Dangerous Compassions

ghost question, stolen bunny, word play, how kind Ming is

If you’re sitting a house with a ghost in it, is it ok to talk about that?  Can ghosts read?  Can ghosts read blogs?

Ming says there is no ghost here.  Well, let me tell you the story.  You can see what you think.

Last night I was up by myself for a while.  Just after 2am, I was going to bed, turning off some lights so it was darker but not actually dark–I left a couple lights on.  I got a scared feeling, which was unusual.  I hadn’t felt scared like that in a long time.

I hurried through the hall to the bedroom where Ming and I are sleeping.  Then there was a loud sound of talk radio–voices of two men talking about some topic I couldn’t understand.  I thought, hmm, a radio came on by itself.  That’s odd.

Ming got up from bed, found the radio, and turned it off.  Then a while later, it was on again, and he turned it off again.

It was a weird coincidence–the fear for no reason, then the radio coming on by itself.  I don’t know any reason I would have had that rush of fear.   It was odd timing.  I hadn’t had fear like that in years.

Then when we came home yesterday from some hours out, I was on the porch, waiting for Ming to let me into the house, as he had the key.  I decided to try the door, since I was waiting.  I was surprised when the door opened.

“Why is the door open?” Ming asked me, when he came in.

“It wasn’t locked!” I said.

“But when we left, I specifically made sure it was locked,” he said.

So of course, I was wondering if a ghost unlocked it.

“I don’t want anyone fucking with me, living or dead,” I told Ming, earlier in the day.  So I’ve been a bit jumpy.  I hoped Bunny would protect me, and I used to have a fairy whose specific purpose was keeping ghosts away.  I used to be really scared of ghosts.

I think statistically, people are usually ok from ghosts.  I’m at much greater risk of harm from other factors, right?  Maybe ghosts are a decoy?

Ming is up with me, punching holes in zines with his awl.  He made us tea.  Ironically, I took him to Acme Bread yesterday for herb slab, an apple turnover, an olive roll.  We also got a special bread that’s shaped like a ladder.  How delicious.  It’s ironic because he comes from around here, but he’d never been there, while I had been there countless times, long ago, and never lived here.

The other day, on the phone, I confessed to my mom stealing Bunny.  Around six years ago, Ming and I were staying at Mom’s house, in the front bedroom, and started playing with a stuffed animal toy there.   Seemed no one was paying attention to this toy, so we took him with us, sort of casually.  We named him Rusty Bun. 

He is a chill, low-needs, very soft, comforting bunny that I like to cuddle with.  We make fun of him for having a misshapen head.  He doesn’t mind whatsoever.  He likes to travel in my suitcase.  He is a nice pretend family member.

“Sorry I stole him,” I told mom.  She forgave me.  I’ve stolen very few things, in my life.  I told Ming yesterday, I never even stole office supplies from work–I think you’re kind of supposed to.  It’s not best practice.

Isn’t he cute?  He has a funny smile.  Sweet bun.

I told Ming I needed to blog because we couldn’t leave it to the pros.  I need to DIY.

“We can’t leave it to the prose?” he asked. 

Later I asked, “Why are there socks on the table?”

“Because the table has legs?” he offered.  I think he’s trying to give me wordplay because he loves me and there’s some boogiewoogie in him that’s gotta come out.

I slept from 8 something to after midnight.  I’m sleeping better and more.  Maybe my pinched nerve pain is going away?  It’s been bothering me a few months.  But a few of my issues are episodic.

I was eating dinner, and some lady walking by outside on the sidewalk was looking at me, through the big uncurtained windows.  I don’t know why.  I remember long ago, looking into rich people’s houses, while walking by.  Thinking, “So that’s what rich people look like.  Why do they get to be rich?”

I looked back at the curious walking lady, kind of annoyed.  “I’m not a rich person–I’m just a housesitter,” I wanted to tell her.  But then I thought maybe she knows the people who live here and was wondering who the hell I was, munching my Acme bread sandwich at her friends’ kitchen table.

Poor Ming is sleeping in the window bed.  I didn’t want him to leave me alone.  He’s quietly snoring.  Youtube played me that boogiewoogie song at my request and has moved on to some David Bowie.

I can see myself and the room reflected in the big window: pink orchids, white orchids, wooden kitchen cabinets, toaster oven, marble counters, kitchen island, tissue box, high sloping ceiling with track lights.  The stainless steel hood over the range.  Kitchen table cluttered with zinery, black socks, Ming’s glasses, a bowl, a white cord. 

I scan the reflection of the room for a shadowy ghost–none here at the moment.  Through the window I can see some lights of the city, light of distant cars moving on a road. 

Well, Ming woke up, looked at his phone, and is stumbling around.  I’m oppressing him.  Gnight!

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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