Dangerous Compassions


“So the bees are flying through the sky, doing work, looking down at their compatriots on the ground, who are injured,” Ming said.

“Wait–wait.  This is so good,” I said.  “Compatriots!  Is this a bedtime story for you, or for me?”

“For you!  I’m trying to entertain you!” Ming said.

He was sleepy and cuddled on my back while I sat up in bed, writing on my craptastic chromebook.


I have often asked Ming to tell me a story, over the years.  Usually they devolve to some animals in a field.  A goat will be involved.

Yes, story time.  Something will be happening.  Then suddenly the scene shifts to a field, where a goat is frolicking.  I will be like–what the fuck.  Why are we in this field again?

(Kinda like Murakami’s well, if you know what I’m talking about.  I really like this interview I read recently.  Especially the part about cats.)


We will laugh, and Ming will bring in previous characters, or new characters.  Then usually he will fall asleep, at least partly.

A common question in our family is, “How asleep are you?”

“Not asleep.  Only like 20 percent asleep,” he says.  It can shift as he says it.  Or he is more asleep than he understands.  Often I can tell better than he can.

It’s kinda like asking someone, “How drunk are you?”  The more drunk you are, the less you know how drunk you are.  I’m sorry it works that way.


Back to bees, I would like to tell you that bees can be insects who do pollinating.  They can scare people with the stinger and with allergy.  Bees are easy to romanticize.  I adore them and their hives, freaky queens, dancing to communicate, humming sounds, honey.

But can I offer to you that bees could be angels?  Yes, little golden, winged angels who keep humanity alive through work in flowers.  Their industrious work is one of my favorite things to witness.  I look forward to spring and some warmth here, so I can watch Oregon bees do their love magic.

Moving somewhere in November is weird.  We are seeing winter in all its glory.  I expect spring will be a revelation.


“I’m so done with winter,” a housemate said last night at the dinner table.  Ming had just noted the darkness, how it was 5:45 and pitch black outside.

We talked about the darkness and what we’re afraid of.  I said how the things I’m afraid of, darkness doesn’t matter.  I said I’m mostly afraid of people I know.  Oh wait–not a night topic.

“What if the year started in July?” my beloved housemate asked.

“Go ahead,” I said.


Can you imagine if the angel who came to Mary to tell her that she was pregnant with Jesus was a bee?  Maybe a large one.  Sounds good to me.

And how could yellow not be my favorite color?  That deep yellow almost to orange, so glowing.  Pollen is the best thing in the world.  Have you seen it under a microscope?  Hmm, maybe I am a bee, secretly.  A fairy bee.

At any rate, I made this art.

not bees

I painted the paper with blue watercolor, and it curled badly, so I painted the backside also, which helped.  Then I drew the fat person and put “valid.”  Thinking a lot about the skillshare I’m working on for disability justice and fat liberation for our house.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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