@ -30,7 +30,7 @@ I do not know where these rituals come from, and perhaps some of my readers will
Perhaps she does, perhaps she does not. I do not know, friend. I *do* know that there are obsessions within her, yes, and I am sure that these rituals feel compulsory, but there is something different about The Woman. She is too present. She is too much herself, too human, too embodied within her vessel as it spirals out of control, too stuck in her mind as it twists in on itself. She is less struck by a disorder than she is struck by a constant overwhelm, a constant overflowing.
The Woman uploaded when she was overflowing. She lived within that overflow for years, for twelve years she was overflowing, she was trapped within her mind and within the vessel of her body, and she lived as best she can as her body spiraled out of control.
The Woman uploaded when she was overflowing. She lived within that overflow for years, for twelve years she was overflowing, she was trapped within her mind and within the vessel of her body, and she lived as best she could as her body spiraled out of control.
Readers, you must understand that she was in so many ways whole still!
@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ Either way, she was feeling good and she was feeling stable and she was feeling
She found herself a nice shirt that felt good on the fur and which would not look too weird if she poofed out into a skunk. It was not her favorite shirt, I am sure, otherwise maybe she would wear it every day, but it was good enough. It had the word 'fiend' scribbled across it in angular, glitchy graffiti, and The Woman is absolutely allowed to feel like a fiend some days.
Thus clothed, The Woman stood for a while in front of the mirror and admired herself. She felt good. She felt good, reader! It was not often that she felt more than just okay. Because even with all that I wrote about before, her life was not bad. It was an okay life. She liked this life in her own way. Her thoughts on unbecoming were not thoughts on suicide, I do not think.
Thus gussied, The Woman stood for a while in front of the mirror and admired herself. She felt good. She felt good, reader! It was not often that she felt more than just okay. Because even with all that I wrote about before, her life was not bad. It was an okay life. She liked this life in her own way. Her thoughts on unbecoming were not thoughts on suicide, I do not think.
She stood before the mirror and primped for a moment, adjusting the way her shirt sat and fluffing out her slacks to see how they might fit with a thicker coat. She combed her claws through her short fur to straighten out some mussed-up spots and ensured that her whiskers were all neat and in those rows that cats have that she always found fascinating.
@ -370,7 +370,11 @@ The Oneirotect, clearly delighted by so simple a question, brought its paws toge
I chuckled, shrugged.
"Very well. I favor culinary constructs now, but that has only become the case since I met Codrin.<!-- ((Something something "Why not REDACTED? Aren't they the fancy chef?")) --> That said, I did begin with endangered and extinct fruits! Most of the heavy lifting had already been done by the time I began exploring oneirotecture, but there remained gaps in what was available. That experience was most formative."
"Very well. I favor culinary constructs now, but that has only become the case since I met Codrin. That said, I did begin with endangered and extinct fruits! Most of the heavy lifting had already been done by the time I began exploring oneirotecture, but there remained gaps in what was available. That experience was most formative."
"Not █████? Not Codrin and Dear's partner?" The Woman asked. She asked, of course, after one remembered fondly, and one whose name is not yours to know, dear readers, or perhaps you know it intimately, but with a wink and a nudge like a joke kept between us. "Are they not the chef?"
The Oneirotect smiled wryly. "Well, sure, but my interest lies more in the food that others love to their core. █████'s food is delightful, yes. It is _enjoyable,_ and often it is _loved,_ but it is not really _beloved._ I would rather focus on the food those remember with fondness their mothers and grandmothers cooking. Remembered foods. Cherished foods, yes?"
"I suppose this is where the nostalgia comes in, then, yes? Reaching back for the things that others loved, rather than simply ate out of necessity?"
@ -378,12 +382,7 @@ The Oneirotect tilted its head, unruly mane falling over its eyes. Out of instin
"You speak of research and gaps in selections and beloved meals," I said. "It sounds like you speak most of all of making things for others, or for all, rather than for yourself."
<!--TODO-->
"For others, I would say. That bit of communalism implied by 'all' did not come until much later. No, instead I drummed up interested parties from the feeds ((commissions, Rep still meant something back then, nostalgia, food unfamiliar to Warmth, etc))"
"...These foods were unfamiliar to me, you see, and that is where research ((comes into play))..."
"...For commission; Reputation still meant something back then, of course, and I was still dipping my toes into instance artistry before Dear forked, yes?"
"For others, I would say. That bit of communalism implied by 'all' did not come until much later. No, instead I drummed up interested parties from the feeds. These were the days that reputation and the markets had more meaning, yes? I still needed the rep for my work, for research into foods unfamiliar to me." They smiled wryly. "I was not without, of course, for I had been dipping my toes into instance artistry beforehand, before Dear forked, yes? But still, I needed the reputation for research, and I needed the research for commissions others asked of me."
There was a moment of silence as The Woman parsed this, her gaze distant. When her focus returned, she said, "'Before Dear forked'? Am I to infer that this is when you were Rye? Or am I missing something in the cladistics?"
@ -393,7 +392,7 @@ There was such a pang within me that I had not felt in ages, for The Oneirotect
She — that other Warmth In Fire — was lost to us. She was gone from us. Her art took her from us, it killed her. Such is the danger of art, dear readers: it takes as easily — more easily! — than it gives. It was some centuries back, but– ah! Centuries change only the flavor of the loss when one cannot forget it. It is a loss that still stings to this very day.
"Ah," The Woman said, her expression falling subtly — nearly too subtly to notice but by this point, I was quite focused on everything about her. "Right. I remember hearing of a death within the clade early on. Systime 54, was it? I was rather disconnected from the clade at the time, I am sorry to say."
"Ah," The Woman said, her expression falling subtly — nearly too subtly to notice but by this point, I was quite focused on everything about her. "Right. I remember hearing of a death within the clade early on. Systime 54, was it? I was rather disconnected from the clade at the time, I am sorry to say, and was unable to focus enough to learn of just who."
I nodded. "But by then, Dear — or, rather the instance who would become Dear — had been forked, and so Warmth filled that vacancy. Ey took on the name Which Offers Heat And Warmth In Fire when Dear became what it is."
@ -423,20 +422,20 @@ It did not talk to her, friends, you must understand. It did not talk to her, an
The Woman furrowed her brow in that ineffably still way of hers. "I remember that there was talk within the clade about names, yes, and the general shape of what had happened, that there was some furor about the fact that a down-tree might accept a later line than an up-tree, though I never did understand the import that some placed on that." There was a smile, a hint of a bow, and a quiet addition: "You are so incredibly yourself, though, I cannot picture you as a Dear, and certainly not as a fennec."
((Warmth visibly masters a note of annihilation upon hearing this. It hurts to hear, and EoE is completely right)) "When I stepped from that sim,I did so with the commitment, both to myself and to it, that what was Dear had changed, and that who was Dear must embrace that."
"I am unsure, however, that I have ever quite addressed the fact that, often when I hear about Dear from others, there is a rankling within me. Sometimes, when I am feeling particularly bad about myself, I feel like it stole my very name from me. I feel like a leftover, a shadow on the floor of the stage of my own show."
There followed a moment of The Oneirotect visibly mastering a note of annihilation upon hearing this. It was, I think, one of those things which hurts to hear, and yet which is completely right: ey is not yet another instance of The Instance Artist, nor has ey been for centuries, and yet there is that of The Instance Artist still within em, is there not? "When I stepped from that sim," ey explained, "I did so with the commitment, both to myself and to it, that what was Dear had changed, and that who was Dear must embrace that. I am unsure, however, that I have ever quite addressed the fact that, often when I hear about Dear from others, there is a rankling within me. Sometimes, when I am feeling particularly bad about myself, I feel like it stole my very name from me. I feel like a leftover, a shadow on the floor of the stage of my own show."
"The clade will ever be as it is," I said, tagging along with that thought, "which is a bunch of crotchety old creatures with a fixation on names that borders on neurotic. Do not doubt that this applies to our stanza as well."
The Woman laughed.
"There were those within the clade who fussed and fussed and fussed, and I would be remiss if I did not say that we had — and, as Warmth mentions, continue to fuss — about the role that names play in identity. We will ever be who we are, though, yes?
((Warmth spends some time pensively structuring its thoughts, trying to reclaim some sort of agency before it falls into a negativity spiral; that topic is always especially difficult to stumble across, and it had already started to recite some of those familiar phrases it so often repeats)) "You have come to Rye and I searching for ((joy and creativity)). I wonder: What do you imagine yourself to be, End Of Endings, other than the only one living there I get to call kitty from time to time?"
My beloved up-tree spent some time pensively structuring its thoughts, trying to reclaim some sort of agency before it fell into a negativity spiral; such topics as these are always especially difficult for us to stumble across, and it had already started to recite some of those familiar phrases it so often repeats even to this day. "You have come to Rye and I searching for joy through creativity. I wonder: What do you imagine yourself to be, End Of Endings, other than the only one living there I get to call 'kitty' from time to time?"
The Woman laughed — and what a blessing a laugh is in comparison to a smile! — and, with no effort expended on her own part, fell right into that very shape: a kitty. Kitty! And what a delightful little name. You will remember, my friends, that not every instance of her changing shape was occasion for weariness or discomfort; she fell joyfully into felinity, into this pantherine shape. "I like that you call me kitty, my dear," she said, still smiling. "And I am always happy when I think of becoming such as occasion for you to do so."
((something?)) ((It beams, smug and sly, not very Dear — it is very Warmth because while it inherited that quippiness, it lost Rye's motherly warmth; Warmth In Fire did not. Here is Warmth being warm. Here is Warmth being insightful and supportive. Here is Warmth taking control for End Of Endings's sake. Here is Warmth looking for some way to stop traumadumping on EOE and start guiding her closer towards self-understanding, towards a resolution, towards peace.))
It beamed, smug and sly and looking quite pleased for the change it had had a paw in working. It was not very Dear in that moment — it was (and is!) very Warmth In Fire because, while it inherited some of that quippiness, it had long since lost much of my 'motherly warmth' as it put it. It did not inherit quite so much of me, so long ago.
And yet here was The Oneirotect being warm. Here was The Oneirotect being insightful and supportive. Here was she taking control for The Woman's sake. Here was it looking for some way to stop trauma-dumping on her and start guiding her closer towards self-understanding, towards a resolution, towards peace.
"But no, I imagine myself being other than just She Who Is Kitty From Time To Time. I imagine myself as someone who has found a purpose within her life other than, as Rejoice put it, simply being one who is built to suffer. Suffering may well be inescapable, but would that I were aught else than She Who Suffers."
@ -448,63 +447,67 @@ When once more her eyes returned to us, her expression had settled into what, I
"I do feel joy, yes. I think that one of the things that sparked this train of thought was actually one such case of joy. I visited No Hesitation for a simple coffee date, and from there I was left with joy that lasted. It was a comfort to me." The faintest of smiles turned up the corners of her mouth. "No, it was not just a comfort, it was a thing I clung to jealously, and when I felt that it was being slowly parceled out to others at home — for they too deserve joy — and when I was asked about it by Ever Dream, I felt as though it was slipping away from me with no recourse. Is joy to always do such? Is every time I receive such joy, is it only to slip away?"
((Warmth seems uncomfortable with this sentiment, that joy is fleeting. It has worked so hard to become able to appreciate the joys it has, despite the equally-ephemeral agonies it suffers at the hands of perfectionism and impostor syndrome.)) "It will always be true that you shared that comfort together, End Of Endings," ((she said, my own maternal concern echoed in its voice, so many hours spent helping hold eir head above water while they wallowed in a spiral of self-loathing.)) "What is it that slipped away?"
There was a sense then in The Oneirotect of discomfort at this sentiment: that joy is fleeting. It had worked so hard to become able to appreciate the joys it had, despite the equally-ephemeral agonies it suffered at the hands of perfectionism and impostor syndrome — as do we all at times, yes? "It will always be true that you shared that comfort together, End Of Endings," she said, my own maternal concern echoed in its voice, so many hours spent helping hold eir head above water while they wallowed in a spiral of self-loathing. "What is it that slipped away?"
"The..." The Woman started, then immediately fell off into silence. There was a frown on her face, though it was one of concentration rather than consternation. "What it feels has slipped away is the possibility of the permanence of joy, or even joy that lasts longer than suffering. I suppose that is what I am seeking in this exercise. I am seeking joy that lasts. Even if not forever, I am seeking joy that lasts. I am seeking intentionality in joy. I am seeking agency in joy."
((Warmth is along for the ride up until the word agency, when it scrunches up its face and rears eir head back as if someone had pressed on the tip of her little nose. How often has ey struggled for its own agency? How often pawing feebly at a thing for years and years and feeling as if nothing it made met its own standards? How often wallowing and feeling helpless but to wallow? How often caught in a spate of ineffectual pining, of disinterest born of despair, of the sort of pain that festers and festers until she broke down into tears and overflowed?)) "Is the pain as well not itself as fleeting? Does it not fly away in the wind when a gust of joy blows your way? Does despair not crumble at the feet of relief, euphoria, pleasure? Is it not dashed away on the rocks of even one moment of the right kind of comfort?"
My beloved up-tree was along for the ride up until the word 'agency,' at which it scrunched up its face and reared eir head back as though someone had — as often I have done — pressed on the tip of her little nose. How often had ey struggled for its own agency? How often pawing feebly at a thing for years and years and feeling as if nothing it made met its own standards? How often wallowing and feeling helpless but to wallow? How often caught in a spate of ineffectual pining, of disinterest born of despair, of the sort of pain that festers and festers until she broke down into tears and overflowed? Ah–! But it replied, "Is the pain as well not itself as fleeting? Does it not fly away in the wind when a gust of joy blows your way? Does despair not crumble at the feet of relief, euphoria, pleasure? Is it not dashed away on the rocks of even one moment of the right kind of comfort?" It fell silent for a moment, gaze drifting outward towards those very same leaves as caught the Woman's eye. "It is still worth it, is it not? It must be worth it, or else all the world's [sic] a horror."\label{shakespeare}
((Warmth falls silent for a moment, gaze drifting outward towards those very same leaves as caught the Woman's eye.)) "It is still worth it, is it not? It must be worth it, or else all the world's [sic] a horror." ((something something we all go quiet while Warmth grapples with its silently tearful emotions.))
Here, now, was a moment of quiet between us all as The Oneirotect grappled with its silently tearful emotions. I have spoken of the ways in which we cry, the whys and wherefores, the shamelessness of it all, and so it grappled with its own whys and wherefores, its own shamelessness, and we — The Woman and I — looked on with curiousity and compassion and empathy, for we felt also some of these things.
Here, my friends, I must explain something. I must explain the Warmth In Fire before The Warmth In Fire. I must explain The Sightwright who is no more.
It is as my beloved up-tree says: we also suffer. Have I not spoken of such? Of course I have! I cannot but! I cannot help myself in this.
The Sightwright suffered as I do, as The Oneirotect does, and perhaps even as The Woman did.\label{winthrop} It was so long ago that they left us, left me, and though I remember, I remember through the lens of centuries, through a glass darkly. They suffered because of their art. They suffered because of the world around them. They suffered perhaps because we are all built to suffer.
The Sightwright suffered as I do, as The Oneirotect does, and perhaps even as The Woman did.\label{winthrop} It was so long ago that they left us, left me, and though I remember, I remember through the lens of centuries, through a glass darkly.\label{1cor13} They suffered because of their art. They suffered because of the world around them. They suffered perhaps because we are all built to suffer.
They suffered as do my beloved up-tree and I,\label{winthrop} but they also suffered as did — I must explain, also, or perhaps remind — Death Itself and I Do Not Know.
They suffered as do my beloved up-tree and I, but they also suffered as did — I must explain, also, or perhaps remind — Death Itself and I Do Not Know.
They quit.
They suffered too much. They were, and then they were not.
I must explain and I must remind to set before you the context of what The Oneirotect said next. ((we'll edit it in post))
I must explain and I must remind to set before you the context of what The Oneirotect said next.
((Warmth's tears do not ebb before ey speaks. No, in fact, they flow and flow, a cascade of emotion trickling and then creeping and then washing across its face.)) "There has been enough of death in the clade, my dear," ((it plead, wiping its eyes to no avail. Ey pulled eir paws away from eir face, looking appalled at the strands of spit and snot and salty tears.)) "Please tell me that you do not intend to quit," ((it croaked through another sob.))
My beloved up-tree's tears did not ebb before ey spoke. No, in fact, they flowed and flowed, a cascade of emotion trickling and then creeping and then washing across its face. I have spoken about the way I cry already, and, well, surely they got it from somewhere, yes? "There has been enough of death in the clade, my dear," it plead, wiping its eyes to no avail. Fur remained wet. Nose remained clogged. Voice remained round. Ey pulled eir paws away from eir face, looking appalled at the strands of spit and snot and salty tears. Such are the realities of a good cry, yes? They are as worthy of acknowledgment as the reality of breath, sys-side. We do not cease being subject to our gross anatomy. "Please tell me that you do not intend to quit," it croaked through another sob.
The Woman smiled, and this smile was not a blessing but a benediction, and it was not for me but for solely The Oneirotect. It was my job only to witness this smile, this validation of pain. "No, dear one. I do not intend to quit." She let these words hang there in the air before us, a monument to such an intent. "No, I am seeking not just meaning but purpose. I have explored meaningful things and pleasurable things, but now I wish to explore direction."
((Warmth is not the Child, but my beloved up-tree is also my very own little one. [not enough here. elaborate] So overcome by the gross reality of a good, hard cry was it that ey could not help but laugh at emself.)) "Oh, good!" ((she managed, sucking back what ick she could.)) "I will hold you to that. If you quit, I will wipe this snot all over your headstone! It will cake itself between the grooves of your epitaph. It will dry there in the cracks and no dandelions will grow upon its stony bed; it will be the worst!"
The Oneirotect is not The Child, but my beloved up-tree is also my very own little one. With this comes at least some of the baggage of being small, including tears that seem to flow with an outsized force. So overcome by the gross reality of a good, hard cry was it that ey could not help but laugh at emself. "Oh, good!" she managed, sucking back what ick she could. "I will hold you to that. If you quit, I will wipe this snot all over your headstone! It will cake itself between the grooves of your epitaph. It will dry there in the cracks and no dandelions will grow upon its stony bed; it will be the worst!"
((A bit more coziness))
At this, The Woman and I smiled. There perhaps was also room for laughter, but a simpler acknowledgment was required for now. A box of tissues was summoned. Glasses of water. Hugs and soft pets and gentle kisses between the ears such as might offer comfort.
"A reminder, that art is not strictly joy, but also suffering," I cautioned most gently. "With art comes fear.\label{artandfear} There is suffering of a sort in failure. There is suffering in falling short, as well; even if you succeed in an endeavor in your own eyes, you may feel the pain of lack." Despite her expectant silence, I held up a paw as though to forestall comments, for even movement is communication. "You are strong, End Of Endings, and I know — I think we know — that you are up to such a task, but I must remind you as well."
The Woman bowed her head, though whether in acknowledgment or a pensive shift in her thoughts, I could not tell. Perhaps it was both ((more Rye waffling)). "I understand, of course. I suppose that has also been the case in my explorations of late, that there ever be this balance." She lifted her head to smile wryly. "There is, as you say, suffering in many things, but the suffering of failure carries a particular tang of disappointment, does it not?"
The Woman bowed her head, though whether in acknowledgment or a pensive shift in her thoughts, I could not tell. Perhaps it was both. Perhaps she felt then as I have so much lately: as though the world is not quite as it seems, as though there is something more beneath or above. Perhaps she felt keenly our superlative friend. "I understand, of course. I suppose that has also been the case in my explorations of late, that there ever be this balance." She lifted her head to smile wryly. "There is, as you say, suffering in many things, but the suffering of failure carries a particular tang of disappointment, does it not?"
((Warmth finally recomposes itself, reassured of End Of Endings's longevity.)) "Yes," ((she answers bluntly.)) "Emphatically, yes. And yet, after nearly two and a half centuries, I am still doing it. Rye, you still write your stories, yes? Serene, she yet weaves her wilds, yes?" ((Warmth's cadence fires up, its tone almost a challenge, daring End Of Endings to oppose this conviction forged in agony.)) "I still dream up my little wonders and Dry Grass still keeps them on her mantle and those who I will never know still greedily gobble their favored food from my work on the Exchange."
The Oneirotect finally recomposed itself, reassured of The Woman's longevity. "Yes," she answered most bluntly. "Emphatically, yes. And yet, after nearly two and a half centuries, I am still doing it. Rye, you still write your stories, yes? Serene, she yet weaves her wilds, yes?" Its cadence fireed up, its tone almost a challenge, daring End Of Endings to oppose this conviction forged in agony. "I still dream up my little wonders and Dry Grass still keeps them on her mantle and those who I will never know still greedily gobble their favored food from my work on the Exchange."
((She pauses, planting its paws between its knees to lean forward in eir seat.)) "There is vanity in art, and it is in vanity that we artists dwell. We mean to expose some part of ourselves, and there is torture in knowing _precisely_ how wrong every act has turned out." ((The Oneirotect's fervor softens into something more familiar to me, more an expression of shared adversity than the bitter lesson of so many shattered dreams littering the waters in its wake.)) "That is why we must do this for more than ourselves, End Of Endings, why our art must have its own value lest we fall into the perpetual pursuit of some cruel point."
She paused, planting its paws between its knees to lean forward in eir seat. "There is vanity in art, and it is in vanity that we artists dwell. We mean to expose some part of ourselves, and there is torture in knowing _precisely_ how wrong every act has turned out." The Oneirotect's fervor softened into something more familiar to me, more an expression of shared adversity than the bitter lesson of so many shattered dreams littering the waters in its wake. "That is why we must do this for more than ourselves, End Of Endings, why our art must have its own value lest we fall into the perpetual pursuit of some cruel point."
The Woman tilted her head — that habit that so often follows each and every one of us around like a little puppy. "You mean to consider my audience?"
I wobbled a paw. "While that is perhaps some of it — a great deal, even, as that validation does drive one on — there is more to art than that." ((I am not ashamed to say that I fall so easily back into that teacher mode of speaking etc etc)) "You speak of purpose: it is also the sharing of what goes _into_ art, too. I write for myself, yes, for the joy of it, and I write for others, too. But if my failures are instructive, then shall I not also pass that instruction on to others? I teach. I write _with_ others. I read and give feedback."
I wobbled a paw. "While that is perhaps some of it — a great deal, even, as that validation does drive one on — there is more to art than that." I am not ashamed to say that I fall so easily back into that teacher mode of speaking. We were such for how many years, phys-side? And I have been such off and on for how many more, here? "You speak of purpose: it is also the sharing of what goes _into_ art, too. I write for myself, yes, for the joy of it, and I write for others, too. But if my failures are instructive, then shall I not also pass that instruction on to others? I teach. I write _with_ others. I read and give feedback."
At this she smiled wryly. "We _were_ teachers, after all. You have already mentioned communalism, too."
"Yes, that is it!" ((The Oneirotect said, a bright smile plastered across its face.)) "Have we not all of us in our hearts our own little shrines to _communitas?"_((it pondered.)) "I want for every person on Lagrange to be able to do what we do, to weave dreams tangible or otherwise into being with the ease of centuries of experience. I want for them to enjoy the food of their lives back phys-side, to imagine what flavors the Artemisians indulge, to draw up from memory the last best moment they ever beheld. That is why I go with Jove and Why Ask Questions to their little skillshare, yes, but it is also why I have taken a liking to oneiro-impressionism. I do not want for this to be so hard for everyone forever."
"Yes, that is it!" The Oneirotect said, a bright smile plastered across its face. "Have we not all of us in our hearts our own little shrines to _communitas?"_ it pondered. "I want for every person on Lagrange to be able to do what we do, to weave dreams tangible or otherwise into being with the ease of centuries of experience. I want for them to enjoy the food of their lives back phys-side, to imagine what flavors the Artemisians indulge, to draw up from memory the last best moment they ever beheld. That is why I go with Jove and Why Ask Questions to their little skillshare, yes, but it is also why I have taken a liking to oneiro-impressionism. I do not want for this to be so hard for everyone forever.
"It is just as industry made our lives gentler, yes?" ((ey went on, tone shifting further into something perilously close to exhaustion. The pain it was tanking to explain itself to The Woman was plain to see on its face as it grappled with eir own doubts. It spoke with confidence to her, but The Oneirotect spoke also to itself, and I am proud to say that in the years that followed, this conversation proved fruitful for at least one of us.))
"It is just as industry made our lives gentler, yes?" ey went on, tone shifting further into something perilously close to exhaustion. The pain it was tanking to explain itself to The Woman was plain to see on its face as it grappled with eir own doubts. It spoke with confidence to her, but The Oneirotect spoke also to itself, and I am proud to say that in the years that followed, this conversation proved fruitful for at least one of us.
"Let us discover some secret hidden in AwDae's little world," ((it mused, eyes steady on The Woman.)) "Let us find a way to render pedestrian what is, at present, an expert's privilege."
"Let us discover some secret hidden in AwDae's little world," it mused, eyes steady on The Woman. "Let us find a way to render pedestrian what is, at present, an expert's privilege."
((Rye has a tangent about pride in her beloved up-tree, as well as commiseration with that exhaustion))
I am *proud* of em. I am as proud as any mother, as any attentive aunt, as any family member must be. They continually amaze me with just how much they have done with their life. She delights me with with her attentiveness to the audience of her art.
"I had not thought to question what art I might create provides to others," The Woman said after a silent moment's thought. "Now that I say that aloud, I am a little ashamed that I had not considered it. Much of this exercise that I have been undertaking has been focused on _my_ joy, on what _I_ might gain from being able to pick up this or that, whether it be hedonism or love or art."
It, too, fills me with commiseration with its exhaustion, for such is also as I have felt in the ways that I move through the world and I move through my life and I move through my art. I have spoken and doubtless will speak yet more about my overflow, my graphomania, and will whine forever about the pain that comes with it, the feelings of inadequacy and lack when I consider as well that others will willingly read my words. Would that– ah! But I wander...
"I had not thought to question what art I might create provides to others," The Woman said after a silent moment's thought. "Now that I say that aloud, I am a little ashamed that I had not considered it. Much of this exercise that I have been undertaking has been focused on *my* joy, on what *I* might gain from being able to pick up this or that, whether it be hedonism or love or art."
The sheepishness in her tone, dear readers, cut. I ached for her, even if she herself in that moment once more wore that blessed wry smile.
Beyond that, though, did I not also have thoughts on this? Did I not also have feelings on caring for oneself? ((Etc))
Beyond that, though, did I not also have thoughts on this? Did I not also have feelings on caring for oneself? The Golden Rule must also apply to oneself. We, too, deserve to be treated as we might treat others. It is the Silver Rule, perhaps, that the Golden Rule be inverted. Others are worthy of consideration when we think of our work, and yet...and yet...
And yet.
"It is no bad thing to consider those first, my dear," I said. "One must remember oneself first, though certainly not to the exclusion of others, of community. You cannot, after all, give to your community if you are unable to give, yes? The Golden Rule applies also to you, yes? You must treat _yourself_ well, yes?"
@ -520,9 +523,9 @@ I thought back to my first creations, to the first stories and poems and novels
I nodded. "Beyond tiring. I do not know how it felt for Warmth, but for me, I would move in fits and starts, now loving my art and now feeling like it was trash, that I was treading already trod ground, that it was derivative. I suppose I had to learn how to learn, first, but even after that. I wanted to have become a great author, without going through the becoming part."
((The Oneirotect snickered softly, resting a paw on my knee.)) "I had the advantage of your example to learn from," ((she started, looking to End Of Endings.)) "And my predecessor's. I _started_ easily enough, but the despair of mediocrity ever tainted my motivation. That first week was full to brimming with excitement, that second worthy but deprived of euphoria, and on the third I inevitably stumbled into a wallowing spiral until the fourth, when I swore I would never try again, only for a new ambition to spring up the next." ((It shakes its head in disbelief at itself.)) "I have not improved very much at all in this respect; it is agony, but it has at least turned out to be sustainable. I only wish it did not _hurt_ so much."
The Oneirotect snickered softly, resting a paw on my knee. "I had the advantage of your example to learn from," she started, looking to End Of Endings. "And my predecessor's. I _started_ easily enough, but the despair of mediocrity ever tainted my motivation. That first week was full to brimming with excitement, that second worthy but deprived of euphoria, and on the third I inevitably stumbled into a wallowing spiral until the fourth, when I swore I would never try again, only for a new ambition to spring up the next." It shook its head, as though in disbelief at itself. I found it understandable, dear readers, and perhaps you do as well. Even after three hundred years, the ambition always returns. Perhaps it was not disbelief, then, that led my beloved up-tree to shake eir head, but a world-weary recognition of this — but I digress. "I have not improved very much at all in this respect; it is agony, but it has at least turned out to be sustainable. I only wish it did not _hurt_ so much."
Furrowing her brow, The Woman looked down to her ((glass of water)). "More complicated, indeed," she murmured, more to herself than anything — so evidently so that my beloved up-tree and I let her have that moment for herself, as though hesitant to interrupt it. "You speak of works you would not let see the light of day, Rye, and of the pain of creation. You both clearly still find meaning in it — as do Slow Hours and Beholden, of course, and Motes — so I am left wondering what one does with these feelings of...ah, I hesitate to say, but perhaps they are feelings of unworthiness. What does one do when one's works feel mediocre, especially if one is to create also for others?"
Furrowing her brow, The Woman looked down to her glass of water. "More complicated, indeed," she murmured, more to herself than anything — so evidently so that my beloved up-tree and I let her have that moment for herself, as though hesitant to interrupt it. "You speak of works you would not let see the light of day, Rye, and of the pain of creation. You both clearly still find meaning in it — as do Slow Hours and Beholden, of course, and Motes — so I am left wondering what one does with these feelings of...ah, I hesitate to say, but perhaps they are feelings of unworthiness. What does one do when one's works feel mediocre, especially if one is to create also for others?"
It took me some time to disentangle The Woman's words. They were starting to fall into a jumble, into a garden path of wanderings. Perhaps you may even sense that in me, friends, the ways in which my words wander, their circuitous routes, though I do not think that she was nearly so taken with language as I am, or at least not in quite the same way. I think she was simply tired. She certainly looked it, with the slump of her shoulders and the drowsiness in her features she nonetheless seemed intent on masking.
@ -530,9 +533,10 @@ It took me some time to disentangle The Woman's words. They were starting to fal
The answer felt less than satisfactory, or perhaps not quite as true as it could have been, for there was work of mine that I loved for this utility and yet was unwilling to publish, not now, not work from when I was in the novitiate in my art. There is work of mine even now that I hate, that I loathe for, as The Oneirotect said, the wallowing spiral that spawned it and it makes me wonder, and at times it makes me tremble, that I must say there is worth in art when so much of mine feels worthless.
"End Of Endings, my dear," ((started The Oneirotect, standing from her stool,)) "I am beginning to see myself in you, and that fills me with fear. You have promised me that you do not intend to quit, but if there _is_ that of death in you, whatever art you choose will bring you perilously close to the brink time and time and time again." ((It slid up beside her, placing both paws on her knees and looking up at The Woman.)) "Tell me, kitty, is it better to disappear into a blizzard, or should someone lay down their weary bones in a grave when they are through?"
"End Of Endings, my dear," The Oneirotect said, slipping down from her stool, "I am beginning to see myself in you, and that fills me with fear. You have promised me that you do not intend to quit, but if there _is_ that of death in you, whatever art you choose will bring you perilously close to the brink time and time and time again." It padded up beside The Woman, placing both paws on her knees and looking up into her face. "Tell me, kitty, is it better to disappear into a blizzard, or should someone lay down their weary bones in a grave when they are through?"
True Name sighs, furrowing her brow as her gaze lingers on the fire. "We talk so much about how we are actors, yes? About how we use that to shape the interactions we have with those around us?" Her shoulders slump as she returns her gaze to Ioan. "He is, too, though he would not call himself such. No Jonas putting on that act
@ -140,7 +140,7 @@ The Dog took then The Woman to a forest, and showed her where The Rabbit-Chaser
The Rabbit-Chaser went to investigate The Woman, for here was a new thing by its den. The Woman gave it kettlecorn, which it ate before wandering off. The day was warm, and it was sleepy and not hungry, so it ignored The Woman and returned to its nap.
The Dog left. He knew it was close to dinner time, and he had plans to hover around one kitchen or another, for if we who have uploaded are hedonists, if our clade is a clade of hedonists, then the fifth stanza has set themselves as the hedonists *ne plus ultra.* If, my friends, you ever have the chance to visit them for one of their many cookouts or to get invited over for one of their many feasts, do take it up. They are lovely cooks and yet lovelier conversationalists, though this, I think, was less The Dog's focus than such treats that The Child managed to sneak him when My Friend and The Musician were not looking.
The Dog left. He knew it was getting on in the afternoon, and he had plans to hover around one kitchen or another, for if we who have uploaded are hedonists, if our clade is a clade of hedonists, then the fifth stanza has set themselves as the hedonists *ne plus ultra.* If, my friends, you ever have the chance to visit them for one of their many cookouts or to get invited over for one of their many feasts, do take it up. They are lovely cooks and yet lovelier conversationalists, though this, I think, was less The Dog's focus than such treats that The Child managed to sneak him when My Friend and The Musician were not looking.
The Woman watched The Rabbit-Chaser as it saw to its immediate concerns. Food, yes, and sleep, water. Perhaps it would play with some of the other animals in these woods if the mood struck, or perhaps it would lounge in the sun until it got too hot, panting and panting and panting, and then pancake in the shade, drawing coolness from the ground itself.
@ -238,7 +238,7 @@ There was, last of all, joy when a piercing whistle broke the quiet of the late
The Woman smiled, nodded, and sank to a knee so that she could give to The Child the hug which she sought. "Thank you, Motes. Enjoy your dinner. Thank you more than you know."
This day, you see, this day was also not without forward movement, for The Child said something while climbing a tree that caught The Woman unawares, like the surprise of finding a shiny rock on the ground or perhaps seeing a shape in the clouds. The Child, climbing up a tree with great skill, mentioned in a stream of ceaseless chatter, "One time, Serene turned herself into a tree! She said that she wanted to see what it was like to truly live within one of her sims, you know? She made a bunch of this sim, too! She said she wanted to see what it was like to be a part of something she made. So out there, out on the field out back of the houses, she made herself into this *huge* maple tree! She made it a whole six months like that, then turned back into a fox again. She said it was really boring being so still. She said coming back was like being born, though. That is neat, is it not?"
This day, you see, this day was also not without forward movement, for The Child said something while climbing a tree that caught The Woman unawares, like the surprise of finding a shiny rock on the ground or perhaps seeing a shape in the clouds. The Child, climbing up a tree with great skill, mentioned in a stream of ceaseless chatter, "One time, Serene turned herself into a tree! She said that she wanted to see what it was like to truly live within one of her sims, you know? She made a bunch of this sim, too! She said she wanted to see what it was like to be a part of something she made. So out there, out on the field out back of the houses, out in the part of the sim she made, rather than Ma, she made herself into this *huge* maple tree! She made it a whole six months like that, then turned back into a fox again. She said it was really boring being so still. She said coming back was like being born, though. That is neat, is it not?"
@ -44,7 +44,7 @@ She wanted to be defined by joy, not suffering.
"I want to unbecome," The Woman told Her Friend.
These two, these two skunks who were women who were both, at their very core, Michelle Hadje who was Sasha, these two sat around a small table not at the coffee shop but out on the field outside of the house where The Woman lived. My readers, most perceptive, will remember that this is where, once every two weeks, unless she was overflowing, unless she was in pain, unless she simply could not bring herself to go, she had an appointment for therapy.
These two, these two skunks who were people who were both, at their very core, Michelle Hadje who was Sasha, these two sat around a small table not at the coffee shop but out on the field outside of the house where The Woman lived. My readers, most perceptive, will remember that this is where, once every two weeks, unless she was overflowing, unless she was in pain, unless she simply could not bring herself to go, she had an appointment for therapy.
The Woman had requested such, this time, and while it was far from the only time she had done so, the streak of good days, of those days when she felt up to stepping out of the house, out of the sim, out into the city so that they might meet up at a long-familiar coffee shop had been a long one. Her Friend had agreed readily, as ever ey did, but there was within that sensorium message the sense of an eyebrow raised, of a question unasked. And yet, ey said yes, and some ten minutes later arrived, standing out on the grass before the stoop with a mocha in each paw.
@ -58,7 +58,7 @@ The Woman nodded.
"I have, yes."
Her Friend smiled, raising her paper cup in a toast and tapping it gently to The Woman's own cup. "Congratulations, End Of Endings. I am pleased to hear that. Is there more that you can tell me?"
Her Friend smiled, raising eir paper cup in a toast and tapping it gently to The Woman's own cup. "Congratulations, End Of Endings. I am pleased to hear that. Is there more that you can tell me?"
"Of course, No Hesitation," The Woman said, sitting up straighter, as though by having her body more in order, her thoughts might be as well — would that this worked, my dear friends! Would that I could be so still and keep my thoughts like ducks: all in a row. Would that my emotions all faced the same direction. Ah, but The Woman continued, "If becoming was the act of going from stillness to movement, then unbecoming might well be the act of going from movement to stillness."
@ -86,7 +86,7 @@ Her Friend sighed, and in that sigh was a recognition of unknowing, of ignorance
And so there was nothing for it.
"End Of Endings," she said most delicately. "I ask this as your friend, but are you safe?"
"End Of Endings," ey said most delicately. "I ask this as your friend, but are you safe?"
The Woman, sat in silence for some time, then. They both sat in silence, yes, frozen into a comic panel, those words hanging in the air between them in some invisible speech bubble.
@ -56,7 +56,7 @@ And so here she was, *here,* Standing before my door, my second visitor in a wee
"I can imagine, yes."
"It is not all on me, at least. We are learning the ins and outs of the new tech they have given us while bringing Lagrange back up from the Century Attack. So many crashes after long-diverged forks merged cross-tree out of fun, so many instances of people accidentally messing up their new ACLs and locking themselves out of their own rooms." She laughed, sipped her mocha, and added, "The world feels strange and new."
"It is not all on me, at least. We are learning the ins and outs of the new tech they have given us while bringing Lagrange back up from the Century Attack. So many crashes after long-diverged forks merged cross-tree out of fun, so many instances of people accidentally messing up their new ACLs and locking themselves out of their own rooms." She laughed, sipped eir mocha, and added, "The world feels strange and new."
"It does, at that," I said, smiling. "I do not think I am at risk of either of those, at least. I have little interest in cross-tree merging, beyond providing an instance for Ashes Denote That Fire Was."
@ -74,7 +74,7 @@ Eventually, she replied: "That is actually part of why I came here, Rye."
I sat up straighter. My friends, you will surely understand when I say that The Woman had been on my mind much in the intervening days, in that week between when I last saw her and this lovely afternoon with The Blue Fairy. Her loveliness shined bright in my thoughts, and I still felt blessed — still *feel* blessed! — by each and every one of her smiles and quiet laughs. "Yes, I have spoken with her recently. Warmth and I both have, I mean."
"Yes, she mentioned such to me. She mentioned you two, Motes, Slow Hours, Beholden, No Hesitation, Ever Dream, Rejoice, Farai — a woman with whom she has at times dated — and a few incidental friends she has made in the last month or so. I have been meeting up with each of them to get a better sense of what is happening. You are the last on my list."
"Yes, she mentioned such to me. She mentioned you two, Motes, Slow Hours, Beholden, No Hesitation, Ever Dream, Rejoice, Farai — a woman she has times dated — and a few incidental friends she has made in the last month or so. I have been meeting up with each of them to get a better sense of what is happening. You are the last on my list."
I thought this through — and even thinking through it now, I wonder at it. I wonder and I tremble. The Blue Fairy gave me her reason — "I am asking you last of all because I think your experience with stories may help me make better sense of everything," she said when I asked *why me* — and yet even now I linger on this thought that The Woman wove between us all — between all of those that The Blue Fairy mentioned — a gossamer web of connections. She was the strands — perhaps she still remains those strands! — and along those spider-silk-thin lines flow connections built on the blessings she bestowed upon us all. We do not feel stuck, I do not think. We are not bugs in someone absent spider's web. But what are we? Are we the nodes? Are we the sticky radial lines capturing ideas of her, or are we the unsticky spiral that allows us to pick apart our understanding? I tremble. I wonder.
@ -120,7 +120,7 @@ I sat back in my chair, holding my mug in both paws to draw from the warmth. "Do
"That is what I came to ask you about, actually. I have visited with all of these people, heard all of what they have had to tell me about End Of Endings's last few weeks, and now I want to hear how you would write the end of this story, and how you imagine she would justify it."
Now *this* was a thought, dear readers. This was a thought that danced up along my nape and left a tingle in my scalp, it is a thought that danced down along my arms and gave an inch in my paws that invited the picking up of a pen. It is a thought that has circled around my head like a halo, lighting all that I see, for some years now, for nearly six years! I thought to write this story then, and I thought to write this story after, and I thought to write this story in the intervening years, but something was not quite right, not quite right, not quite right about the time or about myself or about the world around me, and so I did not. I did not write the story perhaps because I was still living in that haste to experience all that I could before our world risked once more coiling around and eating some more billions of us and our lives were turned off like a simple light switch. I did not write the story because I was writing only the small things, that I might spend the rest of my time loving those around me, hugging my beloved up-tree, eating picnics out on the lawn with my stanza, simply *living.* Ah, I am trying to–
Now *this* was a thought, dear readers. This was a thought that danced up along my nape and left a tingle in my scalp, it is a thought that danced down along my arms and gave an itch in my paws that invited the picking up of a pen. It is a thought that has circled around my head like a halo, lighting all that I see, for some years now, for nearly six years! I thought to write this story then, and I thought to write this story after, and I thought to write this story in the intervening years, but something was not quite right, not quite right, not quite right about the time or about myself or about the world around me, and so I did not. I did not write the story perhaps because I was still living in that haste to experience all that I could before our world risked once more coiling around and eating some more billions of us and our lives were turned off like a simple light switch. I did not write the story because I was writing only the small things, that I might spend the rest of my time loving those around me, hugging my beloved up-tree, eating picnics out on the lawn with my stanza, simply *living.* Ah, I am trying to–
Some of you, perhaps some of my newer uploads, or my littler readers, or maybe some of those who have lived for centuries, might wonder at this. They might wonder: "Rye, it seems to me like The Woman is asking to be absolved of all those except the barest responsibilities of living." They might wonder: "Rye, it seems to me like The Woman is abdicating on life in a way that she can deny is suicide." Perhaps they might wonder: "Rye, The Woman has chosen for herself a next step, a beautiful exploration." And all of them might wonder: "Rye, why is it that you are being asked this in particular? Why is Dry Grass not asking for your opinion on whether The Woman should or should not do this thing?"
@ -158,7 +158,7 @@ I sat up straighter, hearing this! How intriguing! "As in when one has locked do
She snorted, raising her face from her hands. "She said that each of us will have to make up our own reason. It was all very Odist."
"It really is," I said, chuckling. Readers, it is so much easier to write like this, to tell of concrete things. I am trying not to rush, as I do not have much time left, I think but— ah, I am interrupting myself. I chuckled and said, "It really is. Did you mention this to the others?"
"It really is," I said, chuckling. Readers, it is so much easier to write like this, to tell of concrete things. I am trying not to rush, as I do not have much time left, I think but– ah, I am interrupting myself. I chuckled and said, "It really is. Did you mention this to the others?"
"I did. Reactions were mixed. Farai cried quite hard. No Hesitation was left in a whirlwind of doubts. Slow Hours agreed immediately that we grant her this change."
@ -202,7 +202,7 @@ There was no door.
There was no door.
There was no door, no imagined *mezuzah,* as they stepped through to the city and landed in the alleyway in which The Woman usually arrived. They, then, were briefly alone. They were alone in the cool shade of the buildings and the crispness of the air and the staticky sound of the fallen leaves skittering around their feet and feet and paws and paws and feet and paws and feet and paws and paws and–
No door, no imagined *mezuzah,* as they stepped through to the city and landed in the alleyway in which The Woman usually arrived. They, then, were briefly alone. They were alone in the cool shade of the buildings and the crispness of the air and the staticky sound of the fallen leaves skittering around their feet and feet and paws and paws and feet and paws and feet and paws and paws and–
They walked lightly and in silence as they stepped along the sidewalk and boarded the trolley to ride three stops, three stops, three stops to the coffee shop that The Woman and Her Friend always loved, and there was no one there — not a request but a felicity a chance a happenstance that befell them, that they stand there at the entrance to the coffee shop that The Woman and Her Friend always loved alone and surrounded by the quiet sounds of the breeze that wafted between the buildings and past doors and against skin against fur against fur against skin against skin against skin against fur against skin against–
@ -236,11 +236,11 @@ The Child may never more play with her, wandering around the streets with lines
Her Cocladist will never wonder whether their is aught else in life but suffering while The Woman sits nearby. What will become of her?
The Oneirotect may never more share stories of Should We Forget. What will become of em?
The Oneirotect may never more call her kitty and share stories of Should We Forget. What will become of em?
Where before The Woman and Her Lover, as the poet says, shared their oranges and limes, where they gave their kisses, where they lay on the grass and beach, now the woman lays underground and they share nothing, giving silence for silence. What will become of her?
What of Her Friend? What of that beautiful soul? What of em? What of the one who goes now to the coffee shop every day and drinks her mocha by the base of The Tree, eir tail curled over eir paws, and speaks aloud to one who is lost to em? What will become of em?
What of Her Friend? What of that beautiful soul? What of em? What of the one who goes now to the coffee shop every day and drinks her mocha by the base of The Tree, eir tail curled over eir paws, and speaks aloud to one who is lost? What will become of em?
The Poet! The Musician! The aesthetician and that kindly restaurateur who petted her head while she sobbed at the remembered pain of spice and the Dreamer above! What will become of them?
@ -248,7 +248,7 @@ And all of this makes me wonder and makes me tremble.
It makes me tremble and it makes my fur stand on end and my paws shake and my pen skitter anxiously across the page like those leaves that danced before the feet of The Woman I told you about so, so long ago, perhaps like those leaves that skitter within the city, that unreal city, that city full of dreams, where the souls of the lost in broad daylight cling to passers-by.
Oh! And oh! The wonder of it all! She, then, like so many leaves and the white petals of flowers and the dry brown pods of seeds fell secretly! She fell and fell and fell and we fell and fell and fell and fell and fell until falling was all we knew and within that fall we found some new kernel of truth but how hot that kernel was! It burned within our palm as we held it to our chest and for each of us it burned so, so hot and so, so differently that there she was, too much herself and here I am, too much myself, and the words come so fast and so thick that I am blinded! Ink in my eyes, scrabbling for any known thing! I press upon this and that with shaking fingertips to try and find something that is not yet more words, but that is all there is, because this is it, my friends, the kernel of truth that we found. The truth we now know is that we are falling still! We fell into overflow and never really ever came back. We may slow down, we may catch a branch of The Tree and be able to hold there for a little while, panting, struggling to catch our breath, until fire burns through our shoulders and we cannot hold any longer and we are forced to let go once more and fall and fall and fall just like I am falling and falling and falling and falling and falling and–
Oh! And oh! The wonder of it all! She, then, like so many leaves and the white petals of flowers and the dry brown pods of seeds fell secretly! She fell and fell and fell and we fell and fell and fell and fell and fell until falling was all we knew and within that fall we found some new kernel of truth but how hot that kernel was! It burned within our palm as we held it to our chest and for each of us it burned so, so hot and so, so differently that there she was, too much herself and here I am, too much myself, and the words come so fast and so thick that I am blinded! Ink in my eyes, scrabbling for any known thing! I press upon this and that with shaking fingertips to try and find something that is not yet more words, but that is all there is, because this is it, my friends, the kernel of truth that we found. The truth we now know is that we are falling still! That unfalling ones are trapped within that last falling! We fell into overflow and never really ever came back. We may slow down, we may catch a branch of The Tree and be able to hold there for a little while, panting, struggling to catch our breath, until fire burns through our shoulders and we cannot hold any longer and we are forced to let go once more and fall and fall and fall just like I am falling and falling and falling and falling and falling and–
And The Woman? This is what makes me wonder and makes me tremble: what of her? Is she alive still? Or did she quit and are we left not with The Tree that is her but simply a tree? Simply that which drinks thirstily from this dream of a ground. Is that her or is it a dream of dumb matter? If she is still there, if she is still alive, if she is still The Tree, then is she still at last? Is she merely herself at last? Has she landed at last upon the ground and sat up, dazed, and looked about her new life and said, "Oh! Oh, I do believe this is some plentiful enough for me"?
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