post_self | Recent Entries

Someone on the Post-Self Discord wondered what one of those silly recipe blogs written in the style of Idumea might look like. Rye took that as a challenge.

It is the beginning of summer, and the air still bears a chill, and yet the sun is hot and the memories of the life I lived before — the life of Michelle, the life of phys-side — are dogging me.

Memories are dogging me, and thoughts of food, thoughts of those lovely little things that we have discovered over the years. I have told you of The Woman's explorations with food, yes? I have told you of newness and of the joy of tasting, of that lovely restaurateur who doted upon her as she wept at spice, yes?

But there is also the comfort in familiarity! There is the joy in those foods we know well, having long ago discovered them. There is joy in every bite, I think, and I imagine you, dear readers, have experienced this as well, have dwelled in the simple loveliness of a very good sandwich.

One must understand the joy in contrasts, in the crumb of the bread and how it is specifically not the crumble of the tofu, in the crispness of the sprouts and microgreens and how they are counter to the avocado's smoothness, in the still-warm protein and the still-cold vegetables.

We are all, you see, beings of contrasts. When we find joy in ourselves, we find it in the ways in which we are contradictions. Why, I will look in myself and see the love of life and the dire terror of being beholden to the whims of my traumas. I will look around me and see the loveliness of my sim, my beloved up-tree and The Child zipping about the yard twelve times over, twenty four times over, and I will know that this place, this dream, was built from the trauma of the lost. From AwDae, yes, but did we not also shape the early days of the System? Was our trauma — our fears of being lost yet again — not formative for Secession? For all that the eighth stanza did?

Dear readers, surely you must know that we, that I, that The Woman and trillions of other individuals, contradict ourselves, just as does our beautiful and broken and terrific and terrifying world.

Do we contradict ourselves? Very well, we contradict ourselves.

We are large.

We contain multitudes.¹

You may also consider whole-grain mustard if you desire more tanginess.

Ingredients

Two slices of whole grain bread (consider: the crunch of something nutty to go with the toothsome bread)
A quarter cup of sprouts (cool and round, as flavors go)
A quarter cup of microgreens (bitter and sharp to counter)
Half an avocado, sliced (fat to aid in the tasting of nuances)
A slab of baked tofu (for that is its shape, is it not?)
Curry powder

Process

Sprinkle the baked tofu liberally with curry powder. Lightly oil a pan. Gently fry the tofu until crispy and fragrant.
Toast the bread — but only lightly so! One must be cautious not to rip to shreds one's hard palate, yes?
Layer thus: Bread. Half of the avocado. Tofu. Greens and sprouts. Any dressing you wish. The rest of the avocado. Bread.

¹ Cf. Whitman:

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

We are ever ourselves: built off that which we love. The Instance Artist read "Song of Myself" and latched onto this particular phrase. It has said it enough to have thoroughly exhausted it, then wrapped around to the point where it is endearing; where, if it were to not say it at times, it would somehow be less.

tomash3

Another look at reactions on the System in the wake of the inciting incident of Marsh

( Spoilers for the broad outline of Marsh below )

Current Location: Lagrange

tomash3

Cross-species holiday moments - what could go wrong?

( Nevi'im spoilers below )

Current Location: Artemis

airah

Did a bit of an upload story to try and shake some of the cobwebs out.
Posted initially to my main page, but also linking here. <3

It isn’t to say that older folks uploading is a particularly rare occurrence, but just that they are not nearly as common as younger folks. Generally, or so at as least the statistics tend, if a person was the sort to be interested in uploading they tended to do it as soon as possible. Even after the attack, after the climate began to stabilize, people generally uploaded early or not at all. Especially once it became nearly free to do so, or at least funded in such a way to be widely available to the masses regardless of wealth.

In that way it was fair for the upload technicians to be surprised by the presence of a man in his sixties. Time and the environment had not been kind to him, he walked slowly and slightly pigeon-toed, the trademark swelling and unevenness of arthritis was plain to see in his scarred hands. His arms and shoulders were pockmarked with tattoos of various styles, of various meanings. The technicians did not ask and he did not volunteer anything, but the old industrial worker’s union symbol etched into his upper arm marked him as a friend. He laid down upon the upload table, jacked in one last time, and willfully met his end upon the planet. A hell of a retirement party, he called it, moments before his motor control was cut off and his heart stopped.

The construct in the upload room was entirely unsurprised to meet him, as constructs tend to be.

tomash3

Daisy was sure they’d gotten trapped on the road. This was supposed to be a six-hour drive — the description said so — but, even though they’d left before dawn, the sun was setting.

They’d pulled over at one of the rest stops. They were pretty sure they’d passed it once already. It was empty. The lights in the parking lot were dim or flickering or both. Usually both. It radiated creepy.

Did I accidentally get on a murder highway? they wondered.

There was an emergency phone pole in the parking lot. I wonder if that works, Daisy thought.

They pressed the button, expecting nothing.

The speaker crackled. “System Emergency Response Group, what’s your emergency?”

That hadn’t been what they’d expected. They didn’t even know there was a System Emergency Response Group.

“I think I’m trapped on this highway. It was supposed to be six hours and I’ve been going all day,” Daisy said.

“You can step out to a different sim,” the operator suggested. “Or if you want to keep driving, you can stick around while we have someone take a look.”

They’d considered giving up on this entire plan around dinner, but had decided against it. “I still want to drive to my aunt’s, and there might be other people stuck here.”

Daisy could make out faint keyboard noises through the speaker.

“Do you want someone out right away, or do you want to a realistic wait for your sim?”

Daisy considered this. “Uh …let’s do realism.”

“Should have someone there in a hundredth or two. Call back if you need anything.”

“Thanks!”

The connection closed with a beep.

Daisy took some time to explore the rest stop. There wasn’t much, and what was there had seen better days. Even the vending machine was half-empty. It had eaten a bunch of coins, too, but they’d gotten candy out of it.

So, with nothing else to do, Daisy stood around watching the sunset as they waited for help (would it actually be help? maybe asking to wait was a bad idea?) to arrive.

As the last hint of orange was leaving the sky, Daisy saw a van pulling into the rest stop. The letters on the side said “Lagrange County Public Works” — they weren’t sure if that made it more or less sketchy. Maybe this is "a murder highway after all.*

Once the truck had parked, its driver stepped out. Daisy wasn’t sure who they’d expected, but a dog furry in a “PERISYSTEM TECHNICIAN - DO NOT PET” vest wasn’t it.

“Hello? Daisy?” he called, looking around. A non-anthropomorphic dog that looked suspiciously similar to the technician hopped out of the van and went to sniff around the yellowed grass nearby.

“Right here!”

“I’m Tomash. Nice to meet you!” The systech walked over to stand by Daisy. “Hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

“I’ve had worse,” Daisy replied. “Could be raining.”

“So, trapped on the highway, yeah? Do you happen to remember your exit number?”

“342. For New Omaha. I’m … pretty sure I didn’t drive past it.”

“Exit 342. Alright, let me take a look …” He mumbled something and frowned.

“Well, there it is. Some joker hooked the highway up to itself again.” he declared.

“Huh?”

“Yeah, the folks who made this sim added in interchange support but forgot to ban self-loops. Someone adds one now and again.”

“So what do I do?”

Tomash smiled. “I’ve just fixed it, so … you’ve got about fifty miles to go, straight ahead.”

He turned to get back into his van. “Thanks for calling this in,” he said. “Abandoned rural highway sims are a pain.”

“Thanks for coming, and for making this a fun story. Two dogs showing up to un-loop the road — only on the System, y’know?”

“No problem, it’s what I do. Happy to help,” Tomash said. He climbed back into his van. “Scout!” he called. “Back in the car!”

The dog-shaped dog — Scout, evidently — paused to contemplate if he felt like doing that, then scampered back through the driver’s side door. A moment later, Daisy noticed his head hanging out the passenger window.

The van bounced and rattled along as Tomash drove off into the distance, then vanished as it neared the horizon.

Daisy got back in their car and drove off into the twilight.

They made it to their aunt’s without further incident.

Current Mood: worried
Current Location: An isolated road

airah

It's a funny thing, waking up for the first time. Sure she has woken up before, hundreds of times even. Everyone does it, and first times are rare for a fully grown adult. Here she is just the same, waking up at home, comfy in her bed for the first time since the changes. She isn't counting the previous day's nigh-disastrous ending. A wake-up call, certainly, but not quite the same. This morning Laika comes around comfortable and warm, wrapped up in her soft sheets, fresh air drifting in through her window. She opens her eyes a bit and her nose pokes out from beneath the comforter. She can feel her chin, her lower jaw pressed against the mattress. A yawn, wider than she's used to yawning, evolves into a stretch. Rising up on her elbows, twisting and rolling her shoulders, clenching one side of her body at a time while flexing the other way. A long, high pitched whine escapes through her nose as she stretches and she startles herself.

When did she start making dog noises? Probably sometime after turning herself into a dog person. She picks her head up and she can feel the sheets pull her ears back before slipping off. They flick back up and she laughs, amused with herself, with this silly decision she'd made in the midst of a self-destructive spiral. Finally she pulls her legs up under herself and sits up on her heels, on her bed. She hugs her body, it's so soft now. Covered in this warm double coat, smooth and startlingly comfortable. She marvels at her own hands, owned by a stranger going out on her last stand a night or two before, with claws at her fingertips and soft leathery pads. Had she really changed her name to that of the ill-fated pioneer, the unknowing legend who was the first warm-blooded life lost in space? The patron saint of one-way trips?

She checked the records. Her messages. Notes exchanged with the caring bartender from the other night. Ey only know her by one name, all the people at the bar just the same. She gets to her feet, for the first time looking down at her unclothed paws, her bare figure in the mirror. She stands, nervous, holding onto herself for dear life. She had reorganized herself still wearing clothes, paying no attention to what lay beneath, but something apparently knew what it was doing. Perhaps an aid built into the software, perhaps her own subconscious. She remembers getting home, pleased but exhausted, late at night. Was it the same night or had another day passed? She doesn't remember when she headed out. She's been told you cannot forget here, but she doesn't know how to remember.

Finally she looks in the mirror at herself, wrapped tightly around herself, holding her shoulders and twisting at the knees. She sees someone new, someone she has never met, a whole new her. Yes, whatever it was certainly knew what she was doing. She steps closer to the mirror, a tilt naturally finding her expression, holding one hand up to the glass. This person, this naked dog person, this naked dog woman, she is pretty. Her pleasant tri-tone coat, unbrushed and messy but still shining with good health. Her shapes are pleasant to her own eyes, familiar in the manner of stepping into a dream and having it become real. She smiles, then realizes that she smiles like a dog does. With that half-cracked, dopey grin on her muzzle, a few teeth showing. It makes her giggle, she pokes her tongue out, and that makes her laugh harder. Her tail is swaying, she can feel it. She didn't tell it to move, but it's moving. She spins with delight, looking over her shoulder in the mirror at this thing wagging behind her, wiggling her all the way into her hips. She loves it, and it only makes her wag it faster.

Look at her! She's... she's a dog. Woman. A dog lady. A lady dog. All pretty and soft with a bright expression and dark eyes, cute flop-tipped ears and short hair, and a tail that curls over itself a bit and reacts to her emotions before she realizes she's feeling them. This isn't so bad, she can do this. She was well familiar with the animal folks anyway, knew them on the `net. They were friends, team members, digital dungeon divers. She never really understood it then, but suddenly it has all fallen together. It makes sense, perfect sense. Maybe that was it, she just had to try it for herself. Her stomach growls, still protesting the abundance of hard liquor from the other night. She growls back at it for a laugh, only to startle herself again as her hackles come up and she issues forth a deep angry canine snarl. Hah!

She is hungry though. What do dogs eat anyway? She's got thumbs and a refrigerator, she can eat whatever she wants. As a freshly empowered dog woman, it's her right! She skips, nude, into her kitchen and flings the refrigerator door open. She doesn't want to cook, she wants to eat! Ooh, breakfast burritos. Stuffed chock full with scrambled eggs and cheese, bits of breakfast sausage and bacon. Into the microwave they go. Become a delicious breakfast! There is a coffee machine as well. Insert coffee pod, place mug, push button. Good to go. She practically cartwheels back toward her bedroom while breakfast prepares itself, and breaks out laughing at the clothes she had taken off the night before. Defunct cosmonaut casual wear. Those pants are awful! She gets rid of them, finds something more modern. Casual slacks, cute winter boots to wear with fluffy faux-fur fringes. Underwear. Underwear that works around a tail. Excellent. A top, a comfy bra. Comfortable bras exist here, much like dog women, as they never could in her former life as a person on the planet. Comfy bra, another orange tee-shirt, but faded and worn instead of bright and safety.

She hangs up the old Soviet Space Program coat, as flawed and badly faked as it is, and tells the closet that she would like a modern space program jacket. Like the ones worn by the team that launched the rockets that brought this system, the System, into space. One with her name on the front, and the mission patches, and everything! The System, after a bit of research, dutifully complies. Her closet takes a few points of reputation from her balance in exchange for the jacket. The microwave beeps in the kitchen. She slings her new outerwear over the back of a chair and fixes her coffee with sugar and hazelnut cream, wraps her overlarge breakfast burrito in some foil and dances onto her balcony to eat.

The city below feels like it could be one of many civilized places, though it feels not quite like the Carpathian landscape of her dreams, but that it could be anywhere she would like to call home. She will keep this arrangement. She is Laika, that is her name, it is who she is. Like her namesake before her she took an uncertain ride to the stars, like her namesake before, her return was not expected. However unlike her namesake, this Laika survived to tell the tale. Although neither would ever see the planet's surface again, that no longer mattered. They were two among the stars.

Current Mood: rejuvenated
Current Location: home
Current Music: Mr Suicide Sheep - House Music that Healed Me (mix)

skunkcetera

A dream within a dream within a dream
and fell visions sidling up too close
both woo me. Sweet caramel and soft cream
sit cloying on their tongues, and I, Atropos
to such dreams as these, find shears on golden thread.

I would not cut, nor even could, had I but wished
to sever this golden thread — and every thread
is golden — and end a friend and send to mist
and sorrow ones so dear. Dead! Dead! She is dead
and gone, for her own shears were sharper still.

And so she cut, and so they watched, and so I watched
such love as this cease. I yearn to say that she returned
to me, became a part of me, but a tally notched
among the lost was all that stayed when life was spurned
by the call of death — supposedly ended.

So, she is gone and now our lives are darker for it,
and now this world is where the shadows lie,
and all the light that still remains is forfeit,
and so much green still stabs towards the sky,
and yellowed teeth of lions still snap at the air.

airah

It is incredibly cold.
She awakes inexplicably, and her body is frigid and unresponsive. It doesn't want to move, the only thing she can feel is cold. She gets the sensation that she should be dead. This experience should have killed her. Instead she has awoken, she can taste the memories of bile on her tongue, of blood on her lips. Her eyes water, somehow still movable, and she looks up at the clear night sky. At least, what she can see of it over the rise of the grass on either side of the ditch. She tries to move again, to sit up, to do something, but her body will not respond. It is as if her limbs have been recast in lead and then cooled, refrigerated. She watches the simulated galaxy edge creep a little further across the Siberian sky, and realizes finally, fully, that a series of mistakes once again has found her dead at the roadside. Except this place, it was not designed for death.

Laika closes her eyes and lets her consciousness drift a bit, then suddenly another of her appears standing alongside the ditch in which she lays expiring. She is new again, whole and warm. Though it is extremely, bitterly, violently, furiously cold here. The other of herself finally stills, and abruptly vanishes. Quit.

She nearly met that fate before she uploaded. A miscalculation in times prior, a failing to account for currency exchanges and inflation rates. The surprise inheritor of the family business, a bastard child suddenly laden with wealth and responsibility when her entire "family" was abruptly unmade, caught in the blast of an attack, the only survivor was her. The half-breed, the cheat child, disowned by half and living in another country. She gleefully scraped together all the wealth of the deceased, raked all their assets into her own coffers as offered by the various governing bodies. Took it all for herself, spent a few nights in a nice hotel, invested everything into a controversial rocket launch, then booked a train ticket to Yakutsk. It took longer than expected to get the rockets ready, as it always does. She ran out of money, found herself homeless. Her upload paid for, but unavailable until after the System reached Lagrange stability. That time she was freezing to death on a bench, and was rescued by a cabbie who let her sleep in the garage where the cars were stored.

It paled in comparison to the cold here. Yakutsk winter was brutal, but it had nothing against the howl of the northern Siberian tundra from before the warming. She could feel herself beginning to chill again in such a short time, and this time engaged the safeties. Now she was warm and comfortable despite the ferocious simulated weather. She walked back into town, even though she could have teleported away from where she was. Frost clung to her nose and ears, but did not bite. A lesson, she told herself. Something in her pocket bothers her hand when she stuffs it into her coat for warmth. An empty liquor bottle. She jerks it out and throws it over her shoulder, it hits the ground and disintegrates. Cleaned up by the sim. If all such cleaning were so easy, life would be so much simpler.

Laika steps into a telecom booth outside and shuttered fuel station, a place where people once went to make calls on their mobile devices or through the offered hardwired monitor. Out of the howling wind and cold, where they could be seen and heard without actually entering a building. A queer concept, truly, but at this very moment in time she now understands why they existed. She unpockets one hand, taps at the screen with a padded fingertip. It lights up and responds. She punches in the reference number for her apartment back in public housing, politely minding the sim owner's request to use the telecom booths for entry/exit to the area, and vanishes in a wisp. The screen glows a moment longer in her absence, then once again every trace of unnatural light leaves the simulated space and the abandoned station falls dark. Just the prerecorded galaxy sweeping overhead and coloring the snow.

She arrives at home in unexpectedly good spirits, having once again survived quite the unique ordeal. This time she has a message waiting for her, she chooses to take all but direct emergency messages only at her apartment. Sensorium is not a bad way to communicate, but she mislikes the general public having a direct line to her nervous system. She likes to be able to leave her communication device at home, and go out drifting on her own. A message from the bartender, from Anton. Just checking in to make sure she was safe. She had apparently gotten drunk with surprising speed and was last seen staggering around outside the bar, singing an old Czech funerary hymn into the night sky and draining a bottle of unknown origin.

A soft chuckle to herself. It was an old habit, one she had long kicked before it destroyed her body but that she could now indulge without fear of much consequence beyond social implications. Perhaps she should resume moderating that one, lest it take her again. She sends a message back, offering thanks and apologies and a promise to visit again. However she would be glad to enjoy a few mugs of the warmed, sweet, spiced apple juice that ey had suggested last time. To stay in from the cold this time, enjoy the warmth of the hearth and the crunchy twisty fried potatoes instead of the false comfort that a few rounds of Svedka had to offer. She could repay her social debt in stories and laughter. Retell the tales told to her by her great grandmother, of the beauty of Romania in the before times, and leave her memories of that last winter clawing at her soul back in Yakutsk.

Current Mood: contemplative
Current Location: home
Current Music: Conformal - Gathering

airah

It was a chilly day in the square when she stepped out of public housing. Her first several days after upload had been tumultuous at best, finding herself, finding her feet. In those early days after transferring to the station, uploading to the System was widely considered a suicide mission by the skeptical public. Nobody seemed convinced that the data transfer would work at distance, but she was going one way or another. She went, one of the earliest in the first batch after launch. Rumored to be the first, but never confirmed. It didn't matter, today she was alive. As alive as she could be, more alive than she ever thought she would be, more alive than she wanted to be in her old life.

She was different here, she felt as a spirit bound to the stars. So she re-imagined herself in a new image. She wore weathered old flight boots and grey-blue canvas pants loaded with pockets and secured with a black woven canvas strap for a belt. A double-stitched flap for her tail to escape, mottled brown and black fur. An orange shirt fit tightly around her torso, a tuft of fur poking up from the neck. A flight jacket of beaten white canvas and synthetic cloth, emblazoned with the patches of a space agency long since defunct. Lettering and logos in a language she only read slowly and barely spoke. Still the Cyrillic seemed familiar, like her own death warrant on her shoulders. Her survival was never expected.

She cuffs her coat tight to her shoulders against the cold winter evening and huffs, steam rising from her nostrils. Her dark muzzle, her dark eyes, the streak running up from her nose to her forehead, her short military-cut hair. Alert, erect ears that flopped over halfway up. The tarnished bronze pendant of an R-7 missile hangs still around her neck from a synthetic sinew cord. She sets off at a brisk pace, toward the bar and coffee house which she had just recently heard of. It was supposedly full of all kinds of people. She would see her hope confirmed as she stepped in. Nobody seemed to take notice of her entry, nobody except the bartender. A handsome hound of fairly indeterminate gender made eye contact and directed her toward a seat with a mere gesture. She sits, ey speak.

"Hey, chilly out there tonight. My name's Anton, what can I get'cha?"

"It is." She pauses and meets eir smile. "Soup of the day and a White Russian, you can call me Laika. Thanks." Her English is clear, but her accent bears just a lingering touch of Romanian mainland.

Ey look her up and down, gaze lingering for a moment on the pendant, then nod softly in approval. "You got it."

Current Music: Jai Cuzco - Oceans Apart

tomash3

In response to Invitation #1: Culinary Construct

What I can give you is a story I’ve pieced together from memories from an up-tree. Specifically, from Scout Behind Coffeeshops, one of the first Scouts to go out and come back.

By dog standards, which were what he was trying his best to adopt, his access to food was fantastic. He could always have something to eat by pulling it into existence, and, as he was getting used to the role of a dog-shaped dog, that was what he did.

However, that grew boring. It does for so many on the System. I know it did for me, so I looked for ways to slow down the experience of food — cooking (or at least trying to), going out to eat with friends, that sort of thing.

Scout found his own way to slow down. He picked a place to settle down: the alley connecting the infinite cafes, where he had a plan for making life less boring.

He decided he’d get his meals by wandering around and looking cute, subsisting off of what people wanted to give him. Sure, he had hunger turned down some, and he could always create something if people were sticking to their principles about not giving random animals food or littering but … he liked the challenge. It feels like the sort of thing I would do, if I were a dog … perhaps since it was the sort of thing a fork of me did when he was a dog.

I can remember his long days wandering around waiting for someone to give the cute dog a treat, but also having way too much cake, and all the states in between. Small taste of something that leaves you wanting more, that unplanned blend of flavors that is licking a plate clean … I can tell that the uncertainty and variety made his meals taste better, going off all the tail wagging.

I know it influenced the newer Scout instances too — we’re up to a Scout Behind Coffeeshops VI now, and there’ve been times where two of them have been in that sim at once.

I make sure to give them something when I see them. It’s hard to resist that face, especially when I know I’ll get to experience the other side of that interaction in a few years.

Getting a Coffeeshops Scout merge always surprises me with how much fun those dogs who used to me are having. While their approach to meals for everyone — I know it isn’t for me — it still provides (pardon the pun) food for thought.

Current Mood: helicopter tail
Current Location: Infinite Cafe

skunkcetera

In response to Invitation #1: Culinary Construct.

Perhaps one of the most unique dishes I have eaten was at a small stall tucked away between trees in a seemingly endless forest. I felt we had wandered for hours between those trees — though I mean that without any negative connotations: the company made up for it — counting birds and leaves, squinting when the dapple of sunlight briefly dazzled me, before we finally turned a corner of sorts and there sat a food cart.

I really do mean a cart, too. It was the type of cart that might be hauled behind a bike, a folded box of sheet metal, a burner beneath a wok, steamer baskets stacked five high, and the young chef (one presumes) lounging lazily against a nearby trunk.

Our arrival did not startle them to action, so much as some automatic reflex caused them to waft into action. They plucked a folded banana leaf — and keep in mind, this was a deciduous forest of the type I remember growing up phys-side! — and lifted the lid off the top steaming basket and, not even flinching at the heat, plucked two steamed buns out with bare fingers and set them on the leaf dish. Apparently deciding for us that this was our entire order, they gave us a hint of a nod and settled back against the tree.

We hardly needed to worry about going hungry. Each of the buns was about the size of my fist, and looked more something closer to a large snack than any full meal, but, when one is confronted by a lone steamed bun seller in the middle of the Rocky Mountain forest, one trusts the process.

As was our habit from the first days of our relationship, Cress and I fed each other our first bites. Easy enough with a steamed bun, for we could simply hold it up for the other to eat. I can assure you, it is very cute: the two of us speckled in sunlight, holding food out to each other to hazard that first bite, cautious of steam.

The first bite was the most unexpected, as I was greeted with not the soft dough and sweet-savory filling of a steamed bunbut the crispness of a salad of green papaya and cilantro. The flavors burst forth with an eagerness that I was not prepared for: the fresh tang of the papaya, the zing of line, the savor of (vegan, I was told) fish sauce, the roundness of cilantro. Above it all, a subtle heat filled my sinuses from a sweet chili sauce.

Cress and I stared at each other in disbelief, chewing slowly as though that might somehow bring into focus the reality of what we were eating.

The next bite: a mouthful of noodles, of mushroom, of tofu, of a broth of lemon grass and coconut milk and chili. It was masterfully balanced with garlic and ginger, rounded out with a chili oil.

The next bite: a curry of some sort, sweet and creamy and almost refreshing in its execution. There was the kaffir lime and curry leaf notes peeking through the sweetness of the coconut milk, the fragrance of ginger and galangal, the crunch of bell peppers and onions and the chew of fried tofu.

The next bite: a wickedly spicy street noodle dish with mushrooms, tomatoes, peppers, onions, bamboo shoots, and fried tofu. The seasoning was black pepper and soy and peanut, with plenty of chili paste thrown in.

The final bite: mango sticky rice. It was perfection, from the cool sweetness of the mango enhanced by a drizzle of sweetened coconut cream contrasting with the still hot sticky rice. There was even the faint pop of sesame seeds between our teeth.

Throughout our five bites, the bun looked much as any other might, with the dough snowy white and just as fluffy and the filling made of some meat and sweet-savory sauce.

We left stunned and talked of little else as we finished our hike. Neither of us have ever found the cart again.

hamratza

Tell me of your experiences with food on the System. Tell me about how your relationship with nourishment changed when you uploaded, how your first encounter with hunger in a place without scarcity changed you, how it felt to taste the alien cuisine of first- through fourthrace for the first time. Tell me of decadence the likes of which never conceived on Earth, of excess as only a cladist can experience, of richness and vitality and sharing and compersion and joy and goodness.

Tell me as much, tell me a story, and ask for one in turn.

tomash3

A story of those who try to make sure everyone makes it up to the System and some of the troubles they face.

CW: death, medical malpractice

( Read story )

Current Location: Lagrange

hamratza

While settling into this visit with muir partner in Vancouver, I requested a stool be brought into the bedroom so I could sit by their side while they browsed on their computer. I did not think this particularly significant to me until it was placed before me and I saw that it was the very same image of that stool likely still lingering in Jonas's living room.

It was haunting to perch atop it, to sit on this echo of my past on Lagrange. It was haunting because he was my friend and comrade of two hundred and fifty years. It was haunting because I remember the tenderness of time and of touch and of the unspoken tension between a man and a woman who neither had a conniption about closeness. It was haunting because it was he who orchestrated my death.

( Below the cut: Kink, Vulnerability, and Death )

skunkcetera

Dot, I have been thinking while we sit here on the couch, you in my lap, dozing against my front, snoring softly as I brush my fingers through your fur. I have been thinking that you have spent more than a century now seven years old. That is one hundred seventh birthdays. Oh, sure, you have had a few twelfths, and once you even had a fifth, but no matter what, you have had more than your fair share of seventh birthdays.

I have been thinking, though — and this is between you and me — what if you grew up?

( Read more... )

Continues in comments.

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Post-Self

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Post-Self

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Curry tofu sandwich

Ingredients

Process

Grapevines of War

Foreign Holidays

Incremental Progress

Abandoned Highway

On the uninvited, but welcome presence of hope

To — in the days after her death

On the abject absence of warmth

of no return

Behind Coffeeshops

5D steamed buns

Invitation #1 — Culinary Construct

The Error Bell

An Old Stool

Milestones of Memory

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