Archive for February, 2009

Translation Series vol. 4

I did this because I was bored. BoA’s new song “Eien”
Lyrics copyright – translation mine.


My fingers were made

just so I could softly touch your cheeks


The sparkling moon is there

just for us to look up at together, always

it was


The you that I would always go to and

would make me laugh when I felt crushed is gone


My sadness escapes from my tattered palms

my love

tonight I am probably the one

crying the most in this town


because you loved me

I am who I am

A wind that carries time

Somehow give me back that day’s eternity


bye bye bye

Why did you say bye bye?

Why did you say bye bye?


together, standing on the corner

we each had an headphone

playing a song we always would listen to


you all of a sudden pulled away

and the headphone fell out of my ear a little

I pretended to get so mad


Then without warning I eyes met

our lips came together

and you said you were always going to protect me, but


Gently stretching a hand into the navy blue sky

my heart feels like it is going to burst

once more, just hold me


if I was honest with myself, would not be like this?

When I wake up it was all just a dream

Then you said jokingly…


bye bye bye

Why did you say bye bye?

Why did you say bye bye?


Looking at the other people

We walked along the row of trees

“Next time I’ll make pasta,” you said

“ let’s go on a trip next year,” you said

“I will always protect you,” you said, but….


my sadness escapes from my tattered palms

my love

tonight I am probably the one

crying the most in this town


Because you loved me

I am who I am

The wind that carries the seasons

Somehow, I want that day’s eternity


Gently I stretch my hand into the navy blue sky

My heart feels like it is going to burst

Once more, just hold me


if I was honest with myself, would not be like this?

When I wake up it was all just a dream

Then you said jokingly…


bye bye bye

Why did you say bye bye?

Why did you say bye bye?

Translation Series Vol. 3

Man hating bitches galore!


“Cooking” – Mitsuyo Kakuta


It is true that I hate when men cook. Of course I am not trying to say that there are no men who can cook. I am sure in this whole wide world there is someone who can make something I would enjoy. What I mean to say is that up until now, not a single thing I have eaten that was made by a man I have enjoyed.


First of all, whenever a man goes shopping its always far too expensive. They want to buy good quality ingredients, but do not really know what it means to be “good quality ingredients,” so they always simply judge by the price. Of course if this was an everyday thing it would be fine. Long live Engel’s Coefficient! However, most men are not like that. They splurge and by the expensive stuff.


Whenever I go shopping with a man I always slowly get annoyed. Expensive pasta, expensive cheese, expensive fish, expensive vegetables, expensive oils. Things that I think about buying on a daily basis, but then I think, “Should I buy it? No, it’s a waist! But I want to buy it. Well what about when guests are coming over?” But a man can just snap his fingers and buy it just like that. The arrogance! Plus, when they use their vast mountains of cooking knowledge and say stupid things like, “but if the ingredients aren’t good then…,” with earnest intentions is really unnerving. They really have this Puritan-belief that expensive ingredients are good ingredients, and that good ingredients can make a delicious meal.


Also, whenever a man cooks it take a considerable amount of time. Of course there are a lot of things to consider when cooking; nutritional balance, a feeling of accomplishment, using your heart – but inside all of that satisfying hunger, and doing it quickly, are things men tend to forget. If seven o’clock rolls around and it is time to eat, I would not care about how much time was put into it. It can be quite annoying when a man starts cooking at five and at eight he’s still working away.


I am not sure if it’s some physical defect or what, but when I get hungry my hands start to shake, my energy disappears, I break out in a sweat, and eventually I get dizzy and fall over. I’m not joking! When I start to sweat I try to eat something quick. If all else fails I find some chocolate or something to tide me over. For a man in the midst of cooking, these things are completely irrelevant. Even if I am standing beside him blue in the face, sweat pouring out, no matter what he is determined to take his time and make something fantastic. They believe, like expensive ingredients, the deliciousness of the meal is directly proportional to how much time it takes to make.


There are still more things that annoy me. When it comes to cooking, a man will focus like an innocent little kid. As a result they burn pots and pans, use too many dishes, needlessly dirty up the kitchen, raise their voice, and boss around the starving woman next to them.


Furthermore, they have concept of the art of combining different food dishes even after making such a big production cooking in the first place. For example, if dinner is curry, it will be just curry, or just pasta, steak, or fish. Oh the desolation, the loneliness – just like a beggar. The awkwardness of a solitary dish does not communicate to a man. After he hand-selected his ingredients, put his skills to the test, poured in his blood sweat and tears, it is his masterpiece!


Finally, what really bothers me is the fact that they have no desire to improve their skills. If you say anything you will hurt his sensitive feelings. Men get so unbelievably depressed if you give any negative opinions on his masterpiece like it is too salty or it does not really have any flavor. Alright, next time I’ll do this: because men are lacking in carefree and resilient spirits, and because I do not really want to fight over something as trivial as cooking, ill just show them with “delicious” complements.


When a man sets his mind on cooking, more than the appetite, the desire to eat something gourmet, more than transforming the meal into an event or date, above all else it seems aesthetics are given preference. Romanticism and aestheticism. For whatever reason that side of a man is expressively exhibited not in daily life, work, or interpersonal relationships but in the inconsequential act of cooking. That is what I think anyway.
Nevertheless, even though I may already feel sick to my stomach, I will by no means try to stop a man I like when he proclaims that he is going to cook. Romanticism and aestheticism. That laudable side of a man is somehow important, fragile, and with a hint of loneliness. That stupid and independent soul of a man is not something I could possibly bring myself to hate.

Translation Series Vol 1.

This is actually the first one, but I guess I forgot to press the “Publish” button so it never got posted.



“Yelling at kids in the train.” – Sakai Junko


This happened the other day when I got on the bullet-train. There were two kids sitting in front of me. The two of them were watching a portable TV without headphones – sound pouring out into the train. Because we were in the train moving, the reception was pretty bad and there was a lot of static.


I kept waiting for the conductor to put a stop to it but of course that didn’t happen. Across from the idle was some middle-aged businessman. I was kind of hoping he would say something to them, but alas nothing happened. He just kept reading his magazine.


I am a person who likes the quiet, so I kept thinking reluctantly that there was nothing for me to do but scold them myself. However, when an adult yells at kids these days they are usually met with a barrage of rage. Come to think of it, just the other day there was a case where an older woman yelled at a girl putting on make-up on the platform. The girl pushed her when the train was coming to a stop and was hurt pretty bad.


“I was just using the make-up sponge to wipe away sweat. I wasn’t putting on any on,” she commented.


Unfortunately this kind of behavior has become common practice. If we judged these girls by 18th century standards, it would no doubt be considered unacceptable behavior. Even if some adult told her, ‘It’s disgusting so stop it!’ she would just reply, ‘I don’t see anything wrong with it,’ and that will be the end of it.


Electromagnetic waves emanating from cell phones, the tinny sound escaping from people’s headphones: as long as it is just unseemly and embarrassing and not an annoyance no one says anything.


But still, I found the sound coming from that portable TV to clearly fall into the category of annoying. I thought that even if they flew into a rage of fury, they looked pretty weak, so was not like it would even hurt. But then again kids these days carry all kinds of weapons and if they got really angry things could get out of hand.


I fretted over all this stuff but the annoyance got the better of me and I finally decided to do something. While smiling broadly, so as to sense my hospitability, I asked them if they ‘could turn it down just a little bit.’ I guess I started them a little bit coming from the seat behind them; they stammered out an apology and turned the volume down.


Although I was content with my results, saying things like, ‘can you turn the TV a little,’ does not actually mean turning down the volume. It means, ‘turn the damn TV off!’


What is more, that businessman sitting across from me, what a pitiful man! I thought. In spite of finding it annoying himself, he just sat there with a look of relief on his face.


At an earlier time, maybe even in the same situation, I probably would not have been in any position to tell anyone to do anything. I am sure I would have most likely been on the receiving end myself. For example, one time on the way back from school, we were on the train chatting away. Without saying anything, an older man handed us a piece of paper with “Shut up!” written on it and walked away.


“What does ‘shut up’ mean?”


“Maybe it’s ‘shaddap’?”


“’Shaddap’? What a creepy old guy!” we said without learning anything at all.


When I was in university, on the way back from a vacation in Hawaii we were in the airplane still wound-up from our break talking and singing songs and carrying on. A handsome steward told us to “Shh!” and I might have even been embarrassed for a moment.


Thinking back on those days when you are young, you do not notice anything going on around you. I realize that for those kids standing around and chatting, absolutely nothing is more important. They think of themselves as center of the universe.


I think the girls who put on make-up in trains are probably something similar. Since they are by themselves in their private coach, they do not feel even the slightest bit of embarrassment. At that moment in the bullet-train, nothing was more important that what was on that TV at that moment in time and because they wanted to, they were going to watch it.


However, when people become adults they realize little by little that they are not the center of the universe. They realize there are things you should not do in front of other people and our concept of “public decency,” becomes apparent.


Occasionally I will see an older person putting on make-up on the train and I am sure they are thinking something like, “Well these days it’s ok so I am going to do it too.” But they are wrong. It is only forgiven if you are young, and when older people do it: it’s a painful sight.


In Tokyo too, the “woman only” cars have become widely adopted. In the Kansai area when you ride in the woman-only cars you are surrounded by women putting on eye-liner without any care for the eyes of others. I am sure in Tokyo it is the same.


With the rise of these new cars where one can un-bashfully put on make-up, train ethics are surely changing. From childhood riding only in women-only cars, I am both frightened and intrigued by what kind of women these kids will become.

Translation Series Vol. 2

I actually fixed my mistakes in this one!


“Long Ago, in the Twilit Park” – Otsuchi


When I was in elementary school, I remember there was a small little park surrounded by buildings not far from where we lived. Every day, when the sun fell away behind the horizon, the noises of busy cars and busy people would vanish without a trace and in that silence a child’s shoe would sometimes be left on the ground forgotten. It was that kind of park.


When it became time for dinner, all the friends I had been playing with would go home to their parents. I would always have to stay there killing time, waiting for mine. When I got tired of swinging by myself, I would go play in the sand box as if I was summoned. The little one in the corner. The kids were usually so engrossed with the swings and the slides that the corner was always forgotten.


Without anyone to talk to I played in the sand while the setting sun slid behind the buildings without a sound and painted the world red. A yellow bucket sat left behind by who knows who. I sat, took off my shoes, and piled sand onto my feet. It was cold and the little grains of sand sliding down in-between my toes felt good.


I amused myself by sticking my hand deep down into the sand. I wanted to see how far down it actually went. I stuck my arm straight down, all the way until my shoulder was almost inside too. I asked my dad about the bottom-less sandbox, but he did not believe me saying, “Of course the sand box has a bottom — so how could that be possible?” I knew he was wrong. I did get my arm all the way into the sand. I did again and again, sticking my arm all the way in.


I lost count when finally something happened. The setting sun was casting long, pitch-black shadows from the trees in the corner. I stuck my right arm all the way into the sand to my shoulder again and felt something brush against my fingertips.


Something seemed to be buried there. I needed to figure out what it was, so I stuck my arm all the way to the bottom of the sandbox. My middle finger could just barely brush against it. It was plump and springy and I wanted to just rip it out but it was just out of reach. Instead, I felt something wrapping around my fingers. I pulled my hand out to discover a clump of someone’s long black hair. It was dirty and damaged — a girl’s hair, I thought.


Once again I tried to dig down and touch whatever it was that was buried in there. But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how far down I stuck my hand, I could not find anything. I felt disappointed.


With everything turning the color red before me, the buildings with their closed windows surrounded me like a giant wall, cutting me off from the rest of the world. Suddenly, with my right hand deep in the sand, I felt something. It was just a small little touch, like a fish biting me with the tip of its mouth.


Without warning, something grabbed my wrist and squeezed firmly. I tried to pull my hand out but it was stuck tight. There was no one around, so my cries for help just echoed off those massive walls. My tightly clenched fist was forced open and I could feel the touch of someone’s fingers on my palm. I realized she was trying to write something.


“Get me out!” she wrote on my palm.


I dug my left hand down into the sand but…


“Can’t,” I wrote and disappointed, she released my hand. I pulled both my arms out of the sandbox and went home. After that I did not go anywhere near that sandbox.

Sometime later, I heard that they were going to tear down the park to build an apartment complex. I went to take a look as they dug the sandbox up, but it did not look deep enough for anything to be buried down there.