Well, this April has been a wild ride.
…And the ride never ends.
Well, blame me for choosing to take the route of going out to work instead of sitting back, setting up donations, and let the passive payment come in.
Some of you asked me if I wanted to set up donations and such. Even my family and close friends have been asking me this. Well, to address this.
Main disadvantage of that is that it is too short-term thinking. I can’t be spending the entire day just waiting for donations to come in and continue translating.
I originally moved the Heretic stuff to Hellping, mostly because I wanted to start of with a donation function (and that blogger was so unwilling to grant me a googleads function). I was spending my final days of college looking for jobs (Not even bothered with studying at that point), and at that point, I was looking for a quick buck. I was naive, to say the least. While guys out there are earning like 7.2K USD a month from donations alone, I don’t think I’ll be able to get that sum, given that I’m already trying to be low profile, and being too picky with my choice of series. (Well, let’s face it, if I really wanted to be popular, I would have continued to stick with the SAO series.)
So, speaking of jobs, I really didn’t know what I wanted. Knowing myself, I can be confident enough to say that a typical office environment won’t suit me because I’m too much of a rebel (and slacker. I work hard now to slack later). While I do appreciate the discipline a typical workplace will have for me, I do know that I burn out a lot. A lot of people ask me why I don’t want to be an author given how much I want to read, and I can only tell them that I need to have something to focus on so that I can work.
Also, many have asked me why I have yet to ask for donations for the past 6 years. Honestly, the idea was tempting, but ultimately, there are two reasons, first being that I’m too lazy to actually bother setting up all the stuff, and secondly, because I just feel that the work is not meant to be profited, but to be shared instead. When you share something with a good friend, you don’t really charge them money, do you?
Tl;dr, RL is a chore…and I don’t regret my choice in focusing more on it than translating.
Baka Tsuki just had a meeting over the past week, and I was in attendance.
Contrary to what I suggested, the committee is not reinstating the licensed and DMCA series. Server will be moved elsewhere.
Feeling bored, i came up with my own song.
License, are running around
I said license, are tearing us down.
I said license, ’cause we are around
But there is a new looming threat out there.
Young man, we are a sinking ship.
I said young man, when we are short on our dough
We are dying, and because of this threat.
There are a thousand ways to delete.
Because there is still the D.M.C.A.
Hey, killing us all are D.M.C.A.
They have everything for us admins to delete
Those stuff can hang out in the trash
Because there is still the D.M.C.A.
Hey, killing us all are D.M.C.A.
Not even Aria, or DAL, or DYD
Can ever see the light of day here.
So, since I’m more or less going to be relatively more active starting from May 20, I’ll need to clarify a few things:
Planning to go ahead with Clockwork 3 and Long Title 2 as my next updates.
And here’s a little teaser as to what I will be adding this year (BT Only):
“I can probably die now,” said Ender. “All my life’s work is done.”
“Mine too,” said Novinha. “But I think that means that it’s time to start to live.”
Orson Scott Card — Speaker of the Dead.
Till this day, I still vividly remember the day mom died.
Every word my sister said on the phone, dad’s drool in his half-opened mouth, the instruction posters pasted on the white hospital walls–I still remember them all. These were all too bright that I wondered if I mistook them for being in a movie or some other places. But looking back at my memories, I realized it could be associated with the last time I saw off mom at the door in the morning. I There is no doubt this is my memory.
I wondered why I could still remember that so vividly.
I supposed it was because I did not see the corpse for myself, and the make up for the surrealism, my mind frantically pieced together everything I saw and heard in my mind. I was still in elementary school when mom’s body was knocked down by a trailer, and deformed as she was crushed between it and the building wall, so obviously, dad didn’t allow me into the morgue.
Dad himself could not move as he stood in front of the stairs leading to the basement, so my sister was the one who identified the corpse. Back then, she was still in high school, but she did everything, from speaking to the police and doctors, and calling for the funerary parlor.
Dad became weird after that, as though his fractured bones were put back in the wrong places. I did not remember exactly what happened at the funeral, but I knew that he did not say anything. Perhaps that was when he snapped. The next day, he started calling my sister by my mom’s name.
I could not understand what happened at all. It seemed sister knew, but did not know how to respond.
“Maybe I’m too capable.”
While we were alone together, sister shrugged as she said this.
“Dad’s someone who can’t live on without mom. He probably escaped to the past, pretending that Alice didn’t die.”
I didn’t know how she could calmly rationalize this.
However, sister’s deduction was amazingly accurate. After observing dad, who had lost it, for a little while, I had to come to agree with that assessment. Dad’s mind was back to when he first got married with mom, and because of that, he saw the only female in the house–his own daughter–as his wife. Also, he would say such passionate things like “Sorry for always having world.” or “I might be deployed to Kansai next time. Sorry to bother you.” For a while, I couldn’t believe that my stoic dad actually became like that, and to be honest, it felt really disgusting.
Also, he could not recognize me anymore. His mind ‘went back’ to when he got married with mom, back when she had yet to bear a kid. For dad, I’m someone who shouldn’t exist. I didn’t know how to deal with dad when he was like this, and to be honest, it was easier for me not to interact with him. There was not much change to this daily life. Dad continued to work, earning money for the family. While things would get awkward whenever the school called (whenever the teacher called, he would say something like ‘that’s strange. I don’t have a son’), but sister could normally handle that well. Since it was not a hassle to any of us, we did not care no matter how mentally disturbed he was.
After a long while, I asked sister,
“Sister…are you really alright?”
“Eh, well…about mom’s death.”
My sister chuckled. Her past experiences gave birth to such a smile.
“Of course I’m not. But neither you nor dad are able to help, Narumi. I got no choice but to shoulder the load.”
Just as dad remained mentally disturbed, I too could only stand by the side, watching. Sister did all she could to protect our lives in a realistic sense.
“Humans can’t revive. Can’t he just cry it all out and forget?”
Those words appear to be directed at me as well. To be honest, I really had the same thoughts as dad–as long as I did not admit that mom died, maybe I could have waived off the past? Maybe sister saw through me, and that I didn’t have the guts to be ‘broken mentally’, unwilling to say it out.
The dead can’t revive.
I held my breath, enduring this youth filled with simple yet cruel truth.
When I was in my 10th grade, dad bought a house in Tokyo. He was dispatched to the main office in Tokyo, and did not have to wander everywhere.
Because of that, I too came to this city, encountering many lives and deaths, sometimes causing commotion, sometimes getting hurt, sometimes dirtying myself, soiling my face with dirt as I remembered it all, welcoming this second Spring. In the process of recording every memo in a story, I learned something–no matter who the narrator was, what they said formed their story. I might not be the one bleeding, but if the truth was as I heard and witnessed, turned into words with my own hands, what I write would be my story. On the other hand, I could only recount the stories I heard and saw, what were related to me. All I could describe were the stories of those who were similarly suffering, anguished, and contorted like me.
Finally, I could say it.
The final case of the detective who shut herself in the frigid room.
The cruel battle of the girl who like me, wanted to revive her dead mother.
Why did she not choose that one smart move? What kind of grass would the land grow after absorbing so much blood, such that one would laugh for, shed tears for, break themselves for, be forgotten? What kind of flowers would bloom–
The me now probably had a right to say this story.
For I lost Alice.