I Question Elise; I Do Not Agree with the Perception of Others
originally posted May 3, 2006
Across two evenings, over several ahn, I compelled her to speak of every collar. Every owner. Every attempt to learn the art of slave dance and every associated failure with that endeavor. With a few notable high caste exceptions, a Warrior and a Builder, her career as a slave girl has been primarily at the feet of Slavers, Outlaws and Thieves with regular stops in the municipal pens in between. She's been in the basket depended from a tarn's saddle and, too, bound across a tarn's saddle. She's labored in the grey tunic of my city and, in the same lifetime, been the preferred slave of one of my city's most powerful men. She's been a first girl, a second girl and just another girl on a chain. Like many slaves, she has had more than a handful of owner's and known many types of service. She is now owned by a Poet. He is an affable sort with a taste for good wine and an eye for the potentiality in women.
The consensus opinion of her, with respect to slave dance, is that she has no aptitude for it. Watching her try is, as one fellow so eloquently put it, "Like watching a wounded tarsk stuck in the mud." Opinions shape perceptions. Perceptions shape realities. It is true one can take a stance that the opinions of others do not enter into one's self image, they do not matter, but it is scarcely possible to take that stance if one is a slave girl. A slave girl must, if permitted to do so, work to improve the opinions of herself. Often, she is not permitted to do so. She is simply sold. I know this first hand. I have owned slave girls who failed to be pleasing in one manner or another. Often, I allowed them time to improve and even motivated them to do so with haste. From time to time, however, I simply sold them off. Not every girl, to every fellow, is worth the hassle.Suppose I write a poem and a fellow, upon hearing it, expresses ambivalence or even disdain for what I have invested my time and emotion into. It is something I have created and deigned to share with others only to have it dismissed with indifference. I have a few options when formulating a response. I can find myself wounded, pained to have failed in the creation of something worthwhile. I can, should I feel churlish enough, simply reply, "Yes, well, blow it out your ass." There are, of course, between rueful inconsolability and brusque intractability, one thousand pasangs of possible responses. Should a slave girl fail to impress, however, the number of acceptable responses are few. Apologize profusely and, if given the opportunity, vow to improve. If not, resign yourself to being a tarnished link soon to be removed from the chain. It has been decided you are not worth the effort to polish.
"Your perception will not be permitted to dampen my reality," I told her. She believes she cannot dance. She has been told she lacks the requisite skill. Those opinions have shaped how she perceives herself. Her perceptions have shaped her reality. They do not shape mine. I own Elise. It will be my opinion that shapes her perception. In time, that perception will shape her reality. I see the makings of a dancer. What you see, what she is no longer permitted to believe, does not matter.
Across two evenings, over several ahn, I compelled her to speak of every collar. Every owner. Every attempt to learn the art of slave dance and every associated failure with that endeavor. With a few notable high caste exceptions, a Warrior and a Builder, her career as a slave girl has been primarily at the feet of Slavers, Outlaws and Thieves with regular stops in the municipal pens in between. She's been in the basket depended from a tarn's saddle and, too, bound across a tarn's saddle. She's labored in the grey tunic of my city and, in the same lifetime, been the preferred slave of one of my city's most powerful men. She's been a first girl, a second girl and just another girl on a chain. Like many slaves, she has had more than a handful of owner's and known many types of service. She is now owned by a Poet. He is an affable sort with a taste for good wine and an eye for the potentiality in women.
The consensus opinion of her, with respect to slave dance, is that she has no aptitude for it. Watching her try is, as one fellow so eloquently put it, "Like watching a wounded tarsk stuck in the mud." Opinions shape perceptions. Perceptions shape realities. It is true one can take a stance that the opinions of others do not enter into one's self image, they do not matter, but it is scarcely possible to take that stance if one is a slave girl. A slave girl must, if permitted to do so, work to improve the opinions of herself. Often, she is not permitted to do so. She is simply sold. I know this first hand. I have owned slave girls who failed to be pleasing in one manner or another. Often, I allowed them time to improve and even motivated them to do so with haste. From time to time, however, I simply sold them off. Not every girl, to every fellow, is worth the hassle.Suppose I write a poem and a fellow, upon hearing it, expresses ambivalence or even disdain for what I have invested my time and emotion into. It is something I have created and deigned to share with others only to have it dismissed with indifference. I have a few options when formulating a response. I can find myself wounded, pained to have failed in the creation of something worthwhile. I can, should I feel churlish enough, simply reply, "Yes, well, blow it out your ass." There are, of course, between rueful inconsolability and brusque intractability, one thousand pasangs of possible responses. Should a slave girl fail to impress, however, the number of acceptable responses are few. Apologize profusely and, if given the opportunity, vow to improve. If not, resign yourself to being a tarnished link soon to be removed from the chain. It has been decided you are not worth the effort to polish.
"Your perception will not be permitted to dampen my reality," I told her. She believes she cannot dance. She has been told she lacks the requisite skill. Those opinions have shaped how she perceives herself. Her perceptions have shaped her reality. They do not shape mine. I own Elise. It will be my opinion that shapes her perception. In time, that perception will shape her reality. I see the makings of a dancer. What you see, what she is no longer permitted to believe, does not matter.
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