Dangerous Compassions

spam risk


“It’s Spam Risk,” I said.  “Should I answer?”

“No,” Ming said.

We were driving in town, on our way to a crappy chain pharmacy for a covidvax booster.

“Yeah, I have to be pretty lonely to answer Spam Risk,” I said.

It reminded me of a poem I wrote about loneliness some years ago, around when my mom died.  A poem about being very lonely as I was getting an ultrasound on my lymph nodes.  Crying as the tech had her cold hands on my body.


Now it’s Christmas they say, and I’m lonely as well.  I don’t think I get generalized lonely–it’s specific.  Today I’m so lonely for my mom, I feel that I can’t live without her.  Yet here I am, continuing to live.

Sometimes I’m lonely for a certain food.  I must admit, I wish I had some delicious vegan tamales right about now.  I wish I’d managed to make some.  But our good friend is bringing me frozen ones from a store.

I’ve been lonely for my homeland, and I’ve been lonely for my bestie.  Longing for sunshine during a cloudy Pacific Northwest winter can feel like loneliness.  Maybe I need some vitamin d.  I need movement but have a hard time doing anything beyond the bare minimum.


I don’t need to be lonely for Ming, because he’s always with me.  On the occasion he’s out with a friend for a few hours, I can miss him a little.  I like to tell him everything.  He’s my buddy of the world.

“I’m sorry I was critical of you,” I said to Ming after an argument.

I cried so much, my eyes feel like volcanoes.  I ate some soft vegan cashew brittle, craving sugar, but that didn’t help.  On one hand is the option of ignoring Christmas as much as I can.  On the other hand, I can try to face my feelings.

But healing seems pointless– so impossible and far.  What’s the point of facing anything?  I’d like to find a cave to hide in.  I have friends like that–so burned by humanity that they’re accepting what little pleasure they can, as they wait to die.

back to spam risk

Spam Risk is not going to be a good conversation, but I can speak with another human–probably in another country.  Their voice might have a lovely timbre.  I might enjoy their accent.

They’ll stick to a script.  But some human intelligence will emerge anyway, in their tone of voice or the name they report is theirs, which we all know is fictional.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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