a key to dream doors

I feel fed up with everything.  My tummy is uncomfortable, almost hurting.  I feel like giving up.

On the other hand, we might get some quail eggs from a farmer who has too many.

I need to put some files on a flash drive to print at the FedEx place.  It's a process--save the files as pdfs, remember how to put them on the flash drive, make sure they really went on there.

My friend made me a beautiful necklace for my birthday.  Ming photographed it for me yesterday.  Thank you, sweetie.

I'm still feeling how I feel about the ring and the pretend key.  Last one she made me, she also sent in the mail unpadded, and a wooden bead broke apart.  This one came through better.

The long, tan beads remind me of the 1970s--in a good way.  I love the squarish beads and the dark and light string mixed together.

I didn't eat anything challenging for dinner.  Maybe it was too much spinach at once?  But it never bothered me before.

I hope you're having a good sleep and enjoying dream opportunities.  Yesterday, complaining about deam-bits bothering me in the day, I told Ming, maybe I have a dream disorder.  Night night.

dream jewelry

We got an email from Pace e Bene that has a picture of our friend, the one Ming visited in the assisted living facility a few weeks ago in Oakland.  I laughed and showed Ming the picture.

"Hey, I'm an elder!  I got these things in my ears.  I don't know who you are, but I love you!"  I said, my imagination of what our friend would say.  His memory is going.

"That's about right," Ming told me.  There was a tree behind him with rays of godly light.

There was also an ad where you can call this number and hear a blessing for the animals recorded by John Dear in the tradition of St Francis of Assisi.  You gather your animals and I guess put it on speaker and let them be blessed.

"Guess who it's through?" I asked Ming.  "PETA!"

I hate PETA--they are so bad to fat people and simplistic and sensational.  Blamey, mean.  I hate their attitude.  But I love veganism and collaboration.

"Sounds like a dream, doesn't it," I told Ming.

So much lately sounds like a dream.  Also my dreams at times are like reality.  Last night there were these beautiful beads, dark seeds, matching necklace and earrings.  I'll remember something and try to figure out if it was a dream or really happened.  I guess I'm getting more like Ming.

matters of the heart, winning the diabetes lottery, old questions, really huge mangos

I didn't know an echocardiogram is just an ultrasound of the heart.  The worker told me to take my clothes off my top half, put on this paper gown with the opening in front, and lie on this exam table with my feet this direction, my head that direction, lying on my left side.

"I'll turn my back to you so you can undress," she told me.  She was doing forms related to a previous ultrasound.

I've always thought it was weird how a doctor can see you naked and touch you in the most private of places, but for some reason, dressing and undressing is a sacred personal thing that they cannot witness.  What's up with that.  Some illusion of dignity, I guess, but I don't know why they chose that thing to pretend about.

So I took off my clothes and put on the paper gown which was of course way too small.  The exam table was so high I almost couldn't get onto it.  I thought it was strange that she didn't have a stepstool.  I'm of average height but have short legs.  Many people must have trouble. 

Somehow, I got myself onto the table, my legs going in the right direction, my head going the other direction, on my left side. 

There was no pillow.  I tried to be comfortable.  She had music playing on her phone.  The first song was in Spanish, but the next was in French.  Was that really French?  Yeah, that chewy sound is a French sound, as in "moi." 

Then the Beatles song "Help" played.  How did that make sense?  I thought maybe that was her ringtone, not a song, because it seemed to play briefly then go back to another language.  That would make sense as a ringtone.

A few minutes before, when I was getting the EKG, the two nurse people putting the leads on my body were talking crap about this ultrasound lady.  So I was remembering that.  The things that seem small from the outside, but if that's your job, everything is so magnified.

So I was lying there.  She put some goo on my chest, warning me that it was cold, and moved the ultrasound wand on my heart for a while, taking pictures of my heart.  Sometimes I heard my heartbeat whooshingly, for a few seconds, which made me nervous.  I willed it to be steady.  I tried to give love to my heart's sound and give love to myself, uncomfortable on the exam table.

Then she asked me to take my left breast and move it so she could get her ultrasound wand under that breast.  She gave me confusing directions about which hand to use, and then she changed her mind and decided my original way was going to work fine.

Lying there, holding my breast, wondering how much longer, I felt like I deserved an award.   My arm got tired.  Ming was falling asleep and waking up over and over. 

Suddenly, we were done.  She handed me three paper towels to wipe the goo off my chest.  She said I could use my jacket also.  I was wondering why I would use my jacket.  Then I realized she meant the paper gown.

I struggled off the exam table and wiped myself, then used the gown to wipe myself more.  I like minimizing consumption of resources, but I didn't like the feel of the rigid scratchy gown on my skin and wondered who made her the paper towel police.  And there was no trash can in the room to be seen, so Ming carried out the wadded up paper towels and gown.

Again she turned her back on me while I dressed.  Over all, it had been like a not very good dream.  She said it would take a week to ten days for the ultrasound to be read.  I wondered if they're read by doctors in India. 

I had ultrasounds in the hospital.  The workers there kept telling me to hold my breath and then when I could breathe again.  They pressed the wand hard against places I was worried about.  I hoped they weren't hurting me and wondered if they knew some intense stuff was happening in there.  The first ultrasound person messed it up, which was why they had to do it again. 

The first ultrasound, they sent someone with a mobile machine to me--they thought I was too sick to wheel to another floor?  How does that make sense.  All I had to do was lie there.  But by the time they did the second ultrasound, I must have been on the mend, since I was strong enough to be wheeled away. 

That's when the transport person didn't want my mom to come, and my nurse fought with her that my mom should be able to come, because when they did the endoscopy, they left me alone waiting, scared and bored, for more than an hour, so Mom didn't want that happening to me again.  Mom is awesome, and that feisty nurse was awesome.

I have some shame about my heart.  That if I have heart problems, it's because I'm fat, so I'm bad.  It doesn't make sense because my dad wasn't fat.  His clotting problem was a genetic thing, congenital, the fault of no one. 

But I've always had the feeling we had to watch out for my heart, that it will fail, and it'll be my fault.  But then lots of thin people have heart issues.  The blame thing I can usually escape, but feelings don't always make sense.

As Ming fell asleep and woke up over and over, I saw him try to look at the screen and see my heart.  I wondered if he could see my love for him in there.  Some healthy region of pink glow. 

I was glad the worker didn't exclaim "Oh my God!" that she saw something really wrong.  An alien nestled in my left ventricle, or some parasite or some part missing.  "Do they train them not to exclaim?" I asked Ming afterward.  I always think it's weird when techs can't tell you what they saw, but doing it thousands of times, they must know things.

I woke up with a terrible leg cramp, yelling, and Ming heard me.  I thought it was morning, but it was only 9:30pm. 

Yesterday I was panicking in the morning for hours.  Got better.  Got happy after the endocrinologist told me I'm not diabetic--my hospital diagnosis was incorrect, based on hemoglobin, when I was almost dying from anemia, and even I know intuitively, you can't trust a test based on hemoglobin if your hemoglobin is f-ed.

Then when they took my A1C again, a third of the blood in my body wasn't mine.  So how could we trust that result either. 

The fructosamine test showed my blood sugar over time is not only ok, it's great, the doctor told me.  I felt ecstatic, some health problem I don't have, like I won the diabetes lottery.

Then Ming was out for hours in the afternoon, and I got very sad.  "Feelings are a bad idea," I told Ming, when he came home.  "When God made feelings, that was not her best day."  I was frustrated with emotional pain and it all seemed so stupid, how feelings are so real in the moment but can change so completely. 

Were they ever real?  What is a feeling?  Some chemicals that pass?  Do they really matter? 

I've been trying to figure all this out for a long time.  Imagine me in third or fourth grade, sitting in my desk wearing a dress, my hair in a braid, wondering what feelings are for and can I trust them. 

Not much has changed.  Well, my dresses are more comfortable now.  These questions have been bothering me for a long time.

Today Ming bought two really huge mangos.  I asked him to take a picture, but you couldn't tell how huge they are.  "Oh, well.  You tried.  Thank you," I told him. 

I guess that's it, for now.  I hope you're having a good sleep.  Gnight.

getting kissed by two bears

Scatteredness is tons of ideas and good intentions.

Anxiousness is full of emotions and caring about what happens.

Panic is my body reacting honestly to feelings, telling me I need to step back.

Crying is an expression of relief to emote the worry.

Rest is a kind way to be with myself and a sacred way to care for my well-being.

Hugs are a gentle moment of connection and bodily joy.

Ming is a good sport letting me take funny photos of him getting kissed by two bears.

Laura-Marie is a blogger who apparently doesn't give up easily.

September is my favorite month for a ton of good fall reasons.

Sleep is where my mind strengthens itself with healing dreams 

as my body enjoys blanket comfort, softness, darkness, horizonalness, and Bunny.

what feelings are like

"What am I, a cow who gives you blog-milk?" I asked Ming.  He was headed to bed and implying on his way that I shouldn't go to bed because I hadn't blogged yet.

Feelings can be like weird uncomfortable clothes I can't take off.  Feelings can be self-perpetuating--snowball or avalanche or dominoes falling.  Feelings can be like quicksand or a bog.  Feelings can be irrational, and they confuse me.  I try to sort them out, then decide which ones to listen to--sometimes hard to decide.

They can also be easy, when I'm gliding on joy, and things seem possible.  They can be fun.  They can be very comfortable, like my love for Ming.

Feelings can guide me, but I struggle with them.  Like wrestling with an angel.

I can see someone sabotaging themself with anxiety by having bad behaviors that produce anxiety, over and over.  Then I can do the same.

Some people can't relate to my feelings so dismiss them.  I've been thinking a lot lately about the phenomenon.  You shouldn't feel like that, so I don't believe you do.  You shouldn't feel like that, so I don't have to consider it.

I told a doctor how I was terrified of a particular medical procedure--I agonized for months--maybe years?   Then I finally made the appointment--then I freaked out and canceled it.

The doctor told me I shouldn't be afraid; I would be fine.  I was like, ok...do you know what anxiety is?  Do you think "don't be afraid" is how to help someone not be afraid?  Do you think if I could turn it off, I would have?

"Oh, don't be afraid!  I didn't think of that.  Thank you, doctor.  My problem is solved."

My feelings didn't make sense to him.  Not that giving me a pill would have been a solution.  I hoped he had some workaround, another way to deal with the health problem that necessitated the procedure.  Because of insurance, there are certain hoops to jump through.

Then I almost died and spent five days in the hospital.  There I partially got over my medical phobia.  I guess it was exposure response therapy, big time.

Afterward I found a place that would let Ming stay with me for the procedure, went through with it, and I was ok.  It was pretty hellish, but I did the thing.

There's a fine line between optimism and denial.  It can be a judgment call.  I want to keep it positive, but I also want to live in the "real" world when I can.

I ask for reality checks and try to be cautious about extreme feelings.  But I notice that other people can be super wrong, and they're supposedly not even crazy.  I'm smart about feelings, but it can be hard to trust myself.

Well, this doesn't have funny parts.  I'm afraid I'm not giving you good blog-milk, my love.

Tons of funny things happen, but I forget them.  Jokes about Bunny.  Complicated jokes about things that happened a long time ago.

I'd rather just hug.  Let's hug in the morning.  I gotta go to bed--gnight.

vintage zine, loving myself, hug fantasy

My friend came over last night when she got off work.  I was telling her how I'm trying to be nice to myself.  My bestie told me for years to love myself, and I couldn't figure out what she even meant, let alone do it!  Slowly, I figure it out.

Love myself, give myself a treat, give myself a break, allow myself to relax.  Some permission for selfishness--not like being mean to other people, more like giving myself resources and patience, allowing myself to let things slide--treating myself with a forgiveness I might show others.

If I don't get back to an email quickly--so be it.  If I seem irrational for a while, so be it.  It's ok to be a little erratic and not make sense.  Sometimes it makes sense, not to make sense.

I spent many years beating myself up, so maybe I can go to the other extreme and see how that feels.  An experiment.  I can always beat myself up more later--for today, I can choose to be nice to me.

I got some cool old zines in the mail in trade.  A zine from 1986.  That was a few years before I started making them.  They're small and thin.  I like that in a zine, sometimes.  Low commitment, easy to read and reread.  Cheap to mail.

Today I meet with a new doctor.  I hope he has tools in his toolbox.  I hope he's respectful and smart.

Did you ever have the experience where you had a tea bag and it had a string, and the tea was traveling down the string onto the table to make a little puddle?  What's up with that.

Did you ever get blamed for something you didn't do or that wasn't your fault and feel sad anyway?

Did you ever get insulted by a stranger and it still hurt, even though it wasn't pertinent to who you actually are and the person didn't know you and it shouldn't matter?

Did you ever make a veggie sausage that had a hard part like it was slightly freezer burned and eat it anyway and secretly enjoy the hard freezer burned part?

I'm trying to imagine what my treat could be, post-doctor treat.  How about a hundred hugs.  And Indian food.

Ming had cereal milk for me in a doggie bowl.  He offered to pour it into a cup.  I said it was fine, I would lap it up.  "I'll close my eyes and pretend it's not a doggie bowl," I told him.  "But I can feel it with my mouth."

The milk was dyed slightly blue from the Lucky Charms marshmallow dye.  Life is full of surprises.

homeward bound: roadside sculpture yard, intense coptic monastery, desert cloud drama

In Yermo we stopped at the Liberty Sculpture Park.  They have a few arts there.  We were most interested in the Tank Man art.

Behind the tank sculpture was an actual tank.  There was glass on the ground where a headlight had been busted by a vandal.  Strangely, the tank's back hatch was open, and we could look inside.

Looking inside the tank felt creepy.  "Someone could live in there," I told Ming.  "I'm surprised no one is living in there already."

Then we visited a coptic monastery.  It was a strange combination of beautiful and dysfunctional.

In this picture, you can see a clear plastic communion cup as litter on the big church's steps.  We tried the door, but it was locked.

Then we parked by the cafeteria.  A man in a black habit greeted us.  He saw me, said hello, and went to Ming.  "Are you man or woman?" he asked Ming.

"Man," Ming said. 

He gave us a few pistachios each.  "Do you need food or rest?" he asked.

Then a young man all in white led us to the cafeteria to eat.  There were hardboiled eggs, still warm.  There was some white crumbled stuff that seemed like fermented tofu.  There were some slices of cheese that had seen better days, and slices of lunchmeat in the bottom of a tupperware thing that of course didn't interest us.  And in a disposable aluminum tray were some apples.

Two white people were eating, and then on the opposite side of the room, three Mexican guys with cowboy hats were eating also.  It was strange.  I got two hardboiled eggs and an apple.  I waved to a Mexican guy, who cautiously waved back.

I noticed the white woman's shirt was very dirty.  I thought she hadn't had a working washing machine in a long time.  I asked the white people if they were visitors or if they lived there.  They said they lived nearby.  I figured they could come to this free meal for much-needed food.  The woman asked a monk for milk to take home with her.

The tables were plastic tables like you might get from Costco.  The chairs were plastic Costco chairs also, and dirty with grime, many identical gray chairs all crammed together.  Something about the Mexican people sitting as far away as they could from the white people seemed weird, and all the plastic tables and chairs seemed culty and sad.  Cheapness, unadorned, something meant to be temporary or portable turned permanent out of necessity.

I had a fantasy about offering to wash the chairs for half an hour.  Some service to them.  But I was tired.  I also tried to think of any clothes I could give to the white lady.  She was not as fat as I am, so I thought anything I gave her wouldn't fit.

A monk told us the person who could talk with us would be available in half an hour.  So we went to one of the three churches.  We approached a door on the side of the building that was slightly ajar.

"Should we go in?" Ming asked me.  There was no sign saying it was the entrance.  He said it was like a Choose Your Own Adventure novel.  I said he should knock.  He knocked, then we went inside.

The light was dim.  It smelled like wonderful incense.  There were only a few chairs. 

The icons glowed with gold.  We noticed some of them had paper tucked into the edge--prayers, we guessed.

This knight reminded me of my dad, with a moustache in the 1970s.  The angels reminded me of the angels at our friend's Eastern Rite church.

I liked the ostrich eggs hanging from the ceiling.  I was connecting the dots about different cultures.  We had to take off our shoes to go into the church.

Well, coptic, I thought it was Sumerian, but it's Egyptian.  When we spoke with the monk who was appointed to speak with visitors, he had a long white beard.  His eyes seemed kind, but he was fundamentalist and bigoted. 

He told us how the US is based on Christianity, so it's a good country, and other religions are all bad.  How Jesus was the only religious leader of all the religions of the world who spoke of purity.  Some weird arguments for why Jews should turn Christian.  Some negativity about homosexuals and lust. 

He also thought interfaith was wrong.  To him, the only real faith is his faith, so interfaith isn't possible.  All other religions are false and bad.

I was confused, wondering if he actually believed what he was telling us.  I suspected he was lying.  If he really believed it, goody for him, to be a monk of the only religion getting it right.  Great to be king.  It seemed so gross--I'm right and everyone else is bad.  Yet sort of easy.  A black & white world.

I kind of wanted to leave.  We had driven for a long time on a washboarded dirt road to be insulted.  I was like, jeeze--how interesting.  I've visited many monasteries and other religious places over the years and never been handed such a load of xenophobic, self-righteous crap.

Well, that Catholic monastery in New Mexico where the monk told us it was good that the Native people had been captured and enslaved was pretty out there also.

I asked if the dates they grew were for sale and if the big pond had spiritual significance.  Why they built this place out in the middle of nowhere.  Where the novices come from--other countries or the US. 

The monks all had accents that I guess are Egyptian.  They looked like Arabs, and there were signs on the walls in Arabic.  I thought the monk who spoke to us--he could have turned out Christian Orthodox or Muslim or whatever he had been born into.  It probably isn't nice to assert that, but nothing he said was original or seemed to have been formed in his own mind--he was 100% repeating what he had been told.  So it seemed arbitrary, which religion he picked.

He gave us gift bags as we left, with fliers and little icons in them.  It was nice to visit this place and have a weird experience, and I liked learning about desert spirituality's hospitality and seeing beautiful art. 

I'm glad we visited, but when Ming put the key into the ignition of our minivan and turned it, I was really glad the engine started and we could get the hell out of there.

On the way home, there were gorgeous clouds and flashes of lightning.

yes

It's the wee hours of Monday--I missed a day blogging.  How did that happen? 

We're in Mojave at a cheap hotel.  Ming keeps falling asleep on his phone and popping up again.

The light in here is bad and harsh.  I was working on a new zine--soupline 2.  Telling some stories I need to tell about homeless friends I had and lost.  I feel very good about it.

The best feelings in the world:
telling a story I need to tell, a hug from a loved one, anticipation of a delicious event, freedom, blissful contentment, that pink feeling of wellness I get in my body sometimes when I'm praying in bed, about to fall asleep, one had on my tummy, one arm around Bunny or Ming.  Suddenly getting a new idea that feels exciting and important and that I believe will help me make a great change.  Dancing--a blissful feeling of movement after I didn't dance for a while--remembering my whole body can be celebrating like that.

gratitude list
ok hotel room
quiet except the ac white noise
a return home
faith / hopefulness
options

I took a benedryl for an allergic reaction I'm having, and it just kicked in.  So here I go back to bed.  Good night, homies.

tea color

I told Ming he should buy more shoes, so I could have more black elastic thread to make more necklaces.

Ming spilled tea on his shirt when his hand slipped.  "Are you ok? I asked.

"Yeah," he said.

"Did you burn yourself?" I asked.

"No, it was cold," he said.  We laughed.

"Did you freeze yourself?"

"I dyed myself."

"What color are you now?"

"Tea color."

"Sounds like a good color to be."

"I don't wanna be tea color," Mom added.

"Maybe you already are," I said.

"Haters gonna hate," my nephew said.

"What exactly does that mean?" Mom asked.

We tried to explain.  "You're just going to do the thing you're going to do," my nephew said. 

"There are a lot of variations," I said.  "Like players gonna play.  Eaters gonna eat.  Breakfast makers going to make breakfast."

"Bakers gonna bake," my nephew said.

I bought a small abalone shell from the bead store also.  The sign said it was from Big Sur.

perfect birthday

When I was a baby and turned one year old, I was wearing a frilly dress--you can see me in a photo.  I had a piggy bank someone gave me and walked around to all the family members who were sitting on couches, asking for them to put coins into the piggy bank.

Sounds like fundraising, but of course I didn't know the meaning of those metal circles, just that people laughed when I asked for more, and the happiness I must have felt.

Yesterday, my birthday also, I wore my flower camo pants and had a lot of fun.  The dark chocolate pecan brownies that Ming and I baked and Mom frosted with cream cheese frosting tasted more delicious than possible, like someone slipped in caramel when I wasn't looking.

We forgot to buy ice cream, so we took Healthy Choice fudgesicles from the freezer and pretended they were ice cream.  I love our creativeness.

Here's me trying to think of a wish before I blow out my candles--something is glowing on Mom's hair as she tries to help.  Maybe some fireflies visited that we didn't notice.

Today Ming's made me tea.  I have an allergy attack or else caught a cold for my birthday.  An allergy attack isn't fun but is better than a panic attack, heart attack, or fart attack.

It was the best birthday ever because it was just the right amount.  Sometimes I feel there's scarcity and feel grabby for more fun.  And then other times, there's too much birthday.  Over-birthdaying to compensate for some lack.  Yesterday was just right.

At night, I thanked Ming for all he does for me and how he helps me.  One of the nicest things about this birthday is how it was great, but tons of my days are great.  He's spent only eight of my birthdays with me as my partner, but we've had countless days, scores of days, that have been as good as birthdays.  Even days when I said out loud, "It feels like my birthday!" when it wasn't.  I really hit the partner jackpot.

I was blessed with more energy than usual and a good mood.  Not sure how I managed to do all this stuff.  I feel honored with so much love.

And tomorrow we'll bring veggie kabobs and potato salad to a BBQ at my uncle's house in Lompoc.

what we did
*Park morning where I sat in the sun in my special camping chair, hearing blackbirds, working on a long letter to my bestie in a homemade yellow book while Ming went for a walk.
*Favorite cafe in San Luis Obispo where I had a decadent delicious coffee drink--large, extra chocolate, please. 
*I saw strange, beautiful beads at my favorite bead store in Morro Bay.
*Shared lunch with Catholic Worker friends and enjoyed an accordion birthday serenade from a masterful musician. 
*Apple tasting in See Canyon with Ming, Mom, and Mom's sister, where we got three pounds of organic Jonalicious and Ming took a picture of a birthday kiss. 
*Avila Beach pier where we watched seagulls eat discarded bait from a fishing boat, talked and laughed, and I watched regal pelicans. 
*Dinner at Cielito Lindo where we danced to energetic music and I ate a perfect burrito. 
*Ming and I baked dark chocolate pecan brownies for a birthday cake--Mom made delicious cream cheese frosting.  They sang to me, and my nephew was here.
*I got a card, two soft lovely dresses, cash, a poem, apples, music, postcards, envelopes.  
*I made myself a spoon necklace using a spoon milagro I bought at the bead store, a split ring, and the black elastic string that held together Ming's new shoes.
*Slept well and long afterward, with no bad dreams.

birdhouse bench birthday besos

I wrote a poem about feeling like a giant around my mom and her sister.  It's about Totoro too.  Mama gets smaller and smaller.  Two months ago I was feeling like I would die soon.  Now I feel I might have more decades in me--hope so.

borders crossed us

Oops, my time is slipping away.  Today we're heading south to see my best friend and her baby and a new friend too.  I'm looking forward to a big burrito. 

Thinking about family, feelings, being Californian, being half Mexican-American, how my identities come together into who I am. 

How I don't have problems other people have (perfectionism, working for money, getting caught up in consumerism) but do have problems other people don't have (temperature regulation, extreme exhaustion, hearing voices).

Hoping to enjoy the moments and hold onto happiness as I can.  Love to all and good morning.

the lady hiding in my pants

I woke up and Ming wasn't beside me.  I got up and found him in the living room, lying on the couch, wrapped up in a soft blanket, fast asleep.  The blanket was around his head, and his feet were exposed and bare.

"Hey, honey.  Why are you out here?" I asked.

"I gotta go to school," he said, his eyes still closed.

"School's out," I said.  "Come to bed."

Later we talked about how he had slept through school, so it made sense he was going to school in his sleep.

I'm uncomfortable and fed up with everything.  So hungry and annoyed.  I want lots of hugs but feel unlovabley ornery.  There's not enough chocolate in the world.  I give up.

There's a bakery in Arroyo Grande that makes lemon meringue pie Mom likes, but she's quit sugar.

I bought a day-old sun cookie wrapped in plastic wrap.  It was ok.  More pretty than delicious.

why I'm fed up

1.  people are extremely irresponsible, and it affects others, including me

2.  I'm really hungry all the time, lately, but being fat is so hard because of judgments, assumptions, small seats in theaters and air planes, twig chairs, doctors blaming every ailment on my fatness regardless of causation and not actually helping me, picnic tables I can't fit in because they're designed for thin people, small bathrooms, seat belts can be too small, it's hard to find pretty clothes

3.  I might be understood one-on-one, but there's no chance of me being understood in a group

4.  I can't trust my perceptions, reactions, feelings because I feel totally out of whack

5.  how do you spell whack?  it has an h in it, huh.  thanks a lot, h

6.  my dreams are always haunting me with little dream bits flashing into my mind all day confusingly

7.  I remember things I should have forgotten 15 years ago and have feelings about all of it that are no longer pertinent or useful

8.  being mean to myself despite years of effort to the contrary

9.  asking Ming to validate me and it doesn't help

10.  ancient condiments in the fridge that probably should not be there, but I feel unauthorized to throw them away

11.  I want to go to a bookstore and see something interesting, but I know I'll probably want to buy something, but I really don't need anything and have negative money, so it seems best to avoid the whole situation

12.  researching health things on the internet scares me

13.  uncertainty scares me

14.  the future scares me

15.  my choices seem erratic and almost arbitrary in a painful way

16.  facebook has interesting ideas and really horrible bullshit all mixed together

17.  everything in life is all mixed together, good and bad, and I need it not to be so confusing

18.  I need the guidance of my values in order to have meaning in my life, but can't follow through with everything I believe right now

19.  being positive without being in denial

20.  I can't find balance and instead go back and forth between extremes--all freakin' day

Well, I could go on.  I figure twenty is enough.

Also in the news, I didn't have scrap paper so wrote the name of a printer and some code on a banana peel.

Funny things happen, but I can't remember anything.

"There's a lady hiding in your pants," Mom said.  I was wearing my flower camo pants.  "There's her face, and there's her eye.  Her body is hidden in these flowers."

"Who is she hiding from?" I asked.  I felt for a second like my pants were a secret psychology thing.  Flower camo pants therapy.

"The devil," Mom said.

"Oh!" I said.

"Maybe she's hiding from her husband," she added.

"Maybe she's hiding from God," I said.  "Maybe she's Eve and just ate the forbidden fruit."

"Maybe," Mom said. 

The lady hiding in my pants is probably me.  Maybe she's my ancestor.  Something in my jeans.

the stuff I'm talking about vs the stuff I'm not talking about

"Are you a regular dork, or King of the Dorks?" I asked Ming.  I'd asked him to buy me screen wipes.  I've been wanting to clean my computer screen for a long time.  He bought lens wipes.  Oh, sweetie.

We went to Santa Barbara to visit our friend who lives at the Mission.  He treated us to vegan food--we went to Mesa Verde.  The food was delicious, creative, and seemed really special.  He doesn't own anything.  They have a common purse. 

Then we stopped by Hendry's Beach.  Some painters were painting--seemed idyllic.  I liked the water, the creek, the hill covered in plants, beautiful clouds. 

You know me--I'm crazy about clouds.  The guys went for a walk.  I did some writing, sat on benches, took some photos, enjoyed life.  I got sun.  It didn't feel too intense like desert sun.  It felt ok.

My teacher wrote a series of sonnets Running at Hendry's.

At the Mission, we got a tour of secret places.  They were growing this gorgeous plant.  Turns out it's wild dagga, or lion's ear, which is legal but can give a mild high.  I thought it was a sage.  It's in the mint family.

Life is full of surprises.  I can feel done and fed up.  Then there's beauty again--Ming's smile, a new plant, a delicious pretend cheese sandwich.  Thank you, God.

Life on Mars? modern life, talk-power, undoer of knots

My brother sang the first few lines of "Oh You Pretty Things" the other morning, an early song on David Bowie's album Hunky Dory, and I realized he and I had been listening to the same music independently. 

I told my mom about it today.   How "Life on Mars" was my favorite song for more than ten years. She wanted to hear "Life On Mars" and played it for us on her phone.

"I don't like David Bowie," she told me. 

Gatito was on her lap.  I thought about my dad, who liked David Bowie, including the Ziggy Stardust stuff.  He gave me some of that music when I was young.  "Starman" is a song I associate with my dad really strongly.  I liked to listen to it when he first died.



Mom listened to the whole song "Life on Mars" with me.  Afterward she said, "That's not good music."

I asked, "What do you not like about it?"

She said, "I don't like anything about it."

I told her what I like about it: the lyrics, the piano, the strings, the cinematic-ness, how he's talking about the movies and then the music is like movies music.  I like the intense emotion.  I like the story of it, with the unhappy parents.  I like the ideas about thinking a movie is real, or kind of real, and escapism, boredom, being a kid.

It seems old timey, like movies are different now.  But still a lot of violence.  And then the Mars thing is a great question, inserted in there--some longing for extraterestiality.  That this world is screwed and wanting another chance.  But it's just a question, for us--no answers. 

And it kind of points to the Ziggy Stardust stuff, maybe.  Space is the place.

"I like everything about it," I told her.  You know how sometimes a special song or album can help keep you alive.  That album was a liferaft for me, long ago. 

I told her how it has "Changes" at the beginning, and when I listened to it on cd, I would skip the first song.  I didn't think it fit with the rest of the album, didn't like it, found it obnoxious.  I think it's ok now.



Yesterday I had my first experience swiffereding.  I felt I'd stepped into modern life.  Ming helped me learn how to get the pad thing attached to the bottom part of the stick thing.  The whole time I was asking myself / the swiffer / the universe, "Is this easier?  Is this easy?  Is this working?  Is this a better way?" 

Thinking about waste, adverts, how a product becomes this common, old school mops, those thick white cotton strings, wetly dragged on a floor.  Different mop designs like the ones you can wring out more easily.  Mop buckets.  Janitor mop buckets on wheels with the mophead-squeezing contraption.

My energy was so low.  I'd been lying on the couch with my feet up, barely able to do anything.  I would swiffer with my left arm then switch to my right.  Ming helped me at times.  Mom thanked me afterward, and I felt bad I'd done a poor job.  But it was better than nothing.

I can sweep, but as for mopping, I usually spot mop with a damp paper towel and my foot.  Housekeeping is not my forte or the thing anyone loves me for.  Yesterday Mom was telling me how people do different things to get out their anger or stress including cleaning. 

I told her how I've never stress cleaned in my life.  The only things that help me are crying, talking to Ming about it, maybe going for a walk?  I used to.  Hugs, giving myself some time, waiting it out.

I used to think talking about things can help with anything.  Then I swung to the other side, thinking talking about things is mostly a waste of air.  Most things, talking about them is pointless. 

Then the other day, my feelings were a messed up mass inside of me, and I was freaked out and not even sure what about.  Ming asked me questions, and we untangled it all.  After I talked to him, I felt way better.  So I guess I believe in talk-power again.

Or maybe I just believe in Ming, undoer of knots.  Thank you, Ming.

the love between my brothers and my sisters all all over this land

Mom: I don't think I like hammering.  Even if I had a hammer, I don't think I would hammer.  I don't think it's my thing.

me:  That's what nail guns are for?

Mom:  I wouldn't use a nail gun either.  I think I'd hire someone.

the best intentions of powerful potato choppers who stop blogging to view sunrise

There are a lot of potatoes in the kitchen.  Yesterday I thought I wanted to roast some potatoes and then make the green beans that are in the fridge and sausages--veg sausages for me and Ming, and meat sausages for the others.  That would be dinner.

"Do you ever feel like if you speak one more word, you'll die?" I asked Ming.

"No," he said.

"Really?" I asked.  I was feeling kind of like that.  Like language was too much and I couldn't do it anymore.  Word problem.  "You've never felt like that in your life?"

"I've felt that way about other things," he said.

"Like what?"

"Like...chopping potatoes.  If I chopped one more potato, I would die."

"Really?  Potatoes?  I think potatoes are kind of easy to chop.  Not hard like winter squash.  I kind of like it."

"No, not potatoes specifically.  Just something repetitive like that."

"Hmm," I said.  I was lying in bed with my feet up, as my ankles were swollen.

Later I was wondering if I would have the energy to make the dinner I'd envisioned.  I told Ming my plan.  He said, "I'll help you."

"Yeah, you'll help me if you're awake!"  My mind went to all the times he'd been unintentionally napping, during dinner-making time.  "I hear your intention.  You intend a lot of things.  Doesn't mean they happen."

He made a pretend crying sound.  "Oh, I'm sorry," I said.  "That came out way meaner than I meant it.  But it hurts because it's true!  It's ok, honey."  He was pretend crying mixed with laughing.  "Come here.  Come here."  I held my arms out for a hug, and he came to me and we hugged.  "Let me comfort myself while pretending I'm comforting you," I said.  We laughed more and more.  It was a lovely moment.

Yesterday was too hot, into the night.  It used to be a cool temp here all the time--things changed I think ten or 15 years ago.  I woke up with my hair wet with sweat, uncomfortable in body and mind.  I went into the backyard and sat on a patio chair in the dark.  Ming put ice in my water bottle.

We opened the windows all the way, of the room we're staying in, opened the shades also so they wouldn't block the air, moved the fan into the larger window so it would blow outside air into the room.  I cooled down then got hot again and ate a popsicle.

The potatoes are large russets, in a bag with mesh on the kitchen floor, huge costco bag with few missing.  I have more energy in the mornings.  Afternoons, I always have a lull, on the best of days.  I like lunch to be a bigger meal than dinner, but being with other people, they have their own ways.

Yesterday I was irritable to the point of anger.  Ming asked me what I was angry about.

"Capitalism.  Mediocrity.  Capitalism leading to everything's mediocrity," I said.  There was a newspaper on the table near ours--we were at Panera for air conditioning.  The art on the walls was stupid and banal.  The music was bad.  "I hate just about everything, right now," I said.

I was telling him about stuff in the garage that had been Dad's.  "Any individual thing, I could handle.  Like, here's a cooler.  What do I do with a cooler.  I could wash it out.  I could use it.  I could give it to Goodwill, give it to a friend, throw it away.  Whatever.  Here's an old toolbox.  It's covered in grime.  Maybe it's too dirty, and I just throw it away.  Any individual thing is ok, but the whole mass of it, covered in grime from years, just being left there in the garage for a decade--I can't handle it."

"Why do you have to handle it?" Ming asked.  I explained how I felt partially responsible for the mess, that after Dad died, I didn't help clean things out, and now they're stuck there.  And I can't handle it right now.  Lots of projects in this world, to tackle, and I don't have much energy.  But the garage makes me sad.

Then I was talking about how when I was a little girl, I felt totally unpowerful.  More like I was trying to stay quiet and not be difficult--I wanted to be invisible for many, many years.  I believed some untrue things I heard from culture, in the air, about little girls not being powerful persons, and that continued as I got older.

Now I understand that a little kid can be a very powerful person, a kid of any gender.  And I understand I'm powerful now, but I'm also disabled now, and the power isn't always easy to access, the physical part especially.

The sky is brightening--I'm missing the greatest show on earth.  I better go watch it.  Good morning!

adventures at Coyote Lake campground in Gilroy, California: sweet pigs, beautiful bats, gorgeous oak trees, too many questions

Gmorning.  We went camping.  I didn't understand our air mattress was in the back when our minivan's back window was smashed by a thief in San Francisco--glass, glass bits, and glass dust got all over it.

Ming gave me four foam camping pads to sleep on in our tent, but it wasn't enough.  I slept an hour and a half, and that's all I could do.  So we slept some after that in the minivan.  It wasn't easy.

I saw bats before sunrise.  Bats are special to me.  I loved the wild turkeys in their flock.  The deer were lovely.  Black-necked stilts are a favorite bird of mine, exciting with their pink legs and backwards knees.  I saw a few crows and two distant cows on the lake shore.  A flock of Stellar's jays visited our campsite.  I think of them as loud, but these ones were quiet.

Ming laughed when I wrote "humans" on the list in chalk, but humans are valid animals.

After he took this picture, I wrote moon also.  It's full.

"Full of jelly beans?" Ming asked.

"Full of moon," I said.

But I wanted to talk about the pigs.  They were so cute, much better than I imagined.  The first two pigs I saw, one was a warm brown with darker stripes--one had long hair in different colored tufty patches.  They were medium sized and walked through the campground, one following the other, heads down, not making eye contact.  They seemed shy and like they were doing their pig thing and kind of emotional and sweet.

Later I saw a troupe of pigs, and there were so many babies, at least six.  I thought about the humans, "You guys are in for it," thinking there will be way more big pigs soon.  Those ones I think were all dark, almost black or black.  They also were walking through the campground, noses to the ground, rooting around a bit as they traveled, the babies being quicker and a little comical.

Why is the lake named Coyote Lake?  How did the pigs get there?  What's the difference between a pig and a boar?  Why are boats not allowed on the water, right now?  Are there always more park employees than camping visitors, this time of year?  Are the bugs that look like large albino mosquitos really large albino mosquitos?  Who planted the olive trees?  Why does it cost $34 to camp one night?  Why can't people swim or wade in the lake?  Is the lake water a water supply for any humans?

And my biggest question--why do you say we should care for nature and be kind of animals, then have a bunch of dead animals in your visitor's center?  I'm thinking someone killed them...  I was disturbed by the pelts especially.  The shrunken weird little face of a fox on a pelt--yuck!  Other animals too.  It was the first thing I saw when I went in.

And why are there no postcards.  In a way, it's good not to sell anything.  But I love postcards.

Lots of mysteries there.  I wanted to ask questions, but the worker when we left was busy talking with another worker about serious park stuff.  I wonder if they would have liked my questions.

As we headed south to the undisclosed location, we stopped at my favorite cafe.  I had trouble ordering something, wanted a drink but wanted both no caffeine and no sugar--I wanted it to be cold, also.

I almost asked the worker what she recommended.  I think if I worked at a cafe, I would make a game of guessing the orders of everyone who came in the door.  Not sure how well that would work.

"You look like a large, whole milk decaf mocha, extra chocolate, whipped cream on the side kinda gal," she tells me, in my imagination.  Hmm, that sounds kinds of good, but doesn't meet the sugar specification.  Maybe another time.  Maybe I should have asked my inner barista.

I had a zine once someone mailed to me--I think it was called Barista Bingo, or that was the idea, anyway.  I remember one of the squares was "customer orders using starbux sizes."  I think I gave it to a random barista.  I don't think "receive random zine from customer" was on a square, but that would be cool.

Here's a pic Ming took of the lake--way prettier in real life.

Laura-Marie doing what Laura-Maries do best.  Can you zoom up on the letter and read it?  Hope not.  It was to a favorite political prisoner penpal--I was telling him mostly about the animals, but in a different way.  Oh, some mental health stuff too.

avocado questions, veg cred, adulthood defined

I've loved avocados all my life.  When I was young, I would buy them, then lose track of them.  Life was difficult and confusing.  I would buy an avocado and a week later remember it on the counter, a brown mummy. 

I could have a hard time knowing when an avocado I bought was really ripe--stem end seemed ripe, but then most of it was still hard.  Or I would think I did well, then cut into my avocado and find out it was all rotten bruises. 

I really do think some are doomed from the beginning--I can do everything right, but still the avocado will be a fail--never ripen right, or all yuck.

I think avocados can be the most delicious food in the world, their creamy buttery green goodness, or the most disgusting food in the world, bruised rotting dumpster mush.  Kinda weird--a bipolar fruit.

They can be ripe but kind of latexy, or ripe and very oily and nice.  They can rot a tiny bit on the stem and get those brown lines through them--still might be tasty, but it can look bad.  There can be a bruise or two I can work around, or I can think the bruising is minimal then find it's bad, give up, and throw the whole thing away.

I can have some uncertainty, then cut an avocado open and see I hit the jackpot--it's gorgeous and perfect.  I exclaim something happy to Ming from the kitchen. 

He usually eats the seed half.  I used to remove a seed with my teeth, but I think I'm too old for that now.  I'm going to snap a tooth off--gotta stop.

But I think they should be treated as a vegetable.  I should get veg cred since they are green, plants, and not sweet.  I like them in a salad.  On some tacos maybe.  A fatty treat topping on some grain--rice or quinoa.

Becoming an adult for me was about being on top of things enough to do well with avocados.  I liked to eat half an avocado with salt.  I love to eat avocado toast, sometimes with tomatoes.  I've had guacamole times, in my life.  A brief phase of this avocado-based green vegan pasta sauce with lemon and fresh basil.  Sounds great, but I think I never got it right, or it was more of a fantasy.

A long time ago in Santa Barbara, there was a pizza place I went to that served avocado as a pizza topping.  That was delicious.  They might have been grown locally.  I remember driving on the freeway past hills covered in avocado trees, their abundant dark, beautiful leaves and valuableness.

It's our final night here at the house we're housesitting.  I asked Ming if he was sad to leave, and he said no.  "Are you happy to leave?" I asked.  He said no to that too. 

Mom asked me if I'm sad to leave over txt hours later.  I told her no, we're full.  The city is brutal.

I asked Ming, "Are you normal, here?"  This is the land he comes from.  I noticed a lot of elders walking around who look like his mom.  We decided maybe Ming's demographics are normal here, but he's different, inside.

Our last sunset here, the colors were pinker in the actual sky, but this can give you an idea.

special tea party, aphorism corollary, fuck Treasure Island

I had been wanting to go to high tea with Ming, for a long time.  Not sure why.  It was on my bucket list.

So I made reservations at this place near Japantown in San Francisco.  It's expensive.  It was fun.   It felt like a deep life pleasure. 

But I kept crying.  The music was moving--three Cat Stevens songs, some Stevie Nicks, "Dust In the Wind."  "Starry Night," played--when I was a teenager, my dad gave me an audio tape of Don McClean that had that song on it.

But mostly, life was feeling fragile and too short.  The food was delicious.  We liked the crumpets, blueberry scones, clotted cream, lemon curd, jam, sandwiches. 

My tea was great.  Ming liked his also--imperial pu-erh.  The little desserts were nice.  I got maxed out on sugar, and we took a few home with us.

There were little souffle things that I found boring and not delicious--I gave mine to Ming after the first bite.  But I was glad they had no trouble doing it vegetarian.

Seeing Ming lick the pink frosting from the vanilla mini cupcake was very cute.  Seeing his pleasure at the things.  That made me cry too.  I guess that was why it was on my bucket list--I guess that was the reason.

I was trying not to cry because I didn't want the excellent waitperson to see me crying and think I was sad about something.  I would cry and stop, look away.

There were roses, and I wiped my eyes with a napkin and asked Ming to take a picture of me with the roses to show my mom, because she likes roses.  They look like sweet garden roses more than florist ones.

And there were some funny advices on the wall.  I asked Ming to take my picture beside this one.

The tea place was in a building called New People.  I thought it was a mall for kids things and imagined some kid museum.  I didn't like the idea that a lot of kids would be at the tea place, being their loud kid selves.  (Lotsa reasons I didn't have kids.)

I was mistaken--it's just a regular mall, nothing to do with kids.  But I thought it was for kids since kids are new people.  I was just laughing about this mistake.

We finally left.  We lingered for a couple songs I like.  "House of the Rising Sun" version by the Animals, I think.  And maybe "Sound of Silence."  We walked to the minivan... 

I have an aphorism--it's only a good parking space if you get back and your car is still there.  I have a corollary now: It's only a good parking space if you get back and your window hasn't been smashed and Ming's backpack stolen.

It's $308 for the new window to be installed.  Ming's backpack had nothing valuable in it, but the backpack itself was kinda valuable, a fancy one that the rain couldn't get into. 

"They must have felt disappointed," I told Ming.  "They risked their freedom for nothing."  It was on a busy street, in daylight. 

My bag was in there, and it wasn't touched--I'm glad they didn't get my computer.  Also, my stamp tin was in the glovebox, and that was ignored also.  Kind of a lot of money in stamps, there.

Our whole drive back to El Cerrito, we could hear the sound of more safety glass crumbling and falling.  It was unsettling.  I felt fine, but Ming was sad. 

I needed to pee, after enjoying an entire pot of decaf English breakfast tea, so we stopped at the deli on Treasure Island.



Moral of the story: Hide your backpack, when you park in San Francisco.

found ring #3

We have a date with a monk.  Our friend lived in Sacramento but moved to Santa Barbara.  I realized he lives in the mission--he's a Franciscan.  Holy crap.

We're going to pay him a visit in a week.  I was telling Ming--Ming can go in the monastery, as a man, but not me.  I told him they could put my lunch on a tray and push it out into the hall, where I could eat--alone and a lady.  It was a weird fantasy.  The tray in my mind is dark green plastic.

I was excited.  "We're going to hug a monk," I told Ming.  They wear the brown robes and rope belt there.  He said he'd give us a tour.

I found a ring in the gutter.  Ming says he thinks the diamond is real--I said fake.  Mom says there should be a stamp on the band saying if the band is gold or what.  My eyes are ok but not like they used to be.  My birthday is soon.

Do you know how many rings I've found, in my life?  This is the third that I can think of.

When I was a kid, I found a wedding band in my aunt's backyard, while I was playing.  That yard also had a clump of four-leaf clovers.  My aunt said it wasn't hers and I could keep it.

A few years ago in Las Vegas at the Catholic Worker soup line serving site, I found a ring also.  It's got a yellow stone and was somewhat crushed and misshapen.  I found it in the dirt.

The ring I found yesterday, in the gutter, I didn't like at first, but I grew to like it.  Made me think about finding stuff, justice, people's weird beliefs about what they deserve, custom-policies like finder's keepers.

Ming assumed I would try to find an owner.  I think it's an inexpensive ring for a kid and probably no one cares about it.  Should I expend a bunch of energy trying to find its owner?  If it's worth a lot of money, should I?  I think it's fake because the stone isn't beautiful.  I thought the whole deal of diamonds is they're pretty.

Yesterday we went to Nugget in West Sacramento, on our way to Sac.  I was telling Ming, what if Nugget stopped being a grocery store and became a weed dispensary, which I found funny. 

The produce was pretty, and I looked at some flowers, considering buying flowers for the friends we were about to visit with.  There were $10 flowers--little roses and daisies in a mason jar.  Cute, but I passed.

Mostly I wanted to look at the muffins, pies, cookies, breads.  I considered a vegan lemon blueberry muffin, but it was expensive.  I considered pretty cupcakes.  I ended up choosing two small pumpkin muffins in a celebration of the nearness of fall. 

Wow, they were delicious, with a streusel topping that seemed to be mostly brown sugar.  I gave a muffin to Ming.  We sat outside in the shade, and it wasn't too hot.  We talked about the future.

"Do you think one day we'll have a diagnosis for my health problems?" I asked him.  "Are we going to look back on this time and say, remember when I didn't have a diagnosis yet, and how hard that was?"

Ming said yes.  He said we're persistent, make a paper trail, and will be victorious.  I was giddy with the thought that I could get help and feel better, one day.

"Maybe you have narcolepsy," he said. 

I was aghast.  "No way!" I said.  "Not supposed to have two people in a relationship with narcolepsy!"

"Why not?" he asked.

I couldn't explain how that sounded like hell.  And a party foul too. 

There were trashcans with trout heads.  I thought they were whale heads, maybe, but Ming says trout.

He made me some tea.  I was having an annoying dream about a bakery with special disabled areas.  Bakery areas more accessible, their locations, a repetitive fitful bakery dream about a huge multistory bakery on a hill, the bakery itself and drawings of it.

There are at least four rings I've lost also.  I lost that wedding band I found in my aunt's backyard.  My parents gave me a ring when I was a kid, small rubies and a diamond, in a flower shape--I lost that one, not sure when.   I had a silver toe ring I lost at Waller Park--I think it was my 17th birthday.  Well, it was a regular ring too small for a finger, so I wore it on a toe. 

Then a wedding ring from my previous marriage--I carried it around in my wallet for a long time.  Then one day a homeless person was begging, and I had no dollar bill, so I gave him almost all of my change--later I realized my ring was gone.  I think it was probably around a nickel.

I was in the past, in my mind, thinking about those rings--vivid ring memories.  Our friend told us there's a craigslist lost and found I could check for a "lost" ad for the ring I found.  We were eating special pizza.  I was in an energetic mood and had trouble maintaining my level of conversation.