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I overslept again. Not because I was tired, but rather because I had nothing else to do today. Damnit, it’s raining again outside my window (my way of wishing myself a good morning as if I were two separate entities divorced from one another). Probably another day of non-stop rain. The weatherman on tv says, matter-of-factly, that at this very moment, the thirteenth typhoon to hit Japan this year is wreaking its havoc in some distant prefecture I had never heard of. Yes, typhoon #13 was tearing off  roofs, flooding local supermarkets and overturning trains in my tv set as I was still lying on my mattress on the tatami floor of my appartment (No beds here - Gotta live like the locals, you know). I still think my appartment resembles a cardboard solitary confinement prison cell, with my landlady  - who belongs to some psycho cult - the jailkeeper of this dungeon of overpriced monthly rent.

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Going on a tangent, I had an argument a couple of nights ago with a friend of mine about whether I am allowed to describe the cult my landlady belongs to as being PSYCHO. My friend said that since members of this cult had their own political party in the Parliament, it is safe to claim that they are not psycho. Despite my friend’s argument, I insist that all cults are on the same par as the definition of “psycho”. All forms of extremism are plainly wrong. Japan - in particular - has had its share of crazy cults that first began on the note of offering enlightenment, when reality proved otherwise. Let’s look at a few examples. A few months ago, there was a Korean cult leader who had been arrested by the authorities. On what charge, you ask? This Cult Leader, who had over 1,000 followers in Japan, mostly young women in their 20s (and a few thousand followers in Korea) was suspected of inducting lewd sexual acts with members of his cult after one of his followers lodged a complaint against him. Another psycho cult story is the infamous Asahara-Om “Doomsday” Cult and their horrible terrorist attack in the Japanese Underground Network in the mid-90s, killing and injuring many people by releasing poison gas in a conjested train station at rush-hour here in Tokyo. Upto that horrible incident, the leader of this particular cult was actually running for the position of Prime Minister of Japan and claimed that he ordered the release of the poison gas to kill people because he was sure that his political rivals wanted to kill him first. A few days ago, Asahara’s legal defense team lost their appeal to overturn his execution. In related news, the authorities raided a “secret lair” where some of this cult leader’s followers worshipped/lived, in order to supress the potential of fresh terrorist attacks by this particular cult on the day the appeal was rejected. 　　　　　　Every day, I get abnoxious newspapers from this cult my landlady belongs to - stuffed into my door through the mailshoot. Needless to say, all newspapers go into the garbage without me even bothering to give it a second thought. I sometimes get visits from members of this stupid cult after I hear my landlady - in her beauty salon/headquarters underneathe my appartment - saying, “Yes, he’s in his appartment. You can go up there.” I know she has something to do with this. Her loud, high-pitched voice is a giveaway. For now, I am one up on the whole cult game. I also get visits from annoying Jahovah’s Witness zombies - Another Cult. It’s all a matter of time till all these things just collapse under another scandal, regardless of form. Are all cults psycho? I can safely say they are. No questions asked. It’s all just a matter of time and you can’t convince me otherwise.

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Trying to brush aside all these headaches, I decide to change the chanel on tv and forget about cults. Today was day seven of this month’s emperor’s sumo tournament in Tokyo. It’s fun to watch on tv (not as much as watching it live, though). There were a few disappointments by a couple of East European Sumo Wrestlers (yes, there are a few good East European Sumo Wrestlers), while the Mongolian Sumo Wrestlers continued their reign in the “battlefield of Sumo Wrestlers”. I continued lying down on the floor, watching these 100+ kilo guys push and toss each other around.  On tv, they were all weightless and tiny as far as I was concerned. All this as typhoon # 13 continued its run.

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By 8.00pm, I decided that it was unbearable to go through an entire day without leaving my appartment/prisoncell and so I went to - and do forgive me for being a victim of global consumerism - Starbucks. “One Small Hot Cocoa”. The first and only words that were to come out of my mouth all day. I said it in plain Japanese. I didn’t even say please or thank you. Shame on me. My version of keeping things simple. From my bag (of tricks), I pulled out a novel my father had just sent me recently. A novel by the Turkish anti-establishment author, Aziz Nesin, that speaks - in a very removed tone - of the imprisonment and execution of the last man in Turkey to be subjected to the grotesque spectacle of a public execution. The chapters of the novel uncover the things and people this felon encounters; who in turn are a byproduct of the very establishment of laws that disrespect human nature. Comparing the issue of imprisonment and how - in many cases - governments are the ones that continuously create (and destroy) criminal elements in society, almost always doing so in a manner that stands against the principle of human rights. True in the case of this criminal who is described in this novel. True in the case of Guantanamo Bay and all other jails in the world. Quoting an Irani singer in one of his concerts, “As long as there are jails, regardless of time and place, there will never be human rights nor freedom.” After nearly going through ninety pages or so, I couldn’t help but feel even more lonely and secluded as I read about the lives of prisoners and how their seclusion from freedom drives them into becoming monsters - in the form of men - Monsters that can never return to being human after going through such a horrible experience. The prisons were described as being dark and dank. I look out the front window of the cafe and notice that weather was dark and dank, too. I was all alone and decided it was a good time to walk home. Going home; an option none of the prisoners described in the novel have the luxury of making.
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When I arrived back to my appartment, I cleaned up a little. I guess you can say it’s my form of self-therapy. Helps me feel that I’m being productive, I tell myself. I switched on my tv set as I prepared some hot water to put into the styrofoam of instant ramen. An instant feast that can only be enjoyed alone. As I ate the ramen, news of the damage done by typhoon # 13 was being broadcasted through my tv set. Through my tv set and into my life.

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Looking at the images of torn roofs, flooded supermarkets and overturned trains on my tv screen in faraway prefectures I come to a realization. To me, what typhoon # 13 brought with it was not the physical damage of catastrophic proportions that dance across my tv screen. It was, in fact,  the tragedy of loneliness that howled through the plains of my daily life, leaving me pulled violently by its current. Alone.