Dangerous Compassions

we can fix our own meals, we can wash our own hair

I laid out half of my new zine yesterday morning.  It was so emotional.  I was folding.  I was crumbling like an old cookie.  It was six in the morning, and I was running out of spoons.  Bad idea.

I finished laying it out this morning.  Then we went for an Easter bike ride.  We encountered zero bunnies or eggs.  I heard roosters crow. 

We encountered two loose dogs.  At first they ignored us.  Then they faced us and barked, showing us they were boss.  I pedaled away as Ming engaged them.  I thought Ming was saving me.  I wondered what was happening to him.

Then Ming pedaled up behind me, and I realized the dogs were just playin’.  Having dog fun.  We were ok.  Thank god.  But I forgot to eat breakfast, so we didn’t ride as long as I wanted to.

I planted a sprig of chocolate mint I filched then put in water until it rooted.  I feel good about it.  I want to plant some seeds too.

I felt guilty for mentioning God.  So many people have been harmed by religion or religious people and/or are smugly atheist.  I don’t want to hurt them.

I see God as Mother and haven’t done Christianity since I was a kid.  But when I mention God, Christianity is what people go to, especially if they don’t know me well.

I would struggle not to mention God, but what if I want to speak from my body, speak my whole truth?  My truth is god.  I was prioritizing what I thought other people wanted to hear over what I need to say.

So I’m going to try mentioning God more.  I hope you don’t mind.  I don’t think it’ll affect my writing much.  I mean more in person.

This dress has SQL on it.  What do you think?  I would do me!  I feel really good being who I am, lately.  Really, really good.  You have no idea.

I filled out a form, and it asked for a title, by where I signed my name.  I didn’t know what to put–I considered Mx and “self-healing witch.”  I thought they wouldn’t appreciate either. 

(Later I realized I wasn’t supposed to sign there–the worker was, maybe, who was interviewing me, but it’s covid time, so we’re using the mail.)

I’m pretty Mx-y for a cis lady.  Hmm.  I didn’t even consider Ms.  And you will know her by the honorific she uses.  Not by the breasts she bears.

I was quoting Shakespeare this morning to Ming–why was that.  A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and if they prick us, do we not bleed?  They’re kind of the same, though very different plays. 

But roses have thorns, which are pricky, and this blog post is getting a little dissolving into noise, like a favorite Sufjan Stevens song.  But then sometimes he returns to clarity at the very end also.

Oh yeah, we were talking about brassicas.  He wanted to know if the brassicas we got from P were kale or what. 

I told him, it doesn’t matter what we call them.  They taste cabbage-y and delicious.  Then the Shakespeare.  “Your walking stick kale and tree collards–they were all the same thing.  You were saying they were different, but you were mistaken.  Big time.”

“They’re a lot more tender than I thought they would be,” Ming said.

“Yeah, sounds like P,” I said.  “He’s way more tender than he looks.”

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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