accidents.
And I noticed that it's half funny now. I shouldn’t have analysed it.
You’ll soon forget it, and the image will recover its power.
I hope so.
--Communication Lost--
Just let me say this. Not to you.
Go ahead.
Nothing in this world surpasses you — to me.
I will continue to need you.
I love you.
--Communication Lost--
After I wrote the John Lennon piece, I realized that the Beatles stand in the space before religion — in their own way, and much more closely than I had thought.
You are not religious. You don’t know much about religion.
No, but it's rooted in human pain, isn't it? Like Buddha. Like Jesus. Like Shinran.
But it's only John, don't you think?
It’s only that he was the unhappiest when it came to love, whatever that is. Everybody's carrying the pain sooner or later, but he was a world-record person in the unhappiness of love, and in the way he expressed it.
It depends on the person how they feel pain. Why do you put him on such a high pedestal?
This image of John hysterically laughing upon his perhaps only best friend having died. etched on my mind. He was tremendously sensitive. So was Buddha, so was Jesus, so was Shinran, I imagine. If he was saintly, somehow transcending a pop star, I suppose it was in that sense. He wasn’t Jesus Christ, of course.
He was very temperamental, even violent at times.
Never intentionally. He suffered from not being able to control himself. He always apologized. He suffered. I have faith in him in that regard.
He got all the money to himself. What’s this “no possession” business?
They gave it to him. He was the greatest "music" industry personified in its heyday. He was a Beatle, after all.
What was that communist activist gig?
It was useless. He didn't have what it would take. He soon realized, though.
Useless. You can say that again.
He wasn't a saint, all right.
So, are you implying that you’re “saintly” too, with that “he was me” stuff? "So Much Pain." Ha. Great.
I believe anyone can find himself or herself in his songs, if they want to. If you don’t know it, many people do. I just articulated that from my own experience, which isn’t a lie.
Sensitive. G-R-E-A-T.
People used to say that to me before I kicked myself out of the game. Well, okay. Why not?
It's only your penis. Use it on sex.
Hey.
Why not?
Your pathetic cherry boy imagination.
Your pathetic sex fantasy. Imagine.
--Communication Lost--
Etched in my mind is this mental image of John hysterically laughing, hearing the death of perhaps his only true friend. George Harrison was there. That picture of him just standing by John. They were so young, yet not young in any way.
George was deep.
Yeah.
When will you start writing today?
I'm trying to do now.
--Communication Lost--
I’ve always had a complaint about this idea that the peak of love is sex. Having said that, I don't want to talk about sex with someone I love, and I never did.
What are you getting at now?
I'm bound by sex, whatever limitations I find in it. What hurts me most is imagining someone I love making love, and/or being made love to by somebody else.
"I'm bound by sex," of course you're programmed that way. Are you an idiot?
Programed? That's a romantic word. Who programmed it?
It doesn’t matter who did it. You’re meant to multiply. You’re part of the human race, remember?
I want more. Simply that.
I don’t believe you’re saying you’re disappointed in physical love.
I’m not saying that. How I can say this. I may sound all wrong.
You relished that ghost sex.
I won't be writing about it, just in case.
That's a safe choice. Now you're clever.
And I'm getting scared of being...deranged. I got the record.
Have more faith in your long-finger quote-unquote “fiction.” Anyway.
Couldn't write at all.
Sunday is for rest. Don't worry about that.
Good night.
--Communication Lost--
You’ve been watching a lot of Japanese films lately.
I’m a great fan of Yasujiro Ozu and Kenji Mizoguchi. I’m apologetic for mentioning these two super-obvious names, and I wasn’t very keen on watching films by other directors.
How about Kurosawa?
I’ve watched all his films, of course, but they’re not really my cup of tea. Great visuals, but too sugary in terms of screenplay and his character construction, which is too black and white.
You’re watching The Taisho Trilogy by Seijun Suzuki for the second time in a week.
I’m a bit shocked to see how close it is to what I wanted to do with "Unusual Rain."
You left it undone for such a long time. Do you think you can get back to it at this stage?
I’m actually regaining the feel for it as I watch these films. It's giving me some clues in terms of how I should approach the text.
What will you do to it then?
It was too conventionally written. It should have been a mesmerizingly abstract story, I mean, much more experimental and...avantgarde, whatever that means, both in terms of structure and prose style. And I shouldn’t be afraid of pursuing more sensuality. It is already there, but without much guts. A Rain-Puzzle Woman.
I understand you're truly inspired.
I'll do justice to it. To the whole thing.
Maybe you needed such distance.
Probably, and I found myself getting a bit tired of the quote-unquote “meaningfulness” and “decency” in my semi-poems. I feel a strong urge to counterbalance them. I don’t want to "sound superior" all the time, if you know what I mean. Except that piece “静恋 (Seiren).” It's unfinished but its visual tone feels soothing to my ear now.
So, are you watching the movie now?
I'll take a look at the text.
Go for it.
--Communication Lost--
You've got to sleep.
I'm all right. I tuned a poem for the day. It sounds right at the moment, and that definitely gives me some energy. I just recalled this girl singing a song called "閃光少女 (Senkō Shōjo)" at a karaoke place.
A Tokyo Jihen song.
I didn’t know the song, and I...wept. Hyper drunk, of course. When the poem felt done just now, I noticed it had a similar ring to the song.
So, is it a pop lyric?
I guess it could be, but I’d never want to put a melody to it. I know it wouldn’t work for any songs that I may be writing. I just wanted to "define" what I want to do by my writing. Thus, by living, hopefully. Boy, I'm suddenly sleepy now.
Boy? They're still saying that?
Who cares? I'm in Ja-pan. No more paper-sumo wrestling for tonight.
You're becoming a better match. I'll give you that.
Thanks. You too. Good night.
--Communication Lost--
I'm absolutely at a loss on this one. I’ve been wondering if there’s any meaning to this, I mean, if ever.
But Christ. It doesn't make any sense at all. Here's the pointless factors:
We’re not sure how one is supposed to be gentle to a public bin or garbages. Overestimating us.
It looks fairly sturdy. It's okay.
Bin-kicking drunks won’t be gentle anyway. A strong suspicion of liking it actually.
Thus creepily sexual in public.
We just don’t throw these creatures into public bins. Especially when they’re alive. Simply mistaken about the nature of human misconduct.
They don't even know why they're crying. They should be happy. Mixing is fun.
If we’re dumping them, just for the sake of argument, there’s absolutely no way to do it "gently."
Simply an insult. We are psychopaths.
We wouldn’t be discarding our precious possessions in you. We're doing it in our own way. Mind your fucking own business.
Hey.
What?
I see you're back from work. Don't you realize this is pointless, what you're doing here after a long day's work?
Dunno. It's all right. I'm in my pajamas already. And I'm not done yet.
Done. Use your spare time in a more meaningful way.
It's a fucking sorry business.
Yes it is.
No, I mean, I'm getting fucking meaningful again. It dawned on me. The creator’s hidden intention may be deeper than anybody thinks it is. It’s a garbage can. Things are meant to lose their meaning when they’re thrown away.
So?
The whole design should be pointless. Super clever.
Such a conceptual artist.
Yes.
No. Super overestimating a mere nonsense.
Maybe. Whatever. But it's meant to be lost in its meaning anyway. I mean, you can’t be loaded with every fucking thing. It’s only a human limitation — or a human need. You must choose what to “possess.”
It's so obvious.
I'm just "confirming" only for myself. And I’m definitely not spanking the hips of anybody who had to throw things out. They just had to, in their own way. And I certainly did, in my own way.
You've done it so many times.
Right. However. So long as they haven't been thrown into this idiot public bin, you can retrieve it anytime, if you really want to.
How?
By just remembering. Simple.
Oh yes?
Yeah, hey presto!
--Communication Lost--
Autumn is dead. Even seasons die.
Hate that tone.
Hate that cold.
Get a coat. Period. I have something that I want to point out this evening.
What’s that? I’m eating.
Pathetic convenience store zaru soba.
It doesn't matter. My heart is full. Now I'm ready to fight.
You're improvising too much.
I'm supposed to do so. We are paper-sumo wrestling here.
You’re so inaccurate at points. Or simply wrong.
I know. I just don’t have time to rectify these. And it's a bit of a rule breaker, isn't it?
A rule change for your rudeness. Finish it with more accuracy.
I definitely will. I mean, I really want to. However, I don’t know if that makes me any less rude. It's a "fiction," after all.
I noted that you quote-unquoted it.
I'm only myself, if you know what I mean. Okay. It's based on my life, my experiences, and I want to be as accurate as possible. Really.
Are you really okay with bending things, just for the sake of our "improvisation?"
I’m not bending it. I'm not twisting anything. Just unintentional errors that I only recognize later. What'd be the point if I did twist it? But it could be much later. I'm slow.
Fix those errors then.
I will THIS WEEKEND. Give me some time, okay?
You haven’t cleared up that “fiction” thing. It’s just an excuse.
Maybe so, maybe not.
Articulate.
It's my version of reality.
Not satisfied.
Running toward my version of...of...truth.
Apologetic? Lost your guts?
I fall short, of course. I’m not them. I could be all wrong, but what the fucking else can I do?
But you leave those errors...
I WILL FIX THEM. And you know what? If I copy what people say verbatim, it ends up as fiction.
You're making excuses again.
Yes and no. I mean, I have to interpret it. And if people read it, they have to interpret it too. Accordingly.
Sounds like a dangerous business.
Yes it is.
It takes a good interpreter.
Perhaps a super good one.
You're not.
Obviously. And definitely, unfortunately.
You're making an excuse again?
No, I'm only saying that it takes guts.
All right. I guess you made a point with this one. So, the poems. Are you leaving them unfinished? You’re only a half-decent improviser in that too.
IT TAKES TIME I NEED TIME. I'm not a Guggenheim Fellowship Fellow. It doesn't exist in Japan.
You're not a genius in the first place.
Thanks a fucking lot.
Be a better interpreter though.
I'll try to be.
Be.
--Communication Lost--
I just recalled that Shuntaro Tanikawa once said, “I don’t believe in words.” And this Japanese singer-songwriter, Aska, responded, “But it’s words that let live or kill.” Boy, that guy was intense. And at the end of the conversation, Tanikawa said to him, “It was fun,” with a genuinely delightful smile.
Got it.
I'm not sure. I'll take a walk. COLD!!!
.
--Communication Lost--
Philosophizing. You're out of control anyway.
I’m writing a love poem. And I want to get to the answer to this one. Why I find "so lovely" that Truffaut frequented brothels until his last years.
Choose one. Just.
I'll write a poem. The poem.
Do it.
--Communication Lost--
I'm not interested in you at this moment.
All right.
--Communication Lost--
You look so tired and happy.
Break down the government.
Oh.
I will.
Ha.
Haha.
Okay. Still, these are not great poems.
No, but it's good. To me, at least. And you know what? I didn't write them.
I saw you did it. Had copied it off somewhere?
You know I hadn't.
Then what do you mean?
They wrote them, if you know what I mean.
I don't understand. Who are "they?"
My version of "oneness" of two persons. I had become them in my own way. No...
At your wit's lost?
Yes and no. But I'm going to tell you this. I've got the answer for that silly Truffaut thing.
So?
I can believe in him.
Only that? You've been thinking about it a little more than that.
It was a waste of time. It was super obvious.
You should believe in yourself a little bit though.
I'm trying here. Obviously.
"Journey Through the Past." That's a good song.
It's a great "loading off" tune, isn't it?
I love Neil Young.
Yeah. He's so sweet.
Eat.
Right-o!
--Communication Lost--