O.G. Ghostwriter

This city never sleeps. It pulses with the eternal rhythm of ambition, greed, and indecency. In this city, the age of innocence is short, with every alley offering temptations – street food and karaoke stalls – and I realized that to survive with my sanity intact, I would have to tread lightly.  It was early evening in Kurume, Japan, the air was heavy with the promise of rain, and I, enjoying the last touch of sunlight, lay on park grass studying my map, intending to get from this sinful city to the even more sinful capital, quickly and cheaply.  I had met a fatal woman , a true femme fatale , who suggested in no uncertain terms that my way of doing things left much room for improvement. If I knew anything about fatal women, it was that they were insincere, indiscreet, and incorrigible, and this inconceivably fatal woman, in all her instability, was a bona fide femme folle . Throughout my lifelessness, I have been searching for something. I am not quite sure what, but I have a...

Ha! I finally got my hands on my very own map of Japan! I got it from a vending machine near the park entrance. Now I no longer have to hunt for metro stations just to check a map; I can keep this in my own pocket because it’s mine, mine, mine! Strange things, those vending machines, which seem to offer practically anything. Hot food, cold and hot drinks, trading cards, clothes… I’ll make a note for myself: once you eventually return to your manor, get a vending machine that provides whatever your heart desires. One must have goals in one’s lifelessness! I’ll settle myself comfortably here on this park slope to read the map. Usually, I avoid maps like the plague, as I cannot stand traveling. It’s enough for me to know roughly what lies in the vicinity of my home manor. I’d rather just stroll in my own garden, looking at my roses and dahlias, pondering ways to fight the squirrels that steal my strawberries. Everything except gardening is pointless, and if one can afford a gardener, then...

Great news! I’ve finally landed an assignment in my own field. While I was a patient at the hospital , I got to know a nurse who kindly arranged a meeting for me with a potential new client. Apparently, she’s a friend of a friend of a friend, with an interesting profession. This lady wants to write her memoirs with a professional ghostwriter, and naturally, I am available. We agreed to meet in a local park, and it really is quite pleasant here – warm, with flowers everywhere. The cherry trees are already past their peak, yet people are still eagerly snapping photos of them. That’s just how it is: you have to enjoy life, for it turns into lifelessness before you can even say... Geisha: Konnichiwa! O.G. Ghostwriter: Huh? Geisha: Good day! We had a meeting scheduled? O.G. Ghostwriter: Oh, of course, please, have a seat. I was just startled by your appearance... your dress and your whitened face. Is this how the youth of today dresses? Geisha: I am a geisha. A professional ar...

Does this spark joy? I asked myself, reflecting on the meaning of lifelessness. I was lying in a ward at Kurume University Hospital, recovering from an extremely improbable accident that the sensationalist Japanese tabloids reported as follows: SUMO SCENE: Entitled Wannabe-Travel Writer Crushed by Sumo Champion – Shocking Photos! So, I was a convalescent, wrapped in bandages from head to toe like a mummy. Bored, I waited for the moment I could continue my journey toward the promised land of Tokyo and its lucrative job opportunities. I feared the wait would be long, so I was determined to use the time productively. I reached out my trembling hand toward the table beside my hospital bed, where someone had thoughtfully left a book titled “Kurashi at Home: How to Organize Your Space and Achieve Your Ideal Life” by Marie Kondō, a self-proclaimed tidying expert. To pass the time, I read the book, and before long, I felt the teachings of tidying and sparkling joy flow through my veins, lifele...

When one thinks of sumo wrestling, the first image that springs to mind is a massive man, clad only in a loincloth, wrestling another man dressed just as sparingly. To some of us, this sight is baffling; to others, it is thrilling; to the Japanese, it is business as usual. Sumo wrestling is, after all, the national sport of Japan, and even the ancient Japanese… Okay, this is how my latest article – "Sumo Summa Summarum", sumo wrestling in a nutshell – begins. Since I’ll be staying here in Japan for a while, I figured I might as well try to write some articles in my notebook about local curiosities and see if I could sell my stories somewhere. A penniless writer must seize earning opportunities with an open mind. I spent a day acting as a scarecrow in a rice farmer’s field, and as a reward for my trouble, I received a free ticket to a local sumo event. During my long years of lifelessness, I haven't shown the slightest interest in any national sports whatsoever, but since ...

I am at the wrong end of Japan. By my calculations, it is about 1,200 kilometers from Hirado to Tokyo. A long, long way to walk. As an artistically trained, unemployed cultural influencer, I cannot afford travel or accommodation, let alone silence the growling in my stomach. I am at risk of having to rely on the kindness of strangers, and riding that particular streetcar does not feel very appealing. I must devise a way to earn some pocket money if I ever hope to reach the capital. The fellow I met in a restaurant yesterday promised me a place to stay for the night at his apartment. While he sleeps off his hangover on the hallway floor, I climbed up to the attic. It’s  cozy and warm in here, and there are also piles and piles of some kind of comic books. My host seems to be a manic collector. I haven’t read many comics, but a true writer knows it is always worth reading everything possible. Perhaps I’ll learn something.  I’ll take a look at one random issue that I picked up f...