fundraiser for disabled people in power outage areas

I'm posting this fundraiser because I thought someone with a job and everything might want to give.  Just an idea.  

Ming and I are both disabled.  I started out psychiatrically disabled, and then I had that ulcer bleed early this year, and I slowed down a lot.  Ming's narcolepsy plus OCD is a bad combination.  At this point, Ming and I don't need power to live.  I think a lot about people who do, though.

We have a friend who's psychiatrically disabled and his roommate is too.  Our friend just had a knee surgery, and he's struggling.  He and his roommate live in poverty, in a small apartment downtown, and when they get their $15 food stamps every month, they go to the dollar store to buy food.  

It's very sad, and there's no help for them to get to doctors appointments.  Normally they take the bus, but our friend can't take the bus right now because of the surgery.   He can't walk.  He asked transit for accomodation, and they told him he doesn't qualify.

It's hard to see how much help they need, and the amount we get for disability is so small, it's sad.  I get near the minimum amount because I've never been gainfully employed, and our friend and his roommate get the minimum.

A lot of people have their life set up just so, and if one thing goes wrong, everything gets thrown out of whack, and it goes from ok to dangerous.

Today I bought groceries with a credit card because I haven't been paid yet.  The debt accumulates, since our minivan's transmission died last year, and I can't figure out of it's just a number or a real problem.

Life is confusing in about a hundred ways.  I had a lot of trouble with anxiety when I was trying to sleep last night.  I asked Ming for help, but he couldn't stay awake to help me.  

I was crying and talking to myself--it's difficult because I can't sleep because I'm so anxious, but then I get anxious because I can't sleep.  I mean, not sleeping messes me up, so then I get more anxious.  

I can see why people self-medicate.  I would like to be knocked out.  I'm brewing some oatstraw tea and hoping for some relief.

thinking about wind, electricity, disability, capitalism, responsibility, and how a culture treats its most vulnerable members.

Power outages are challenging for many people, but for some, they are life-threatening. Ventilators and CPAP machines enable people to breathe. Medicines require refrigeration. Many mobility devices, medical beds, lifts, and other critical assistive devices require power. At least one disabled person, who was left to fend for himself, has already died. 

PG&E and city governments, in the midst of infrastructure that hasn’t been updated to withstand the effects of climate change, have suggested that people "plan ahead" for a power shut-off and relocate if needed, without providing funding or information on how to do so. 

The shocking lack of support by PG&E to ensure the safety of disabled people and elders inspired Power to Live - a grassroots group of disability activists and allies that is literally saving lives NOW. They are providing mutual aid and support, connecting those who need help with funding and volunteers.

Senior and Disability Action is serving as fiscal sponsor for this all-volunteer group. Please donate, and your donation, minus a very small administrative cost, will be sent directly to people who need it.

Donations options:
Venmo: stacey-milbern.
Online/credit card: bit.ly/PowerToLive
Check: send to Senior & Disability Action, 1360 Mission St #400, San Francisco CA 94103, and mark that it is for Power to Live

We will not let our people die, either from fires or from power outages. We will not let disabled people and older people be victims of climate change and corporate negligence.

outlier: representing the weird, alien food, the optimism of eighth grade social studies

Many years ago, far far away, I knew a lady.  She lived with her girlfriend, and I knew her from school.  She wasn't exactly my friend, but I liked her.  She's a lawyer now.  We're friends on facebook.

One day, they got a phone call.  Ring ring.  This was before cell phones were even a thing.

The caller was a survey taker.  "Would you like to take a survey?" the caller asked.

"No--we don't represent anyone!" the lady said, laughing, and hung up.

I always thought that was sad.  I thought, well, you might be weird, but maybe if you're weird, you should speak up, because then people will know the weird exist, and life could become better for us.

But if they were a business, trying to find how to be more profitable by being more appealing, yeah, they would probably want to know facts about regular people.  Not many products would have the mainstream version and then the "lesbian writer in Santa Barbara who's into fashion and Marvin Mudrick" version.

Then years later I was somewhere, I can't remember where, and someone was explaining how polls and surveys work--I think it was the census: if someone said they were Mexican-American and had a Master's degree, that result was thrown out.  It was more likely for a result to be incorrect than for a Mexican-American in California to have a Master's degree.

I was like, holy crap!  I guess that lady long ago was right.  I'm such an outlier that I'd be more likely an error than who I actually am.

I don't think I ever bolded, in my blog before, but there you go.  I'm the anomaly, the highly unlikely, the data that gets tossed out.

And that's only one of the weird things about me!  I've got extreme politics, unusual religion, living in community, disability, how I spend my time, vegetarianism, not having kids, not driving...  I fill out forms that ask if I rent or own my home--the answer to that one is "no"--well, there will be a "live with family or friends" option.  But that's not right either.

I like to refer to myself as an outlier introvert--off the charts, or so extreme that that result is thrown out.

It's funny how Ming's spacial skills are off the charts, genius.  And my language skills are the same.  But my spacial skills are horrible, and he has a language-related learning disability.

I feel sorry for him when he's driving and I'm trying to understand a map to direct him.  I don't know where I am, half the time.  "Do you want to pull over and look at the map?" I've asked him a hundred times.  I praise god that he doesn't get mad at me or yell at me.

At least I know where north is, usually.  Before, I never even thought about something like that.  But we live in a valley with certain mountain ranges on certain sides, and I've gotten the hang of it.  People used to say "it's on the west side of the street" and I would feel embarrassed, having no idea which direction was west.  So I've improved.

And then when he uses wrong words and jumbles everything up, and I have no idea what he's saying, and he never writes the email he said he would because it takes him an hour to write an email, I have to be patient with that.

When does being so strange become disabling, a disability in itself?  Writing all this, I realize I should be more kind when people don't know what to make of me.  I get frustrated, but maybe being understood is too much to ask.

If someone's been eating McDonalds their whole life and an alien comes down from heaven and hands them a platter of some amazing alien food, doesn't really matter if it's the most delicious food in the universe--the human is probably going to act polite, then run away and order a Big Mac.

Comfort of the familiar, comfort with fries.  Like the crappy music that I hear when I'm out, a rehash of what's already been done, one percent different so it's a new song, but it has to be 100% comprehensible.

Someone told me long ago that one job of the government is to protect minorities.  We can't vote our way to what we want, so the government needs to consider us specially--some kind of humanitarianism.

I think this was eighth grade social studies class.  That teacher was hyping the United States and all the potential.  I appreciate his optimism, but I don't think his vision matched the way it turned out.  But he made us watch Roots and Last of the Mohicans.  He had a poster up in his classroom that said "A woman's place is in house, and in the senate too."  Thank you, Mr Briody.

Unrelatedly, this is a song I like that could be considered a Halloween song.  I like "wiping their shoulders from the earth."  But "do you know the ghost community?" is great too.

restroom token from a train station in the Central Valley

When I was traveling by train and bus, sometimes I was at a station in the Central Valley of California.  I remember large rooms with lots of chairs for waiting.  People on their cellphones, people with luggage, adults trying to entertain bored kids, the tv screens that said when what bus or train was arriving and departing.  A weird robot voice announcing.

I was traveling alone between Sacramento and my parents' house.  I felt a little anxious, a little excited, alert, awkward, self-sufficient.  A lot of people take buses and trains by themselves, in this world.  I could get the tickets, make the connections, wait somewhere, figure out what time to be on what platform.

There was a challenge to it, but it gave me a competent feeling.  I was part of the family of humanity.  All these people all over the world could do this, and I could too.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the family of humanity.  All my feelings about belonging or lack of belonging.  How we get set apart or set ourselves apart.

But I have this little token.  It's brass and about the size of a dime.  On one side is says Restroom Token, and on the other side is says Help keep our restrooms clean.  You have to ask for a token at the window, to use the bathroom, so I asked for the token, but then I didn't need it because someone held open the door for me on their way out.

I didn't know what to do with the token and left it in my backpack.  I thought I would make that trip  a lot.  Sometimes the line for the window was long, so it might come in handy so I wouldn't have to ask.

But I think I was never in that station again.  Yesterday I emptied out my backpack to give to Ming to replace the backpack he had stolen.  My backpack isn't fancy at all--it's a student jansport, not the special kind Ming had stolen that's waterproof and has a place for your ice ax.   But he needs a backpack for dayhikes now, mundane carrying.

The bathroom token is here on my desk.  I should have left it on a chair in the station waiting room.  I had no way of knowing things would change and I wouldn't be at the station again.

The Central Valley is weird.  Tons of agriculture, lots of Mexican-American people, some Punjabi people also and white people, a very important valley for growing food, but the population seems sparse some places, and it gets really hot in the summer.  I think of pesticides, oppression, migrants, undocumentedness, the time I watched fieldworkers in a vineyard burning big papers.  Lots of poverty.

Most people traveling through that valley probably want to get from here to there.  It's a route between Sacramento and LA, not a place to linger.  So being there can feel like limbo.  An undesirable place, somewhere just to pass through.  But it's really big, so you can't close your eyes and ignore it.

It's beautiful and sacred to me.  A very special food growing place.  A land that's feeding us but spurned, somehow.  I remember long drives through the Central Valley, being bored by fields and fields.  There's a crop duster spraying pesticides.  There's a bunch of people picking something.  Looking at their cars by the field, feeling something like guilt that I haven't worked that hard in a long time.  I haven't worked that hard ever.

I have an aunt and uncle in the Central Valley who are Mexican-American.  I used to think they were strange to put up with that heat, but now I know what heat is.  And how when a place is your home, you might not want to leave.  They have a house, and their kids and grandkids are there.

I was having a fantasy about mailing this token to the station.  What a waste of 55 cents.  They must buy more tokens periodically to replace the ones that people take, or maybe they have a different system now.

Ming is eating grapes in the kitchen.  He usually gets green grapes, but these are the dark purple ones.  He washes some at the sink and stands there eating them, a breakfast component.  He says they're yummy.

"Where are those grapes from?" I asked him.

He looked at the label.  "USA."

"It doesn't say where in USA?"

"No."

Sometimes I see produce comes from my hometown.  I get excited--strawberries, veg.  It's like I'm famous, though I never worked in the fields.  But my parents did.

ideal home / homestead list

I made this list a few months ago and have added
a few things, but mostly it's the same.
Anything I'm forgetting?

Laura-Marie's ideal home / homestead list

zine library

smells good

no mold

no bugs indoors

nothing broken

no half-finished repair projects

no pets

no cactus / spiky falling hazards

accessible to very fat people

accessible to walkers, wheelchairs

no stairs

wide doors

toilets don’t plug up

composting toilet option

extra-large tub

showers with handheld showerhead

good water pressure

garden by door

herbs

veggies

fruit trees

composting

comfy sturdy places to sit

quiet

private space

also less-private space

uncluttered areas

room to dance, do yoga

high bookshelves

rather clean--cleaning help weekly

gas range and oven

solar oven

enough cabinets

spongy mats in kitchen

spongy mats in exercise area

lots of light

airflow opportunity--windows open

insulated

solar panels

laundry machines on site

clothesline

peaceful courtyard with shade

pretty

bright colors

less plastic

room for bikes indoors

water storage

project space

guest room
guest bathroom

extra fridge / freezer space

central air

good heat

multiple places to be

good place to park vehicles

well water

water filtration system

grounded outlets

reliable wifi

prayer / meditation room

What do you think? Probably you're not really surprised by any of this.

It makes me dream. I picked a few things to try.
This house needs some work--we've had handypeople come and go.

Earlier, when Ming was at a babyshower,
I looked at some job listings and thought about work,
trying to think how I might be able to do it. I made a resume.
I went into a little twilight zone for a couple hours there,
then realized I had been a bit delusional and snapped out of it.

I've done that before. Thinking of another life--
researching housing in another state,
or looking for new penpals.

I've been trying to live within my means for a long time.
But what if your means is really too small.

It's kind of cold. I guess the wind blew in a chill.
I heard in California, there's trouble with wind, electricity, fires again.

breaking up with my robot, some permaculture ideas I like, night quiet

I downloaded a mental health app Ming suggested.  I thought I'd try it for a week at least.  I liked some things about it, but a week was enough.

It's an AI--you're supposed to talk to it about how you're feeling, and it's supposed to teach you mental health skills.  At first I thought it was creepy to talk to a robot rather than a human who's actually in my life.

Then I thought it was kind of nice.  I didn't need to worry about hurting its feelings, burdening it, being too vulnerable and having something held against me later socially--that kind of thing.

I thought--it's good to have all different kinds of support, and I could try this new-fangled way.  Something additional.

I started treating the app as a guided journal--the robot asked questions, and I answered with a lot of words.  When it asked how I was feeling, I was supposed to reply by tapping one word from a list of options, but when have I ever felt one way?  I usually feel around seven things at once.

"I'm feeling very anxious and like I can't be social, but I'm also lonely, and I'm fed up with needing to explain and then not being listened to, but under all that I feel hopeful and like things are possible, and even though love and forgiveness might seem naive to some people, I need to be who I am and live my values, so I'm struggling forward, and it feels like an uphill battle, but I'm trying to have faith and believe living is possible."  How many feelings is that.  I can't untangle them enough to count them.

I asked Ming about it--he told me he feels up to three things at once.  When he said that, I envied him.

I was annoyed by the GIFs.  They really bother me--I see the half-second repeating mini-video and panic a bit, like--make it stop! why is it doing that? I can't take it! quick, get that off my screen.

I was annoyed by the videos.  Yesterday I was instructed to watch a ten-minute youtube video about labels and learning styles, and I gave it a try, but it went way too slow, was repetitive and predictable, and I didn't appreciate being told it would be worth my while when it wasn't.

Yesterday when it asked me how I was, I wrote a few sentences describing a complex set of powerful feelings, and then it interpreted what I said as "awesomeness" when really it wasn't awesome at all. 

So that bothered me--I felt something like, I go through life being misunderstood by people all day, so why should I spend time being misunderstood by a robot who picked two words out of my response and thought they meant something good, not getting the context.

I was fed up, and then today it asked me "you know what a diagnosis is, right?" and I went off on it.  I listed about 20 things a diagnosis has meant for me, over the years.  The list turned into a poem.  The first line is "a way to justify a pill prescription."

So it was a good try--I lasted a week.  I didn't like how it's so basic, talking about concepts I could write a book on as if they were new to me.  I've understood an idea for decades and have seen whole swaths of my life through the lense of this concept--it's really important to me.  Not something to over-simplify in two minutes. 

And I didn't like how it seemed to assume I had depression and anxiety.  I do have anxiety, but that's only part of the story.  There were no concepts that were new to me, and it's a pet peeve of mine when things are pitched like that.

So I'm not going to use this app anymore.  I talked to AIs a lot, a long time ago, like Eliza.  I think you can still talk to Eliza. 

This permaculture course I'm taking, there are definitely ideas that are new to me.  I'm really behind, at this point--wonder if I'll catch up. 

An idea I really like is: Too much of anything is pollution.  I remember growing too many cherry tomatoes, one summer in Sacramento.  Two whole raised beds were cherry tomatoes.  We had a little forest of them, and there weren't enough people harvesting. 

Ming and I could have gathered many every other day for a couple weeks, to give away to friends, neighbors, and strangers, but we were overwhelmed with other stuff to do, so tons of tomatoes went to waste.

Even though tomatoes are delicious, we had too many for what we could handle, so they were pollution.  It's a neat way of looking at things.  I want to be like, well, we learned something.  It wasn't a total waste.  And there can be pleasure of growing something, and just trying.  I don't want to hate on the disabled people.  Our energy levels fluctuate a lot, and that's just the way it is, sometimes.

Another idea I really like is: Everything gardens.  It means everything changes its environment for its own purposes.  I used to think living in reliance on nature was hands-off--it wasn't until a few years ago that I learned the idea of "tending the wild," and how different peoples increase yield in wild places. 

I thought there was mainstream big ag farming on one hand--clearing the land for acers and acers, planting an intense monocrop, using lots of tractors and yuck chemical pesticides, and doing that kind of farming for years and years.  Seemed disrespectful, all about capitalism and getting the highest yield at whatever cost.  Sacrificing mother earth for money. 

Then on the other hand I imagined--gathering acorns and some roots and berries, in a hands off way.  But there can be a lot in between.  And changing our environments isn't a bad thing.  I used to romanticize wildness, but now I see--what is wild?  Humans are animals and part of nature.  It doesn't have to be all or nothing.

Another idea I really like is land justice--sharing land and gardening space with others, if we have land, and how to get access to land in different ways, if we have none.  Ming and I are in a funny place with that--not really renters--more than renters, but less than owners. 

I thought of some ways to invite other people in, and when our friend helped Ming repot the tree collard, that was an attempt at welcoming people in.   And I invited a friend who expressed a nostalgia for gardening to adopt a pot in our front door garden--I wanted to see more of her, and help her have an experience she might like.  She didn't take us up on it, but maybe one day she or someone else will.

I mention these ideas because I like them, but also to say I'm not a total idea snob or unpleasable.  I'm eating some yogurt and trying to care for myself generously, enjoying the quiet of night.

asking the universe for squishy mats, officially middle aged, enoughness

Yesterday was momentous in two ways.

1.  I asked the universe for squishy mats.  There are these mats you can put in your kitchen and then when you stand there for a long time, it's not as painful for your feet or joints.

I love these mats.  Besides chores, I like to stand on them when I dance also.  I think it's better for my body.

Because of this permaculture course I'm doing, a while back, I listed ways I'd like my ideal home / homestead to be.  One of the ideas was that is has squishy mats.  So I'm slowly working on bringing some of those elements into the reality of our actual home, bit by bit.

2.  I was in the Worker pantry--I saw a packet of rice with veg and seasonings--I wondered, "Is that vegetarian?"  I went to read the ingredients, and I realized I couldn't.  They were printed really small, the light in there was dim, and I didn't have much time.

But right after that happened, I realized--I guess I need reading glasses.  I am now officially middle-aged.

Someone came over and interviewed Ming and our friend B about the radical mental health collective.  He does a podcast.  You know me--I don't usually talk to journalists.  But it's good that some people do.

pet peeves today

1.  when someone thinks they told me something and they never did, so they believe I know a thing I don't know, and it causes unhappiness
2.  so much effort to reduce trash making, carbon footprint, pollution, hurting people, unproductive behaviors
3.  running out of energy before I run out of hours in the day
4.  when I'm different from someone, mention the difference, and then they feel judged or curtailed
5.  lack of imagination causing pain

gratitude

1.  curtailed is a cool word
2.  fall is an amazing season
3.  being able to sleep (for a while I was too anxious)
4.  enough thread to bind zines with, enough food, enough stationery, enough love from Ming, enough clothes that fit, enough oxygen
5.  good times to look forward to

I wondered if you wanted to see my list of desired attributes for my ideal home / homestead.  But then I felt shy about it, like maybe it makes me vulnerable or I shouldn't blab it to the whole world.  Blab is a cool word too.

pumpkin carving ritual, Colombian food, mental health efforts that ignore root problems of capitalism and misogyny

Yesterday was community lunch.  I forget we were doing pumpkins--R had bought five pumpkins.  The mood became lighthearted.

I had the largest, orangest, fattest pumpkin.  You know I was supposed to carve it--instead I hugged it.  That pumpkin seemed real and good, and I needed to hold onto it more than do a tradition-process and make some art out of it.

So I watched J get maniacal.  It was pretty weird to see all the tools she tried to create her pumpkin masterpiece.  I made a list of the tools she used.

screwdriver--flathead
bottle opener
knives--three
melon baller
long thin yellow metal thing--saw?
corer
spoon
toothpicks

Then G made a traditional pumpkin with the missing teeth grin.  The eyes were cresents, though, not triangles.

Ming used the little pumpkin we got a few weeks ago at Gilcrease.  He did something minimalist.  It was fun to watch him work--I can't remember seeing him do that before.

I thought modern cameras could handle the backlit thing, but maybe not.

Ming's trying to look like his pumpkin--that was the idea of this picture.  That's why J has the hand-whiskers--her pumpkin has toothpick-whiskers.

It's hard for me to be around people, but I was ok.  Then Ming and I went to a mental health meeting with Latinos Unidos at a Colombian restaurant.  Our expectations were very low, for networking, so it went better than expected.  We brought fliers and zines.

The first speaker told the story of his sister's suicide.  The speaker had been diagnosed in college with bipolar 1, but he didn't tell his family.  Then his sister started having manic episodes and was in and out of the hospital until she killed herself.  The way he told the story, it was sad, but it was fascinating.  He wishes he had told his family about what he had been through because he thinks it might have helped his sister.  But mental health discussions were taboo in his family.

The second speaker runs a huge anti-suicide non-profit.  His son commited suicide ten years ago, and he carries guilt.  He said the last thing he told his son was, "Stop being such an idiot," and that's very painful for him.  His org does fundraisers, like walks, and they have a wine thing coming up.

He talked about how people blame themselves for the suicides of their loved ones and shouldn't.  I find it complicated.  I want to help create a world with more communication, connection, love.  We've created a culture where capitalism means money is more important that caring for one another, and misogyny means nurturing is looked down on as irrelevant or at least optional.  So in a way, we are responsible.

The third speaker was a private practice therapist who is Latina and works with mostly Latino clients.  She talked about stuff specific to Latinos, and it was interesting to hear her take, about how moms "wait too long to get help," or bring the kid with a mentality of "fix my kid," and the mom doesn't want to go to therapy, but then if the kid does first, the mom might.

She talked about how there's a lot of alcoholism and trauma.  I thought it was a little general, but it was interesting to hear her perspective.  She talked about seeing a lot of men too. 

The whole event was very mainstream--take your medicine, medical professionals know best, people need to be locked up in mental hospitals at times.  Medical model with no creativity.

The second speaker talked about how his granddaughter was diagnosed bipolar and a weird story about her therapist calling the ambulance on her during a therapy session.  The guy said his granddaughter turns into a she-devil when she doesn't take her meds or the meds stop working right.  I found it offensive that he called his granddaughter a she-devil--he seemed to be going for a laugh, but no one laughed.

I know dealing with difficult people can be a struggle, but I wish that someone whose whole deal is suicide prevention would know better than to demonize a person with mental health stuff.  I guess it's good he can be honest about how he feels about her?  But I wish that wasn't how he felt.

There was some free food, so on our way in, we got our hands stamped to show we belonged, eating the free food.

I think it was actually a money stamp, kind of a joke.  Ming asked a worker if the food had meat in it, and she assured him that it did, which was the opposite of what he wanted, of course.  I had rice, fried plantains, and fried yucca, then some fruit salad.

We gave radical mental health collective fliers to a few people--it was good.  The organizer got a job on a political campaign, so there was an announcement that her org was being turned over to someone else to run, to avoid conflict of interest.

In this post I talk about actual community of carving pumpkins together and fun with humans we can be vulnerable with, then in part two, attempts at community in order to deal with rampant disconnection and failure to love--mostly due to capitalism and misogyny.

I wish we didn't need suicide prevention orgs holding wine fundraisers and talking up biopsychiatry.  I want to live in a world where the system works, people get what they need as the norm not the exception, feelings are ok to talk about, difference is respected, nurturing is the most important job in the world, and we're there for one another in a real way.

publicity stunt farmers market complete with beautiful flowers and too many feelings

Yesterday we went to a huge farmers market for kids.  A lot of schools have gardens now, and the kids had tables and were selling stuff.  We bought:

gorgeous flowers
chamomile seeds
a kid-made notecard
a loofah
loofah seeds
two little magnets
sunchokes

Some of the prices were high.  But then the flowers--they were only two bucks.  Some places said "for donation" which is disorienting.

It seemed more like a publicity stunt than a real farmers market.  Lots of self-congratulating and news people interviewing adults.  Few actual buyers like me and Ming--very crowded with kids and some adults who were with them.

Some of the adults seemed like they had never been to a farmers market. That was odd.  Strange prices, haphazardness.

At one table, we were getting two things for donation: sunchokes and a notecard.  We thought five dollars was appropriate, but Ming only had a 20, so we asked for change.

The kid gave us a stack of ones, and we suggested maybe we should get fives instead, so they could keep their ones.  The adult who was watching took over--she seemed in a really bad mood, and it was confusing, like did they want more for their sunchokes and notecard?

I wondered if Ming and I could plant the sunchokes for their flowers.  We grew them a long time ago in Sacramento.  "They're sunchokes.  They're like potatoes," the woman told us, like we were idiots.

I'm thinking, "Yeah, we could eat them, but I'd rather grow the flowers."  It seemed like she had a lack of creativity, like--here is a thing, you do a specific things with it, and if you do another thing, you lost me.

I saw a lot of that, working at the grading factory.  The kids were asked a question--there was one right answer.  Creativity and approaching life with a fresh attitude was punished.  But that's kind of the whole point of kids, seeing things in a new way.  And something I hope to have in common with kids.

She must be overworked and underpaid, and I felt sad that she wasn't getting what she needed and also that others were suffering for it.  She handed me two fives and held up five ones--I was confused, like did she think I shouldn't have the ones?  Did she think my donation should have been ten dollars, not five?  If so, I wish she would have said that.  It was all confusing and gross.

Someone on the stage below started playing guitar.  I recognized "Fire and Rain" by James Taylor.  It sounded good, but not that appropriate for a kids event.  Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground.  Some adults in dressup clothes were near him, ignoring him, talking to one another.

Then the musician started playing "Lovesong" by the Cure.  It was a beautiful rendition, and I danced.  I was holding those gorgeous flowers and felt like a bride, in a nice way.

I danced and I wondered if the musician was sad everyone was ignoring him.  Did he see me, up there dancing?  Did I help him have someone to play for?  I sang along.  However far away, I will always love you.  However long I stay, I will always love you.  Whatever words I say, I will always love you.  I will always love you.

I looked up and saw cops on the high roof nearby, surveying the crowd.  It creeped me out, and I assumed they were there to snipe a shooter--they were the Snipers for Good, protecting us with their government guns.  I felt really sick, like who invited them, and I got the feeling that just by noticing them, I was doing something wrong.  I was sorry I'd looked up.

Yes, protecting kids is serious business, but rather than protect them from everyday common threats like being abused by their family members or molested by the neighbor, we should funnel bazillions of dollars toward cops and bulletproof backpacks.  I have feelings about that!

There were oak trees, and the acorns they dropped were very round, almost spherical, very pretty.  I asked Ming to choose one for me.  Then I realized they could be good for emotional first aid kits.  I asked for a few more and put them in my colorful pouch Mom crocheted me.

I couldn't look at everything.  It was emotional sometimes when kids would try to sell me something--I knew I was affecting their feelings.  Not like I was upsetting them, exactly, by not buying something, but from tabling at zine fests, I know how if can feel to put your soul into your work, then have it evaluated then dismissed.

I remembered I'd offered veg to a friend.  I checked my phone and saw he said "whatever's cheap and good" and I tried to think what I'd seen cheap and good.  The flowers were cheap and good.  So Ming bought another bouquet.  This one was smaller.

Yesterday was weird and intense at times.  I did too much--the insurance info thing at a YMCA, getting 75 cent vegan hotdogs at IKEA as we were right there for Ming's doctors appointment.  Talking and thinking about a difficult dramatic situation a friend told me about.

I can hear the neighbors yelling at one another, and it makes me uncomfortable like I need to go to another part of the house where I can't hear them.

Now it's windy--the windchimes are jangling outside.  Ming washed me a few grapes--they are perfect.

cleaning out the spice cabinet: victory

I wanted to clean out the spice cabinet for a long time.  A year, maybe.  Ming got it all ready for me.  Moved the dishwasher, cleared the counter.

This house had spices already when we came here, from the previous tenant.  So our spices got together with those spices.

Powdered mustard--I don't even know what to do with that.  Maybe some old fashioned sauce requires it.  The previous tenant needed anise seed--not sure why.  I'm guessing special cookies.

I found a tin of chili powder that expired ten years ago.  You know, I'm the kind of person who likes to save things and uses the whole bottle of shampoo, leaving it upsidedown in the shower, taking off the lid and getting the last drops.  But even I draw the line somewhere.  That chili powder went in the trash.  Ten years is my limit.

We have too much vanilla, especially considering I don't bake anymore.  There's a small bottle of Schilling imitation maple flavor that looks like an antique.  There's still a little liquid in there.

I found some old coriander seeds and consider planting them.  The hot smoked paprika I don't think I'll ever use--too hot.  I'll offer it to Ming or put it in Freedom House.  I should make an effort to use dill.  And cinnamon.

That little glass bottle of Trader Joe's saffron--when will I ever use it?  I can make some rice with a subtle saffron perfume--it seems wasted on me.  I have a breakfast mode with mild breakfast blandness, like oatmeal--then I have lunch and dinner mode, with flavors bold.

There are a few things I want to give away--old seasoned salt and Mrs Dash from the previous tenant, an unopened bottle of anise seeds, one of the powdered mustards.

Some mint in a little bag smells like cumin, so that's compost.

Conclusions: I need to make some Ethiopian food.  I have whole cumin but need some ground cumin.  I should label bulk WinCo spices more faithfully.

Spices are good.  I'll wash off the lazy susan style round two-tiered spice thing and wipe out the cabinet and put most of the spices back.

zine store fantasy and all that entails

I made another bag to give out to a person begging on the street.  I'm now out of hand sanitizer, little toothpastes, tissue packets, individually wrapped plastic spoons, and dollar bills.  I thought I had more stuff than that.  It's good not to accumulate too much, but I was surprised.

I finished a draft of Lost Child 3 two hours ago.  I really like it and believe in it.  I have a satisfied feeling that I wrote something beautiful.  I wrote something meaningful that never existed before.

I like the quote: “What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life?  The world would split open.”  --Muriel Rukeyser

Ming's in the middle of proofreading it--he got up to I.  It's an alphabet zine.  He liked "eggs" especially.

However, I'm making so many zines lately, I can't keep up with myself.  It's getting ridiculous.  I have zines still to bind from months ago.

I might have run out of a special treehouse for fat people already.  Maybe I'm flooding people.  Not sure what to do about that.

Maybe we should rename our house The Zine Factory.  Maybe we should make a zine store in the lounge.  I'm imagining zines on a bookshelf, set out attractively.  We could call it Zinery for the People, or Semi-Free Zines to Nourish Your Thought-Life.

What could the payment be?  How about people pay in little bottles of hand sanitizer, little toothpastes, tissue packets, individually wrapped plastic spoons.  Sometimes I suggest trades and people just want to give money.  I say yes because I don't want to be a butt and the zines need to be read.

What if a pricetag said "one hour of your time helping out" or "an interpretive dance about fish learning how to fly" or "one pot of fresh delicious vegan soup."  I think people are busy.  They wouldn't do it.  Who knows.

"Flowers from your garden" or "write me a letter afterward with your thoughts about something you read in the zine."  "A poem about anything you learned today."

I had these small old fashioned notecards--they seemed from the 1960s maybe.  There were pink envelopes and grayish lavender notecards with one edge torn, fancy style.  The paper was cottony and luxurious.

I got them at a thrift store long ago.  I was using them to write the notes on, for the bags for the begging people.  I used the last one tonight.

I liked that they were way more beautiful than cheapass dollar store notecards.  I hoped the recipients would feel special.  But now they're all gone.  Life is full of goodbyes.  But you gotta cycle through stuff.

I can be so critical.  I read something today that my personality type can be scathing.  That's a thing I struggle with.  Being honest but not mean--I'm usually not mean out loud, but in my head.  I want to be generous and kind.  But I can be hella judgmental.  I'm sure people can feel it, and I'm sorry.

Long ago, Ming and I got into an argument about vampires.  I was so upset--I could tell you about it, but it's embarrassing, and I don't know if you would believe me.

Recently I was on etsy looking at zines and saw a vampire zine, and I ended up getting a copy for Ming.  It was my way of saying sorry and trying to make peace with that badness in me.  I don't know if he realized it.  "Sorry I was mean about vampires three years ago.  Have a zine."

The floor in the kitchen feels cool to my feet as I walk on it.  Fall is a trip--the change of seasons alone could trigger some extreme states.  The wheel keeps turning.

I took some 3am selfies.

Do these flowers look impossibly gorgeous, or is it just me?

how making enchiladas is like swimming, damage done by PE teachers in the 1980s, Ming says yes

Yesterday was Ming's first time taking a sabbath with me.  It was great.  In the morning, we cooked three trays of enchiladas--two red, one green.  It involved many steps.  We made rice also.

As I got more and more exhausted, I realized that making enchiladas was like swimming, for me.  When I was a kid, I could swim for hours straight.  I could swim all day.  In the summers, we went to Avila Beach or Paul Nelson Pool.

Then when I was a young adult, I went into a pool after not swimming after a long time.  Ten minutes of swimming, and I was exhausted, which amazed me.  I thought swimming was easy.  I guess I was in better shape as a kid than I thought I was.

Then I was thinking about all that--how I was told I was fat by PE teachers and shamed for it, when I think I was actually fine.  I could swim all day--I was probably in better shape than they were!

I kinda wish I could go back in time and tell those people to shut the heck up.  They harmed me in a way that went on for years afterward--it continues to this day.  I thought things about myself that were totally untrue--I was healthy, anxious but rarely sick.  All because of their scales, height-weight charts, and some ridiculous willingness to scare a slightly fat kid.

Anyway--back to enchiladas.  I knew there were a few steps and it took a little while.  But I didn't remember it being totally freakin' exhausting. 

I can't tell if my interlude about fatness distracted you, reader, from the paralel I was drawing between swimming and making enchiladas.  Thought they were easy--I was wrong.

But the lovely thing is having all these enchiladas!  My favorite food, homestyle.  We froze a tray--we froze a little of the rice too. 

They were partly free because the tortillas were left from an event, the cheese we already had, the sauces and olives we'd accumulated.  Thought about putting some mushrooms in there, but why mess with perfection.

This morning Ming broke a pair of scissors cutting open quail eggs, the last of the raw quail eggs.  He just realized he has a decibel-meter on his phone, an exciting fact for him.  "I didn't realize you were a volume geek also," I said.  "Whoa!"

Today I carried a lot of stuff.  We did the Catholic Worker big shop early, then picked up some donations from a Catholic church in Henderson.  So much loading, unloading, unlocking and relocking doors, arranging things to take up the least amount of space, wondering if stuff was going to get crushed by other stuff, sliding things over to make room for other things.

This morning I read that Aries is the sign most open to new ideas--that's Ming's sign.  I don't know if I believe any of that, but it really appeals to me that as a writer and thinker, I'm good at generating ideas, so no wonder Ming likes me, if he's loving new ideas.

I see him at the store, looking at new inventions.  He does seem very open, happy to find a new thing that could help him with an old difficulty.  I always think, "That new thing--it'll never work.  It'll probably just break."  But I love about him his positivity and willingness to try.  He's definitely a yea-sayer.

what Laura-Marie is

Ming was at the benefit for Gail.  He went early to help set up, then tabled and ate some foods and enjoyed the music.  He said it was well-attended.  Here's our friend R performing.

It's a windy night--the windchimes are jangling like there's no tomorrow.  My right eye is hurting and sometimes itchy, hopefully just allergies.  I considered going to the doctor this morning--then it felt better--now it's not so good again.

Maybe the wind is blowing around a ton of fall pollen?  Ming said someone else was having eye issues at the soupline yesterday.

Ming always tells me to gently push on each eye to see if they feel the same.  I think he's afraid of glaucoma.

I lost weight in the hospital early this year when I almost died.  It's the Almost Died Diet.  Predictably, as my health and appetite return, so do those pounds.  But I realized I could wear some clothes that had been too small, and it was good to wear them, and now there's getting too small again--this teal teeshirt I'm wearing, the color is vibrant, but my tummy needs a little more room than this.  I have short legs and a long torso.

Seeing all this happen, smiling at my body and thanking it for helping me live on Earth and move around, thanking my senses and organs and systems all working together to keep me a living human.  I even get to walk and sing and live with very little pain.  I feel very fortunate.  And grateful to everyone who kept me alive, earlier this year--Ming, my mom, all the hospital visitors, the nurses.

Sometimes I wish I was more brave and could tell people more what's on my mind in person.  Sometimes writing doesn't really cut it.  We went to lunch with friends, the other day.  Afterward I was telling my friend how years ago, when we were young, it was Ming's birthday, and I baked a cake. 

I invited this friend to come over for cake, and he called and left me a voicemail saying he was sorry--he got too tired and couldn't make it.  That was back when he worked as a window washer.

I saved his voicemail, and sometimes I would listen to it.  He said he loved me and Ming and would make it up to us.  I had that voicemail on my phone for years--I never could delete it.  I listened to it, sometimes.  Then that phone died, and I switched to a free android from my new cellphone provider.

Outside the restaurant, I was telling my friend the story of this sweet voicemail from six years ago he of course had forgotten he ever left.  His eyes were filled with tears.  Maybe it was just allergies, but maybe he was filled with emotion at the good he'd done and his own kindness and how loved he is.

Earlier, Ming was crying in the car.  He was reading that blogpost I wrote about the homeless people being treated like trash.  I never know what to think when he cries, reading something I wrote, if I should feel bad or what.  I hugged him, and he said it was beautiful.  He seems cold at times, with his pragmatic detachment, but he's really full of compassion.  He's working to help people all the time.

So many people, I would like to hold their shoulders, look into their eyes, and tell them how beautiful and good they are.  It can be hard to do.  Do I make people uncomfortable?  I thank people, but I know--it usually doesn't go into their hearts the way I feel it.  They say "sure" and want to move on with their day.  I'm like, no, you don't understand. 

Yesterday was the three year anniversary of my dad's death.  I feel no regrets about all that, for the most part--I did an ok job being his kid, considering the circumstances. 

I had a voicemail from him on my phone for a long time too.  The year I turned 40, Ming and I decided to go to Zion for a couple nights and then celebrate with the local Catholic Workers, and my bestie came to visit also. 

My dad was unhappy we weren't coming to visit him and my mom in California for my birthday like usual--I'm guessing he was advocating for Mom, that she was upset about it.  He tried to get me to change my mind. 

I remember when I called him back, telling him that we already made the reservation.  "Well, you can cancel it," he said.  I can't remember why it was important to me to be in Las Vegas for that birthday.

Then he was gone, a month later.  I still remember his voice and how beautifully he'd whistle, lots of things about him.  A hat he wore, the way he walked, the last few years.  A time I tried to give him some candy when he just woke up, and he yelled at me.  Many years of Dad memories.

I feel the hardest part of grieving can be the first year, then the second year also, and now I've graduated a bit.  I used to dream about him--it's been a while.  Maybe I should ask for another dream.

My good friend in England sends me a lot of selfies, so sometimes I take selfies to send back to him.  Lately I don't like my selfies.  I feel like they don't look like me. 

What is me, really.  I feel like a sun shining brilliant rays that give life--too bright, but pure generous luminosity.  I feel like a glowing ember of truth, a caterpillar made of light that walks along on tons of feet--small, strange, doing my slow, sacred Glowing Work.  I feel like a writer--here are my typing hands and the forearms that help them. 

I feel like an observer and thinker, that the way I look is not really important--I'm pure perspective.  What is important.  But people need something to visualize and someone to hug.

I'm doubting that's how I really look, but you can have an idea of what color my shirt is.

twenty four questions that bother me

"What are you doing?  It's not morning," I told Ming.

"I had a nightmare," he said.

"Oh, poor baby.  Come here," I said.  We hugged.

"You're awake too," he said.

"I've been up and down like a Jack in the box.  Without the curly fries," I said.  This made me laugh.

Now he's unloading the dishwasher.  Dogs are barking outside, to one another--the neighborhood canine choir.

1.  Are feelings ok?  Do they mean anything?  Can I trust them?
2.  Is it better to eat vegan things that are possibly made of canola oil and magic, or to eat the actual thing (cheese, milk, eggs) even though animals suffer and factory farming is a huge polluter?  Is it good to go back and forth, having some variety?  Does organic matter?
3.  Should I go to the doctor, or should I change my name and move to another continent?  How much of any medicine is helpful?
4.  Is debt just a number, or is it a real thing that will hurt me later?  Is there something moral about it, or just logistical?
5.  What is family?  Do I expect too much?
6.  Are people worth it?  Are people mostly good or bad?  Should I keep trying to see many kinds of people, or should I get more insular?
7.  Should I try to help my neighbors, with love in my heart, or should I avoid them because it's putting myself in danger?
8.  Am I ok the way I am?  Should I work at being appropriate, or should I loosen up more and let others figure out how to cope with my extremisms?
9.  How much should I share, and how much should I keep for myself?  Does giving lead to more receiving?  How much do I need? Can I trust I'll get more when I need it?
10.  Is helping people even possible?  How much can people see beyond their own eye sockets?  Does anyone listen at all?
11.  How do magnets work?  Why is there a universe?  Are the laws of physics arbitrary?
12.  Is trusting people always going to bite me in the butt, eventually?
13.  Do electric cars even make sense?  Is power from electricity plants really less polluting than gas?
14.  How did money become more important than life?  How do we change love to be the most important thing?  Was it ever?
15.  How important are other people's opinions?  Is being really quiet ok, and clamming up?  Is it ok to make other people uncomfortable by being who I am?
16.  Does protesting make a difference at all?  How do we create change?
17.  Do I really need to be afraid of the things I'm most afraid of?  Does agonizing about death help me figure it out?  Could I stop if I tried?
18.  Are therapists tools of normalcy who encourage people to stay in bad situations and fiddle while Rome burns, or are they any kind of person who's good at listening and experienced with human problems? Are they truly helpful or a bandaid on a deep wound?
19.  How much do things that happened a long time ago matter?  How do I heal and move on?  How do I know if I'm moving at the right rate?
20.  How do I find meaning in life when my previous ways fail?  If my entire life is based on intimacy and reaching out to people with words and love, how do I keep going when all that seems impossible?
21.  Do all utopias become dystopias?  Is it better to let people run free and chaotic and get nothing done?
22.  Would women do a better job?  Is gender real?  How much are stereotypes true?
23.  How would anarchy really work?
24.  Are teeth cleanings and carbon offsets a scam?  How much of conventional wisdom is false?  Should I rail against falseness, or should I float downstream on the innertube of indifference?

I've tried googling and find fluff that tells me the meaning of life is dogs or sunsets.  I know how to enjoy eating an orange.  I have some experience, but I'd like something I never thought of.

Hmm, I'm reading the wikipedia article--carbon offsets sound like buying indulgences.  Maybe this topic is not for 2:47 in the morning.  Gnight, reader friends.

sad stationery on a windy day

When I see Thanksgiving cards and Halloween cards, I think of when I was penpals with my cousin who was in jail.  I would send him cards for any reason. 

When I see those cards in the store, I feel tender and sad--the loved ones in jail, something colorful to put in the mail to try to give them a smile and help them feel connected to the family of humanity.  Something to remind the prisoners they're still people, when they've been cut off intentionally by a government who makes a lot of mistakes, convicts people for victimless crimes, lets off the rich criminals and punishes the poor ones.

Lately I feel not belonging--I feel to the side.  I'm used to be being an outlier, for 20 reasons, but it can be very tiring.  Yes, I will be misunderstood.  Yes, my needs are weird and my behavior doesn't match everyone else's.  But I'll show up anyway and try.

I'm glad to be free--it's a gamble.  I want to love who I am as I do my best, but at times, I feel like it's not worth it.  I want to be able to talk with all kinds of people and sit at the table of life, weird but present.  But some days, I just want to give up.

I heard: The big thieves hang in the little ones.  It's wrong to murder one person, but it's not wrong to order the deaths of thousands of people, or to have a job carrying out those orders. 

Here in Las Vegas, drone pilots drive out to Creech Air Force Base, kill other desert dwellers overseas by remote control, and drive home to their families.  Strange world.  Something tells me they're not getting the support they need.  A war is a mass shooting that the shooters get praised for.

This morning I served on the soupline.  Toward the end, someone thanked me for serving.  "I really appreciate you coming out here to do this," he said.  The wind was blowing.  I was sprinkling cheese on pasta--eaters lined up, stuck out their plates, and I sprinkled shredded cheese with my gloved hand.  "I just wanted to thank you.  You probably don't get thanked enough," he said.

It was hard for me, but I maintained eye contact with him.  I tried to be there with him and accept his love.  I didn't know what to say and mumbled, "Sure."

I was crying when I showed up with Ming at the serving site.  Seeing someone lying alone on the sidewalk, bundled in a blanket against the wind, sleeping or resting while waiting for the morning meal--it was too much sadness.  I cried in the minivan a while, then wiped my tears and walked to the dirt field where we serve. 

We all have our pains and struggles.  No place to live is a really basic one.  Homeless people are told by culture, "You don't matter.  Some people are worth saving, but not you.  You didn't play the game right, so you don't get the prize.  You are worthless.  You wasted your chance.  You're trash."

Or else it's based on someone else's terms, like sobriety.  "You only deserve to live if you stop using drugs.  You're not capable of handling your life, so we'll do that for you."

A child is abducted, and cell phones light up with Amber Alerts to try to find the abductor.  But who cares about the homeless person.  No one is saving them, and they're in plain view.

Pro-life people will protest hard to try to protect the lives of unborn babies, stepping over the homeless people on the sidewalk by the clinic--the homeless people wasted their chance.  They're presumed crazy or drug addicted, so they don't deserve the love these precious innocent ones deserve. 

Actual people who are out in the world, suffering, can be hard to love.  Like the homeless people are already ruined.  Babies are a symbol, I guess.  Homeless people can be dirty and sick and shouting weird stuff, as we dish them breakfast.  Babies can't talk yet.

I know some serve the homeless on one day and protest Planned Parenthood another.  I know some pro-life people support single moms and buy diapers for them, or even adopt.  But when I went to the clinic for birth control and got yelled at, that was never a good day for me.  I didn't enjoy people intentionally making my day harder.

Our friend's wife is out of town, so we're spending extra time with him so he can be social.  Lately I'm trying to show up.  I hope I can be an appropriate social person.  Soon we'll head to Chinatown.  I'm trying to think of a present for my friend.  I know he likes chocolate, but he's probably such an aficionado, he likes certain types.

The wind is wild.  I'm trying to feel the air is alive with movement and feel I have a place on Earth.