new blog website--please adjust your compass

Hey, I got a new website.  Wow, how did that happen?  Please orient to this new site.  See you over there.

http://www.listeningtothenoiseuntilitmakessense.com

pictures of you

Is it ok to put up pictures of your relatives?

It's actually expected.

What if they are old-timey and you didn't know them?

Yeah, it's expected.

Yay!  I'm normal!

In the hallway.

What?

People hang the pictures in the hallway.  

Do we have a hallway?

No.

To represent the passage between the past and the present?  

No.

To represent the birth canal?

Uh...

Because hallways are scary, and family is scary?

candy relationship style announcement

Well, I finally decided.  I'm ready to announce to the world: I like Almond Joy more than Mounds.  It took me 43 years, but there you go.

My reason is that the almonds are so nicely toasted!  They crunch apart so beautifully!  They taste so  crumbly delicious, with the sweet sticky coconut and lovely cheap chocolate.  Mmmm!  Little treats within the treat.

But I still like Mounds too.  I'm polyconfectionary--I love all the chocolates.  Polyconfenctionamorous?  Something like that.  Polycocoamorous, more specifically.  Polycocoromantic.

Thanking Mother God that my teeth work, I can eat foods, I can have sugar sometimes.  Thanking Ming for being the designated shopper, during this pandemic, and putting candy into the cart for his darling.

Photo Ming took of me putting a radical mental health collective sticker on my trike.

Gratitude is free.  So are smiles, hugs, orgasms, ideas, sunrays.  Starlight and moonrays too.  Cat comfort.  Friend sentences.  Love to the lovers.

my preferences

I feel so angry, the only correct thing to do would be to go out into the desert wilderness and howl.  Howl, scream, curse humanity, maybe hit the earth with my pathetic fists.  Maybe hit some rocks.  Maybe yell at God in a language I don't even know.

I messaged my cousin this morning, the only relative I speak with at all, on the white side of my family.  I hadn't heard from her in a month.  I invited her to the street medic training Ming is doing at the beginning of July.  I wanted to ask her if she would attend.

Then I called my aunt, to see if my grandma is still alive.  In a happy, normalish family, probably you would know if your last remaining grandparent was alive, wouldn't you.  Well, I wanted to check.  Because I don't speak to anyone on that side of the my family, I'm not in the loop.

So I asked this aunt of mine, on the white side, for her phone number.  I found out, when I talked to her on the phone, that my grandma is still alive.  That was good to know.  When I pray to her, whether to send my prayers to this side or the other.

My aunt asked how my mom is doing--I mentioned my mom died at the end of January.  It's been five months now.  Wow, almost half a year.  I'm doing the thing--I'm surviving.

My aunt had a strong reaction to that news--I will spare you.  After that conversation portion was over, my aunt mentioned my cousin so and so was dead.

What?

It's been ten days or so.

But, but...I just messaged her this morning!  I didn't emote much.  Ming was on an interview.  I freaked out inwardly, on my own.

I feel angry beyond angry.  I feel rage.  I feel so mad I could curse the God I love.  I feel destroying shit angry, light it all on fire angry, walking away forever angry.

I feel angry because--my relatives seem to do one of two things.  Either they are capable of pretending normal, working, having kids, buying a house, having dogs and cars and BBQs.  Or, they are batshit crazy, such as myself, and go to jail a lot, use drugs a lot, have extreme moods and behaviors, and commit suicide and  / or overdose.

The part that makes me really fucking mad is how it's one or the other.  Does it need to be one or the other?  I would prefer if we could all, all of us. without exception, talk about what's happening to us, be honest about our lives and experiences, care for one another in a helpful actual way, listen, not be totally selfish pieces of shit?  How about that?

I have mine, which I deserve, because I worked hard for it.  So I will hoard it.  You, on the other hand, make poor choices, so you deserve nothing.  Die in the gutter, unfortunate one, while I shop, watch movies, and cry myself to sleep, due to the meaninglessness of my stupid empty life.

Everyone makes mistakes, right?  Not just addicts, crazy people, teen moms, fat people, queer people...  I notice it's so easy to be disqualified.  The real people are over here--the non-people are over there.  We don't have to love them anymore.  They are messed up and don't matter.

These are my preferences.

1.  Please either be on your own, or form a family where people are kind and honest, with one another.

2.  Don't abuse your children or allow others to.

3.  Please communicate, about everything, but especially about relationships, sex, race, body stuff, what you actually need, what you're willing to give.  And create a family where everyone is allowed to talk about that stuff, not just the king.

4.  Care about people other than yourself, and actually be there for them.  It doesn't have to be everyone.  You could just pick a few people--maybe start with two of three.  Be there for them, know what's actually happening in their lives, and stick with it, unless you have a really good reason not to.

5.  If you are traumatized by what you had done to you a long time ago, or what you did to people a long time ago, or even not so long ago, please heal yourself.  It's a lot of work, but denial is a really crappy strategy, and working a lot so you don't have time to do anything else--in the long run, it might not serve you well, to avoid the reality of your body and soul.  I'm thinking you'll pay for that later, and your family will too.

My cousin didn't have to die.  I didn't much speak to her, for a long time.  Lately I decided to try checking in with her and seeing if she would be my relative.

It's good, to check in with one another.  If ten people were checking in on her, maybe she would be alive.  I couldn't do a ton for her, but if ten people were all doing something, maybe she would have had her needs met and could be ok.

Or my dad, my cousin who committed suicide, cousins in jail, confusing early deaths.  So much jailtime, kids taken away, jobs lost, the fuckton of weed and pills, anesthetizing Christianity, guns, breaking shit, drug dealing, restraining orders, attempted murder.  Pretending ok while living with hardcore violence every single day.

Thank you for considering my opinion.  I'm trying to love.  If not my actual relatives, my community members, chosen temporary family, Ming, other people I live with.   I try to heal my trauma, ignore what's petty, communicate with the people I choose to engage, listen, care.

It's too hot to go scream in the desert.  I'm sitting at my desk in the half-dark, a fan blowing on me, an ice pack on my lap.  I said I'd do a ritual for my cousin who died.

People are horrible to one another.  Thanks for not being horrible, if you get the chance.

community is possible

This interview our friend did with us--we got a surprise, this morning!  It was supposed to be unavailable, the recording, but here it is, now, on spotify, for anyone to hear.

https://open.spotify.com/show/0vz8xRZp4BBEL3IThah4Od

It's episode 22.  I talk about how walking through the desert changed me, community is possible, the most delicious thing I ever tasted, therapy, medication. paranoia.  I was having a good day!  When someone invites me to talk, I can do it.

How've you been?  People started txting me more, when the pandemic started.  It kind of suits me.  Some things I need to say don't fit in a txt.  But it's writing.

ok person Laura-Marie

I like extremes--I can find a lot of learning there.  Intense experiences, so informative--quick insight from terrible or terribly wonderful times.  I'll take it.

But some things, I need middleness.  I guess a great pain of my life was hating myself a lot, and then switching to thinking highly of myself. 

I was a kid who was considered really smart.  I could be conceited, when I was in the highest reading group, or did this or that feat, skipped seventh grade math, got straight a's, when I was little.

I was conceited to get a Master's degree, mostly because I almost didn't graduate from high school and was told I would never get through my first year of college.  It was a haha kind of feeling--yeah, you're doing some shit job, living with some asshole who's a jerk to you, while I'm getting a Master's degree and teaching, in academic bliss.  I'll wave to you from my window in the ivory tower.  Hello down there!

How blissful it was is..debatable, really!  I encountered a department run by white guys, and there was so much I was too damaged to do.  I didn't know what grad school was for.  I thought it was for learning--silly me.

But mostly I thought I was worthless.  I thought I didn't deserve to use resources, was completely ugly and unlovable.  If anyone showed a moment of care toward me, I could cling on that really hard because it was so rare.  I had social struggles and still do, though I'm social all the time, now.

Yesterday I had a fear attack about a medical need.  I was tying myself up in knots, trying to figure out if I should call my doctor.  My fear was about medical phobia and low spoonage for dealing with doctors, but mostly I felt I didn't deserve help. 

I felt an intense worthlessness, like medical care was too good for me.  I felt like a gutter bug.  Why would a speck of dirt go to the doctor?  I couldn't believe I deserved anything.

It was a horrible time, and Ming helped me.  I was able to call, txt pics to my doctor, and he prescribed a medicine I don't think I'll use--pretty typical, for a medical experience, for me, at least during covid.  I get seen, I get diagnosed, I'm prescribed something I'm too scared to use.  Repeat.

Anyway, I wanted to tell you, I'm working on seeing myself as something in the middle.  It doesn't help me to be conceited, though I'm 43 but read at a 53 grade reading level.  What would that be?  All political science and Ulysses, all the time.  Hahahahaha!

I would like not to hate myself, but I don't want to falsely aggrandize myself either.  Both of those places are not where I want to be.

Ming takes all these pictures of me on my trike as spiritual practice.  I used to hate my picture taken.  I used to refuse to be in pictures.  I hated myself and my body so much, there are years with no picture of me. 

I went years without looking into mirrors.  Zoom is hard for me mostly because I have to see my own picture, and I'm struggling with wanting to smash it, honestly.  I turn the camera off, sometimes, but I know people don't like that.

Anyway, I'm trying.  That's what I'm trying to say.  Thanks for holding my hand though the computer as I try to be an ok person.  Thank you.

jai maa

My sweetie will do a street medic training.  We did a brief photoshoot so I could have a new pic for the facebook event.  The stress is bothering me--he says he's doing it so more street medics will be trained and can attend events, so then he doesn't have to. 

He wants to retire.  He wants a group of people running it, not just him, and then he can step back.  I'm pessimistic.   I said it will get bigger, but that doesn't mean he can step back.  He won't trust them, something about the money, or people will say they'll do stuff they don't do, and then he's just going to end up managing it all for a bigger group.

"Remember group projects, in school?  It'll be like that," I told him.  "One person does all the work, while the other people fling boogers across the room."

He fake-cried.  He knew I could be right.  In an ideal world, people step up.

A zine someone sent me from overseas, there's a picture on the front of hitchhikers--they have a sign that says UTOPIA.  I thought that was so cool.  I thought on the back of the sign could be DYSTOPIA--I could stand at an onramp and fly my UTOPIA sign.  All the possible things, humans can do--being a jerk is so high on the list, of what actually happens.

I made some garlic bread, but the smoke alarm went off, because some butter dripped onto the bottom of the oven and burned.  Now a friend is staying in the guest room, so if I set off the smoke alarm, it would bother another person, so I'm not going to risk it. 

In the ritual I did yesterday, I talked about the people who lived in this house before us, doing their work with so much love and good wishes for the world--helpfulness, trying. 

We have a joke about this house, that everyone lived here.  Our matriarch will be talking about someone we don't know, and will say, "They lived in the NDE house."

And I say, "Yeah, everyone lived in the NDE house."  I told Ming our house is the slut of houses.  I mean that in the best possible way.  I love sluts--sluts are my people.  I'm a trikeslut, after all.

I recorded two new songs, in the ritual.  Here's the better and shorter, Jai Maa.  Victory to the mother.

robotmad · Jai Maa

fck the patriarchy: happy father's day

content warning: mention of cop violence

"What do you want in the middle of your sandwich?" I asked Ming.  Neighbors were shooting off fireworks.  We were getting up in the night to eat dinner.  "And don't say air!  That is not a valid sandwich--that's just bread!"

He wanted tofurky.  I chopped three huge green olives and put them in my sandwich, but I couldn't really taste them.  I wanted more pungency.  Maybe my mouth isn't tasting right.  Or the bread was too thick and neutralized them.

Yeah, it was a weird day, but what day isn't?  We wanted donuts, when it was 4am.  We went to Ronald's for our favorite vegan ones, in Chinatown.

While we were out, we stopped by a WinCo for some groceries.  I sat in the car in the parking lot, crying and writing a poem.  Yeah, it's a weird poem.  It has to do with smelling a tissue and trying to smell the forest the tree came from.  Well, that's how it starts.

I was crying a lot.  See's candy emails had been telling me it's not too late to buy my dad a Father's Day present.  "Yeah, it is," I told my computer.  "It's almost four years too late."  I was telling Ming about the whole experience.  Father's Day is a hurdle.

"Feels like the world is requiring too much of me," I told Ming.  "Maybe we should leave.  Maybe we could go to a place without all these bomb sounds."

I thought it was just the almost fourth of Julyness--Ming said maybe it was Juneteenth.  Yeah, maybe.  He was at a Juneteenth event.  The cops took away the plywood signs; the protesters couldn't have shields.

Hmm, why would protestors need shields?  Maybe because...cops will hit them with "rubber" bullets, teargas, mace, batons, tasers, the ground, and whatever the hell they feel like it?

I'm trying to make sense of that and failing.  It's not like the cops were taking away the protesters' rocket launchers, drones, slingshots, swords, guns, flamethrowers, sonic torture devices, or molotov cocktails.

Seriously!  "You are not allowed to shield yourself from our attacks!  How dare you presume to protect yourselves from our protecting you!"

Cops always come talk to us when we protest, at the air force base. They want to check us out and show us they're boss.  At the end they say, "We just want you to be safe."  Their patriarchal condescending fake-ass care is painful, with their preferential treatment of the counter-demonstrators.  Too bad cops can't keep us safe from cops.

I wish I didn't know what the word kettling means.  I wish they didn't have tanks.  How about the attack dogs.  How about repulsive power plays I didn't sign up for.  Or targeting the legal observers, and targeting street medics.  Or targeting Black people.  Or killing anyone.  How about that.

Well, rosemary tea is amazing.  Thank god for realizing I could make tea out of all kinds of stuff.  Planting the sunchokes with the lemon verbena was a mistake, as the sunchokes shaded out the verbena, but we'll figure something out.

We have some vegan hotdogs.  I want to make rice and then slice up vegan hotdogs and fry them, then mix them with the rice and other delicious stuff, like maybe some kale from our garden.

That probably sounds gross to you, but vegan hotdogs are a lovely treat, for me.  A lot about my childhood was painful, and I remember it that way--I hear others mention the blissful, carefree nature of childhood, and I look at them like--what are you talking about???

But some of the food is still good.  I ate meat then, as I didn't know there were other choices.  I have veg versions now.

1.  soyrizo
2.  vegan hotdogs
3.  enchiladas
4.  mushroom stroganoff
5.  tamales
6,  garlic bread
7.  toast
8.  cookies
9.  tea
10.  crepes with butter and lemon juice and sugar

I told Ming my fantasy of rice with hotdogs and kale.  "How do you say white trash without using the term white trash?" I asked him.  My mom was the main cook, and she was Mexican-American.  But any food involving hotdogs that are not in a bun seems very white trash to me.

Nobody is trash.  Not me, not my dad who is ashes now, certainly not Mama who is the same, not the cops, not the counter-demonstrators, not the air force workers who are mostly trying to feed their families under the oppression of capitalism. 

Not the homeless person lying on the sidewalk who I triked by a few days ago.  He was sleeping.  His clothes were dirty, and he was wearing only one shoe.

This sewing box in an old Chinese cookie tin with its antique needles never ceases to charm me.  I wanted to post this picture on facebook and say, Everyone who lived in this house before us--wtf???  Then I would tag a few people who lived in this house, before us.

I was looking for a seam ripper.  Ming used scissors to remove a tag and accidentally put a tiny hole in my dress, just the slip part, but it's unfortunate.

I would like to note how life is all mixed together.  I talk about police violence and also foods, an old sewing box and also homelessness.  That I haven't figured out how to convey the idea of white trash without the problematic term.

I don't want to pretend to you that I suffer all day, or am overjoyed all day.  I've been thinking about race all day since age three, but also food, tea, and my clothes hurting me with seams, tags, weird fabrics, and other sensory bullshit.

Thank god I have clothes, and for Ming, for helping me have a happy life to do stuff in.  And that some sperm encountered an egg, 44 years ago, and I was given a chance to tour Earth as a human.  Happy father's day.

Fascists Love Their Country Like

content warning: sexual assault, other violence

I don't usually post poems I write to my blog, but this poem is different because I thought it might be useful for activism.  Please feel free to share, written by Laura-Marie River Victor Peace.

Fascists Love Their Country Like Rapists Love Their Victims

by Laura-Marie River Victor Peace

Confused at first.
Trusting, lonely, vulnerable.
Accustomed to abuse.
Desperate, exhausted,
under-employed, in need of housing.
In need of drugs.
With multiple diagnoses.
With a broken heart.
Not in their right mind.
Hungry--any kind of hungry.
Cornered, sad,
without hope, 

sleep deprived.
Isolated--can't even remember
what kindness felt like.
Young or just inexperienced
with this particular
disabling tactic.
Tired of waiting.
Focusing on
the wrong problems.
Distracted enough not to notice
how bad behavior creeps
deeper into violence.
Confused by misguided love,
then scared,
then scared to leave.
Not listening to what
every person who loves them
is warning.
Not able to call
the help number--
unable to use a phone.
Afraid to go out.
Afraid to protest.
Isolated, sick,
broken in multiple ways.
Impressed by ridiculous performances.
Stunned enough to continue.
Without language.
Tricked into stuffing their power
under the bed,
and believing they have none.
No longer verbal.
Incapable of fighting back.
Not understanding their own worth.
Not realizing
it's going to keep happening
until somebody is dead.
Lured into complacency,
lost in a forest of pain,
no longer trusting
their own bodily instincts.
Flooded with contradictory information,
having no one to believe.
Broken beforehand.
Starving, convinced
there is no alternative,
invisible, no longer screaming,
already destroyed.

sun energy

1.  the central coast of California
2.  orange
3.  creamy ice cream, ricemilk chocolate, fancy chocolate, cheap chocolate, See's candy chocolate, chocolate with peanut butter, chocolate with coconut, pudding, rice pudding with nuts, gulab jamun, custard, strawberries, pecan pie, sweet potato pie and pumpkin pie with whipped cream, cake, shakes, blizzard kinda things, cheesecake, cookies--oh yes, chocolate chip, butterscotch, oatmeal with nuts, white chocolate macadamia, sugar cookies, Mexican wedding cakes, haystacks.  brownies, blondies, apple crisp, blueberry pie, pumpkin bread, zucchini bread, banana bread.  smoothies, hippie desserts such as peanut butter mixed with honey and coconut.  vegan donuts.  apple turnovers from Acme.  chocolate milk, lemonade, mint lemonade, ginger lemonade.  fruit punch, juice, mango lassi.  ras malia--oh yeah, the queen of desserts.  decaf black tea with milk and sugar, especially Earl Grey.  fancy cafe drinks, decaf.  milk tea with boba, little ice.

Reading that list, maybe you think I eat dessert all day, but I try not to eat too much sugar, so when I eat dessert, I really enjoy it!  My friend wanted to give me some fig jam she made, and it sounded good, but I was like, I don't eat jam--I save my sugar for later in the day, and it usually involves chocolate.  I like jam in theory, but when it comes down to it, Ming is the jam eater of the family.

Long time ago, in Sacramento, we did bread pickup for Food Not Bombs and would often get a spare loaf.  My breakfast for a while was bread with jam--I had guava jam, for some reason.  Goya brand.  Wow, I loved that stuff.  I would eat in that kitchen in our little apartment in North Oak Park, by myself, staring out the window, munching that lovely bread and jam.  Those were the days.

I told my friend who made the fig jam that chocolate reason I had, for saying no, and she said she has just the tiniest bit of jam.  I think she meant it wasn't much sugar, as you don't need much.  I told her, "Yeah, you have the ability to have a tiny bit!"  I go wild.  You know me.

It's good to get sun, but my right arm, the skin is getting frecklier.  It makes me nervous.  I guess I need to cover up or wear sunscreen. 

Sunlight is so important.  Needing the thing that can kill me.  Kind of like love.  So good, but you gotta be careful.  Too much can kill me, but too little could also.

But I was feeling sun energy.  You might be able to tell by the colors of my clothes.  Lately I wear blue sometimes.  But it tends to be either black with its moody depth and cool completeness, or the red family, with its energy and motion.  Not much in the middle.

Oh, Laura-Marie--must you be so extreme.  Yeah, I'm working on it.  Working on being more extreme, that is.  Just kidding.

One of my favorite foods is soyrizo, kale, rice, and some kind of butter.  Wow, so easy and so nice.  Soyrizo is like heaven for me, honestly.  Yum!  Fry it for a while, and the soyrizo gets crispy.  Mmmm.

And then, this is apropos to nothing, but Ming likes the whale.  Lucky for me, he's generous with his likes.  What a sweetie.

too many dreams, actual cats, sunflowers without context

"I hate depictions of lighthouses!" I told Ming.

He looked hurt.

"I see I've affronted your sensibilities," I said.  "You know this about me."

"But they're so useful!" he said.

"Yeah, I like lighthouses!  I just hate depictions of them!  They're so bad, like Thomas Kinkade," I said.

Lighthouse visits, lighthouses shining light, foghorns, painters I knew, the pain of making art and having the world like Thomas Kinkade.  All that flooding me.

Shore feelings.  Beaches, Pt Conception, a long hike I took, carrying a bag of oranges picked from someone's front yard tree.  Getting scared as I climbed over a barbwire fence.  Ice plant, long sandy trails, how much my feet hurt the next day.

How we could have died.  The lighthouse was condemned for a reason.  I guess you're only young once.

Wow, I just read much of the Kinkade wikipedia article.  It's worse than I thought!  His four daughters were all named after painters and all had the middle named Christian, because Kinkade was such a devout Christian.  He liked heckling other artists and peeing on stuff to mark his territory.   And died of an alcohol-valium overdose.  And had a factory thing, going with his art.  Hmm.

Anyway, I also like cats but not depictions of cats.  Well, photos are ok.  But not cartoon stuff.  And I much prefer actual cats.

But some things, I might prefer depictions.  Like ladybugs.  Actual ladybugs are weird beings, and I don't know what they'll do.  Beetles are kind of like aliens, to me.  But depictions of ladybugs are just cute.

I feel weird, like I went on a very long journey and came home, a different person, totally disoriented, and not knowing what to do in this place that was my house.  Is it my sleep schedule?  Too many dreams?

Yeah, maybe this grief is a long journey.  I'm changing.

Solstice, then father's day.  Strange interpersonal bullshit, people resigning, people forming friendships I'm excluded from, other people loving me, and I don't know why.

Who are these strange people I'm closely allied with, and I don't even know where they were born, their favorite color, or what they like for dessert?  Some of them, I never saw a photo of.

One of my favorite penpals, I think they use they pronouns now.  I know they're not white, but I don't know what kind of not white they are.  I don't know their last name!  But we've been writing for years, and I have their phone number, which I can txt one day, if I find myself up in Washington state.  I'll take it.

magic spoon

In case you need some spoons.  I know where a nice one is, in a magic parking lot.

gold medal

We went out about 5:30am.  The sun came up.  Thanks, sun.  She does that every day, so far.

I'm hurting a lot.  I was missing my skin, or somehow everything was going into me.  Everything hurt--the sign, the piss poor landscaping of boring bushes poorly trimmed by exploited workers, paid too little to much care.  The dude standing at the bus stop who looked like my friend who moved away.  Awkward skinny white guy wearing a covid mask, carrying a book, vulnerable on the sidewalk.

Looking for people who died a long time ago.  Looking for people who never existed.

Facebook shows me a person I might know, friend suggestion.  Oh, is that so and so?  No--oh yeah.  He's dead.  He's been dead a long time.

It's ok to hurt.  I'm amazing at feeling.  If there was a feeling olympics, I'd be blushing on the top tier.  Gold medal crying Laura-Marie.

the good news: disability justice is love

1.  I accomplish stuff, at times.
2.  I know how to feel and do it regularly.
3.  I have enough food, shelter, ideas, clothes, love, friends.
4.  Delicious chocolate makes life easier.
5.  Perfect teeshirt.

functionally ill 28: how the cookie crumbles

I made a new zine.  Learning relationship skills from facebook memes, self-harm as self-care, and what I mean when I say I love you.  See zine for more information.  Happy to trade.

free to love

It finally happened--Ming went to the printers, yesterday, and thanked them in Korean.

Wish I coulda been there  But maybe one day covid will be over, and I'll go into places again?

All I know for sure is that love is about freedom, for me.

I got an instragram, something I said I'd never do.  Please let me know if you would like to be connected there.

warm as yellow

Honoring strawberries, six pea plants are still growing, my yarrow bloomed. 

The sunflower keeps changing.

Ming changes too.

bv

I don't like to watch tv, but I like to watch bv--Bee Vision.  It has no commercials, doesn't require electricity.  Goes straight into my heart.

I want to hold a sunflower vigil.  Sit my chair out there and just live a sunflower life.  It was hot.  I gazed upon sunflower beauty and bee goodness, then went inside.

Having good trike rides.  Love to all.

I guess this is pv--Pea Vision.  I could watch for less time, but the tendrils are charming.

exciting ideas

I really wanted a certain Silvia Federici book.  I'm crazy about her!  But I was like, I won't really read it.  But I wish the ideas were in my mind.

What if I read a page a day?  What if I put it under my pillow and the ideas went in my head while I was sleeping?

I know for osmosis, the membrane is supposed to be moist.  Maybe I could cry in my sleep and my tears would wet the book and my head, and the ideas would migrate.

https://www.pmpress.org/index.php?l=product_detail&p=1045

They're calling it women's studies / political science.  She is my favorite thinker.  I would call it Thinking That Will Liberate You.  I thought I hated political science?  I would call it Exciting Ideas.

ok to feel: life happens

Lately I've felt overly vulnerable, over exposed, like I overshared.  Under valued too, underconsidered, misunderstood.  Like a snail that needs to pull back into its shell.

Then a penpal sent me this beautiful bracelet, different waxy green threads braided together.  She reminded me that love is possible, and someone doesn't have to know me for a long time or spend a ton of hours with me to appreciate who I am and what I do.  She mostly likes my zines.

Another penpal did that last year on my birthday, sending lavender soap and lotiony stuff, a candle they made, some grape jam they made.  They write me the most exquisite letters about their feelings, and their partner and kid, and I did a ritual partly about friendship, and burned that candle, grateful. 

I really, really needed that.  Their handwriting is a healing balm.  A letter like a spell that heals me.  Just their handwriting, a few words in colored pencil on the back of an envelope, nourishing my soul. 

This is real--this person loves me, for no underlying gain, just to love and connect.  The world has people like this.  I can meet them, love them, lose them.  The world is ok.  I can live here.

I feel like giving up--then someone does an amazing thing for me.  And Ming does it every day.  Making sure I have my basics, taking me out, buying groceries, listening to me, saying hi when he gets up to pee, visiting me at my desk, letting me lift his shirt and kiss his tummy and tell him how pretty he is.

It's ok to be sad, ok to feel, ok to need.  It's ok to be who I am.  And I have this comfortable dress, and delicious popcorn.  I'll be ok.

I had snap pea seeds, soaked a few in water for half a day, planted them in a big pot.  Then the other day, I saw some green leaves had pushed through.  Two little plants.  And the next day, two more.  Wow, thanks for growing, little peas.  We water them, and the sun and warmth do their thing.  It's life, happening.  Life happens.

I repotted that big aloe that was bursting its pot, talking to it.  "You're ok, plantie.  I know this is freaking you out, but in a week or two, you're going to be so happy, in this bigger pot."  It was rootbound. 

Comforting the plant.  Comforting myself that I would be ok, even though I'm uncomfortable now.  I do things that are hard now but will help me into the future.