Dangerous Compassions


I rapped a new song.  It’s about being illegible at the doctor’s office.  Medical trauma, respect.  Please hear, if you get the chance.  It’s called Noncompliant.


My friend told me about asemic writing.  I was familiar with the concept of illegible, but not the term asemic, or that people like to do this.  It excites me–a lot.

Friend introduced it to me in reference to graffiti.  So that’s a good association.  But mostly asemic writing makes me feel vindicated.  My illegibility is ok.  Some people do it on purpose.  Take that, world that demands normalcy from me that I cannot give.

I think about illegibility all the time.  That I’m allowed to be one weird thing, or maybe two.  But add up crazy, plus fat, plus queer, plus not Christian religious, plus anarchist, plus never having kids, plus not driving…  It gets so many stacked weirdnesses, there is no hope for my needs ever being met, except in very special circumstances, like at home with Ming.

The stacked weirdness been a source of shame, most of my life.  Even one of those things was shame.  But the asemic writing helps me feel ok, in my illegibility.  Wow, it can be an art form.  It can be desirable.


I made this poetry meme about carrots.  Yeah, I get unduly excited about carrots, nowadays.

poetry meme

I get a strange thrill from saving cooking fuel.  If I can cook my carrots with my pasta–extraordinarily happy about that.  Weird joy, but I’ll take it.

Maybe my last life, I lived somewhere that was really far from the fuel.  So it’s residual.


I had a terrible doctor’s appointment.  Still crying about that.  My last doc was condescending.  I got this new one, looking for a fat-friendly doctor.  I thought her being a woman would help.

But when I told her I hadn’t taken the medication she’d prescribed, she was mad at me.  I was like–what?  It turned into a power struggle.

I didn’t take it because I had a question.  She acted like I was stupid.  My questions are not stupid–they’re smart!

It confuses me how doctors need me to be docile and just do what they say.  Why is that?  How do their emotions get so tied into it?  They get paid the same, whether I’m an easy patient or a patient who thinks and asks questions, right?

I wish they’d enjoy a patient who cares and wants to be collaborative and cautious.  My questions about the pill she prescribed are valid questions.  Why does she have to be the boss?

It’s worse than a job boss.  It’s my own body, we’re talking about.  The health of my own body is everything, to me.  Why would I hand my power over to someone I barely knew?  I wouldn’t hand my power over at all.


I get sad because I think it’s impossible to find a good doctor who will respect me, not blame all my problems on fatness, accept that I have questions, and do pills last resort, not first.  I guess that’s too tall an order.

Yeah, I’m illegible!  But I love me, and Ming does too.


By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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