Dangerous Compassions

making fun of the thing we’re enjoying, the saddest freedom I ever had, permaculture for a pair

We were making fun of our pancakes–we got this paleo pancake mix.  We’ve been cleaning out the fridge.  Ming was going to move the mix elsewhere, and I said, “I’ll just make them now.  Do you want some pancakes?”

I measured and mixed, complaining that the instructions didn’t say how well to mix them.  “Do you know what the first ingredient is?” I asked.  It was cassava flour.  I think that’s a root from a south american country?

Ming said, “Oh yeah, because the cavemen were good at importing things for thousands of miles.”

“Maybe there were cavepeople wherever the cassava comes from?  Yeah, cavemen, I think they’re white, usually,” I said, flipping pancakes.  “Maybe they had a trucking network of Flintstone trucks.”

Wow, they were delicious.  The first pancake, I was not so sure about.  It had a weird sweetness, like stevia.  Then I trusted the pancakes and ate them like crazy, with butter.

Ming excitedly wanted to know where the mix came from.  He was eating his with organic strawberry jam.  I used this bland oil I bought for deep frying the vegan lumpia that was given to us, safflower oil from Natural Grocers.

Then we were looking at a dino valentine I may or may not be giving to my godchild.  And I invited Ming to write it in also, as Ming is the godfather.  “Isn’t there a special song for that?” I asked Ming.

Then I was getting the Godfather song mixed up with the theme song for the X-Files, so I played them both on youtube.  Hmm, yeah.  Maybe the melody, but not the accoutrements.

I thought it made no sense that cassava is from South America because is has a double s–I thought the whole deal of Spanish is you don’t do the double consonants gratuitously.  Only meaningfully, like rr.  But maybe it’s Portuguese or something.  Yep, good guess.  I looked it up–it’s from Portuguese.

I used to write this blog for my mom.  She used to read it every day.  She was a tough cookie.  Ming loves everything I write, pretty much.  He’s a stickler for clarity, and he wants a lot of balance–if I only show one side of things, he can slightly object.  He wants a lot of perspective.

Otherwise, he loves all of it, laughs at the funny parts, cries at the sad and poignant parts, adores the details.  Likes to read about himself and what we did.

Mom, on the other hand, rarely praised my writing.  I remember after she read A Special Treehouse for Fat People–she came over to me and kissed me and said she was proud of me.  I think the good writing, she just expected.  She knew it would come out of me.

A friend I loved told me language comes out of me like just exhaling.  I just exhale, and the skillful language comes forth.  Also one time I was praising their art and mentioned muscle memory, how I don’t have anything like muscle memory, and they said when they read my writing, it seems like I do.  Those compliments I remember.

The freedom that I could say something on my blog and Mom would not read it, that’s just about the saddest freedom I ever had.  I really don’t recommend losing your most loyal reader.  I told Ming the other day, he’s now the person who loves me most in this world, and how does that feel?  What a sad question, Laura-Marie.

That’s me, asking the sad questions.  When Mom first died, Ming was crying in the pupusaria, and I asked him if he was scared.  He said no, why would he be scared.  I said because he has to take care of me more, now.  I meant like Mom isn’t going to take care of me much, anymore.

I have to hope more family will come, or believe, or imagine.  That I can step up and take care of myself more, or friends.  Yesterday someone txted me that the people who love me are ready to love me.  I’ve heard that before–friends ready to rush into my life.  Not sure how I hold people at arm’s length or say no when I thought I was saying yes.

We photocopied the new zine yesterday, Permaculture for a Pair. It’s good, but knowing Mom can’t read it, feels a little pointless.  Oh well.  Maybe you can read it, reader.  I’ll bind some today.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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