Dangerous Compassions



I tasted some yogurt that was very sour.  Normally I like plain yogurt, but this was an 8 on the sour scale.  It made me shiver.

“Somebody give that goat a better life,” I said.  “Pet her head and feed her a carrot.  At least the green top of a carrot.”

The goat was very vivid to me.  But she is nonsense.  My fantasies can be fast and feel realistic.  I think the goat really is somewhere, baaah-ing.  Or neeeeh-ing.


There is power, to sour.  Like bitter herbs on a seder plate.  I dip them in tears.

Getting ready for a trip, I’ve written extra blog posts.  I lined them up for while Ming and I are traveling.  I need to write every day for my well-being.  But I don’t have my spiff computer chair while traveling.  I need to be careful with my back!

Poor back.  She works so hard.  I want to love her and give her what she needs.  Walks, dancing, good beds, good chairs.  Hydration, gentle stretches, magnesium glycinate sometimes.


I’m telling you this because before, I would blog the day of, or the day before–I might be one or two days ahead.  Right now I’m vastly ahead.  At the time I write this, I’m about two weeks ahead.

Sometimes I mess with the order–if I write something that feels important to post sooner, I bump the next day’s post.  I add it to the end of the queue.

It’s an interesting choice to ponder.  It takes out some of the randomness, and makes things more intentional.  Usually I like a good mix of random and intentional.  I don’t want to get rigid and humorless, but I also don’t want to be annoyingly careless.  Erratic can bother me.

content warning: bug yuck

I was in love someone who had a schizophrenia diagnosis.  Sometimes they would have bad experiences with hallucinated bugs.  They would think bugs were crawling on them and inside of them.

They had a therapist who they really admired and respected.  When they felt the bugs and complained, the therapist would ask, “What’s bugging you?”

The question every time was annoying, to my friend.  But I think the repetition is part of what they liked.  Yes, the therapist was right.  Something was bugging my friend.


Dreams are my joy, and I like when my sleep schedule changes, and I might remember my dreams more.

Some people say everything in your dream is you.  The car, the ice, the dream-friend, the tree, and its shadow.  The weird box, the table, the honeycomb sparking like jewels.

Likewise, what if everything in my blog post is me?  The goat, the carrot, the top of the carrot.  The former beloved, the trusted therapist, the hallucinated bugs.  Bitter herbs.  That could be one way to consider it.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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