update from sparkleup

writing/3/terrifying/blind-strife.md

@@ -66,13 +66,26 @@ Perhaps I am just afraid.
 
 Afraid! If it is a part of my identity, why should I be afraid? Isn't that the whole point behind Pride? Isn't that part of my whole schtick as the visibly and effortlessly trans girl who prides herself on being such, who aims to be a sort of trans psychopomp?
 
+> Fig tree, how long now has it meant much to me  
+> how you almost entirely skip the blossom  
+> and without praise press your pure secret  
+> into the promptly unfolding fruit.\footnote{\cite[57]{duino}}
+
 Perhaps that, too, is a trans thing, though. We come out, we transition, we live in this ridiculous world, and the whole time, our goal is to tamp down our identity. Even from within the community, even from the most proud, the goal is to tamp down this part of ourselves. Yes, praise the validity, but do so by passing ever better. Praise most of all the stealth, for they have tamped down their identity with makeup and binders. Praise most of all the successful men and women who slip effortlessly through the world around them, for they have integrated.
 
 Surely there is something similar for plurality. I imagine, given its associations with psychology, this most often is brought up in terms of functionality. After all, if it is touched by those who touch other neurodivergencies, then surely it must be the same.
 
 There, see? The successful trans girl with ADHD: she took her meds and did her voice training and now she does a capitalism well.
 
-What's the analogous form of success fur a plural person? I am told that for a long time, it was becoming singular. More recently, I have heard that it is the ability to ensure that all of the personalities within one remain in consonance, that it remains egosyntonic, in harmony with the concept of self.
+What's the analogous form of success fur a plural person? I am told that for a long time, it was becoming singular. After all, even passing as singular would be better, would it not?
+
+More recently, I have heard that it is the ability to ensure that all of the personalities within one remain in consonance, that it remains egosyntonic, in harmony with the concept of self. This, at least, I can see being analogous with my goals of being happily, visibly trans. After all, is it not my goal to live specifically as a trans woman? Not just as a woman, but specifically a trans woman. The way I bridle when I hear "I just see you as any other woman"...
+
+Become singular, become cis. Pass as singular, pass as cis. Live in harmony, live in harmony. It is times like these when I think back to those words, "Identity is psychopathological in that you only feel it when something makes you feel bad."
+
+So, if I am to have this sense of pride, if I am to live in this egosyntonic harmony, then what is the fall out of that?
+
+More strife, more strife...
 ((Supporting identities))
 
 ((The trans urge to tamp down one's own identity))

writing/3/terrifying/index.md

@@ -2,7 +2,7 @@
 
 Wherein Maddy worries about how much space she's allowed to take up and also waxes rhapsodic about how love is right at the margin of the terrifying through the lens of Time War and also Rilke. It's also kinda about <s>suicide</s> plurality???
 
-* [.] [Intro](intro)
+* [o] [Intro](intro)
 * [.] [Blind strife](blind-strife)
 * [.] [Assessment](assessment)
 * [.] [Engagement](engagement)

writing/post-self/embodied-exegesis.md

@@ -2,9 +2,9 @@
 
 ## Rena Hatch --- 2368
 
-I thought it would be different. I thought it would be cleaner, maybe. Cleaner, or far more grimy, all exposed pipes and puddles of unexplained liquids pooling in dark corners while the brittle lighting of shitty fluorescents flickered. Give me the clean LEDs over that, the well-polished linoleum and stainless steel, doctors with surgical gowns and nurses with fibrous booties strapped over their oh-so-comfortable shoes.
+I thought it would be different. I thought it would be cleaner, maybe. Cleaner, or far more grimy, all exposed pipes and puddles of unexplained liquids pooling in dark corners while the brittle lighting of shitty fluorescents flickered. Give me the clean LEDs over that, the well-polished linoleum and stainless steel, doctors with surgical gowns and nurses with fibrous paper booties strapped over their oh-so-comfortable shoes.
 
-Saskatoon Central Upload Clinic was none of these. Where one might expect a hospital check-in desk, thick plexiglass separating the clientele from the assistants, there was a row of podiums, each bearing a tablet with a grip-bar beside it, a way to check in using the implants embedded on the middle joints of one's fingers. Where one might expect the cold, hard chairs, blessed with only the thinnest layer of padding, of a hospital waiting room, there were instead plush chairs and loveseats upholstered in linenette. Where one might expect cold and white bare walls, calm paintings and potted plants softened the cream-colored paint further, spider plants stringing trails behind water coolers.
+Saskatoon Central Upload Clinic was none of these. Where one might expect a hospital check-in desk, thick plexiglass separating the clientele from the assistants, there was a row of podiums, each bearing a tablet with a grip-bar beside it, a way to check in using the implants embedded on the middle joints of one's fingers. Where one might expect the cold, hard chairs, blessed with only the thinnest layer of padding, of a hospital waiting room, there were instead plush chairs and loveseats upholstered in linen. Where one might expect cold and white bare walls, calm paintings and potted plants softened the cream-colored paint further, spider plants stringing trails behind water coolers.
 
 Check-in is simple: slide my fingers around the grip bar until the magnetic contacts pull at those NFC pads embedded in skin. Wait as patiently as I can while the tablet whispers a series of disclaimers against my cochleae through the tendrils of my exo. Shift my weight anxiously from side to side and give my assent to the questions with a nod and a tap of the thumb.
 
@@ -16,13 +16,13 @@ Yes, I understand that there's a risk. *There's a risk to staying behind, too,*
 
 Yes, I understand that the financial payout to designated next of kin will be-- cancel. No, there is no next of kin. If you're not going to let me will it to a charity or foundation, I guess the government can have it.
 
-*Yes, I understand,* I indicate time and time again, perhaps two dozen times in total, before I'm finally given a number and told to sit down.
+*Yes, I understand,* I indicate time and time again, perhaps two dozen times in total, then answer a short survey about who I am before I'm finally given a number and told to sit down.
 
 The wait wouldn't be unbearable if it weren't for the lingering weight of import straddling my shoulders, a petulant child tugging at my hair and whining about how this is the wrong thing to do, that there's gotta be some better way, this is irresponsible. Ten minutes with that weight and those whispered words would be bad enough, but then we hit twenty. Thirty. It wouldn't be so bad if--
 
 "Three twenty-seven? Ma'am?"
 
-I start to, looking up to the tired yet kindly eyes of the nurse. "Yeah, sorry," I reply. My own voice echoes strangely in my head, muffled by my own mask, and I realize it's been days since I've said anything aloud.
+I jump at the interruption, looking up to the tired yet kindly eyes of the nurse. "Yeah, sorry," I reply. My own voice echoes strangely in my head, muffled by my own mask, and I realize it's been days since I've said anything aloud.
 
 I follow them into the procedure room, where the scent of sterilizer and ozone lingers in the air, where the chair that reclines into a bench stands alone, where sets of tracks on either side of the chair lead to barely concealed doors in the wall. I follow their guidance in undressing. They don't give me a gown or anything, and standing in nothing but this awful body that shrivels at the touch of the cold clinic air is decidedly uncomfortable. I sit awkwardly on the chair/bed. The cover looks like fabric until it's touched, at which point the illusion is shattered when my fingers find it unpleasantly rubberized. Another reminder of my skin, of my very real, very ill-fitting body.
 
@@ -44,7 +44,7 @@ They shrug. "I do about seven or eight a day, there are five operating rooms, an
 
 The chair reclines automatically into a bed, and a faint whirr sounds behind me as the cabinets slide out from the wall from behind their subtle doors, revealing banks of what I imagine must be various scanners, instruments, tools, and whatever else is needed for the largely automated procedure.
 
-There's a loud beep the fills the room, and the doctor says. "Last chance." Their voice is lazy, calm, hardly an imposition. It's the voice of someone unwilling to sway the listener, merely doing their job.
+There's a loud beep that fills the room, and the doctor says, "Last chance." Their voice is lazy, calm, hardly an imposition. It's the voice of someone unwilling to sway the listener, merely doing their job.
 
 I shake my head, and that heavy import resting on my shoulders finally starts to slip, to slide free and drop away from me. The whining fades, the whispered suggestions that I'm doing the wrong thing become inaudible.
 
@@ -60,7 +60,9 @@ The worst, though, is the way my vision jitters and blurs through all of the wor
 
 And then, without warning, it's over.
 
-I'm sure there must have been some sort of discontinuity, that some amount of time had passed between when the procedure completes and when I find myself here, fully formed and conscious, in the orientation room. Or perhaps it really is instantaneous. A part of me wonders if there might be some form of the procedure continuing back in the surgical room; some final scan of my dy­-- no, my *body's* dying nervous system, a place I no longer inhabit.
+I'm sure there's some sort of discontinuity, that some amount of time passes between when the procedure completes and when I find myself here, fully formed and conscious, in the orientation room. Or perhaps it really is instantaneous. A part of me wonders if there might be some form of the procedure continuing back in the surgical room, some final scan of my dy­-- no, my *body's* dying nervous system, a place I no longer inhabit.
+
+Relief. The success streak of the clinic will not be broken by me.
 
 I wake on the floor of a nine-by-nine cube of what appears to be cool, gray stone blocks one meter on a side. I'm pleased to note the utter reality of the space. The stone is just that: stone. It isn't a rendering of stone, not a representation of stone, just...stone.
 
@@ -68,7 +70,7 @@ The light seems to come from nowhere, leaving only blurry and indistinct shadows
 
 "Greetings," says a soft voice behind me. I whirl around to see a short person with curly black hair, voice feminine and lilting. She's facing the other way, arms crossed before her. "I am facing the wall, as many here arrive unclothed. I am a construct --- a pretty face for a conversation tree --- and, while I will do my best to answer your questions, anything more difficult will wait until you can talk to a real person."
 
-"O-oh. Uh." I stammer. I scramble quickly to my feet and cover my body with hands and arms. That she's facing away certainly helps, but still. "How do I get clothes?"
+"O-oh. Uh," I stammer. I scramble quickly to my feet and cover my body with hands and arms. That she's facing away certainly helps, but still. "How do I get clothes?"
 
 "I will walk you through the process of making those. It is part of a short tutorial series that will allow you to step into the System proper. Please close your eyes, think of your favorite outfit, and breathe in. As you breathe out, say, "I want to be wearing my favorite outfit," and smile."
 
@@ -86,7 +88,7 @@ I'm once again taken aback by the sheer reality of the place. The linen of my bl
 
 "Oh, uh, you can turn around," I say.
 
-Nodding, the woman turns, smiles, and bows deeply to me. "Welcome to Lagrange, Rena Hatch. You are in AetherBox#5287, and you are upload 38,529,358,059, if you happen to care about such, but will ever be a cherished soul aboard *et cetera, et cetera.*" She laughs. "The next step of the tutorial is to fork for the first time."
+Nodding, the woman turns, smiles, and bows deeply to me. "Welcome to Lagrange, Rena Hatch. You are in the orientation sim AetherBox#5287. Should you care about such, you are upload 38,529,358,059, but will ever be a unique and cherished soul aboard *et cetera, et cetera.*" She laughs. "The next step of the tutorial is to fork for the first time."
 
 "I...what?"
 
@@ -102,9 +104,9 @@ The casual demeanor and profanity catch me somewhat off-guard. She isn't what I
 
 "Same as with your clothes. Close your eyes, hold in your mind the desire to fork, breathe in, breathe out, smile, say the words." A lopsided smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "You do not have to do all of that, mind. You can just do your best to project the intent to fork; you seem like a pretty savvy girl."
 
-"You're a hell of a guide."
+"You're one hell of a guide."
 
-"Well, according to your file, you are one hell of a woman."
+"Well, according to your file, the answers you gave on your survey, you are one hell of a woman."
 
 I laugh. "What's your name?"
 
@@ -200,7 +202,7 @@ It's my third day there when I start to get pretty actively lonely, and instead
 
 Old Town Square is surprisingly chill, in terms of crowds. Sure, there's little knots of people that wander down the brick-paved pedestrian mall, or folks out in ones and twos enjoying the sun and their own cups of coffee, but it's hardly as packed as I would have assumed for a system containing so many uploads and all their forks.
 
-The amount of sims listed on the perisystem architecture about blows my head off when I check. There has to be millions, maybe billions of sims I could go looking into.
+The amount of sims listed on the perisystem architecture about blows my head off when I check. There have to be millions, maybe billions of sims I could go looking into.
 
 Which makes sense, I suppose. With the reputation I have, I could probably get started on a sim; it's not that expensive.
 
@@ -214,7 +216,7 @@ The street I walk out onto is far more packed than Old Town Square, yes, but it
 
 "What the fuck..."
 
-Someone beside me laughs, and I look up to someone towering above me, offering a hand to help me stand. They're tall --- taller even than I was back phys-side --- with long hair that sits between frizzy and curly, and a rather chic looking tee to go with a pair of what look to be scrub pants. Messenger bag, glasses. They're delightfully gender. Visibly and effortlessly transfeminine. "Come, stand. It is a lot, is it not?"
+There's a laugh beside me, and I look up to someone towering above me, offering a hand to help me stand. They're tall --- taller even than I was back phys-side --- with long hair that sits between frizzy and curly, and a rather chic looking tee to go with a pair of what look to be scrub pants. Messenger bag. Glasses. They're delightfully gender. Visibly and effortlessly transfeminine. "Come, stand. It is a lot, is it not?"
 
 "Uh...yeah," I say, wobbling up to my feet with their assistance. Looking around shows me people. People and people and people. Across the street: another café, stuffed to the brim with people. Down the street: yet another coffee shop, a furry of some sort staring longingly at a display of pastries within. "What the hell is this place?"
 
@@ -250,7 +252,7 @@ They laugh. "Just like that, yes. Hold My Name Beneath Your Tongue And Know of t
 
 "That's the second time I've heard 'Ode clade', and I still don't get it."
 
-"A clade is just a group of people forked from the same root instance. I am quite far diverged from my root instance. Certainly further than In All Ways is. You look a little like her, you know that?"
+"A clade is just a group of people forked from the same upload. I am quite far diverged from my root instance. Certainly further than In All Ways is. You look a little like her, you know that?"
 
 Caught. I panic.
 
@@ -258,7 +260,7 @@ She rests a hand gently on my elbow and tuts. "Hey, hush. It is okay. You take i
 
 "Thanks," I stammer, unsure of how to proceed. "You are too, I guess."
 
-"'You guess'?" She smirks. "No, no, I get what you mean. In All Ways said I should be on the lookout for a trans girl, about our age, real frumpcore vibe. I got some of that, did I not? Besides, we usually share an aesthetic, I am just dressed down today."
+"'You guess'?" She smirks. "No, no, I get what you mean. In All Ways said I should be on the lookout for a trans girl, about our age, real frumpcore vibe. I got pretty much that, did I not? Besides, we usually share an aesthetic, I am just dressed down today."
 
 "What, the skirts and all?"
 
@@ -274,7 +276,7 @@ It takes me a moment to piece together what exactly I'm being asked. "I'm a nobo
 
 "God, I have no fucking clue."
 
-"Cheers to that. Hey, Jesus Croissant." She laughs. "Want to check it out?"
+"Cheers to that. Hey, look. Jesus Croissant." She laughs. "Want to check it out?"
 
 Jesus Croissant is sterile, blank, modern. Here, at last, I see the too-flat planes, the too-simple colors, the suspiciously repeating patterns of flecks on the formica counters. It makes me realize just how high quality a sim Old Town Square is. At least the coffee's okay, though croissants are weirdly absent from their menu.
 
@@ -292,11 +294,11 @@ We don't find the next Jesusy coffee shop, but we do agree to meet tomorrow to t
 
 I continue to meet with My --- or at least a fork of her --- daily for the next week or two.
 
-She's old, it turns out, nearly three centuries. One of the first uploads, back in 2117, when the System had yet to blossom to its full potential. She'd been up here, riding along in the hardware that had been floating up by the moon since before my grandparents had been born. Since before my grandparents' grandparents had moved north to Saskatchewan.
+She's old, it turns out. Nearly three centuries. One of the first uploads, back in 2117, when the System had yet to blossom to its full potential. She'd been up here, riding along in the hardware that had been floating up by the moon since before my grandparents had been born. Since before my grandparents' grandparents had moved north to Saskatchewan.
 
 Old and wide-spread, too. The Ode clade has at least a hundred instances --- "*nominally* one hundred, do not ask me the total; it is probably well into the thousands" she says --- scattered about on Lagrange.
 
-The more I talk with her, the more worldly she seems, and the more of a hick I feel. Here's this trans gal --- a woman who had uploaded, a fork who had lived as a guy for decades before transitioning back the long way --- out here living her best life like there's just nothing to it, getting coffee with me every day, taking me out to ridiculous restaurants every evening --- "I am just a fork," she says, "so you need not worry about keeping me from anything" --- and having increasingly deep conversations about the vagaries of life.
+The more I talk with her, the more worldly she seems, and the more of a hick I feel. Here's this trans gal --- a cis woman who had uploaded, a fork who had lived as a cis guy for decades before transitioning back the long way around --- out here living her best life like there's just nothing to it, getting coffee with me every day, taking me out to ridiculous restaurants every evening --- "I am just a fork," she says, "so you need not worry about keeping me from anything" --- and having increasingly deep conversations about the vagaries of life.
 
 She's a weird bird, but I can forgive much from someone more than ten times as old as me.
 
@@ -310,17 +312,17 @@ My doesn't need to say anything, she just keeps on talking to me, keeps on spend
 
 She never calls me on it, not once, but when I finally break down in front of her and start crying about it, *'I know'* is painted across her face in plain-to-see lines.
 
-"I just don't even know what I'm doing. I feel like I'm refining myself into something unrecognizable," I ramble in a quiet corner of one of those Jesusy coffee shops. "I'm turning into someone I don't know."
+"I just don't even know what I'm doing. I feel like I'm refining myself into something unrecognizable," I ramble in a quiet corner of one of those Jesusy coffee shops. None, so far, have been Christian. All have been bizarre. "I'm turning into someone I don't know."
 
-"Why?" she asks. "I mean, I know *how* you are doing it. You are trying to become maybe a cisfemme woman, yes? You are trying to be the you that you always saw yourself as, yes?"
+"Why?" she asks. "I mean, I know *how* you are doing it. I know the base reasons. You are trying to become maybe a cisfemme woman, yes? You are trying to be the you that you always saw yourself as, yes?"
 
 "Well, yeah," I say, turning my untouched latte around in a circle on the dinged-up tabletop. "I told myself I'd come up here and finish my transition."
 
 "'Finish'?"
 
-I squint up at her, sensing a trap. "Ye-e-es..."
+I squint up at her, fearing a trap. "Ye-e-es..."
 
-She holds up a hand disarmingly. "I am not calling you out, my dear. Everyone approaches this differently. What I mean to ask what 'finished' looked like for you."
+She holds up a hand disarmingly. "I am not calling you out, my dear. Everyone approaches this differently. What I mean to ask is what 'finished' looks like for you."
 
 "I don't know," I say as I subside back into my seat, sounding miserable even to myself.
 
@@ -362,8 +364,10 @@ My laughs.
 
 I laugh. "Yeah, but which me?"
 
-She casts an appraising look at me, then at my new instance standing beside her, visibly and effortlessly trans. "One of you," she says eventually. "But only one. The other can do whatever she wants --- she can quit or go on exploring her own life or whatever, change and individuate, become someone new --- but only one of you gets to go on the next date."
+She casts an appraising look at me, then at my new instance standing beside her, visibly and effortlessly trans. "One of you," she says eventually. "But only one. The other can do whatever she wants --- she can quit or go on exploring her own life or whatever; she can change and individuate, become someone new, change her name to something ridiculous as we have --- but only one of you gets to go on the next date."
 
 Me and this new Rena, this new old Rena, look at each other, grin, and nod.
 
-"Deal," we say in unison
+"Deal," we say in unison.
+
+