Dangerous Compassions

doing life

Hey, my beautiful darling finally guestblogged. That last post is so lovely, like a poem. I fill with curiosity–what will he say next? His words nourish me like little tasty fruits. I’m like pacman eating his words like those dots in a line.

Doing life–talking to people, listening to music, sleeping, eating delicious foods. I would like to dance more, but it’s so hot.

Desert boats are pretty weird. Had to take a picture of Ming with this pretty blue one. I want to tell the owner, “You have done a thing that makes no sense.” I like not making sense. But it can be expensive.

The other day I compared something I was doing to playing marbles with retarded third graders. That probably sounds mean, but I like retarded people ok, and I love third graders. But I think we’re not supposed to say retarded. It came out of my mouth. I was feeling some anguish, at the time.

I like marbles–they are so gorgeous. Round, real, self-contained, not caring about me or anything. Cold to the touch, pleasant in the hand. The big ones and regular ones. Black ones. Clear ones. A little air bubble trapped. Swirls of colors.

I’m the type of guy who will just look at the marbles, sort them into piles, touch them, group them in different groupings, talk to them–pray to them, honestly. Yep, I pray to anything. What can you do.

Like looking at a button collection, feeling feelings toward all the buttons–a large red and white flecked one, a gold one with a Navy symbol, broken ones, boring tan ones, shell ones that gleam. One that looks like an old coin. Sorting them different ways, daydreaming about making a button sculpture or sewing them onto something, gratuitously.

Then sweeping them all back into the jar with a motion of my hand. Two fall on the floor, and I leave them for the cat to play with.

Hmm, I haven’t had a cat in a really long time. But there you go. Maybe the cucarachas can do some curling.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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