update from sparkleup
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Madison Scott-Clary
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@ -477,7 +477,7 @@ dd p:first-of-type {
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>The fennec continues its dainty walk. </dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>I say `tenacious fuck’ lovingly, of course. I like you. You have pluck. Gumption. Another you forked in another place, another time. We fought. We kind of fell for each other. It was fun.</dd>
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<dd>I say ‘tenacious fuck’ lovingly, of course. I like you. You have pluck. Gumption. Another you forked in another place, another time. We fought. We kind of fell for each other. It was fun.</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>Another…?</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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@ -632,6 +632,203 @@ dd p:first-of-type {
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</dd>
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</dl>
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<p>A door opening.</p>
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<dl>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>
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<p>The room you find yourself in could not be more different. It’s a room where one might feel quite bad shouting and hollering, and most of the audience gets that at once, quieting down.</p>
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<p>It helps, of course, that the combative instances of Dear remain behind in the previous room, only herding the remaining audience members toward the door. It’s a curious dichotomy of violence in one room and in the other, well…</p>
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</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
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<dd>Opulence isn’t quite the right word. Softness, perhaps? Gentle, relaxed, soothing.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>
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<p>The room has muted lights — brighter than the previous room but still decidedly dim — and soft, amorphous furniture, none meant to be occupied individually. The light is cool, the color scheme a soothing set of blues without being annoying about it.</p>
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<p>Dear — Dear-prime, perhaps, as it doesn’t have any of the frothy bloodlust look about it — smiles disarmingly and urges the audience into the room.</p>
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<p>Another difference: there’s plenty of space to spread out here, rather than the previous overcrowded rooms.</p>
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</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>(politely) Pease, please, take a seat. Please sit. The stressful portion of the exhibition is over, and now it is time that we had a talk.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>
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<p>There’s some grumbling, stress indeed. Some still look warily at the artist. But folks do as they’re told, splitting off into their little subgroups. Couples and threesomes wind up on couches and love-seats (if the blobby furniture could be called such) while larger groups wind up on melty-looking beanbags. You and your group, all single, find a cluster of such furniture and scatter to the component pieces. You wind up with a love-seat to yourself and make yourself comfortable.</p>
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<p>Dear follows along with the groups. All of them. Forking and splitting off towards the clusters of furniture so that each group winds up with its own instance of the fox. You notice that each instance is fluffier, softer, a touch heavier than the original. As a scheme to make the artist seem friendlier, it works pretty well. The new instances nearly exude kindness.</p>
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<p>You marvel, for a moment, at how easily folks seem to take being shifted from the context of violence to the context of comfort. That there are a majority of Dispersionistas certainly explains part of it. The rest, you suspect, might be due to the fact that, despite those context shifts, this all took place within the overarching setting of an art exhibit.</p>
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</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
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<dd>(wryly) Those are meant to be safe.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>
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<p>Dear had said that instances were art, and perhaps that really is the case: perhaps it’s like those plays where the audience plays a role. Perhaps you and your friends, all of the audience, are the art. Perhaps Dear only hung the frames.</p>
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<p>As if summoned by thought alone, an instance of Dear pads up to your group and, by your leave, settles down on the cushions beside you. If it amped up the friendliness of its build, it doubled that with its face. Teeth muted, whiskers full and slicked back, eyes bigger and friendlier, ears gone from large to almost comical.</p>
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</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>(softly, smiling, unapologetic) Once again, I must apologize for that stress.</dd>
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</dl>
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<p>Silence.</p>
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<dl>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>You decide to speak up.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
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<dd>Because of course you do</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>What was the reasoning for that? Were we playing a part, like in a play?</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>You could say that, I suppose. I prefer the term exhibit, though, as it implies that someone is watching, that you are being looked at.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>It makes a graceful setting-aside gesture before you can question it on that.</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>Stress is a means of forcing individuals to make decisions. If there had not been real stress, real risk, then there would not have been real art to be made. Your calling it a play is accurate in that sense, in that plays are art made in real time. This is also that. Structured experience happening in real time.</dd>
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</dl>
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<p>It’s easy to feel intrigued: the art itself is intriguing.</p>
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<dl>
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<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
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<dd>Beyond that, though, <em>Dear</em> is intriguing. Dear, with its choice of form.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>(overlapping) Dear, with its mastery of this new art.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
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<dd>(overlapping) Dear, with its casual refusal to conform.</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>So what do \emph{you} get out of this, then? This art?</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>Dear grins and leans back into the couch, its tail flicking out of the way and arm draping along the back — an almost familiar gesture toward. One that you can’t help but notice. One that even your friends can’t help but notice.</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>That, my friend, is a very good question.</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>And do you have an answer?</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>Not a good one. (a pause, then wryly) Not yet, at least.</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>Well? What do you have so far?</dd>
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</dl>
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<p>Dear laughs. Your friends roll their eyes.</p>
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<dl>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>Part of it is integral to us. To all of the ‘me’s here, to all of the Ode clade, to so many Dispersionistas, and, to some extent, to all those except perhaps the most conservative of conservatives. (digging for words) It is evolving. Identity, I mean. It is moving beyond the romantic concept of self.</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>Is that why you’re not hu– (correcting yourself) Is that why you’ve taken the shape of a…a fennec, was it?</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>
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<p>Dear turns itself to sit cross-legged on the love-seat facing you. You find yourself doing so as well, almost subconsciously.</p>
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<p>Your friends stand up.</p>
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<p>Dear-Prime, at the center of the room, calls out in a soft voice.</p>
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</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>(from a distance) The next exhibits are just this way. If you will follow me…</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>Dear reaches out a paw and rests it atop one of your hands.</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>We can stay and chat a bit more. Do not worry. I am running this show, I make the rules.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>
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<p>Your friends are grumbling, already moving to follow Dear-prime to the next room.</p>
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<p>You shrug. Carefully, though, as you’re finding yourself loath to displace Dear’s paw from atop your hand.</p>
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</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>Sure, why not? Came for the exhibition, after all. Might as well get the most of it.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator</dt>
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<dd>
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<p>You repeat the shrug, this time to your group, make no sign of getting up.</p>
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<p>They hesitate for a moment, then, frowning, give a dismissive gesture and wander off to the next room.</p>
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</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>So. Fennecs.</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>Fennecs, though one must be careful to specify anthropomorphic. Real fennecs are quite small as you remember.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
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<dd>Do you? Do you remember? Perhaps some other you does.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>
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<p>Dear forks and a fennec — hardly a double-handful of fuzzy critter — appears between you, bridging your knees, back paws on Dear’s knee and front paws on yours. It’s tan, rather than iridescent white, and holds far less humanity about it.</p>
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<p>You raise a hand, but it quits before you can touch it.</p>
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</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>This is intentional. I am not a fennec. I rather like them, of course, but I am not one. I am an amalgam. I am something more. Or rather, we all are, and I am trying to embody it.</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>(thoughtfully) So you’re greater than the sum of the parts? Fennec and human?</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>It would be better to say that we are all more than human. We may be post-human, as the old saws would have it, but we are certainly now more than the sum of the parts of our identities. (grinning) Fennec mostly just because I like foxes, though. All the deep words in the world will not hide that fact.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>You laugh, giving its paw a pat with your free hand.</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>Well, hey, if it fits, might as well.</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>(laughing) Think it does?</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>Well, sure. Just got me wondering what you get out of it.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>You feel your hand drop as the fennec turns up the sensitivity of its instance and turns down the rather conservative settings of the collision detection algorithms. You hesitate for the moment, then do the same, feeling the concomitant sensations of temperature and touch jump in intensity.</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>Well, I get to be soft as hell. Seriously, pet me. I love being a fox sometimes if only for the physical contact.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>You laugh despite the heat rising to your cheeks. After a moment’s hesitation, you pet the back of Dear’s paw lightly with your hand.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
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<dd>It’s soft. Very soft.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>You keep up those touches. It’s hard to remember the last time you felt fur.</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>All of my intellectual bullshit aside, I think it is very important to remember the sensuality of senses. </dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>Its eyes half-close in apparent pleasure. </dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>When the system was built, there was a big debate as to whether advanced sensoria should be included at all, whether we should have sims and rooms and things to look at and touch. Too much work, they said. Nerds, the lot of them, living in a world of text. Some of the more romantic uploads argued loud enough that we overrode most of the objections. Pet my ears, those are softer.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>
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<p>It’s hard to imagine, a world without sensoria. Why? Too much work how? Too much strain on the system? What life would that be, though? Without touch? Without taste? Without drinks and couches and very soft foxes? Why bother?</p>
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<p>You move to comply, then pause, tilting your head. </p>
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</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>‘We’?</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>You finish the motion and brushing your fingertips over the back of one of the ears once. Then again and again. Dear wasn’t kidding about the softness. You suspect it was a selfish request on its part, as the fox ducks its chin to tilt its head toward your hands, leaning in closer.</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>(muffled) ‘We’, yes.’ The Ode clade is quite old.</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>(pause) You describe them as romantic, but talk of moving past romantic ideas of self.</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>(mumbling) Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes. Other ear, if you please.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>You laugh, earnestly and easily. You slip your other hand from under Dear’s paw, and bring it up to stroke the back of the other ear. The touch gets a pleasant shiver out of the fennec.</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>Fennec fits. Or, at least, soft animal does. You seem to act a little like how cats acted, though.</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>(lazily) Meow. Seriously. There is room for romanticism and romance itself within post-modernism.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>You move the hand that was stroking the first ear to ruffle the fur between the ears, laughing again.</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>Romance, eh? You coming on to me, then?</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>Well, more like…you are the first one to show interest in me, rather than the exhibition. (laughs) And I have run lots of exhibitions.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>Moving gracefully, it leans forward, up onto its knees, and then in against your front, pushing you back against the armrest of the loveseat. Its arms slip up around your shoulders. The move startles you into stillness, but after a moment, you settle your arms around the fox in turn.</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>But I am not <em>not</em> coming on to you.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
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<dd>You’re at a loss for words.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>(distantly) I’m flattered, but–</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
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<dd>(distantly) You’re sweet, you know–</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>You settle for silence and simply relaxing beneath Dear.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 2</dt>
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<dd>Warmth, softness.</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>Lonely?</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>Dear settles with its muzzle resting alongside your neck.</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>Mmhm.</dd>
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<dt>You</dt>
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<dd>(sigh) Same here.</dd>
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<dt>Narrator 1</dt>
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<dd>
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<p>The fennec nuzzles in against your neck. Whiskers tickle, raise goosebumps.</p>
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<p>A moment of shared silence and touch. Your hands brush along the fox’s back, imagining how soft the fur might be beneath the dressy shirt. Dear’s blunt muzzle continues those soft rubs against your neck.</p>
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<p>It leans up, nose dotting its way against skin, cheek, to your ear.</p>
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</dd>
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<dt>Dear</dt>
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<dd>(murmuring, playful, close) The only downside to being a fox is that it is really hard to kiss with a muzzle.</dd>
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</dl>
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</article>
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<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2021-11-17</p>
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