Saga "Something is shining like gold, but better" | Dear Diary Challenge 2016

Superb and realistic post here. She is honest about longing for home, the total squickiness about slavery, and also about critiquing her artistic output of the Bantha Kid and also of never sketching her self. The tone of this is sharp and incisive and you can really tell she is not "settling in".

 

WarmNyota_SweetAyesha: Superb and realistic post here. She is honest about longing for home, the total squickiness about slavery, and also about critiquing her artistic output of the Bantha Kid and also of never sketching her self. The tone of this is sharp and incisive and you can really tell she is not "settling in".

She has been trying to settle in, but that sort of thing is an ongoing process. And when she wrote that (and it was in no small part from seeing that slave girl in passing), all of her progress crashed into pieces. She could only see the bad things. And while all those things she writes about are true, there is always more to a place than just that. She just can't see it at the moment.

Thanks for reading!

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Findswoman: This in its way is definitely one of the most "fish out of water" chapters so far—and literally so at the beginning, when Miss Taafe finally experiences the infamous sonic shower. Well, of course that dynamic has been with this story since the very first post, but here it seems to be sinking in at a more psychological level. Sometimes it's after being in an unfamiliar place a while that the disconnect really sinks in in a big way—more so when one first arrives.

This isn't her first time with the sonic shower--in fact, by this point, it's a routine that she mostly tolerates. But you're right about it taking a while for the disconnect to sink in. As I was saying above in my previous reply, settling into a new place is an ongoing process. And unfortunately, it isn't a straightforward one going easily from point a to be to c to d.

And since Miss Taafe is an artist, we can see this happen on an extra level—an artistic level—when she realizes that her usual style won't work for drawing Jewel. It just goes to show how deep-seated these differences of culture and ethos really are, perhaps, and maybe that is what informs their subsequent discussion about self-portraits.

She takes her art very seriously, and while she considers finding the best way to draw the Kid a challenge, I think it is one that she enjoys. (And I might note that, shortly before she starts on her rant, she is going on about the different qualities of the light, so there are a few things she likes about Tatooine.) But--and she quotes one of her professors as saying earlier this in the story--she does have a tendency to be far too hard on herself.

I will admit that I find Miss Taafe's attitude here a little difficult to fathom—especially the way she first makes a big deal of her personal beauty, then negates it so strongly (is there a touch of a humble brag there?)—but I imagine it stems in large part from the "Naboo Puritan" ethic of self-deprecating behavior that she has exemplified on so many other occasions.

As she admits, Miss Taafe has benefited from her personal beauty--and it seems clear to me that beauty, personal and otherwise, would be held in high regard on Naboo--but she didn't do anything to deserve it. It is also not the Naboo way to openly brag on oneself, and yes, it would be even more so in her mother's family's faith: they don't tell you to hide your light under a bushel basket, because you're not to acknowledge you even have a light to hide. But there's more to it still than that, and perhaps her attitude will become more understandable as the story continues.

Another factor of course is the slavery, which Miss Taafe is realizing is more widespread and insidious than she thought at first. In a way, it seems to be the "straw that broke the camel's back" that sets off the realization that she doesn't really belong here. As a schoolteacher, she's especially tuned in to the negative effects slavery has on children and how it makes it impossible for them to get the education they need. I do hope she won't take it too much out on her students, though—even those who aren't slaves themselves aren't necessarily from slave-owning families after all. But are they in some way complicit? That's an open question, I guess.

Miss Taafe isn't as naive as Padme was able to be in The Phantom Menace--that's in large part because under the Empire, slavery is openly legal, but I think she may even be aware that it went on illegally under the Republic. But there isn't any slavery on Naboo, so she has never encountered it before as anything more than an abstract, and terrible, and far away injustice. There isn't a thing she can do about the situation, and she knows it--if she tried to push the issue, the slave owners would only take it out on the children, and nothing would change. (And of course, she would believe it isn't her situation, as an outworlder, to fix.)

Of course, she shouldn't take out her understandable frustration on her students. It's true that they have a privilege that is denied the slave children, but this wasn't of their making.

Finally, I too had been wondering how she ended up with the job out here on Tatooine, and now I know! It sure says a lot if the people from the culture itself aren't even willing to take on the job. But perhaps that is because they, of course, know more than an outsider like Miss Taafe what they're up against.

Yes, Tatooine has a "brain drain"--when all the people who might have used their educations and skills to effect some kind of change use them to get out, and on to better places, and therefore things continue on as they are. (Apparently, the technical term is "human capital flight.") Remember, Anakin never came back to free the slaves; it was never so much as mentioned after TPM. In the movies, and most fanfiction, Tatooine is clearly represented as a "barren, lifeless" place everyone would rather just leave. I should admit that I did the same thing in the one other story I have written set mostly on that world. In this story, I aim to mess with that. We'll just have to see how it goes.

Thanks for reading, and responding!


*

I have updated my post at the OC Index Thread with several of the main characters in this story. There's a surprise in there, so you may wish to check it out.

Also: on a recent whim, I did a google search for "tatooine boy naboo girl" and this story showed up in the top five results, which bemused and amused me. (So did, for some unfathomable reason, Jar Jar Binks' wookieepedia page, but I won't try to figure out that one.)

 

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Today was a rather exciting (and oh yes—unusually trying) one at the school: I had three new students, instead of the one I had known to expect, show up. Apparently, the two surprise students, Owain and his sister Aoifa, only just arrived in town with their mom in the darkness of last night. She had decided to move them here when she heard of the school. While, of course, that is an admirable decision, I could wish it had been a bit less sudden. They couldn’t even work on the basic skill review tests until I had a few things in order—beginning with finding enough chairs for them. It is a good thing at times that Jax Plath saves everything.

Then, once I had that settled, little Daffyd had some sort of emotional fit. I don’t know what set him off—only that he erupted into a screaming storm of tears, accompanied by a flailing of kicks and punches that shook his group’s studytable. Wenché shrank down into a huddle behind the wall of her knees, clutching at their shared datapad, while the others prudently fled.

Oh, and none of the regular adult observers were present, so I had to enlist the help of several of the older students to manage that chaos. It was Owain, one of the two new boys, who was able to talk Daffyd down--slowly, and eventually— into more subdued tears. I think he even understood his twisted honks as words, which I usually don’t. Daffyd’s plump mouth still shivered, but he wiped at his rain wet cheeks, and Owain guided him outside to the fresher-shed to clean up.

Wenché finally rose up into movement, and dropped the datapad with a plate breaking crack. I let Thinta handle the results of that. Meantime, Joelle remained off in the background, and I noted her mouth was in a closed-tight, annoyed line. I could understand the sentiment.

Afterwards, I sort of dropped down into my desk chair. The only sounds came from the whisperwind of the humidifier fan, and a thud of cart wheels out in the street. While I waited for the new students to finish with their tests, I wrote up, and then sent out into the holovoid, that request for a part-time assistant to my employers. I prefer not to do my own work during classtime, but I was too tired to care. Oh, and I just checked in to see if there was a response.

This evening, I wandered down to the bar to retreat into a drink. I considered that this might be the time to try, and endure, an “ABP”: but I decided it was better to go with something I would want to drink, and ordered a cosmic rose. It’s this drink that Min picked up from a spacer reminiscing about her days on the “glitter-run.” It only looks like a desert.

On my third drink, I was stirring the plump crystal-candy blooddrop (though everyone here calls them “sherries”) through the creamfoam layer while the Bantha Kid, who was sitting next to me, carried on a conversation with several of his regular compatriots. He sat with his legs spread apart, and the stool creaked forward on its gawky fawn-boned legs, and so I had to keep my knees pressed politely together. All of the men here sit like that. They left me alone with my thoughts, and I let their voices fade into the background drone.

It was quite, and usually, busy—only minutes earlier, Diva Minera had shown up, and I had looked away when I overheard her voice putting in an order for a beer. Of course, she is old enough to drink it, but I should pretend for the sake of her education that I don’t know that.

Then I overheard this: So, Killian, the black man who works as a traveling medic, who had a sherriebright silk-skinned flower pinned to the collar of his baggy drabgreen officer issue coat, was saying, I can’t say that I’ve ever seen you as the modeling type.

The Bantha Kid finished a drink of his beer, and: Surprise. And no—since I’m sure this thought has crossed your mind, she hasn’t asked me to pose naked.

I wasn’t gonna ask, Killian said, but I could hear the grin lurking in his voice.

You didn’t have to, the Bantha Kid said, and their nearby companions laughed. Then he turned to me—and I will say he didn’t appear to be surprised to see that I had begun to listen in. I shook my glass back and forth. The sides were sticky with my fingerprints.

You never said we needed to make it a secret, he said, and I wondered what expression he had seen on my face. He was right enough about that—though I had thought, I had assumed, he wouldn’t go around talking about it.

No, I didn’t, I said, and managed a little flame-licked smile.

Then the Bantha Kid went on to tell Killian about those paintings of mine I described for him, and in particular “Dressed in grey/dressed in rain”—I showed him some of the holoshots I have on my datapad after his last sitting. He doesn’t, by his own admission, have any formal arts education, but I think he did like it. He doesn’t say things only for the sake of politeness.

But I must not have been clear enough about what happened with the Glasshouse, because I had to interrupt him to say: Yes, I did have it accepted at the exhibition. But I didn’t say it was ever actually on display. I had my entry withdrawn.

They both stared at me, and it was the Bantha Kid who said: I don’t get it. Whyever would you want to do that? You said it was your first major thing as an artist.

It was, I said, and pushed the sherrie down under the surface of the drink. And oh, I was excited enough at first. But then I found out that all ten of the artists chosen for the exhibition were humans—the guest curator didn’t even bother to include one token Gungan. I couldn’t live with that, and I withdrew to leave a space open for them to rectify that.

They didn’t understand—but then I should have expected that, since my family, and too many members of my self-named radical art circle, hadn’t grasped my reasoning either. I will say that I heard that one of the other artists, a glassworks sculptor I mostly knew by name, followed my example and gave her withdrawal. But only that one. Then they filled our spaces with two new humans—though, since the artists had originally all been women, at the least they brought in two men. But I think I shall stop there.

It’s all right, I said—and oh yes, I shouldn’t have felt that vague disappointed ache. It doesn’t matter when I still know I made the right, the only, decision. There shall be other exhibitions. I don’t doubt that I’ll have another chance to show my work.

Yeah, maybe, the Bantha Kid said. But you don’t know that for sure. And I hope that if there is another time, you won’t find a reason to go and drop out again.

Yes, he said that. Sometimes, he does disappoint me, when he says the sort of thing people know to keep away in their thoughts on Naboo, and that was one of those times. I won’t even go into what Killian said next when he expressed his honest, and blunt, thoughts.

But anyhow: the Bantha Kid has made enough creds to return to the desert, and he is leaving in the first dark hours tomorrow. He has told us that he plans (and on that one word, Avila raised the first eyebrow) to be off for around a week. While he is out there, I won’t have to know what I think about that, or about him.

That reminds me: before I started writing this, I read over my most recent entries—and oh, I had forgotten that last stinging bit. It was what I felt at that time, but that doesn’t excuse it. It is quite unfair, and worse still, wrong-minded. I can admit here (where I am the only person to judge) that I was tempted to erase it, but I won’t. That would be dishonest, and so it remains.

After I gave him the sherry from my drink, I finished it off in several swallows I didn’t quite taste. The Bantha Kid and Killian bought their second pair of “ABP”s.

Then: Sarai came in through the front door behind an arriving patron. But if she had sneaked inside, she stopped boldly in the open to look around the room. She was well-dressed, in an inkblack velvet jacket with foam lace cuffs, though she wore it with a pale chemise-blouse with a swooping bodice that displayed her fabulous breasts. It was Killian who said it, in a whisperedhiss: Well, well. It looks like the Madame’s sent her top girl around for her.

I suppose I’ll have to handle this, Avila said, with a shivered-weak sigh, and came out from around the bar. I didn’t hear their conversation, but after a minute, Sarai followed Avila back into her office-space near the kitchen. They came out again only moments later, and Avila was saying (as she played with a fisted-knot of her skirt): You know, you can stay if you want to. Have a drink.

Thank you, Sarai said. But Madame Aramat is expecting me back.

Oh, you can tell her I was being difficult, Avila said, when Sarai didn’t move. She was probably expecting nothing less, and I don’t have to always disappoint her.

Sarai came up to the end of the bar and ordered, of all drinks, an “ABP.” One of the men asked if he could pay for her, and she allowed it. Then she ignored him. I could see her reflection inside the room of the silver-glass mirror behind the clutter of liquor bottles as she took tiny primly proper sips straight from the bottle. She hadn’t looked—at least not directly, and obviously—at me. When I have met up with her, for several brief nervously secret moments, she has been concerned for my reputation, even when I assured her I didn’t care what people thought. And I don’t.

The man who had bought her drink was still hovering near her shoulder, and he finally said, in a hopefully blushed voice: You know, I’m kind of a big deal.

That’s good for you, she said, and took another sip of her drink. She was staring straight ahead, but I can’t know what she saw from the dim reflected light in her eyes.

That was, until she had made to leave: she looked right at me, and her mouth made an ambiguous twitch. I returned the gesture. The Bantha Kid followed my line of sight over to her, and lifted his bottle in a tilt at her, and she nodded back in return. Of course, I should not have been taken aback that he recognized her. The Bantha Kid does seem to know nearly everyone.

It might have been a crouch-tensed moment, but it only lasted for that long: and she had slipped away through the curtainsoft fall of light in the open doorway, out into the street, and then on to the whitecake brothel. The crowd’s voices continued to swell around me at the counter. No one else had even noticed. I turned and pushed my glass back. There was only a drooled bit of cream fuzz drink left, but I do know what my limits are.

The Bantha Kid bumped against me (oh, accidentally, and absently) with the side of his knee. And I reached down and gently, yet firmly, swatted his leg back over into place. It must have been only the second time I have touched him, but it didn’t feel that way at the time.

You show him, Taafe, Killian said, and several of the nearby eavesdroppers joined him for a round of laughing. I think one of them may have put his legs back together, though he would have forgotten, and reverted to his usual posture, a few distracted seconds later.

But: the Bantha Kid only grinned at me inside the room of the mirror. And I watched myself as I smiled, as my mouth sighed into a teasing snap, back at him.



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Spoiler: Notes|edited 10/3/2016

*The Cosmic Rose Shooter (to use its proper name) is leiamoody's creation, and can be found in her Food and beverages post in the fanon thread.

*Believe it or not: I wrote nearly all of this scene *before* I received that post in the Fanon Quote Challenge.

*Originally--since I wasn't certain this post would work or mean anything away from the context of the rest of the story--it was going to be a sort of accidental, unofficial entry for that challenge. However, I changed my mind; and as of today, October 3, 2016, it is the official, real entry.

 

Findswoman: Aw, and here I was all excited to be getting the very first Fanon Quote Challenge entry! I won't lie—as soon as I saw the mention of the Cosmic Rose Shooter my thought was, "Will I see that 'big deal' quote later on?" And indeed I did, and it was perfect where you put it. But this just makes me all the more eager to see what your official entry in that challenge will be (hint, hint).

I should admit that I considered leaving the quote out (no matter how perfect that place for it was) to save it for the official entry. But then--obviously--I shrugged and gave in. I don't know how I shall ever top that for the actual official entry, but since I don't expect to write it for a while yet, I should at least get a bit of distance in. I will say that someone might drink an "ABP" in it. Might, anyhow.

Now moving on to the actual review: what a packed entry! First, we see that Miss Taafe (and thanks for sharing her real name with us in the OC Index) as just had One of Those Days at school. [face_tearing_hair_out] It's a tribute to her grace and levelheadedness that she managed to get through all that chaos as smoothly as she did, though I almost wonder if there may have been some deeper reason behind the things that happened, especially with the unexpected arrival of two extra students.

Well, I'm glad the Day of Chaos worked; I was afraid--possibly one of the side effects of writing a story in a universe where it's not drama until a planet/star system gets blown up--it wasn't chaotic enough to warrant Miss Taafe's reaction. (Of course, it could have always been more so: Rosetta Plath--whose age I haven't given, but who is around ten years old--could have gotten her Very First Period at school and locked herself in the TOILET-SHED and cried pathetically through the door, "This can't happen to me! I'm just a little girl!" That may or may not be a spoiler.)

And I have to wonder what may have set off Daffyd's tantrum, though that may just have been One of Those Things, given that he seems like one of the younger ones in the group. At least it's a bit comforting to know that it's not just in this galaxy that teachers have to put up with that kind of craziness!

It was probably just "one of those things"--but regardless, it's going to remain a mystery, at least for Miss Taafe. Daffyd isn't only one of the youngest students, he is the very youngest one. He is inspired by several real life children: the first I heard about years ago from one of my college classmates, an elementary education major who was a student teacher in a kindergarten class. She mentioned one student, a little boy who was barely five years old (the same age as Daffyd), who could barely talk, and was in no way ready to begin school. The other is my mother's friend's grandson, who has a noticeable, and very untreated, speech issue. He is older than Daffyd is now, but I still can't understand a single word he says.

And yes: I'm fairly certain that some kinds of craziness are nigh on universal.

But the stress and frustration of the day doesn't end there, alas. Being from Naboo, Miss Taafe naturally has different ideas than the Tatooinians about what's proper to talk about and when, but I too would have guessed that maybe Jewel wouldn't blab to all and sundry about their modeling session. I wonder if he feels himself somewhat of a "big deal" for getting to model for the Fabulous and Exciting Foreign Artist; is he bragging to Killian and co.? I also wonder if it's not a little bit tacky (and not just by Naboo standards) for him to be telling Killian all about Miss Taafe's work when she's right there in the room, especially in light of the awkward situation that ensues where she has to explain about how she pulled Dressed in grey/dressed in rain from the exhibition.

This scene might make more sense in light of things that come up later. You shall have to see. I will say that I don't think Jewel has been bragging all around about the modeling sessions. He told Killian, yes, but Killian is his friend. As for the situation with the triptych, I'm going to answer that one with a two-part question: did she actually imply, when they discussed it before, the part where she pulled it from the exhibition, but not in a way that he understood; or did he not know that because, for whatever reason, she did not mention it at all?

But what ensues, though perhaps uncomfortable for the characters, is really neat for the reader, because this is probably one of the passages where the contrast of values between Miss Taafe's and Jewel is thrown into the starkest relief. True, he barely seems to appreciate the moral reasons she had for pulling out of the exhibition—but on a world like Tatooine, way on the obscurest edges of Galactic civilization, I can see where it would be considered, well, really kind of crazy to pass up any kind of chance of making oneself better known. Or something along those lines; you will probably be able to articulate it better than I can!

To be fair, Miss Taafe's artist friends and family back on Naboo (as she makes quite clear) didn't understand her reasons any better than he does. As for why he reacts the way he does, I'm not sure I could articulate it much better than you have, and I'm not sure I ought to. I have a tendency to overexplain things instead of letting the readers sort it out for themselves. I will say this: Jewel has, as he told Miss Taafe, no artistic education of any sort, but he has obviously (to me, anyhow) shown a good deal of interest--even if it does include awkwardly bragging on Miss Taafe's behalf--in art. Miss Taafe has had opportunities he would never have even been able to want for himself, and now he is listening to her explain how, even if it was for the most noble of reasons, she just throws them away.

And then, as if things weren't already fraught enough, Sarai shows back up. It's interesting that she and Miss Taafe have had a few brief chats already (I'm guessing that at this point it's been nothing more than chats?). For some reason the contrast between (a) Sarai's concern about Miss T.'s reputation, combined with the little twitchy smile she gives her on the way out, and (b) the indifference she shows these men in the pub who are buying her drinks, trying to chat her up, etc., really stands out for me; I get the feeling that Sarai and Miss T. might actually care about each other.

You're correct--they have only had those few chats as of yet. As you may remember, Madame Aramat doesn't let her girls out much (Sarai, as her top girl, is "lucky" enough to get a little longer of a leash) so that does make it tricky to do more than that. But if you're getting the feeling I think you're getting, you are probably right.

I won't speculate much beyond that, though, since I'm fine with waiting and seeing what future chapters bring. Ditto for the brief smile Miss T. exchanges with Jewel after the "leg-bump" incident; indeed, it's intriguing that there were two such smile exchanges in the same chapter, though Jewel seems like a more smiley person in general than Sarai (but how can one blame Sarai?). It is kind of nice, in a way, to see Miss T. smiling more as well.

Those exchanges were intended to represent the set up of the Miss Taafe/Jewel/Sarai "love triangle" (Yes, I hath committed that mortal literary sin, but at least I didn't enter into the story with that intention?), but I think I was perhaps being too subtle about it.

And of course I do wonder what Sarai and Avila were talking about in the back room (is Sarai considering a career change?), though I imagine we'll learn more about that at some point too.

It's as Killian says: the Madame has sent her "top girl" on an errand for her. (Though it is possible that Sarai has her own schemes, she is there officially on other business.) This does mean there are wheels within wheels in the background--and that Avila is probably not going to be terribly happy about most of it. But again, you'll have to wait to see how this might sort out.

Thanks for reading, and commenting!

 

The Bantha Kid does seem to know nearly everyone.

That seems to me this way, too. You really write him as a very interesting character, hard to grasp. Each time you think you got him, understand him, he seems to change his form. He is changeable like desert sand.

 

Findswoman: (First, I apologize if you read this while the comment was all messed up--I don't know what happened en route to posting, but I had to redo the entire thing.)

Pandora said: ↑

I should admit that I considered leaving the quote out (no matter how perfect that place for it was) to save it for the official entry. But then--obviously--I shrugged and gave in. I don't know how I shall ever top that for the actual official entry, but since I don't expect to write it for a while yet, I should at least get a bit of distance in. I will say that someone might drink an "ABP" in it. Might, anyhow.​

Sounds fine by me. Never can have too many ABPs, at least not in literary form.

Quite! And I'm certain that this hypothetical character will drink it without one single iota of irony.

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Well, I'm glad the Day of Chaos worked; I was afraid--possibly one of the side effects of writing a story in a universe where it's not drama until a planet/star system gets blown up--it wasn't chaotic enough to warrant Miss Taafe's reaction. (Of course, it could have always been more so: Rosetta Plath--whose age I haven't given, but who is around ten years old--could have gotten her Very First Period at school and locked herself in the TOILET-SHED and cried pathetically through the door, "This can't happen to me! I'm just a little girl!" That may or may not be a spoiler.)​

Of course it made sense for Miss Taafe to react to the Day of Chaos the way she did—it's different enough from her everyday that it's going to have an effect on her. As to Rosetta, I consider myself forewarned and forearmed!

It does make sense--but since this is the drama of everyday life, not "space life," I indulged in a few moments of doubt. But, well: since I literally can't get paid for this, I don't have to worry about appeasing an editor/audience with a convenient space battle. As for Rosetta, it occurred to me that the only thing more unexpected in this sort of genre than menarche would be menopause. After all, anyone who has reached that age would have been exiled from the protagonist class years ago.

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It was probably just "one of those things"--but regardless, it's going to remain a mystery, at least for Miss Taafe. Daffyd isn't only one of the youngest students, he is the very youngest one. He is inspired by several real life children: the first I heard about years ago from one of my college classmates, an elementary education major who was a student teacher in a kindergarten class. She mentioned one student, a little boy who was barely five years old (the same age as Daffyd) who could barely talk, and was in no way ready to begin school. The other is my mother's friend's grandson, who has a noticeable, and very untreated, speech issue. He is older than Daffyd is now, but I still can't understand a single word he says.​

And yes: I'm fairly certain that some kinds of craziness are nigh on universal.​

Piggybacking on what I said before, this sort of situation is indeed legitimate drama and legitimate chaos to a schoolteacher. Here's this one kid, the youngest of the bunch, who's got issues that require special attention, and it's a real conundrum for teachers to decide how much energy to spend on trying to help such a student when it runs the risk of not giving the other students their due. You did mention Miss Taafe has assistants, though (at least most days), so that's something, perhaps.

That's a good point--and one that I managed to get across without actually consciously meaning to. And Miss Taafe is well aware that she lacks the training (and further, the aptitude) to work with Daffyd--and with three new students, and therefore, the possibility of even more in the future, she has finally been moved to ask for an official assistant. The adult observers she has mentioned do help out, but she wouldn't want them to feel obligated to take on things that she regards as her responsibilities.

This scene might make more sense in light of things that come up later. You shall have to see. I will say that I don't think Jewel has been bragging all around about the modeling sessions. He told Killian, yes, but Killian is his friend. As for the situation with the triptych, I'm going to answer that one with a two-part question: did she actually imply, when they discussed it before, the part where she pulled it from the exhibition, but not in a way that he understood; or did he not know that because, for whatever reason, she did not mention it at all?​

I took a look at the previous entry again; she says that she showed him that piece on her datapad and describes it in the entry as "the one I withdrew from the Glasshouse," but that doesn't necessarily make it clear one way or the other whether she mentioned that to him. But in this entry she implies that she did at least mention the Glasshouse and that something happened with this work at the Glasshouse. So I guess that maybe she did imply before that it was pulled? Hard to say, but I might just be a dolt for not noticing at first.

Yes, you're right--she does say that. And I remember specifically that I included that in large part because, when she reveals the story of why she withdrew her work in the bar scene, I didn't want the actual withdrawal to come as a sudden surprise to the readers. But when I re-read it, it's clear that it does come as a complete surprise to Jewel. So (while attempting to leave the situation open for some interpretation, which I would prefer) it's most likely that she sort of hinted that she had withdrawn it, but not in a way that anyone outside her head could understand.

To be fair, Miss Taafe's artist friends and family back on Naboo (as she makes quite clear) didn't understand her reasons any better than he does. As for why he reacts the way he does, I'm not sure I could articulate it much better than you have, and I'm not sure I ought to. I have a tendency to overexplain things instead of letting the readers sort it out for themselves. I will say this: Jewel has, as he told Miss Taafe, no artistic education of any sort, but he has obviously (to me, anyhow) shown a good deal of interest--even if it does include awkwardly bragging on Miss Taafe's behalf--in art. Miss Taafe has had opportunities he would never have even been able to want for himself, and now he is listening to her explain how, even if it was for the most noble of reasons, she just throws them away.​

I could see where that might indeed throw him for a loop, and especially given the interest he's been taking in her art in particular. But they both still have time to get used to each other, thank goodness.

They do at that, and they can always discuss the topic again later--one advantage of Jewel tending to be so blunt is that, in turn, Miss Taafe feels free to be more blunt with him.

Those exchanges were intended to represent the set up of the Miss Taafe/Jewel/Sarai "love triangle" (Yes, I hath committed that mortal literary sin, but at least I didn't enter into the story with that intention?), but I think I was perhaps being too subtle about it.​

I would be lying if I said I didn't at least kind of surmise that that was the direction things were going to go. But not to worry, it's not a literary sin unless it's written badly, and I highly doubt it will be!

I don't actually care for love triangles that much (though I'm not Mortally Offended by them either), but sometimes, I'll find that I have set things up for a story as such that one looks likely to happen. And I sincerely believe that a writer of sufficient artistry can make nearly any thing work. There might be a few things that one shouldn't--as opposed to can't--write, but the love triangle isn't on that list.

Thanks for reading, and commenting!​

My pleasure—you're most welcome!

Thank you again!

--

AzureAngel2: The Bantha Kid does seem to know nearly everyone.

That seems to me this way, too. You really write him as a very interesting character, hard to grasp. Each time you think you got him, understand him, he seems to change his form. He is changeable like desert sand.

That is a very good way to describe him--he is, after all, a "child of the desert."

Thanks for reading, and commenting!

 

Like the teasing tone with the Bantha Kid and the opinions about having to withdraw from the exhibition. Disappointing that it was necessary but I admire her doing so immeasurably on principle.

 

WarmNyota_SweetAyesha: Like the teasing tone with the Bantha Kid and the opinions about having to withdraw from the exhibition. Disappointing that it was necessary but I admire her doing so immeasurably on principle.

She was, if only privately, a bit disappointed herself--but she knew she would have felt worse if she had gone against her principles. As for the teasing: I'm sure many of us have had those moments where you're suddenly sitting next
to a man, probably one of your friends and someone you like, who has his legs apart and is taking up all the room, and he doesn't even seem to realize it. Miss Taafe just lived the kind, gentle version of the dream.

Thanks for commenting!

-----------

Well: it is the twenty-fifth day of the month, and I have only one handwritten sentence for the next post. I didn't even write 1000 words during the recent Word Race, and that is a good summary of how things are right now. If it weren't for this story being in a competition, I would probably just take an official break from writing altogether. And I shall be honest: much as I hate giving up on things, I might still have to. But I have finally reorganized my writing "plans", and officially put aside the two progressing novels sitting on my desk. I was hoping to sneak in work on them, even though I can't multi-task, and this diary has taken up most of my writing time, but that is obviously not working.

So I'll have to see if that improves matters any. I only have about five days left to get it together to make a second post for the month.

 

[4]:

The girls at Madame Aramat’s place have their own personal dressing room. Today, I was able to visit there and see it for myself for the first time. It is hidden off a corner of the service hallway just behind the main stage—oh yes: they do perform dance routines, amongst their other duties. It reminded me of Lisandra’s room at art school: it is a small candy-box of a room with green watersilk paper, and a mess of shed frocks, and snowbright petticoats, and limp stockings hung over the furniture. And the smell was familiar—it was partly dried cigaret smoke, and panted sweat, but mostly this dusky shadowdark perfume. It was, I suppose, a desert scent.

The room was crowded with girls: there were four of them sitting around on the chairs, or the one long wulf-footed settee, their reflections glowing inside the long mirror hunched in a back corner. After I was permitted inside, I stayed back near the closed door, clenching the manuscript I had brought along with me. It was my reason (or oh yes—my excuse) for coming.

Sarai had been sharing a cigaret with one of the other girls, who she had introduced as Jin. When Jin handed it back to her, she leaned over towards the cluttered vanity table and smashed it out in the (probably Alderaani china) teacup saucer they use as an ashtray.

You can come sit down, she said—she has figured out by now that I wouldn’t have asked, or gone ahead and assumed I could do so. Jin jumped up to her feet, with a minnow-darted smile, and went to the chair parked with the vanity and moved the half empty bottle of emerald wine to the floor so she could sit. Then I took her seat on the settee next to Sarai.

Once again, she had a different look from the ones I have known this far: she had her breasts pinched in a tiny black metal-silk brassiere, and she wore a frost-thin black petticoat-skirt that only barely covered her hips. Her eyes were circled in smeared violet candy kohl. She looked down at the stainedwhite paper stack of the manuscript that I had set down into my lap, and:

That must be it, she said, with a little twitch of her mouth.

Oh, I would have liked to have included this play in that reading list I put together for Killeshandra Darksun, but I only found out about Ashla Mar Kanin last month. She was a Tatooine playwright, the one Tatooine author I have found, known as “the Bard of Mos Espa”—and that would be about all the information preserved about her. It took some doing to obtain a copy of this one play: I won’t go on about all the details, only that my contact had to type it up into the file on the flash-chip I had buried inside my skirt pocket. But Sarai doesn’t have a datapad.

The other girls leaned around to get a better look. Then, when she hesitated, I handed the manuscript over to her. It was made from actual paper: flimsi dissolves, and disappears, too easily. It only takes a little water, as I should know. I watched her hands, and the one silver ring with a plump amethyst she wore on her left friendship finger, as she flicked through the opening pages. Her hair sighed down over her face, but I could see her examining each word as she read.

Then, after she had patted it shut again, she swatted her hair back, and turned her attention to me. She tapped her fingers in a fluttering dance over the top page. Thank you.

You’re quite welcome, I said.

You must really know that play, Sarai, the Twi’lek girl, Stacé, said, with an arched flip of her right lekku. She has flushed rosered skin—which even I know is unusual in Twi’leks, and which must be one of the reasons the Madame purchased her—and doll-sized hands and stick-thin legs. She looked very young in her loose skywhite shift dress.

The other two girls were both humans: Jin was a tall girl with dainty breasts and bell-shaped hips, and she had her blue hair done up in two flowered buns. And yes, it was clearly dyed—I could see the roots of her original dark color peeking out. Ophelia was a snowlily blonde. Her skin only had a blushing pink flush from the heat—but then, Sarai has already told me that the Madame keeps her shut inside, and away from the heavy sunlight, so she remains pale.

Sarai shrugged, and one of the star-crystal straps on her brassiere slid down the curve of her shoulder. She snapped it back up into place.

I’ve never read it before. She had told me as much earlier, but she must not have discussed it with any details with the others. I only saw it performed one time, when I was twelve. And I suppose I didn’t understand it that well back then.

I did think the Madame might have at least one of Kanin’s plays in her collection, I said. Of course, I hadn’t even considered contacting her during my search, but I have heard (mostly from Brother Mercy) that she is known for the extensive library she brought with her when she arrived in town. Oh, yes: that woman has more texts than I have at my school.

Sarai was looking through the play again, but she paused to say: She prefers Alderaanian stuff. She thinks even most of the Core isn’t really civilized.

Ha ha, Ophelia said. Then she turned over to me, and: Oh, I hope you don’t mind if I speak freely. We don’t have generally have a proper lady like you in to visit.

Go ahead, I said. She was only being polite—and if I felt an uncomfortable, guilt-pinched flush, that was my problem. This is your space. I didn’t come here to dictate your conversation.

Oh good, she said—and the air seemed to sigh as they all relaxed into place. Jin plucked the cigaret from the saucer and sat down on the floor in front of Stacé as she lit it back up again. Ophelia sprawled back in her plump velvet-stuffed chair with her petticoat draped loose over her legs. Sarai closed the play again and set it down into the shadow darkness underneath the settee. I have wondered if the Madame personally searches her room, but I know enough not to ask.

As I was going to say, Ophelia said. Our dearest Madame would never allow that sort of work in her library, but if she did, we wouldn’t have access to it.

I see, I said. Sarai has never so much as mentioned Madame Aramat when I’ve spoken with her. Since I haven’t any interest in using our time to talk about her, I have preferred that. But that does mean I don’t know what her actual opinion of that woman is. Perhaps she easily, appropriately, despises her—but it may also be more complicated.

Ophelia looked over to Sarai, and Sarai stared back. Then Ophelia shrugged her eyebrows up, and: You won’t hear this from Sarai, but Aramat doesn’t actually like other women much.

Jin drooled out a breath of smoke, and nodded. Basically, she thinks we’re stupid.

That doesn’t surprise me, I said, and they all shared a shivering-sighed laugh. I think even Sarai allowed herself to smile with them.

But that’s enough about her, Ophelia said. She accepted the cigaret from Jin, and grabbed a drag. The smoke blurred around her face. It smelled like the heat glowing outside. I don’t get out much—or quite honestly, at all—but I heard that the Kid has been modeling for you.

It seems nearly everyone has by now, I said.

The Bantha Kid has told me, has assured me, that he has only told several of his closer associates. And I should admit that I have told a few people myself. But that must have been all it took to get the word all around the town. It is not what I would like; but as none of these people have then interfered with our modeling sessions, I have decided not to complain.

You chose well, she said, and Jin nodded with agreement. He must be the prettiest man available around here. He’s the only one who doesn’t seem to know it.

Oh, I said, and the word came out like a small thrown rock. Of course, I had thought, I had known, before that he is attractive—though I wouldn’t have ever said he was pretty. He has this strange wild look I noticed when we first met, and that I have tried to capture in my drawings. But I was surprised, and then I was resentful, to hear her say it: it meant that other people have seen what I have, and that his feral beauty isn’t a secret that only I know.

My voice was still stiff when I said: I didn’t know you were familiar with him.

Sarai spoke then. Everyone knows the Kid. Well, nearly everyone. She took a fresh long cigaret from the mirror-silver boxcase on the vanity, and lit it up with a fireworks glittering spark. I suppose he’s out in the desert again right now.

It’s only for a few days, I said. That was what he reiterated when we were exchanging comm. messages yesterday morning, in the gloomy raw time before school. Killian Sandskimmer is out on a run, so he caught a ride along with him.

The door opened with an echoed shudder, and a Zelton girl came in. She had her naturally blue hair done up in a multitude of braids, and she held her thin gold silk dressing gown together at the front. It was probably the best thing she owned—and it looked like the wrapper that the Girl’s personal maid, that girl with her chronogear-droid eyes I had learned never to quite notice, had worn. Don’t ask, she said, as she dropped into the empty vanity chair.

We don’t have to, Sarai said, and the Zelton snapped her eyes into a roll at her and grinned—with that broad, naughty, teasing smile I wouldn’t know how to imitate.

Then, only the next minute later, there was a suddenly urgent burst of sound, and I looked up to see the rusted-copper bell posted near the door had started shaking. I could tell what that signified before the women all looked around at each other. It was still one of the first hours of the afternoon, but the Madame has her girls available for business at all hours. It never fails, Ophelia said. You would think they could be more considerate.

Finally, Jin took a last shivering drag off the cigarette, and stretched up off the floor just as the bell shook into another demanding ring. It’s my turn this time.

After that, the others began to drift out of the room: the Zelton girl stood first, and after squirming her shoulders in a stretch, excused herself. The others found reasons to leave after her. Once the door had clicked into place behind Stacé, the room was quiet. The only sound was the sleeping breath from the humidifier, and the faint raindrops of harp music from the main room. Sarai stood up, and I watched her as she went over towards the mirror. I waited.

She was turned away from me as she twisted her right arm back and caught, and snapped loose, the catch on the back of her brassiere. After she let it flutter down to the floor, she continued on, and pulled down that little skirt with the sides of her thumbs.

This may be because I’m an artist, but I know the difference between when someone is merely undressing, and when they are making it into an act for me to watch. But I couldn’t tell what Sarai wanted me to see. When she turned back towards me, her face was plain: she tucked a loose ribbon of hair behind her left ear, and pushed the spilled shadow of the skirt aside with her foot. When I stood up, when I exhaled a long scarf of a breath, I felt clumsy inside my dress, and slip, and stockings, and rigidly laced boots.

But I still walked through the room, through the small meters of space, to her. She was the one who said it, her voice that husky nightsoft whisper: We won’t have much time.

Then I was there with her, and she had caught me, and I was leaning in to meet her in a kiss. It was a hard, eagerly rushed kiss that I fell into, and I twisted my fingers into her loose hair to hold her, to hold myself, in place. Her mouth tasted like ashdust, and silverbright water. I did wonder what that might mean. But then I kissed her again, and I forgot it.


--

Spoiler

"And then they kissed!"

Yes, that was a rather sudden note to end a post on, but since I'm late as it is, I wanted to get something up here. The follow-up shall be posted sooner rather than later.

The playwright Ashla Mar Kanin is inspired by a similar character by tumblr user fialleril.

 

Findswoman: Much to say here, of course, since this is kind of a... turning point for our heroine. I'll start by saying that your descriptions of the place and the women in it is just intoxicating. Of course, your descriptions are always fantastic, but here for some reason it's especially striking—maybe because so far we've mostly on seen the bland, gray exterior of this place and only hints at the demimonde-like world within. The loose dresses and petticoats lying about, the mix of cigaret and perfume scents in the air, the details of the clothing, the attitudes and postures of the women, the whole atmosphere—I almost want to visit the place just to bask in the gorgeous decadence of it all.

There is something I find alluring about this sort of feminine space, and I'm glad I was able to capture some of that feeling into writing in this scene. Miss Taafe is (obviously, as she would say) fascinated with this world inside the infamous place--it both seems familiar, like places she has known in her past, while at the same time she knows it isn't. And perhaps it seems so gorgeously glamourous because she comes to it as an outsider. Most of the places that inspired the scene--the one example I can think of right off is a store dressing room from Norah Labiner's novel Our Sometime Sister--are observed by someone who can't be a part of it.

(And admire some of the clothing that's lying about: the dark jacket, the dark petticoat skirt, the metal-silk bra with the crystal straps, the gold dressing gown—I know these aren't supposed to be the most high-rent wardrobe items in the galaxy, but you describe them in such a compelling way that they might as well be!)

Yes, the clothes. I see some of them as looking like the white embroidered petticoats and underthings and summerfrocks from the Edwardian period--which, interestingly enough, you can find from various vintage sellers, and even though they're over one hundred years old, you can still (very carefully) wear them. I own several blouses from that period, and the only reason I never wear them is because they button up the back. Now, I really understand why women needed a servant or female relative's help to get dressed in those days.

Though it's got its darker side too, and there are still hints that these women are slaves and subject to a certain amount of mistreatment—e.g., the fact that Ophelia is never allowed outside in order to preserve her precious pale skin tone.

And then there's this. That would mean that this dressing room (unlike the rooms they refer to as theirs, where they receive their customers) is their only version of a sanctuary.

Some of the interpersonal dynamics here remind me of what I've seen in your handmaiden oeuvre—these women, too, work and live together but are always slightly disconnected from each other.

I have to admit I wouldn't have thought of that connection, but since one of my main themes seems to be the general disconnectedness between people, it is almost certainly there. They do, I think, genuinely like each other (and then there is a bond as "sisters-in-bondage") but at the end of the day, they know they each have to look out for themselves. That might show up more clearly later--you shall have to see. But at least, they're not expected to take a blaster bolt for the Madame--though if the tumblr-beloved slave revolution goes down on Tatooine in the wake of THE MIGHTY JABBA's death, who knows. That woman may be awful, but she is a survivor.

It is interesting to know that Madame Aramat is kind of misogynistic in her way, and I wonder if that might be part of what got her into this particular "business" to start with. Undoubtedly a big part of why she sees fit to keep her women "dumb," without access to literature of the kind Miss Taafe has brought in here, is that she feels they're more "marketable" that way—that the men coming to the place wouldn't like their women smart and well-read.

Sometimes, I have wondered if I have loaded Madame Aramat down with too many of the attributes I dislike, and distrust, in other women: She's the sort of woman who "isn't like those other girls," who just accidentally only has male friends, the same way she just finds most other women to be shallow. (And, of course, she has mostly male authors, with only a few token "ladies," in her library.) And perhaps it helps her in her business of "running women" to think they (well--excepting herself, of course!) are just naturally stupid.

They do seem to be genuinely interested in the play, though, and in a way in Miss Taafe herself; as Ophelia articulates, she's not their usual sort of visitor. I find it intriguing how well they're treating her, relatively speaking—not that they're going out of their way to play nicey-nice or anything, but I thought they might find her a little threatening, or that they might be jealous of her somehow. But they don't, and that's interesting.

Miss Taafe meets with them on their level, and she treats them with respect--to sort of quote Molly, the prostitute character on an episode of Blackadder II, she treats them "like human beings,"--and that counts for a lot. I think that's what Ophelia means when she describes her as a "proper lady." She means a lot more than just having nice manners.

I almost wonder how much the other women know (or don't know) about the hints of mutual interest that have passed between Miss Taafe and Sarai at earlier points in the story.

Oh, I'm fairly sure they know. They do all find reasons to leave the room rather conveniently.

And yes, I am finally now getting to the... development at the very end. I confess that I figured that something like this would be in store for these two characters at some point, with their frequent meetings and chats and exchanged glances earlier in the story.

Miss Taafe probably thought she was being subtle about that (since she does come from a culture, and a planet, that seem to be constantly described as valuing the arts of secrecy and subtlety), but I think it was clear from the first time she saw Sarai from across the street that she was attracted to her.

It's tantalizingly ambiguous at present whether this is going to be treated as service to a client or whether it's the start of a genuine relationship with interest on both sides. I like to think the latter, given that their previous interactions actually consisted of their talking to each other and getting to know each other somewhat.

This should be more clear in the follow-up, but: I think the fact that they met for their tryst in the dressing room, which the clients never get to see, and not in Sarai's "receiving room" speaks for itself.

Then there's the question of how their "reputations" will be affected (since that's come as a term more than once before)—likely many people won't know about it at all, but this is indeed a small town, and we've seen that things do get around! Very much looking forward to the follow-up.

Well, people do seem to need things to talk about, but hopefully (especially considering how private Miss Taafe tends to be) this won't be brought to their attention.

As always: thanks for reading, and commenting!

 

Your descriptions of a place always always teleport my mind straight there! You always use such striking words, create such a vivid atmosphere. Thank you!

 

AzureAngel2: Your descriptions of a place always always teleport my mind straight there! You always use such striking words, create such a vivid atmosphere. Thank you!

Thanks!

*

This update is somewhat shorter than usual, but I wanted to get up something before the diary goes red in the index. The next one will be longer. Perhaps. It's within the realm of possibility.

----


Before this, I haven’t gotten around to writing of my other encounters with Sarai. But yes: I remember nearly every detail about them. We have usually stood in the shade thrown out behind the store, though once, we met on the school porch after hours. When a woman, who I hadn’t ever seen before, walked past through the sunlight on the street, Sarai had tensed into silence. She took a limp white cigaret from her skirt pocket, and looked away from me for the second she took to light it. She had recognized her—and she thought, and said as much, that if this woman talked around, people would listen to her. Oh, of course, I assured her that keeping my reputation with them doesn’t matter to me, but she had tossed her head in an almost nervous shake.

It matters to them, she said. She watched the road before she lifted her cigaret and took a snapped short drag. There isn’t anything they can do to me, but they can talk until you lose your job. I don’t want that to happen because of me.

Then: several days ago, when we met at the school, we kissed for the first time. I had sensed that it was going to happen, but when she moved, and it did, her mouth had been snowsoft and cautiously, even nervously slow, against mine. When I pushed it, I had felt her gasped-out breath, and she had slid her arm around my waist. Her hand seemed to burn with sunlit heat on my hip, straight through my dress.

Of course, I can live without sex. I had expected that I wouldn’t have any romantic chances out here in the desert for the next few years. But I would rather live with it.

Afterwards, we lay sprawled close together on the narrow-backed settee. I was still wearing my slip, and it swelled up around my knees as I slid my leg over hers. I didn’t want to move away. But I could feel each minute as it ticked away into the past, and there was only that thin antique wooden door between us and the rest of the house. She took up my hand, and I caught my fingers into a tangle with hers—and then I saw it: that row of sharp bright black numbers written in the sun-darkened skin of her upper arm.

It does mean something, Sarai said, in a lazily floating voice. The settee made a faint rusted whine as she shifted her hips. But I don’t know what that is.

I wasn’t about to pry, I said. But she only let her mouth swell into a smile. She looked wry. Her fingers clenched tighter with mine.

You didn’t. And then: My mother did it the last time I saw her, when I was eleven. She had just been sold away, and it must have been her last message for me. I suppose she had already guessed where I was going to land up. But she didn’t explain it out first—she just told me to stay still, and she knew I would.

Oh, I said. It was one thing to know that things like that happened (oh—but far far away, to those who were less fortunate than ourselves), but I had known it only through stories trapped down safely in writing. It was quite another thing to hear of it in person. Even now, when I have had some hours to think on it, that is the best I can manage. Oh: I’m aware of just how little I understood the parts she chose not to tell me, but I didn’t burden her with my ignorance.

Then before I could give in with a gasped-out apology, I made myself say only: That must have been difficult for you.

I could feel Sarai shrug next to me. You could say that. I was a stupid kid. It didn’t hurt that much, or for that long, but I still bawled. But it was a long time ago now.

After another few minutes, she stood up, and picked up a pink-stained white slipdress from the pile on one of the chairs, and I sat up while she squirmed into it, her arms arched over her head. I pulled on my boots and began straightening out the sloppy mess of the laces.

The hallway outside was emptied when I sneaked out. There was someone outside the door—the bouncer, a Gamorrean woman (no, I can’t possibly call her a sow) with thick rusted-red braids, was engaged in conversation with a Gamorrean man done up like a dandied tough. Oh, I think I know now what interest Enji Day’s one enforcer has here. She let her gaze drift over me, but without any interest, before she returned her attention to him.

I walked back to the hotel through the desert, along one of the thin paths walked in twists amongst the scrub-bushes. Since I realized just how little I know it, I have endeavored to spend some time out there “on the ground”; and this close to town, I feel safe enough. I have even seen other people walking out there, but today, this time—though there were several sets of tracks scattered about in the sand—I was alone.

It must be the beginning of spring here: the bushes have turned a sudden bright, actual green, and there are clusters of these small cloudblue star flowers floating in some of the ground foliage. And I have noted, when I was out near the Dragonteeth canyon with the students, a clump of bushes bursting with the flames of red flowers. Yes, it seems that--after all--there are flowers in the desert.

 

What a sexy update! It was worthwhile waiting for it to come along!

 

AzureAngel2: What a sexy update! It was worthwhile waiting for it to come along!

Thanks!

----

Findswoman: Yep, you're right that this entry does indeed clarify some of the things I wondered about in my comment on the previous entry. Sarai does really and truly seem to be concerned about the effect that this relationship might have on Miss Taafe's "reputation" with the parents of her students, others in the community, etc., and it sounds like she would be willing to stand up to Miss Taafe's detractors if called on to do so (of course, given her social position, she would unfortunately probably not get very far in such a situation).

Well, let's just say that Sarai knows how things work on Tatooine, or more specifically, in this town--they might respect everyone's sacred privacy back on Naboo (well, in the open anyhow--if Naboo society is really as repressed as some of the canon has made it out to be, they're just gossiping harder in private), but here, people talk, and they're up-front about it. She also knows what it is like to not have a high social standing in a way she hopes Miss Taafe doesn't have to learn.

And Miss Taafe, in turn, shows genuine concern about what the numbers on Sarai's arm might mean. We only get a few hints, but I'm guessing it's either (a) something similar to those tattooed prisoner numbers one sees on some Holocaust survivors, or (b) a tally of some kind—perhaps the number of times Sarai has done it in a professional capacity? I'm afraid I too understand very little about the parts Sarai is omitting here! But it's clear that she's being cryptic on purpose, too, and understandably so.

Sarai's number isn't like the ones Holocaust survivors have, though I was aware, going in, that there are obvious similarities. Her mother tattooed it on her arm, as she says, but did not tell her what it meant--and since she doesn't reveal anything else about her mother (though I don't think it's clear what her purpose is for that) there isn't enough to speculate on her motives. So no, it isn't a tally of her customers, although that is an interesting idea. It would be sort of like the tattoo equivalent of one of those add-a-pearl necklaces. Only awful, of course.

I know I've said it before, but I do still wonder if Miss Taafe will eventually get the chance to do something to help improve her situation. (Or whether Sarai will get a chance to help Miss Taafe in some way.)

There isn't much that Miss Taafe can do for Sarai--and this sort of situation, as JadeLotus was exploring in her most recent diary entry, is complicated. But one could say that, by giving her the copy of that play, she has done something for her.

Everything I said about the glorious decadence of the setting in the last entry applies to this one too, of course. I think I too can guess what Enji Day's henchman may be on about on this errand—and given the bouncer's glance at Miss Taafe, I am afraid he won't like what he finds out. I just hope it won't mean bad consequences for either of the two, well, girlfriends, I guess we can now call them!

I don't think Enji Day himself is actually present at the house: if he were, one of the other girls would have come to warn Sarai, and the bouncer wouldn't have been so indifferent. But that is a reminder--for the audience, and for Miss Taafe--that he is out there, and only one of the possible complications to having a relationship with Sarai.

As always, thanks for reading, and commenting!

*

So, yes: it has once again been nearly a month since I last posted. But I'm not writing merely to offer that excuse. I have the next post finished, and I should have it up sometime tomorrow.

 

-----


Then: I used most of the afternoon to read over the Kanin play. I didn’t know much about the actual story beforehand--Sarai could only remember the names of two of the characters, and the summary I found buried in the holonet was one sentence long. Of course, I’m not qualified to have an opinion on it; I can only wonder how many subtly played references I couldn’t even see. And it was made differently from the stories I’m accustomed to. The scenes are arranged like the scattered pieces of a dream (or the memory of a dream), and I wasn’t certain which of the characters is the leading protagonist. Actually: I don’t think there was one. But I made the attempt, as I read along, to understand the story on its level. This is a story from this world, from the burning bright desert.

Most importantly: while I shall continue with my search for at least one of Kanin’s other works, it looks as though this I can use this one for the literature unit I’m planning for the older students. It is (and I quote Kitster, my contact) the best known work of her mature period. And it has eight roles, the exact same number of my older students, so they can each have a part in the readings. Obviously, I plan to assign the larger roles to the non-human students—I think Pili would do well as the part of Micah. He has shown a certain aptitude during our more recent storyhours.

Of course, I have some time to figure this all out—I won’t start this unit for over another month, until after we have finished the basic language skills testbook. And that is literally in Basic: the only language that I, and most of my students, know.

This evening, after dinner, I talked the play, and other matters, over with Brother Mercy, my new Assistant Teacher, as we went for our usual walk through the fading dusk, when the air becomes easier to breath and swallow. The sky was a bruised-dark blue, and one of the suns glared out from just behind the ragged shadow of the Dragonteeth.

That should prove to be interesting, he said, when I told him about my plan for the staged reading. I’ve looked into this playwright a bit myself. My one associate in Mos Alba told me that apparently, she was originally a slave.

She was, I said. But you won’t find that out in the holonet.

That was one of the first things Kitster told me during our first conversation, after he asked if I was an outlander. (And yes: I should have mentioned that in my opening missive, and I know better than to try to excuse it away). His static-hissed voice was casual through my com speaker: You do know she was a slave.

After I apologized for the second time, he had said (with a faint amused leap to his voice): Oh, no need for that! I should have guessed you hadn’t heard. The Hutts like it that way.

Then he told me what they had left out, which I went on to tell Brother Mercy: Apparently, she earned her own freedom through the ways of the trickster. And no, I don’t know what that means. She didn’t hold back in her work, either. According to my contact in Mos Entha, the Hutts banned this particular play from performance for years.

It looks like you’re teaching our students subversive ways, then, Brother Mercy said, with a snapped arch of his eyebrows. Good on you.

I have certainly gotten to know Brother Mercy on a different level since he began working with me last week. He may have the position because he is the only person with an appropriate level of education I could find, but it has worked out well. He has skills which complement mine—he has a good way with the younger students, and he has an actual background in the sciences.

Of course, Mercy isn’t his birthname—though if he had come from that one side of Mor’s family, it would have been. He is probably in his middle forties, and his head thorns—I should have mentioned before that he is a Zabrak—have stubbed dull ends, and his skin is a pale sand color. He owns two homespun robes, and one set of sandals, and a datapad crammed full of books.

While we were talking, I had heard the faint etchings of voices off in the distance. And now, I could see several people walking towards us, and who they were: Joelle and her father walked in front, and after a pause, Isabeau came trudging along behind them.

Jax Plath had seen us, and once he had arrived into hearing range, he sent out a greeting. He is a rosehead, like the girls, and he keeps his hair in a thick stumpy braid. He has a ragged beard, and wears, along with his indifferently done clothes, a pair of gold spark hoop earrings that he may have found during his scavenging—he is the man known for being “worse than a Jawa.”

Hello, sir! Brother Mercy said as his answer, and I nodded. I stayed back while they drifted into a conversation. And of course, Joelle came straight over to me.

Miss Taafe! she said, and I made myself turn my attention to her.

I was not much pleased to see her. Or perhaps I’m not being fair—and I don’t know how to talk with her outside of the school schedule, when I am not her teacher. It isn’t as though I have any examples to follow: when I was in primary school, and then college, I don’t think I ever saw one of my teachers (and no—I shan’t even mention the Lady Elaieva further here) outside in public. They kept their other lives, if they even had them, as secrets. And I know that I kept a respectful distance with my arts students. But I have had to learn different rules here.

Joelle had hardly let loose her first breath before she began to tell me about her most recent difficulties. It was all quite trivial: her new snowpale cat has the diarrhea, and she was knocked down in the street yesterday evening by a rampaging speeder. She showed me the thick dried meat scab on her knee, just above her rolled-tight stocking. I have never seen anything like it--but I did not ask her why she hadn’t just erased it with a bit of bacta-gel.

She had been going on about that incident for several minutes when my comm. started on its nightdove pitched chirp in my coat pocket. It was a message from the Bantha Kid. I turned away from her to click it onto the screen.

When I gave him my com number, in the early grey morning before he left for another one of his wanderings through the desert, he seemed hesitant about sending me a written message. That isn’t like him—but as he told me, he doesn’t have even a primary level education. Perhaps it is because I sent out the first missive, but that doesn’t appear to bother him now. I will say that his writing is not even remotely perfect, but I haven’t once corrected him on it.

Oh, who’s that, Joelle’s voice said behind me.

It’s private, I said. Obviously (since I already know her opinions), I was not about to tell her who it was. She sulked back--but thankfully, she did not crack into a rainleak of tears. She cries so easily, after the least slight, and it is embarrassing—she is a great girl, easily as tall as I am, and she ought to have learned better years ago.

I won’t repeat the Bantha Kid’s message here—though I probably do remember it nearly word for word. I must have drifted into a smile as I read, because after I closed the com, I saw that Brother Mercy and Jax Plath had paused in their conversation long enough to take note. Jax raised the first eyebrow, and Brother Mercy gave me a long sneaking smile.

I think I know who that was from, he said.

Then I have no need to actually tell you, I said in return.

Oh, they knew what I meant, and I didn’t have to go on. Then I tucked my com back into my pocket, and we turned back toward the town. The air was turning into a veiled-soft darkness, and the desert was changing for the night: the Jawa transport gave off its whining call through the distance, and when I breathed out, my breath was a long slinking white scarf.

 

Fanon challenge post was good.

I liked that one of the new intake calmed the hysterical kid down, and good visualisation with the wall of knees.

The prose seemed to kick up a gear at the bar, though I was unable to follow the causal link between the way the Bantha Kid was sitting, and how it forced the protagonist to perch on the stool with knees together.

Good descriptions within the bar of its environs, patrons, and then the fanon beverages.

 

Findswoman: Even though the "afterglow" of the entry before this has long faded, this entry too seems to clarify at least a few things about Miss Taafe's potential relationship to Sarai. The fact that Miss Taafe is taking time to get to know the Kanin play herself, after giving a copy of it to Sarai, certainly seems to me to indicate that her regard for Sarai is genuine. And of course it's a fantastic bonus that it turns out to be a work she can use in her classroom.

Actually, her main purpose for getting the play was for possible use in her classroom. I would suppose (and I might edit this to make it more clear) she told Sarai about the play in the course of conversation, and Sarai mentioned that she had seen it performed before. But yes, it says something about their developing relationship that she went to the effort of getting her a copy she could read.

Ashla Mar Kanin herself seems like a mysterious figure; at first I found it kind of odd that she's the only Tatooine author Miss Taafe was able to find, though that may not be totally surprising given that literature and the arts haven't traditionally been (or haven't traditionally been able to have been) priorities for Tatooine.

There are other Tatooine writers--Miss Taafe's problem is that she is looking for them in the only place she knows of, which happens to be the wrong place. The holonet may be an all-purpose "space internet" in stories, but it wouldn't have much information on the frontier planets like Tatooine. Also, I just don't see Tatooine as having a convenient source of information out there like that, or anything resembling a publishing house putting out space e-books (and I suspect the Hutts would have a rather large part in keeping it that way).

Naturally it would make sense that literature on this world would be very different from that of, a highly art-oriented world like Naboo; those idiosyncrasies in plot and characterization do seem to fit with the overall ethos of the place. Both in this story and in the canonical GFFA, Tatooine is all about gray areas and disconnects.

I'm glad you thought those aspects of Kanin's play fit with her world--it felt, as I rewrote and rewrote that paragraph, that I was kicking at a wall until the right words fell out. Of course, it isn't clear how Kanin's plays fit with, or work against, traditional Tatooine forms of storytelling--and I do think that most "literature" there would be in the oral tradition, which would be another reason why Miss Taafe couldn't find it out on the holonet. She still has (and I apologize in advance) much to learn.

(By the way, I am guessing that the Kitster mentioned here is likely to be the one Anakin knows in Episode 1—the Mos Espa connection especially suggests that.)

He probably is--but since that connection isn't relevant for this story, it will officially stay ambiguous.

As Miss Taafe herself notices, her unexpected encounter with Joelle also highlights the huge difference between the Tatooine and Naboo ethoses (I guess that's the plural I want). There are a lot fewer boundaries of rank and status in Tatooine in general, and that's perhaps what makes the gray areas and disconnects possible. But I don't blame Miss Taafe for finding the situation a bit awkward; it's not always easy to know what to say to a student under those circumstances (I've had it happen a few times in the past).

Yes, Miss Taafe is still getting accustomed to the more informal way of life she has found herself in the midst of on Tatooine. The Naboo might claim (as I read in a fan written story years ago) they are a culture without any hierarchies, but it seems quite obvious to me this isn't the case; and not just because they have a series of girl-queens done up as the same goddess as their democratically elected leader. As she says, she doesn't have any examples from her own life for how to handle the situation with Joelle, which makes it all the more awkward.

I like Brother Mercy—he seems like a good complement to Miss Taafe, and it's nice that she's now got someone to help out with her classroom duties and increase the teacher-to-student ratio. I bet it makes a big difference to the students themselves, too.

There are several one-room schoolhouses still in operation in my area (there has been talk of shutting the one down on and off for years, since I was in grade school myself, but the local families won't have it), and they have tended to have two teachers for fewer students than the eighteen or so Miss Taafe has. So I figured she needed an assistant, and luckily, Brother Mercy was present to take on the job.

Of course, like pretty much everyone else present, I wonder what Jewel's message to Miss Taafe might have been, though the smile and the fact that she remembers it word for word do give me a guess or two. I have a feeling that the love triangle of which you spoke some posts ago might not be too far off. At very least, it indicates that we'll probably see Jewel again pretty soon, which I'm all for!

I can say that Jewel's message isn't overtly romantic in nature (which would come as a disappointment to Joelle, who is only a few years too old to make it up for her sisters' entertainment). But--and Brother Mercy was going to say as much in a line I wound up not using--he doesn't write to just anyone, so you could say that the very existence of the message is a romantic gesture. And yes, you will see Jewel again, and hopefully quite soon.

Thanks for reading, and commenting!

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Sith-I-5: Fanon challenge post was good.

I liked that one of the new intake calmed the hysterical kid down, and good visualisation with the wall of knees.

I actually had a good deal more about all three of the new students in this scene, but I had to cut it out for pacing reasons. That was one of the few details that stayed, and I hope it gave somewhat of an idea of what Owain is like.

The prose seemed to kick up a gear at the bar, though I was unable to follow the causal link between the way the Bantha Kid was sitting, and how it forced the protagonist to perch on the stool with knees together.

Perhaps it's just a US thing, but the men here have a tendency to sit with their legs spread apart, so they take up as much room as possible. (There have been a few times when it was a good thing a male friend and I were sitting in the enclosed space of a car, because I had so little room I might have fallen off the seat.) I suppose I might have made it more clear, but it's like this: the narrator and the Bantha Kid are sitting on neighboring stools at the bar, and because of the "manly" way he is sitting, his knee sticks over into her space.

Good descriptions within the bar of its environs, patrons, and then the fanon beverages.

Thank you, and thanks for reading and commenting!

 

Just a note that I, too, read the fanon post and tried to comprehend it the best way I could, which failed, because I'm still stuck somewhere between entries 3 and 4. While I missed too much to know what exactly is going on there, the descriptions were vivid and the scene with the unruly student was chilling. I guess it will make more sense once I've caught up.

 

Ewok Poet: Just a note that I, too, read the fanon post and tried to comprehend it the best way I could, which failed, because I'm still stuck somewhere between entries 3 and 4. While I missed too much to know what exactly is going on there, the descriptions were vivid and the scene with the unruly student was chilling. I guess it will make more sense once I've caught up.

Yes, this entry probably reads better if you've been following along--that was the reason I hesitated about including it in the challenge, but then I couldn't manage to write anything else suitable, so. But I'm glad that, even if you didn't quite know what was going on, the descriptions worked. And there is always time to catch up.

Thanks for reading and commenting!