[Dryly, darkly. But there's something satisfying in being prickly, in resisting the praise and the optimism. This, this little cluster of sound, this is something she has been allowed to carry with her, something that has marked her. And she is angry about her past, she is not bubbly and blithe, she is not champagne, and she is not a wild little windstorm that will bluster and blow away, either, even if her instincts run to drama and breaking things. She did that - she did that a lot - and she is still angry. She can hold this anger, squeeze it tight until it turns hard and sleek and strong under the pressure, like metamorphic rock, like shale into slate.
It is also an experiment in levels of symbolism. She is perversely proud of the reversal.]
But I like sight.
[Contemplative again; she holds the anger, but holds it in abeyance. It will be there when she needs it, a buried coal.]
I remember, on the Queen Favor, the food was so lavishly ridiculous. A hundred spices, a lineage of hydroponic cultivars for every scrap of vegetation, a tittering half-macabre morality drama about the free-range antigravity fois gras, or whatever. I used to daydream about plain bread. Ben lets me knead the dough for rolls every day, now.
[There is reality here. Substance and sustenance, flour under her fingernails. Traces.]
The cycles feel similar to my life, sometimes, the lull and the chaos, but it's faster. Like a mouse's heartbeat instead of a person's.
[private]
[Dryly, darkly. But there's something satisfying in being prickly, in resisting the praise and the optimism. This, this little cluster of sound, this is something she has been allowed to carry with her, something that has marked her. And she is angry about her past, she is not bubbly and blithe, she is not champagne, and she is not a wild little windstorm that will bluster and blow away, either, even if her instincts run to drama and breaking things. She did that - she did that a lot - and she is still angry. She can hold this anger, squeeze it tight until it turns hard and sleek and strong under the pressure, like metamorphic rock, like shale into slate.
It is also an experiment in levels of symbolism. She is perversely proud of the reversal.]
But I like sight.
[Contemplative again; she holds the anger, but holds it in abeyance. It will be there when she needs it, a buried coal.]
I remember, on the Queen Favor, the food was so lavishly ridiculous. A hundred spices, a lineage of hydroponic cultivars for every scrap of vegetation, a tittering half-macabre morality drama about the free-range antigravity fois gras, or whatever. I used to daydream about plain bread. Ben lets me knead the dough for rolls every day, now.
[There is reality here. Substance and sustenance, flour under her fingernails. Traces.]
The cycles feel similar to my life, sometimes, the lull and the chaos, but it's faster. Like a mouse's heartbeat instead of a person's.