update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/idumea/007.html

@@ -149,7 +149,7 @@
 <p>The Woman realized then that, for her, the life of an animal, even one so invested in its state as The Rabbit-Chaser, was not what she sought, not quite. It did not go far enough. It was not <em>still</em> enough. The her who was a beast would still have too much of her. She needed a change more integral, more whole, more entire — not a reshaping of the body, but a reshaping of the existence.</p>
 <p>So, her search continued.</p>
 <p>She met then with The Child after this diversion — for such was her errand, yes? Her original reason for visiting the neighborhood, and she saw no reason not to continue along this path. She returned to the lobby of the theatre which served also as a community center for Au Lieu Du Rêve, the troupe in which the fifth stanza had embedded itself, long familiar despite her having never seen it, for, you see, Michelle who was Sasha was a theatrician before uploading, a teacher, a director, an actress. Theatre lobbies smell like theatre lobbies and theatre carpet underfoot feels like theatre carpet underfoot and the sound echoed precisely as she had always remembered it.</p>
-<p>Outside shone the sun. Outside grew the grass. Outside was the dusty gray of the asphalt street that wound around the center of this neighborhood — a street, for occasionally The Child and her friends wanted to rollerblade on a road, wanted to play kickball or catch, wanted to holler out &ldquo;car!&rdquo; as Beholden or someone with similar interests would drive through.</p>
+<p>Outside shone the sun. Outside grew the grass. Outside was the dusty gray of the asphalt street that wound around the center of this neighborhood — a street, for occasionally The Child and her friends wanted to rollerblade on a road, wanted to play kickball or catch, wanted to holler out &ldquo;car!&rdquo; as The Musician or someone with similar interests would drive through.</p>
 <p>Outside played The Child.</p>
 <p>Most people have a singular thing that defines them. You may say to me, &ldquo;But Rye! I have several things that define me! Why, I love to write and I love to paint and I love to cook delicious food,&rdquo; but I might say in return, &ldquo;My friend, you love to create! You are defined by your creativity.&rdquo;</p>
 <p>The Child defined herself by play. She did not merely paint, whether the pictures of which I have already written or the props and backgrounds that adorned the stage, but she played with paint. She was a being of play who, leaning into this identity, had formed as well the vessel with which she navigated the world into that of a child. She was a skunk of five years, or perhaps seven, perhaps ten, and this formation of herself was a means by which she lived wholeheartedly into her identity.</p>