makyo
/
zk
1
0
Fork 0
Code Issues Pull Requests Projects Releases Wiki Activity

update from sparkleup

This commit is contained in:
Madison Scott-Clary 2024-05-29 22:06:30 -07:00
parent c8bc3bd69c
commit 07c71cad36
1 changed files with 3 additions and 1 deletions
Show Stats Download Patch File Download Diff File Expand all files Collapse all files

4
writing/post-self/idumea/005.md
View File

@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ Some of my readers may be wondering why it is that I know so much about The Woma
My answer is that tired phrase: "It is complicated." Of course I do not know her innermost thoughts. I think it is a me thing to take abstract ideas and pretend they look like pretty baubles or hot coals or little statuettes to be placed upon a dresser. I cannot read minds, and I do not have any memories from The Woman. I do not even know quite what she is anymore! I would not know if she quit, since I am not down-tree from her — her down-tree instance is dead now, these last six decades, remember — and I do not believe she merged cross-tree with anyone except perhaps Ashes Denote That Fire Was, who is building in themself a gestalt of the clade as best they can. No, I do not know anything so intimate.
What I do have, though, is a story. I have the story I learned from The Woman's Friend and Therapist and Cocladist and Lover, the one I learned from The Blue Fairy and The Child and The Musician and My Friend. I have all of that story that I learned, and I have that story that I lived.
What I do have, though, is a story. I have the story I learned from The Woman's Friend and Therapist and Cocladist and Lover, the one I learned from The Blue Fairy. I have all of that story that I learned, and I have that story that I lived.
-----
@ -146,3 +146,5 @@ She shrugged. "It was a step on a path. I have also sought out entertainment in
Readers, I am not ashamed to say that I cried again. How could I not, after all? I had met Beckoning and Muse, before, myself. They had invited me over some few years before the Century Attack to let me research their gardens. They had fed me a dinner of pasta with zucchini, and a desert of zucchini bread, for their harvest was too large by far. We had sat out on the deck and looked out over the grass and the little raised beds that Beckoning had tended for a century or more and, although my paws itched to return home to write, we spoke until long after the sunset on our joys and sorrows, our hopes and fears.
I cried, and through it all, The Woman sat in kind silence.
<!-- Warmth discusses art with EoE -->