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8/31 「無題」

ストックホルム　ガムラスタン

玉石敷きに落ちる雑踏

8/31 "Untitled"

Stockholm - Gamla stan

The footsteps of the crowds fall upon an expanse of rounded stones

8/31

もうインクも残り僅かになった。旅の間に書き溜めた詩と、写真をこの箱に入れておこうと思う。

この国は街角一つ撮っても、何処か懐かしい匂いがする。写真の腕はてんで駄目だけれど、神のないものだけでも印刷しておいた。

エルマ、この箱に入れた詩と曲は全て君のものだから、自由にしてくれて良い。きっと僕にはもう必要ない。

最後まで僕はこれだ。何処まで往っても作品のことばかりで、利己的で厭世家を気取る、芸術狂いの醜い化け物。

そうだ、結局僕には音楽しかなかっ

8/31

My ink has nearly run dry. I think I'll put the songs I've written while traveling in this box, along with some photos.

In this country, even just taking a picture of a single street corner creates a sense of nostalgia, somehow. My photography skills are completely nonexistent, but though there can be no god in these, I went ahead and printed them out.

Elma, the lyrics and melodies in this box all belong to you, so please, for me, use them however you'd like. I have no use for them anymore.

This is what I am, up to the very end. Nothing but my work, no matter how far I go; selfish, playing at pessimism, a hideous art-obsessed monster.

It's true - in the end, there was nothing for me but musi-

3/14

窓際から身を乗り出したときに見えた空が余りにも良く澄んでいたものだから、ふと君のことを思い出して、手紙を認めようと思った。確かにそれが始まりではあったけれど、今思えば逃避に近いかもしれない。何から逃げたかったのかって、君ならわかるだろう。社会とか、関わりとか、友人とか、バイトとか、人生とか。要は全部だよ。その前にそうだ。驚くかもしれないけど、最近、家事を覚えたんだ。以前は洗濯機だって碌に回さなかった、僕がだよ。人間っていうのは、ゆっくりでも変わって行くんだろうね。

君の言った通りだったよ、エルマ。一日は呆気ないほど短いし、ただ生きるにも長い。このまま夏だって終わって往くんだと思うと、１００年あっても真面な物なんて作れないんじゃないかという心地になる。実のところ、ずっと続けてたバイトも辞めた。去年の八月の初めに。

エルマ、きっと人生はどうにもならないとの方が多い。５０の努かじゃ１０の才能には敵わないし、どれだけ悔いても失敗から成功への不可逆性は変えられない。言葉は銃弾には叶わない。病気は奇跡じゃ治らない。

それでも、音楽だけは違うと思ってたんだ。だって音楽は芸術じゃないか。人の為であるものを作れ。より良く評価の得られるものを！なんていう、鼻持ちならない拝金主義者共の言う限りじゃない。オスカーワイルドの言った通りなんだ。決してひび割れた鏡に映るものなんかじゃなかった。^[1]

芸術が人生を真似るんじゃないんだ。人生が「芸術を模倣」する。

でも、最近よく思うんだよ。結局のところ生活がなかったら、物を作るこの身体がなかったら、何も物は生まれないんだ。どう足掻いても僕から生まれるものは全て僕の心、生活、体験に由来していて、僕の芸術はそのまま人生に紐付いてしまう。本当の鏡であるかのように。

これじゃ、ただの日記なんだよ。エルマ。

僕の中では確かに芸術である筈なのに。オスカーの否定したそれにとても近い。だからかな。

その矛盾がずっと、苦しかった。音楽が楽しくなくなったんだ。

エルマ、君はどう思うんだろうか。

3/14

When I leaned out over the windowsill, the sky looked so crystal clear that I suddenly thought of you, and decided I'd acknowledge your letter. That was the beginning of it all, it's true, but thinking about it now, it was probably also something close to escapism. Escaping from what, one might ask, but I'm sure you know. Society, connection, friends, work, life, etc. Everything, essentially. But before getting into all that - it may surprise you to hear, but recently, I learned to do chores. Before, I barely ever even turned on the washing machine! I guess people really do change, don't they, even if they only do so slowly.

It's just like you said, Elma. A single day is pitifully brief, but life is long. When I think about how the summer is going to come to an end like this, I get the feeling that even if I had 100 years, I'd never be able to make anything worthwhile. Actually, that part-time job I had for all that time - I quit. Last year, at the beginning of August.

Elma, I'm sure that most lives amount to nothing. 50 years of hard work will never be a match for 10 years of talent, and no amount of regret will make it possible to transform a failure into a success. Words are no answer to bullets. Illnesses aren't cured by miracles.

Even so, I always thought that music alone was different. After all, music is art, isn't it? It can't be contained by the words of those repulsive money-worshipers: "Make something for the sake of others. Something that can get better reviews!" It's as Oscar Wilde said - in no way is music just something reflected in a cracked looking glass.^[1]

Art doesn't imitate life. Life "emulates" art.

But, there's something I've been thinking a lot recently. In the end, if I don't have a living, if I don't have a body to make things, nothing can come from me. No matter how much I struggle, everything that comes from me originates in my soul, my livelihood, my experiences, and so my art is completely bound to human life. As if it really is a mirror.

That means this is nothing more than a diary, Elma.

Surely, though, there must be art inside me. But it's very close to being what Oscar denied. Maybe that's why.

That contradiction has been painful to me, always. Music stopped being fun.

Elma, I wonder what you think of that.