'Cast in Bronze, Traced in Sand'
Posted: Wed Oct 22, 2008 8:40 pm
I'm not dead yet, I was just translating KS. Or writing stuff that doesn't make it to the public side of the forums. Or on vacation. Or slacking. So, yeah... prepare for an endless desert filled with 'nosex' tags. 
Holy shit, writing this one was an ordeal. Especially since I couldn't manage making it any longer. Given the minutes-spent-per-word, this ought to be my finest yet.
Except it's very likely utter crap instead.
Storycodes: mi shi nosex
CAST IN BRONZE, TRACED IN SAND
---
I put down my pencil and take a long breath, rubbing the bridge of my nose just above my glasses.
It's entirely too late, as usual. Or too early, depending on how one wishes to see it.
The student council room is still and quiet, as the whole school is. As my whole world is.
So easy to separate myself from the world, when I want... just closing my eyes is enough.
Leaning back in my chair, I stretch my arms above my head.
Do I refuse to do that because it's so easy, I wonder? Am I dominated by my stubbornness to the point that I distrust everything that smacks of an easy out...?
Pfft, pointless to dwell on it. I am as I am, and I could no more deny that than I could deny the sun, or the rain. I resume my work anew.
The pencil scratches against the cheap, thin paper. 'The results of the survey conducted among the second-year classes show...'
I so hate written words.
Turning the sheet over, I go to the next item. 'Yearly expense report for the art club: One (1) easel, wooden, studio - 20,000 yen. Three (3) brushes, camel hair, var.sizes - 560 yen...'
It's not that I hate writing per se. Writing is, by itself, a medium. Just like languages, or movies, or math.
I turn the leaf again, and immediately notice a mistake. Typical, stupid carelessness. I swap the pencil for my eraser.
It's the end result that I don't like. Written words, staying there to haunt you forever. Available to nearly any idiot who'll pick up a pen and spend a little time.
Done with rubbing out the mistake, I brush the residue from the sheet. The next part of the forms is easy and repetitive, allowing my thoughts to wander.
One might believe my dislike to be a consequence of my work. It's not because of that, really. Even though the work is dull, endless, and more difficult than it ought to be... I have picked it out for myself, after all, and if it weren't like that I probably wouldn't have chosen to do it in the first place.
The torrents of paperwork actually bother me a little bit less than most written stuff.
They hardly ever say anything beyond the data they're meant to convey, are dry, stupefyingly boring, often impermanent, and unlikely to be read again by anyone, ever. So I guess they're all right for written words. Barely.
Besides, I'm also fine with print. Print is serious stuff. It goes in books, and newspapers, and documents... all things that show at least a modicum of forethought.
Mess up in print, and you are expected to face consequences. If you're lucky, you'll get public embarrassment; if you're not, you'll get fines and lawsuits.
But wholly written stuff? Letters. Memos. Notes. Diaries. Graffiti. Bah.
If I could obliterate them all from existence, I'd do it, gladly. And with good reason, I feel. Those leave the stupidity of an inconsiderate thought bared in the street for all to see, just as the thoughtless let fly their inanities for all to hear.
...And my, aren't we getting wordy tonight? I let out a silent chuckle. I must be slipping, if I'm starting to do this kind of thing in my head instead of inflicting it on Hisao.
Hisao... once I said to him that sign language has one single advantage; it is deliberate, giving time to think about what one really wants to say before saying it.
That was true, but of course I didn't tell him the whole story: it has another characteristic that's an important advantage in my way of thinking.
It doesn't leave any trace... exactly like the sound of spoken words.
And that's no small thing. Because just as I find ridiculously laughable how most people will shoot their mouth off without thinking...
Here I have to repress a small smile from growing too large thinking about Hisao's massive problems in the accidental-speaking department. He is learning fast, though, I have to grant him that. In my mind. Openly, never.
...I find doubly unpleasant the muddy, inky tracks etched into time by the scrawlers and the scribblers. They're all so... thoughtless. Pointless. Unbalanced. Unfinished.
I make sure to never do that, God forbid. I don't know how I'd deal with the embarrassment. When I'm forced to write something out temporarily, I always remember to tear it up and get rid of it. Thankfully, since Misha has been around, I hardly have to do that anymore...
The door of the student council room opens. Nearly unbelievable, at this hour.
'Hi, Shicchan~!'
Speak of the devil. 'Hello. You're late. Considering you weren't even supposed to show up, I'll overlook it this time. Everything all right?'
'Ehehehe~, yup! The trip back was really long though... so I'm tiired~.'
I sigh and shake my head in exasperation. 'Go sleep then. Honestly, I expected you to take the day off anyway, I'll be perfectly fine by myself.'
'Awww, but then I'll feel bad knowing you're up all alone...'
Typical Misha. Always willing to pitch in, but not so willing that she won't complain about it.
'Misha. Go. Sleep. In this state you won't be much help to me anyway, so don't force yourself.'
It looks like she's willing to try and debate the point, but she gets interrupted by a spectacularly huge yawn when she opens her mouth to try, quite spoiling her attempt.
'Ah, ooops...'
I raise an eyebrow and silently point at the door with my free hand.
'Oh, phooey. Alright then Shicchan, I'll see you later. Don't stay up too long yourself~!'
Part pouting, part cheerily, she goes, closing the door behind her.
Good grief. And she signs constantly. It still boggles my mind how she could be so carefree about it.
Well, the advantage is there, it's not my fault if not everybody chooses to use it, is it now? Much as I like Misha, she's a prime example of that...
Hm.
Misha's spontaneity.
Hisao's way of speaking his mind inadvertently.
The people I like best are the ones that are most unlike myself. What does that say about me?
I take off my glasses and take a long breath, wiping my forehead with my hand.
It's beyond late. If I don't go soon, I will get to see dawn breaking.
The student council room is still and quiet, as the whole school is. As my whole world is.
So easy to separate myself from the world, when I want... just closing my eyes is enough.
I do that, and everything vanishes. Then I think.
-SC
Holy shit, writing this one was an ordeal. Especially since I couldn't manage making it any longer. Given the minutes-spent-per-word, this ought to be my finest yet.
Except it's very likely utter crap instead.
Storycodes: mi shi nosex
CAST IN BRONZE, TRACED IN SAND
---
I put down my pencil and take a long breath, rubbing the bridge of my nose just above my glasses.
It's entirely too late, as usual. Or too early, depending on how one wishes to see it.
The student council room is still and quiet, as the whole school is. As my whole world is.
So easy to separate myself from the world, when I want... just closing my eyes is enough.
Leaning back in my chair, I stretch my arms above my head.
Do I refuse to do that because it's so easy, I wonder? Am I dominated by my stubbornness to the point that I distrust everything that smacks of an easy out...?
Pfft, pointless to dwell on it. I am as I am, and I could no more deny that than I could deny the sun, or the rain. I resume my work anew.
The pencil scratches against the cheap, thin paper. 'The results of the survey conducted among the second-year classes show...'
I so hate written words.
Turning the sheet over, I go to the next item. 'Yearly expense report for the art club: One (1) easel, wooden, studio - 20,000 yen. Three (3) brushes, camel hair, var.sizes - 560 yen...'
It's not that I hate writing per se. Writing is, by itself, a medium. Just like languages, or movies, or math.
I turn the leaf again, and immediately notice a mistake. Typical, stupid carelessness. I swap the pencil for my eraser.
It's the end result that I don't like. Written words, staying there to haunt you forever. Available to nearly any idiot who'll pick up a pen and spend a little time.
Done with rubbing out the mistake, I brush the residue from the sheet. The next part of the forms is easy and repetitive, allowing my thoughts to wander.
One might believe my dislike to be a consequence of my work. It's not because of that, really. Even though the work is dull, endless, and more difficult than it ought to be... I have picked it out for myself, after all, and if it weren't like that I probably wouldn't have chosen to do it in the first place.
The torrents of paperwork actually bother me a little bit less than most written stuff.
They hardly ever say anything beyond the data they're meant to convey, are dry, stupefyingly boring, often impermanent, and unlikely to be read again by anyone, ever. So I guess they're all right for written words. Barely.
Besides, I'm also fine with print. Print is serious stuff. It goes in books, and newspapers, and documents... all things that show at least a modicum of forethought.
Mess up in print, and you are expected to face consequences. If you're lucky, you'll get public embarrassment; if you're not, you'll get fines and lawsuits.
But wholly written stuff? Letters. Memos. Notes. Diaries. Graffiti. Bah.
If I could obliterate them all from existence, I'd do it, gladly. And with good reason, I feel. Those leave the stupidity of an inconsiderate thought bared in the street for all to see, just as the thoughtless let fly their inanities for all to hear.
...And my, aren't we getting wordy tonight? I let out a silent chuckle. I must be slipping, if I'm starting to do this kind of thing in my head instead of inflicting it on Hisao.
Hisao... once I said to him that sign language has one single advantage; it is deliberate, giving time to think about what one really wants to say before saying it.
That was true, but of course I didn't tell him the whole story: it has another characteristic that's an important advantage in my way of thinking.
It doesn't leave any trace... exactly like the sound of spoken words.
And that's no small thing. Because just as I find ridiculously laughable how most people will shoot their mouth off without thinking...
Here I have to repress a small smile from growing too large thinking about Hisao's massive problems in the accidental-speaking department. He is learning fast, though, I have to grant him that. In my mind. Openly, never.
...I find doubly unpleasant the muddy, inky tracks etched into time by the scrawlers and the scribblers. They're all so... thoughtless. Pointless. Unbalanced. Unfinished.
I make sure to never do that, God forbid. I don't know how I'd deal with the embarrassment. When I'm forced to write something out temporarily, I always remember to tear it up and get rid of it. Thankfully, since Misha has been around, I hardly have to do that anymore...
The door of the student council room opens. Nearly unbelievable, at this hour.
'Hi, Shicchan~!'
Speak of the devil. 'Hello. You're late. Considering you weren't even supposed to show up, I'll overlook it this time. Everything all right?'
'Ehehehe~, yup! The trip back was really long though... so I'm tiired~.'
I sigh and shake my head in exasperation. 'Go sleep then. Honestly, I expected you to take the day off anyway, I'll be perfectly fine by myself.'
'Awww, but then I'll feel bad knowing you're up all alone...'
Typical Misha. Always willing to pitch in, but not so willing that she won't complain about it.
'Misha. Go. Sleep. In this state you won't be much help to me anyway, so don't force yourself.'
It looks like she's willing to try and debate the point, but she gets interrupted by a spectacularly huge yawn when she opens her mouth to try, quite spoiling her attempt.
'Ah, ooops...'
I raise an eyebrow and silently point at the door with my free hand.
'Oh, phooey. Alright then Shicchan, I'll see you later. Don't stay up too long yourself~!'
Part pouting, part cheerily, she goes, closing the door behind her.
Good grief. And she signs constantly. It still boggles my mind how she could be so carefree about it.
Well, the advantage is there, it's not my fault if not everybody chooses to use it, is it now? Much as I like Misha, she's a prime example of that...
Hm.
Misha's spontaneity.
Hisao's way of speaking his mind inadvertently.
The people I like best are the ones that are most unlike myself. What does that say about me?
I take off my glasses and take a long breath, wiping my forehead with my hand.
It's beyond late. If I don't go soon, I will get to see dawn breaking.
The student council room is still and quiet, as the whole school is. As my whole world is.
So easy to separate myself from the world, when I want... just closing my eyes is enough.
I do that, and everything vanishes. Then I think.
-SC