Hypatia
They took you off the street, you wise woman, you teacher, you shining star of Platonic Alexandria.
They dragged you into their church, screaming their hate, chanting the name of their chosen god, justifying their barbarity.
One historian says they had shards; another says oyster shells. They fell on you, ravening with hate for your noncompliance. They scraped you until you were nothing.
Tomorrow is 6 September. Every year on that day, I feel the first bite of the shards of memory scraping my own heart. For a moment, distracted from pain, I think of you, wise woman, shining star.
Half a lifetime ago:
It fucking burns! Who said this was a good idea? What masochist added this to food, made it a primary ingrediant? Can't taste shit. Moronic natives!
You are freaking sweating over food?! How is this good?! You freak!
Now:
Gimme. Gimme. Smuggled in my luggage. Gimme. I mourn the lack of chile smoked in drums outside my Safeway. Gimme. Knock me out.
YAYYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!!!!!!!!
Got email from editor. Says the MS is fantastic and there's not much in the way of major edits. Old agent says the sales department loves it and verra excited about it.
Man. I want to go home, have a latte, and bask in the glow of published-hood.
Allyson, that's GREAT! Bask, Baby, BASK.
Allyson, that's awesome! (Told you so, told you so!)
Eeee, I'm so happy for you.
Yay, Allyson!!! You rocketh mightily, writer woman.
YAY ALLYSON! Now we just need Jilli's editor to get back to her.
SO not a surprise, Allyson, but wonderful nonetheless!
