What happened when I waited thirty minutes– thank you for asking— is I looked at the time and did math to see what time I could come back.
Standing up in my kitchen, I considered the request. Many media will tell me to do something, and mostly I won’t. But I obey you out of faith and trust. I know from being your friend for a few months that if I show up and try what you ask of me, I will have a good time.
Actually I will have an amazing time that transforms me into a more honest, alive person. That’s my idea of a good time. So there is benefit to me, if I do what you ask. Just try it.
Ming’s breakfast
Ming was up, making their own breakfast. Ming cooked frozen seafood with slices of fresh mango, and got disturbed when the mango turned black.
“Don’t be afraid to add some oil or water to the pan,” I advised, thinking the mango sugar might burn as the seafood cooked.
Ming thought the blackened mango looked unappetizing, but tasted delicious. They ate their breakfast, kissed me, and went back to bed.
reading it
Thirty minutes had passed, so I read the post and cried occasional showers. I imagined the black ball, and felt tender toward it. Later I imagined the white surface for the black ball and felt ok about that.
I mouse-hovered over links, seeing where links went. Mostly I was crying about the beginning of time and the end of time. Whether or not it’s lonely, wearing glasses, and access needs.
I thought of my poem about access needs. That poem comes from a place of pain, where I understand that the range of what I’m allowed to need in any given space is fucking tiny.
Crying because I don’t want to read words on a screen– I’d prefer to be an animal in space with you. I could summarize it as: I miss you. Or I miss the dream of a closeness that felt right. I miss the dream.
dog sound
Then my crying changed from a silent drip to that weird dog sound I make sometimes. A deep grief is there, and we’re touching it.
The grief is bigger than you, bigger than 2025. The grief is bigger than the UTIs I had when I was homeless, and bigger than things that were done to me when I was three. Domestic violence, Ellie dying, my mom elsewhere.
Grief is stored all kinds of places. I thought it mattered to explain community is holding you as the wanted, beautiful genius that you are.
I cry the most about what mattered to the other person, vs what mattered to me. Something is stuck with that one. Stuck about another person’s inner life and the ways I sift in, ways I’m excluded.
I’m here
Something weird happens when I’ve heard a sentence over and over for a long time and finally understand it. I didn’t understand it, and finally I’ve listened to the noise long enough that it makes sense.
It shifts from a neutral idea I consider fine, into another dimension where it flies into the air and shines like a radiant gem. Everything else goes dim. The only appropriate response is to fall on my knees, then crumple onto the floor, wailing. My whole reality shifted, and all I got was this stupid blog post.
Usually I don’t allow myself to fall on the floor, so the need to crumple and wail gets trapped in my torso and fuels other behaviors, sometimes not the best behaviors honestly.
“How did I learn language?” you asked me that one time. I appreciated the setup.
imagine the black ball is white
Then I got excited to imagine the black ball was white, excited enough to click on it.
Everything was blurry as I scrolled through the black ball, white surfaces link list. I was sorry I worshiped you, but feeling sorry was just a vacation. I can vacation in Sorry Town then go back to where I live, where I’m ok as is, and worship as I need to.
“Pray in your own way,” and, “Pray in your own language, while I pray in mine,” are fireside desert invitations I live by: primary permissions I grant myself. No need to figure out those rules.
I live in Pray In Your Own Way Town. The early morning rag was vibrating a lot for me. I don’t need to vibrate because the Ravi does the work.
Definitely I’m a morning person, then listen to the Gayatri Mantra 108 echo-y times. When I don’t know the other language or it’s repetitive, I can listen to the other language and think / write in my usual language.
what happened when I waited thirty minutes
What happened when I waited thirty minutes was just the beginning. Broad, generous suspense built, many colors of suspense. The spacious pause was rich as cheesecake. Am I ready to change? Ritual changes me– prayer and worship.
I go to your writing like showing up for a religious service. Yes, I fasted beforehand. The thirty minutes cleared my mind and prepared me like a fast. Wind blew through my morning. Then I was ready.
There could be worship that’s in error or inappropriate, like if I confused a rope for a snake. Would it be ok to worship Rope Mother when I meant to worship Snake Mother? Which of my senses made the mistake?
Trust means in my world, you actually are an individual. I don’t trust other people how I trust you. Not being an individual, not a person…
When I asked you at the rose garden what time you usually wake up, and you told me about the cops, I thought of sprinklers, waking up when the sprinklers go off. Maybe we brought up the sprinklers. Some people have choices about when they wake up, and some people are roused and told to move on.
Move on, pick up your stuff, squint in streetlight, go out into the rain, do the ritual of being rejected by your culture, do the ritual of pain and looking for a safe place to shit. Do the homeless ritual. Someone in capitalism needs to lose. The winners decided it was you. Parent Earth and you.
altar
The sidewalk is an altar, my body is an altar, this blog post is an altar, a relationship, a zine… The water is going to cleanse us whether we want it to or not. I’m going to sing to the river, and the broken branch might not fall for a long time.
You asked me not to help anymore, and I’m doing my best in Not Helping Town. The only way I know how to stay in this town, along with Not Worshiping Town, is to stay home. So here I am at home, grateful for what happened when I waited thirty minutes.
Soon Ming will get up again. Every time they get up and say, “Happy New year!” I’m afraid we skipped a year. I need 2026! I have plans!
