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はてなキーワード: HERとは
これは弥助問題の元ネタ論文でも何でもない可能性が高いので，論文をちゃんと読んでください。
っていうか，こういったテーマについては，藤田みどり『アフリカ「発見」――日本におけるアフリカ像の変遷』（岩波書店，2005年）っていう研究書がちゃんと出ているので，ネット上でかしましい皆様におかれてはまずはそういった文献もあたってみてください（ちなみに，この研究書のもとになった博士論文は国立国会図書館デジタルコレクションで読めます）。
注をよく見てみましょう。おや？ 日本語の文献が引用されていませんね。日本語の文献を引用せずに日本史研究ができるんでしょうか？ これは問題ではないのですか？
はい，問題ありません。なぜならこれは，タイトル「アジア人と黒人のあいだでの人種と人種観の利用――日系・アフリカ系アメリカ人の場合」からも分かるように，日本史の論文ではなくアフリカ系アメリカ人を主題にした論文だからです。
これはどう読んでも，アメリカの黒人の日本人観および日系人との関わりについてカリフォルニアを中心に調査した論文，つまりはアメリカ黒人の歴史に関する論文であって，ロックリー氏や岡氏がこれを読んでいないと断言することはできませんが（誰しも専門分野外の本や論文を読むことだってあるでしょう），わざわざこれを「元ネタ」にするなどということはとうていあり得そうもないことです。彼らがこの論文を参考にして立論しているのでは？ などというのは，馬の心肺機能に関する研究が『ウマ娘 プリティーダービー』を参考にしているのでは？ と言っているようなものです。ジャンル違いすぎるわ！ あとドリームジャーニー引けなくて凹むわ！ っていうか今回のLoHは千直だから荒れそうって言ったの誰だよ！ ふつうに安定して英雄譚取れたから拍子抜けしたわ！
こういうときは注を見て，どんな文献に基づいてこの話をしてるのか？ っていうのをチェックするんですよ。弥助が出てくる部分の出典は，第一にMichael Cooper, comp. They Came to Japan: An Anthology of European Reports on Japan, 1543-1640 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1965)っていう本の66ページで，これはまあ当時のヨーロッパ人が日本について書いたものをまとめて英訳した，っていうやつですから，多分日本語でも同じコンセプトの本はあると思うのでそれを探せばいいでしょう。第二は，Gary P. Leupp, Images of Black People in Late Mediaeval and Early Modern Japan, 1543-1900, Japan Forum 7, no.1 (1995)っていう論文で，ペイウォールの向こうに行ければ読めます（https://doi.org/10.1080/09555809508721524）。要するに，著者のデイヴィド・ライス氏（カリフォルニア大学バークレー校所属）は日本語読めないので，英訳された史料や英語で書かれた論文を典拠にして，本題に入る前のマクラとして弥助についてちょろっと書いたということでしょう。
仮に彼が日本史の研究者なら日本語を読めないのは問題外ですが，論文の内容から察するにあくまでアメリカ黒人史の研究者なので，それならまあ日本語の論文読んでないのも仕方ないかなという感じ。なんだろう，アーサー王伝説そのものについて研究するなら，古い時代の英語とかウェールズ語とかの史料が読めないといけないけど，「日本人がどんなふうにアーサー王伝説を受容したか」という研究なら，『Fate/stay night』が読めれば十分で，アーサー王については日本語の本を参考にしてても構わないじゃないですか。この論文もそんな感じです。
なので，ふつうの日本中世史研究者が，この論文を典拠として用いることはまずないです。だって普通に考えて，こんなの典拠にならないっしょ？ 中世ヨーロッパ史の研究者が論拠として『Fate』を参考にするなんてあり得ると思います？ そりゃ絶対あり得ないとは言えないけど，そういう蓋然性が薄い推測をわざわざするならもっと直接的な証拠（本の中でこの論文を引用してるとか）を持ってきてもらわないと……
（もちろん，最近は中世ヨーロッパ史の研究者が日本におけるヨーロッパ表象の研究に手を出していたりするので，そういう研究で『Fate』を史料として用いるのは全然あり得るっていうかもうやってる人はいたはずなんですが。そのへんの研究動向は，たとえばhttps://doi.org/10.34382/00003197とかhttps://doi.org/10.34382/00003198とかの論文を読んでもろて……あ，話がズレた）
この論文，表象の研究としてはまあ手堅いので，弥助論争に巻き込まれて変な受け止められ方をするのは気の毒だと思いました。ただそれはそれとして，日系サイドの話もアフリカ系の新聞に基づいて書かれているきらいがあるので，論文のタイトルから「アジア人」「日系」を外して黒人についての論文だと明確化するか，あるいは日系人についてもちゃんと彼らの出してた新聞を読み込んで「日系から見たアフリカ系」を調査しないとダメなんじゃないかなぁ，とは思います。まあ，当時の日系人が出してた新聞って日本語で書かれたやつがいっぱいあるので，単純に読めないのかもしれませんが，だったらなおさら「これは2つのマイノリティについての話です（ｷﾘｯ」と謳うんじゃなくて，「これはあくまで黒人史の話でっせ」という断りを入れた方がよいような。日系人の歴史は黒人史の添え物とちゃうねんで。
ちゃんと読むっていうのは，この論文のテーマは何で，どういう史料を使っていて，という，基本的なことを確かめながら読むことです。そうすれば，どれが話のマクラに過ぎず，どれが本題なのか，っていうのがわかって，「アメリカ黒人史の論文が日本中世史研究者の元ネタだったんだよ！」なんていうアホな主張をすることもなかったはずなので。
でも、サンパウロのカーニバルで題材に選ばれたり、ブラジル大使館が侍だと言い切ったりするくらい、
駐日ブラジル大使館 - Embaixada do Brasil em Tóquio
ブラジルのカーニバルに日本が参戦! 2023年のサンパウロのカーニバルでサンバチーム「モシダデ・アレグレ」がチャンピオンに選ばれました。同チームは、日本初の黒人侍弥助の物語を語りながらパレードを行いました。モザンビークで生まれた弥助は1579年に日本に連れて来られ英雄となりました。
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O Japão no Carnaval do Brasil! A escola de samba Mocidade Alegre foi escolhida campeã do carnaval de São Paulo 2023. A Escola desfilou contando a história de Yasuke, o primeiro samurai negro do Japão. Nascido em Moçambique, Yasuke foi trazido ao Japão em 1579 e tornou-se um herói. Você conhecia essa história?
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Japan in Brazil's Carnival! Samba group Mocidade Alegre was chosen the champion of the 2023's carnival in São Paulo. The group presented the story of Yasuke, the first black samurai in Japan. Born in Mozambique, Yasuke was brought to Japan in 1579 and became a hero. Did you know this story?
真田広之の『SHOGUN 将軍』で、なぜ黒人が居ないのか？とボヤる程度、英語のコミュニティできゃっきゃやってる界隈がある程度には知名度あるようです。
なので、黒人侍の存在を史実として認めないと、人種差別者扱いされます。そもそも、それを積極肯定している日本の大学教授もいます。(そして、英語圏のメディアに引用されてる)
(日本の学者や研究者を名乗る人がYASUKE肯定した結果、それを根拠にして、日本の人種差別主義者ガーとか英語コミュニティでコメントが付いてる一例 ↓)
However, a recent, widely shared post from Japanese historian Yu Hirayama argues that Yasuke was indeed granted samurai status by Nobunaga. Hirayama cites Yasuke’s stipend, housing, and sword afforded him by Nobunaga, but acknowledges that Nobunaga’s enemies did not view Yasuke as a samurai.
(しかし、日本の歴史家である平山優氏による最近の広く共有された投稿では、弥助が実際に信長から侍の地位を与えられたと主張しています。平山氏は、信長が弥助に与えた俸禄、住居、そして刀を根拠として挙げていますが、信長の敵対者たちが弥助を侍とみなしていなかったことも認めています)
↓ 対するコメント
racist in Japan and racist in the rest of the world get to work hand-in-hand now
(日本のレイシストと世界のレイシストは、今、手を取り合って働く)
https://www.polygon.com/24204308/assassins-creed-shadows-yasuke-samurai-ubisoft-controversy
While there’s some question as to his exact role, Yasuke was a real person and, as a Japanese scholar has recently pointed out, there’s no doubt that he was a samurai, which is a social status that can encompass a variety of duties.
(弥助は実在の人物であり、日本のある学者が最近指摘したように、彼が武士であったことは間違いない。)
https://metro.co.uk/2024/07/23/ubisoft-apologies-assassins-creed-shadows-doesnt-say-21281545/
しかも、その影響範囲は大きく、ご先祖様が武器を持ったことがあればみんな武士(侍)の子孫だし、新しい武士(侍)の定義を知らなければ、日本人は人種差別者と誹りを受ける。
羽振りのいいヘッジファンドくらいの高給を払わず、やりたい人の情熱と能力と使命感と倫理観だけに全てお任せしてしまった日本国民の自業自得なんでしょうかね？
（ゆうて、現状もだいたいの日常の困難は消えるレベルの高給は払ってるんですけどね・・・)
なので、肌の色が濃いキャラクターや、顔立ちの異なるキャラクターが登場する現代劇やフィクションの時代劇はもっと増えてほしいです。
いくえみ綾の『太陽が見ている（かもしれないから）』（2014）は明らかに『I LOVE HER』（1993）の焼き直しだった。芦原妃名子の『piece』（2008）は作者自身が『砂時計』（2003）の再構成と柱スペースで語っていたしそれを読む前からなんか砂時計と似てるなと思っていた。
クリエイターが過去作品のセルフオマージュみたいな作品を描くのってどういう動機なんだろう。やり残し感？
そういえば幾原邦彦もピンドラの心残りはピンドラでやってほしいみたいなことを言われているのを読んだことがあるから別作品で心残りを昇華しようとしていたのか。
アイラブハーも太陽もシチュエーションは突拍子もない非現実的な三角関係もので、掲載誌のターゲット年齢層もあるだろうけどアイラブハーは軽めで青春ものらしい爽快感があるのに対して太陽は暗めだった。（主に女の子の心理描写が）丁寧で繊細になったと言えばそう。
漫画としては太陽の方が丁寧でクオリティが高いんだろうし実際ラストの方の日帆には泣けたけど、キャラクターが全体的にアイラブハーの方が愛おしいんだよな。花も艶香も高校生らしくて、特に主人公の花は本当に明るくて性格いい子だし。艶香はだるいメンヘラだけど単純でバカっぽくてかわいい。太陽の男の楡はいわゆるいくえみ男子だけど、ああいうのより単純に奥田民生を描くのが楽しいんです期のいくえみさんの男キャラがこっちまで楽しくなって好きだった。
いや、太陽の岬もいい子だし日帆も大好きなんだけど…太陽もみんないい子だけど暗くて難しいんだよな…岬はちょっと気難しくて怖いし…日帆は本格的だし…
It's sudden, but right now in Japan, creativity is facing a true crisis. Characters like Uzaki-chan, Onsen Musume, and Tojo Rika are being targeted and flamed, game character designs are being infiltrated by political correctness, Johnny's Entertainment is being dismantled, swimsuit photo sessions in parks are being canceled, Hitoshi Matsumoto is being publicly shamed, and the new AV law was enacted without considering the opinions of those directly involved. Every form of expression in every venue is currently under unreasonable pressure.
How does this connect to the Tokyo gubernatorial election? In fact, a major event directly linked to this is occurring in the 2024 Tokyo gubernatorial election. As a creator, I hope this message reaches you.
What I am about to share is a story about someone named Himasora Akane, who you should know about to resist such pressures. But before I dive into that story, I want to express my deep gratitude to my old friend Nozomi for giving me the opportunity to post this article in a place where many creators will see it. As someone who also loves manga, anime, and games, I hope this information will benefit Japanese society and support Nozomi's activities.
Himasora Akane Should Be the Governor of Tokyo
First, I would like to make a straightforward request to you as a creator: please support Himasora Akane for governor. In this election, please write "Himasora Akane" on your ballot. The voting day is July 7th. Even if you are not a Tokyo resident, I ask that you at least listen to this story. If you find it interesting, please share it with your friends, family, and acquaintances. You can check Himasora Akane's campaign promises and the background of their candidacy on their Twitter (X) posts linked below:
Himasora Akane (Tokyo gubernatorial candidate)
https://x.com/himasoraakane/status/1804846779399324095
Himasora Akane Will Not Allow Our Culture to Be Burned
Himasora Akane is an ordinary otaku who loves manga, anime, and games. Known as "Cognitive Profiling Detective Akane Himasora," he has been active on Twitter (X) and YouTube, and now he is running for governor. Akane, who is deeply concerned about the repression and destruction of otaku culture, is challenging those who seek to destroy our culture alone. Akane will never allow those who try to burn our culture.
As mentioned at the beginning, all forms of expression are currently under pressure. Otaku culture, in particular, seems to be a prime target.
Uzaki-chan Blood Donation Poster Controversy (2019): A collaboration between the Japanese Red Cross Society and the manga Uzaki-chan was flamed for allegedly being overly sexual in its PR illustration.
V-Tuber Traffic Safety Video Controversy (2021): A V-Tuber hired by the Matsudo Police Department in Chiba Prefecture was deemed too sexual for public agency PR.
Onsen Musume Controversy (2021): Characters personifying local hot springs were criticized as sexist.
Mie Transport Official Character Controversy (2024): A character in a bus driver's uniform released by Mie Transport was flamed for evoking sexual images.
These controversies are often fueled by so-called political correctness and feminism. For creators, these are direct threats. If these factions label your work as sexual and demand it be burned to ashes, could you resist? How would you feel if your painstakingly created work, like your own child, was trampled by people who have no regard for your efforts? Could you continue your creative activities while constantly shrinking away?
Himasora Akane saw something behind these flaming incidents. He started investigating the key figure behind the Onsen Musume controversy, a representative of a general incorporated association in Tokyo. This association's core business, the Young Female Victims Support Project, received substantial public funds from Tokyo. Akane submitted public document disclosure requests to Tokyo and thoroughly dug into the organization. During his investigation, Akane uncovered many suspicions suggesting this project was unworthy of public funding, which he exposed one by one on social media.
Negligent accounting reports, taking protected girls to the Henoko base protest in Okinawa, Communist Party members waiting in the bus used to protect girls—these revelations drew significant attention online. The investigation extended beyond this general incorporated association to other NPOs receiving public funds, and Akane named this cluster of issues the "WBPC problem" after the initials of these organizations.
Akane's YouTube Channel (WBPC Problem Playlist)
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLI5gTciLKtAXRyzv9j5FiNMcc8eoEBbMN
From here, Akane's story expanded to resident audits, resident lawsuits, and national compensation lawsuits concerning the Tokyo Young Female Victims Support Project. Akane discovered that behind many flaming incidents, there is no clear command structure but a group of various political organizations and activists working together like an amoeba. He named this group the "Nanika Group" (Nanika means "something" in Japanese), a reference to the mysterious, ominous "something from another place" in the manga HUNTER×HUNTER, which Akane loves. The Nanika Group is also connected to welfare interests, where public funds flow unchecked. Akane called this phenomenon "Public Fund Chu-Chu" (siphoning).
For creators, this means the tax money they earn through hard work is used to burn their precious works. It's an intolerable situation.
Himasora Akane Is Fighting Against Those Who Burn Our Culture
In November 2022, a major event marked a turning point in this series of controversies. The general incorporated association under scrutiny held a press conference at the parliamentary office building, gathering media and announcing a lawsuit against Akane. This "Legal Harassment Press Conference," as it was called online, involved multiple layers of power: the government, the media, and a team of seven lawyers targeting a single individual.
However, Akane did not back down. Instead, he intensified his pursuit, exploiting the opponent's careless statements as lawsuit fodder. This led to an outpouring of support on social media, with his Twitter follower count skyrocketing and 160 million yen in donations for legal fees.
The following year, a resident audit request filed by Akane resulted in Tokyo's official website recognizing some improper points and deciding to audit the organization. However, Tokyo's lenient audit led Akane to file a resident lawsuit. Suspicion also turned towards Governor Yuriko Koike for allocating public funds through dubious sole-source contracts. Tokyo began excessively redacting documents in response to public document requests, attempting to conceal the issue. Koike's promise to end document redaction quietly disappeared from her campaign page.
Throughout this battle, Akane has been a target of criminal complaints and faced threats, yet he persists. His book "Netoge Senshi" was released amid bookstore threats, but only the criminal complaint was widely reported by the media, portraying Akane negatively.
Himasora Akane is an ordinary otaku, a top-tier online gamer during his student days, and a talented game creator who worked for a major game company and later a venture company. His meticulous work on the game "Shin Goku no Valhalla Gate" was betrayed by the company's CEO, leading to a seven-year legal battle that Akane ultimately won, securing 600 million yen. This experience fuels his fierce opposition to having his creations burned.
Before investigating the Young Female Victims Support Project, Akane exposed fraudulent feminist "knights" on his YouTube channel, shaking the internet. He detests lies and has an uncanny ability to detect them.
Akane is a special individual with extraordinary abilities, honed through his experiences in games, court battles, and extensive document analysis. His pursuit of truth and justice makes him a suitable candidate for governor, promising a world without lies and where honest people do not suffer.
What We Can Do to Protect Our Culture
Creative expression can be crushed if we are not vigilant. Even in modern Japan, otaku culture is on thin ice. The recent cessation of Visa transactions for DMM (Fanza) is a reminder of how a single card company can wield its power to dictate what is deemed appropriate expression. Expression freedom is fragile and constantly under threat.
To those reading this, I urge you to vote for Himasora Akane. Support him to protect our culture. Despite his harsh demeanor and preference for solitary battles, he is now seeking help for the first time. Akane feels the danger in this gubernatorial election and believes that if he does not become governor, everything will end. He has taken a stand for the people of Tokyo and Japan.
I wrote this article to support his spirit and spread the word. Please vote for Himasora Akane and help create a miracle.
To you, the creator, I sincerely hope this message reaches you.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Female_urinal
を見ると、はてブで往生際悪く「女性が立って小便するなんて考えられない」と、でもでもダッテしてるブクマカを吹き飛ばす活動をオランダのフェミニスト女性達がやってて草
2017 Dutch campaign
Demand is increasing for "urination equality" or "potty parity". A grassroots urination equality campaign in the Netherlands caused a sensation in 2017, with women defiantly using urinals in men's toilets. The protest movement was formed under the name of Zeikwijven ("the wild-peeing women"), which advocates urination equality and takes action against the discrimination of women through by limiting possibilities for urination.
The initiative was triggered after 23-year-old Geerte Piening was sentenced to a fine for urinating in public on the street. Her complaint was rejected on the judicial grounds that Piening should have used a street urinal common in the Netherlands. The objection that this was designed only for men was not accepted: "it may not be comfortable, but it is possible".[78][79][80][81] According to one campaign initiator, the problem is that "it isn't possible for women to urinate in a decent, hygienic and dignified manner in a public urinal designed for men."[82] In 2018, a mobile female urinal called the "Yellow Spot" was created around this protest.[83][84][a]
As part of this campaign, women in the Netherlands began to urinate demonstratively in public urinals for men.[citation needed] So, the Dutch city authorities are planning to increasingly offer a unisex version of the Urilift street urinals, which are now available in Dutch city centers, and can be used comfortably by men and women
抜粋訳・
オランダでは、 2017年に草の根の排尿の平等運動がセンセーションを巻き起こし、女性たちが男性用トイレの小便器を敢えて使用しました。
この抗議運動は、排尿の平等を主張し、排尿の機会を制限することによる女性差別に対抗するZeikwijven (「野放しの女性たち」)という名前で結成されました。
Betsy and Solomon lived happily through that winter and spring, and before summer came we had made up our minds to return to the East. What should we do with the owls? They would be a great deal of trouble to some one. They required an immense amount of petting, and a frequent supply of perfectly fresh meat. No matter how busy we were, one of us had to go to the butcher every other day.
We began to inquire among our friends who would like a nice, affectionate pair of owls? There seemed no great eagerness on the part of any one to(23) take the pets we so much valued. Plans for their future worried me so much that at last I said to my sister, “We will take them East with us.”
The owls, who were to take so long a journey, became objects of interest to our friends, and at a farewell tea given to us, a smartly dressed young man vowed that he must take leave of Solomon and Betsy. Calling for a broom, he slowly passed it to and fro over the carpet before them, while they sat looking at him with lifted ear tufts that betrayed great interest in his movements.
We trembled a little in view of our past moving experiences, but we were devoted to the little creatures and, when the time came, we cheerfully boarded the overland train at Oakland.
We had with us Betsy and Solomon in their large cage, and in a little cage a pair of strawberry finches, so called because their breasts are dotted like a strawberry. A friend had requested us to bring them East for her. We had also a dog—not Teddy, that had only been lent to us; but our own Irish setter Nita, one of the most lovable and interesting animals that I have ever owned.
The chipmunk was no longer with us. He had not seemed happy in the aviary—indeed, he lay down in it and threw me a cunning look, as if to say, “I will die if you don’t let me out of this.” So I gave him the freedom of the house. That pleased him, and for a few days he was very diligent in assisting us with our housekeeping by picking(24) all the crumbs off the floors and eating them. Then he disappeared, and I hope was happy ever after among the superb oak trees of the university grounds close to us.
When we started for the East, the pets, of course, had to go into the baggage car, and I must say here for the benefit of those persons who wish to travel with animals and birds, that there is good accommodation for them on overland trains. Sometimes we bought tickets for them, sometimes they had to go in an express car, sometimes we tipped the baggagemasters, but the sums spent were not exorbitant, and we found everywhere provision made for pets. You cannot take them in your rooms in hotels, but there is a place for them somewhere, and they will be brought to you whenever you wish to see them, or to give them exercise. We were on several different railway lines, and visited eight different cities, and the dog and birds, upon arriving in eastern Canada, seemed none the worse for their trip.
However, I would not by any means encourage the transportation of animals. Indeed, my feelings on the subject, since I understand the horrors animals and birds endure while being whirled from one place to another, are rather too strong for utterance. I would only say that in a case like mine, where separation between an owner and pets would mean unhappiness, it is better for both to endure a few days or weeks of travel. Then the case of animals(25) and birds traveling with some one who sees and encourages them every day is different from the case of unfortunate creatures sent off alone.
Our Nita was taken out of the car at every station where it was possible to exercise her, and one of us would run into restaurants along the route to obtain fresh meat for the owls. Their cage was closely covered, but whenever they heard us coming they hooted, and as no one seemed to guess what they were, they created a great deal of interest. My sister and I were amused one evening in Salt Lake City to see a man bending over the cage with an air of perplexity.
“They must be pollies,” he said at last, and yet his face showed that he did not think those were parrot noises issuing from within.
I remember one evening on arriving in Albany, New York, causing slight consternation in the hotel by a demand for raw meat. We hastened to explain that we did not want it for ourselves, and finally obtained what we wished.
As soon as we arrived home in Halifax, Nova Scotia, the owls were put downstairs in a nice, dry basement. They soon found their way upstairs, where the whole family was prepared to welcome them on account of their pretty ways and their love for caresses.
Strange to say, they took a liking to my father, who did not notice them particularly, and a mischievous dislike to my mother, who was disposed to(26) pet them. They used to fly on her head whenever they saw her. Their little claws were sharp and unpleasant to her scalp. We could not imagine why they selected her head unless it was that her gray hair attracted them. However, we had a French Acadian maid called Lizzie, whose hair was jet black, and they disliked her even more than they did my mother.
Lizzie, to get to her storeroom, had to cross the furnace-room where the owls usually were, and she soon began to complain bitterly of them.
“Dey watch me,” she said indignantly, “dey fly on my head, dey scratch me, an’ pull out my hairpins, an’ make my head sore.”
“Why don’t you push them off, Lizzie?” I asked, “they are only tiny things.”
“Dey won’t go—dey hold on an’ beat me,” she replied, and soon the poor girl had to arm herself with a switch when she went near them.
Lizzie was a descendant of the veritable Acadians mentioned in Longfellow’s “Evangeline,” of whom there are several thousand in Nova Scotia. My mother was attached to her, and at last she said, “I will not have Lizzie worried. Bring the owls up in my bathroom.”
There they seemed perfectly happy, sitting watching the sparrows from the window and teasing my long-suffering mother, who was obliged to give up using gas in this bathroom, for very often the owls put it out by flying at it.
(27)
One never heard them coming. I did not before this realize how noiseless the flight of an owl is. One did not dream they were near till there was a breath of air fanning one’s cheek. After we gave up the gas, for fear they would burn themselves, we decided to use a candle. It was absolutely necessary to have an unshaded light, for they would perch on any globe shading a flame, and would burn their feet.
The candle was more fun for them than the gas, for it had a smaller flame, and was more easily extinguished, and usually on entering the room, away would go the light, and we would hear in the corner a laughing voice, saying “Too, who, who, who, who!”
The best joke of all for the owls was to put out the candle when one was taking a bath, and I must say I heard considerable grumbling from the family on the subject. It seemed impossible to shade the light from them, and to find one’s self in the dark in the midst of a good splash, to have to emerge from the tub, dripping and cross, and search for matches, was certainly not calculated to add to one’s affection for Solomon and Betsy. However, they were members of the family, and as George Eliot says, “The members of your family are like the nose on your face—you have got to put up with it, seeing you can’t get rid of it.”
Alas! the time soon came when we had to lament the death of one of our troublesome but beloved pets.
Betsy one day partook heartily of a raw fish head,(28) and in spite of remedies applied, sickened rapidly and sank into a dying condition.
I was surprised to find what a hold the little thing had taken on my affection. When her soft, gray body became cold, I held her in my hand close to the fire and, with tears in my eyes, wished for a miracle to restore her to health.
She lay quietly until just before she died. Then she opened her eyes and I called to the other members of the family to come and see their strange expression. They became luminous and beautiful, and dilated in a peculiar way. We hear of the eyes of dying persons lighting up wonderfully, and this strange illumination of little Betsy’s eyes reminded me of such cases.
Even after death she lay with those wide-open eyes, and feeling that I had lost a friend, I put down her little dead body. It was impossible for me to conceal my emotion, and my mother, who had quite forgotten Betsy’s hostility to her, generously took the little feathered creature to a taxidermist.
I may say that Betsy was the first and last bird I shall ever have stuffed. I dare say the man did the work as well as it could be done, but I gazed in dismay at my Betsy when she came home. That stiff little creature sitting on a stick, with glazed eyes and motionless body, could not be the pretty little bird whose every motion was grace. Ever since the day of Betsy’s death, I can feel no admiration for a dead bird. Indeed, I turn sometimes with a shudder(29) from the agonized postures, the horrible eyes of birds in my sister women’s hats—and yet I used to wear them myself. My present conviction shows what education will do. If you like and study live birds, you won’t want to wear dead ones.
After Betsy’s death Solomon seemed so lonely that I resolved to buy him a companion. I chose a robin, and bought him for two dollars from a woman who kept a small shop. A naturalist friend warned me that I would have trouble, but I said remonstratingly, “My owl is not like other owls. He has been brought up like a baby. He does not know that his ancestors killed little birds.”
Alas! When my robin had got beautifully tame, when he would hop about after me, and put his pretty head on one side while I dug in the earth for worms for him, when he was apparently on the best of terms with Sollie, I came home one day to a dreadful discovery. Sollie was flying about with the robin’s body firmly clutched in one claw. He had killed and partly eaten him. I caught him, took the robin away from him, and upbraided him severely.
“Too, who, who, who who,” he said—apologetically, it seemed to me, “instinct was too strong for me. I got tired of playing with him, and thought I would see what he tasted like.”
I could not say too much to him. What about the innocent lambs and calves, of which Sollie’s owners had partaken?
(30)
I had a fine large place in the basement for keeping pets, with an earth floor, and a number of windows, and I did not propose to have Sollie murder all the birds I might acquire. So, one end of this room was wired off for him. He had a window in this cage overlooking the garden, and it was large enough for me to go in and walk about, while talking to him. He seemed happy enough there, and while gazing into the garden or watching the rabbits, guineapigs, and other pets in the large part of the room, often indulged in long, contented spells of cooing—not hooting.
In 1902 I was obliged to leave him for a six months’ trip to Europe. He was much petted by my sister, and I think spent most of his time upstairs with the family. When I returned home I brought, among other birds, a handsome Brazil cardinal. I stood admiring him as he stepped out of his traveling cage and flew around the aviary. Unfortunately, instead of choosing a perch, he flattened himself against the wire netting in Sollie’s corner.
I was looking right at him and the owl, and I never saw anything but lightning equal the celerity of Sollie’s flight, as he precipitated himself against the netting and caught at my cardinal’s showy red crest. The cardinal screamed like a baby, and I ran to release him, marveling that the owl could so insinuate his little claws through the fine mesh of the wire. However, he could do it, and he gripped the struggling cardinal by the long, hair-like(31) topknot, until I uncurled the wicked little claws. A bunch of red feathers fell to the ground, and the dismayed cardinal flew into a corner.
“Sollie,” I said, going into his cage and taking him in my hand, “how could you be so cruel to that new bird?”
“Oh, coo, coo, coo, coo,” he replied in a delightfully soft little voice, and gently resting his naughty little beak against my face. “You had better come upstairs,” I said, “I am afraid to leave you down here with that poor cardinal. You will be catching him again.”
He cooed once more. This just suited him, and he spent the rest of his life in regions above. I knew that he would probably not live as long in captivity as he would have done if his lot had been cast in the California foothills. His life was too unnatural. In their native state, owls eat their prey whole, and after a time disgorge pellets of bones, feathers, hairs, and scales, the remnants of food that cannot be digested.
My owls, on account of their upbringing, wanted their food cleaned for them. Betsy, one day, after much persuasion, swallowed a mouse to oblige me, but she was such a dismal picture as she sat for a long time with the tail hanging out of her beak that I never offered her another.
I tried to keep Solomon in condition by giving him, or forcing him to take, foreign substances, but my plan only worked for a time.
(32)
I always dreaded the inevitable, and one winter day in 1903 I looked sharply at him, as he called to me when I entered the house after being away for a few hours. “That bird is ill!” I said.
No other member of the family saw any change in him, but when one keeps birds and becomes familiar with the appearance of each one, they all have different facial and bodily expressions, and one becomes extremely susceptible to the slightest change. As I examined Sollie, my heart sank within me, and I began to inquire what he had been eating. He had partaken freely of boiled egg, meat, and charcoal. I gave him a dose of olive oil, and I must say that the best bird or beast to take medicine is an owl. Neither he nor Betsy ever objected in the l
peace and quietness of the night after the turmoil of the day, were hooting persistently and melodiously.
“The landlady and the boarders,” gasped my sister; “they will hear and wake up. Can’t you stop the little wretches?”
I sprang out of bed, and addressed a solemn remonstrance to Solomon and Betsy. They were exceedingly glad to see me, and distending their little throats, continued to hoot, their clear, sweet young voices carrying only too well on the still Californian night air.
Then the chipmunk woke up and began to slide up and down an inclined piece of wood in his part of the cage. We were in despair. We could not sleep, until I had the happy thought of giving the owls a bath. I seized Betsy, held her in a basin of water, and wet her feathers considerably. Then I served Solomon in the same way, and for the rest of the night the tiny little things occupied themselves in smoothing their wet plumage. The chipmunk quieted down, and we had peace.
(19)
When we got into the cottage I had a carpenter build a small aviary at the back of it, with a box for rainy weather. The nights were not too cold for my hardy birds. Indeed, they were not too cold for many semi-tropical ones. I found a bird fancier not far from me, who had built a good-sized, open-air aviary, where he kept canaries and foreign finches all the year round, with only a partly open, glass shelter for the birds to use when it rained.
My sparrowhawk did not seem unhappy in my aviary, but he never had the contented, comfortable expression that the owls had. His apathy was pathetic, and the expression of his beautiful, cruel eyes was an unsatisfied one. In time, I should have allowed him to go, but suddenly he fell ill. I think I overfed him, for I got him into the habit of taking a late supper, always leaning out the window and handing him a piece of meat on the end of a stick before I went to bed.
I brought him into the warm kitchen, where he moped about for a few days. Just before he died he came hopping toward the parlor, where I sat entertaining a friend. I often took him in there on the broad windowsill and talked to him as I sat sewing.
He stood in the doorway, gave me a peculiar look, as if to say, “I would come in if you were alone,” hopped back to the kitchen, and in a short time was no more.
My sister and I mourned sincerely for our pretty bird, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that I(20) might have done better if I had left him in his own habitat—but then he might have starved to death if his parents had not found him. Would death by starvation have been any more painful than his death with me? Possibly some larger creature might have killed him swiftly and mercifully—it was a puzzling case, and I resolved to give up worrying about it. I had done what I considered was best, and I tried to console myself for his death in petting the dear little owls that had become so tame that they called to my sister and me whenever they saw us, and loved to have us take them in our hands and caress them.
About them I had no misgivings. They would certainly have died if I had not adopted them, and there was no question about their happiness. They were satisfied with a state of captivity. They had so far lost one of their owl habits, for they kept awake nearly all day, and slept nearly all night—and they could see quite well in the most brilliant Californian sunlight, and that is pretty brilliant. A cat or a dog many yards distant would cause them to raise excitedly the queer little ear tufts that play so prominent a part in the facial expression of some owls, and they would crack their beaks together and hiss angrily if the enemy came too near.
Cats and dogs frightened them, and a broom merely excited them. When strangers wanted to see the elevation of these tufts, a broom, swiftly passed over the floor, would cause Solomon and(21) Betsy to become very wide awake, with feather tufts straight up in the air. I never saw them abjectly and horribly frightened but once. A lady had brought her handsome parrot into the room where the owls were. The poor little mites put up their ear tufts, swayed to and fro on their perch, and instead of packing their feathers and becoming thin and elongated in appearance, as they did for cats and dogs, they puffed themselves out, snapped their beaks, and uttered the loudest hissing noise I had ever heard from them.
From their extremity of fear I concluded that their instinct told them this danger was so imminent that they must make themselves as formidable as possible.
The parrot was of course quickly removed, and I took care that they should never again see another one.
英語の三人称単数人称代名詞はhe/himとshe/herです。対象者の性別によって使い分けるという頭の悪い言語です。
トランスの人達は見た目だと男だか女だかよくわからないためプロフィールにhe/himとかshe/herとか書いていました。
男でも女でもないという人がthey/themとかxe/ximとかも書き出しました。
ここまでは精神病患者の異常さと英語という言語の頭の悪さの魔融合というだけで済んでいたのですがこともあろうか左派の中でトランスでもセクマイでもなんでもない人がhe/himとかshe/herとか書くことがマナーのようになってきました。
彼らの言い分は自分から進んで代名詞を先に差し出すことでセクマイが代名詞を出すことを不自然にさせないという世界を作り出したいそうです。
当然そんな世界はやってきませんから明らかに男、明らかに女であるにもかかわらずhe/himやshe/herなどと書いてある人がいたら注意しましょう。
Hit points are a combination of actual physical constitution, skill at the avoidance of taking real physical damage, luck and/or magical or divine factors. Ten points of damage dealt to a rhino indicated a considerable wound, while the same damage sustained by the 8th level fighter indicates a near miss, a slight wound, and a bit of luck used up, a bit of fatigue piling up against his or her skill at avoiding the fatal cut or thrust. So even when a hit is scored in melee combat, it is more often than not a grazing blow, a scratch, a mere light wound which would have been fatal (or nearly so) to a lesser mortal. If sufficient numbers of such wounds accrue to the character, however, stamina, skill, and luck will eventually run out, and an attack will strike home...
Roro Chan Challenge - A phrase that references the death of the 14-year-old Japanese streamer Rorochan 1999[13]. This phrase became popular in 2020 when a tribute music video/song about her went viral on YouTube through the algorithm, and members of the Larpercore community started making videos referencing it by acts such as jumping off a building in video games like ROBLOX. According to some news reports, some people were actually harmed after trying the so-called "challenge".
https://aesthetics.fandom.com/wiki/Larpercore
ロロちゃんチャレンジ - 14歳の日本のストリーマー、ロロちゃんの1999年の死を指すフレーズ[13]。このフレーズは 2020 年に彼女についてのトリビュート ミュージック ビデオ/曲がアルゴリズムを通じて YouTube で広まり、Larpercore コミュニティのメンバーが ROBLOX などのビデオ ゲームで建物から飛び降りるなどの行為でこのフレーズを参照するビデオを作成し始めたときに人気になりました。一部の報道によると、いわゆる「チャレンジ」に挑戦して実際に被害に遭った人もいるという。
Cat Fakes her Own Injury
https://www.msn.com/en-xl/news/other/cat-fakes-her-own-injury-611837/vi-AA1lN1TY?ocid=socialshare
Our cat faking a limp to get in the house.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Ih94oEBqPw
演技派の犬
Hilarious moment clever dog fakes broken leg to get attention
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6KueJZad4XY
みんな、「こうすれば注目される」と理解してやってる。頭いい。かわいい。
なんともなくてよかったね。
89 名前：🥹英ちゃん😉 (ﾜｯﾁｮｲW 2386-CK/p) 2024/04/03(水) 04:05:45.97 ID:mOsZ+yw90
Ed Piskor committed suicide, people are choosing to believe the claims from people who had it out for him. Molly, girl they claimed he SA'd, tried correcting the claims.
91 名前：🥹英ちゃん😉 (ﾜｯﾁｮｲW 2386-CK/p) 2024/04/03(水) 21:10:04.37 ID:mOsZ+yw90
To "have it out for someone" is to dislike someone to the point of trying to find excuses to fire them, punish them, or cause them trouble/pain.
It is usually said of someone in authority (teacher, boss, cop) or of equal rank (coworker).
"You can't trust her. She really has it out for you, and will twist anything you say to make you look bad in front of the boss.
92 名前：名無しさん＠英語勉強中 (ﾜｯﾁｮｲW 1b12-5W83) 2024/04/03(水) 21:21:30.82 ID:l+Htu6kT0
hàve [(英)have gòt] it ín for A
そのinをoutに変えた感じかもね
そうですね！やかましいですね！ところでウクライナ音楽とロシア音楽をかけ合わせたらどうなるでしょうか？とっても平和の響きがするでしょう！あなたの手持ちのイスラエルも混ぜてみましょうよよよよよよよよよよよよよよよ
<div class="conversation"><h4>Close your head</h4><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>Close your eyes…」「Close your head…</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: Close your eyes... Close your head...</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>say, what you saw. you can see with mind.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: I saw... darkness. My mind's eye is a void, devoid of sight.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>i can light you. </div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: Light me then.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div><*click*> i light you now. then, what you see? you can see with mind.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: I see a dimly lit room. Shadows dance on the walls, and a faint, eerie glow permeates the space.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>Shadow of what?</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: The shadows seem to take form, twisting and contorting into strange, indistinct shapes. It's as if they are the embodiment of forgotten fears and hidden desires.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>Do you have any idea who is showing it?</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: I have no idea. The source of these shadows remains hidden, shrouded in mystery and intrigue.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>OK, let's leave the mysterious and scary shadow behind. What else can you see in this room?</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: In this dimly lit room, I can make out a cluttered assortment of objects. There's an old, tattered book lying open on a dusty table, its pages filled with arcane symbols. A moth-eaten rug covers a portion of the floor, and a cracked mirror hangs on one wall, reflecting distorted images. The air carries a musty scent, and I sense an atmosphere of abandonment and neglect.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>You pick book and check it</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: I reach out and pick up the old book. Its pages feel brittle and fragile in my hands. As I flip through the pages, the text appears to be written in a language I can't comprehend, filled with cryptic symbols and diagrams. It's a tome of secrets, but its meaning remains elusive.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>see book cover</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: I examine the cover of the book, trying to discern any details despite the dim light. The cover is worn and weathered, and it bears an intricate design of what appears to be a coiled serpent, its scales formed from shimmering, iridescent colors. Above the serpent, there's a title in elegant script, but it's written in a language I can't decipher. The book exudes an aura of mystique and ancient knowledge.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>Is there a place to go? What about the door?</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: I turn my attention to the room's exit, the door. It stands tall and imposing, made of heavy, dark wood. There's a tarnished doorknob, and the door appears to be slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of what lies beyond. It beckons me to explore further, promising unknown adventures or perhaps even more mysteries.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>try to open</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: I approach the door and grasp the tarnished doorknob. With a gentle push, the door creaks open, revealing a corridor shrouded in shadows. The faint glow from the room behind me barely penetrates the darkness ahead. I step cautiously into the corridor, ready to uncover the secrets that lie beyond.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>foward.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: I proceed forward down the shadowy corridor, my footsteps echoing faintly in the dimness. The path ahead seems endless, and the air grows cooler as I delve deeper into the unknown, guided only by the flickering light behind me and the anticipation of what awaits.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>foward and look around</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: Continuing down the corridor, I take a moment to look around. The walls are lined with faded, tattered tapestries depicting scenes of ancient battles and mythical creatures. The torch sconces that once held flames have long since burned out, leaving only empty brackets. The air feels heavy with history, and there's a faint, eerie whispering that seems to emanate from the walls themselves, as if they hold secrets untold.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>keep going until you discover something</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: I press on, the corridor seemingly endless. My journey is shrouded in uncertainty, but I persist, driven by the need to discover what lies ahead. The shadows deepen, and the air grows colder as I continue, my curiosity and determination unwavering.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>stop! you here that?</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: I halt in my tracks, straining my ears to listen. There's a faint, distant sound, almost like a whisper carried on the wind. It's indistinct, but it holds a mysterious allure, beckoning me to investigate further.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>listen carefully</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: I listen intently, my senses sharpened as I focus on the elusive sound. It becomes clearer, a haunting melody that seems to weave through the very air itself. It's both captivating and eerie, drawing me closer to its source with each haunting note.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>who play that?</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: The source of the haunting melody remains elusive, hidden in the shadows. It's as if the music emanates from the very walls, an ethereal presence that defies explanation. There is no visible musician, yet the music continues to fill the corridor, casting a spell of enchantment and mystery.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>Head to the source of the sound and investigate (dice roll)</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: I heed the roll of the dice and embark on a quest to trace the source of the haunting melody. Each step takes me closer to the enchanting sound, and as I round a corner in the corridor, I come upon a door, slightly ajar, from which the music seems to emanate. My heart races with anticipation as I push the door open, eager to unveil the secrets that lie within.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>When you open the door, there...</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: When I open the door, there stands a grand chamber bathed in an otherworldly glow. In the center of the room, an ornate grand piano commands attention. The keys move on their own, playing the haunting melody that had drawn me here. But there's no one at the piano.The room is adorned with opulent tapestries and gilded mirrors, reflecting the surreal scene before me. Candlelit chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a warm, flickering light that dances across the walls. The air is filled with an intoxicating fragrance, a mix of ancient incense and delicate flowers.At the far end of the room, a figure cloaked in shadows stands beside an enormous, antique bookshelf filled with tomes of forgotten knowledge. Their presence is enigmatic, and their intentions remain unclear.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>look piano</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: I approach the grand piano, its keys still playing the haunting melody. As I inspect it, I notice that there are no visible hands or fingers touching the keys. It's as if the piano itself is possessed by some unseen force, creating the music with an ethereal touch.The piano is a masterpiece of craftsmanship, adorned with intricate carvings and inlaid with precious gemstones. Its keys are made of polished ivory, and they move in perfect harmony with the haunting tune. It's a surreal and mesmerizing sight, leaving me both entranced and bewildered.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>Be careful, it might be a man-eating piano.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: I heed the caution and approach the grand piano with caution. Although it plays on its own, I remain wary of its mysterious nature. The possibility of a man-eating piano lingers in my mind, adding an extra layer of tension to the already surreal scene.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>the piano suddenly stops</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: The abrupt halt of the piano's music sends a shiver down my spine. The chamber falls into an eerie silence, broken only by the flickering candlelight. It's as if the very essence of the room holds its breath, waiting for what comes next.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>You feel disgusted and turn around. What happened?</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: As I turn around, a wave of revulsion washes over me. My senses reel in disgust at the sight before me. The figure that had been cloaked in shadows has now revealed itself, and it is a grotesque, nightmarish entity. Its form is a twisted amalgamation of human and beast, with grotesque, elongated limbs and a maw of sharp, jagged teeth.The once opulent chamber has transformed into a nightmarish lair, with walls adorned in macabre art and gruesome trophies. The air is thick with the stench of decay and despair. I am trapped in a surreal and horrifying nightmare, unable to escape the clutches of this abomination.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>it scary. what will you do?</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: Fear courses through me as I confront this nightmarish entity and its gruesome lair. In this realm of horrors, I must make a decision. I choose to... confront the entity, my curiosity and determination outweighing my fear, as I seek to uncover the mysteries and secrets that lie within this twisted nightmare.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>how?</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: With trembling resolve, I take a step forward, slowly approaching the grotesque entity. I attempt to communicate with it, asking it what it wants or why it has brought me here. My voice quivers, but my determination to unravel the enigma that surrounds this nightmarish realm remains steadfast.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>any result?</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: The grotesque entity regards me with malevolent, glowing eyes, its jagged maw twitching with an unsettling smile. It responds with a guttural, incomprehensible language, filled with whispers and hisses. It becomes apparent that communication with this entity is futile, and its intentions remain shrouded in darkness.As I continue to stand before this nightmarish being, I feel a growing sense of dread, realizing that escape may be the only option left.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>surely. what will you do?</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: With no hope of communication or understanding, and the nightmarish entity's menacing presence growing more oppressive, I decide to make a hasty retreat. I turn and rush toward the door through which I entered, driven by the instinct to escape the horrors of this surreal nightmare.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>Did it go well? Or Bad?</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">ChatGPT</div><div><rotating_light ALPHABREAKrotating_light>: My escape from the nightmarish realm was fraught with tension and fear, but I managed to reach the door and slam it shut behind me. The grotesque entity and its horrifying lair were left behind, at least for the moment. Whether it went well or bad is a matter of perspective. I survived the encounter, but the mysteries and terrors of that surreal place still haunt my thoughts. The experience was a chilling reminder of the unknown and the horrors that can lurk within it.</div></pre><pre class="message"><div class="author">user</div><div>look around. what you see?</div></pre><pre class=" Permalink | 記事への反応(2) | 16:06
ジョン・ウェイン主演の西部劇「黄色いリボン」という映画は知らなくても、その主題歌をどこかで耳にした人も多いと思います。こんな曲です。
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IRtQunr1OYM
幼少の頃（40年以上前になります）、この曲に日本語の歌詞をつけたものを繰り返し聴いた記憶があり、今でも耳に残っています。あやふやなところが多いですが、こんな感じです。
'Round her neck she wore a yellow ribbon
おーい おーい みんな来てごらん
She wore it in the springtime and in the month of May
And if you asked her why the heck she wore it
おーい おーい 朝日だごらん
She wore it for her lover who was far, far away
肝心のサビを忘れていますし、覚えているところも間違っているかもしれません。
原詞（古い民謡だそうですが）の内容は影も形もないので、メロディだけ頂戴してオリジナルの歌詞をつけたものと思われます。
いったいどこで使われていたものなのか、もしご存知の方がいたら教えてください。ググッても何も出てこないのです。
これがわからなくて特に何か困っているというわけではなくて、「あれは何だったんだろうなあ」と気になっているだけです。
直訳版
A long time ago, in a certain country, there was a bastard named Cinderella. The reason why she is called Cinderella is because she sprinkled her own ashes on her own head at her mother's funeral, which led to her being called the ash-coverer, which is why her real name is Cinderella. I lost
The husband who lost his wife was also a bastard, and the day after the funeral he cheated on a woman three years younger than him, had sex with her, and even got married.
I have decided. Then, to her Cinderella
She now has an older sister and a younger sister who are not related by blood.
Her sister was a bitch too, she came to Cinderella's house
After a few days, she thought, ``Wouldn't it be more convenient to have an outbuilding?'' and cut down Cinderella's mother's grave in her garden and the hundreds of years old tree that was next to her grave, and built an outbuilding. We forced construction.
One day, the bastard's family receives news of a ball from the castle. But before Cinderella could read it, her sister broke the news and said, ``There's no way you can go.'' Cinderella didn't seem to have any intention of going either, saying, ``I had no intention of going in the first place.I'd rather go to hell.''
Then, on the day her mother was admitted to the hospital to give birth, her sister went to the ball. In the garden, the construction of an outbuilding was progressing as usual.
“Let’s light a fire here and make a bonfire.”
She thought about that, but Cinderella stopped her. Suddenly, a witch appeared
``Cinderella, why aren't you going to the ball?'' asked the witch.
"What's the point of telling Teme?"
Cinderella returned with an ax in her hand
Then, for some reason, Cinderella was wrapped in a jewel-like dress.
"If you don't go to the ball, that dress will kill you. Now go."
Cinderella doesn't want to die in a place like this, so she reluctantly decides to go to the castle.
In the castle, some asshole like her sister was looking for a one-night stand and was dancing wildly. No one really praised others, and in their hearts they all seemed to think that they were the center of the world.
Cinderella didn't dance, but killed her time by smoking a cigarette at the end of her room. There, she was approached by a man wearing formal clothes that were flashier and more expensive than anyone else, and said to her, ``Miss, won't you dance?''
She is Cinderella with a cigarette in her mouth
She said, ``I only dance with the Grim Reaper and bad luck.''
she answered. For some reason, the man fell in love with her at first sight, and she said, ``Let's have some fun in the other room.Here, come.'' She tried to force Cinderella to take her to another room in the castle. However, Cinderella pressed the cigarette she was holding into her hand.
"Her hand slipped," she laughed.
When she pressed the cigarette, the sound in her voice was so pitiful that no one tried to get close to him or dance with him. Of course, no one even knows that such a pitiful man is the prince who owns this castle.
Eventually, she had enough, Cinderella threw her shoes on her stairs and went back to her house in her bare feet. Her shoes were made of glass, so they shattered into pieces.
The next day, while her servant was cleaning the castle, she found one shoe on the stairs. Obviously thinking this was strange, she secretly examined her shoes and discovered that they had been smeared with a deadly amount of poison.
Rumors spread within the castle that this must be an attempt to kill the prince, and soon a large-scale investigation was conducted. Even though it's a survey, it's simple.
The idea was to create a replica of a shoe and imprison the person who matched it perfectly as a suspect.
And one after another, people were imprisoned just because of their size. Some of them had not been to the ball, but they thought it must be a lie and were forcibly taken away.
Eventually, an investigation came to Cinderella's house. That's when we all looked at her mother and child after she was discharged from the hospital, and of course her sister didn't fit.
So all that was left was Cinderella. Then, her sister said to Cinderella, ``Hell suits you better than this world.''
She was of course the perfect size for Cinderella.
However, she protested her innocence, saying that I hadn't gone to the ball and there was no dress anywhere in the house to prove it.
However, the prince showed him an empty pack of cigarettes that had been discarded in a trash can and said, ``This is the same brand that the criminal was smoking that time.Why?''
I unbuttoned all the buttons on her jacket.
She said, ``After all, I feel like dancing with the Grim Reaper. Right, little prince?'' she said.
By the time the princes realized it, it was already too late.
The grenade that fell at his feet blew up Cinderella and the prince.
The time was around noon. Bells rang throughout the city and residents prayed for lunch.
The flying fragments of the shoe became a weapon, a sad fragment that could only hurt someone, and no one could imagine its original form.
end
Your statement is exactly why it's such a good emotional play. If she was serious about killing herself she would be dead and her brains would be the new wallpaper for her room. If she ate a bottle of aspirin she is an attention whore.
本気で自殺しようとしていたなら彼女は今頃死んでいて脳みそが部屋の新しい壁紙になっているはずだ
こういうことをサラッと言えるセンスが欲しい
