My iCloud files are gone, but thankfully I had backed up all of my fiction. This is from 2004's unpublished novel, "To Speak Is to Not See" (the emphasis on "not")...

(Detective M. now recalls, by some oblique association, the wonder he had felt as a child upon discovering that if one pulled some of the feelers from a fly’s underside the others would still continue moving, or that one could burn leaves—even insects—with a magnifying glass and some sunlight. He had always wanted to be a scientist when he grew up, to study the unshakable “Laws of Physics,” and thereby to follow in the footsteps of the great—albeit clinically insane—Sir Isaac Newton. His parents had taught him that the Law of God, their God, governed all other laws, including those of physics, and that if He wanted to, He—though the detective had always imagined God to be a woman with large breasts and wide hips—could countermand them at any time, could literally change all the rules of the game without any warning or explanation whatsoever. This idea had stayed with the detective, though of course he didn’t really put any credence in it.)

Posted to FB (friends-only) on Sept. 19, 2024

When I was little, I used to think, "If only I could complete a single [X] (i.e. novel, musical composition/album, etc.), what a wonder my life would be."

I thought that if I could ever be "good at" just one thing -- something related to literature or music, since I never cared for sports or any of that -- people would recognize my "talent" and I would always be surrounded by friends and supporters and etc.

You know, the fantasy of a lonely, asthmatic kid who never got picked for the team (here's a tissue)...

In my twenties and thirties, I gave up on playing music almost entirely (in middle and high school I had been a drummer and occasional vocalist, though I did not write my own music) and focused almost entirely on language and literature study. I got married early and the only time I sang was at home or in the shower, but sing I did. Often. Or shout (if it was Nine Inch Nails, and no one was around to hear it!).

In my forties, after obtaining my second MA (an MFA in creative writing) and returning to Japan to teach at university, where I had for several years lived off and on between studying at uni/grad school, something inside me broke. I joined a rock band in late 2014 (as vocalist-only, for the first time, instead of as a drummer, something I'd always dreamed of doing/being), put 110% of myself into it, and in the end was disappointed when the bulk of the songs I began writing "a cappella" (before I could play the guitar or piano) were never arranged or performed by the band.

After two years of this, I bought my first acoustic, and less than a year later I had assembled my own band. (Soon thereafter I also bought the Telecaster - electric - that, to this day, I own and use occasionally for recording and/or live performances). I realized, after the band fired me from my own band less than a year later, that the people who had been coming to our shows were not coming either for me or for my songs/performances, but for the other three members of the band, with whom they were friends.

That was the reality of it. Boom.

Post-band, I formed various smaller projects -- using electronic backing, drum machines, whatever worked for me -- and did solo things, either with backing or just acoustic-vocal. People generally did not come, nor did they respond on SNS. In early 2019 a "stalker" who thought it would be funny to try and smear me by putting a bunch of mocking videos on YouTube and other social media sources using my name and image appeared. He had been friends with my ex-bandmates, and I guess he didn't like my music (?)...

Covid came in 2020, shortly after I moved to Tokyo for work, and I again had to move to another apartment (my current place of over four years now) after a bitter breakup. I continued to make music on my own, realizing that nothing I did would change the way the outside world "was" or that I would likely not gain any sort of fanbase by doing the music I did/do. During the pandemic, music was the only thing that kept me from throwing in the towel. That and listening to talks about how NOT to depend on others/external things. I realized, then, that all of the BS external stuff that was making me so frustrated was just that: a veneer, a mask, a deception.

FF to 2024. The music has evolved/changed, but the situation has not.

I feel very much supported by a small handful of people who respect what I do. By and large, however, nothing has really changed at all. The way I respond has changed, but nothing "objectively" has...

Going back to "when I was little" for a moment...

When I was writing day and night, obsessed and possessed by the written word, I completed several collections of short stories and novellas over a period of several years, as well as a longer novel. Most remain unpublished to this day.

And since I started writing and recording (and mixing and designing artwork for, etc.) my own musical material, I have produced -- on my own -- more LPs than I myself can literally count or recall. I have performed hundreds of live shows, both solo and in collaboration with others, over a span of around 10 years (maybe slightly less than 10...). But nothing has really changed at all, except the quality of the music, the production, and what is inside of me.

That idea that "If I am good at one thing..." or "If I can only see this one project to completion..." was completely naive and, well, incorrect. A very childish idea, indeed. The most surprising part for me has been, over time, that I had so much more than only "one [X]" in me after all. Music (and writing, and video work, and...well, CREATIVITY) have become the reason that I still bother to wake up in the morning. And all of the commercial stuff really sucks, you know? I mean, no one seems to have the focus for anything of any real substance anymore, and everything is about instant gratification and profit.

Let me tell everyone here a little secret: FB is actually quite depressing to me.

I am beyond caring very much about thumbs up and so on, either here or on other platforms (the only time I've ever gotten them is when I post photos of food or my daughter, never for creative endeavors). But when you put 110% into your music, your visuals, your production, your ART (which is the expression of one's deepest aspects)... You do everything possible to make your art the best that it can be, and you get almost no response and no turnout at shows...

Well, it's "Turn and turn again (I shake!)"...

Do it, or quit. I have no choice, since if I quit my life loses all meaning entire.

It's funny to me how the very second some influencer says something is good and puts it on social media, everyone else jumps on the bandwagon, and then everything that the person who, five minutes ago, was an unknown says or does is repeated or imitated by everyone else. It's like, "Bowie was a GENIUS!" (he was) or "Elon Musk is a GENIUS!" (he isn't) and so then everyone is supposed to never question anything they did (like the awful Glass Spider tour of '87, or Musk's Neuralink trials, for which he tortured and slaughtered animals needlessly in order to bring Orwellian Mind Control to the masses).

It's the same thing when bands try and cover other bands' material. Instead of creatively reinterpreting, they get stuck on the chords and using sheet music. Status quo is boring.

You know, you really have to kill your ego, sit back, enjoy the moments you can, and laugh at the absurdity of this place we call "Reality." As Alan Watts once said, "Don't worry, it's all a show."

 I wrote a new story last night, the first in a very long time. I would like to share it with you here, now.

Angel Integers

Marc Lowe

Suddenly, he awoke.

3:33 a.m.

Groaning slightly, he rolled over onto his side.

The bed was, as always, empty. Save himself. 

Just as it had been, now, for three and a half years.

Every night this week, for three nights in a row (or should it be “three mornings”?), he had woken suddenly.

And every night, when he turned on the small bedlight and glanced over at his digital clock, it read:

3:33 a.m.

What in the world, he wondered, could this mean?

Perhaps, he told himself, it meant nothing.

Absolutely nothing at all.

But he had this nagging feeling inside him that there was some sort of message here, some sort of sign that he was being asked to decode.

If so, though, he thought to himself, a message from whom?

And also why was he “being asked” to decode it?

He tried to go back to sleep. Closed his eyes. Breathed slow and deep into the bottom of his belly.

No use.

Useless even to try.

Sleep did not — would not — come, just as it hadn’t come the night before. And the night before that, too.

He was tired. He wanted no more than to sleep.

The pattern repeating itself for three consecutive nights.

3:33, the clock had read.

What time was it now?

3:44.

Apparently only ten minutes had passed. It felt as if it had been much longer.

Ah…whatever, he thought to himself aloud, speaking to no one (or were his words heard only by him, inside his head? Had he actually aspirated them, or only thought them to himself? Did it matter, since no one else was around to hear them, anyway? If a tree falls in the forest… Etc.). 

He got out of bed, turned on the light.

I am so tired, he said aloud (or perhaps he only thought it to himself, or, alternately, perhaps, and again, he first thought and then said it — aloud — to no one and for no logical reason).

It was no use overthinking, he told himself.

Overthinking never got anyone anywhere, he said aloud this time (to himself, to no one).

Indeed, someone, somewhere answered.

(No, no. That was impossible. No one else was in the room. He lived alone, had always lived alone. Hadn’t he always been alone here?)

No one answered.

He must have answered his own statement. There was no other explanation for it (he reasoned with himself).

Funny, that, since it wasn’t even a question to begin with, and so required no answer.

Yet an answer (or perhaps a response, at least) had come.

Indeed.

Just this.

Indeed.

3:33 a.m.

What time was it now?

He glanced back at the digital clock, which was still there beside the bed on his nightstand (why would he expect it to be anywhere else, after all…), over on the opposite side of the room, opposite to where he was now standing.

But wait. Where was he now standing? Was he even standing now?

Wait a minute…

No, not just for a minute. 

(Slight sense of panic.)

Where was he now? And what time was it?

He opened his eyes. Still lying in bed.

He turned on the light, glanced over at the clock.

3:33 a.m. it blinked.

The man sat up in bed, stiff as a rod.

What’s going on? he thought to himself.

What’s going on? he answered himself (this time aspirating the words, the three words emerging as three separate soundbytes, one after the other in sequence…).

Suddenly, and inexplicably, he began recounting a long-forgotten childhood memory.

(When he had been 11 years old, his father had brought him to a carnival.

At the carnival, he had wanted cotton candy.

The father had said, Son, your mother will kill me if I let you eat that. You know that you are not allowed to eat sweets.

The man (i.e. the boy) said to his father, But Dad, I want it. Can’t I have it?

The father said, Son, your mother will murder me if I buy you that.)

He was awake now. Lying in bed.

The clock was still blinking.

3:33

3:33

3:33

What is the meaning of this? the man now screamed aloud, despite himself.

The walls reverberated with the sound.

The clock continued to blink 3:33.

And now, a siren began to wail in the distance.

At the same time, the man’s phone began to ring.

(Bizarre timing, the man now thought to himself without, however, voicing this thought aloud.)

He thought it best to ignore the call.

He wanted badly to just ignore it.

He let it ring.

And ring.

And ring.

After several minutes (three? or was it more than that?) he gave in to the incessant buzzing and answered.

Here is your sign, a rather hoarse and broken voice (male or female, it was difficult to tell) at the other end intoned.

Before the man could respond, the line went dead.

The ambulance siren had long gone silent.

The man got up from the bed, walked over to the window.

He opened the blinds to reveal that the glass behind it was now frosted over with a thin sheet of frosty white icing.

Here is your sign…

What could all of this mean? he thought to himself.

(And why was his window frosted over? Wasn’t it still summer? Or had the seasons changed and he had merely not noticed until this moment?)

Returning to bed the man closed his eyes, pulled the covers over his head, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

August 7, 2024

Tokyo, Japan