diff --git a/.gitignore b/.gitignore index 2a8645f..e7e3002 100644 --- a/.gitignore +++ b/.gitignore @@ -1 +1,2 @@ .hugo_build.lock +public diff --git a/content/draft/001.md b/content/draft/001.md index aad3d74..6bcd15e 100644 --- a/content/draft/001.md +++ b/content/draft/001.md @@ -12,12 +12,10 @@ She played with life, enjoying and enjoying and enjoying. She played with death. She had died countless times, on-stage and off — to knives, to falls, to drowning, to games, to those who said they loved her, to those who said they hated her. -She played because she was a kid. +Motes played because she was a kid and she was a kid because she played. She was a kid because kids are resilient. She was a kid because kids bounced, because they fell, cried, and then picked themselves up once more and went back to playing. She was a kid because she liked being small. She was a kid because she liked it when others played, too. She liked when others fell into enjoyment and laughter along with her. She liked the way that it brought out the best in those in her life. She was a kid because a life would not truly be complete without kids, and she believed with all of her heart that life should be complete. She played because she *was* play. Play incarnate. -Motes was a kid because she played. She was a kid because kids are resilient. She was a kid because kids bounced, because they fell, cried, and then picked themselves up once more and went back to playing. She was a kid because she liked being small. She was a kid because she liked it when others played, too. She liked when others fell into enjoyment and laughter along with her. She liked the way that it brought out the best in those in her life. She was a kid because a life would not truly be complete without kids, and she believed with all of her heart that life should be complete. - And so Motes played. She sat atop her stool, one of her feet perched up there with her so that she could rest her chin somewhere while she painted. A palette sat on an infinitely positionable nothing beside her. A canvas sat on an easel, rickety and well-loved, before her. A brush sat in her paw, and paint sat on the brush. A thin, black rectangle sat on that canvas, as did a mountainous landscape. Music sat in her ears, chirpy and glitchy to offset the serenity of the scene in a new way. @@ -30,13 +28,13 @@ Once feeling returned to her rump, she pushed herself back to sit cross-legged a She used to just wave away her supplies, either letting them dissipate back into her memories or float back to their proper locations in her studio, but some decades prior, she had started using the process of putting things away by hand to unwind from the context of painting. -She split the difference today, and forked quickly into four Moteses: one hauled the stool up above her head and trundled over to plop it down in the corner by the workbench; one ran off with the brush and palette to wash them off in the sink; one brought the easel, painting still clamped to it, over to the corner to dry; one tried to do a handstand in the middle of the room while Motes#Root watched. Eventually, she managed for a few seconds before collapsing into a giggling heap. +She split the difference today and forked quickly into four Moteses: one hauled the stool up above her head and trundled over to plop it down in the corner by the workbench; one ran off with the brush and palette to wash them off in the sink; one brought the easel, painting still clamped to it, over to the corner to dry; one tried to do a handstand in the middle of the room while Motes#Root watched. Eventually, she managed for a few seconds before collapsing into a giggling heap. One by one, the various Moteses quit until #Root was the only one remaining. She pushed herself to her feet, stretched, and padded out of the pleasantly cluttered studio. "Lights, Dot." -Motes jolted at the sound of A Finger Pointing's voice from the couch beside the door. "Oh! Yeah!" she said, forking off one more ephemeral instance to go flip the switch in the studio, make some spooky noises, then quit, all while #root climbed up to join her down-tree instance on the couch, slouching against her side. +Motes jolted at the sound of A Finger Pointing's voice from the couch beside the door. "Oh! Yeah!" she said, forking off one more ephemeral instance to go flip the switch in the studio, make some spooky noises, then quit, all while #Root climbed up to join her down-tree instance on the couch, slouching against her side. "All done painting?" Beholden asked, the other, larger skunk not yet looking up from where she was slicing a lime into wedges at the bar. @@ -50,11 +48,11 @@ A Finger Pointing ruffled a hand lazily through the skunk's mane. "What were you Motes giggled. "I do not know. Probably. Are you making drinks, Bee?" -The other skunk scoffed, tossing her head back, adopting a scolding tone. "Am I making drinks? Am *I* making drinks? And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights of the Ode clade, what happened to your brain?" She laughed, adding, "Why? Want one too?" +The other skunk scoffed, tossing her head back, adopting a scolding tone. "Am I making drinks? Am *I* making drinks? And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights, what happened to your brain?" She laughed, adding, "Why? Want one too?" Motes blew a raspberry in response. "Yes please!" -"Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps of the Ode clade, you had best not be feeding the child gin," A Finger Pointing scolded in turn, leaning hard into her full name. Her scowl was nevertheless patently overwrought. +"Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps of the Ode clade, you had best not be feeding the child gin," A Finger Pointing scolded in turn, leaning hard into that full name. Her scowl was nevertheless patently overwrought. "Right, virgin gin fizz it is." @@ -104,7 +102,7 @@ She shrugged. "Beckoning and Muse? Slow Hours, maybe? Dry Grass? I think Warmth "I do not know. Usually that happens when ey gets a letter from one of the Dear-cules." -"Mm, usually Pollux, yes." She sighed, passing the drink back to Beholden and resting her head against the back of the couch. "It has been a while since you bothered Dry Grass, then. You flopped on Slow Hours earlier today and pestered your aunts earlier this week. You tracked soil all over the floor." +"Mm, usually Pollux, yes." She sighed, passing the drink back to Beholden and resting her head against the back of the couch. "It has been a while since you bothered Dry Grass, then. You flopped on Slow Hours earlier today and pestered your aunts earlier this week. You tracked soil all over the floor, remember?" "Alright, I will ping her soon, then." @@ -146,11 +144,11 @@ Motes snorted. "You are also a fat skunk, though." The playful banter continued, and while she would occasionally poke her snout in to make a quip of her own, Motes largely just savored her drink, bitter and sour and sweet, and the comfort of being nestled in between her two cocladists, thinking. -She thought about the more than two centuries that had passed since A Finger Pointing had forked into the other nine instances of her stanza, that point when Motes had become Motes. She thought about the time that had followed when she remained essentially the version of A Finger Pointing who had taken up responsibility for sets and props, about those slow years of individuation and differentiation. She thought about the way she had started to toy with her appearance, her actions, her approach to life, and how she had steered herself into this focus on play to reclaim a childhood that had, yes, been pleasant enough, and yet which could have been so much more, now that she had all the time in the world. +She thought about the more than two centuries that had passed since A Finger Pointing had forked into the other nine instances of her stanza, that point when Motes had become Motes. She thought about the time that had followed when she remained essentially the version of A Finger Pointing who had taken up responsibility for sets and props, about those slow years of individuation and differentiation. She thought about the way she had started to toy with her appearance, her actions, her approach to life, and how she had steered herself into this focus on play to reclaim a childhood that had, yes, been pleasant enough, and yet which could have been so much more, now that she had all the time in the world. Something to live intentionally. Something to savor. It had not always been smooth, to be sure. The compromises she made early on far outnumbered the ways in which she was earnest to herself. -She did not blame A Finger Pointing, never once. She, of all those in her life, was trustworthy. Motes had once *been* her, after all, yes? They had had their spats, more than a few, as would be the case between any parent and child — as would be the case between any two individuals. She had had spats with more than just Ma. She and Beholden had fought, and at times bitterly, and it was at those times that Bee's guardianship had felt most precarious. It had never disappeared, but it had verged well into the realm of sister — the realm of Slow Hours — or bestest friend — that of of Warmth In Fire — and away from guardian, away from that parental love. +She did not blame A Finger Pointing, never once. She, of all those in her life, was trustworthy. Motes had once *been* her, after all, yes? They had had their spats — more than a few — as would be the case between any parent and child — as would be the case between any two individuals. She had had spats with more than just Ma. She and Beholden had fought, and at times bitterly, and it was at those times that Bee's guardianship had felt most precarious. It had never disappeared, but it had verged well into the realm of sister — the realm of Slow Hours — or bestest friend — that of of Warmth In Fire — and away from guardian, away from that parental love. She did not remember what the spats were about. She could, yes, her memory was as perfect as anyone else's on the three Systems. But she would not, because that was not the point. The point was that she was Motes. She was their Dot, their *Dóttir.* She was the kid, and they were the grown-ups who loved her. @@ -158,7 +156,7 @@ And so their protectiveness made sense, yes? They wanted to keep her safe, yes? And that is where the friction came from. It came from others fussing about Motes-as-kid. -She was not always. Often, she was in her early twenties. Certainly a far cry from the 41 she had been when she had been forked, or the 32 she had been when Michelle Hadje had first uploaded, but still, far more acceptable in the eyes of the System, far more acceptable in the eyes of the rest of the Ode clade. +She was not always. Often, she was in her early twenties. Certainly a far cry from the 41 she had been when she had been forked, or the 32 she had been when Michelle Hadje had first uploaded, but still, far more acceptable in the eyes of many on the System, far more acceptable in the eyes of the rest of the Ode clade. It was them, through A Finger Pointing and, on a few occasions, through Slow Hours and Time Rushes, who suggested that she should not do this thing. It was too close, they said, to unwelcome paraphilias, here on the System where one had to be at least eighteen to upload. It was too close, they said, to coming off as someone seeking unwanted attention, affection, sexuality. "I understand that you wish to reclaim childhood," they told her through her ma or siblings. "But you must understand the optics." Never mind that she had long since set aside sexuality while in this form, that she harbored her own fears of those offering unwanted attention, affection, sex. No, it was the *optics* that needed minding. @@ -210,7 +208,7 @@ There was a moment's silence, a sense of laughter, and then, *"Motes Motes Motes *"Mmhm. Was going to make a food or two. Do you want some?"* -There was a sensation of a haughty frown from Dry Grass. *"Are you allowed to be using the stove, my dear?"* +There was a sensation of a haughty frown from Dry Grass. *"Are you allowed to be using the stove, young miss?"* Motes sighed dramatically. *"Fiiine, I will fork older."* @@ -242,7 +240,7 @@ Once the dishes had been waved away and drinks had been made — sweeter cocktai "What is on your mind, kiddo?" Dry Grass asked. "Usually you do not want to just flop unless you are already worn out or something got you all thinky." -"I dunno," she said. The use of a contraction itched, brushing against the linguistic idiosyncrasies that plagued all of the Odists, even these many years later, but she had practiced for certain occasions. She shrugged, careful not to mess up the current shape. "I spent the day with Slow Hours and Sasha, and they got to talking about the past because Sasha had a question. Just thinking about being me." +"I dunno," she said. The use of a contraction itched, brushing against the linguistic idiosyncrasies that plagued all of the Odists, even these many years later, but she had practiced for certain occasions. She shrugged, careful not to mess up the current shape. "I spent the day with Slow Hours and Sasha, and they got to talking about the past because Sasha had a question for Slowers. Just thinking about being me." "'Being you'?" @@ -260,7 +258,7 @@ Holding up her hands disarmingly, Dry Grass added quickly, "Not from me, my dear The skunk's smile returned. "I know. You are nice to me. I had figured if not the eighth, then In Dreams would have been the one." -"Oh, she was definitely another one of the big culprits. Do not get me wrong, I like the seventh stanza alright, but In Dreams can be a stickler over...well, most anything, really." +"Oh, she was definitely another one of the big culprits, at least early on. Do not get me wrong, I like the seventh stanza alright, but In Dreams can be a stickler over...well, most anything, really." "Yeah, she pulled me aside once and started talking about there being a time and a place and blah blah blah." @@ -270,15 +268,15 @@ The skunk's smile returned. "I know. You are nice to me. I had figured if not th Dry Grass frowned, looking down at her spread out fingers, watching the polish dry. "It is hard to put succinctly into words that make sense because then it just comes off as a series of tautologies. She thinks that there are children and there are adults. She thinks this because that is what makes a mother a mother to someone. The child is the child and the adult is the adult in contrast. They are complements. It is all very prescriptive." -Motes frowned and pulled apart the logic, doodling pink spirals onto her fingerpads. "So she thinks kids have to be actually kids? *Actual* children, even if there are none here?" +Motes frowned and pulled apart the logic, doodling pink spirals onto her fingerpads. "So she thinks kids have to be actually kids? *Actual* children, even if there are none here? You still have to be over eighteen to upload." "I think so, yes, though it does not help that you are a cocladist of hers." "Is this that stupid optics thing again?" -"I do not know. Certainly in part, though it is also in part because, if you are her, then you could not be her child. You could not be a different age." She hesitated, then added, "It would mean that she had the capability to become you, yes? That any of us would have that, yes?" +"I do not know. Certainly in part, though it is also in part because, if you are her, then you could not be her child. You could not be a different age." She hesitated, then added, "It means that she has the capability to become like you, yes? That all of us have that within us, yes?" -"Oh god," Motes said, laughing. "I cannot imagine Hammered Silver as a kid. She would be one of those prissy, stuck up girls who was the daughter of the PTA president or something." +"Oh god," Motes said, laughing. "I cannot imagine Hammered Silver as a kid. She would be one of those prissy, stuck up girls who is the daughter of the PTA president or something." Dry Grass laughed as well. "She is already essentially the prissy HOA president. I respect her as a person, but I do not like her, and I *certainly* do not respect her authority." @@ -296,4 +294,4 @@ Dry Grass nodded, expression serious. "It absolutely is. She has gotten quite up Motes huffed, nodded. "Good. If you stop talking to me, I *will* cry." -"Perish the thought!" The Odist laughed and leaned over to hug her cocladist, careful of her nails. "I will not. Do not worry, my dear, you are stuck with me for a good while yet. I would rather tell Hammered Silver to go fuck herself." +"Perish the thought!" Dry Grass laughed and leaned over to hug her cocladist, careful of her nails. "I will not. Do not worry, my dear, you are stuck with me for a good while yet. I would rather tell Hammered Silver to go fuck herself." diff --git a/content/draft/002.md b/content/draft/002.md index 602660a..a8d2782 100644 --- a/content/draft/002.md +++ b/content/draft/002.md @@ -14,7 +14,7 @@ Tonight, she let him take her home. Tonight she let him pin her to the bed, paw And then it was a night for sitting on his balcony and talking while the waves of whatever drug he'd given her continued to roll through her in languid pulses. "It is like someone is brushing the underside of my skin with satin in the best possible way," she said, and he laughed. -They sat and talked, legs dangling through the bars of the balcony's railing over an impossibly high drop, her ears filled with the chatter of an impossible myriad of monkeys some balconies over, startled from slumber by their arrival, her eyes filled with the black and gold of an impossible city built into a cylinder. He pointed to a building in the distance down the length of the cylinder, told her how that one was filled all with gardens, all flowers like those in her hair, now crushed lopsidedly from her forgetting to remove the crown when they fucked. He pointed up to the gentle glow in the sky, golden stars made of lights from so many buildings just like this one, told her that the sun here was in a long, thin line, that it turned on from one end to the other so that one could see dawn coming from down the tube, could hear birdsong come on like a wave, and then turned off in the same direction in a linear sunset. He pointed from one end of the cylinder to another, the bounding walls marked by arcane symbols in neon, and explained that nearly a quarter billion people called this home, then laughed as she asked, "How many do you think are fucking right now?" +They sat and talked, legs dangling through the bars of the balcony's railing over an impossibly high drop, her ears filled with the chatter of an impossible myriad of monkeys some balconies over, startled from slumber by their arrival, her eyes filled with the black and gold of an impossible city built into a cylinder. He pointed to a building in the distance down the length of the cylinder, told her how that one was filled all with gardens, all flowers like those in her hair, now crushed lopsidedly from her forgetting to remove the crown when they fucked. He pointed up to the gentle glow in the sky, golden stars made of lights from so many buildings just like this one, told her that the sun here was in a long, thin line, that it turned on slowly from one end to the other so that one could see dawn coming from down the tube, could hear birdsong come on like a wave, and then turned off in the same direction in a linear sunset. He pointed from one end of the cylinder to another, the bounding walls marked by arcane symbols in neon, and explained that nearly a quarter of a billion people called this home, then laughed as she asked, "How many do you think are fucking right now?" They added one more to that number before they slept. @@ -38,7 +38,7 @@ Empty auditorium. Empty stage, but for one skunk, kneeling in the center with a clipboard and script laid out before her in a neat arc, a bank of three different colored highlighters resting in her lap. -Where so many of the skunks of the clade had the stark contrast of black and white fur, hers was the warm brown of cinnamon with the pale cream of white chocolate. Where so many of the other skunks had black noses, black fur fading all but seamlessly before them, hers was far more pink, more easily seen twitching this way or that at some scent or another. Where so many of her family had long, poetic names, hers remained simple, a remnant of some more complicated past. +Where so many of the skunks of the clade had the stark contrast of black and white fur, hers was the warm brown of cinnamon with the pale cream of white chocolate. Where so many of the other skunks had black noses, black fur fading seamlessly before them, hers was far more pink, more easily seen twitching this way or that at some scent or another. Where so many of her family had long, poetic names, hers remained simple, a remnant of some more complicated past. Motes traipsed down the long, shallow steps of the auditorium aisles, all but skipping in that long-running afterglow. "Sasha!" @@ -80,11 +80,11 @@ She looked up once more, rolled her eyes. "Can you really picture May being into An eloquent shrug was the reply. -"Well, *huh,*" she said, grinning still. She could feel the limerence for her form starting to fade, could feel the humanity begin to itch, so she waved the topic away. "But we can talk about that later. I need to re-skunk. I want to keep this shirt, though." +"Well, *huh,*" she said, grinning still. She could feel the limerence for her form starting to fade, could feel the humanity begin to itch, so she waved the topic away. She had been seen, had been witnessed; that was all she had needed. "But we can talk about that later. I need to re-skunk. I want to keep this shirt, though." "Alright, dear. I shall look away." -Motes shimmied out of the blouse and folded it neatly, setting it on the stage before forking into her usual, smaller, soft-furred self once more. Younger, as well, back to that comfortable, comforting expression of youth. "Okay," she said once she was done once more, rolling around to lay on her belly and poke her snout at one of the piles of paper. "What are you working on, anyway?" +Motes shimmied out of the blouse and folded it neatly on the stage before forking into her usual, smaller, soft-furred self once more. Younger, as well, back to that comfortable, comforting expression of youth. "Okay," she said once she was done, rolling around to lay on her belly and poke her snout at one of the piles of paper. "What are you working on, anyway?" Sasha smiled, tipped her clipboard forward to let the skunk see the stage diagram. "Blocking. Planning. Memorization." @@ -98,13 +98,13 @@ She was startled back to awareness by Sasha's voice. "What are you thinking abou "Mm?" -"You seemed deep in thought." She smiled faintly. "Or perhaps blissfully without." +"You seemed deep in thought." She smiled affectionately. "Or perhaps blissfully without." -Motes stuck her tongue out at her. "I was thinking about how I was talking with Dry Grass yester– the day before yesterday, and how she was telling me about Hammered Silver being a b-word." +Motes stuck her tongue out at her. "I was thinking about how I was talking with Dry Grass yester– the day before yesterday. She was telling me about Hammered Silver being a b-word." -Unexpectedly, Sasha winced, carefully setting down her clipboard with exaggerated care. "Yes. I am sorry, And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights, it was never my intent to create such a schism in the clade." +Unexpectedly, Sasha winced, carefully setting down her clipboard with exaggerated care. "Yes. I am sorry, And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights," she said, voice and movements stiff, contrite. "It was never my intent to create such a schism in the clade." -Pushing herself to hands and knees and crawling around the piles of script, she knelt beside the other skunk, hugging around her shoulders. "It is okay. I do not blame you," she said hastily. "Dry Grass also said that that was just a...um, a last straw, not even the biggest thing." +Pushing herself to hands and knees, she crawled around the piles of script to kneel beside the other skunk and hug around her shoulders. "It is okay. I do not think it is on you," she said hastily. "Dry Grass said that that was just a...um, a last straw, not even the biggest thing." "What did she say was?" Sasha asked quietly, shifting an arm around to hug Motes in turn. @@ -120,7 +120,7 @@ After nearly a minute of silence, Sasha said, "Years back, centuries ago, Jonas Sasha snorted. "Do not let her hear you say that. She would say that she is not, that it is a partnership, it is two actors playing their parts: she, the mother; him, the father — dad jokes and all. They are roles in a long-running production." She winked conspiratorially, adding, "Though I am not sure that Waking World would agree with her. I think he very much thinks of himself as her husband, of the both of them as very much in love with each other." -Motes furrowed her brow in consternation. "She does not make any sense," she said. "She hates Ma and Bee for dating and hates me for being their daughter and all the others my siblings or whatever, and then she marries Waking World?" +Motes furrowed her brow in consternation. "She does not make any sense," she said. "She hates Ma and Bee for dating and hates me for being their daughter and all the others for being my siblings or whatever, and then she marries Waking World?" "Perhaps her performance is so convincing that she is fooling us all. Perhaps she is simply fooling herself." @@ -164,7 +164,7 @@ She nodded, pressing her face all the firmer against the stage manager's belly. "Right, and those principles go beyond just the three of you. She was thinking of Dry Grass, too, yes? And of Waking World and of Fogs The View and of Time Makes Prey, and of all of the other, nicer folks she has spoken to in the sixth stanza on the sly. Many have continued to shun me, which is fine, so be it, they value their relationship with Hammered Silver more than Dry Grass does, but at least they are still talking with A Finger Pointing." -"Yeah, that is true. And at least Dry Grass is still here." +"Yeah, true. And at least Dry Grass is still here." "That she is." Sasha smiled, nudging Motes on the shoulder. "Now, come. Let us get you home, yes? Get you some food and let you crow about your exploits to anyone who will listen, yes? Show off your blouse, yes?" diff --git a/content/draft/003.md b/content/draft/003.md index 6780683..8cad9ad 100644 --- a/content/draft/003.md +++ b/content/draft/003.md @@ -106,7 +106,7 @@ As it spoke, ey dreamed up a shallow bowl. "No fucking clue! It apparently means Motes leaned forward and squinted at the dish, sniffing. It smelled like precious little. -"I have not gotten around to adding the scent yet," Warmth explained. "That is one area where Codrin did not give much detail." +"I have not gotten around to adding the scent yet," Warmth explained. "That is one area where Codrin did not give much detail. I replied asking █████ to help with things like that." "Well, okay," she said, doubtful. She dreamed up a spoon and poked at the...foam? Froth? It was surprisingly sturdy, and although it wobbled, it did not fall over under the touch. @@ -188,7 +188,7 @@ She scoffed. "They just write each other letters." "Well, okay," Motes said, still giggling. "Do you really think they have cut you off? Effectively if not actually, I mean." -"I have not talked with them, but neither have they talked with me," they said. "I think that I am one step away from being in their cross-hairs. I am over here doing my weird stuff, making things and food and such. I am not really political, I am not being sneaky or dating a Bălan or whatever, and My is off doing her own thing now. I *am* part Dear, though, and I *am* small like you." +"I have not talked with them, but neither have they talked with me," they said. "I think that I am one step away from being in their cross-hairs. I am over here doing my weird stuff, making things and food and such. I am not really political, I am not being sneaky or dating a Bălan or whatever, and My is off doing her own thing for now. I *am* part Dear, though, and I *am* small like you." "Which do you think would piss them off more?" @@ -202,7 +202,7 @@ Ey shrugged. "It would suck, but yeah." It thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Sorry, Mote." Warmth scooted closer and draped an arm over her front. "I did not mean to rub it in any." -She nodded and tugged Warmth's arm up to hug her own around it. "It is okay, just had not heard it put like that before." +She nodded and tugged Warmth's arm up to hug it to her front. "It is okay, just had not heard it put like that before." "Dear got its fair share of getting cast out as it became more and more of a snotty little shit, and some of that rubbed off onto us. I have a fair few people who dislike me because of that." diff --git a/content/thoughts.md b/content/thoughts.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..329b973 --- /dev/null +++ b/content/thoughts.md @@ -0,0 +1,141 @@ +--- +title: Thoughts on Motes +--- + +*Motes Played* was written in a few short weeks at the end of December, 2023 and the beginning of January, 2024 in a burst of creativity. The origin for the story actually stems from a conversation that I had with my partner on a drive from visiting eir parents down in Vancouver back home to northern Washington. In the span of about four hours, we made our way down through the stanzas of the Ode clade and spoke about what make them tick. + +There are some known quantities. True Name is the politician, A Finger Pointing is the theatrician, Praiseworthy is the propagandis turned arts administrator, and so on. All of the stanzas have been labeled with their basic ideas, of course, and one of those was Hammered Silver being the center of all of Michelle's feelings on motherhood. + +What exactly does that mean, though? How does that play out in her head and her heart? + +Our initial take on it was actually fairly negative. We decided that she had some very prescriptive ways of thinking about motherhood. There is caring, yes, but there are also Ways in Which the World Works. After all, Hammered Silver is one of the two who cut her entire stanza off from the eighth and part of the ninth stanzas, as well the Bălan clade. Later on, this also included the first and then, once they took on Sasha as a stage manager, the fifth stanza. + +However, we wanted to toy with those feelings of motherhood more directly. How does she deal with the lack of children on the System? How does she deal with her own feelings on motherhood? We decided on coming up with a good side and a bad side: + +* **Good side:** Hammered Silver is keenly focused on family dynamics as a whole and ensuring that these remain supportive in a place. This was expanded after the advent of AVEC, where she campaigned to help keep families united after a member uploaded. +* **Bad side:** This problem was expanded vertically to include a rather prescriptive definition of family as she bought thoroughly into the taboo on intraclade relationships, leading her to view family dynamics within clades with distrust and anger. + +Well, we already know that there are intraclade relationships sys-side. There always have been, of course, though not always out in public. There have even been intraclade relationships within the Ode clade (and beyond just the stated examples in the Cycle), such as between Beholden and A Finger Pointing. + +Not only that, but there were already family dynamics in the clade, with Motes treating A Finger Pointing and Beholden as her parents, Slow Hours as her sister, A Finger Curled and Beholden To The Music Of The Spheres (two long-lived up-trees of A Finger Pointing and Beholden) as her weird gay aunts, and Dry Grass as Ma 2.0. + +Boom, automatic conflict. + +I wrote in a flurry, finishing a chapter a day most days over a two week span, working at a similar speed to how *Toledot* came into being. Hypomania be like~[^sciatica] + +Editing took a bit longer, mind, but was still a nice process, thanks to my partner who read each chapter aloud to me. Given how much the story means to em as well, it was a joy for both of us. I also got a few beta reads from within [the Post-Self community](https://wiki.post-self.ink/wiki/The_Post-Self_community) which were, for the most part, really kind and understanding. + +The last step on my end is typesetting and final editing pass (which I usually do on the typeset book), getting ready for publication, and getting a cover. I am already chatting with [Astolpho](https://furaffinity.net/user/astolpho) about that last bit, and he sounds interested. + +## The story + +I knew that the response to *Motes Played* would be complicated from before its inception. Its inception was bound up in that very complication. That complication is part and parcel of the book, after all: Motes is an adult — as everyone is, sys-side — and many around her would prefer that she look and act like it. + +I knew that the response would be complicated, that it would make readers uncomfortable, would make friends or loved ones have some big feelings. I had those big feelings, too. Even after writing the book, after typesetting it and building the ebook (admittedly a mostly automated process), I struggled with the fact that I had written this thing and was thinking about putting it in front of others. There are no works of mine that are not expressions of vulnerability, but each is vulnerable in its own way. *I* was uncomfortable! Funding it with the *Marsh* Kickstarter was a way to force the issue for myself, to pit my pride in what I had accomplished against my fears. + +
+ +
So anyway, I hit publish.
+
+ +## Okay, but why a kid? + +There are a few reasons why I wrote this book. First and foremost is simply that it was fun. I love the approach that a lot of children's books take with language. All of that repetition lends an almost hypnotic air. You keep reading the same idea over and over being stated in different ways with different antecedents and each one adds a little bit more color to the situation. They slowly change the mood of whatever they are building toward. It is alluring as a writer. + +It was also fun to play around with all of the differences that spring up through cladistics. We know Dear is the best worst fox and May Then My Name is a cuddlebug and True Name is a politician and E.W. is a Sad Boi, but if we start prowling through the other stanzas, what do we find? + +Well, we know that A Finger Pointing is a theatrician. She is one of the administrators of Au Lieu Du Rêve, the little troupe she started in the early days of the System, but which has grown to a group several hundred strong. This speaks to all sorts of roles that one might pick up, some of them informed by their names and some not. Beholden gets to deal with all of the sound and music, If I Stand Still deals with lights, and Motes gets sets and props + +It goes beyond interests or chosen profession (or, well, “““profession”””; this *is* the System, after all). Years bring with them individuation, and each of these cladists begin to shift as well. Just as May Then My Name is not True Name, neither is Motes A Finger Pointing. A lot can change over time. + +This includes all sorts of different aspects of personality. A Finger Pointing remains her flamboyant, dramatic self just as Motes leans hard into these feelings of childhood. I wanted to explore something like this in more detail. + +Finally, I have been fascinated with the idea of childhood for years. It is not the supposed purity of it, nor is it necessarily that my own was bad. What it *was,* though, is less than ideal. It feels like my childhood is something that happened to someone else. It is a thing that happened to Matthew, not to Madison. I never got to live a childhood as Madison, good *or* bad. + +Honestly, I have little desire to do so now. It is not out of a desire to be a literal kid, myself, that I wrote *Motes Played.* I wrote it because that idea in particular — that someone would wish to just...go be a kid because they can and because it felt good — is fascinating to me. Motes decided that her role was to be the kid, the One Who Plays, and so she leaned hard into that. + +
+ +
She is also a criminal wanted in three states for playing Beat Saber too much.
+
+ +I wanted to play with the whole idea, too: I wanted to play with the sorts of uncomfortable feelings that many experience when confronted with adults engaging with the world as children. I wanted to talk about how someone who spends so much time in little space deals with the fact that others hate her guts for it. + +## Now, about those big feelings... + +I do not need to wonder whether the reaction to *Motes Played* will involve big feelings from others. Such has already been proven to me before it was even published. + +So, at the risk of coming off as defensive, let me offer some preemptive responses to those feelings. + +First, one must consider the role of art. There are three general ways of interpreting art: + +* **Escapist** — art is simply there to entertain. In the case of something like fiction, it is there to provide a glimpse of some world other than ours (no matter how distant) so that we can experience something other than our wretched, wretched lives. +* **Representative** — art exists to represent the world as it is. Even things such as science fiction and fantasy represent the tropes that exist within our world, and are used to represent them out of their more complicated context that they might be observed. +* **Instructive** — art should be used to instruct the audience how to interact with the world. This goes beyond simply teaching them how to do this or that, too: it can be that a piece of art is intended to be an example that one should follow. + +These are not hard and fast categories, of course, and a work of art need not fill only one of them. I think it is this last one that a lot of folks get hung up on, though. It is, of course, an exercise in futility that I provide my intentions in an artist's statement, but there is very little about the book that is intended to be instructive: it starts as children's books do because Motes presents as a kid, and it ends as children's books do because, hey presto, Motes presents as a kid. + +Instead, I provide a piece of writing which I intend to be escapist — I have mentioned the joys above — as well as representative. There are littles in the world. It is just a fact! People of all sorts engage with ageplay in all sorts of different ways. If Post-Self is to be a complete take on a future world, then I do not see why it should not include (thoughtful, sensitive, appropriate) takes on complete aspects of the world. + +But even if it were instructive, what are the lessons to be taken away from the story? + +* **Do not trust strangers not to be gross to kids.** Motes is wary of forming friendships with adults unless she already knows and trusts them. Even when she does go out as an adult or engages with sexuality, she will not even give her name. +* **Have a support network to help with the first point.** She relies on others not herself to help spot the things that she misses. Those she keeps close — A Finger Pointing, Beholden, Slow Hours, and so on — all strive to protect her, and she trusts in that. +* **Live joyfully but live intentionally.** Motes does not simply throw herself with abandon into "oh, I am going to be a kid now!" but instead approaches her goal with intentionality, setting and respecting boundaries, and choosing spaces where such is expected and welcomed. + +And here are the lessons that it does ***not*** teach: + +* **It is somehow, in some bizarro universe, okay to groom children, even if those children are adults.** Motes explicitly avoids this and trusts others to help find the ones she cannot see. + +Usually, I am stuck on the number three being used to prove points — hendiatris! — but I am not even going to bother including two more points, because this is the only one that has been (and I suspect will be) raised as a concern, even at the expense of any other issues presented within the book. Motes also has a death kink that one of her not-parents loathes. She drinks even when presenting as a child. Beholden is an alcoholic and has destructive tantrums, lashing out at those around her. Hammered Silver is a PTA-mom-lookin', HOA-president-ass bitch[^makefun] who abuses her not-husband, Waking World, and Waking World enables a lot of her bullshit. + +
+ +
I mean, look at her! Picrew by mischa.
+
+ +I do not like the thought that this one sticking point will doubtless lead to strife. I do not like that it will get in the way of people's enjoyment of the work. It is not my responsibility to somehow force readers to enjoy my writing. My responsibility as an author is to present the story. + +It is my *right,* however, to defend myself and my work. + +## Heading off tone arguments + +If I sound a bit bitter, it is because I am, and it is something I will not apologize for, despite my people-pleasing tendencies. + +I began this pile of thoughts by talking about my initial discomfort with the idea of publishing this thing that I wrote. Since then, I have been struck with the occasional flash of such discomfort, but more and more often, I have been struck with a sense of pride. I *like* what I have accomplished. I like that I wrote in this vaguely children's book style. I like that we get Odists interacting with Odists, and that even the narration is written in (admittedly somewhat gentled) Odespeak. I like that I had the chance to lean into not only [my own plurality](https://makyo.is/plural) (Motes, Beholden, Slow Hours, and Dry Grass being headmates) but [my partner's](https://cohost.org/hamratza) (A Finger Pointing and Warmth). I like that I got to explore the more populous areas of the System through someone other than the relatively shut-in Bălans. I like that I had the chance to lean into this topic, even! It is fulfilling to write something emotional and difficult. + +If I sound bitter, it is because I have made something that I enjoy and yet also feel compelled to defend. + +I resent that I will have my personhood negated when I am declared problematic, a groomer, a pedophile, *persona non grata.* I resent that I do not need to consider whether I will be labeled these things; I know I will. I mentioned above that I have already had that conversation. It led to someone stepping back from the Post-Self community.[^welcome] + +I resent that the oft-misused "death of the author" is only applied to the works one enjoys, and so in this case, I will be reduced to my roughest edges and discarded. The work that I put into it will be ignored in the face of this one fact regardless on my feelings of what I have accomplished. + +I resent that, if I claim that [Motes the character is nearly 300 years old](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ReallySevenHundredYearsOld) at the time of telling, I will be accused of trying to weasel my way out of grooming accusations, regardless of the fact that that is part of her character and the plot. I resent that if I claim Motes the headmate is actually 38 at time of writing like this body and has simply leaned into feelings of kidcore, a portion of my identity will be declared wicked and manipulative. I resent that I risk lose readers, friends, partners. + +It is, as Motes puts it, annihilation. It is the opposite of reclamation. Rather than taking the bad and finding a way to reclaim the good in it, it is taking all that is good and making it not just bad, but reprehensible. It is taking things that one enjoys and not making them less enjoyable, but making them shameful. + +I resent that. + +
+ +
This is what happens when Motes encounters annihilation.
+
+ +If I sound bitter, it is because I am proud of what I have made, and I want to share it. + +## That aside... + +I remain very proud of *Motes Played.* The story was fun to write, the characters were fun to write (and super meaningful besides; thanks plurality!), the responses were fun to hear, and I really hope that the book itself is received well. + +As usual, it will be available as an ebook, a paperback, and free to read online. I may even wind up serializing it on [cohost](https://cohost.org/post-self), we will see! + +
+ +
Motes says: please enjoy~
+
+ +[^sciatica]: Okay, but having sciatica for two months probably helped. + +[^makefun]: I am contractually obligated to make fun of her. It is part of being an author. + +[^welcome]: Which is valid! Curate your engagement. Stay healthy with your media consumption. The Post-Self community explicitly welcomes a come-and-go, curation-friendly approach in all our spaces. diff --git a/static/criminal.png b/static/criminal.png new file mode 100644 index 0000000..97ef3aa Binary files /dev/null and b/static/criminal.png differ diff --git a/static/css/motes-played.css b/static/css/motes-played.css index 12f214a..d687ae4 100644 --- a/static/css/motes-played.css +++ b/static/css/motes-played.css @@ -111,6 +111,19 @@ main.story .author, main.story .character, main.story h3 { font-family: "Gotu", sans-serif !important; text-align: center !important; } + +figure img { + display: block; + margin: 0 auto; +} + +summary { + text-align: center; + font-style: italic; + text-decoration: underline; + margin-top: 1rem; + cursor: pointer; +} @media only screen and (max-width: 960px) { .carousel nav { diff --git a/static/hammered-silver.png b/static/hammered-silver.png new file mode 100644 index 0000000..834b021 Binary files /dev/null and b/static/hammered-silver.png differ diff --git a/static/hi.png b/static/hi.png new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e385ea3 Binary files /dev/null and b/static/hi.png differ diff --git a/static/so-anyway.jpg b/static/so-anyway.jpg new file mode 100644 index 0000000..360a10d Binary files /dev/null and b/static/so-anyway.jpg differ diff --git a/static/still-evil.png b/static/still-evil.png new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c09adcf Binary files /dev/null and b/static/still-evil.png differ diff --git a/static/this-is-what-happens.gif b/static/this-is-what-happens.gif new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3ed5e24 Binary files /dev/null and b/static/this-is-what-happens.gif differ