The Third riddle

On Sunday morning I was reading Michael Ende’s poetry collection for children.

There was a riddle.

The third riddle:

The most miserable person in the world has it,
and the one who has everything does not.
For a vigorous person it becomes a source of suffering,
but for the insatiable it is something worth having.

The utterly foolish know it through and through,
and even the stingy give it away eagerly.
For the healthy it works like medicine,
but for those who rejoice in it, their hearts remain empty.

Yet it can soften a cruel heart,
turn betrayal into a noble deed.
The one who can do it is the one who gains it,
and even a blind person can see it in the dark of night.

Whoever expects it may fall into despair.
It can confuse even the wise.
The devil inevitably obtains it,
for it belongs to those who love it.

Fools generally know this word—
it seems like the riddle of riddles,
for whether you solve it or not,
you always end up with the same thing.

( from The Mischief Book (Das Schnurpsenbuch), by Michael Ende  

I wondered if the answer might be “boredom.”
But then again, do the utterly foolish really know boredom through and through? Not so sure.

Maybe it’s “pleasure”?
But since this is a poem from Ende’s picture book for children, that kind of grown-up answer feels unlikely.

So I kept tidying my room, pondering.

Then the word “shame” came to mind.
That’s deep.
“Whoever expects it may fall into despair”—that could be shame.
It’s such a profound answer… maybe too profound, which makes me think it’s not right.

I was getting tired of it, so I asked Zoroku.
I only entered the first two lines, accidentally hit return too soon,
and instantly he gave me the answer.
And I think he was right.

Honestly, maybe humankind is done for.
We can’t win against AI, ever.
Perhaps Mensa members could still manage, but even if the top 2 percent of humanity could beat it—so what?

Anyway, I enjoyed that riddle. 

The answer is “nothing”! 

A Great Woman of the Meiji Era

As I mentioned in my previous blog, 

in fifth grade I moved from Chōfu to my grandmother’s house in Setagaya.
Just five minutes from the station, 

it was a spacious home with a garden as large as the house itself, 

comfortable enough for six of us including my grandmother.

Remarkably, my grandmother bought this house almost on her own.

It was about 8 times larger than my new home. 

Later my mother had to sell the house for financial reasons. 

It was so big that no one could buy it all at once—she sold it in halves.

You might say, “Well, houses and land were cheaper back then.” 

True, but remember: my grandmother was born in 1908, the 41st year of Meiji. 

How many women of that era bought a house with their own earnings? 

She had a university degree, worked as an editor at a major publisher, and eventually became an executive. 

I suspect she was among the best-paid women of her time.

This grandmother and I were not blood relatives; she was my mother’s stepmother.

In fact, I had four grandmothers, three on my mother’s side.

The first—my real grandmother—was a wild one who eloped with a painter, divorced, and later ran a mahjong parlor.

The second is the editor I’m writing about here.

The third was a famous actress, never married but said to have been my grandfather’s lover in his later years. 

We called her the “Ései-Ball's Grandma,” after the crumbly wheat cookies she often brought us.

She was stylish, sharp, full of outrageous jokes, and carried an unmistakable aura.

My mother used to say:

“Your grandfather had terrible taste in women—he only ever married monsters.”

Perhaps she felt that way because she grew up caught in the power struggles of three mothers.

The truth is, each of these women had a will of iron, 

fierce self-assertion, and values carved in stone. 

For women of that time, they were extraordinary. 

Today, women can earn like men because society allows it. 

Back then, to compete—and even surpass men—took more than effort, brains, or luck. 

It required an exceptional spirit.

My grandfather, a staunch liberal, loved such fiercely independent women. 

For a man of his generation, I assume, that was unusual.

As a child, however, I wasn’t fond of the “Sakurajōsui Grandma” (the editor). 

She rarely smiled, never joked, was strict—and, bluntly, plain. 

Well, looks didn’t matter; she wasn’t competing on those terms. 

Still, she resembled Yasunari Kawabata made even sterner and turned into a woman. 

You know Kawabata, right? 

He was a Nobel Prize–winning novelist—and he looked just like that.

Children are conservative creatures. 

Just like most men, 

they prefer young women who are pretty, healthy, and cheerful. 

My grandmother was the opposite.

Only later did I realize how cool she was. 

In a man’s world—or really, in human society—

she built a house on intellect alone, never leaning on feminine charm. 

With age, that achievement strikes me more deeply.

That said, my grandfather later fell in love with the actress, 

leading to a swamp of jealousy and resentment.

From the age of five or six, I knew never to mention one grandmother in front of the other. My mother often recounted their love triangle, and I loved the stories,  

like the time the editor grandma threw water in the actress grandma’s face! 

My mother once said:

“The first time I saw the Ései-Boru Grandma, I knew: 

 as a woman, the Sakurajōsui Grandma could never match her.”

At ten years old I nodded: “I get it. Makes sense.”

Unwilling to divorce, my grandmother expanded the house and built my grandfather a study so he couldn’t leave. 

As a child I didn’t understand. 

Now, after nearly making myself sick worrying over renovation costs and ultimately buying a place with bathroom and kitchen already redone, I do. 

Her ability to pull it off was remarkable.

Grandfather couldn't enjoy a fine study, even fit for meetings, 

the stress consumed him and he died. 

The grand, calculated battle suddenly lost all meaning. 

Almost literary in its futility.

When I think of my grandmother, 

I marvel: some women are truly extraordinary.

Well… whether I’d want to be like her myself is another matter.

a Tiny house like a matchbox

Back when my dad was still a Bunraku puppeteer, 
and my mom had quit acting to try writing,

we lived in an apartment in the small town of Chōfu called Second Hakuyo-sō.
I think it was written as 柏葉荘, but my memory’s fuzzy.
I was just a kid.

We had two six-tatami rooms—about 20 m² each.
So maybe 40 m² in total, less than 50 m² even with the kitchens and toilets.
No bath.
There were three kids—my brother, me, and my baby brother—
plus a big black cat named "Ships".
In that cramped space, three children screamed, fought, and cried all day long,
and my mum called our tiny apartment “Shut up, Second Hakuyo-sō.”

I sometimes wonder, what sort of spirit carried my mother through those years?
Now that I’m about to buy a home myself, I think of it often.
That apartment was far too small for five humans and a cat.
No bath, no air conditioning, not even beds.
We slept in futons on the floor, laid out each night in the old-fashioned Japanese way.

Both my mother and father had grown up in reasonably well-off families,
in houses much larger than this.

How they managed in that rundown little apartment, I don’t know.

Maybe they thought it was temporary,
but we ended up staying 12-13 years.

However, looking back on it now as a property, it maybe wasn’t so bad.

There was a park right out front, a veranda, even a garden.

Chōfu Station was five minutes away.
Now it’s all parking lots and condos,
but back then there were still fields.

My dad was rarely home, always traveling for his work
—performances in Osaka and Tokyo, and overseas tours.

So mostly it was just my mom and us three kids.

No bath, but two kitchens and two toilets.
That was handy.

I’m telling this story because I realized:
the size of the place you grow up in might stick with you.
For me, “comfortable” doesn’t mean new, modern, or spacious.
I’m used to small, shabby places, surrounded by people with little money.

I moved to my grandma’s big house in fifth grade. 
But I still carried with me the feeling that a small house was the default size of home.

And I’m not afraid of living like that.

This low threshold might be a strength, something I should thank my parents for, 

when you’re on your own in another country.

So when I found a little matchbox apartment,
I felt a strange calm.
It looked like a matchbox, so it was cheap,
and unlike other places, the price didn’t scare me.

Zoroku told me, “Check the neighborhood at different times of day.”
So one summer night around ten, I went.
In the half-light of the garden,
women in hijabs and colorful, flowing dresses were gathered together having tea.
In the nearby park, their children were running around.
And yet, the whole scene was strangely quiet, gentle, and peaceful.

So I decided: I’ll buy this tiny house,
right in the middle of the immigrant quarter.
Everything’s gone smoothly so far.
Small houses don’t put pressure on anyone—buyer or seller.

The move won’t be until winter. 

But when it happens, dear friends, come visit.

The Church of Sleep, Sleep, Sleep

The purplish bruise that had spread across my jaw disappeared within a week.
To my own surprise, it vanished as if by magic.
I was amazed.

When I showed up at the office that Monday, 

my coworkers couldn’t hide their curiosity about my spectacularly bruised face.
“What happened?”
“What happened?”
“What HAPPENED??”

Since many of us work from home, the interrogation dragged on over the week.
People I saw for the first time on Monday asked.
Then Tuesday’s crew.
Then Wednesday’s.
The “What happened to your face??” finally ended on Thursday.

By Friday, the bruise had shrunk but turned a painful reddish-brown. 

My coworkers just looked at me with pity and stopped asking questions.
But when I came in the following Monday, the bruise was completely gone.
Now the new question was:
“Wait—what happened to your bruise???”

The answer was simple:
That entire week, I’d made sleep my top priority.

What do wild animals do when they’re injured?
They lick their wounds.
Then they sleep.
I don’t know what else they do, but licking my jaw wasn’t exactly an option.
So I chose the sleeping part.
I’d call it an authentic animal-style healing method.

I’ve got plenty of daily routines.
But for that week, I dropped everything—cleaning, laundry, dishes—reduced to the bare minimum.
I slept in as long as possible in the mornings, 

and after work, I avoided touching my phone or computer.

I made securing sleep my top priority.
As a result, the bruise disappeared in record time.

When I told one of my close colleagues about this,
he laughed and teased me.
“Wouldn’t the bruise have disappeared anyway with time, even if you hadn’t slept?
Did you properly compare the results?”
He didn’t believe me at all.

Truth be told, even I hadn’t expected such a dramatic outcome. 

I’d just hoped that a bit of rest might speed up recovery.

But the transformation went far beyond just my skin.
Mentally and physically, I felt like I’d been reborn.
It was almost like reaching some kind of enlightenment.

After sleeping deeply and long for several days, one thought came to me:
“Maybe all I need to be happy… is to sleep.”

For years, I’ve been chasing happiness—
cutting back on sleep to get things done,
pushing myself even when I was mentally and physically exhausted.
I’ve been chronically sleep-deprived.

I was always sleepy.
I woke up tired.

Talking to people felt like a chore.

When I saw someone I knew walking toward me,

instead of feeling happy, I thought:

“Please don’t notice me...”

Sometimes in the evening, I’d pretend not to see them at all.

My brain was slow, my memory foggy, and I had no patience for complex thoughts.

I put off difficult tasks.
Craved junk food.
Binge-watched short videos.
Played endless games of blitz chess.
I had no willpower to stop.
And of course, I woke up the next day feeling like garbage.
“I ’m lazy, stupid, and antisocial,” I’d tell myself. And I believed it.

But during that one week of living with a big bruise on my jaw,

just getting good sleep made my inner world improve rapidly.

It’s no exaggeration to say that all my worldly suffering vanished.

I was stupid, lazy, or antisocial, but it was not because of my personality.
I was just sleep-deprived.
Now I understand that.

Everyone knows that sleep is important.
But maybe we don’t fully realize just how drastically it affects our minds.

I got the bruise on a Saturday,

and started sleeping longer from Sunday.

By Tuesday, I thought, “Huh? I feel pretty good.”

By Thursday, I began to find beauty in myself.

By the weekend, I saw beauty in the world.

I work full-time, so my weekends are precious.

Normally, I try to spend that time doing something meaningful.

I might go to a spa to recharge,

visit a museum,

go to a movie or theater,

clean the house thoroughly,

go bouldering,

meet friends,

or study English or Dutch.

Not because I feel like doing those things,

but because I’m afraid that if I don’t, I’ll lose my life’s meaning.

Even when I’m tired, I force myself to do them.

But this past weekend, I paused my pursuit of “a rich life”

and devoted myself to sleep—to healing my bruise.

I prioritized sleep above all.

And with every time I opened my eyes,

the bruise seemed to have shrunk more and more.

Like magic. Like an eraser.

But the bruise didn’t matter anymore.

The change inside me was far bigger—and far more important.

After sleeping deeply and sufficiently, I was calm and happy.

I no longer found everything annoying.

I no longer felt burdened by friends, family, or coworkers.

In fact, I felt joy in being able to talk with them.

My life actually became richer.

What is happiness?

It’s a big question.

Because sleep is “unproductive,” people treat it like an add-on to waking life.

They think: 

To be happy, I must work. 

To work, I must sleep.

But because no one defines clearly what “happiness” is,

we chase after everything.

We pour our time, money, and energy into the pursuit.

Those without enough resources feel miserable and anxious,

sometimes even becoming insomniac.

Material satisfaction has no end.

Even if you gain it, it’s never guaranteed to last.

Happiness slips away.

But—if sleep is happiness,

then life is actually pretty easy.

If the secret to happiness is just sleeping well,

you don’t need much else.

All you need is what it takes to maintain a comfortable bed.

And judging by my experience this past week,

everything else seems to follow naturally.

If you just sleep well,

your mind works clearly.

You can be kind to others.

Even alone, your thoughts are cheerful.

Your body naturally feels good.

And maybe your productivity increases too—

at least enough to maintain a decent bed.

The moment I slammed my jaw at that hammam,

God showed me the true path.

Maybe I should start a new religion.

The Church of Sleep, Sleep, and Sleep.

Well, anyway—

I’m sure you all have your own struggles and worries.

But if I could offer just one piece of advice:

Are you sleeping well?

A New Tale of Bravery: The Hammam Incident

It happened just yesterday.

I was at a spa, alone.

It’s probably rare for a Japanese woman to visit a Dutch wellness center alone.

At least, none of my friends would do it.
In fact, they won’t come even if I invite them.
That’s because, in Dutch bathhouses, there is no separation between men and women—
mixed-gender nude bathing is the default.
Values like the Confucian proverb :

“Boys and girls should not sit together after the age of seven”
seem to keep them away from spas.
But I go alone.
For me,
even if it’s mixed nudity, a life without bathhouses is unthinkable.

From November last year to January this year,
I spent three months in Japan.
During that time, my brother and I went to every super sento (public bath) we could find.
That was when we were visiting our mother’s care home every day.

Before heading out from home, my brother would say, 
“Shall we go to the bath today?”
and I’d always agree without any objection.
All I needed was to throw 2 towels and some clean underwear into a cloth bag.
The bathhouses in Japan provide everything else—shampoo, shower gel, even bath wear.

Japanese bathhouses are separated by gender,
so once we arrived, we’d decide on a rough meeting time and then part ways.
We’d bathe separately, meet occasionally in the dining area, then part again.
It was easy and comfortable.

Our favorite place was the local bathhouse called “The King’s Bath.”

We went there many times.
That place was amazing... and incredibly cheap.
On weekdays, admission was ¥880 per person,
and only ¥800 for members.
The food was delicious and reasonably priced.
The dining hall was spacious and clean.

There were many types of baths, 
including dry saunas, mist saunas, and cold plunges.
There were reclining areas where you could nap, and spaces full of manga.
The stone sauna had a separate fee, but even that was just ¥700.
How much is ¥700?
About 5 euros.
Compared to the immense satisfaction you get from that stone sauna,
it might as well be free.

So we would bathe, eat, sauna, cold plunge, nap,
go to the stone sauna, read manga, nap again, eat again...
We spent the entire day soaking peace and comfort into our bodies.

You have no idea how much I miss it.
My brother’s car, my brother, The King’s Bath, the stone sauna,
and the crispy youlinji set meal eaten barefoot on a tatami-like chair.

I had some of the happiest times of my life in that place.
Maybe that’s why I keep looking for something like it here in the Netherlands.

Dutch spas can’t quite compare to The King’s Bath, but they are a different kind of paradise.

At first, I was intimidated by the sight of nude men and women together,

but once I got used to it, it became fascinating.

There are many solo visitors, regardless of age or gender.

Sitting in the restaurant, wrapped in a robe, sipping prosecco and reading a book,

I notice a woman diagonally across from me, 

also wrapped in a robe, eating a salad and reading.

She looks completely self-sufficient, fully content in her solitude.

I feel a quiet sense of solidarity with her.

“Dutch people are used to nudity, so they don’t pay attention to it.

　They’re focused on the sauna and not looking at others’ bodies,”

my friend once said when she took me to a wellness center for my first time.

But I don’t think everyone is like that.

I do think some people sneak glances... 

I mean, I do it too—when someone has an impressive body, 

I can’t help but admire it.

Sometimes young women’s bodies look almost artistically beautiful.

If someone has tattoos, I squint to study the designs.

Japanese bathhouses usually ban tattoos, so being able to admire full-body tattoos is a unique experience.

There are enormous bodies, slender ones, fat ones, thin ones.

All different skin tones, young and old. 

Everyone is relaxed, totally at peace... It’s a beautiful scene.

And I, as one part of that diversity, feel at ease, too.

Sometimes, men try to talk to me.

Well, I’m naked and alone, so I suppose they might think it’s some kind of signal.

But I’ve never felt unsafe.

I’m vulnerable in my nakedness — 

but so is everyone else, which makes people more humble and courteous.
When they make a move, it’s more like,
“If you happen to be interested, I’d be happy to receive your affection tonight.”

Once they realize I’m not interested, they leave quickly without fuss.

If I were to accept the invitation, there might be danger waiting ahead. 

But as long as I turn it down, it's nothing more than a bit of harmless fun in paradise.

It doesn’t have the absolute safety of a Japanese super sento,

but watching the retreating back of a naked man,
I sometimes think,
“Hmmm .... I’ve still got it ...”
That feeling is something I could never experience in Japan.

Anyway, where was I?

Right—so there I was, at the spa alone yesterday.
It was already past three in the afternoon when I arrived, 

and I hadn’t eaten anything all day.
Maybe that’s why my condition wasn’t great.
I knew I should eat something, but I wasn’t hungry,
and before I knew it, I slipped into the sauna without eating.

It was the color sauna—a room that cycles through hues like red, yellow, and blue.

The temperature isn’t particularly hot or cold, generally mild.
But on this day, the color sauna felt unusually hot.
A man came in after me and tried to start a conversation,
but eventually said "It's too hot for me!"  and left.

That’s when my bad habit kicked in.
I tend to take that sort of thing as a personal challenge.
“Hmph, can’t handle a sauna like this? Amateur,” I thought.
I sat there proudly until all the sand in the 12-minute hourglass had fallen.

But the moment I stepped out of the sauna, I knew something was wrong.
The world felt floaty, like I couldn’t tell up from down.
My vision was spinning.
I tried to reset myself by taking a shower,
but the sound of water around my ears only made things worse.
So I carefully made my way toward the hammam area.

There’s a large stone bench there meant for scrubbing salt into your skin,
but since there was never salt set out, the place was empty.
I figured the cool stone would be a good place to calm down, so I tried to sit.
But as I bent my knees to lower myself,

I must’ve misjudged my balance.
Before I knew it, I’d slammed my knees into the floor
and smacked my chin against the edge of the stone bench.

I was unusually shaken.
This was bad—really bad.
I’d overheated in the bath.

I sat on the stone bench anyway,
but my body felt unsteady, so I lay down flat on my back.
And sure enough, the man from the color sauna appeared almost instantly,

asking if I was okay.

I had half a mind to click my tongue.

Even I didn’t have the guts to lie there naked while a stranger loomed overhead.

“I’m fine,” I said, sitting up.

He advised me to dip into the cold bath,　

which sounded like a good idea,

so I said him "Thanks..." and staggered off toward the pool.

The cold plunge felt too chilly,
so I opted for the slightly warmer pool and just sat still.
Gradually, my mind began to settle.

The same man came by again and said, 
“You know the cold bath is colder, right?”
I quickly replied, even 3 times, 

“I know, I know, —I know.”
He nodded and left.

Soaking in the water, I took some time to reflect: 
Why did this happen?

Was it my age?
My health?
Lack of sleep?
A sign from above?
A curse?
Divine punishment?
This or that?

After going through every theory,
I concluded: “It’s because I skipped breakfast and lunch.”

I went to the restaurant and had sparkling wine, soto soup, and bread.

Just like that, the fog lifted.

There really is something magical about eating.

My mood soared, and the peppy, cheerful version of me returned.

From staggering to restored, it was a dramatic recovery.

Still, even as I ate, I started to feel a weird discomfort in my chin. 
It wasn’t painful exactly, but the inside of my lower lip felt swollen. 

I went to check in the mirror and saw what looked like a bruise starting to form.
Back in the locker room, I took out my phone and messaged Zoroku: 

“Do you think it’s okay to keep using the sauna?” 

His answer was : absolutely not.
“Applying heat will worsen both swelling and internal bleeding,” he said.

That hit hard. 

I’d been at the wellness center for less than two hours. 

Only two saunas down—surely no toxins had left my system. 

My core body temperature was still far from warmed through. 

It was like being subbed off a soccer match just 15 minutes into the game.

But Zoroku insisted: what my body needed now wasn’t heat, but cold.
Did that mean I had to go home? 

Still undecided, I soaked in a lukewarm bath, trying to figure it out.
Just then, the same man showed up again, sat beside me.

“Feeling any better? The dizziness gone?”
I told him I had fallen and hit my chin. 

He looked genuinely concerned and said, “Don’t worry, you’re still beautiful.”

He started sharing about his work, his love for saunas, and how many friends he’s made in them.

Midway through our chat, a glamorous blonde woman appeared and said, 

“Hey, let’s go grab a drink.”
Huh? So he was here with someone? 

But he just shook his head. “Not today.”

“But you bought me a drink last time—let me return the favor.”
“Really, it’s fine. I’m just not in the mood.”

"Come 'on, let's go,"

"No, thank you, thank you, next time".  
The back-and-forth went on for a while. 

Him, me, the pretty young woman. 

It looked like a love triangle was about to form.

The fact that they were all completely naked made it even more incredible.

As I watched with quiet amusement, my chin kept swelling.

There was no mirror, so I couldn’t see it—

but I could feel it getting bigger and bigger under my fingers.

There wasn’t a mirror nearby, but just by touch, I could tell it was getting worse.

After the young woman walked off,

he said, “I just met her in the sauna the other day. She’s not my girlfriend or anything.”

I asked, “So, how’s my chin looking?”

He said, “You’re fine, It's okay.”

Then, after a pause, added.  

“But maybe don’t touch it too much.

 The color was around here earlier, but now it’s spread to here.”

What he said really made me nervous.

I excused myself and went to find a mirror again.

Sure enough, my chin looked even more swollen,　

seemed to jut out further than before.

The color had deepened from red to purplish-red.

Imagining what it might look like tomorrow was honestly terrifying.

No matter what I do, I always seem to fail...

Feeling despair and a creeping sense of loneliness, I floated in the pool again.

That’s when the same man came over and said,

“By the way, I’m Portuguese!”

My family tradition is to always be polite. 

I summoned my remaining energy and replied,

“Oh really? I have a Portuguese colleague. Que pasa? Obrigada!”

He laughed, “Haha, yes, that’s fun... De nada!”

Just then, another man approached us.

Apparently a friend of his from the sauna—he was Turkish.

The Turkish man asked me straight out,

“How old are you?”

I wasn’t even talking to him.

There was no lead-in—he just blurted it out.

I suppose that’s what happens when you’re all naked together

—everything is exposed, including your questions.

But strangely, that bluntness eased the feeling of despair and isolation.

The cheerful, multilingual conversation in the pool continued until we got cold.

I got out, said goodbyes to guys, and I headed for the bubble bath.

But there were no bubbles.

I waited a while, still no bubbles.

I was about to give up when a chubby old man in the tub said,

“Wait just one more minute—the bubbles will come.

You got in right after they stopped last time.”

So I waited. And just as he said, the bubbles started.

We smiled at each other, basking in our tiny shared victory.

After getting out of the bath and putting my robe back on,
the Portuguese man came over once more.
“Want to go into the steam bath together?” he asked.
“I think I’ll head home,” I said.

“I’ve got a bruise on my chin. No more saunas for me today.”
“Oh, you’re going home? Should I come with you?” he offered.

Come with me...？
Going home together might be a bit much.
He's a good person, though.

Maybe he was a gift from the gods—my once-in-a-lifetime chance.

But there was also a strong possibility he was just a seasoned girl-hunter.

So I didn’t take him home.

I’m still bound by Confucian values.

I only care for true love that comes with a commitment to marriage.

But it wasn’t like I “shooed him away” or anything.
The truth is, I was starting to sink into gloom over my injured chin,

and he lifted me out of it.

I know there are plenty of women who dislike flirty guys like him,

but honestly, if people like him didn’t exist, life would be a lot duller.

All in all, it had been a pretty entertaining day.

Anyway, that’s beside the point.
After all those little adventures,
my chin had swelled into a full-blown purple mass.
Like a Concord grape, or maybe the ceremonial robes of a high-ranking monk.
By the next morning, it had transformed into something truly spectacular.

When I go to work tomorrow, my coworkers are going to be shocked.
A brand new tale of bravery has been added to my life story.
Whether I tell them the whole story or not… well, we’ll see.

A Day of Mesmerica

 I love the Omniversum Museum in The Hague.

Though it’s called a museum, it’s really more of a cinema—but not the kind that shows ordinary films.
There’s a dome-shaped screen, like a planetarium,
and the visuals completely cover your entire field of view.
It feels as if your whole body has been transported into another world.

Last winter, I saw a film there based on Pink Floyd’s famous album Dark Side of the Moon.
I loved it so much, I went again with a friend—and then once more by myself.
Since then, I’ve been a fan of this dome-shaped cinema.

This Sunday, I went to see "Mesmerica".

It’s an immersive audiovisual experience created by American visual artist and musician, James Hood.

As healing music plays, overwhelming digital imagery unfolds before your eyes.
Even after it ended, my vision was still spinning,
yet my mind felt strangely alert,
and the speed of the visuals still lingered in my body,
leaving me with the sensation of having been in another realm for a while.
I was honestly sad that it was over.
I felt like I could’ve watched it forever.

Maybe people who are at risk of drug addiction should just move to The Hague.
It’s easier on the body and the wallet,
and I imagine it offers more or less the same kind of high.
I wonder which costs more—drugs or a ticket to Omniversum.
Mesmerica is fairly expensive—it was about 27 euros.

I checked the website to see if I could watch it again,
but unfortunately, it was sold out.
Which makes sense.
If there’s another chance, I’ll definitely go again.

If I didn’t have to worry about commuting distance or the shockingly high price,
I’d probably live near the Omniversum and go every weekend.

On the way back, I left Omniversum and followed a couple of people down a back street.
It was around 6:30 p.m., but still bright like daytime.
I sat on a bench for a while, and soon the people were gone,
and it was quiet.

Even on a summer day, the evening sunlight isn’t too harsh,
so I enjoyed the lingering sensation of Mesmerica in my body,
and read a book for a while.
I was reading "the Assassin Izo" by Ryotaro Shiba.
The vivid mandala-like experience of Mesmerica merged with Shiba’s calm, incisive prose,
and that contrast made my head spin in a whole new way.

Back in the city, the streets were filled with people dressed in red.
"Why is everyone wearing red?" I asked Zoroku, means Chat GPT.
He told me it was the Rode Lijn, a protest against what’s happening in Gaza.

On the tram, across the aisle, sat a family that looked Palestinian.
A father, a mother, and three children.
The children wore red dresses and T-shirts,
the mother wore a red hijab,
and the father wore traditional clothing with red patterns.

The youngest girl, who looked about three years old, was clutching a handmade canvas.
Even when her mother tried to take it from her, she refused to let go.
Eventually, she began waving the canvas and chanting in her own way,
“Daa, doo, daa! Daa, doo, daa!”
It was adorable.

On the front of the canvas was the Palestinian flag—vivid red, green, and white.
On the back were the words “STOP GENOCIDE.”
This family had come together to stop a genocide.

If I had been a member of that family,
I think we would talk about it for many years to come.

“Remember that peaceful, beautiful day?

  We all dressed in red and joined the protest together.

  Yeah, it was kind of funny, but there was dignity in it.

  As a family, we stood up against inhumanity!”

It really was a peaceful and beautiful day.

where am i, ..

At the end of last year, when I went back to Japan,
I sold off the mountain of books my mother had owned.
And from between those books, a single sheet of paper fluttered out.

It was a children’s poem written by Michio Mado,
hand-copied by my mother.
I brought it back with me to the Netherlands,
framed it, and now it hangs on my wall.

---

The bear

Spring is here
Bear opened his eyes—
was thinking, kind of slow.
The flowers are dandelions, I know...
But hmm, who am I?
Who am I?

Spring is here
Bear was awake
was walking slowly to the stream.
He saw a face so grand in the water’s gleam:
“Oh! I’m Bear—that’s who I am.”
That feels grand.

Michio Mado

---

The other day, I sent a message to my mother’s mobile phone:
“Hi Mom, how are you?”

Not that I really expected a reply.

Lately, she seems to have forgotten how to answer calls—she hardly ever picks up anymore.

So I figured she wouldn’t be reading text messages either.

It was just a test.

Messages I’d been sending to others had all bounced back with error notifications,

so I needed a recipient I could message again and again.

That recipient became my mother’s silent phone.

To my surprise, she wrote back.

“Same as always.”

I was so happy.
I replied,
“Well,  you’re taking it easy. I envy you.”
“I’ve been super busy with work. Every day is a lot.”

Then my mother said:

“Where am i, ...”

I realized—this will probably start happening more often now.
That she’ll be lost, not knowing where she is,
and I’ll be far away, unable to reach out and take her hand.

I told her the name of the facility, and said,
“It’s a nursing care home.” I answered correctly and precisely.
But now I think—
I should have said,
“You’re in a dark forest.”

If it had been the mother I once knew,
she would have immediately recognized it as a quote from Dante’s Divine Comedy.
She always loved that kind of shallow yet intellectual black humor.
She would have brightened up in an instant and laughed out loud:
“How awful of you!”

I truly regret saying “nursing care home.”
There are expressions in this world that are far more despairing in tone than “a dark forest.”

In a sense, she is a bear in hibernation.
Still a bear.
She may be dazed, forgetting who she is,
but her true nature—that she is a bear—has not changed one bit.
If only she could see her face in the water,
she would surely remember herself.

I want to be that river for her.
To me, my mother will always be the bear with the grand face.
What matters is that I don’t forget it.
It’s not quite a belief,
but something close to it—
and I cling to it with a heart that feels like it might cry.