O.G. Ghostwriter

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...

Finally, dry land beneath my feet! My departure from Tsushima was a swift one; I leaped from a cliff into the sea, swam freestyle for dozens of kilometers, got tangled in the propeller of a passing fishing boat, spun round and round, and once the boat reached the harbor and the worst of the vertigo subsided, I finally managed to pry myself loose and ended up… right here. It looks like Japan, it sounds like Japan, but is it Japan? I am soaking wet and covered in seaweed. I look like some mythical sea monster from local folklore! Squish, squish goes every step. I’ll try to wring the worst of the water from my robe and find somewhere to warm up. Over there seems to be an inviting, if slightly shabby, restaurant. It is already late, but the door is open, so I’ll step inside and go straight to the bar to ask where exactly I am. O.G. Ghostwriter: Excuse me, where exactly am I? Bartender: You’re asking me where you are? O.G. Ghostwriter: Yes, where am I? Bartender: Have you forgotten whe...