Dangerous Compassions

unicorn chaos

Ming was cleaning the counter so we could make enchiladas.  He was bumping something with the blue sponge, and it was making a clanking noise I didn’t like.  “Uh!  Uh!!!” I emoted.  Then the can opener fell on the floor, clattering,  “Do you have to make so much noise?” I asked.

“Yes!” Ming said.  “It’s to scare the germs.”

I laughed through my fear.  Loud noises can hurt me, depending on how I’m doing, sensory-wise.  It’s weird how the pain is physical, but why is that.  Is all pain physical?  I guess so.  I don’t understand what feelings are made of.  I guess almost everything is made of matter.

Then I asked him to hug me and apologize for scaring me.  “I’m sorry I scared you,” he said.

“Do you know what you are?” I asked, kissing his left arm I always kiss and hugging him.  “Brilliant.”

“I scared them silly-uh,” he said.

“Do you think most germs have cilia?” I asked.  “I guess–I guess you have to get around somehow.  Unless there’s a germ lyft.”

We thought germ lyft was funny, like ski lifts for germs.

We were about to go on our bike ride, and I saw a new cat eating cat food on the cat table.  It’s black and white.  “Who the hell is that?” I asked Ming.  “Did you see that one before?  I think we should name it Get The Fuck Out of Here.  We could call it Get the Fuck Out of Here–We Don’t Need Another Cat for short.”

Probably that sounds mean, but we love these cats, really.  It’s just we kind of wish they didn’t keep getting replaced.  Ming’s ocd is not good with cats, believe me.

Then on our bike ride, I spotted a dollar bill in the gutter.  Ming picked it up.

I turned too quickly at the end of a street and caught air unwantedly.  I told Ming, I need not to do that.  “I need these knees,” I said.  “I need them to last another 40 years.”

I realized this morning that I turned into a Portland cliche without even ever living in Portland.  I wanted to live there, for a while.  I told Ming, “A happy fat lady riding a bike, wearing a cute dress, is such a Portland cliche, to me.  All I need is a zine on my head!”

“A what?” he asked.

“A zine on my head!” I said.  We were biking by this church I like to bike by, with those pretty trees.  “You can take the Portland dream out of the girl, but not the…Portland out of the girl?”

I realized that the less I sleep, the less filter I have on my creativity.  A lot of times some filter makes me think, oh that’s a bad idea, or I don’t know how to do that, or that won’t turn out good.  But the less I sleep, the more likely I am to just do things, thinking about them less or almost not at all.  It’s great.

But also, the less I sleep, the more my executive function goes down.  The other day I was typing a message to a friend and forgot who I was talking to mid-message–I started talking about them rather than to them.  Uh oh.  I need some executives functioning in my head.

I was asking Ming if he was an executive.  “Did you wear a suit?” I asked.  He said no, so I said he wasn’t an executive.   How strange, that a suit is that powerful a symbol.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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