update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/idumea/005.md

@@ -42,10 +42,26 @@ While I fetched us both such a glass, I said, "What is it that brings you here?
 
 "Oh, very much so. I remember being her, yes, but that was nigh on three centuries ago, and I do not quite understand who she has become, myself." I handed over the glass of water and gestured toward the couch, where we sat on either end, half-facing each other.
 
-"She was still pleasant to be around, at least," The Woman said. "She said that I should seek you out, along with Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself, Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps, and And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights."
+"She was still pleasant to be around, at least," The Woman said. "She said that I should seek you out, along with Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself, Where It Watches The Slow Hours Progress, And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights, and Beholden To The Heat Of The Lamps. You are the last on my list."
 
 "That is curious. What was the reasoning for those names?"
 
 "A writer, an actor, a musician, and an artist. I have been having some thoughts on joy that I would like to explore with each of you."
 
 She told me her story, much as I have written it to you, readers. She spoke of the ways of seeking out joy, of diving into the pleasures of food — and I can tell you, friends, she is absolutely correct about tam mak hoong; it is *incredibly* delicious — and the pleasures of touch and sensuality and sexuality. She told me of how much joy she had found in such things, and the rekindled relationship with Her Lover, and she also told me of how these joys were lovely, but not the joys that she was seeking, and that she had three more items on her list of five. She had entertainment, creativity, and spiritual fulfilment yet to go.
+
+"So, your goal with visiting is to read?"
+
+She shook her head. "I have already read. That is why I was sent to visit Slow Hours. She is a very quiet person, and very comfortable to be around, as you are. You are inexact mirrors of each other, are you not? She reads and you write. She loves poetry most while you love prose. She is human and you are a skunk. She is a bit frumpy and tousled, and you are quite neat and put-together."
+
+I will admit, friends, that I looked down at my pajama pants and t-shirt and laughed. "I do not feel put together."
+
+"Perhaps one never does," she said, "and yet you exist so well contained. The whole of you exists within the person sitting before me. You are Rye, the author. You are Rye, the sincere. You are Rye who is kind. You are these things and you are none other."
+
+My readers will know well that I have too many words in my. Why, just look at all that I have written already! I have gone on at length about Laotian food and lovers and friends and family and mochas and melancholy. I have accused myself already a handful of times of intruding on my own story, of being helpless before the graphomania that guides my paw. So it is that you must believe me when I say that I was left speechless. All of this ceaseless torrent of words within me simply stopped.
+
+I do not know if you have ever been complimented in just the right way by just the right person, but if you have, you well know that it is startling in its intensity. Had someone else said these things about me, even my beloved up-trees, I might well have blushed and stammered a thank you and felt good for the rest of the day.
+
+The Woman, this skunk who sat before me with a glass of water held in her paws and her very chic outfit, the one who had smiled to me with such earnestness as to be a blessing, this woman who was too much herself, had just perceived me with such force as to leave me feeling bowled over. Even today, even these many years later, I remember that compliment and find breath catching in my throat, and we have already spoken on that, have we not?
+
+We sat in silence, then, while I processed this.