Dangerous Compassions

level of risk related to fairy lights

We were at a Dollar Tree in California, running an errand for my mom.  We saw these strands of copper wire with little lights in them, six feet, battery powered.  We got excited.  Ming said we could decorate our car with them.

Ming put batteries into one for me, just now, and I draped the strand around my shoulders, as my lovely light scarf.  “I can put this part in my cleavage, if I wear a bra,” I said about the rectangular battery part, and we laughed as I stuck the plastic box in my non-bra cleavage, as it slipped down.

“Do you think it makes a bad EMF?” I asked Ming.

“No,” he said.

“Okay, thanks for your nursely advice,” I said.

I was sorry it cost a dollar and said something about people working in factories getting paid pennies.  Then Ming told me a news item and made me read the wikipedia current events blurb about it on his phone.

I made a bad sound and handed the phone back to him.

“Do you think it’s real?” Ming asked.

“Do you mean like if it was a prank, from someone in England or someone in Asia…?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Who knows,” I said.  “I hope it’s a prank.  But it’s sad because it seems so possible.”

He said how they shut down the factory in question rather than address the issue.  It was like they had to cover their asses, the factory owners, so rather than address a problem, they shut it all down.

But I’m familiar with a similar situation, of saying “fuck it all” and then the problem is never solved–it just gets passed around.

“You should write a book about it,” Ming said, which was a joke because I’m working on a book kind of about that.

“Yeah, maybe I will,” I said, still nervous the light strand had a bad EMF, so I took it off my shoulders when he went back to bed.

I’m feeling extra open to new ways of being, maybe too erratic, but it kind of feels good.

The 1970s glittery Christmas tree ornaments, feeling protective of them, with butterflies and swirlies that have been carefully packed away and brought out again every year for decades.  Things change.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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