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Madison Scott-Clary 2024-01-15 21:35:12 -08:00
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writing/post-self/motes/007.html
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<p>It became something of a joke — granted, mostly to herself, for she rarely shared any of these messages with others. Even True Name thought less of optics than Hammered Silver. Even the politician! These notes began to feel like letters to the editor for some small-town newspaper: semi-public complaints about propriety that left a sour whiff of entitlement in the air behind them.</p>
<p>And yet their apparent friendship continued. Somehow, against all odds, they continued to meet weekly for years, for decades. They would find some dainty cafe in an equally dainty neighborhood in the middle of some enormous city serving wine and sandwiches on baguettes. They would find some twee farm stand in the middle of millions of acres of carefully curated land serving the best fucking salad either of them had ever tasted. They would stand in the middle of nowhere, some flat plane of an unfinished sim with a single, incredibly detailed tree right in the &lsquo;middle&rsquo; of all that nothing, with lunches they packed for the occasion.</p>
<p>They would meet up and they would talk, and A Finger Pointing would swallow enough of her frustration with the letters to maintain this friendship without compromising her morals.</p>
<p>((the past: Motes))</p>
<p>But at some point, even the closest of friendships find a point of irreconcilable difference. There is a point at which there is now way to agree upon a topic, and one must choose: do we agree to disagree? Do we argue forever and hate it? Do we argue forever and turn it into a cherished pastime? Do we simply part ways? Even the closest of friendships must make this decision.</p>
<p>Theirs was not the closest of friendships.</p>
<p>One day, sometime late in the 2100s or early 2200s, sometime systime 100, there was a point where the tenor of these meetings once more changed. Once more, there was a distance, a stiffness, and when pressed, once more nothing came from it.</p>
<p>No letter came.</p>
<p>The next meeting was much the same.</p>
<p>No letter came.</p>
<p>The next meeting was canceled: &ldquo;I am not feeling well.&rdquo; Fair enough, there were days when she did not feel well, were there not? Sickness, a thing of the past, nonetheless still appeared psychosomatically, or perhaps Hammered silver was going through one of the spells each of the Odists had been left with, those little bits of overflowing when being oneself became too much and overrode whatever it meant to exist and the world was too noisy to see and too bright to hear. Perhaps Hammered Silver was overflowing.</p>
<p>The next meeting was canceled: &ldquo;I am still unwell.&rdquo; Well, okay. At times The Only Constant would be taken out for weeks at a time, desperately clinging to life despite death a thing of the past. A Finger Pointing sent a get-well-soon note and a dichroic rose to her home sim.</p>
<p>The next meeting was canceled, and this time, the note was: &ldquo;I have a prior engagement.&rdquo; This was bullshit, patented and trademarked, registered as a copyright and service mark. A prior engagement, indeed! Did she think that A Finger Pointing was a brand new upload? Did she think that her cocladist was really so stupid? The Odists! The Odists not forking! Were Hammered Silver a member of the tenth stanza — were Hammered Silver actually Death Itself, that most lovely of people — perhaps she could understand, but she was not. She was not! Hammered Silver had laughed countless times before over the sudden disappearance of the need to worry about &lsquo;prior engagements&rsquo;.</p>
<p>A Finger Pointing knew this was bullshit, and she also knew that Hammered Silver knew this, knew that she knew it was bullshit.</p>
<p><em>&ldquo;Hammered Silver, my dear, I would rest much easier if I knew what was happening,&rdquo;</em> she sent over a sensorium message.</p>
<p>The reply: <em>&ldquo;Oh, you know how it goes. One simply overbooks oneself. Let us meet next week at the usual time, yes?&rdquo;</em></p>
<p>And so she agreed, and so at last they met, and once more there was a stiffness and closed off nature about Hammered Silver
((the past: Motes))</p>
<hr />
<p>((bitterness and compromises with Dry Grass))</p>
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