Hey, I have a new zine coming out soon. Please Pass the Plants #2: a vegan cookzine for disabled eating.
I did some art, felt good–I thought I had a draft done yesterday, then added a little essay about how a knockoff instapot changed my life, and then a little essay about how to make smoothies. Then a mini essay about making tea from the garden and store.
This zine I feel really good about–it was on the backburner for a long time. Something was missing.
Then suddenly I realized that I could put in my pesto recipe. Eureka! I added something about asparagus and zucchini, and some finishing touches. Hopefully Ming will proofread it soon.
talk to the tummy
My tummy feels bad, and I have insomnia. Three hours of sleep are not going to do me. I feel a little disappointed in my body.
Oh tummy, I love you. Why are you cranky with me? I didn’t feed you anything weird. Please feel better, tum.
Thank you for digesting my food for me, to give me energy. Thank you for healing from the ulcer last year. I want to be good to you. Please be patient with me as I continually learn how.
This is a really stressful time. Yesterday I got irritable to the point of hardcore critical, said mean things to Ming. He cried, as did I. The last thing I need is to be a jerk to my closest friend and helper. Wow, that’s not who I want to be–immoral, but also not in my best interest. Sorry, sweetheart.
Missing my mom makes everything harder. I didn’t know she was serving as such a buffer between me and badness, how I was relying on her magic as part of my magic. It’s hard work, becoming a new person.
I try to rest, take breaks, ask for help, reach out to friends, smile, try a new perspective. Get some movement, do the basics, tell myself it’s temporary. I asked a friend to pray for our house, and he did. That felt good. A squeaky courtyard grackle squeaked its blessing also.
Ming is sleeping, and I hear his even snores. The sun will come up. I’d like to ride trike. It’s cooling off so much, we don’t have to go at dawn. But then if we miss dawn, when do we go? It’s helpful to have a time.
I have a hero, Mia Mingus. I was reading again an essay she wrote that I really love. It gives me chills and makes me cry. There’s a part where she reminds me of a Catholic Worker. Ming let me read it to him earlier.
I made a meme from a Mia Mingus quote. The meme is pretty emotional–some disabled people in a concentration camp. I wonder–where are the disabled women? Are they already killed? What happened to these men, after the picture?
I identify with the least-disabled-looking guy–I feel like I’d be trying to help and protect the people less disabled than I was. Still subject to the whims of the people with guns. It’s chilling. I’d rather not find myself here.
If the community we live in had known how disabled we are, when we came here, they might have said no. I’m very familiar with hiding how disabled I am, automatically but also in a calculated way, in order to survive. Thinking a lot about desirability, beauty, love, what motivates us, how to be safe.
I find safety in community, communication, intimacy, kindness, anarchy, love, compassion, service, inter-dependence. That’s what I got.
Money can come and go. My own resourcefulness and intelligence can be handy. But alone, I’m a sitting duck.
Thank you for caring for who you can, when you can. I like my bright socks, matching the sign. I used to hate the color blue, and now I love it. But I’m seriously behind–just now getting to understand blue and be friends with it.