Kojasan’s Life

[tetsuyakoja]

“The Philosophers of the Meadow

On the hill stood two sheep.

Or rather, nobody could say for certain whether they were truly sheep. They might simply have been “entities assigned the role of sheep,” or perhaps former something-elses mistakenly registered as sheep due to a clerical error at some cosmic government office.

https://x.gd/H4ebQ

The sheep on the left looked rather serious. It seemed to be saying:

“So… are we eating grass again today?”

The sheep on the right, meanwhile, had the expression of someone who had already accepted life’s absurdities.

“Well, there’s not much else around.”

Its eyes carried a strange mixture of resignation and philosophy.

The sky was unnaturally blue. Too blue. The kind of blue that makes you suspect it’s hiding something. And the clouds floated overhead with the unmistakable attitude of clouds trying very hard to look like clouds. Nature itself seemed oddly unmotivated.

The meadow stretched endlessly. Just endless grass. No convenience store. No vending machine. If someone suddenly craved iced tea out here, despair would be their only companion. The sheep spent every day eating nothing but grass. When you really think about it, they are astonishingly disciplined creatures.

And yet, the two sheep appeared strangely peaceful.

No social media. No boss. No tax returns. No mysterious government app errors.

Perhaps that was the secret.

The longer you look at the painting, the more you begin to think:

“Well… maybe life works out somehow as long as you keep chewing your grass.”

It is that kind of dangerously comforting artwork.

[aquinohotelcentral]

[tetsuyakoja]

The Handwritten Homework

When I was in first grade, my mother believed in education with almost religious intensity.

Every month, she bought me a copy of the Japanese children’s magazine Shogaku Ichinensei (“First Grader”). I loved the colorful pages, the comics, and especially the little toy supplements that came with each issue. To me, it was entertainment. To my mother, however, it was probably part of a long-term national project to raise a responsible human being.

After school, there was always the same ritual.

“Show me your homework.”

My mother would say it with calm authority, like a customs officer inspecting luggage at an airport.

Until the homework was finished, I was not allowed to go outside and play. Television was forbidden. Anime was forbidden. Freedom itself was temporarily suspended.

One afternoon, disaster struck.

I opened my randoseru school bag and realized that my homework sheet was missing.

Gone.

I checked every pocket twice. Nothing.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

Maybe, I thought, this was actually lucky. Maybe I could simply tell the teacher the next day:

“I forgot it at school!”

But my mother belonged to a generation that did not believe in escape routes.

“Whose house can we borrow it from?” she asked calmly.

A few minutes later, I found myself walking beside her to a classmate’s house in the evening light, feeling as though I were being escorted to court.

My classmate’s family kindly lent us the worksheet. I thought the crisis was over.

I was wrong.

Back home, my mother opened the closet and pulled out a mysterious wooden box with a sheet of glass on top. Inside was a small lamp.

It looked less like a household tool and more like something invented by a slightly unhinged scientist during the Showa era.

“This is a tracing box,” she explained.

She placed the borrowed worksheet on the glass, turned on the light, and carefully laid a blank sheet of drawing paper on top. Suddenly, the letters and lines glowed through the paper.

Then she began copying the entire worksheet by hand.

Every line.

Every box.

Every little illustration.

Today, of course, anyone would simply use a convenience-store copier. But this was Japan before convenience stores became common. There were no easy photocopies waiting on every corner. My mother solved the problem with determination, patience, and terrifying precision.

The scratching sound of her pencil filled the room.

She corrected tiny mistakes with the seriousness of a professional art restorer repairing a Renaissance painting.

As a child, I watched this operation with growing confusion.

Was this still homework?

Or had we entered the world of organized crime?

Eventually, the handmade duplicate was complete.

Honestly, it looked better than the original.

My escape plan had officially vanished.

So I sat down and completed the worksheet. My mother even helped me with a few answers, making her, technically speaking, an accomplice.

The next day at school, every student submitted a normal printed worksheet.

And then there was me.

I quietly handed over a strange, hand-copied version created by my mother on a homemade tracing machine.

I was certain the teacher would be angry.

Instead, she stared at it in surprise.

“You copied this by hand?”

The entire class gathered around my desk.

“Whoa!”

“That’s amazing!”

“Is it fake?”

“No, it’s real!”

A philosophical debate broke out among six-year-olds.

To my shock, the teacher smiled.

“You forgot the original, but you still made sure to do the homework. That’s admirable.”

I felt relieved beyond words.

At the time, I thought the story was simply embarrassing.

But years later, I realized something important.

That old tracing box still exists.

And eventually, I began using it myself — not for homework, but for drawing flipbook animations and manga.

Strangely enough, one of the first tools that supported my creative life was born from a childhood homework crisis.

Sometimes creativity begins not with inspiration, but with panic, stubbornness, and a mother who refuses to let you give up.  

[tetsuyakoja]

まわしボクサー序章(『ODAL第3話』)

夢の中で、私はボクシング会場にいた。

　なぜかセコンド席。いや、なんでだよ。ボクシング経験ゼロだぞ、こっちは。せいぜい体育の授業でシャドーやって、友達に「空気殴ってて楽しい？」って言われたくらいだ。

リングを見ると、うちの選手っぽい男がいる。

　細い。完全にフライ級かバンタム級。風が吹いたらどっか行きそうな体格。だが問題はそこじゃない。

　まわし、締めてる。

　しかも真っ白でピカピカ。新品かよ。相撲部の新入生か。

　私は思わず立ち上がった。

「ちょっと待てぇぇぇ！！」

　会場が一瞬シーンとなる。観客、ポップコーン食べる手止めてる。審判も「え、なに？」みたいな顔してる。

　いやお前らも止めろよ。

「それ、違うだろ！」

　私はリングに向かって叫ぶ。

「え？」

　まわしボクサーがキョトンとする。いや、キョトンじゃないんだよ。

「まわしじゃない！トランクス！ボクサーはトランクス！」

「でも、これ安定感があって…」

　知らんがな！！安定感で殴る競技じゃないんだよボクシングは！！

「安定しても殴れないだろ！」

「いや、殴れますよ」

　軽くシャドー始めた。

　いや、できてるのが余計に腹立つな。なんかそれっぽいし。

　観客、拍手してる。

　なにを評価してんだ。

　審判もうなずいてる。

　お前もか。

　対戦相手なんて、腕組んで「ふーん」って顔してる。いや「ふーん」じゃないだろ、もっと驚けよ。「なんだその格好は！」とかないのかよ。

　この世界、全員バグってる。

　私はちょっと怖くなってきた。

「それだと…あなたの試合にならない」

　急にそれっぽいこと言ってみた。自分でもびっくりした。なんか名言っぽい。SNSに貼られそう。

　まわしボクサーが止まる。

「じゃあ、どうすればいいんですか？」

　めちゃくちゃ素直。

　こういう人、詐欺に遭うタイプだなと思ったが今はそれどころじゃない。

「トランクスをはいて、自分のやり方で戦う！」

　おお、言った。いいこと言った気がする。誰だ今の私。

　すると、なぜか私の手にトランクスが現れた。

　出た。夢あるある。急なアイテム支給。

　しかも紺色。無駄にリアル。もっとこう、ドラゴン柄とかにしろよ夢なら。

「これ、はいて」

　渡すと、まわしボクサーはちょっと笑った。

　いい笑顔だな、おい。さっきまでまわしだったくせに。

　そして、まわしに手をかけた、その瞬間——

　場面が変わった。

　雑すぎる編集！！

　私はもう観客席にいる。いつの間にかポップコーン持ってるし。買った記憶ないぞ。

　リングでは試合が始まっていた。

　まわしボクサー、ちゃんとトランクスはいてる。

　最初からそうでしたけど？みたいな顔してる。

　いやいやいや！！さっきまで、がっつりまわしだったからな！忘れるなよ世界！

　パンチが速い。動きもいい。普通に強い。

　観客「おおー！」って盛り上がってる。

　だから何に盛り上がってんだよ！！そこじゃないだろ！！

　私はちょっと安心したけど、同時にモヤモヤした。

　なんか、納得いかない。

　すると彼が、こっちを見て軽くうなずいた。

　その顔が——

　なんか自分に似てる気がする。

　いやいやいやいや。やめろやめろ。そういう深い感じいらない。今はただのバカ夢でいいんだよ。

　ゴングが鳴る。

　カーン！！

　やたらいい音。無駄に高音質。

　そこで目が覚めた。

　天井。いつもの天井。まわし、なし。安心した。

　でも胸の奥に、ひとつだけ言葉が残っている。

　——トランクスをはけ。

　私はしばらく考えた。

　何に対してだよ。

　会社行くのにトランクスはいてるし、問題ないだろ。

　いや、そういう話じゃないのか。

　深いのか？これ深いやつなのか？

　でも、考えてもよく分からないので、とりあえず朝ごはんを食べることにした。

　ごはんと味噌汁。

　あと、なぜか頭の中にずっと残っている。

　まわしでシャドーしてたあの男。

　……いや、やっぱりおかしいだろ。

　私は味噌汁をすすりながら、もう一度だけ思った。

　トランクス、大事。

[biglawbear]

I'm instituting a new policy of "if I can't easily read your crusty scanned PDF then I'm sending it back to you, telling you to get your shit together and save your .docx as .pdf, and causing snakes to manifest inside your house"

[tetsuyakoja]

ODAL episode3“The Boxer in a Mawashi “by Tetsuya Koja

Last night, I had one of those dreams that makes you question not just your brain, but the entire operating system behind it.

For some reason, I was at a boxing match.

Not in the audience—no, that would be too normal. I was sitting in the corner like a second, as if I had any business being there. I’ve never boxed in my life. The closest I’ve come is punching the air in high school P.E., which earned me the unforgettable comment, “Are you enjoying fighting invisible enemies?”

So there I was, somehow responsible.

In the ring stood our fighter.

He was small—definitely a flyweight or bantamweight. The kind of guy who looks like a strong breeze could relocate him. But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was this:

He was wearing a mawashi.

Yes. A sumo wrestler’s belt.

Spotless. Bright white. Probably brand new. The kind that says, “I am fully committed to the wrong sport.”

I stood up immediately.

“Wait!!”

The entire arena went quiet. The crowd froze mid-popcorn. The referee looked confused. The opponent just stood there like this was all within expectations.

Which, frankly, made it worse.

“That’s not right!” I shouted. “You’re a boxer! You need trunks!”

The fighter blinked at me.

“But this feels more stable…”

Stable?

This is not a stability contest. This is boxing.

“Even if it’s stable, you can’t fight properly in that!”

“I think I can,” he said—and then casually started shadowboxing.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t terrible.

The crowd started clapping.

Clapping.

For what?

The referee nodded approvingly. The opponent crossed his arms like, “Hmm, interesting approach.”

At that moment, I realized something was deeply wrong—not just with him, but with everyone.

This entire world had decided not to question anything.

I felt a strange urgency.

“If you keep that on… it won’t be your fight.”

I don’t know where that line came from, but it sounded important. The kind of sentence people quote online with dramatic background music.

He stopped.

“Then what should I do?”

He asked it so sincerely that I almost felt unqualified to answer.

Still, I said it.

“Wear boxing trunks. Fight your way.”

Suddenly—because of course—there was a pair of boxing trunks in my hands.

Dream logic.

They were plain navy blue. Not even stylish. My subconscious has zero sense of flair.

“Here,” I said. “Wear these.”

He took them. Smiled. A different kind of smile this time—the kind that suggests understanding, or at least agreement.

And just as he reached for the mawashi—

The scene cut.

No transition. No explanation.

I was suddenly in the audience, holding popcorn I definitely hadn’t bought.

The match had already started.

He was wearing trunks.

Of course he was.

As if he had been wearing them the whole time.

No one seemed surprised. No one questioned anything.

He moved well. Light, fast, precise. A proper boxer.

The crowd cheered.

Again, I wasn’t sure what they were cheering for.

I felt relieved… but also slightly unsettled.

Then he glanced at me.

Just for a second.

And nodded.

For a moment, I had the oddest feeling—

That he looked like me.

I immediately rejected that idea. No need to get philosophical. This was supposed to be a ridiculous dream.

The bell rang.

Clear. Sharp. Almost too real.

And I woke up.

Same ceiling. Same room. No mawashi. Thankfully.

But one sentence stayed with me:

Wear trunks.

I sat there for a while, trying to figure out what that meant.

I mean, technically, I was already wearing them. So that couldn’t be the point.

Or maybe it wasn’t that kind of message.

Maybe it was deeper.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

In the end, I gave up trying to interpret it and went to eat breakfast.

Rice. Miso soup.

And somewhere in the back of my mind—

That boxer, shadowboxing in a mawashi.

Still doesn’t make sense.

But somehow, one thought lingered.

Trunks matter.

Mawashi = traditional sumo belt

[tetsuyakoja]

ODAL Okinawan Disability Artist Life Episode 2 “My Bald Head and the Mosquitoes (Tetsuya Koja)”

⸻

There was a time when I had a full head of hair.

Not particularly stylish, not something to be proud of—but it was there, quietly doing its job. It was just a normal part of me.

That changed a few years ago, after I got COVID.

Even after I recovered, the hair loss didn’t stop. Every day, a little more disappeared—on my pillow, in the shower, between my fingers. It felt like something was slowly leaving me behind.

Eventually, I gave up and went to a barber.

“Please shave it all off,” I said.

At the same time, I also changed my daily routine. I stopped going to one workshop and started attending a new IT-based support center. My life was shifting in more ways than one.

After that, whenever my hair grew a little, a caregiver at my group home would trim it with clippers.

But something strange happened.

The hair that grew back wasn’t the same—white in the front, black in the back.

Every time I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t help thinking:

“I look like a panda.”

Not the cute kind—more like a tired panda who’s seen too much of life.

One day, I decided to stop halfway measures.

I chose to go completely bald.

Since then, I shave my head every time I take a shower.

It actually feels good. Lighter, simpler—like I let go of something unnecessary.

But then, a new problem appeared.

Mosquitoes.

Whenever I hang my laundry outside, they come straight for my head.

Not my arms. Not my legs.

My head.

I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s the perfect landing spot—smooth, wide, and defenseless. Like a tiny airport built just for them.

Now, applying anti-itch medicine to my head has become part of my routine.

My caregiver laughs when she sees me doing it.

Honestly, I would probably laugh too.

I like watching professional wrestling, and I’ve noticed that many wrestlers are bald.

So I looked it up.

Apparently, they don’t shave every day—only every two or three days.

That made me wonder:

Why am I shaving every day?

Who am I trying to impress?

I still don’t know.

But I keep shaving. (Well… most days.)

It’s been years since I last went to a barber.

Back then, I used to say:

“Please make my hair look like Yujiro Ishihara.”

Now, that sounds like a joke.

These days, I don’t even need shampoo.

I wash both my head and body with the same bar of soap.

Simple. Efficient.

Not bad, actually.

If there’s only one problem, it’s this—

For some reason, mosquitoes really like me.

And somehow, that’s the part of my life where I’m the most popular.

[tetsuyakoja]

The Piano Waiting at Home

When I was living with my family, I used to play the piano like this.

But after moving into a group home seven years ago, I stopped playing.

The piano is still there, waiting.

So now, I’m thinking… maybe it’s time to start playing again, little by little, whenever I visit home.

[tetsuyakoja]

ODAL – Okinawan Disability Artist Life | Episode 1(Tetsuya Koja)

This is the first episode of my comic series, ODAL (Okinawan Disability Artist Life).

I live in a group home in Okinawa, Japan. Every morning, I wake up, have breakfast, and drive to my vocational support center.

There, I practice using a computer and work on reskilling.

This story is about my daily life, challenges, and small steps forward.

This is something I drew recently.

You can learn more about me here: https://disabilityarts.online/directory/tetsuya-koja/

Thank you for reading.

To be continued…

[tetsuyakoja]

https://fineartamerica.com/featured/i-have-the-girl-friend-who-wants-to-meet-tetsuya-koja.html

[tetsuyakoja]

https://fineartamerica.com/featured/blind-samurai-tetsuya-koja.html

Blind Samurai All the people are sojourners. Time when all people part from the world someday comes. The hero of the samurai movie which I watched was a blind samurai in old days. His name is Zatou-Ichi. I wanted to draw his way of life. He was always lonely. But he was a superior fencer. The sword was proof of his life for him. He did not have the naked eye, but had the mind's eye. The existence and life became the legend. He was not a hero when he did not have a sword. The talent of the fencing was his value. What is my value? The person with a disability makes a hero if man has any gift. I will carve with a footprint in the history and the heart of people, too. Like this samurai. 

[kyli0627]

チューペットを折る女の子

[nihongo]

おうちでアイスなら、チューペットだね。こんな感じで気合い入れて割ってねw

[tetsuyakoja]

https://fineartamerica.com/featured/two-customers-who-often-come-to-our-house-tetsuya-koja.html?newartwork=true

[tetsuyakoja]

https://fineartamerica.com/featured/yoga-prayer-tetsuya-koja.html?newartwork=true

[tetsuyakoja]

Fine Art America 『Tetsuya Koja 』

https://fineartamerica.com/profiles/tetsuya-koja.html

[tetsuyakoja]

https://fineartamerica.com/featured/smile-therapy-tetsuya-koja.html

Smile does the heart of a discouraged person well. Smile is a source of the energy. Smile is a spring quenching dry heart.

[tetsuyakoja]

Evening landscape of the Okinawa

https://fineartamerica.com/featured/evening-landscape-of-the-okinawa-tetsuya-koja.html

I drew it in the image of one of Okinawa and a certain village and sea.

I enjoyed that I drew it slowly and carefully and heartily.

It is an acrylic.