From 2a3c7b698f3e510c953cd721251ac911cfb207ad Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Madison Scott-Clary Date: Tue, 28 May 2024 18:08:35 -0700 Subject: [PATCH] update from sparkleup --- writing/post-self/idumea/005.html | 8 +++++++- 1 file changed, 7 insertions(+), 1 deletion(-) diff --git a/writing/post-self/idumea/005.html b/writing/post-self/idumea/005.html index 1541bf9cb..d2266056d 100644 --- a/writing/post-self/idumea/005.html +++ b/writing/post-self/idumea/005.html @@ -46,7 +46,13 @@

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?

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We sat in silence, then, while I processed this. My friends, you may perhaps have picked up the sense that The Woman is in some fundamental way broken and perhaps unable to interact well with others. After all, she sits for so long in her room and in her home and on her field, and she sees Her Friend only with some frequency, and had only just recently gotten in touch with Her Lover, yes? But that is not wholly true. She is

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We sat in silence, then, while I processed this. My friends, you may perhaps have picked up the sense that The Woman is in some fundamental way broken and perhaps unable to interact well with others. After all, she sits for so long in her room and in her home and on her field, and she sees Her Friend only with some frequency, and had only just recently gotten in touch with Her Lover, yes? But that is not wholly true. She was too much herself, yes, and she would have said even then that she had lived for too long and that she was in some fundamental way broken, but she was also so much more! I have shown you all that she was through her own perception, but from the outside…ah, she was hard not to love, my friends.

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“Thank you, my dear,” I said at last, bowing.

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She smiled — another blessing! — and nodded to me.

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“Tell me about your reading, then.”

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“I visited Slow Hours in her library,” she began. “I know that it belongs to the whole of Au Lieu Du Rêve, but she has inhabited it quite thoroughly, has she not?”

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“She has, at that,” I said.

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“We sat in the solarium and spoke about what reading is. She spoke of taking a story or a poem and wrapping oneself up in it. She gave me an example. She recited a poem: