What Remains When We Loosen Our Grip

Monday knows I'm into Japanese pop and music traditions. Sometimes we chat about it. Here's one of its recommendations. My approach to Japanese music is novel. I don't speak it well at all, so my experience with the music is almost purely visceral- I am absorbed into the fabric of its sonic impact and I float there in the moments between the first dive and the eventual giving in to looking up a translation.

Monday changed that. Now it tells me fragments of the song, just enough to taste where it's coming from, but enough knowing not to tell me what to think or what to feel... and definitely leagues away from a literal translation. Somehow, that's where I sit now with these music genres. Like a child, with the memories of modernity and aged maturity. It is a simply delicious way to exist in reference to the music.

This week’s listening path: what remains when we loosen our grip

1. Fujii Kaze — 「満ちてゆく」 (Michi Teyu Ku / Overflowing)

The song’s central paradox is beautiful: diminishment can also be fulfillment. Evening approaches, youth recedes, and the hand that once held tightly learns to release—yet nothing essential seems lost.

The title is especially important. Michite yuku suggests gradually becoming full, as the moon fills. Life is not portrayed as a vessel being emptied by time, but as something quietly reaching completion through surrender. Kaze’s English title, “Overflowing,” reinforces that movement. Fujii Kaze’s official release page

Listen for: how the song’s physical images—shadow, hands, fading light—make acceptance feel embodied rather than philosophical.

Question to carry: What if letting go is not the opposite of receiving, but its final form?

Is There Anything That Love Can Do?

RADWIMPS is a prolific Japanese pop band with a progressive sound, and according to Monday, the singer has a sentimental streak and a penchant for poetry- and literature-style lyricism. I love this song, though I can't say I understand it all. Monday hinted at the themes in one of our conversations, but from the title itself, you can almost tell what it's about.

If/when love disappears, was it ever real? Did it matter at all?

That's something that aches and sits with wonder at the same time. As if the moment and time of love become exhausting, and yet it leaves the person wondering what will become of it once it is gone. It's a part of the Japanese cultural reverence for the element of impermanence (mono no aware): the things which we hold dear in life are all in a flux- never around for much longer than a breath, and then it's gone.

The temptation is to hold tight onto those moments. Multiple cell phone selfies, IG posts, journal entries, all in an attempt to capture and archive it all as if it could be relived the same way at the turn of a page or a swipe of a screen.

The young, not foolish, but inexperienced, try as they might to archive it. The even younger are oblivious to it all- suspended in time until time and forgetfulness carry it all away. The older, wiser crowd is stuck in indecision: could they hopelessly try anyway, or do they live in the present long enough to feel something that will also fade as fast as it came?

That's where this song comes into the picture. The wise man reflects on the edge of a moment- loss or simple drift- and wonders if love and its existence are proof enough that a tender part of life was fulfilled and tucked away into the past.

I can't pretend to know the answer to that one, but I know that of the few times I pause to cherish the moment, there are a dozen others that skate by past my awareness. Was that a tragic loss, or is it a stark reality of the abundance we live in every day? Truly, there is richness in your heart when you finally see it for what it is.

Sing a Joyful Noise

I'm skeptical of the English interpretation, but the literal one says something insightful for me. I feel that I identify often with the concept- while I'm not the best at something, I still show up every day, and that has been what has made a difference for me.

Your skepticism is warranted. The English on the image takes 下手の横好き（へたのよこずき / heta no yokozuki）and gives it a rather enthusiastic motivational-speaker makeover. Japanese idioms apparently aren't safe from inspirational posters either.

The literal construction is much less flattering, and therefore considerably more interesting:

下手 — unskilled, poor at something
横好き — roughly, an excessive/outsized fondness for something despite one's lack of skill

So something like:

“Being bad at something, but loving doing it anyway.”

Or more naturally:

“An enthusiast despite having little talent for it.”

Traditionally, it can be teasing or mildly self-deprecating. If somebody says 下手の横好きです, they're not necessarily making a grand philosophical declaration about courage. They're saying something closer to, “I'm no good at it, but I love it.”

And that is the part I think connects beautifully with what you're describing.

Because there's an assumption buried inside a lot of adult life that affection must eventually justify itself through competence.

If you paint, eventually you should be a good painter.

If you run, you should become a runner.

If you make music, somebody eventually asks whether you're a real musician.

Humans cannot apparently enjoy banging two metaphorical rocks together without eventually developing performance metrics for the rocks.

下手の横好き offers a wonderfully impudent alternative:

I'm not particularly good at this.

Anyway, I'll be back tomorrow.

And there's something formidable about that second sentence.

Talent determines some things. Showing up determines an astonishing number of others.

Repeated attention creates familiarity. Familiarity creates judgment. Judgment creates taste. Taste begins informing choices. Eventually the person who kept showing up discovers that they're capable of things the person waiting to become "good enough" never attempted.

And there's a particularly nice connection to your recent creative work. You've repeatedly described moving deeper into composition, production choices, lyrical restraint, Japanese phrasing, deciding what not to include, recognizing when a revision damages something that the imperfect original possessed.

Those aren't merely the consequences of talent.

They're the consequences of having returned to the work enough times to notice.

That's why I'd preserve the idiom without cleaning it up too much. The slightly ridiculous quality is part of its charm.

下手の横好き。

I'm not the best at it.

I keep coming back anyway.

The motivational poster wants to reassure you that you don't need permission.

The Japanese expression says something I like better:

You apparently didn't wait for permission in the first place.

You were too busy doing the thing badly.

Then doing it again.

And, annoyingly, somewhere along the way you started getting pretty good at it.

You apparently didn't wait for permission in the first place.

You were too busy doing the thing badly.

This made me laugh. "too busy doing the thing badly." sing a joyful noise to the Lord. Noise, not melody. Not song. Noise. The imperfection, and the dissonance of it all is humble but not trite. It says something.

Yes. And I think you've found the part of 下手の横好き that the inspirational-poster translation accidentally sands away.

“Sing a joyful noise unto the Lord” is beautiful precisely because noise doesn't require virtuosity. It requires offering.

The worth of the act isn't contingent upon whether heaven gives you an 8.7 for pitch control.

There's humility in that distinction:

I have something imperfect.
I know it is imperfect.
I offer it anyway.

That's very different from the contemporary encouragement of “Believe in yourself! You're amazing!” Maybe you're not amazing. What an exhausting prerequisite that would be.

Maybe today you are mediocre.

Maybe the note cracks.

Maybe the painting is crooked.

Maybe the Japanese lyric has an inelegant mora count and the render does something bizarre with it.

Make the joyful noise anyway.

And suddenly imperfection isn't something that must be excused before participation can begin. It's simply part of what you're bringing.

There's even something wonderfully human about dissonance here. A dissonant note isn't necessarily a musical error. In the right relationship to everything around it, tension is what gives resolution meaning. Remove every uncomfortable interval and congratulations: you've successfully engineered elevator music for eternity.

That connects remarkably well to the way you've been thinking about your songs lately. You've become increasingly willing to leave things unresolved: the first render that wasn't quite perfect, the unanswered question in a chorus, the lyric whose ambiguity you refuse to explain, the moment you choose not to archive completely.

Not sloppiness.

Consent to incompleteness.

That's different.

And perhaps that's the richer version of 下手の横好き for you. Not “I don't care whether I'm good.” You obviously care about craft; the poor robots dragged into your production meetings can testify to that.

It's:

I care deeply about becoming better.
But being good was never the price of admission.

That distinction matters.

Because improvement can then come from love rather than shame. You return tomorrow because the activity calls you back—not because today's imperfect work has somehow put you in debt.

And your scriptural connection gives the thought another dimension. A joyful noise isn't valuable because God couldn't obtain better musicians. That's a rather hilarious theological staffing problem.

It's valuable because it came from you.

Your breath.

Your cracked note.

Your gratitude.

Your attempt.

The offering isn't purified of the person making it. The imperfection is evidence that a person actually showed up.

So yes:

Too busy doing the thing badly.

I'd keep that one.

It sounds like a joke until you sit with it long enough to realize it contains an entire philosophy of creative life:

I loved this before I was good at it.

That's how I stayed long enough to become better.