Hello, reader. How are you doing? I need to tell you some serious things today.
The first is that Ming is a street medic, as you probably know. When Ming went out to do street medic mutual aid work at the No Kings protest last weekend, as usual, I’m like, “Do you have what you need? Where are your gloves? What else are you bringing?”
This time Ming brought their birth certificate. I was scared, and my fear must’ve leapt onto Ming. Yes, it’s come to that. Ming’s a fifth or sixth generation Bay Area Chinese-American, bringing their papers to a protest, afraid of being deported to a country they’ve never visited. Sorry about that, dear.
doctor
On to additional serious things– yesterday I went to the doctor. That’s one of the most stressful things I do. Some yahoo has been to med school and jumped through so many hoops to prove he’s normal. Really I’m not looking for that. My fat, disabled, beautiful body is not normal. Bodies are so miraculously varied.
He has access to tests and equipment I don’t, and there’s all of Big Pharma he’s gate keeping. But mostly, he’s drunk so much Kool aid at this point, it feels like talking to an AI. What’s real doesn’t matter– he will say what’s feasible. He says what doctors say. No surprises there.
It reminds me of McDonald’s food; standardization is the goal. Feels sad, the lack of personality. He’s playing his role, and will say what he has to. His determined, steady, moderate approach is so fucking boring.
Yet what else can I get? We’ve created this world where saying what’s common and expected is the goal! As if language exists for that! Being boring!
Please God, help me do something better than the expected.
capacity
Earlier I was lying in bed writing a letter in my head to someone I was briefly close to. I was thanking them for the opportunity to love them and learn from them, forgiving them for their low capacity, and telling them I was in awe of their intelligence and the deep water of their spirituality.
I was crying, trying to release them. Then I got up to make breakfast. Ming was sitting at my desk, half asleep. Should I write the letter on paper, in real life, that I had been writing in my imagination?
This done person, done with me, as done as death, didn’t write a letter to me. This person didn’t devote hours to understanding, connecting, and thanking me. Hell no. Whatever they’re doing with their life at this point, I’m not worth the time of day, let alone an outpouring of respect and gratitude.
energy
“Why do I waste so much energy on people who don’t give a fuck about me?” I asked Ming. “Why is it so much easier to care for people who ignore me, than to give my energy to actual dear ones who I want to be connected with all my life?”
Ming blinked at me.
“Their capacity is a pond! My capacity is an ocean!” I continued. “What are they doing all day?”
“Healing from trauma,” Ming said.
“What does that mean?” I asked. “What are they doing to heal? Are they watching movies and playing video games? What’s so important that it’s too much to reply to my text or reply to my email? How did I get to be too much for almost everyone?”
If they are healing, I would have healed with them. I’m crying about not being invited along on the journey.
morning
True I only have energy in the early morning. I had baked potatoes and roasted sweet potatoes starting at 4am, and I made tofu with spices and bell pepper also. We’re going on a trip tomorrow, so I sliced some bell pepper to bring raw with the hummus I was making.
Most people see me in the afternoon when my energy is low. This early morning energetic person only Ming sees.
What happens when you don’t match everyone else? Majority rules. The world isn’t going to compromise for me.
I’m tired of how alone I feel sometimes. Yet I have an amazing spouse, chosen family, good friends, a working car, a home indoors, a functional bathroom. I can walk, sing, cuddle, and dance. I make art, write, and read tarot cards. My time is mine. I let some people in.
Yet I’m writing love letters in my head to people who pushed me out.
serious things
What do you think of these serious things, reader? The first is about violence. My dear lover Ming could be deported, uprooted from everything they know, for being not-white in a racist police state. No one deserves that.
The second of the serious things is also about violence. The brutality of the normal is beating me up. Medical nonsense is killing me. Power differential is so uncreative.
The third is about avoidance. Intimacy is too scary for most people. Much of my life is spent cleaning up messes avoidant people make.
Yes, I wanted you to follow through with what you said you would do. Yes, I wanted to build the future we dreamed together. I’m sorry I’m actual, I remember what you said, and I notice you are doing none of it.
Arcosanti
Suddenly I think of Arcosanti which I was thrilled by years ago, that idealism. I’m a visionary too, but not a womanizing white man with an ego as big as the moon.
I had wanted to live at Arcosanti, work in the kitchen, and build community justice with exciting architecture.
They had dreamed a future that was very slimmly, partly realized. Tourists come to marvel at the ruins of the portion that was built, visiting the gift shop, trying to get near the perfume of excitement and possibility, like I was trying to get near that perfume too.
To answer my own question… Wasting energy on people who don’t give a fuck about me is an easier failure than wasting energy on what’s real. The reason I throw so much energy at the impossible is that potential is very inspiring, while the actual is clunky. Materiality is so heavy compared to the lightness of ideas.
Thank you for reading my serious things. It helps me to tell you.
I don’t know whether the one I briefly loved is harvesting miner’s lettuce, singing to the creek, bathing, having sex with who they chose, walking in the woods, making soup, and being happy. I hope being happy. But I wish they would have somehow chosen me.
