  |
はてなキーワード: reSTとは
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.
Everyone been wondering why Yonezu (last name) Kenshi (first name) is wearing the heeled shoes. In one of his interviews he said that once he dreamed a funeral. Everyone was sad, but suddenly someone in the first line started to whistle loudly, in a way that annoyed the other people. They all started to say that he wasn't respecting the dead person because he wasn't being in silence for him, but Kenshi knew that the man whistling was communicating with the dead one. That was their own unique way to recognize each other. Maybe the others will think you're crazy or something negative, but it won't change the love that the whistling man has for his dead friend. Turns out that Kenshi got inspired by this dream so in the sing he wore heeled shoes, because he wants to let us know that he doesn't care what others say, it's his special way to express himself, because Kenshi was affected by High-functioning Autism which brought him to be smarter than the average, but he couldn't handle with social relationships, that's why he never had many friends since a young age and everyone made fun of him because of his character.
米津（姓）ケンシ（名）がなぜヒールの靴を履いているのか、誰もが不思議に思っていることだろう。
彼はあるインタビューで、葬式の夢を見たことがあると言っていた。みんな悲しんでいたのに、突然一列目の誰かが、他の人たちを困らせるような大きな口笛を吹き始めた。
彼らは皆、口笛を吹いているのは死者に敬意を払っていない、死者のために黙っているのではない、と言い始めた。それが彼ら独自の認識方法だったのだ。
もしかしたら、他の人からは頭がおかしいとか否定的な見方をされるかもしれないが、口笛を吹いている男が死んだ友人を愛していることに変わりはない。
というのも、ケンシは高機能自閉症の影響を受けていて、平均よりも頭がいいのだが、社会的な人間関係をうまくこなすことができなかった。
This made Kenshi very sad and from then on he started to hate himself because of his very uncommon name (in Japan there aren't many people that have Yonezu as last name and no one, but Yonezu Kenshi, is called Kenshi or the spelling is similar, plus it sounds like a stage name as well) he thought he was strange and weird, an uncommon person who shouldn't have existed (in fact in Japan there is a very strong will to follow the mass, which means if the greater part of girls have bangs, then the girls without bangs will try to have them or if they remain what they are, they might be isolated because different from the rest of the population). But Kenshi to make us, his fans, satisfied, he decided to collaborate with many people in the 2017 like the animators for MHA, DAOKO and Suda Masaki.
このことがケンシをとても悲しくさせ、それ以来ケンシは自分の名前の珍しさ（日本では米津を名字に持つ人は少ないし、米津ケンシ以外はケンシと呼ばないし、スペルも似ていない、 存在しないはずの珍しい人（実際、日本では大衆に従おうとする意志が非常に強い。つまり、前髪のある女の子が多ければ、前髪のない女の子も前髪を作ろうとするし、前髪のないままだと、他の人とは違うという理由で孤立するかもしれない）。しかし、ケンシは私たちファンを満足させるために、MHAのアニメーターやDAOKO、菅田将暉など、2017年に活躍した多くの人々とのコラボレーションを決めた。
He changed during his musical career, like the time he was still Hachi (ハチ) and he felt somehow lost in all of his fame, so he made this song wearing heeled shoes and then the next song, Flamingo, is very different from Lemon because many people started to listen and to know him after Lemon, but he wanted to know what they would think if Kenshi changed the rhythm and the kind, turns out that many of them were attracted by Lemon and they didn't like Flamingo, but they still subbed to Kenshi's YouTube channel. Thank you for reading all of this, English isn't my mother language so I'm sorry for the mistakes and as always, have a nice day :D
彼は音楽活動の中で変わっていった。例えば、彼がまだハチだった頃、有名になることにどこか迷いを感じて、ヒールのある靴を履いてこの曲を作った、 というのも、多くの人がLemonの後にKenshiを聴き始め、知るようになったからだ。しかし、彼はKenshiがリズムや種類を変えたらどう思うかを知りたかった。英語は母国語ではないので、間違いがあってごめんなさい。
Edit: You can find a video summary of Yonezu Kenshi's life and all of his interviews, it's in Mandarin tho. I hope you have a good translator to understand what he's saying.
米津建志の人生とインタビューの要約ビデオを見ることができます。彼が何を言っているのか理解するために、良い翻訳者がいることを願う。
Instrument: Sheng
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qkkA5yWrvww
Get to know the Chinese sheng, an instrument whose name invokes peace, harmony and balance between humans, nature and the universe. The sheng has a history stretching back many centuries, and is the ancestor of all free-reed instruments (such as the accordion, and the free-reed stops on the organ). It also inspires today’s composers, from China and around the world. Virtuoso sheng player Wu Wei demonstrates the versatility of his instrument, and how to prepare and tune it (including where to pour the hot water in!).
Discover the rest of our videos on the woodwind section in our playlist: • Woodwind Instruments (Philharmonia Or...
CHAPTERS
00:05 - Introducing the sheng
00:39 - Parts of the sheng
03:14 - Mounting the reed (part I)
06:33 - Meaning of sheng
13:03 - Mounting the reed (part II)
13:41 - Tuning
17:49 - Hot water
19:18 - Different sizes
20:07 - Learning the sheng
Suddenly, when I looked at my husband's schedule book on the desk, there was a picture of my child s tuck in it, and when I thought about it, there was something like a woman's name written on each mon th's page. So when I looked closely, I carefully wrote down the age and physical compatibility of the woman I m et on the page of the week, and I understood everything. Maybe it's been going on last year or a long time ago. I'm going to report to my friend that my child was born! There was also a note on the day of the drinking party that I sent out. I see. Now my heart feels numb and I don't feel like doing this right away, but what should I do in the fut ure? Ask right now, pretend you don't know yet, or leave it for the rest of your life. Or I'm not sure whether to treat him coldly thinking like this, or whether to be very kind and try t o create a sense of guilt. At home, he was a good dad who was active in housework and childcare due to his child's passions. I was glad that I was able to give birth to this child, but I feel like an idiot. I'm sorry and sorry that the girls my husband met were involved in the play of married people. Maybe he's hiding that he has a married child. I want to cut off only my lower body and throw it away.
we have a neighbors who lives in flat above has a child with abusive parents. on an average for a given day the child just stays calm without crying for 8 hours that also includes sleep. for the rest of 16 hours the child keeps crying vigorously. this is happening ever since they started living upstairs for the last 6 months.
Lord of people are under the mistaken impression that Tokyo is an innovative and futuristic city that’s ahead of the rest of the world, but I have not found that to be the case.
In fact, in everything from architecture to music to technology, it seems VERY stuck in the 90s.
https://twitter.com/p8stie/status/1691522451950432256?s=20
「東京は世界の最先端を行く革新的で未来的な都市だと勘違いしている人が多いようだが、私はそうは思っていない。
I think 必死 is the word I'm most leery of these days; there are certainly times when 'desperation' is fine but quite a lot of uses where that would be exaggerated and you're better off not having an equivalent word and just using strong wording for the rest of the line.
https://twitter.com/BuddyWaters/status/1668268871394947072
「必死」は、私が最近とても用心している言葉です。確かに「desperation」でいい場合もありますが、それだと大げさになることが多く、訳さずに文自体を強い口調で訳した方がいい場合も結構あります
本来の英文は『Today is the first day of the rest of your life』
ちなみに、今日弥彦ステークスを走ったトゥデイイズザデイの名前の由来は『今日は最高の日』だ。
俺はその意味とは思わず、ましてや本来の英文の方の意味とも思わず、単純に、何かの審判を待つ罪人のように『今日はその日である』という言葉として受け取り
そして、そこに賭けなかった。
俺が賭けたのは『魂の列車』ソウルトレインで、これまた別の『なんかダンスミュージックでこういうタイトルの奴あったよな』と思いながら賭けた。
『今日はその日じゃないよ』と思いながら。
結果、勝ったのはグランスラムアスク。『完勝』の名を冠した馬だった。
トゥデイイズザデイはあえなく五着。
大健闘だな、なんて思っていた。
『やっぱり、今日はその日じゃないんだな』なんて思っていた。
最後の直線コースの手前で疾病を発症し、彼の競争は中止となり、予後不良となった。
そう思った。
きっとトゥデイイズザデイの馬券を買っていたとしてもソウルトレインの運命は変わらなかったのだろうけど、
だがそれでも、『どれだけ煩わしいことが目の前に散乱してる毎日でも、“今日がその日”じゃなければお前に生きる価値はあるのか』
そんな風に、レースの結果が答えているように思えた。
ソウルトレイン号もターフで眠った後に成人男性の妄想に無理矢理巻き込まれてうんざりだろう。
“だったら最初から今日がその日に賭けておけよ”と言うだろう。
ソウルトレインと聞いてダンスミュージックの空気感を思い出しながら、大して曲も思い出せなかったから本当に『今日がその日』から逃げただけとしか思えないだろう。
でも“その日”は追いついてくる。
質感と共に、余計な犠牲と共に。
死は万人に訪れる。
終わりは今日訪れる。
だけどそれでもその0.09秒までは人生があるのだから、今日が人生が終わるまでの期間の最初の日だと思って生きるしかないんだろう。
トゥデイイズザデイ号は五着だし、トリガミばかりで大して儲けにもならない。
どちらにせよ、俺は多分早々に亡くなるんだろう。
少なくとも『今日がその日じゃなくてよかったね』なんてニヤニヤとする無駄な時間を過ごしている人間なのだから、それなのに馬券の上では負けているのだから生きる価値のあるなし以前の問題だ。
そこにたまたまソウルトレイン号の無理と終わりが来ただけのこと。
早々に、なんて言いながらダラダラ１０年以上生きるんだろうと思うけれど
そうすると、このままだと俺は早々に肉体の死を迎えるだろう。
精神は少しずつ死んでいっている。
今日は残った僅かばかりの精神をソウルトレイン号の追悼に捧げたい、全然どんなレースを走ってたかなんて覚えてないけれど。
ずっと忘れていた。
いや、脳の奥に生乾きのかさぶたのようなものがじっとりとこびりついて、ふとした時に思い出したりはしていた。
なぜだか、それが昨日になって出てきた
百子はJava言語の技術者だった。いや、技術者か分からないがJavaを学ぶ25歳の若い女性だった。
当時Java言語はJ2EEの登場により大きな注目を集めており、エンタープライズ用途で稼働していた業務系アプリケーションをWEBベースのJavaアプリケーションへのリプレースする事が大きな需要を生んでおり、VBやDelphi又はバックエンドとしてのCOBOL等で活躍していたエンジニアは技術転換を求められていた
現在も大して変わらんないかもしれないが、業務系エンジニアにコンピューターサイエンスを学んだ者は少なかった。
文系出身で(数学としての)関数や代数もちゃんと理解しているのか怪しいような者も数多く居り、当然ながらオブジェクト指向言語に戸惑う者も多かった。自分がそうだった。
当時の技術コミュニティはいくつかはあったが、古くからあったがどれも敷居が高かった。
fj.comp.lang.* (ネットニュース:現在と意味が異なる)は正当な技術者も多かったが初心者が書き込める雰囲気が無かったり過疎っていた。ニフティーサーブやPC-VAN等のパソコン通信(当時既にサービス名が変わっていたかもしれないがみんな昔の名前で読んでいた)をベースにしたものは歴史があったが、老害が偉そうにしているフォーラムも多く、やがて廃れていった。
そうした中で初心者も熟練者も和気あいあいと活発な議論が行われていたのが、JavaHouseというメーリングリストのコミュニティだった。
主催者は現在インターネットセキュリティの大物左翼として時折世間をビビらせまくっている、ひろみちゅ先生こと高木浩光氏。当時既に産総研の研究者になっていたとはいえ、あくまで個人が手弁当で運用していた。無料で誰でも自由に入退会ができるコミュニティであり、他に行き場のなさを感じた初心者のJavaエンジニアたちにとって大きな心の拠り所となった。
でも百子が注目された事があったのだ。
当時は適切な印刷用の整形ソリューションが無く比較的頻繁に挙がっていた話題で、
百子も同様に苦しんでいた
するような方法が、現時点ではり一ゾナブル
かとも思います。
ドラえもんのようなひらがなとカタカナを組み合わせたチャーミングな文体でその焦りを徹底的かつ高度に表現していた。
しかしこの議論中に問題が起こる。JavaHouseに障害が発生しメールが配信されない事象が発生したのだ。
NFSで他のサーバーにマウントしていたが不要と思われたNFSサーバーのデータを一部で参照していたため処理が行えなかった、応急的に対応したが根本対応を後日行うと管理者の高木浩光は告げた。
しかし、議論が途切れた事を不安に思った百子は高木浩光に直接確認を行った。返事は帰ってこなかった。
＞ This Message was undeliverable due to the following reason:
＞ The user(s) account is temporarily over quota.
というエラーで戻ってきました。
いろいろとご心配のようでしたので（その内容については書きませんが）、迅
速にお返事を差し上げる必要を感じておりますが、上記の通りでは、連絡の取
り様がありませんので、やむを得ず、お返事を差し上げた事実をここで示させ
ていただきます。
まるで百子に非があるかのように。
恥ずかしさと悔しさで真っ赤となった泣き顔の百子を想像することは難しくない。
次はインスタンス生成時のコストに関する伝統的な議論であったが、
その流れで議論とは関係が無かったが百子はやりとりのマナーについて言及した。
議論をしていた者たちは本質的では無い指摘に形式的な謝罪をしたが、
高木浩光だ
そんな慣習はありませんよ。
きっと百子は憤然たる思いを抱えたに違いなかった
最後に決定的な事が起こる
先日の障害の復旧のためメンテナンスのためサービスを停止すると高木浩光が予告した。
百子はさんざん煮え湯を飲まされてきた高木に対して
以下ちゃちゃです。
全サービスが利用不可というのは、大変なことでしょうに。
以上、ちゃちゃでした。
挙げ句Javaコミュニティを自分で立ち上げてみてはどうかと言う者まで現れた。
か弱く繊細で思いやりのある儚き百子が、このような嘲りに耐えるのは致命的な苦痛だったに違いない。
百子は精一杯の力でJava界の将来についてその想いを書き綴った
私が恐れているのは、恐怖の日が襲い、対応の行動が遅すぎる前に
協議を行って欲しい、ということです。
別れは突然訪れた
「百子の夫です」
技術コミュニティに相応しない短い件名の投稿は衝撃的なものであった
私の妻百子は１１日に進行性癌に伴う急性心不全で永眠いたしました
25才でした
医師の診断をもらったとき私たちに残された時間は１ヶ月というものでした
毎日が恐怖でした。、
なんという事だ！こんな悲劇があってよかろうはずがない！
しかもあのプりントアウトの話をしていたときには余命を悟っていたのか。
自分は打ちのめされた
そしてさらに衝撃的な事が続く
百子は先週からふさぎがちになっていました
聞くとブー様とうまくいっていないのではないかということでした
百子はずいぶん前からたびたび高木という男の名を出してひとりでジャバなる
パソコンを動かし一人で全部やってのけているのだと絶賛しておりました
おのれ高木さんめ！いや、ぶー様め！
百子の心に闇で満たしたという事か。
悔しくてウイスキーをストレートで何倍も痛飲し、この辛い出来事を忘れるように努めた。
自分はアプリケーションのプログラミングをする事もすっかりなくなっていた。
数年に１度くらいフッと湧き上がってくる事があったが、すぐに忘れようとした。
しかし、昨日はなぜ、菊池百子を思い出したのかずっと考えていた。
ずっと、ずっと
愛していたんだと思う、百子を。
直接会ったことはないし、見たこともない、投稿の文面の文字でしか見ていない、直接のメッセージのやりとりもしていない、だけど確かに自分は百子を愛していた。
雅人よりもずっと。
ぶー様よりもきっと。
Rest in peace, I love you.
https://web.archive.org/web/20091027013532/http://java-house.jp/ml/archive/j-h-b/052276.html#body
