21. 2026-08-21 / index

Circumstance took me today to watch a childbirth of thirty three years ago, it framed quite gracefully in collage with dozens other clips from the very same day, probably. A prick of a sensation, that this and its story is propaganda, not of a nation but a national spirit, a story a people needs in order to remain that same people... I took this story with little disdain for its obvious role in "our" culture. That was unfamiliar to me. Less cynicism than I'm used to, in myself as I frame whole country states. It's not all bad, no matter the part this arranged footage plays in the bad.

But I write to the thread mainly about that central plot, of the video's back-half. It is far from the first instigator for motherhood's latest hold on my mind, new grip on my soul. Blame Silksong, obviously. (I proffer the line runs earlier, although not much earlier.)

We had something like old footage ourselves, I think of our sister's birth. I am not sure if it was only photos or if there was some video, but there was a video, a "presentation" in one slightly older sense of the word. Both are almost all gone, but I think at least the moment of holding our sister up is at least still scored in memory. She is two years younger than us. Our father is in that photo too. Curiously, he doesn't ruin it.

This is an experience taken from us, from me, on levels threefold. First, I sharp suspect I am not arranged on the inside to carry a baby. I haven't gone to check, but the rest of my outset form suggests no. Second, for eight years I have undergone hormone treatment that precludes carrying out the other end of procreation. I hope to conclude it in cutting those parts outright. Third and most striking in quiet parallel with Hornet's load, I do not know if I will ever have sex. What experiences I've had, at the moment, drive almost all parts of me away. What experiences I haven't... I cannot yet say.

And so, other outlets. Of course life is easier, more accessible, in imagination. So I draw, a sort of play, I suppose in two senses, there. Toy and scenario. Those go together, so little surprise it's one word. I set her part comfortable with a beastling, that one's mother gazing by them both. The drawing was little conscious effort.

Lurien's duty is only as watcher, looker over the city. All notion in more detail is speculation. I have a fondness for that speculation, but little envy, here. His mystery is part his own making, mostly Team Cherry's. Time favors recollection, but only for a while.

I am gifted spring water. It is local; my one friend's not my other's, but the other tells me there is water everywhere, here. She spends enough time outside, so I'm sure she's right. As right as my recall, at least. In a fridge and in a plastic jug, nearing a week old. I had some more today. I hope it doesn't go bad.

On each of those levels, I want if not to mourn, then to grieve. I am bothered what this world deigned in store for me. Evidently I'm not the one in charge, and I rarely wish it so... but some of this I think, is cruel. Perhaps also that I am granted one choice with a funny notion of "coverage", to set my shape some different. That curse not to travel is incompatible with my trial, dead-set to change. If I'm dead-set, I suppose I'll pray a miracle. And do my part. What I must see through, I won't all alone.

This continuous grief / Discontinuous belief, is something of a salve, a balm. I do not believe wounds recover, but they do heal. I am a flavor of impatient, brash for sure, qualities I don't like but can't quite move to flee. Parts to tend. Regular, I think, for me.

Regular, I think, for who I want to be.