Arranging Coincidences

The World Cup has finally come to an end.

I am sure I am not the only one who feels as though the world has suddenly become quiet.

Every day brought dramatic matches, exposed us to the names of countries we didn’t know, surprised us with the plays of athletes we were seeing for the first time, and turned our attention toward the streets, history, and culture of distant lands we wouldn't normally pay any mind to.

When something caught my interest, I would look at a map of the participating countries, research the players' roots, or browse their local music, food, and streetscapes on Google Maps.

Even though I was just watching soccer, I felt as if I had been whisked away to a world outside of my own usual sphere of interest.

If there is such a thing as "World Cup loss," perhaps it is not just the sadness of having no more matches to watch, but the feeling that a door to the world, which had been held open during the tournament, has now closed.

Time Spent Touching the World Outside

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about the way we take in information.

We live in such a convenient era. As a child who loved Japanese dictionaries, I find it amazing that today, if I am curious about something, I can look it up faster than I could have ever done with a heavy desk dictionary in my hands.

I can instantly search for the name of an unknown athlete, and their career history, the club they belong to, match highlights, and interview videos all appear. If I hear a song that catches my ear, I can listen to it on the spot. If I want something, I can quickly find out where it's sold and how much it costs; if there’s a place I want to visit, photos, maps, and reviews are right at my fingertips.

I realize again and again how truly incredible this is.

When I was young, that was impossible.

If I was curious about something, I couldn't reach the answer immediately. I had to go to a bookstore, visit a library, search through back issues of magazines, or go and ask someone who seemed knowledgeable. I would ask the staff at a record shop, borrow from a friend, or sometimes even buy something without really knowing what it was.

Looking back, I realize I took many long detours.

But during those detours, there were many coincidences.

Next to the book I was looking for, a book by an author I had never heard of would be sitting on the shelf. In the magazine I bought to read one specific article, there would be features on music, clothes, or travel that I had absolutely no interest in. When looking for an album by a favorite artist at a record shop, another record jacket on the same shelf might suddenly catch my eye.

Such things happened often in daily life.

Information was scarce,
it was very inconvenient,
and I think the efficiency was quite poor.

However, within that inconvenience lay the potential for coincidental encounters with things I didn't yet know, and I realize now that I was subconsciously enjoying that process very much.

What the Shelves Taught Me

For me, one of the places that first taught me this through direct experience was the Village Vanguard flagship store, which closed its doors recently.

Next to Haruki Murakami, Fitzgerald was there as a matter of course. Further along, there was Irving, and if you turned to the other side, John Coltrane was stacked flat on the display.

Come to think of it, those shelves were not just for displaying merchandise.

If you like this author, you should definitely try this author too.
If you are reading this novel, this music might resonate with you someday.
If you are stepping into this world, why not try opening this door next?

It was like a small toy box built from someone’s personal obsessions and experiences.

I feel that I learned not only about books, music, and culture there, but also, at the same time, the art of arranging things.

Drawing lines between seemingly unrelated things.
Intentionally placing unknown items next to each other.
Creating a space where one person's interest can naturally slide into the next.

In today’s terminology, that might be called curation.

But back then, even without knowing that word, simply standing in front of those shelves conveyed something to me.

The world isn't neatly divided by genre;
novels, music, movies, travel, tools, and ideas are all firmly connected somewhere,
and the moment one notices those connections, human curiosity deepens by a degree.

The Village Vanguard flagship store was, for me, the place that taught me that.

Listening in Lines, Not Dots

It was the same with music.

You encounter an artist.
You try buying their latest album. (This is where it is very different from today.)
If you like it, you work your way backward, one album at a time.

From there, you learn which label the album is on,
who is producing it,
which musicians are participating,
and who other artists the same producer has worked with.

In that way, you are lured from one piece of music to another, from one artist to an era, a city, a label, and a vibe.

It was the feeling of dots slowly becoming lines, and eventually, forming a sort of map inside of you.

Today’s music streaming services are truly convenient.
I use them every day myself.

However, the way music reaches us now feels somewhat overly segmented into individual tracks, and quite superficial.

Instead of the cohesive unit of an album, it’s just the one track a service or label wants you to hear.
Playback counts over context.
Momentary reactions over flow.

It seems like a new system, but at times I feel a sense of outdatedness, as if we have returned to the era of listening to Showa-era hit songs on television.

An album has its own time.

By gazing at the jacket, reading the credits, and imagining the era in which it was recorded, music becomes more than just sound.

It was closer to the feeling of diving into information rather than just consuming it.

What We Lose in an Era of Search

In this day and age, we can access the information we are curious about instantly.

That is a tremendous freedom.

But at the same time, we have reached a point where we can live our lives without ever really touching anything we aren't already curious about.

Search engines only take you where the words you type lead.
Social media presents you with information similar to what you have already reacted to, one after another.
Videos, music, and news all return content that is closer to your past self, ever more intensely.

It is comfortable and undeniably convenient.

But amidst that convenience, haven't the opportunities for happy accidents—the "serendipity"—decreased significantly?

Old media, like newspapers, magazines, and television, has a certain kind of clutter.
Next to an article you are interested in, there is a political piece you have no interest in at all.
Beside the sports page, there is news from a country you have never heard of.
Even though you bought a music magazine, it is mixed with stories about food, fashion, and philosophy.

There are boring things, things you cannot understand, and honestly, useless information there too.

But I believe that is precisely where you find the things that push your interests outward.

The State of Not Being Interested

Lately, when thinking about how we face information, there is one thing that concerns me.

We have become very strong at dealing with the things we are interested in.

We are fast at researching.
There are many ways to dig deeper.
We can explore our favorite subjects at our own pace, until we are satisfied.

That is truly wonderful.

On the other hand, it feels like it has become easier to distance ourselves from things we are not yet interested in.

"I'm not interested."
"It has nothing to do with me."
"I don't really get it."
"So I won't engage."

I don't think this is a matter of individual character at all.

We live in an age where you can choose the things you like, select them yourself, and dig into them at your own timing. At the same time, opportunities to be semi-forcefully exposed to things we don't like, don't understand, or cannot yet put into words have decreased.

If so, perhaps it is not that we are unable to hold interest, but that we are lacking the actual experience of placing ourselves outside of our interests.

People aren't born with interests from the very start.

You happened to see it.
Someone recommended it.
It was sitting next to you.
You didn't know what it was, but you were somehow curious.
By seeing it repeatedly, you gradually began to understand its meaning.

I believe interest grows among such accumulations of coincidences.

If you only choose the things you like from the start, the breadth of your interests will not expand very easily.

That is precisely why it is important to have an awareness that does not reject the unknown, a sense that doesn't immediately discard things you aren't interested in yet, and the action of approaching something just once before deciding it has nothing to do with you.

I believe that is a very important attitude in work, in shop-keeping, and in life itself.

A Shop Is a Place to Arrange Coincidences

This connects directly to the bicycle shop as well.

When a customer comes to the shop, their purpose might be singular:

They want a tire.
They want a light.
They are looking for a bag.
They want to see a new bike.
They need a repair.

But I believe the true fun of a shop lies beyond that initial purpose.

Someone who came for a tire hears a story about an unfamiliar road.
Someone looking for a bag encounters a story about someone else's travels.
Someone who came to look at a complete bike discovers the philosophy of a handlebar, rack, or frame builder.
While waiting for a repair, they become curious about a bike they have never seen before, sitting nearby.

Because those coincidences exist, a shop becomes more than just a place to sell things.

Circles, too, is a place I want to be like that.

If there is any meaning in us continuing to run a shop, I think it is in expanding people’s interests just a little bit through bicycles.

With this tire, you might be able to go down that road.
With this bag, you might feel like traveling a little further.
With this bike, you might head out at a time you never chose before.
If you listen to this person’s story, you might want to start something yourself.

I believe a shop is a place that arranges such possibilities.

It is not a place where you simply hand over the desired product by the shortest distance. It is a place that gently sets out interests that don't even have names yet.

That is also what the shelves at the Village Vanguard flagship store taught me.

Arranging coincidences.

Someone stops in front of those coincidences.
What stopped them eventually becomes a line within them.
The lines increase, and eventually they become a map.
With that map, people can go a little further once again.

To me, I believe a good shop is just that kind of place.

You Can't Go Far With Only Your Favorites

The sense of silence left after the World Cup ended—
perhaps that is the loneliness of the time when we were coincidentally connected to the world coming to an end.

Unknown countries.
Unknown players.
Unknown names.
Unknown streets.
Unknown stories.

Things that I wouldn't have chosen as myself entered me suddenly through the single gateway of the world’s biggest festival.

Such experiences are, after all, important.

Riding a bicycle is surely the same.

Every once in a while, enter an unknown road.
Listen to someone you don't know.
Touch a bike you wouldn't have chosen yourself.
Stop for just a moment in front of something you don't understand.

There are things that can only start from there.

Daring to take detours in a convenient age.
Placing yourself, just a little, outside of your favorites.
Having lines drawn inside you that weren't there before, by someone else's shelves, someone else's words, or someone else's shop.

That is very inefficient.

But there is a richness that can only remain within inefficient things.

Arranging coincidences.

That might be a very important role that shops should hold in the era to come.

Well then, everyone, goodbye for now, and let's meet again.