dangerous compassions

I call you / from the comet's cradle

Sunday, May 31, 2020

avocados: eating joy

I used to see veggies as a chore.  I liked frozen peas sometimes.  Cabbage in some stir fry.  Snow peas or snap peas.  Carrots had their place.

Then growing our own veg, it became a vibrant beautiful treat.  Seeing the tree collard's leaves every day, outside my front door.  Seeing how it's doing, then grazing on it.  So beautiful.  It's trustworthy--I know it's not all pesticided up.  It's had me loving it, and Ming too.  It's a joy.  Of course I want to eat joy.

What's the difference between a fruit and a veggie?  I think it's about sugar.  They're both fibery and planty.  I know there's a botanical definition involving what has seeds in it.  But I mean how we actually consider them.

I used to think avocados should be considered a veg.  I thought--they're green, they're planty, they're not sweet.  They have fiber and tons of nutrients, including fats. 

Avocados are part of my health plan--I try to share one with Ming every day.  When I eat them, I feel nourished--I can feel the health in my body.  Is that real, or imagination?  Not sure, but I'll take it.


I almost think avocados should be considered nuts.  They're not crunchy like that, but they're nutritious and fatty.

I know this for sure: Ming brought home three avocados from Smart and Final a week ago--they were so gorgeous and big.  "How much did they cost?" I asked Ming.

"I don't know," he said.

I always wanted to get the best bang for my buck, with avocados and almost anything, but these were priceless, really.  I see the error of my ways.  These fruits were worth anything.

We were waiting for them to ripen.  They ripened at the same time, in the fruit bowl, and Ming put them in the fridge.

I cut into the first one.  Wow, it was the best avocado I ever had, bar none.  So rich--almost too rich.  Like cheesecake, but more rich than that.  And without cloying sweetness.  Unbruised, heavy, perfect.

And they were so big, there was a feeling of abundance.  The shape felt so sensual and almost human.  Like a breast, or some other curved amazing thing that's easy to love and hold in the hand.

The second avocado, I knew it was going to be good.  I had faith it would be amazing.  I was right too. 

And the third avocado--by then, I was ready to kiss my fruit, so Ming took that picture, which I sent to a fictional character I know who also loves avocados.

I'm a hippie--I can't help it.  You bet I'm asking Ming to go back to Smart and Final and find me more of these amazing heavenly treats.

When I was a kid, my mom liked to eat avocados.  She would make guacamole at times, but mostly we would cut one in half, sprinkle it with salt, and dig in with a spoon. 

I learned about hass vs bacon.  Fuerte too.  There was a pizza place I liked in Santa Barbara that had avocado slices as a topping option on their pizza.  I loved that.  Cheese and avocado is such a decadent combination!

I had a friend who was an avocado rancher in Carpinteria.  His parents were both avocados ranchers and married, creating a huge ranch.  I went with him to an avocado festival, more than 20 years ago--they held one every year.  In this tent, I saw example fruits from many cultivars.  I loved that, especially the huge ones.  But it was a hot day, and we didn't stay long.

I was looking at budget apps recently, trying to find one that I thought would work for me.  I was reading through an app's whole intro, how to use it.  In an example, avocados were the luxury item that the example shopper had to do without, that week.

I was like, no way.  Avocados are first on my list.  A life without avocados is not worth living, kind of.  I'm not a shoplifter, but I would consider it.

So maybe I should go to the coast and become an avocado rancher.  Maybe if shit gets more apocalyptic, Ming and I can find an abandoned one and start an intentional community centered around avocado ranching.  I used to dream of doing the same with an abandoned chocolate orchard in Mexico.

Thank you for listening to my fantasy.  I hope you have something / someone you love as much, as I love Ming, trikeriding, avocados, zines, tree collards, dreams, sunshine, Sanskrit, ritual, touch,  birdsong, and silence.  I love you.  Please enjoy life.

Saturday, May 30, 2020

why I like penpalling: radish seed version



I kinda like the waiting.  I have a lot going, in my life.  My penpal in France did a tarot reading for me, and I'm waiting for what she wrote about it to arrive in the mail.  The waiting feels delicious.  I like anticipation.

I became an artist somehow, besides a writer--I like drawing again.  It just didn't occur to me, for a long time.  Or I felt so bad at it, I felt scared to try. 

Now I think it's ok to draw badly--who cares.  I can just be like it's outsider art and think the badness has a charm of its own.  Yes, that's intentional!

Feels good to change.  I guess it started with an ATC assignment.  I like drawing naked people best--naked people are my favorite kind of people.  Vulnerable, beautiful.

Penpalling and zine making go together.  You gotta put a note.  You could just write a vague hello on the back of the envelope, which happens, but why not write a letter.  You probably love this person or wouldn't be sending a zine to begin with.

Zines are my love letters to the world, in a way.  Lots of ways to love people.  Words, touch, food.  Presents.

We harvested radish seeds yesterday.  Ming is cool.  I love how he's a yea-sayer and yay-sayer, but also an instigator of excellence.  He has great ideas.  What a good sweetie.

Friday, May 29, 2020

riot

And I must say tonight that a riot is the language of the unheard. And what is it America has failed to hear? ... It has failed to hear that the promises of freedom and justice have not been met. And it has failed to hear that large segments of white society are more concerned about tranquility and the status quo than about justice and humanity. --Martin Luther King Jr.

I think about MLK a lot--we live right by the street MLK, here in Las Vegas. NDE has a float in the MLK parade every January. I have a friend whose favorite event of the year is this parade.

Some say MLK was the good cop to Malcolm X's bad cop. Some say he was a placating suited compromising panderer. Some people need him to be the villain who didn't do enough or go far enough.

He said some great things. I love that riot quote. He's stating the obvious, but in a clear, beautiful way. And to many people, it's not so obvious. How many years ago was this? So much for progress.

I read about looting today, how the shiny products behind the windows represent what we sacrifice our lives for. So it makes sense, that they're actual, possibly useful things, but also symbolize the success that was promised and denied. Work hard and you too can have the shiny things. Or just food, a place to live, basic well-being. But when the whole system is rigged, can you blame anyone for being angry about that?

The cards were dealt such that I have a lot of privilege. White, educated (for what it is), mostly physically abled. Cis, read as straight. I have community and Ming and more than enough food and shelter. I'm ok. I don't have the anger that would motivate me to riot, and I thank God I never smashed a window. That's luck, not moral anything. I've never been in a position where I needed to riot.

I wish I could live in a world where everyone is loved, nurtured, treated fairly, has their needs met, and is not exploited. I mean I wish everyone had what I have today. My fortunate circumstances could be normal, should be normal. If justice mattered and wealth wasn't hoarded.

I'm an activist for love, working on projects to bring good in the ways that suit my skills. Maybe one day, rioting would make sense for me.

At the MLK parade, there are ROTC kids who march, to honor MLK. Lots of conversative weirdness going on there. Like they missed everything MLK actually said, about war and the evil triplets of racism, materialism, and militarism.

I'm no scholar for this, but I heard some words from MLK, and he was a badass. He's not the easy sanitized idealization I was taught about in elementary school. He was assassinated for a reason, right? He was amazing.

I like the MLK quote also "A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is nearing spiritual death."

He said that long ago. So did the US die, spiritually? What does that mean, for a nation to experience spiritual death? Maybe we're in it. Or the US is a zombie, died in the 1980s.

MLK's metaphor is a little confusing, and I like that. I like that he talked about the spirit. I'm no Christian, but I can listen to all of that.


Thursday, May 28, 2020

not everyone needs the same things


What a lovely flower head!  Seed head.  I have a head full of seeds.  I'm imagining them bursting out in a safe, beautiful, green way.

I wrote this morning for a zine, about what sexy is, how I learned what it is, and how I found my own way.  But it's still confusing to try to photograph.  We keep trying.



Then tonight I was writing about trauma and what kids need, and how society gives us very few tools then blames us when we turn out not functional.  We seem to owe a lot to society after being given very little.  The balance is off.

If I could communicate a message to the whole world, the cloth flying behind the plane would say this: Not everyone needs the same things.  I see that's a huge misconception that hurts a lot.  Some people need quiet--some people need noise.  Some people need to focus, for hours on end.  Some people need distraction.  Some people need very specific things that are totally valid, about sensory stuff.  Some people need a lot of space.  Some people need a lot of touch.

"We're all the same inside and need the same things," is so untrue and has hurt me really bad.  From what temperature I need to be, to whether I need music playing, to whether I want to be a parent or drive a car or how I want to eat.  Ming has a lot of regular needs, but then he has special ones too.

I appreciate lots of choices.  So please don't go around spreading the untruth.  If you need all normal stuff, good for you.  I need some stuff that's really different.  I'm not being picky or overly particular or demanding--they are basic things, to me.  The tv turned off, no pets, no lard in my tamales.  A certain level of privacy.  A certain amount of physical contact.  Alternatives to capitalism, for sure.

"Why do you think I'm wearing orange and red?" I asked Ming.  "I'm a flame.  I'm burning love for you!  And you're wearing orange too.  We go together."  Like a flame to the fire.

It's cooling down finally, in the night.  I'm thinking about going nocturnal.  I'm thinking about a ritual for self-containedness.  I'm thinking about intuition, relationship, what I most want, and the future.

Wednesday, May 27, 2020

strawberry power

What's life like?  Lots of answers to this question.  Some people have given up and are trying to entertain themselves and keep themselves as safe as possible till they die.  Others are undaunted and adventuresome.

I was telling Ming yesterday, some people think covid and "everything that's happening in the world" means they have to be sad.  They have a responsibility to be sad.

Maybe it's a version of "if you're not outraged, you're not paying attention."  I like to pay attention to my strawberry plants.  The sunflowers, how many borage flowers are bloomed and glowing indigo blue today.  News could be real, or partly.  But my garden is too.

A kiss is real.  The softness of Ming's lips, how my lips feel with his.  The suspense of how many times we'll kiss this time.  Which kiss feels sweetest.  Probably the fourth kiss of ten.

When I was in the hospital last year, I had to stop eating.  I stopped before I got there, actually.  I was like a cat who stops eating and goes to a secluded place to die.

But I let Ming drive me back to Las Vegas and take me to the emergency room.  I was supposed to stand in a line to check in, but I couldn't stand up.  I realized that a lot of people in the ER weren't having an emergency.  I thought people who could stand up might not be having an emergency.

So I didn't eat for four days--they gave me veggie broth and juice, in the hospital, for every meal.  The veggie broth was salty brownish water, but there were tiny bits of carrot in the bottom of each bowl.  How I savored them.

"Is this cheating?" I asked Ming.  The dehydrated carrot bits come to life in the bottom of my bowl.  He said if you could read the newspaper through the broth, it was fine.

Later they wanted me to poop before I left the hospital, but my mom asked, "How can you poop, if you can't eat?"  Mama always asked the good questions.

But I was going to say, yeah, when I didn't eat food for a while, I realized how good food is.  I can eat now, every day!  Three times a day, at least, whatever I want!  Wow!  Sometimes I just lie in bed, thinking of what to eat.

Is that valid?  Hellz yeah!  Should I be sad instead, about Afghanistan or climate change or my privilege?  I could think about a lot of things--endless possibilities of terrible things.  But it's not going to help anybody, if I'm sad or incapacitate myself with the realities other people consider important.

Sometimes I wish I had a crazy badge.  Yes, I am certified crazy.  A judge decided there's no possible gainful employment for me--I didn't make that up.  I got a 9 on my ACE quiz.  I've experienced 35 of the 37 adult manifestations of childhood trauma.  I've heard voices ever since I can remember, so at least since I was 3.   That's not even on the list.  Or when I stopped talking--that's not even on the list.

I walk around in mostly clean clothes and don't usually talk to myself in public, but do you think that means you know what happens in my head?  It takes a lot of energy to self-care myself into the functional person you see today!  It takes Ming a lot of energy too.

Tea he made me is still on the stove.  I took a good nap.  I make decisions and change my mind, but I call that flexible and try to enjoy it.

Tuesday, May 26, 2020

a

Funslowers, for the bestie who loved spoonerisms.  I love you.

Monday, May 25, 2020

five most pleasurable things in the world version for today

1.  making a recipe so often that I memorize it

I made vegan sweet potato biscuits so often, for a couple years, that I had the recipe memorized.  That was beautiful.  This morning I'm making maltomeal, knowing the amount of water and maltomeal for two servings, which I find lovely.

2.  waking up from a nice dream about my mom

This morning I had a dream about my mom.  We were at this dream apartment complex, and she said something to me about running.  I turned a corner and pretended to run, a joke, then looked back to see if she was following me.  She had to go another way, but I glimpsed her look.  I woke up and thought "Mama!" and remembered she's dead.  But it was good to dream of her.

I wanted to wake up Ming and tell him my dream.  But I let him sleep.  I told him the dream later.  He asked if she gave me a message.  I said it seemed clear to me, that she has to go another way.  I was crying, but it was ok.  

Ming said I could wake him up any time to tell him my dream.  I said it was ok to tell him later.  We hugged, and he went back to bed.

3.  new ideas

We made some ginger tea, just simmering ginger for a long time.  Then I thought--what if I made some oatmeal using ginger tea instead of water.  Would that be good?  Probably.  I might or might not do that, but just the though is tasty, of possibilities and newness.  I told myself, even if I was stuck at home for a long time, I could still have newness, because it could come from my own mind.

My friend posted on facebook a thing about the most mysterious song on the internet.  I'd never heard of this whole story and felt delighted.  I listened to the song a few times.  

Then I listened to a Bruce Springsteen song that was mentioned in the comments--The River.  Wow, that's a sad-ass song.  It should have a trigger warning.

I saw these bathroom reviews and decided to write some bathroom reviews--it was hilarious and amazing.  So maybe I'll make a zine of bathroom reviews.  We'll see.  I have strong feelings about some particular bathrooms.  The feelings make almost zero sense, which is delightful for me.

I've been working on a new vegan cookzine also, which is an old idea, so maybe old ideas too.

4.  when Ming wakes up and I offer him some of my food, and I made kind of too much on accident, and he wants some, so it's perfect

5.  Ming in general


honorable mention: 
shadows, shadows of me and my trike, riding my trike into my own shadow and saying nice things in my head to myself / my shadow

Sunday, May 24, 2020

feeling Shakti energy by loving fruits, art, and Ming


Ming picks good apricots.  Grateful to him.

I do a lot of things.  Some of them feel important.  I didn't sleep enough, so my art filter was turned off.  It was easier to do art.

There was a big wind, so outside I saw on the ground in the courtyard, eucalyptus twigs had fallen, and they were special because the tree was about to flower, so there were cute little buds.




Definitely felt like a day to honor Mother God.  Long ago, I think when I turned 17, my best friend made me a crown of eucalyptus leaves.  We were at a park in San Luis Obispo.  It's a thing to do.

Sometimes lately I tell Ming," I want...something."  A feeling of desire is stirring in me that I don't have anything to attach to. 

I try chocolate, but no chocolate is right.  Pizza doesn't work either.  Tea is definitely good, but nope.  Cheesecake hasn't worked, but I only tried vegan cheesecake.  Maybe I should try the regular stuff.

My mom died four months ago today.  I made it through a third of a year.  I have to keep doing this.  In a way, it seems fitting that when she died, the whole world was thrown into chaos.  Not that her death caused it, or was caused by it. 

But everyone's off their rocker lately.  So I'm like, yearh, shit's fucked.  I see that!  I do a few things at once.  Grieve, quarantine, make art, txt people.

Luckily Ming's hugs are helping me, love from friends and community, writing.  I'm laying out the trike diaries zine. 

Things change all the time, whether I want them to or not.  I took this picture of our tallest tree collard and Ming, sweetheart for scale.  Aw, sorry I used you, lover.  You're not a ruler, but you are a monarch!  Mx Monarch for scale, the Sun King.


I wanted to watch the movie The Cup for this certain scene I love--toward the end, when the electricity goes out and the monks do shadow puppets.  I wanted to see it again and for Ming to see it.  He let me take his picture as he watched, in bed.


By then I'd bailed on the movie and was waiting just for my favorite scene.  Ming usually watches movies where stuff blows up a lot.  I asked him what he liked about The Cup.  He said the costuming.  I asked him again, and he said the same.


My filter on making art turns off, but my insecurity, irritability, and taking things personally go sky high.  So it's a tradeoff.

Summer fruits are here to comfort us and remind me of where we are in the year.  Yep, summer is coming again.  I'm a person still, and for now, let's enjoy the sweetness.


Saturday, May 23, 2020

free life with rainbow light

I was writing affirmations in this notebook.  I was lying in bed, trying to give approval to myself.  I think if I approve of myself more, I can waste less energy trying to get it from others.  It's a thing of my life.


After the rainbow light one, I was like, wow--I'm a real hippie.  But it was in reference to this prayer that the local UU minister prayed for me when I was in the hospital.  My mom loved that prayer.  Funny how all these different facts of my history are connected up, but other people know few of the connections.


Hope you enjoy these garden pics.  This aloe's beauty really gets to me!  Its curves seem ridiculously beautiful.


I told my friend, I didn't know sunflowers can wear a hat.  She told me sunflowers can do anything because they're magical.  I laughed and loved her more than ever.


Shy strawberry I had to dig through strawberry leaves for.  I didn't realize a fingertip was in the photo, where I'm holding back the greens.


Maybe this will be the year we eat some of these figs.  Usually the birds get what little fruit persists.  Maybe this windstorm is knocking all the baby figs off.


I couldn't bear to thwart this cilantro in its project of flowering.  I knew I should pinch off the bolting bit, but I don't like to eat cilantro, so I was unmotivated to bother it.  I like those white flowers!


I was telling Ming, "This is not what I thought it would be."

"What?" he asked.  "What's not what you thought it would be?"

"Life?  Reality?  All this?"  It was an I want a refund kind of feeling.  Too bad life's free and I can't get a refund.  Hahahahaha!

Friday, May 22, 2020

the difference between therapeutic positivity and flat out denial: denial kills

content warning: mentions of suicidalness, lots about ableism

I was arguing in my head with this guy who hurt my feelings a long time ago.  I had some new ideas for him, so it made sense I wanted to argue with him this morning.

He was a zinester I really respected, about ten years ago.  I loved his writing, and we were friends for a minute.  Then he wrote me this letter regarding functionally ill.  He said I shouldn't write about being crazy, that I should focus on my strengths, not my weaknesses.  He was tough love about, and I was stunned.

It hurt me because I felt like he was telling me to shut up about my life.  I heard the "fake it till you make it" idea, which I find really annoying.  I don't need confidence--I need authenticity, reality, connection, understanding, access.  I don't need to smile more and pretend I'm not hurting.  I need to tell my truth.

I've known some people over the years who killed themselves.  The friend I was closest to who killed himself, he smiled all the time.  He was a totally happy person, by all appearances.  I don't think that strategy works well.  What an understatement!  His pretending was part of what killed him.

And some disabilities, they don't get better from positivity, really.  "No amount of smiling at a flight of stairs ever made it turn into a ramp," said disability justice advocate Stella Young.

https://www.thecut.com/2014/12/a-bad-attitude-is-not-the-disability.html

Functionally ill is the zine I've been most proud of, as I've worked on it for the past 13 years.  It's been a meaningful thread of my life, especially because of all the feedback I've received from friends and strangers who read it and felt less alone.  Maybe it helped them get through a hard patch or have some extra strength to make it to the next lilypad.  I mean life hands us a lot of pain and trials, and sometimes it's so hard to survive this one and live to tell the tale, till the next one.

I feel like that about the radical mental health collective also--people come and go, and I hope the people who came and went got something that helped them find a resource or idea or insight that helps them continue.   Even if they don't need to stick around for more of our particular group.

This guy who hurt me, who I argue with in my head--he had trouble with employment.  He was moving away to another state with his girlfriend, and it had to do with a job.  He'd struggled, and he was a sad person.  I think he was trying to squash my talking about my struggles because he was trying to squash his own.  It was some "be positive" bullshit.

I love being positive and definitely dose myself every day with sunshines.  But there's a difference between therapeutic positivity and flat out denial.  Hmm, I could say that 20 times.  I love gratitude journaling and joking and trying to train myself for certain helpful behaviors, but denial kills!  Worse than cotton!

I was riding my trike around the favorite church parking lot and telling this guy in my head how important it was to honor the people who are disabled and how it's so many people.  It's not an us and them--it's an us and us.  If it's not you, wait a few years, and it will be you, if not your mom or partner or friend.

Disabled people are not a rare, strange population that we don't need to worry about.  I'm so tired of people pretending that.  Capitalism causing people to do that is a load of shit.  Seeing disability as a rare, strange thing we don't need to worry about is a scam.

If not disabled, people get sick, pregnant, old, or have a newborn, or get in a car wreck, fall off a ladder, or whatever!  People need help, and that's not wrong or bizarre.  You were a baby, and caring for you required extraordinary effort and resources.  Can we all acknowledge we were babies, sometimes everyone needs care, and that's totally normal?

This guy I argue with in my head, he was a "real writer."  He was a white guy a little older than I was.  For him, making zines was more of a means than an end.  He was saying stuff people want to read.  Oh, how poignant.  The white guy said a poignant thing--give him a million dollars.  Way more serious than I am or could ever be.

I can't remember his name.  I think if I googled him, I'd either find a bunch of books he published, or his suicide obituary.

Sorry for the sads, friends.  Here's morning ride photos.


Thursday, May 21, 2020

disability justice is love

This essay by Stacey Milbern about disabled ancestors is just what I need.  I love seeing all my most important values addressed intersectionally.  Usually I only hear myself talk about all this, so it's inspiring to hear someone else say it.  I feel inspired to keep the faith to do this work.

https://disabilityvisibilityproject.com/2019/03/10/on-the-ancestral-plane-crip-hand-me-downs-and-the-legacy-of-our-movements/

"My ancestors are disabled people who lived looking out of institution windows wanting so much more for themselves. It’s because of them that I know that, in reflecting on what is a 'good' life, an opportunity to contribute is as important as receiving supports one needs." --Stacey Milbern

Yes, all the psychiatrists who would medicate away my quality of life to keep me "safe?"  They were more concerned with covering their asses and keeping me technically alive, than helping me have a life worth living.  They were too busy or important or cold, to think about why I'm on this earth and help me do my life's mission.  They probably didn't believe i had a life's mission.

This queer disabled radical writer helps me feel inspired to keep trying. Love to her, to everyone grieving the loss of her, and to everyone doing this work.

Here's my recording of Stacey Milbern's essay--please share with anyone who would like to hear.

toast is amazing

Yesterday Ming had a 7am dentist appointment, so we missed our ride.  I was waiting in a parking lot, as he got his cavity filled, and went for a walk.  It was strange because I had walked around a bit, but hadn't gone for a Walk in a while.

I was like, hmm, this feels awkward.  I think it's good to ask my body to do a variety of things.  But I resisted it.  I felt like when I've been swimming and step up out of the pool.  My body loved the water-weightlessness, and to have weight again in the regular airy world feels confusing and unwanted, that extreme heaviness.

After a few minutes, it felt better.  I liked moving through the huge mostly-abandoned parking lot.  I looked at stuff and had thoughts about it--plants, labeled parking spaces, terrible landscaping with concrete benches and trimmed hedges, supposed to emulate a real place humans could enjoy, but it's very artificial, fake, a semblance of ok for people who are destroying their souls with capitalism.

Yes, you are sacrificing everything good of life, to make money for rent and to pay for the things you buy to comfort yourself for sacrificing everything good of life.  Here, have a manicured bush, a trash can, and a concrete bench painted the color "putty" where you can smoke your cigarette and hate who you are and everything life has done to you.  Then go back inside and do it some more.

Then I kind of liked walking.  I felt like I was giving my body a nice treat.  I've heard humans are walking machines.  I felt empowered and well.

I was almost back to the car, thirsty, and then I got back to the car and realized I'd forgotten my water bottle at home.  Oops.  I waited another 15 minutes or so for Ming to be done.

That paragraph above in italics--that's my head, lately.  I feel full of criticism and sads.  I told my friend it's weird how I acknowlesge that the bad I do can affect the world, but the good I do feels like nothing.

No one cares about my writing, my singing, my ideas, my love, the radical mental health collective, the letters I write, zines, choices, freedom, or anything I really believe in.  I'm fiddling while Rome burns.  I'm rearranging deck chairs on the titanic.  Other than that, Mrs Lincoln, how was the play?

Usually I can say, "Well, at least I like it.  I have Ming, my bestie, my local bestie.  They love me--that's more than most people have."  And the singing is really for Mother God.  I want to believe that putting my happy vibrations into the world is better than a poke in the eye.

Yesterday I was singing a silly song and realized I should record it.  So here you go.  Ming liked it--he listened to it yesterday and found it funny in the way I hoped he would.  What a lovely spouse and perfect audience.  I love you, pump.


Wednesday, May 20, 2020

homeland

I saw this billboard for 805.  I think it's alcoholic beverages from my homeland.  I have weird feelings about that.

If you know my phone number, you might recall it starts with 805.  I didn't want a cellphone and held out for a few years, unil one year it was my birthday, and my mom bought me an iphone and put me on her plan.

Ming and I went to a hotel a few years ago, on our way somewhere else, and saw in that brochures rack a brochure for my homeland.  I took one to see how they spun it.  I thought there might be a cool map.

Someone went to college for advertising.  She got paid to think of how to spin my homeland--decide what the mystique is.  I wanted to see her work.

It was mostly about wine--that you should go there and go on wine tours and be a rich person there.  The photos depict two youngish white people.  Maybe the guy is wearing a cowboy hat.  The light is dappled, probably through oak tree leaves, and a horse could be there.  The people are in love with one another and have a relaxed, friendly feeling.  They're grinning, and things are ok.

The words talk about a relaxed pace.  So take off your hat and stay a while.  For generations, ranchers have grown the finest grapes here.  The BBQ is a delicious tradition handed down for generations also, when cattle were rounded up, and the cowboys blah blah blah.  Fire roasted tri-tip, beans.  The central coast has a personality all its own.  You'll be welcome here.

My homeland is nothing like that, to me.  The hills are beautiful, but they're hard to get to.  Life is lived in the valley.  That's where the chains are, and the schools.  The fields, the freeway.

We went on a field trip to a special park on the hills, in sixth grade, and I loved that.  But it was one day.  As for vineyards, I never worked in one or visited one.  I would pass them in Los Alamos and on the freeway, thinking about grapes and money, the seasons.  I would see people in them, sometimes.  A guy on a tractor, mostly, or outstanding in his field.

My homeland was built on racism.  I believe the farms were mostly owned by white people who exploited the Mexican and Mexican-American fieldworkers.  I came about from two teenagers who met processing tomatoes.   It's not an abstract thing, to me--it's my origin.  I never worked in the fields, but I suffered other ways related to the pesticides and harm.

I see the billboard and think about all that.  I don't drink alcohol, as I never had a good example of how.  I saw it as poison that makes people abuse their family members with violence.  I didn't see the appeal.  I don't like bars and don't drink at parties.  It can feel strange, so say no, but a lot of things about me are strange.

My homeland to me is wind, mild weather, long beach days.  The cemetery where my mom's parents are buried, the place my dad's ashes were scattered, some houses.  A condo complex where I played.  Coastal feelings.  Apple tasting, the road to Guadalupe beach where I got my mom's Mustang stuck in the sand.  Two restaurants I liked, the air force base, a toxic waste dump, a nuclear power plant, three special parks.  A few relatives.

A place to escape from, and then visit in a tense way, because of duty or love.  A place to take for granted, then flee from, but return to, in different ways.

What is your homeland?  Does it matter, to you?  Can you return there?  When's the last time you were there?  Do you love anyone who's still there?  Does it need to be protected?  Do you feel empowered to save it?

If this is too painful, please see these trike pics for how I heal myself.  I hope you have a good way of healing yourself too.



Tuesday, May 19, 2020

wild green trikewitch



I'm doing ok, feeling a lot.  Trying to love myself and give myself credit.  Sometimes I wish I could suck back into myself a lot of the love and energy I've given to others.  Like a snail that feels unsafe so retracts its antennae back, and goes inside its shell. 

Love they didn't want or didn't know what to do with.  Energy I didn't know I needed for myself until I was totally horizontal and nonfunctional.  I look up and months have passed of giving so much, when I never intended that.  I thought it was a week or so.

It's confusing because I get mad at myself for oversharing, but I also love that about myself.  It all depends on my mood, how strong I'm feeling when I look at all.

I woke up in the night super sad and filled with anger toward myself, and it didn't make much sense.  Like a dream had hurt me, but I forgot the dream.  Ming listened to me and helped me.  I txted the friend who gives.

Yesterday I had a zoom that used up all my spoons.  I felt angry about that.  Angry at who?  My default is myself.  Why didn't I leave after one hour, or how did I get myself in a role of so much emotional labor.  I needed to make dinner, it was too hot, I was so tired.

Sometimes I feel like the designated feeler.  How did that happen?  Someone intentionally tries to squick me in the meeting.  He likes to see me put my hand over my face, a big react.  In a way, I don't mind doing it.  But in a way, I needed those spoons for the rest of my day.

He reminds me of the kid at the beach who sees a flock of birds on the shore and runs to scare them up, up into the air.  The kid laughs, feeling like God, maybe.  I can do things--I can cause a reaction.  I'm the powerful one who can bother birds.

The kid has so little power.  I relate to the parent who yells, "Leave those birds alone!" to no avail.  I relate to the birds, who are just trying to do bird things.  I relate to the kid, who wants to make something happen.  I relate to the ocean, moved by the moon and filled with life.

But I can't help but wish the kid had more power.  If the kid had more power, maybe they could leave the birds alone.

Or maybe it's just human nature.  Seeing lots of birds take off into a bird cloud is pretty cool.  I've seen in a thousand times, but maybe the kid only saw it three times.  It can be an overwhelming feeling.  Maybe the kid wants to be overwhelmed in a way they can control.

Yeah, a kid version of an adult power play / sensory play you might be familiar with.  Or how people jump out of airplanes.  I'm going to take a little risk to get a big feeling.  It's ok I guess but expensive.

I'm just waiting for the sun to come up so I can ride my trike again.


Monday, May 18, 2020

betraying / not betraying my disabled peeps

Hey, I'm disabled.  Lately I felt non-disabled for the first time in 20 years.

I was riding my trike a couple weeks ago in that wonderful church lot, and I realized I could just keep riding, indefinitely.  Without pain, nonchalantly, as a non-disabled person who takes their body for granted because it does what they ask it to, every day.

I just about fell off my trike, when I realized I felt non-disabled.  It was an ecstatic moment.  I felt deeply grateful and healed, held, and like a miracle had happened, really.  I never knew I would feel that way ever again.

That lasted a few moments.  By afternoon, I was lying in bed in the half-dark, horizontal with exhaustion and maybe craziness or whatever.  I have the psychiatric disabilities which I'm actually on SSDI for, but there are the physical ones too, and they go together for sure.

Long time ago I wanted to be a crazy person who didn't do it no more, like Tim'm West in the Stutterer song.

I'm a diehard stutterer, but I don't do it no more.



I kept thinking I was done with the functionally ill zine because I didn't need to talk about any mental health anymore.  Then I'd have a struggle and write another issue.  I'm working on issue 29 now.

If I'm happy not to be disabled anymore, is that ok?  Well, it wasn't real.  Or it was real for only part of a morning.

I feel like a fairweather friend.  I could leave my disabled peeps behind.  "Hey, it was nice being disabled with you.  I'm abled now.  See ya later.  Good luck!"  I hurry off, leaving them to circle the capital in light rain and lobby the representatives of representatives without me.  That's really rude.

I have to be accurate and honest.  But it's a bit confusing.  In addition to being invisible, disabilities can be episodic.

I feel energetic, pain-free, not that crazy, happy, and well right now.  I'm not hearing any voices.  I'm up but not too up.  I slept almost five hours last night.

I say sometimes that I'm disabled by schizoaffective disorder, anxiety, and capitalism.  I have my life struggles, but capitalism is the one that says I'm supposed to be predictably, consistently, unwaveringly productive.  I'm made of so many cycles.  But capitalism told me I need to be able to work fulltime or more, always.

I enjoy having fluctuations, including hormones, moods, feelings, hunger, sleep, the day cycle, the seasons, the wheel of the year.  It's supposed to be like that.  Fields can lie fallow.  Winter could freeze the ground.  We don't all need to do all the things, all the times.

Well, I love you, disabled people.  I love you, street medics, tincture makers, nurses, listeners, caregivers paid and unpaid.   People who could do it for a long time, people who could do it for a while, people who quit the first day.

Please be patient with me as I move from category to category, moment by moment.  Please accept me as I am, with messy feelings and all my needs.  I want to be loyal.  But I also want to be capable and have all the spoons, I must admit.

Sunday, May 17, 2020

magical spiders

Hey, lately I like spiders.  Real spiders kind of, but more representations of spiders.  Spider art.  Not cute cartoon spiders.  More like angular weird spiders.  Magical spiders.

I thought I was going to make a bunch of spider art, but I never did.  That one blue on blue atc.  I still could, definitely!

I want to look at spider pics on google images and draw a hundred spiders.  I got a postcard in the mail today that's of a spider.  Yellow postcard of white spider with black eyes.

They kind of freak me out, but in a way that's not entirely unpleasant.  The discomfort is ok.

I've killed them, for Ming, and others also.  "I killed God's creature for you," is a sentence I've uttered before, reporting that I'd done the deed.

The little ones I don't mind at all.  I find them too small to be afraid of, though many hatched in my kitchen once was pretty alarming.

I have this idea they're goddess energy, spiders.  Storytelling wisdom stuff.  I don't want to buy the hype--trying to feel out how I really feel about them.  Not sure, but it's definitely good.

I added some ceiling creatures to this bike / trike art, speaking of art.  I think it's improved!



Kinda crazy, huh?  I felt overly crazy this morning--better now.  It's ok to be extra crazy sometimes.  I invite it in.

Saturday, May 16, 2020

I knew I was healing my relationship with art when I let myself make art.

A long time ago, I saw this thing on facebook that was like, "I knew I was healing my relationship with my ________when I _____________."  I liked it and printed it out to remind me to try it.

Finally I gave it a try.  I did four rounds.

I knew I was healing my relationship with my past when I felt stronger in my present.

I knew I was healing my relationship with food when I felt more loose, free, lighthearted, happy, relaxed, comfortable, and willing to try new things regarding food.

I knew I was healing my relationship with my body when I left myself move however I wanted to move.

I knew I was healing my relationship with my booty when I shook it.

I guess the one that interests me the most is the third one.  I felt really constricted about my body for many years.  I had super restrictive ways of treating my body, like to stay safe, I needed to act a certain way that brought zero attention to it. 

Now I let myself move different ways, I wear tank tops and other clothes I wouldn't let myself wear before, I wear different colors, I let myself wiggle more and touch my own hands, arms, tummy, chest, forehead in comforting ways.  I like it.


I wanna be like my way of drawing is valid, a style that can be an ok style, but I'm not sure?  It definitely represents something.  There can be a feeling.  I wanna say it's outsider art and I can do it.  Or it's better to try and fail--bad art is better than no art.  Hmm, still deciding.


One time someone told me, "The only way someone can't draw is if they don't draw."  I felt judged kind of harshly by him.  If I was too scared to draw, that had to to with the world being pretty mean to me, and my resources getting used up by unwanted bullshit of life.

I wanted to tell that art guy, "Hey, I'm trying!"  Sometimes when I start trying to draw, it's really scary.  I have to tell myself to keep breathing and be very nice to myself.  Laugh about it, smile, take it line by line.

Toward the beginning of our relationship, I had a daily practice of drawing Ming.  It was fun.  I still have the sketchbook with a bunch of naked Ming.  It helped my life, for a while. 

Maybe it's good to do something badly.  Writing, cooking, love, being a friend I do pretty well usually.  No one really accuses me of being a good drawer.

Well, my best friend does.  She says it's expressive.  She's super nice to me.  She's kind of like my mom, in that way.  She has a lot of practice appreciating me, almost 30 years now.  Maybe that's a spiritual practice for her.

I wish everyone could experience being loved like that.  When my mom was dying, my bestie wrote my mom a letter thanking her for bringing me into the world and telling her how I'd been helpful.  It was sweet.

My mom got that letter and was happy.  She txted me a picture of it. 

My bestie is an artist for real.  She designed the logo for the radical mental health collective.


Friday, May 15, 2020

cow

"If that's a cow, please tell it we don't want any.  We already gave at the office."

"It is a cow," Ming said, peeking thru the blinds.

"The check is in the mail."


Possible cover for the trike diaries zine.   Ming encourages me to try again.

I recorded three songs yesterday.  This one is my favorite.



I realized I have cream cheese and powdered sugar at home, so maybe I could make a little frosting, like a tablespoon, and frost a brownie and see if that improves it.  I bet it would.  The flavor would have another element, the sweet creamy tang layer to offset the chocolate neutrality.

The cream cheese was for making roasted red pepper one pot pasta, to add the creaminess at the end.  Two bricks of it Ming bought for me at WinCo a while back, waiting for their day.

https://www.budgetbytes.com/one-pot-roasted-red-pepper-pasta/

I was emoting to Ming about how frustrated I feel that cpap equipment is so hard to clean and maintain.  "Here, have a bunch more stuff to do.  I know you're disabled--now be more disabled." 

If someone came over to wash the stuff for us, or they took away some responsibilities to replace with other responsibilities, that might work.  But it's really frustrating.  I feel the opening where the tube attaches to the headgear closes up partly, lately. 

Have we ever replaced the headgear?  I thank God that Ming does any upkeep at all.  I wasn't trying to criticize him.  More the system where we're expected to do all this stuff for ourselves that we can't.  It's supposed to be nothing.  But if we fuck it up, we can get infections and have a lot of problems.

I can imagine a culture where being disabled means you get extra resources to care for special needs.  Instead, I'm expected to live below the poverty level and be ok, thankful for my crumb. 

Worker bees struggle to work, parents struggle to parent, and I struggle to survive my disabilities in a world that tells me I'm worthless because I don't "do anything."  Hahahahaha!

Well, thanks for listening.  I love you.



Thursday, May 14, 2020

teaching moment

I was craving brownies--dense, chocolatey, and rich.  I like the nuts--walnuts or pecans.  I like chocolate chips.  I like a thin frosting layer, possibly.  A softness in the middle and a chewiness at the edge. 

These ridiculous brownies Ming bought at Walmart have this red, white, and blue little star candy things on top.  They're dry, bland, and add nothing.  They're an attempt at distraction, to try to distract us from noticing how boring the brownies taste.

"Why does it have those?" I asked.

"For the upcoming holiday?" he said.

"There is no upcoming holiday!" I said.  "You mean Fourth of July?  It's May!"

"Oh," he said.

"Is it patriotism for the pandemic?" I asked.  "Oh jeeze.  Yeah, something important is happening, so it's uniquely American.  We will rise above in a uniquely American way.  Sorry.  That was really negative.  There's a reason I don't watch the news."

Not sure why I went through a phase of making blondies, years ago.  They're like brownies but without the chocolate.  I must have been out of cocoa powder one time, and it became a bad habit.


"I saved you blueberries," Ming said.

"I only wanted one," I said.

"Well, I saved you 17."

"Oh, how sweet!  You love me 16 times more than I need you to.  Sounds good!"


"So are you going to make a sandwich?"

"No, I'm going to wait for the sandwich fairy.  Like Santa, but fairier.  What's a farrier?  Isn't that someone who has hawks?"

[jokes about fairies, farriers]

"Infarriors.  That was about foxes."

"Foxes?  I thought it was hawks.  Who does hawks?"

"Hawkers.  Falconers."


"So you said no to me making you a sandwich?" Ming asked.

"Initially!" I said, and laughed for a long time, and clapped.

"So I can't make a sandwich with my initials," he said.

"Mark it with a B!  Put it in the oven for Baby and me!"


Farriers care for the hooves of horses.  I had a special someone who had horses.  She would say, "The farrier is coming this afternoon."  It was an exciting thing, a teaching moment.

Wednesday, May 13, 2020

loss as spiritual practice


I finished a draft of the trike diaries zine.  Afterward I ran out of language spoons.  That almost never happens.

Then I had the final meeting of the T-MAPs group I was in, and I was crying.  Too much loss.  I went into it knowing I'm socially maxed out and resolving not to make friends.  Guess how well that worked.

The universe gives us a lot--the universe takes a lot away.  Learning to let go is a huge lesson of my life.

1.  how to be with other people
2.  how to let stuff go
3.  how to be who I am

Something like that.  Ming keeps telling me worse and worse things about covid.  I keep adjusting my understanding of how serious it is and how long it's going to last.

Love to all and thanks for all the fish.

Tuesday, May 12, 2020

outside of a dog, stickers are whoever's best friend. inside of a dog, it's too dark to read.



Hey, guess what.  Stickers!


This pink party dress was in laundry limbo for a long time.  So I decided to wear it yesterday to take it out of that category.  But the synthetic material had static electricity and clung to my legs in a way that was Not Acceptable.  Note: church for scale.

Ming and I had a conversation about how to handle that.  Probably I will just get rid of the dress, but I don't know anyone who would like it--I don't think I know anyone my size at all.  We said there's a spray.  He said it was a dynamic spray, to get rid of static, and I was very impressed.


Late bloomers of the pretty pretty.


Fallen petals of the palo verde tree looked beautiful to me.

Did you know I can feel all the feelings?  Just about, yeah.  Yesterday was really terrible.  I'm hoping that was the last of the pain from Mother's Day.

I didn't know my legs were not that strong until they got strong, recently.  My legs make more sense now.  I ask them to carry me around nowadays and they do that pretty easily.  It feels good that my body can do all sorts of things.  I feel really grateful.

Thank you to Mama for forming such a nice body for me.  She was always more of a crocheter than a knitter.  So maybe she crocheted me in the womb.

The dress is a Torrid 5.  Let me know if a strangely pink party dress of this size would be helpful to you.

Monday, May 11, 2020

making enchiladas on mother's day



"Do you mind washing that squash and cutting it in half?  I wanna see what's inside."

"What do you think is inside?" Ming asked.

"Squash," I said.  "Why are you giving me that disturbed look?"

"I'm afraid of what's inside," he said.  "Maybe a little gnome is curled up in there."

"Well, don't cut a gnome in half!  If you're afraid there's a gnome...you could just cut the top off.  Especially if he's an anarchist."  Here I was think of Noam Chomsy, my pretend boyfriend.  Trying to protect my pretend boyfriend in miniature form.

"I'm just going to assume there's not a gnome," Ming said.




"Oh, I could have opened that myself.  With the ftt fttt."

"Ftt fttt?" Ming asked.

"You know.  The church key," I said, making the motion of piercing the can twice.


"Could you thaw the tortillas?  Just cut the bag open and put them in the microwave, like 30 seconds."

"It says if you heat the tortillas in the bag, the ink on the bag will stain whatever it touches.  They knew people were going to do this."

"Yeah, they got some complaints," I said.  "You ruined my microwave!  You stained it with Mexican colors!"  We laughed.  "Maybe you could just put the tortillas in the pyrex and put it in the oven."


Turns out it's ok to eat young kabocha squash.  I wasn't sure what it was, in the field, but suspected.  It looked like a yellow pumpkin, but not a pumpkin.  It let me pick it, like it didn't mind being eaten at all.  Well, we learn something new every day, hopefully.


I sauteed it with garlic salt and ground coriander, a sliced up carrot also.  It was lovely.  I'd like to grow kabocha squash.  It's my favorite.


My mom was the master of enchiladas.  Making enchiladas on mother's day felt right.  Also I did some self-care that would make her happy.  She loved me and my body, cherishing my well-being like crazy.   So that was a way to honor her too.

Probably lots of time for rituals.  I want to look at old pictures.  There's a recording I have of an interview I did with her, that I want to listen to, some special day.

I freaked out more on Saturday.  Thank you to the friends who helped me through.