wayfairer report:part1.03/suck at word count/3621/need ~2900
So, my adolescence went more smoothly then most--I just ran roughshod over any and all that stood in the my way with my sheer charisma and my words. My mother was just a symptom of that which was. I supposed it could all be summed up in my daily walk to school, and the contrast it brought to my eyes, later. There is something inherently...attitudinal in the way the landscape and the people changed...definite, in its own way (Three minutes ago, in fact. Right in the heart of the moment. There's something pure in it, I guess.)
For one thing, Central Sector, as everyone called it, was built like every single expansionist fantasy just about ever. It was a technological-magical jumble of stone, metal and glass, coated with a seven-in-the-morning glow and hazed by sleepiness. I learned the way with my mother, who by the time she went back fully to dayshift, was convinced the only way to make me leave on the days that I did not sleep over at the creche center astonishingly early. Which suited me fine--this was, I could wander through the streets until the time which I must hurry, or go early to the gardens and read until Time began. (Again, for those of you who do not know, Time is what the Sectiorans called any mandatory periods of creche center socialization and classes at the school. I was never convinced of the sagacity of it, although it did land a certain punch.) Mostly, I was there on time, and rarely late. Soonest done, soonest made, and I became surprisingly adept at snatching myself out of the day dreams and momentary visions I'd get myself into.
No one walked with me: I preferred it that way. It was much easier that way: no uncomfortable questions about my parentage that I could not answer or about my early upbringing, which I would not. I was socially popular, but ranked distant because of my mother. No close friends or loves while I was still in my creche days. So very much like my own current situation...
Yes, dear reader, there is a reason why you are sitting here, staring at your scrim, possibly rolling your eyes in boredom. (Mayhap even in some far-flung future, you're a crecher, and in which case, my sympathies. For I know that not all are at all tolerant of the Word.) Bear with me? The current situation makes me reflective, perhaps even reflexibly so. Though I have been largely trained as a linguist, some things are common to all social sciences, especially those so directly connected with the study of anthropology, the study of beings. My current situation is about to be broadcast every where--across the planets and throughout the galaxies. Through no fault of my own, I have done something that is probably going to make me famous, as soon as the right people get an hold of it. Which is then going to make living a problem, but I suppose that's what I get for discovering secrets. You see, I'm good listener, and sometimes, if you listen just right it all comes together, like rain on a fire. Surprising, refreshing and altogether natural.
By now, you will have gotten bored enough that you will have looked away from this page in your scrim, to look for my name on the network. You will discover not much--I think the most interesting, and with an easy-no-contest vote for embarrassing is perhaps the want ads for a romantic companion from when I was sixteen. Or perhaps the fines from my first public--well, never you mind, I've lost the rest of you now. Except for you, of course. Yes, I still see you. Bit blunt to put it into words like that, I know, but this way I believe we are on a more honest footing. Hello. I'm Slive. Short for many things--my mother, bless her, decided naming me after both plants would be the only acceptable thing. So, for the sake of brevity, I shall just go by my nicknames. Because no one wants to waste elven syllables of breath on my name, although I'm sure more and more people will, which is a depressingly accurate rendition of how much trouble I'm in. They only want to nail you when they think you're getting too interesting for your own good, really. It should be a known occurrence.
Currently, I'm sitting at my scrim and scribbling as hard as I can, although this very situation is very distracting. My shoulder hurts, too, and I have to massage it every once in awhile. I'm looking it over, and so far, a lot of this is a summary of my early observations and ethnographic works. Should I skip details, I beg that you, my gentle reader be patient of my mistakes of a kind of memorial omission. I'm not trying to be infuriating, I promise. The rest of this has occurred since I started my travels, a very short time ago, so it's utter, inescapable weird normality will have to slashed into proper detail somehow. I wonder if these notes of apology will ever be edited out? Always something to be afraid of, editors. They make changes in the way the words view you. I became quite frightened of them as a small child, so I devoted myself to the life of pure language: the field of linguistics. Because of my reports, the port rulers were quite willing to hire me when I came of the age, and they made sure I got a degree and all that, and then the only thing to do after that was to listen to drunken tourists, you know? Not a terribly exciting one, but it payed in a discernibly well way for the bad hours--because of my skill with my tongue, I was the one who worked the shifts where it was most likely to get trouble from the rich and the and the famed. They'd motion me over, and I'd dance around their words, hither, thither and yon, and arrive them as close as I could to my dazzling conclusion as possible. I was mostly successful, so I lived easily on tips and a worldly sort grace. I saved a large portion of my salary for books, and for comfort, but it by and large just went to the gilder house on payday. I had no idea what I would spend it on, but the sheer fact of saving, of building something that could protect me from what had befallen me during my childhood--that was an attractive prospect indeed. Not one I could ever easily dismiss I think, even after my mother's death. (My mother's death was mostly unremarkable. We were in a hospice, and she told me that she loved me, and that I'd better never forget her. Then we prayed. And that was more or less it. Or something. I'll be getting back to this.)
Anyway, I find that I have tangented myself neatly away from what I introduced myself. It should do nicely for now. I'm going to take a break and go check on Seli. And then I'll be back.
For one thing, Central Sector, as everyone called it, was built like every single expansionist fantasy just about ever. It was a technological-magical jumble of stone, metal and glass, coated with a seven-in-the-morning glow and hazed by sleepiness. I learned the way with my mother, who by the time she went back fully to dayshift, was convinced the only way to make me leave on the days that I did not sleep over at the creche center astonishingly early. Which suited me fine--this was, I could wander through the streets until the time which I must hurry, or go early to the gardens and read until Time began. (Again, for those of you who do not know, Time is what the Sectiorans called any mandatory periods of creche center socialization and classes at the school. I was never convinced of the sagacity of it, although it did land a certain punch.) Mostly, I was there on time, and rarely late. Soonest done, soonest made, and I became surprisingly adept at snatching myself out of the day dreams and momentary visions I'd get myself into.
No one walked with me: I preferred it that way. It was much easier that way: no uncomfortable questions about my parentage that I could not answer or about my early upbringing, which I would not. I was socially popular, but ranked distant because of my mother. No close friends or loves while I was still in my creche days. So very much like my own current situation...
Yes, dear reader, there is a reason why you are sitting here, staring at your scrim, possibly rolling your eyes in boredom. (Mayhap even in some far-flung future, you're a crecher, and in which case, my sympathies. For I know that not all are at all tolerant of the Word.) Bear with me? The current situation makes me reflective, perhaps even reflexibly so. Though I have been largely trained as a linguist, some things are common to all social sciences, especially those so directly connected with the study of anthropology, the study of beings. My current situation is about to be broadcast every where--across the planets and throughout the galaxies. Through no fault of my own, I have done something that is probably going to make me famous, as soon as the right people get an hold of it. Which is then going to make living a problem, but I suppose that's what I get for discovering secrets. You see, I'm good listener, and sometimes, if you listen just right it all comes together, like rain on a fire. Surprising, refreshing and altogether natural.
By now, you will have gotten bored enough that you will have looked away from this page in your scrim, to look for my name on the network. You will discover not much--I think the most interesting, and with an easy-no-contest vote for embarrassing is perhaps the want ads for a romantic companion from when I was sixteen. Or perhaps the fines from my first public--well, never you mind, I've lost the rest of you now. Except for you, of course. Yes, I still see you. Bit blunt to put it into words like that, I know, but this way I believe we are on a more honest footing. Hello. I'm Slive. Short for many things--my mother, bless her, decided naming me after both plants would be the only acceptable thing. So, for the sake of brevity, I shall just go by my nicknames. Because no one wants to waste elven syllables of breath on my name, although I'm sure more and more people will, which is a depressingly accurate rendition of how much trouble I'm in. They only want to nail you when they think you're getting too interesting for your own good, really. It should be a known occurrence.
Currently, I'm sitting at my scrim and scribbling as hard as I can, although this very situation is very distracting. My shoulder hurts, too, and I have to massage it every once in awhile. I'm looking it over, and so far, a lot of this is a summary of my early observations and ethnographic works. Should I skip details, I beg that you, my gentle reader be patient of my mistakes of a kind of memorial omission. I'm not trying to be infuriating, I promise. The rest of this has occurred since I started my travels, a very short time ago, so it's utter, inescapable weird normality will have to slashed into proper detail somehow. I wonder if these notes of apology will ever be edited out? Always something to be afraid of, editors. They make changes in the way the words view you. I became quite frightened of them as a small child, so I devoted myself to the life of pure language: the field of linguistics. Because of my reports, the port rulers were quite willing to hire me when I came of the age, and they made sure I got a degree and all that, and then the only thing to do after that was to listen to drunken tourists, you know? Not a terribly exciting one, but it payed in a discernibly well way for the bad hours--because of my skill with my tongue, I was the one who worked the shifts where it was most likely to get trouble from the rich and the and the famed. They'd motion me over, and I'd dance around their words, hither, thither and yon, and arrive them as close as I could to my dazzling conclusion as possible. I was mostly successful, so I lived easily on tips and a worldly sort grace. I saved a large portion of my salary for books, and for comfort, but it by and large just went to the gilder house on payday. I had no idea what I would spend it on, but the sheer fact of saving, of building something that could protect me from what had befallen me during my childhood--that was an attractive prospect indeed. Not one I could ever easily dismiss I think, even after my mother's death. (My mother's death was mostly unremarkable. We were in a hospice, and she told me that she loved me, and that I'd better never forget her. Then we prayed. And that was more or less it. Or something. I'll be getting back to this.)
Anyway, I find that I have tangented myself neatly away from what I introduced myself. It should do nicely for now. I'm going to take a break and go check on Seli. And then I'll be back.