update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/motes/001.md

@@ -4,13 +4,13 @@ Motes played.
 
 She played in paint and color. She painted the backdrops for the productions. She painted the props that sat on the stage or rested in the actors' hands. She painted the stage itself, the matte black of so many past productions long abandoned. She painted her nails, her claws, herself. She got it on her fur. She got it on her clothes. She got polka-dots on her nose and stripes over her ears. She painted her dreams, those serene and idyllic landscapes interrupted by hyperblack squares, unnerving holes in the world that depicted a nothing-ness, a missing-ness, a not-there-ness that slid easily between the border of absurd and unnerving. She painted the holes in the world that she dreamed about, afraid to touch and yet which would not stop touching her mind in turn.
 
-She played in her free time, such as it was --- after all, her work, such as it was, was a joy beyond joys, but everything is a sometimes food. She played hide-and-seek in the auditorium. She played tag with the performers and techs. She played pretend. She played horses and kitties and mousies. She played with Warmth In Fire, endless forks dotting Serene's countless landscapes, leapfrogging over each other over fields and between trees, bouncing off the walls of canyons, colliding with force enough to knock them spinning and send them dizzy. She hunted down her friends and played hide-and-seek, yes, and tag and horses and kitties and mousies. She hunted down What Gifts and played puzzle games and rhythm games and stealth games and real life platformers and turn-based sims that locked her in place when it was not her turn.
+She played in her free time, such as it was — after all, her work, such as it was, was a joy beyond joys, but everything is a sometimes food. She played hide-and-seek in the auditorium. She played tag with the performers and techs. She played pretend. She played horses and kitties and mousies. She played with Warmth In Fire, endless forks dotting Serene's countless landscapes, leapfrogging over each other over fields and between trees, bouncing off the walls of canyons, colliding with force enough to knock them spinning and send them dizzy. She hunted down her friends and played hide-and-seek, yes, and tag and horses and kitties and mousies. She hunted down What Gifts and played puzzle games and rhythm games and stealth games and real life platformers and turn-based sims that locked her in place when it was not her turn.
 
-She played with her form. She played with her fur. She played with her mane. She played with her claws and with her tail. She played with her size. She played with her age. She played when she presented as twenty. She played when she presented as twelve. She played when she presented as five. She played always, even when she was as old as the rest of her clade --- what was it, now? 275? 276? She played with identity. She played with fire.
+She played with her form. She played with her fur. She played with her mane. She played with her claws and with her tail. She played with her size. She played with her age. She played when she presented as twenty. She played when she presented as twelve. She played when she presented as five. She played always, even when she was as old as the rest of her clade — what was it, now? 275? 276? She played with identity. She played with fire.
 
 She played with life, enjoying and enjoying and enjoying. 
 
-She played with death. She had died countless times --- to knives, to falls, to drowning, to games, to those who said they loved her, to those who said they hated her.
+She played with death. She had died countless times — 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.
 
@@ -20,7 +20,7 @@ Motes was a kid because she played. She was a kid because kids are resilient. Sh
 
 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 landscape in a new way.
 
-She hummed, her tail fwipped this way, flopped that, and she painted until the painting was finished --- there was no guarantee of when that would be: the painting would be finished when it was finished.
+She hummed, her tail fwipped this way, flopped that, and she painted until the painting was finished — there was no guarantee of when that would be: the painting would be finished when it was finished.
 
 Slipping off her stool, she stumbled clumsily to the side, laughing at the sudden rush of pins-and-needles to her backside and the base of her tail. She inserted a step in her list of things to do: before cleaning, she plopped down onto her belly and used the remainder of the ochre paint in the brush to doodle the face of a fennec fox on the hardboard floor of her studio. It was one of thousands by now, and they had long since started to overlap.
 
@@ -108,7 +108,7 @@ She shrugged. "Beckoning and Muse. Slow Hours, maybe? Dry Grass? I think Warmth
 
 "Not your boss," A Finger Pointing said lazily.
 
-"–to Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself of the Ode clade's sweetness."
+"–to Time Is A Finger Pointing At Itself of the Ode clade's sourness."
 
 This gained her a tug on the ear, which earned a laugh in turn.
 
@@ -140,7 +140,7 @@ She thought about the more than two centuries that had passed since A Finger Poi
 
 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 protectiveness 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, the realm of Time Rushes, 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 protectiveness 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, the realm of Time Rushes, 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.
 
@@ -196,7 +196,7 @@ She cued up more music, quieter this time, then padded to the kitchen and starte
 
 There was a moment's silence, a sense of laughter, and then, *"Motes Motes Motes! How are you, skunklet?"*
 
-*"Booored. Ma and Bee left to go to a pub or something with May and Ioan, and I felt like flopping instead,"* she sent as she dug through the fridge --- more a front-end to the exchange than anything. *"They suggested I see if you were free if I got lonely."*
+*"Booored. Ma and Bee left to go to a pub or something with May and Ioan, and I felt like flopping instead,"* she sent as she dug through the fridge — more a front-end to the exchange than anything. *"They suggested I see if you were free if I got lonely."*
 
 *"And here you are, pinging me, yes."*
 
@@ -212,7 +212,7 @@ Motes sighed dramatically. *"Fiiine, I will fork older."*
 
 *"I am told you are into a double digit number of times, Mote."*
 
-Motes snorted, pulled out frozen fries and nuggets from the exchange, as well as some macaroni and cheese --- the good kind, baked in a casserole with panko on top; she still had taste, after all. *"I am making fries and nuggets and maccy-chee,"* she sent. On a whim, she also pulled out lettuce, cherry tomatoes, and radishes. *"And a salad the size of my head."*
+Motes snorted, pulled out frozen fries and nuggets from the exchange, as well as some macaroni and cheese — the good kind, baked in a casserole with panko on top; she still had taste, after all. *"I am making fries and nuggets and maccy-chee,"* she sent. On a whim, she also pulled out lettuce, cherry tomatoes, and radishes. *"And a salad the size of my head."*
 
 Dry Grass laughed. *"You had me at maccy-chee. Shall I come over now?"*
 
@@ -230,7 +230,7 @@ Dry Grass followed after more sedately. "Of course. Would not want you losing a
 
 By their powers combined, the two Odists managed to pull together a meal, exactly as Motes had described it. The salad turned out to be the breakaway winner of the bunch. Fries and nuggets are known quantities, but where the macaroni and cheese bake was good, something about the refreshing salad, the tang of the dressing, the satisfying pop of the tomatoes (many of which they wound up leaving whole) managed to hit the spot in a way none of the other dishes did.
 
-Once the dishes had been waved a way and drinks had been made --- sweeter cocktails that once more got her a good-natured ribbing --- Motes summoned up some simple tatami mats for them to lay on on the floor, side cozied up against side, while Motes painted her claws and Dry Grass's nails with a fine-tipped brush, little spirals and curlicues in pink and yellow.
+Once the dishes had been waved a way and drinks had been made — sweeter cocktails that once more got her a good-natured ribbing — Motes summoned up some simple tatami mats for them to lay on on the floor, side cozied up against side, while Motes painted her claws and Dry Grass's nails with a fine-tipped brush, little spirals and curlicues in pink and yellow.
 
 "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."