update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/idumea/007.md

@@ -203,7 +203,7 @@ Once The Dog had come down from being ambushed by the thought of abandoning thos
 
 "Good dog. Thank you," The Woman said, and pet the dog some more. "Good dog. Good dog."
 
-The Dog lit up. It was a good dog!
+The Dog lit up. It *was* a good dog!
 
 The Woman saw this and had a thought. "Are you happy?" she asked, handing over one more kernel. "Are you at peace?"
 
@@ -224,7 +224,9 @@ I am doing my best to tell you, dear readers, this story from front to back like
 
 And so it is that I must once more step back from my notes — and here you must imagine me the type to have notes — and trace my finger up along the timeline of what I have so far told you so that we may sit together and consider why it is that stillness, for The Woman, has so much to do with unbecoming.
 
-We must first of all unlearn the idea that unbecoming is an active process. There may be agency involved — in fact, I think The Woman would insist that there *must* be agency involved, though I think she might hesitate if you were to ask whose agency — but that does not mean that this is a process of undoing-of-self. It is not, as The Woman stated so explicitly, dying, of course, but neither is it coming apart. 
+We must first of all unlearn the idea that unbecoming is an active process. There may be agency involved — in fact, I think The Woman would insist that there *must* be agency involved, though I think she might hesitate if you were to ask whose agency — but that does not mean that this is a process of undoing-of-self. It is not, as The Woman stated so explicitly, dying, of course, but neither is it coming apart.
+
+The agency, then, comes mostly in the act of choice. I mentioned above or perhaps some pages back that The Woman held onto the thought that stillness lay in choice. I said this because we are so beholden to what we were and what we have become and what we fear we may yet be that we so often lack choice. Perhaps this is an issue faced by all of humanity, but for me and for The Woman and for my beloved up-tree and for all of our clade, it is of the utmost importance, for we are so often and in so many subtle ways unable to make choices ourselves. Oh, I can choose what to wear, perhaps, or what pen to pick up, or when to schedule one of those lovely picnic lunches that the ninth stanza so enjoys, with music and food and 
 
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