edits, publication of Motes Played

idumea/content/004.tex

@@ -1,18 +1,20 @@
 The Woman lingered long on the words of Her Cocladist: \emph{aught else aside from our lot in life.}
 
-What \emph{was} her lot in life? What was \emph{a} lot in life? Was she limited only to one thing? Was she bound to stasis? And what, then, of her thoughts on eternal stillness? What did it mean that a seed had been planted within her and had lately begun to sprout? She knew where they came from.
+What \emph{was} her lot in life? What was \emph{a} lot in life? Was she limited only to one thing? Was she bound to stasis? And what, then, did it mean that a seed had been planted within her and had lately begun to sprout? What of her thoughts on eternal stillness?
 
-Her lot in life had at one point been to teach, to revel in the joy of acting and directing and sets and props and lights and sound and audience and her lovely, loving students who ached for nothing more than to be seen, to receive some perhaps hug from this person who they trusted and yet who could not give them such for fear of disease and regulation in equal measure, to receive some perhaps affection from their cohort and yet which their beloved teacher stopped them for fear of disease and regulation in unequal measure.
+She knew where they came from.
+
+Her lot in life had at one point been to teach, to revel in the joy of acting and directing and sets and props and lights and sound and audience and her lovely, loving students who ached for nothing more than to be seen, to receive some perhaps hug from this person who they trusted and yet who could not give them such for fear of pandemic and regulation in equal measure, to receive some perhaps affection from their cohort and yet which their beloved teacher stopped them for fear of pandemic and regulation in unequal measure.
 
 She knew the helplessness of having her agency ripped from her. She knew the feeling of being seen by something larger than mere personhood, a thing which saw her and said, ``this here is a wretched and despicable thing,'' and then took her from the world. And then her lot in life was to campaign, for though she still taught on occasion, still directed, she found she could not act as she wished, and still she had to refrain from hugging for fear of the discomfort of touch.
 
-She knew the feeling of splitting herself into ten unequal parts so that she might at last rest. She knew that her lot in life then became to process what she had become, for that was the role \emph{she} remembered of the tenth stanza, not simply to linger in suffering.
+She knew the feeling of splitting herself into ten unequal parts so that she might at last rest. She knew that her lot in life then became to process what she had become, for that was the role \emph{she} remembered of the tenth stanza, not simply to linger in suffering, but to find a way forward.
 
 She lingered on these thoughts in her unjoy and pondered the meaning, the actions implied, and, with as firm a resolve as a woman who is too much herself could muster, decided that she would \emph{not} lean into this idea of perpetuity as Her Cocladist dwelt within. She may have a lot in life for a time—for a year, for a decade, for a century—but not for the entirety of her existence.
 
 It was within this lingering that she reached out to Her Friend: \emph{``No Hesitation, would you like to meet for coffee? I have something I would like to speak with you about.''}
 
-There was a sensation of a tilted head, of a quiet \emph{huh,} in the sensorium message. \emph{``Of course, my dear. So soon after our last meeting, too. I am curious what has you reaching out! When would you like to meet?''}
+There was a sensation of a tilted head, of a quiet \emph{huh,} in the sensorium message. \emph{``Of course, my dear. So soon after our last meeting, too. I am curious what has you reaching out. When would you like to meet?''}
 
 \emph{``Now, if you are free.''}
 
@@ -100,7 +102,7 @@ And no, because with each success shining as bright as that crunchy and flavorfu
 
 No, because her limits were reinforced. For every victory, there was a reminder that she was unwhole. My friends, I think that \emph{everyone} is unwhole. I know that I am. I know that I write and write and write, and that is lovely, yes, but I also know that I can be a prickly little terror when caught up in my emotions. I know that I spend my time at my books, at my desk, and, though I try to be a comfortable and comforting presence within my stanza, though I try to dote on my up-tree, I am never able to give quite as much as I would like. I think everyone is unwhole, and I think as well that, to us, our unwhole-ness is more evident, more dire than it is to those around us. You and I, friends, we see The Woman coming across a boundary in her tastes and nod and think to ourselves, ``This is no moral failing! The Woman has done no wrong. She should feel no shame.'' But to her, it felt like a failure to reach joy.
 
-She, too, understands dialectics, do not get me wrong. She, too, knows that these reassurances of boundaries also come with the discoveries that she made, all of the green papaya salads and savory Artemisian treats that Warmth In Fire and its ilk had set on the market that she fell in love with. But always before her was the goal of joy, and while she would count her successes, she would also count her failures—no, no, do not contradict her, she saw them as failures and there is now no changing of her mind, not these many years later, not as she is now—and cluck her tongue and shake her head and go home and lay down in her bed and take one of those naps that she was so good at.
+She, too, understands dialectics, do not get me wrong. She, too, knows that these reassurances of boundaries also come with the discoveries that she made, all of the green papaya salads and savory Artemisian treats that The Oneirotect, my beloved up-tree, and its ilk had set on the market that she fell in love with. But always before her was the goal of joy, and while she would count her successes, she would also count her failures—no, no, do not contradict her, she saw them as failures and there is now no changing of her mind, not these many years later, not as she is now—and cluck her tongue and shake her head and go home and lay down in her bed and take one of those naps that she was so good at.
 
 There was joy, yes, but it was not a complete joy. Her hedonism with food was a lovely hedonism and she cherished it, but it was not the hedonism she needed for this task.