update from sparkleup
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<h1 id="motes-2362">Motes — 2362</h1>
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<p>Motes thought of play.</p>
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<p>She thought of all of the play that she had taken part in over the years, all of the games and make believe, all of the jungle-gyms and slides, all of the tag and red-light-green-light and duck-duck-goose, everything going back 276 years, as much as she could remember. She thought of all her toys, from the mound of stuffed animals occupying her bed beside her right now to the awful and cheap RC car she had received on her fifth birthday that worked for that day and that day alone, that never again turned on. She thought of all her friends, of Alexei on the playground the other day — three days ago? Four? — calling out to her as she fell under the spike of panic, of Sarah Couch who she had met in kindergarten, who she had told her parents she was dating in third grade, who had died some years after Michelle had uploaded.</p>
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<p>She thought of all of the play that she had taken part in over the years, all of the games and make believe, all of the jungle-gyms and slides, all of the tag and red-light-green-light and duck-duck-goose, everything going back 276 years, as much as she could remember. She thought of all her toys, from the mound of stuffed animals occupying her bed beside her right now to the awful and cheap RC car she had received on her fifth birthday that worked for that day and that day alone, that never again turned on. She thought of all her friends, of Alexei on the playground the other day — three days ago? Four? — calling out to her as she fell under the spike of panic, of Frida Couch who she had met in kindergarten, who she had told her parents she was dating in third grade, who had died some years after Michelle had uploaded.</p>
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<p>She thought of the way that play defined the Motes that she had become, the way it had shaped the way she interacted with the world, the way it shaped her very form. She thought of how Au Lieu Du Rêve had accepted readily just how well it fit her self-definition. She thought of the family that she had built up around her.</p>
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<p>She thought of play and, as she levered herself out of her bed, looked wearily around her room, the toys and art, the stuffed animals and silly prints on clothing, and then she forked into Big Motes.</p>
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<p>She forked into Big Motes and straightened her hair and blouse, set a well-remembered dandelion flower crown atop her head, and made her way out to the rest of the house.</p>
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<p>And so she pulled out a couple of eggs, a few links of chicken sausage, and a dish of frozen hash browns. On a whim, she also pulled out a few large tortillas and some green chili salsa that she — that much of the clade — remembered fondly from her time back phys-side, back when she lived in the central corridor. She may as well go all out, yes?</p>
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<p>The hash browns were the first to go in the pan, laid out in an even layer so that they could crisp up, while two more pans were dreamed up so that she could cook the sausage and eggs meanwhile.</p>
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<p>Definitely a morning for a mimosa.</p>
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<p>The eggs were fried over easy and the sausage cooked to just this side of burnt so that they offered a pleasant mix of textures, crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside with an indulgent oiliness throughout. These were layered on top of a pile of crispy hash browns — the kind that shatter beneath a fork when you try to stab them — before the eggs were laid on top and the yolks punctured so that they oozed out over the mess to add a sauce of their own.</p>
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<p>The eggs were fried over easy and the sausage cooked to just this side of burnt so that they offered a pleasant mix of textures, crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside with an indulgent oiliness throughout. These were layered on top of a pile of even crispier hash browns — the kind that shatter beneath a fork when you try to stab them — before the eggs were laid on top and the yolks punctured so that they oozed out over the mess to add a sauce of their own.</p>
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<p>Her plate laden with two burritos in one hand and mimosa in the other, she made her way to the couch rather than the dining table and settled down with a long, worn-out sigh.</p>
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<p>What was missing…ah! Coffee. </p>
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<p>While there was joy in making her own, she was already down, she was already comfortable, she was already finished with her time in the kitchen, and so she deemed it easier to just wave a steaming mug into being on the low table before her, already dosed with cream and sugar.</p>
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<p>“She about started crying,” Beholden continued, smirk on her muzzle.</p>
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<p>“”Beholden, you <em>know</em> that she will pull through,” I kept saying. “She <em>always</em> does.” You are stronger than your silly cocladist, Dot, are you not?”</p>
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<p>“She was so rude, cutting off a conversation with Sasha mid-sentence and rushing us back here, putting on her most nonchalant act.”</p>
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<p>Motes laughed as they both scoffed at each other, looping her arms through each of theirs and slouching down, settling into the comfort of touch and family. “You are both nerds,” she murmured. “Thank you for keeping an eye out for me.”</p>
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<p>Motes laughed as they both scoffed at each other, looping her arms through each of theirs and slouching down, settling into the comfort of touch and family. “You are both nerds,” she murmured. “Thank you for keeping an eye on me.”</p>
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<p>“Of course, my dear,” they said in unison. A Finger Pointing continued, “Motes, did you leave any champagne for the rest of us? I would not say no to a Bellini.”</p>
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<p>“Another mimosa for me, Beholden,” Motes added.</p>
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<p>Laughing, the skunk gave her one more of those nose-dot kisses before disentangling herself to see to drinks.</p>
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<p>“Yes, I imagine that is much of why you were left overflowing.” When Motes nodded, she continued, “I am sorry, my dear. Is that also why you are Big Motes now?”</p>
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<p>The answer was a long time coming, the silence filled with the gentle tink of glasses as Beholden mixed their late lunch cocktails, carrying them carefully back to the couch and handing them out so that she could rejoin.</p>
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<p>“Yeah,” Motes said at last. “At least, I think so. It was something that I did almost on a whim. I knew I wanted to be Big Motes, or at least that I was not ready to be Little Motes yet. Been thinking about that all morning.”</p>
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<p>Beholden finished tasting her drink, nodded appreciatively, then asked, “Have you come to any conclusions?”</p>
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<p>Beholden tasted her drink, nodded appreciatively, then asked, “Have you come to any conclusions?”</p>
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<p>“I think so,” she said, looking down at her mimosa. Beholden had topped it with a maraschino cherry poked through with a cocktail umbrella. There was a warmth of adoration starting to fill hat hollow space in her chest. “I am not going to stop playing, not going to stop being her, but…but that really fucking hurt, and I need to know what to do with that pain before I reengage with that, you know?”</p>
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<p>Letting her free arm dangle over the arm of the couch, glass held by the rim, A Finger Pointing tucked her own cocktail umbrella into Motes’s hair, adding a wheel of bright pink to the yellow of the dandelions before draping her arm around her cocladist’s shoulder. “That does make sense, yes. That was one of my worries, even: that this would leave you too wounded to reengage with that part of you that has been so important over the years.”</p>
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<p>Motes shook her head gently so as not to dislodge crown or umbrella.</p>
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<p>“Good. You are allowed to be Big Motes for a bit while you process this. You are allowed to hold back on all sorts of interactions. I have noticed a lack of ‘ma’ or ‘Bee’– no, no. No need to explain, just an observation. These are things that we will miss and then rejoice when they return.”</p>
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<p>She slouched against A Finger Pointing and hugged around her chest, careful not to spill her drink. “Thank you, my dear. I really do appreciate it. I will get there, too, for all of that. Just…not yet. Not quite yet.”</p>
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<p>Beholden smiled, reaching out to brush some of her curls away from her face, added, “Yeah. And if you need us to lay off calling you ‘Dot’, I am sure–”</p>
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<p>She slouched against A Finger Pointing and hugged around her middle, careful not to spill her drink. “Thank you, my dear. I really do appreciate it. I will get there, too, for all of that. Just…not yet. Not quite yet.”</p>
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<p>Beholden smiled, reached out to brush some of her curls away from her face, added, “Yeah. And if you need us to lay off calling you ‘Dot’, I am sure–”</p>
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<p>“Absolutely not,” Motes said, laughing. “I would not have you change your ways just because I am feeling icky for a bit.”</p>
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<p>“It is an offer, Motes,” the skunk chided gently. “Not some weird obligation for us.”</p>
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<p>Her shoulders slumped and she nodded. “Alright. I think my answer still stands, though. I like it when you call me that, even when I am Big Motes. I do not imagine…well, no. I am <em>sure</em> this will not last longer than two weeks. That is the deadline I have given myself to process this.”</p>
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<p>“No, she is right, my muse,” A Finger Pointing said. “Fucking bitch.”</p>
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<p>“Well, okay, no disputes there,” Beholden said, waving away the three glasses. “What is on your plate next, Motes?”</p>
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<p>She shrugged. “Well, I pinged Miss Genet, so we are going to meet later.”</p>
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<p>“Therapy!” A Finger Pointing exclaimed, sitting up straighter. “What a lovely idea.”</p>
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<p>“Therapy!” A Finger Pointing exclaimed, waving a hand at nothing in particular. “What a lovely idea.”</p>
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<p>“After all that?” Beholden said, smirking. “I am surprised that you have not already scheduled something.”</p>
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<p>“I am so dreadfully busy, Beholden. You know that.”</p>
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<p>“You spent yesterday afternoon lounging in the auditorium trying every kind of kettle corn you could find on the exchange.”</p>
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<p>She sat up straight, staring at her partner like she was some alien creature, something too dense to understand the importance of kettle corn. “Yes. Busy.”</p>
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<p>As A Finger Pointing and Beholden finally got around to whipping up lunch for themselves, the conversation once more fell into comfortable chatter, the sort of banter that so often filed the house, and while, by the time her appointment arrived, Motes had not yet felt comfortable enough to refer to them as ‘ma’ and ‘Bee’, that welcoming sense of family had returned in force, and she felt once more in her comforting role as their Dot, their <em>dóttir</em>.</p>
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<p>As the afternoon started to threaten to slide right into evening, Motes took her leave and left A Finger Pointing and Beholden on the couch, canoodling. Clearly that had taken precedent over whatever they had had planned at the auditorium for the rest of the day. That they had come home for her, for Motes, was the base of that warmth that had begun to grow within her.</p>
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<p>She made her way out of the house and wandered to the center of the neighborhood. She left the automatic chalk lines going, letting them be the fuel that propelled her forward, left their flowering shapes fit into this perception of herself as a flower child rather than simply a child, a gentle reframing that allowed her to have this thing, this gentle goodness.</p>
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<p>The neighborhood formed a lazy semicircle, a ‘U’ that butted up against an avenue that petered out into the nature of the sim in either direction. Across the street — in accessible to anyone who was unwelcome — sat the back entrance of the theatre Au Lieu Du Rêve most commonly performed at. Just homes and beloved workplace dropped into an endless landscape like sugar into so much tea.</p>
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<p>In the bowl of the ‘U’ sat all of the common areas. A pool — one with seats and jets, one that could be a hot tub seeing a hundred as easily as an Olympic pool — a few tennis courts for the few — who? — who actually enjoyed the game, a liberal dotting of grills — everyone had a favorite — for cook outs, a “community center” which had long ago turned into a movie-theater-<em>cum</em>-cuddlepit…</p>
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<p>And there, right at the very lowest point of the bowl of the ‘U’ sat a playground. What was initially intended to be Motes’s haunt, hers and her friends, had long ago turned into a place for late-night musings. Thousands and thousands of times over the years, couples or small groups or lone individuals would converge on the swings or the slide and sit in the dark, staring up on the star-speckled sky, the Milky Way glowing bright enough to light one’s face beyond even the gold-and-black of the rest of the neighborhood with its sodium vapor lamps and countless darknesses. It was a place for play, yes, and it was often used for such, but it was also a place for couples to work out their problems or groups to chat about everything and nothing or for one to sit alone, drunk, beneath the stars, looking up and feeling good or bad or simply introspective.</p>
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<p>As the afternoon threatened to slide right into evening, Motes took her leave and left A Finger Pointing and Beholden on the couch, canoodling. Clearly that had taken precedence over whatever they had had planned at the auditorium for the rest of the day. That they had come home for her, for Motes, was the base of that warmth that had grown within her.</p>
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<p>She made her way out of the house and wandered to the center of the neighborhood. She left the automatic chalk lines going, letting them be the fuel that propelled her forward, let their flowering shapes fit into this perception of herself as a flower child rather than simply a child, a careful reframing that allowed her to have this thing, this gentle goodness.</p>
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<p>The neighborhood formed a lazy semicircle, a ‘U’ that butted up against an avenue that petered out into the nature of the sim in either direction. Across the street — inaccessible to anyone who was unwelcome — sat the back entrance of the theatre Au Lieu Du Rêve most commonly performed at. Just homes and a beloved workplace dropped together into an endless landscape like sugar into so much tea.</p>
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<p>In the bowl of the ‘U’ sat all of the common areas. A pool — one with seats and jets, one that could be a hot tub seating a hundred as easily as it could be an Olympic pool — a few tennis courts for the few — who? — who actually enjoyed the game, a liberal dotting of grills — everyone had a favorite — for cook outs, a “community center” which had long ago turned into a movie-theater-<em>cum</em>-cuddlepit…</p>
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<p>And there, right at the very lowest point of the bowl of the ‘U’ sat a playground. What was initially intended to be Motes’s haunt, hers and her friends, had long ago turned into a place for late-night musings. Thousands and thousands of times over the years, couples or small groups or lone individuals would converge on the swings or the slide and sit in the dark, staring up on the star-speckled sky, the Milky Way glowing bright enough to light one’s face beyond even the Moon, even the gold-and-black of the rest of the neighborhood with its sodium vapor lamps and countless darknesses. It was a place for play, yes, and it was often used for such, but it was also a place for couples to work out their problems or groups to chat about everything and nothing or for one to sit alone, drunk, beneath the stars, looking up and feeling good or bad or simply introspective.</p>
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<p>It was not dark now.</p>
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<p>There, on the swings, sat a child, a girl, looking to be perhaps twelve or thirteen with brown hair cut into an unruly bob, pale skin shining in the sun, swaying lazily back and forth as she faced away from Motes. She looked mostly down, skidding the heels of her shoes through the gravel beneath the swings, scooping the pebbles out of the way and then smoothing them back into place with her toes.</p>
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<p>Motes moved quietly through the grass — quietly enough that the girl did not notice her — and sat down on the free swing within that segment.</p>
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<p>“And that’s why you’re Big Motes? Why you didn’t say ‘ma’?”</p>
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<p>She smirked. “You read me like the Sunday comics,” she said, laughing. “Yes.”</p>
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<p>Sarah smiled in turn, far more gently. “Tell me about this letter, then. Tell me what’d be enough for you to get knocked out of commission.”</p>
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<p>And so she did. She summarized portions of it, then pulled it up to read the most impactful bits. She talked about the feelings of the week and change leading up to this, the conversations and the dream. She talked about how she had stopped playing, how it hurt to think of reengaging, how she knew she would but there was work to be done first.</p>
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<p>And so she did. She summarized portions of it, then pulled it up to read the most impactful bits. She talked about the feelings of the month leading up to this, the conversations and the dream. She talked about how she had stopped playing, how it hurt to think of reengaging, how she knew she would but there was work to be done first.</p>
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<p>And then, on Sarah’s gentle urging, she worked her way backwards. She worked her way back through the months and years before, the feelings that lingered, the various comings-to-terms that she had had over the years. She talked through and made her own connections, letting Sarah suggest when her voice stumbled to a halt.</p>
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<p>“Motes,” Sarah said gently. “Tell me why Hammered Silver’s opinion matters to you.”</p>
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<p>Motes snorted. “It should not.”</p>
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<p>“That is, like…my whole bit, is it not? I am play-acting the kid. I am method-acting, and Pointillist and Beholden and Slow Hours and everyone is in on it.”</p>
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<p>“Even Hammered Silver? Even those who <em>aren’t</em> in on it?”</p>
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<p>Motes frowned.</p>
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<p>“It’s okay if you act as though they are,” Sarah said. “Or if they become a part of your internal conception of the play. They don’t need to be actively in on it.”</p>
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<p>“It’s okay if you act as though they are,” Sarah said. “Or if they become a part of your internal conception of the play. They don’t need to be actively in on it if it’s an internal representation of your world.”</p>
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<p>“Right,” she mumbled, looking out into the neighborhood and swaying gently from side to side in her swing. “I guess it makes more sense when you talk about family members cutting each other off. If that is a thing that families do with any frequency, then there is no reason for me to not incorporate that.”</p>
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<p>“‘No reason’?” Sarah asked, picking up on the rhythm of Motes’s swaying.</p>
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<p>“Well, obviously I hate it!” she said, laughing. “But if I am going to get shit on like this, then I guess all I can do–”</p>
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<p>Perhaps she ought to hug Dry Grass extra-tight next time she saw her.</p>
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</article>
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<footer>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-01-17</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2024-01-18</p>
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