Dangerous Compassions


I like this olive cream cheese, lately.  I like to toast a bagel and put the olive cream cheese on it, then some slices of tomato.

The tomato tonight, some seeds inside it had sprouted.  I think that’s good luck.  I feel there’s extra life-force in the tomato, and it will help me.

I was facebook messaging my good friend, but I didn’t know if it was waking her up, so I stopped.  I will ask her in the day time, if she hears a sound from her phone.

My ankles stopped swelling, but sometimes I still get that lightheaded weakness.  It scares me.  Medicine is a glorified guessing game, which I’ve known for a long time, but I see how knowing can get deeper and deeper.

I would like a doctor who sees me as a complete being.  How is the most important thing about health the thing they miss?

I told Ming that putting my feet up is like smoking cigarettes.  It’s a little treat, a way to take a break, relaxing and meditative.  “It’s time for me to put my feet up,” I’ll say, out loud or in my mind, and I’ll go to the bedroom, stack the three pillows, enjoy the 15 minutes.  It’s a way to regulate my time, comfort myself, a way to regroup.  But it’s free and won’t kill me.  Even though my ankles aren’t swelling, I’m still putting my feet up.

I’ll mention to a friend how I smoked cigarettes when I was a young person, and they’ll tell me they can’t imagine it.   I think I seem responsible.

A long time ago, I used to cook a vegan sausage and cut it in half, toast a bagel and put vegan mayo on it, and I think I sprinkled some raw spinach in there also, and put the sausage in there, and it was a wonderful delicious treatfood.

My ex and I called it a beanerism.  I’m laughing now because that sounds so funny.  I can’t think why we called it a beanerism when there were no beans in it, really.  Well, I guess the meat was soy, which comes from a bean.  He and I had funny names for things.  Wordplay.  Two poets.

Ming is not a poet exactly, but we have some wordplay at times.  Why was I laughing like crazy, earlier?  He was half-asleep and telling me some weird things.  Standing in the bedroom in his chonies, eyes closed, slightly swaying.  He kept surprising me with the things he said, but I can’t remember now.

“Don’t fall,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked.  “Because I’ll die?”

“No, because a cockroach might walk on you,” I said.  “No, I don’t want you to break your hip.  I can’t lift you.  We’d be screwed.”

“You’re right,” he said.

“Did they do a bone density test on you?” I asked.

“They won’t,” he said.  “I don’t fit the profile.”

“You’re not a lady?  But you’re Asian-American.  And they say Asians are lactose intolerant more.  So then maybe you didn’t drink milk, so you didn’t get calcium, so you should get a bone density test.”

I was imagining all that cereal he eats–raisin bran, ridiculous lucky charm-type cereal with bright marshmallows.  The box says, “Now with three new unicorn marshmallows!” or something.  I’m like, you gotta be kidding me.  The vegetarian marshmallow eater.  Kid cereal.  All those leprechaun feelings.  The smiling leprechaun on cardboard, blessing breakfast.

He has a little milk but gives most of it to me.  It’s a relationship ritual.  I drink it from the blue plastic bowl, grateful.  He watches me drink it, then takes the bowl and puts it in the sink.  It’s some love thing I don’t understand.  The slightly sweetened cereal milk.

Sometimes he saves it for me because I’m asleep.  When I see a bowl in the sink with milk in it, I know it took me too long to wake up.  An opportunity lost.

Oops, now I’m getting delirious.  I’ve over-blogged, but I learned something.  I didn’t really realize how the cereal milk was a sacred relationship thing.  You learn something new every day.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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