Dangerous Compassions

confusion price, wry toast, the ofrenda completed

“Is constant confusion the price I pay for authenticity?” I asked Ming.

“I don’t know,” he said.  He was waiting to turn right on a red.

I told him about a certain person I knew who was never confused, a macho man who had all the answers.  It seemed like it must be nice, to have your whole life figured out and know everything.  But maybe at a deeper layer, he really didn’t know much, so it was more of a performance.  That would explain why he needed all that valium.

I laughed because we were driving by the Neon Museum.  They’re having a special event for a couple months–I saw two metal detectors and lots of overflow parking, security guards in bright vests, with walkie talkies.

“That laugh was at the metal detectors at the Neon Museum,” I told Ming.  “Good luck with your pathetic attempts at safety.  There is no safety,” I added.  “It was a wry laugh.  And not like rye toast.”  I imagined rye toast, warm and buttery.

Ming helped paint this ofrenda at our friend’s house a few nights over the past week.

So we went to Winchester Cultural Center last night so he could see the ofrenda finished and in place.

Ming told me a bit of the story–a farmer of corn, an attempted relocation that resulted in death.  I think it’s beautiful art.

I asked about the actual women in the ofrenda.  I thought they should tell a story or carry a sign written in beautiful script saying they were victims of imperialism or something.  Yeah, the whole family died.

I was sitting in the minivan for most of an hour, feeling too much emotional pain for crowds and noise.  My window was rolled down.  I watched the sky turn purplish.  A lot of people walked by on the sidewalk toward the celebration.  I could hear some distant music from the stage.

I heard bits of the conversation of passers by.  A mom asked her kid in Spanish if he was sad.  A lady wore a pretty dress and had her face painted.  A man wore a skull mask on the back of his head.

I’m at the time in my cycle when I take things personally and feel a ton of anguish–everything hurts.  I was asking Ming how to reconcile being a valid functional ok human with this monthly suffering for no reason.  “Is this the price I pay for the sacred honor of being able to create life in my womb?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Evolution seems pretty ridiculous,” I said.

The other day I was thinking how men have nipples–I think we all start out as girl babies in the womb.  So…almost all men are trans?  Does that make sense?  It made sense to me.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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