Of Forests and Clocks and Dreams

By Takatsu

From the author of Espresso Love and Secondhand Memories, the award-winning trailblazer of online literature and transmedia storytelling, comes an unconventional postmodern collection of fragments, moments, imaginings containing thought-provoking and enigmatic short stories, poetry, essay, excerpts, aphorisms, photography, typography, design and artwork.

His work paints surreal visions and explores philosophical themes of the human condition and spirituality, subjective perception and the nature of reality, the system and the cosmos through strange conversations, umbrellas, a talking bird, a girl with a top hat, grandfather clocks, transfigured stones, a missing archaeologist, bowls of rice, a man with twelve toes, and more.

The book features the award-winning transcendental "The Elephant Girl", a heartbreaking "Sometimes I Think You Can't Hear Me", the magical fable "By The River" and political essay "It's Pouring, Bring Two Umbrellas".

"[His stories] have a timeless quality, little legends or fables that enlighten or explain a philosophy of life, a zen moment... [they] touch on an innate mystery of things that allow one to see." - Patricia Keeney, York University Creative Writing Professor, Award-winning Poet, Critic and Author of One Man Dancing

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiritus Press
• Release date: May 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994974631

Takatsu

Takatsu, known as a passionate trailblazer of online literature and transmedia storytelling, is an award-winning writer of literary fiction, featured Wattpad author of 20,000 followers, poet, philosopher, musician, designer, guest speaker and Literature student from Toronto. In 2008, through coming-of-age story, 2009 Textnovel Reader’s Choice and Editor’s Choice Award-winning “Secondhand Memories”, (Sakura Publishing 2015), he pioneered the Japanese “cell phone novel” phenomenon in the English-speaking world, marking a new online literary movement globally with a remarkably unique serialized fusion of haiku-like poetic technique, visual text flow, and micro-prose storytelling. In 2014, his critically acclaimed dystopian magical realism philosophical literary novel, “Espresso Love” (2014) satirizes and examines human nature, subjective perception, socio-political systems, digital landscape, capitalist mechanism and consumer culture. It won the Watty’s Award 2014, reached #1 in Science-Fiction, surpassed a readership of 950,000 in several months, and has been acclaimed by professors, authors and young readers alike. “Of Forests and Clocks and Dreams“, a visionary post-modern collection of short stories, poetry, essay, aphorism, artwork, design and photography will be published in 2016 by Inspiritus Press. He continues to work with Inspiritus Press to envision a cross-disciplinary arts collective and community of avant-garde, thought-provoking, transcendental, experimental, counter culture work, championed by upbeat unconventional grassroots digital strategies, events and multimedia technology. He won York University’s Stanley Fefferman Award in 2014 and the Babs Burggraf Award of $2500 for his short story “The Elephant Girl” in 2016. He is influenced by writers such as Murakami, Borges, Orwell, DeLillo, Kafka, Carver and the ideas of Mumford, Graham Hancock, Baudrillard, Jung, Wyndham Lewis, McLuhan, Hegel, and Marx. “Takatsu is a fascinating writer, musician and illustrator and is at the forefront of transmedia storytelling.” – Rowena Wiseman, Author of “Searching for Von Honningsbergs”, “The Replacement Wife”, “Bequest”, “Silver”. “[His pieces] have a timeless quality... that enlighten or explain a philosophy of life, a zen moment... [and] touch on an innate mystery of things that allow one to see.” – Patricia Keeney, Professor of Creative Writing, York University, Award-winning Poet, Critic, Author of “One Man Dancing” and more. “I am awestruck at the philosophical stance of your writing. Your writing is akin to that of Murakami in its surrealist execution.” – Shane Oltingir, Wattpad Reader “Amazing how well you implement the first-person point of view... Hackneyed and cliche, some have said, but there’s just something about good writers and first person novels. You are definitely in one of them. Your voice really comes through. Some people will disagree and say, ‘Well of course. He’s writing in first person. It’s suppose to engage you in such a way.’ But I would have to say that not all first-person novels come through as clean as yours does. Simply amazing.” comments Diogenes Marx, a literary critic on Textnovel. On “Of Forests and Clocks and Dreams” “A thought provoking work that will leave the reader questioning the very existence around them... [Takatsu] always seems to be breaking the rules and combining various mediums of art... The pioneer of English Cell Phone Novels has continued to approach writing—and art as a whole—in different ways, breaking and manipulating constructs to produce work that, while still holding ties to the written word, manifests into something that defies its very foundation...A great glimpse into what the future of the written word—and art as a whole—can be.” – C.J. Garrett, Author of “Memoirs of a Zygote (Trapped in a Human’s Body)” On “Espresso Love“: “Offers acute, almost painful observations of the minutiae of life, if life took place in a Murakami snow-globe.” – Review on IndieReader Insiders “Like a seven course meal full of spice and illumination... One does not listen to a classical piece to get to its ending. No. It is the ride, the moment by moment...a genuine Masamune among stories.” – Textnovel author “An interesting ‘vapoury’ style that seems to hover off world at times. ...Author’s intent to invoke/evoke mystery is very effective...haunting and strange (which is good)...sense of terror in the core here... You’re on to something different, striking.” – B.W. Powe, Associate Professor, Dept of English, York University and author of “A Tremendous Canada of Light”, “A Climate Charged”, “Outage”, “The Unsaid Passing”, and “Marshall McLuhan and Northrop Frye: Apocalypse and Alchemy”

Book preview

Titlepage

Copyright © 2016 by Takatsu

All rights reserved. No part of this literary publication may be reproduced, distributed, circulated or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, translations or other online, electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author and publisher, except in the case of brief quotations or excerpts embodied in reviews, educational material and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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Inspiritus Press

Toronto, Canada

www.inspirituspress.com

[e-mail]

Takatsu

www.takatsu.tk

[e-mail]

Literature - Fiction - Non-Fiction

eBook Edition

This eBook file has been optimized for portable electronic reading devices and apps. For a supplementary full print layout desktop format and other experiences, follow instructions in the back of the book.

about the author

authorphoto.jpg Takatsu, known as a passionate trailblazer of online literature and transmedia storytelling, is an award-winning writer of literary fiction, featured Wattpad author of 20,000 followers, poet, philosopher, musician, designer, guest speaker and Literature student from Toronto. In 2008, through coming-of-age story, Secondhand Memories (Sakura Publishing 2015), he pioneered the Japanese cell phone novel phenomenon in the English-speaking world, marking a new online literary movement globally with a remarkably unique serialized fusion of haiku-like poetic technique, visual text flow, and micro-prose storytelling. In 2014, his critically acclaimed dystopian magical realism philosophical literary novel, Espresso Love ranked #1 in Sci-Fi, won the Watty’s Award and reached 900,000 reads online. He won York University’s Stanley Fefferman Award in 2014 and the Babs Burggraf Award of $2500 for his short story The Elephant Girl in 2016. He is influenced by writers such as Murakami, Borges, Orwell, DeLillo, Kafka, Carver and the ideas of Mumford, Baudrillard, Jung, Wyndham Lewis, McLuhan, Hegel, and Marx.

To M.C., my twin soul.

And to B.W. Powe, for guidance and awakening.

And I invite you, dear reader, into a deeply personal walk through a crystalization of my perception, imaginings, sentiments, visions, philosophies—my consciousness—that I hope will be insightful for you.

contents

Deep Shadows of the Wind

MANIFESTO

You Search for a Concept

Abstract Becomes Reality

BY THE RIVER

Before the Gates

Gates

I Walk Along a Shore

Clock Strikes

THE CLOCK IN SETAGAYA

Cosmo Clock 21

Cosmo Clock 21.2

Aphorisms & Fragments I

Emily

SOMETIMES I THINK YOU CAN'T HEAR ME

Perception

OLDIES

Polished Brown Loafers

The Door

The Door

Kaneko

NIGHTS IN TOKYO

Edge of the Sea

FILLING THE VOID

CATS AND DOGS IN HK

Nylon Tears

Confucius Dances on Cosmic Polyrhythm

Buddhist Ripples

Simulacra

Frames

System

Aphorisms & Fragments II

Haunting

THE ELEPHANT GIRL

Temple

Skyline

Half-Crescent Mirror

Leaf Whispers

Black Box

I am an Idea

HOW TO ASK FOR AN EXTENSION FOR AN ESSAY

City Spire

Center of Consciousness

Memory

WHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT GROWING UP

LETTERS TO NOWHERE IN PARTICULAR

Consider the Stars

Cosmic Dust

Your Prunes

Aphorisms & Fragments III

Stairs

THE OLD MAN AND THE HOUSE

Glasses

Converse

A MEETING AT NOON

IT'S POURING, BRING TWO UMBRELLAS

Umbrella Town

Fourth

I, New Vortex

By the River

Sleeping Sand

Secret Garden

THE BOY AND THE BIRD

CLAIR DE LUNE

HE WHO TAKES AWAY THE LIGHT

ICED LEMON TEA

Constellation

SOME WORDS ON WRITING

Boy

Collective Dream

In the Solace, Listen

White Waltz

A Carp

RICE CLOCKS AND WAVES AND DREAMS

Manifesto

Aphorisms & Fragments IV

Wave and Rhythm

A FEW WORDS IN RETROSPECT

The End

Acknowledgments

Image Credits & Contact

Inspiritus Press

Excerpt1.jpg

In such a place, all else starts to fade away and one loses touch with reality. Nothing really matters anymore, but the great trees and the deep shadows that shift in the wind. Past, present and future disappears, and the moment takes on its own life. Within, comes a powerful desire to latch onto that single moment, any moment of the mundane, and cherish its totality, its own beginning, middle and end, fearing that something great would be missing if you look away for an instant. Simplicity becomes the profound.

EXCERPT FROM ESPRESSO LOVE

Icon1-Clock.png manifesto

SHE TELLS ME that my skin smells like coffee. I tell her it’s what happens after a few months of the same thing. Sometimes it’s necessary, I say. At least I don’t smell like a chain smoker. She looks away and plays with a pencil. If it’s a bother to you, I say, I can put on cologne or something. She admits she likes the aroma of coffee. But coffee and sweat is a little strange at times. Then she laughs. The sound is feeble before the darkness swallows it, like heavy smog on a summer day.

To someone like her, or anyone sane, living this way isn’t living at all. But a dark room, or perhaps physical blindness, opens the eyes of the soul. That is what I believe. It’s months since I’ve withdrawn from the world, but to me, the world I reside in is much more fascinating than what lies outside my doorstep. She still comes to visit, bringing with her a light fragrance of rose and vanilla, maybe a few petals of cherry blossoms in April, maybe the scent of rain and wet grass, maybe the hint of alcohol in her breath. Outside, I might hear the sound of a Saint-saens or Chopin playing from the radio I leave on. On summer days, some Abba or Bob Dylan. Every time she walks in, with her the taste of an old life, is like a jolt through my body, wrenching my spirit from a distant land where there is no anchor, no gender, no construct.

When someone asks why I write, I tell them that I have no choice. Sometimes it’s conscription and other times, imprisonment. In either case, it is warfare. I am called to march into another realm—most of the time, alone and reluctant—but I do so anyway. There isn’t a choice, because I don’t belong in the world that she belongs in. I exist on the vertical axis; I am called to transcend the concrete matters of history and politics, events and people, construct and subjectivity, experience and emotion, system and structure, into a world where abstraction and spontaneity of imagination and romance reign, a world of eternal philosophies and myths, interconnection between all that humankind has accumulated through the millennia, all of which are no longer contained within clear order or rules, where colours whirl and spin around like dancing cartoons on Saturday mornings and palpitate like a Pollock in ecstatic merciless orchestration of a grand symphony of human consciousness composed of ideas, thoughts, memories, archetypes and hidden themes and sharp insight and wise old sages; it all converges into a myriad of particles, and light shines through these particles. This is a world where there is no up and down, no left and right, no right direction. Being called to walk in this world, takes tremendous energy, but it is a noble task and a privilege.

Art1-Bridge.jpg

When I am compelled to write, my hands tremble, my mind ricochets with automatic gunfire and my heart bloats with unbearable intensity, threatening to detonate if there is no release. But even when I’m not filled with the Muses, still, I heed the call and sit down and force myself to. Lock myself away from the world with a cup of coffee and begin to transcend to the realm of ancient imagination. There are not many who have access to this world above, and if I do not make use of every moment, what will my purpose in life be?

Those who are called to walk in pace with the eternal spirits, have a purpose. It is to show this otherworld to those who cannot perceive it. It is to create a bridge and merge both worlds together. Those who read will catch a glimpse of the wonder, heights and the depths and the infinite horizons of such a realm. It will resonate deep in the soul. We reveal truth behind the horizontal plane, the prophetic meaning behind symbols, the truth and lies behind monumental history, the conspiracies and secrets behind the system, the human condition behind the storm of emotions and conflict, the ebb and flow of the universe, the darkness and the light of life itself. We unlock minds so that they too can live a little more.

Art2-Blackroom.png

If someone asks, why must you write? my response is that my heart aches for those who are lost, hurt and broken; those who are blind and see no future; those who have fallen into the clutches of the tyranny of the system; those who are drained everyday of individuality, life and hope; those who can love no more and fight no more. To those, I must extend a hand, send a letter and open a window, however large or small. I have a conviction that I must provide what I’ve come to see and understand, share how I’ve grown, how my mind has matured, the philosophies and visions I’ve developed and received, a worldview on society, human life and the system around that decays. I wish to at least help my readers, one at a time, towards new perception, a new consciousness, one that will give and breathe life.

Design1-Concept.jpgDesign2-Abstract.jpg

Icon2-Leaf.png by the river

SHE WAS SWEEPING her fingers along the surface. It was a little strange to see—almost as if she couldn’t actually wet them, because the water was some sort of elastic membrane. If she had pressed down, it would only warp and indent and repel her touch like a blanket covering something secretive. She was talking about the rock, not the water though.

You see the rock? she said.

What rock?

That one. She pointed. Her lips turned up in an ambiguous smile. It reminded me of hazy fog in the mornings. It’s half pink, the other half like charcoal. Flat at the top but round on all sides, as if you were to cut a bowling ball down the middle. It’s sitting alone.

Oh, that one. What about it?

She twirled strands of her hair with a wet finger.

Do you ever wonder where it came from?

I said nothing. The sound of the creek gurgled in response. To me, it seemed startlingly similar to one of Schumann’s piano sonatas we had been listening to earlier at the cottage.

I’ve begun to wonder about everything. But especially rocks, she said.

Why rocks?

Because they’re so silent and stoic. No one really pays them any attention.

I pulled a piece of grass from the ground and crouched down next to her. She was watching the rock intently. I watched her.

They look so permanent and eternal, like they were designed by someone, something a long time ago and installed there. There are large rocks, small rocks, great boulders and canyons and mountains and cliffs and heaps and pebbles and stones you kick around. And they appear to us that way, as they are. We only see them in one state, one form. We see that half bowling ball: from our point of view, that’s the way it will be now ‘til we die.

I looked at her. But they are only a small fraction of something, is what you’re saying.

She slipped her fingers through mine. They’re warm. Someone once told me a story, I can’t remember who, I think maybe it was a teacher in elementary school—anyway, there was a rock a kid found in the backyard in their little man-made pond.

Must have been a rich kid, I said.

It was quite round, as if a pâtissier were kneading it as dough. It was the only blue stone in the entire pond, so no wonder it attracted the boy’s attention. She looked off into the trees in the distance for a while. They seemed almost two-dimensional, like cardboard cutouts or as if a giant printing press had stamped them into the horizon. A dozen tiny birds fluttered in the air. The sun started to fade behind a sheen of clouds.

"When he lifted it up against sunlight, it would glisten and sparkle. The boy was convinced it was a marble of some sort, or a magical gem. In any case, he played with it and carried it around in his pocket for a long time. He loved it and would put it on the table whenever he had a