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.
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.
posted by Laura-Marie @ 12:07 AM
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