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Dangerous Compassions

midnight rice

You know, I love almost all of the colors.  I changed a lot–used to hate red.  I understand it a bit better now and use it to bind zines a lot, a sacred color of vibrancy.  All-purpose sacred color.

I used to hate blue.  A really dark blue could be ok.  Now I think I understand blue a bit better also.  Sky color.  Ok color.  A bit basic, but no problem with blue.

I’m having sensory issues–pony tail holders are hurting me too much.  My hair feeling pulled drives me crazy.  Add to that random itchiness, general discomfort, and my mind feeling like a bird that can’t find a place to land.  Or it tries to land, but the place isn’t right, so it takes off and lands over and over again, frustrated.

I want to wear these hair things that are more gentle.  Stretchy fabric tubes–like a headband but much more fabric than a small strip.

So we went to the store.  There were two-packs.  I wanted black, but then other colors were tempting me.  I saw a wine one, like burgundy?  I realized that’s one of my favorite colors lately, to wear especially.

But it hadn’t even been considered, on the recent list I made of my favorite colors.  There are colors I like to wear in particular, and colors I like to see.

I wanted some white rice, but we couldn’t find any in our house, but I found brown rice and wild rice, so I’m boiling some now, to go with leftover Indian food.  Then I realized my rice would be done at midnight, and I felt silly.

The rain sounds so pretty.  Like a music that’s soft and comforting.  Like I can trust it, outside.

Ming has this rice that’s precooked–he offered me some.  We used to get that kind a lot, six years ago, in Sacramento at a church that gave away free food every week.

“That plastic rice?” I asked.  “No way!  You insult me, and you insult all of my ancestors.” 

Maybe I got too taxed by the poverty rice, which was expired, and this recent stuff Ming has is better. But I’m glad to use the last little bit of brown rice from an old bag I found in the fridge, in the back of the bottom shelf.

There’s a little sound coming from the pot of rice on the stove, as steam makes the lid jiggle a little bit, a homey sound I like.  But we need some WD-40 for the door hinges, and we never get past a certain priority.

Too many decisions to make.  I wrote a list, and some possible choices.  I want to care a lot and stay on top of it.  I vacillate between caring and forgetting, some responsible determined feeling and an overwhelmed feeling of giving up.

I accidentally scratched my wrist too much.  The sensory stuff I mentioned, it seems random.  I was telling Ming how I want my body to make sense, but a lot of the time, it seems to do whatever.  I want to believe I have some control over my mind, trying to stay well with a shitton of self-care and other-care, but sometimes I just feel crazy.

“I feel howly,” I told Ming.  “I feel like I can’t do this shit no more.”  I tried to tell myself I don’t need to make sense for anyone.  Ming’s eating crackers in the kitchen.  My rice will be done kind of soon!

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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