Dangerous Compassions

stop making sense

I woke up confused and ok–felt good, to be in the middle place. I felt contented and independent. Like I was right, alone. But then I reached for my phone, a connection to other humans.

Read the txts that came while I was sleeping. Cackled like a crone at a friend’s joke.

This morning I cried like a waterfall. Almost sick crying, the kind that’s possibly aerobic exercise. All body, full on sads, not wanting to do the work of feeling. But here it is, exiting me, like a sad-spirit, using my body on its way out.

What to do? Thank Mother God I can feel. I’m blessed with this pain. Here I am, doing humanness. Doing a good job, apartantly, feeling the bumps in the road and suffering hard, when I suffer. When I was good, I was very very good.

My community member listens to this music I hated–I said it sounded like someone left on a video game, and the menu music was playing! Hahaha! I think that hurt his feelings. He said he liked to listen to it while he did homework.

Here I am listening to it myself, and I realized, hmm, I think this music is made by computers. Bland and unsurprising, based on nothing but a program.

No humans sang a version of this song by a campfire. A program knows how music works and made innocuousness to slightly stimulate a brain and help bored kids stay awake to finish the chapter and read the study questions and consider what the fuck Teacher wants.

Coffee plus time plus $50,000 plus sad effort and this music = diploma? Well, I think I’m going to say no. I see an appeal, but it hurts me, to hear music a human didn’t make.

What do you think? Like having sex with a robot or eating fake food. It looks like food, smells like food, but is made of illusion and air.

Oh body, I love you. You are unpredictable and can fail in so many ways. I wish you made sense, but much of the time, you do not. Sorry I keep expecting you to make sense.

red dress trike rider with red graffiti

I’m glad I’m not Teacher anymore, trying to extract something from tired strugglers who are doing a minimum to meet a requirement then move on to the next required thing.

Poor kids. Go outside and play in the sunlight. Most everyone needs more rest.

For Trinity Day, a friend in Albuquerque txted me a link to a presentation where people were reading a list of the names of dead New Mexico downwinders. Seemed beautiful to hear the names of these people. The least we could do. Every name a human being miracle, dead for a bomb test. So much cancer and pain.

Didn’t know I’d feel destroyed by the end of it. Part of the point is to overwhelm the listener, maybe. Well, it worked.

Love to all. I hope when you cry like that, you can sleep afterward, or someone will listen to you, put their hand on your back and feel your body heave with exiting grief, witnessing and caring.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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