Golden Time:Volume2 Postscript

Golden Time 2: Postscript

Postscript

At about the same time as when I finished writing this manuscript, what had been my rather long time favorite notebook computer fell into what was frankly critical condition (a.k.a. senility), stopping dead without even having saved my data, so I replaced it with a new one. With a new machine, for the first time I would start punching out reams of material.

Still, as you might expect, it was brand new. Whether starting up, or doing anything, the word was fast. It was fast, but. ...What should I do? What a mess, it's hard to use. I'm a little teary-eyed.

Because the old machine was so easy to use, what I really wanted was to have exactly the same thing, but new. Unfortunately, that very same model I'd bought so many years before was simply not available, and that same manufacturer's new model... Anyway, sure that it would look similar, that it wouldn't be all that different coming from the same manufacturer, rather than carefully checking out and trying machines from all over the place, shallow, superficial me went and bought it only on sight... though going from appearances was awfully wrong...

First of all, for typing characters like this, the keyboard is bulky, crude and uncomfortable. The bulk and height aren't treating my wrists very well. If I try to adjust the height of the chair or the table, then either way it's too low for my eyes. I'm not used to wide screens. I set the width of my editor to the number of characters on a book page. I've always been of the school of horizontal writing, but now things are a bit clipped vertically. When I go to verify up and down, I can't see very much without scrolling. In the little bit of time I've been writing this, the upper half of my back and my right shoulder are dying.

I suppose I do get a little too worked up over things, but of course in this line of work they say that your body is your capital, and in any case, before deadlines, staring at it ten hours or more, things happen if you have personal computers. I've definitely become sensitive to what they feel like as I use them. ...In 20/20 hindsight, if I had the free time to write with such a smug look on my face, then why didn't I spend more time in examining and understanding it before I bought it...?

...Well, though. If I think back on it. No less than ten books were written on that old machine. The paint on the edges of the keyboard completely flaked off from so many years of hand-sweat, hardly anybody could miss that the machine was wearing out.

My body, eyes and even my head had become entirely accustomed to the feel of it, and it looked like I would quickly get to where I could use the new machine in exactly the same way, but from the very start that was not reasonable. Even using this machine, writing manuscripts like crazy, by the time it's surface has been coated by hand-sweat, I will probably not even think about how it feels to use it anymore. Or rather, this new machine, it seems to be made of materials such that no matter how much hand-sweat it gets, wetting and wetting it, it will never wear down. If I were to try and chip the paint, I'd damage my own hand, seems like. In that area, of course, technology is progressing, wouldn't you say? The times have caught up with hand-sweat, it seems.

Friend: "My hands have gotten painfully dry..."

Me: "Aren't my hands moist? Shall I moisten yours?"

Friend: "Eh!? That's fine, that's fine! I don't need it!"

Me: "Well, there's no need to hold back."

(Grab...)

Friend: "Ahh...! Why'd you get me wet... stupid idiot!"

---That was the way we talked back and forth since student days even until now, over and over again endlessly the same, my circle of classmates saying, "Hand sweat?" I recommend this machine. I have thoroughly and completely immersed you in my moaning and groaning, but now am not going to reveal to you the manufacturer's name...

This "Golden Time 2: The Answer is YES", written with my favorite old machine, has become my most recent book.

You kindly accepted this book to your hands, all of you. For all the fellowship I've received from you, thank you very much. I offer you my heartfelt gratitude. Really really, truly thank you! Drinking and getting drunk, drinking and getting drunk, only that the whole second volume, wasn't that fun?

With a ways to go yet, I keep moving on. The third volume is scheduled for publication in the height of summer, in the bright sun! If it's all right with you, please let us continue this relationship we have. While soaking this fun machine with my sweaty hands, I'm thinking "I want to type."

Being as was in mid-manuscript, being made to change my computer, even if it was on its deathbed, was really dangerous.

My deadline creeping dangerously close, the moment the thought came to me, "Is writing hard (five times as fast as life itself) really all that necessary?" down my sides, pop, pop... something like mosquito bites broke out.

Was it mosquitos? Ticks? Fleas? While thinking of such things, I washed my clothes in a frenzy, and ran my futon through the dryer, but the popping only got worse. And then there was a horrible itching. Scratching myself, I got little bumps. What's more, was it my imagination, or was my body getting awfully sluggish, from my head to my shoulders, my hips, my joints hurting terribly. Far from writing my manuscript, even just sitting up straight became difficult.

This wasn't normal, of course. What kind of venomous insect had gotten me? When the dermatologist took a look at me, with only one glance he declared them to be shingles.

He said the ganglia on my right side had been afflicted by a virus like chickenpox, making it hurt here and there. It seemed that quite a few people suffered from this rather major disease. ...I was getting old.

"It's a condition of people who's resistance has lowered. Right now, your body is like that of a 60-year old man."

That's the way the doctor seemed to be talking.

But feeling like I were a 60-year old man? I mean, that's wrong, it's not like that. Old... old man...? Eh? Not even a grandmother...?

By chance, around the same time there was a friend who was worried about getting shingles. If I were to explain to her, "We'd be like 60-year old men," she would be shocked, of course. "That so? But aren’t we already female?" ...So it seems. It's sad, isn't it? Somebody's gone and stolen our shining middle age! And then we were given a Y-chromosome as a parting gift...

Up til now I have completely and masochistically labeled myself an old woman, but I've not thought "I'm an old man," of course. I am revising my opinion. I am an old man. Even if only a little bit, whatever should happen to such as me in the future, the possibilities, I am suddenly feeling those kinds of things falling away. Old man, eh… already, I have nothing to lose. Even if I am thinking this is less than my optimal condition. An unfeeling demon shogun. Old man Takemiya, not feeling his age.

Well then, you have all read it from one end to the other. Once again, I thank you having going out together with me! If I have given you even a short moment of enjoyment, I am more than anybody fortunate! The third volume is next, if you are interested in more, whatever happens, let's get back together!

And now, Komatsu Eeji-sensei, manager Yuasa-sama, from now on without interruption, let's work well together!

竹宮ゆゆこ

Takemiya Yuyuko

Back to Chapter 4

Return to Main Page