Dangerous Compassions


“Hey, honey.  How’d you get so cute?” I asked.

He was standing in the kitchen, wearing his heart tie dyed shirt, half-asleep.  He did not reply, eyes closed.

“Deal with the devil?”

“No,” he said.


“No,” he said.

“Magic spell?”

“No,” he said.

“Long term effort?”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling, eyes opening.

“Oooooh!  I see how it is!  No, I think I know the real answer.”

“What?” he asked.

“Being loved properly?” I asked.

“Yeah!” he said, cute, coming over for a kiss.

It was funny, to give myself credit for his cuteness, but it was a joke.  Of course it’s genes, and how kind he is.  Well, I do love him properly, which includes feeding him sometimes, co-regulating with him emotionally, and brushing his hair.


I made some potatoes.  They were delicious and took a long time, because I took breaks.  Disabled cooking is a thing.  I was thinking I want a master’s degree in potatoes.

Then I made cabbage, and I had some soyrizo I threw in there.  Wow, amazing.  Cabbage is my darling.

I remember when I used to think veg was punishment!  Now veg is reward, a goal of life  A deep pleasure of being alive.

dance therapy

I was arting with my friend, new to do during covid.  We’re both vaccinated and symptom-free.  It was fun to make art with her, in her beautiful craft room.

But making art can hurt my body.  It’s the fine motor close focusing, but also I tense up.  It feels really important, and I can stress, even though that’s silly.  As if an authority figure from my past is going to jump into my present and criticize me for wasting paper with my sorry attempts at self-expression.

So my friend was playing music on her phone, and I would get up and dance, sometimes.  It felt sweet, like dancing was the remedy for art making.  Or they could be the remedy for each other.  Dance for five minutes–give love to my shoulders, un-tense, get my blood flowing, look at stuff far away.  Then sit back down and make art for five minutes.  Back and forth.

brain waves

I told my friend how when I’m making art, sometimes part of my mind starts having dreams from the night before.  My head will be 70% doing what I’m doing, but 20% having dreams.  It can be work, to keep my brain in the present moment of reality.  I keep bringing it back to the desired path with my shepherd’s crook.

“Yeah, sometimes when I’m peeling vegetables, or doing other repetitive kitchen stuff, that happens too,” I said.  “I think because I’m crazy.  My brain starts doing the wrong brain wave or something.  You know like I hear voices.”

My friend said that sounded frustrating.  I agreed, and I wished my brain would do what I ask it to.  But it’s not too harmful to my life, really.

Then we talked about voices a little bit.  She is very smart and said something about how “my voices are usually nice” means sometimes they aren’t.

Hmm, my friends are the smartest.  How did I get so lucky?  Maybe how Ming got so cute.


By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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