Dangerous Compassions

curse of the writer

“You’re the one slinging accusations of purity, not me!” Ming just read me from a facebook argument, which I found funny. 

“How do you sling an accusation of purity?” I asked.  “Wouldn’t that be nothing?  Like slinging air?”  The idea of snow.  The idea of a fluffy cloud.

He mentioned a friend who specializes in Burning Man studies.  “Burning Man studies?”  I asked.  “Like they have a Master’s Degree in Burning Man?  What!!!?” 

I was jelly; Burning Man studies would be my jam.  “I think they have a PhD in Burning Man,” Ming said. 

Too much jealous, some scarcity feelings.  Really, Laura-Marie: there is enough love to go around.  People I’m afraid of can be loved, people I’m skeptical of.  Scholars for cool things I’d like to be a scholar of–all deserve love.

You don’t need to eject them to a loveless island.  Maybe one day you can collaborate.  Grant money is a joke.  You have bigger vegan fish to fry.

curse of the writer

I was lying there, all snug in my bed.  Visions of sugarplums were damn-near dancing in my head.  I was getting delicious almost-asleep feelings.

Then I started writing in my head.  As is often the case, it was a letter.  I was telling my friend some stuff I really wanted to say.  Made some sentences in my sleepy head, and then I was arranging the sentences into paragraphs.

I got excited at what I was saying, until the sleep feelings all washed away.  All I had was excitement and dreamy words.

Oops, I had to get up and write some stuff down.  I felt stupid.  That lovely sleep was so close.  Once I was up, I wrote some other stuff I wanted to write.

I love the world so much, then.  Two in the morning is so quiet.  I wrote a blog post, an email to a loved friend.  Went on facebook for a specific task.  Started another email.

The sky was brightening, when Ming got up.  “Damn it,” I said, looking at the window.  “The sun’s coming up.  I never went back to sleep.”

He got six hours.  I got almost five.  Many times I have lived this way, but it’s not optimal.  Curse of the writer is writing.

[Red and white rose grows with yellowish-green leaves by a white-painted iron fence.]

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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