• HUMAN — young female

• ANGEL — tall male whose skin glows faintly with a blue sheen; his wings are so large the bottom tips drag behind him

A ledge on a skyscraper that overlooks a city gradually winding down. It is dusk. HUMAN is seated on the ledge, hands next to her body touching the concrete. ANGEL approaches from behind.

ANGEL
(quietly, so as not to startle) Hey.

[BEAT]

You’re not thinking of doing anything to yourself, right?

HUMAN turns to look back at ANGEL, a smile on her face.

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Mermaid tail. Hmm, not today. I don’t want to get my hair wet.
Angel wings. Of course, I smile fondly, but I don’t want to fly today either.
A bull horned headdress. It uncannily looks like Isis’ headpiece, doesn’t it? Too heavy. I already have a headache. So nope.
A slip made of reptilian scales. Oooh, this is pretty. Dragon scales, right? I’m not sure. It was a gift. To hold in the fire while going out and about. I chuckle darkly, more like masking...

I have nothing to wear, I sigh, falling back-first on the bed. I look up toward the roof of my room. My caretaker had them build a window-dome so I can watch the passing weather. It’s blue skies with fluffy clouds right now. No. I close my eyes, open them again. Midnight black with copper speckles.

I roll over to my side. I sigh again. What am I even dressing for, I ask myself. I have unlimited freedom, and yet I feel like a bird in a very small cage.

I reach for my most trusted state in moments like this. If I could be anywhere, anything, what would I choose? I close my eyes one more time, and I allow my atoms to loosen. They give each other space, breathing room. I am now a diaphanous sheet. A ghost? The technical term doesn’t matter. What matters is where I can go.

Ok, let’s move.

I float to an inner chamber within me. White, curtained walls — what I imagine the famous Hebraic tabernacle to have looked like — and just a chair. Well, a throne. On that throne sits the heart.

Is this me? I ask, this is me... right?

She looks quite stern. Is she mad?

I glide towards her, and curl up at her feet. I reach for one of her hands and place both of mine on it.

“Hey, am I doing things right?” my tone of voice level, eyes beseeching.

She turns her head. Damn, if looks could kill. Why is she frowning? Perhaps the wrong question.

“Is there something I could be doing better?”

Her brows rise. Her expression of scorn breaks into one of aching. It makes me want to cry. But oh, that’s a change. Let’s keep asking.

“Should I meditate more? Build useless things in the physical world, destroy them, then build them up again? Like Sisyphus,” I trail on, running inventory on all the things I have done and I assume I should, or could, do again.

I remember where I am. My gaze goes back to her. Her eyes pin me back. Have you ever seen that picture of Jesus whose gaze looks like it’s going straight into your soul? Yes, like that.

I am getting frustrated. Is she mute?!

“Speak!!” I wail.

She slides her hand out from under mine. She brings it to her throat, the lightest of touches. Her eyes are downcast. She tries to clear her throat. Not much noise comes out.

I get up and place the back of my hand on her forehead. Oh no, she’s feverish. I sit on the armrest for I have no sense of space with those I love. I have a feeling she’ll be able to muster speech soon so I remain silent. I caress her dark, long hair. I slip a tendril behind her ear.

She clears her throat once more, then in a croak, “I don’t want to be in a tabernacle. I don’t want to sit on a throne.”

“All right,” I venture softly, “then what do you want to be in? Err... be on?” I append my question to include more than one possibility.

She sinks into the chair, and curves towards me. I curve towards her. I rest my head on hers. “I am not sure I want to be in, or on, anything,” she says. “I just want to be.”

I get it, I truly do. Yet my mind goes at max speed trying to make it translatable to my realm. What costume do I wear for that? What about the bills? Or my relationships? My plan? I know what being means, but what does it look like? And there’s a more pressing question, or rather a matter of reality. I frankly don’t think my physical experience is enough. It’s almost as if I’ve tried it all, the good and the gnarly and everything in between, and I am what? Bored? Bored. A bird in a little cage.

I think a bit more. My head throbs. What haven’t I tried that could give us different results? I know my destination — that is firm. Let’s try this. Mind? Off, thank you. Take a little break. Now, what do I desire? I listen to my body, translating sensation as best I can into directive.

“I have an idea,” I finally say. “Your turn to come to me.” We both stand up and she dissolves into a sphere of glowing magma. She moves towards my sternum, presses in, and settles into the place she loves being most. Me. Tabernacle, throne, and whatever else — all in a very specific vessel of flesh.

Back in my room, not quite the ghost anymore, I scurry towards the closet once again. I yank and push and prod till I find it. I take out a box that has the silliest, most joyful stickers on it. Why are these cat and bunny in these stickers so freaking happy? Is the cream pudding that good? I laugh.

I open the box and take out a clearly beloved, worn-out shroud. “Hello, old friend,” I say. I place it on my lap, and take out the tattered leather sandals. Mileage as high as a leatherback’s. “You’ve been with me almost everywhere, huh.” I put them next to me on the floor.

Lastly I take out an envelope. I open it. My curiosity mounts, my heart’s beat quickens — a good sign.

On the back of a ticket, in starlight ink:
You are ready. Have been for a while. Next ferry leaves at 06:00. Admission for one. Trip will be gentle and steady. Bring a book. Actually, a journal may be better. Write your own story, then read it over and over again. Bon voyage xo

I wiggle in place, as joyful as the Happy March stickers on that box. Maybe the cream pudding is that good!

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Mawed between my teeth, the concept of hope, I shook the living daylights out of it. You are useless, I drooled all over it, when I hope, I admit that I don’t believe.

I was going to share with you the meaning of elpis (ἐλπίς) which in English translates to hope but means more so a confident expectation rather than whatever wishy-washy wish-upon-a-wishing star thing it has become in modern vernacular.

I was going to go deep into the apostle Paul’s 1 Corinthians 13:13, “And now these three remain: faith, hope, love. But the greatest of these is love,” and point out that what he meant was: faith the pledge, FAITH the expectation, and love. Love being the greatest, and that maybe... love is actually the only thing that remains. Faith is intrinsic to love.

I was going to insinuate via something compact and aesthetically wonderful, full of Easter eggs both in my writing and the cover art I upload on Substack, that there’s no room for doubt when you know. Perhaps I would add in a little joke as to how St. Paul was like ChatGPT and needed things in triads despite the redundancy lol.

I cracked my knuckles, fingers hovered over the keyboard. Ready to put hope on trial.

Hmm.

I put the laptop aside.
I ate, journaled, FaceTimed, and whatever else.
Pondered on how love feels like warm, soft sunlight.

And then, finally, I came back to my waiting document.
The blinking cursor and I stared at each other. Uhh.

Huh. The storm had passed.
I just didn’t have the anger, that formidable fuel I was banking on, to finish it.

The anger got completely metabolized.

Because when you know, you know. Why burn in anger, when I could just be still.

If I could put my forehead to yours, a smile on my face, and just let you absorb what I realized, through woo-woo osmosis, I think that would be a better way to transmit all this than appealing to your mind via the written word.

But I love words so here’s a little gift:
       praxis as breath.
 

see ya on the new moon xo

feel yourself to be faceless
                                        formless

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Darkness. Heavy, humid, textured.

A WOMAN moves through it with stealth. Her cargo pants are caked in grime, headpiece blinking faintly at her temple. She’s thrown everything she has at the wall to see what sticks.

She lost her map.

She scans the velvet black around her — perhaps the body can see what the eyes cannot.

A voice crackles through her earpiece.

M (V.O.) Hey. Where are you?

She doesn’t answer. She’s gotten good at tuning people out.

Her hand finds a latch in the dark. Good thing she drew that map, the knowledge transferred to her muscles.

She grabs the latch. Recoils.

Ew.

Wipes her hand on her cargo pants. Grimaces. Her pants are just as dirty. It’s been a while since she was last home.

She closes her eyes. A warm bubble bath. His voice wafting around her, enveloping her neck like a pillow.

But first.

M (V.O.) HEY. Are you fucking lost??

She snaps back.

WOMAN Sorry, sorry. I’m here. I am not... lost. Per se.

She bites her lip. It’s an art, finding humor in the direst straits. Heh.

M (V.O.) I can’t locate you on the radar. At all. I cannot help you if I don’t know where you are.

WOMAN You can’t?

Genuinely surprised.

WOMAN (CONT’D) Oh...

M (V.O.) Oh WHAT?

WOMAN I turned the tracker off.

M (V.O.) And why would you do such a thing?

WOMAN Jesus. M, relax. I think it got bumped when I came down into the caverns, actually.

She knocks softly on the metal around the latch. Testing.

WOMAN (CONT’D) The GPS unit was attracting the wrong attention anyhow. You all were not the only ones picking up my signal. So in a way... Godsend, yea?

Silence. Just breathing.

He wants to scold her. Ask her if she doesn’t care.

She made a very good point.

M (V.O.) (exhaling slowly) All right. So when—

WOMAN So about that.

(beat)

I have no idea.

She gathers herself. Slams her body against the metal door.

WOMAN (CONT’D) (grunting) But!

She tries again.

BAM!

The door gives.

Neon light floods in. Infinite tubes snaking toward a center column. And there, held inside it: the last of its kind.

She looks at it for a long moment.

WOMAN Et voilà.

(a smile that can’t help itself)

I had a feeling...

CUT TO BLACK.

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I adore orcas. So much so that when I heard IKEA carried an orca plushie, I asked my friend to drive us there asap. Had to have it.
When I am overwhelmed, I imagine myself leagues deep in the water column where the water is near black. So quiet. I feel immediately soothed.
I, at times, also lull myself to serenity by watching asmr documentaries of octopuses, sea angels, and everything else that lives out there.
It’s in my journals via stickers and dolphin washi tapes.
A visit to the Monterey Bay aquarium is written at the top of my please-do-this-before-you-expire list. As is an excursion to the fjords in Norway.
Footage of a humpback swimming peacefully plays when my laptop goes to sleep. I make a note to change the screensaver to something else for the sake of variety. But for some reason, I never get around to it.

It also is an integral part to one of my all time favorite hobbies.

I remember the first time I tried it. Surfing. A couple of friends said they were planning on camping out on the shore in San Diego, and they invited me to come along. Though I am averse to ski and skateboard (no broken bones for me, thank you very much), my mind equated water with safety. So I said yes, my decision a no-brainer.

And boy, did I love it. I still do. Being away from the water has made me forget, but the stickers, the plushie, the videos have been sending me winks of light lately.

Like hey remember this?
And the strange message: you can surf now, if you wanted.

There’s ritual I’ve built up throughout the years. Pick a cute outfit that matches the temperature of the water. San Diego in March required a wetsuit. Pavones had no issue with my Billabong two-pieces. Rent a board if I didn’t bring my own. Or depending on where I am and who is around me, someone will lend me one. After plopping my bag somewhere on the shore, waxing the board, and putting on copious amounts of sunscreen, I put on the ankle leash and paddle in. I check out who else is out in the water — there’s an etiquette to all of this, you know. Don’t steal waves, wait your turn. When a wave is way above my skill level, I get out of the way of the professionals. And unless I have a boat that transports me to a specific spot — where the waves are scarier — and it stays close to me as I wait for the tide to swell up and break, I don’t swim out too, too far. Strong currents are not an urban legend, my friend.

Timing is everything. I tend to favor early morning so I am not burnt to a crisp by the sun later in the day. I intuitively get the overwhelming sense, once in the water, that I will not catch every wave. In fact, at times, I may not even want to. I am busy looking at the horizon, other surfers doing cool things, or if I’m extra lucky, I see porpoises! It also applies to exits too. I remember a friend telling me about the time he had to walk through some coral to get out. The water snuck up on him, tide had been low — he didn’t clock it, and it made him trip and crash into jagged edges. A bloody, painful mess.

Speaking of messes, knowing how to get through the white water will do you well.
Turtle roll for longboard where you flip the board upside down so underside faces the sky, grab the rails, submerge beneath the wave.
And duck dive for shortboard where you use your arms and one leg to push down on it so that you go under the wave.

You can surf now, if you wanted.

That holographic pink dolphin washi tape on my desk has me thinking.

When you are out in the water, you gotta enjoy it for what it is, especially if you’re new to it. You could choose to get frustrated, and that’s valid, but believe me there is something about being out there that is purely, stupidly good. I mean, you’re in the ocean! If you love it as much as I do, that’s already a boon. I swear, you could be paddling for hours with the sun toasting you and be ok if that’s all you end up doing. Because the point is to move, to feel, to see.

Surrender. Enjoy. It’s not that big of a deal.

When you are under a wave, holy shih, it’s dark. Picture the sky on a day you know the clouds are about to deliver torrential rain. Then add a green tinge to it. That’s how it is. Feeling-wise, it’s like being in a washing machine. The wave carries so much energy in several directions. Either roll over, or dive in enough to miss most of the turbulence.

Surrender. Enjoy. You know what to do. You are not the wave, but in a way you’re part of it. Work with it, or avoid it altogether. Go deeper so you can resurface, oriented.

When you do catch a wave — aided (you can hire a surf instructor if you need one) or not — wowee. It’s SURREAL. Is this how birds feel when they fly? That glide! You almost feel like you’re floating. Well, I guess technically you are gliding. And floating. On an epoxy or foam board. Still, it’s not a sensation you feel often on land. It’s exhilarating.

Surrender. Enjoy. You’re capable of wonderful things. You’ve done them before, you’re doing them now, you’ll do them again (especially if you practice).

And when you’ve had your fill, you’ll let the waves push you out. You’ll go get your bag. Maybe eat a rice bowl, with avocado of course. Drink a beer, or a marg. Or just coconut water. Definitely put on some aloe cream. Sit under an umbrella and read, or watch the surfers still out there pump and twirl and cut the water like a heated knife to butter. Maybe you’ll go back out there. The ocean never ceases to call for you. Or instead you’ll join your friends and play a game of cards, chat with your partner about what you’ll have for dinner. The ocean can wait.

Surrender. Enjoy. You almost forgot... This is all for fun.

  .ೃ࿔

I watched Perfect Blue. Someone I trust very much recommended it. I thought, all right let’s do it. It’s on my TBW list anyway.

There was a point in the story that I remember telling myself omg I don’t know whether to be angry at him or not. I had no idea that scene was in it, and of course it was triggering. But maybe the roughness of what I watched — roughness may not even be the right word since the presentation was so colorful and Paprika-like in its mindfuck of it all — was what shot this epiphany right into my forehead.

The bullet hot.

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He presses the Eye of Ra to his chest, and sighs out.

He has so many things he wishes to write, so many things to process, so many things to share with his acolytes. The never-ceasing work of digesting life spurs him on, but it also leaves him weary for his actual responsibilities are many. Sure, he could be replaced, he thinks. But as of right now, no one else has stepped up to the plate.

First and foremost, he’s Ra’s vizier and voice. That role is fun. And very demanding for he speaks Ra’s commands into existence. Navigates, counsels, and during the night, during the journey through the Duat, let’s just say — there’s no rest while Ra travels.

Then there are Horus and Seth. They’ve been at each other’s throats as far as he could remember. He suspects that they may even be in some sort of love, or lust, because that hate is too passionate for it to be mere repulsion. As their eternal mediator, he will arbitrate as well as document whatever happens at the perpetually reconvening tribunal of the gods. At this point it has become a sport for the rest of the Ennead — a diversion, hasn’t it? Almost as if they don’t want them to reconcile. Otherwise what else would excite them?
He even wonders if Seth is sick of his role as the villain. He can tell the constant antagonizing is wearing him thin. Seth tried escaping once. Fuck war, fuck the humans. He dug a hole deep in Deshret, the desert — his home, and refused to come out. Every time Isis called out for him, he dug even deeper. Anubis was eventually called to drag his stepfather out by his ankle back to the tribunal. There was more fun to be had, Ra had murmured once.

Ah right, lest he forget. Isis asked him to meet when the sun is at zenith. She has questions about resurrection magick, and he’s more than happy to help, to guide her through it. She was able to recover all the pieces of her man, all with the exception of his penis. Which a fish devoured. He can help her with making a replacement piece. Gold should work, a phallus fit for a king.
Sometimes though he feels like his bone marrow is being sucked dry. For at times, she pries into his personal life, and to him that is sacred and frankly irrelevant to what she’s trying to do. As if he didn’t have enough things to think about, he has to dodge queries too? Harmless but annoying. Not one for the desert, he still understands Seth’s impulse. Deeply.

So perhaps he’s in need of a good soak in the Nile. Yes. Tomorrow. At dawn. Just before Ra’s barque crests the horizon. The window for today has already passed, sadly. He must howl his hellos at the sun, and then promptly head to The Hall of Two Truths. Chip away at his infinitely long to-do list.

Or... perhaps today, he will go to her instead. Take off his ibis headpiece and lay his head on her lap as she strokes his long hair slowly. So slowly it lulls him to a state of not quite sleep, not quite wakefulness. His favorite state of being for there he floats suspended. Without the weight of executing mandates, regulating the cosmos, tolerating (and pacifying) bickering, nor stoking gossip. With her, talk is optional. The silence divine, her sparse speech wondrous.

They’d chat about many things.

Souls lost to the scale at the last moment.
She’d look at him. He’d know. And say “the stonemason from Waset?”
She’d nod her head, “a good son, father, husband... but the desperation for money corroded his heart. Slowly, but surely. It did.”
The man wasn’t even aware of his tragic condition until the heart on the scale dish thunked down. His face grew pallid. No paradise, no Field of Reeds, for him. Obliteration. Verdict, complete.

Tongue-in-cheek complaints about Ra’s insistence to take the same route every single night.
“The serpent and Ra battle it out literally on the same spot, every single night,” he’d share, “I suggested he change the course of the barque a khet or two. Ra laughed and ignored me.”
Ma’at would chuckle, “Ra will never give up on the theatrics. You know this.”
And she’d give him a wink.

Of isfet, chaos, almost winning, threatening the community of gods with utter devastation.
Of spells he’s working on, how he’s fascinated by such and such word.
How one of his devoted followers drawled erroneously at the end of a chant, and the spell went awry. So interesting, he’d muse.
Ma’at would arch her brow, “testing fate, I see.” Then give him a little laugh, “good thing you were there, huh?”

Sycamore figs and lotuses, newborn calves and hungry crocodiles.
Of temples and fields.

And sometimes, nothing said at all. Parallel play. She sits. He writes.
Or they both nap together, like cats.
Generate heat between sheets. Lie tangled, breathing.
Walk along the river hand in hand. Steal a kiss, slide his hand down her arm.
Revel in warmth, this companion so perfect.

Some people love the idea of you. Or what you can do for them, especially if you are particularly competent. They mine you for stories, entertainment, knowledge, labor. People can be greedy bottomless pits.

True love, real friendship, requires no interpreter. No translation. When the scales are unbalanced, whatever you give goes right over their heads, and whatever they give will never satisfy. Real love is mutual recognition. Being actually heard, boundaries respected. Someone who walks with you toward the better path without ever hoarding the wheel.

With her, he is known.

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Io, my race engineer, stands next to me by the water cooler faking like she’s waiting to use it. But she is just hovering.

“Out with it,” I laugh.

She takes the opportunity immediately and goes for the jugular, “Have you been sleeping?”

“Uhh...” my dark circles give me away. I rub the back of my head, feigning nonchalance. “Yea. Yea, I think so. Why? I am hitting the targets. Alles gut.” I give her a thumbs-up as double assurance.

She squints her eyes. “You are going to crash and burn if you don’t take care of yourself.”

“Jesus Christ,” I groan, “are you trying to literally manifest that for me?!” My body shivers in remembrance of last year where I did just that. Thankfully, mercifully, I am here in one piece, healthy, bones with no need of mending.

“This isn’t about manifesting. This is about you, your longevity out on the tracks, and how it’ll reflect when podium comes.”

“Hey, I will pull through no matter what,” I frown. Where the hell is this coming from? Aren’t I performing well enough?

“Sure. Sure,” she sounds diametrically opposite of sure. She looses an arrow, doesn’t miss, “We get no pleasure seeing you grind yourself to a nub for the sake of a trophy.”

She digs into the front pocket of her jeans, “I want you to come here at 18:00 later today.”

I open my mouth. She stops me, “No. No. See you there.”

Did I want to be scolded by Io again? No.
But my curiosity wins out every time. Every time. I chuckle.

The chauffeur drops me off at the address Io had scribbled on the piece of paper.

Woah. That’s the cool thing about being an international driver, huh? You get to see the coolest places.

I step towards the tucked-away shophouse in the older part of Tanjong Pagar. The colonial facade opens into something that smells like ginger and dried herbs. Dark stone, low light, steam moving through the air. Not a spa. Something more medicinal than that. Bummer, I think I lowkey need a spa day.

“Hello?” I call out. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if little soot sprites and a boy named Haku came from behind the counter.

I hear steps approaching. An older lady with immaculate makeup and a traditional dress clocks me first, and when I make eye contact gives me a smile.

“Welcome. Ms. Io is waiting for you,” she says.

I gulp. Oh boy, here it comes. I am really, truly, at my limit. I just want to go home, or well, the hotel, and then disappear into whatever adventure—

I didn’t even realize I had started to walk. She opens the door for me. I thank her.

“Please sit down,” the lady says kindly.

“Again, welcome. My name is Dr. Chen. I am a sinseh, a practitioner of traditional Chinese medicine. And I understand you are in need of some...” she glances towards Io, “calibration.”

Calibration??

“Ms. Io will step outside for the rest of the appointment,” she says. Wahh, so kind! I was ready to lie through my teeth, perform perfection.

With Io out of the room, Dr. Chen prepares a tea. Longan, red date, and goji.

The Q&A

She and Io must be cut from the same cloth because gd, she goes right to it.

“All right...” she starts. “When did you last feel like yourself?”

I sit stunned. The fuck? Wait, wait, this is a good question. I look to the side as if digging into my memory. “I feel like I am in constant change,” I answer. “I know who I am, but it’s been a while since I have felt the confidence of when I first started racing, to be honest.”

“Is there anything, say in the past year, that you gloss over? You keep not addressing?” she gently lays as a follow-up.

Sounds like she knows of the accident. Io must have given her a thorough rundown. If Io wasn’t on my team, I’d think she was a sadistic little witch, my biggest opp. Still, anyone that follows F1 knows. People thought that race was going to end in utter tragedy, yet out of the car in flames I emerged. With the exception of a scar or two, I was relatively unscathed.

But something people don’t know is that internally, my mind, has been reeling ever since. My confidence took a deep dive. I tried a complicated maneuver, at a high speed to boot, and I failed. I forget that my life was on the line because the shame and embarrassment of trying and crashing out sears me the most. My eyes start to get a bit moist.

I answer simply, “Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” the sinseh asks.

“No.”

Unfazed but softer, she reaches for me, and lays her hand on top of mine, “Who have you been doing this for?”

This one I feel like is a very easy question. “For the crowds, my fans. The team. My sponsors.” I roll my eyes when I mention the sponsors. They’ve been breathing down my neck, asking in furtive ways if I am up to speed to take championship. The pressure is immense.

“And for yourself maybe?” she offers.

I hem and haw, “I do like what I do. But you know those hamsters and the wheels in their cages?” I twirl my finger in the air demonstrating the perpetual motion of said wheel. “Like that.”

“One more question, and I promise we are done. When did you last truly rest?” she says.

Rest. What is that? Even when I visited Thailand last month, I felt anything but rested. Body immobile. Mind at 1000 km/h. I frown.

Dr. Chen doesn’t push for the answer. She simply nods, as if the silence said everything.

She refills my cup unhurriedly with hot water before speaking.

“You have built something extraordinary. I can see that. Anyone watching you race can see that. But a structure that is never allowed to settle, that keeps adding floors before the foundation has dried...” she tilts her head slightly, “eventually the ground shifts on its own. Not because you failed. Because physics does not negotiate.”

She folds her hands. “You emerged from that fire. Relatively whole. And then you kept going, yes? Because stopping felt like conceding something.” It isn’t quite a question.

“The body remembers what the mind tries to outrun. Your stomach knows. Your eyes know.” A small, not unkind smile. “I think you know too.”

She lets that sit for a moment.

“You are not being asked to stop racing. You are being asked to let the foundation catch up to the height you have already reached. That is not weakness or laziness. That is how anything meant to last is built.”

“Doc,” I start. “How do I do that?” A whispered “help me” follows right after.

The Medicine

Dr. Chen smiles at the “help me” like she’s been waiting for exactly those two words.

“First,” she says, “you treat this body like it belongs to someone you love.” She taps the cup in your hands pointedly. “You sleep. You eat before you do anything else in the morning. Not after. Before. The machine does not run on ambition alone, no matter how much you believe it does.”

She lets that land before continuing.

“I am sending you home with a packet of this tea you’re drinking. It’s earthy, and the combination is perfect for your temperament. Longan nourishes the blood and calms the spirit. Good for anxiety, poor sleep, the kind of exhaustion that lives deeper than tired. Red date supports the spleen and stomach, which is interesting given your symptoms (my tummy has been acting oddly since the start of this year, how did she know?!), and stabilizes energy so it stops spiking and crashing. Goji protects the liver, supports the eyes — those dark circles — and builds foundational reserves that chronic depletion drains first. Together they’re a classical formula for someone burning too bright for too long. Not a sedative. More like... It reminds the nervous system what baseline feels like.”

I don’t know whether or not to be self-conscious of her pointing out the shadows under my eyes. Her honesty is disarming, like the clearest water eroding stone.

“Second. You already know where you are going. You know which races matter most this season — yes?” She doesn’t wait for confirmation. “Then go there. Fully. Stop looking at every other circuit on the calendar with longing eyes. The driver who tries to run every race wins none of them. Wherever you are, be all there. I am sure you’ve heard that many times in your life from spiritual leaders and such, but I invite you to take that phrase and make it your own. Focusing on one thing at a time does not invalidate, does not erase, the other goals you hold. All it does is funnel the tremendous energy available to the you now. The only you there is, frankly.”

She leans forward slightly.

“And you have people. Work worth doing. A life worth living off the track too.” A pointed pause. “Go back to those things. Tend them. Let them tend you.”

I think of my partner. There is always something to optimize, and when there isn’t, there is always somewhere else to disappear to. I keep choosing everything except what’s in front of me.

She’s right.

Dr. Chen sits back, “That is all. It is not complicated. It is only difficult because you have convinced yourself that rest is an irrevocable full stop.” Her eyes are steady on yours. “It is not. It is how you make sure there is still someone in the car come championship day.”

We get up from our seats at the same time. I give her a little nod of the head, a thank you. But fuck it, a hug it is. Hopefully she’s not alarmed. If worse comes to shove, or however that saying goes, I’ll blame it on me being European.

“Thank you so much, Dr. Chen,” I say, a sob and sigh battle it out in my throat. Both lose. The packet of teabags crinkles in the crook of my arm. “I needed this.”

She smiles. “We are rooting for you. Your trajectory is a miracle. I have no doubt in my mind this season will go well for you. You know... My kid has a jacket with your name on its back. It has little flames on the sleeves, a white horse patch on the front. She insisted on every detail.”

How cute! I return the smile. Genuinely. I ask her for a piece of paper and pen. I take a moment to leave her kid a message and autograph.

Lil sis, if I can make it so can you!
I draw a little galloping horse under my name.

Io doesn’t ask me how it went, she can see it on my face. Maybe she’s not a sadistic little witch, I smirk, knowing she has always been on my corner.

“Let’s go! We’ll drop you off first,” she laces her arm through mine.

The full moon is bright up ahead. Glowing cheese…

My thought comes to a halt when Io stops walking. She looks at me with tenderness, and says, “Friend, we are proud of you, and are beyond grateful that you are still on this planet with us.” She nudges me playfully, “Yes, the sponsors too.”

“And remember,” she adds, “a win for you is a win for all of us. You are not alone.”

The pearly gates, entwined with white morning glories, close behind you. No sky here. Only pink and yellow clouds billowing like lungs. Your chest tightens, breath held. How high did I climb? you wonder, though you don’t remember climbing at all.

Before you and your accompanying guardian looms a castle of grey stone, grotesque in its reaching. You crane your neck to find the top. You can’t. Turrets vanish into cloud-cover like severed limbs. Your gaze drops, you gulp.

You jolt, a little shriek almost escapes your body. Out of nowhere a smiling figure with the face of a star and dressed in a white tunic stands right in front of you. Then your eyes meet. His expression blooms with delight.

“Welcome! We’re thrilled you’re visiting Sadalsuud Atheneum. We’ve heard such extraordinary things about you. Truly. Headmaster Ganymede personally assigned me your tour. Quite the honor! Now, shall we?”

He turns and walks. You glance at your guardian. She nods.

You must have crossed a portal.

Inside is nothing like the stone shell. Everything pulses neon blue. Holographic panels, glass floors lit from beneath. Bass thrums through the walls, muffled but relentless. Somewhere, someone is definitely doing ketamine to progressive house. A celestial Berghain.

“The headmaster and administration are visionary leaders, truly cutting-edge... Sir Prometheus founded it right about the time humans received the gift of fire,” he recites, then drops it. “Look, honestly, I come here because it’s fun.”

He extends his kandi-clad arm and hands you a notecard.

“We attract the nerdiest bunch,” he says, matter-of-fact. “We work hard, but we party even harder. Am I right?” He grins. “Anyways, I know you’ll want to know what state-of-the-art equipment we have so I put this together for you.”

Star pupil hits his vape. He notices you're no longer studying the notecard. He smiles, pleased. “Let's go look at some stars.”

I. The Stellar Cartography Lab

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• SOCRATES

• DAIMON

• PYRRHON

• THE TREES (chorus)

• YOU (the reader)

The stoa colonnade in the agora, late afternoon. Bare-footed and clad in a humble himation, SOCRATES descends upon some rocks to sit at the edge of a stone bench. Behind him, the DAIMON skips like a little mountain goat; giggles gurgle from his stomach onto the space. Everything within a meter of his existence seems brighter, the colors ultra-saturated.

SOCRATES sits and looks out yonder towards the agora. It’s very busy, a lot of people milling about. One of his students is loudly stating his thesis, his leg propped up on a box. From far away, one can see his open mouth, some spittle. So passionate, so full of vigor and conviction.

PYRRHON
NO! I SHALL speak. Your logic is weak, it folds to the simplest questioning. What the human spirit needs to do is ask themselves first “what is it that I ACTUALLY want?” not be like — (in sarcastic, high-pitched voice) meh meh meh, I should sacrifice my last three goats to Zeus... because I am scared!

Some people gasp. The TREES tremble with resonance. SOCRATES shakes his head.

SOCRATES
(mutters) He’s not wrong... But when will Pyrrhon learn that volume does not equal power?

He laughs, then sighs. He pats the stone bench.

SOCRATES
(to DAIMON) Come on, little one. Come on. I have questions for you.

The DAIMON hops over the bench and sits contentedly beside him. DAIMON looks up and around at the five trees that provide them with shade. He then looks to the side and winks at the oldest.

SOCRATES looks down at his toes, wiggles them. His hand is on his stomach. He is in obvious pain. Instead of whimpers or yelps, he expresses his deep discomfort with held breath. He is gritting his teeth.

DAIMON notices, and puts his little hand on SOCRATES. The DAIMON’s eyes are very serious, almost scary in their focus.

DAIMON
Breathe out. Or I’ll tickle you.

SOCRATES smiles and lets out the air in measured lengths.

SOCRATES
The powers that be are murmuring.

[BEAT]

That I corrupt the youth, turn them into heathens. That I myself am one. Maybe they’re right. But I believe in what I know, what I see, what I experience. I may not know much, but...

[ANOTHER BEAT]

You are real. I call, you answer. You pull me back when I am off my path, and then let me make the decision. Free will till the very end. Isn’t that much more worthy to consider than capricious gods, puppets of the leadership? Gods who most likely are gallivanting in the fields and the oceans, leaving their statues behind. Having sex, eating, all the things an embodied creature could choose to do in their vessels of flesh.

DAIMON sits very still. His eyes glint like coins peeking through soil.

SOCRATES
(cont.) The wicked are saying, “exile or death.” I don’t want to leave Athens. I don’t want to leave my students. Their growth gives me life, they inspire me to keep questioning, seeking. Seeing Pyrrhon and the others build their mental frameworks and then live their lives accordingly... is a marvel to behold. The cosmos reborn.

SOCRATES grimaces hard, hand pressing deeper into his stomach, as if trying to hold his insides together.

(to DAIMON) What do I do?

The TREES sway around them, and they sing like oracles.

THE TREES
You know, you know, you know.
Responsibility for your life rests on you.
Who but yourself will you answer to at the end of your days?

DAIMON’s eyes soften from intensity to a spaced-out gaze. He still has his little hand on SOCRATES’.

SOCRATES
Should I leave? Go on the run, become everything I am not just to survive. I’d be alive yet dead.

DAIMON
(gently, but with such firmness you’d need a saw to cut it in half) No.

The TREES shiver joyously.

THE TREES
You know, you know, you know.

SOCRATES
(to himself) I would rather die having spoken in my manner, than speak in their manner and live.

SOCRATES stands and hobbles towards the audience, specifically YOU, the reader.

SOCRATES
The unexamined life is not worth living. I may try something and fail... and yet, what a blessing that is. Will you condemn me when the hour is nigh?

YOU
(you answer)

[END]

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He went to his brother’s kingdom, depressed as sin. His brother, funnily enough, suffered the same experience. His wife cheated on him with a slave too. Story has it that they traveled together to soothe their heavy spirits, and ended up crossing paths with a jinn. The jinn’s wife seduced them (mind you, she was captive to the jinn). They couldn’t resist her, oh no. Instead post-nut, they harped on how all these women were just so fucking faithless, unworthy of their care and devotion, undeserving of their loyalty.

The king got back home and sent out an edict through his son. Earlier that lunar year, he’d made the boy vizier, a golden chain to keep his heir close. The boy would have preferred losing himself in travels to and from Cathay, but the king couldn’t stomach the possibility of his heir slipping through his fingers.

The edict? All girls of such and such age were to be sent to the palace. Immediately.

People all over the kingdom assumed he was just amassing a huge harem. How greedy, merchants would whisper. Wails of mothers across the territories covered the land like ash. Who would their sons marry now?! But alas he was king. No one could say no.

Reality was grimmer. After a night spent with the damsel, he would execute them. Every night it was the same. He would devour, then order her to lay very still. He’d reach for his khanjar, and play with her, holding that blade close to her jugular. She’d smile and think he’s only joking, right? She had done nothing wrong, and she gave all of herself that night to please the powerful king, even if this was in fact her first time partaking in intercourse. She had run through all the advice her mother and aunts crammed into her brain before departure, even if her body hadn’t yet readied itself for such things. She did well, she did well... Her chant would come out as increasingly shallow breaths.

He released, and he was smiling.

His grin would spread, savoring her transparent thoughts, and in a breath, he would pick up his arm and swing down. He felt immense pleasure seeing the gush of scarlet spring forth and paint the sheets red.

The vizier was running out of girls, not to mention he was sampling one or two himself.

He summoned us from abroad — me and my cousins. This would have to do, he reasoned begrudgingly. The guilt ate at his entrails with newfound ferocity for he knew exactly what he was doing.

What I come to find out, once I’m back in my old childhood room, is that his wife, in fact, was very much alive. She still had her own wing and did as she pleased.

Spineless. Complicit. Her passive consent in exchange for comfort and gold. As long as she wasn’t the one that had to entertain that night, any night, she was at peace with looking the other way. Opium became her favorite incense.

Surprisingly, my room was just as I left it before I travelled north to Rus.

I shift to sit closer to my friend, who had refused to let me come back alone. “He hasn’t changed,” I whisper.

“I know,” she replies. She pats the satchel next to her, full of herbs, “You’ll make it through, and perhaps you’ll be the one to put an end to this madness. In the meantime, I will make sure nothing comes of it.”

She is as concerned as I am, but we take turns being scared, and right now, I need her to hold firm. I nod and gulp. If the rumors are true, I may not make it past the night. But in the case that I do... I am nowhere near ready to be a mother, and especially to a child of his. God forbid.

She helps me get ready: prepares a tea of yarrow, dolls me up in blue, tells me she will enter the chamber with me. That I am not alone.

I nod again. What else can I say?

The sun sets, and it is time. We make our way through winding halls. The slaves lower their eyes when we pass. None of us has a speck of power, we are at the whim of a sick man with a depraved appetite.

I decide then: this ends with me.

We stand at the threshold of his chamber. I notice that the light of the candles is amplified by strategically placed bronze mirrors.

“Come forth,” he orders. I step in.

Our eyes lock. Same color, same shape as mine. I’m back again in my personal hell.

“Ah, I knew you’d return,” he purrs.

Back to my old survival ways, I half-smile. He proceeds as intended. When he asks me to look back at him, I stare right at the middle of his forehead.

Truth be told, I am somewhere else.

I would think of a dear friend, the cute boy from Rus, of nights at his grandma’s place listening to her stories of Baba Yaga and all the idiots that came to her for help. I would think of my friend waiting right outside the door (she wasn’t allowed in), of nights spent praying to a god we barely knew, then playing with makeup and fabrics till the sun greeted us again.

My eyes flit back to the king’s face. He looks annoyed. He has finished, and his hand reaches for a sheathed blade next to our faces. With hesitation.

I roll my eyes and let out a small laugh, “O King, shall I tell you the story of Hades and Persephone?”

I will him to get off. Tit-for-tat. A story in exchange for space (and my life).

His chest deflates in relief, “Yes, tell me what you’ve learned. Any investment I make should come back to me with profits.”

He tries to caress my face, but I tense up. He calls my friend in. As she tends to me and cleans me up, I weave him the tale of Hades and Persephone with skillful voicing, charming narrative pace, and of course, smiles peppered everywhere. Just how he likes it.

If there’s one thing this king is good at, it is consistency. Lord, every day, the same. I am free to read, and recover, during the day. Then at twilight, I would be called to his chamber. My friend would wait outside, ready to be let in once it was over and I was to weave something captivating. Greek myths gave way to Egyptian lore, Slavic tales, Hebraic stories. Eventually, I made up my own.

Back in my room, I slump on the bed and sigh, “I’m exhausted. One thousand nights. I’m a little bird with a diamond encrusted leash on its ankle. Chained to this rotting kingdom forever.”

My friend stares at me, then moves closer to hold my hands. “I have news.”

I look up. Do I dare to have hope again? The tears fall like silent soldiers.

She continues, “He has sent me a message. See that falcon over there by the window? He awaits your response.”

“What is it?” I ask, knowing she already ate the paper. My voice trembles.

“He’s here. Ready when you are.”

I breathe in deeply, and squeeze her hand, “Let’s get ready for bed.”

The next morning, I wake and feel something small brush my palm as I pull my arm from under the pillow.

A sugar cube.

“Did you put this here for me?” I ask, confused as I don’t take sugar with my tea.

My friend shakes her head.

I place the cube on my tongue, and let it dissolve. I close my eyes, and for a second I remember the sun, the laughter, the wind on our faces as he and I raced horses by the seashore.

This ends with me.

On my way out, decked in red, I grab the small lighter from my nightstand. A gift received on one of those prayer nights, from the world beyond this one. I flick it open, click it shut. Engraved on its surface: a happy cat with one paw raised.

The king receives me as usual, but before he enters me, I hold my hand up.

“What is it, baby?” he asks.

“Enough,” I croak, “I can’t do this anymore.”

The king, stunned, sits back on his calves.

I push myself up onto my elbows, “I had so much to say, but now that I am allowing myself to speak, there’s nothi...”

“You will let me go.” My eyes pin his, voice resolute. “I will keep silent, you will keep silent. That has been and will continue to be our unspoken deal.”

I slink out of the sheets, and put my crimson robes back on as best I can. I stand next to the bed, and add, “Let the other girls go, don’t look for more. And find god, for fuck’s sake.”

I slip the lighter from its hidden pocket, flick the flame, and touch it to the sheets.

It catches.

He honors our deal, and doesn’t call for his guards. Once I am out the door, he finally lets himself stand.

“Let’s go!” I hiss on my way out, locking arms with her. I don’t look back.

Past the rose garden, a rider in black waits with two horses.

I look up. The night sky is clear, and directly above, Sirius illuminates the way.

Such a faithful star. He has heard all my prayers.

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I fear, I fear, I fear.

Still my hands keep on moving.

Tight threads, lift, a flick of the wrist, thunk, release, switch, repeat.

The fear is unbearable. My heart a gory bloody mess in its tight grip. The anxiety surges upwards. A sore throat, a painful jaw, a piercing of the ear drum.

But what if... NO. I’m scared. I can’t see. This all feels too real.

I pause the motions of my hands, and run fingers over the textile I’ve made in this short life. Bumps, perhaps the wrong colors — I can’t see. What strings am I even using? I have to redo this. I have time. Or better said, time does not fucking matter. Time is my enemy. It’s like I have this constant beef with the stickiest tar-like sand. It’s been getting everywhere.

I keep on weaving because I feel I must. Or I can’t stop.

The hands were made to move, and move they will.

Stop. Stop. The body is in a state of alarm, sending a continuous SOS. It hurts.

My hands rise in a posture of surrender. Ok. I breathe. In, out, in, out. My hands reach for the blindfold, they can’t help but move, act. They are shaking. I can hardly swallow. Did I fuck things up beyond repair? Am I lost? If there’s one thing I’ve lost it is perspective, that’s for sure.

What if... It can be remade? I can start again. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t like it. Right?

Clammy tips touch white silk. Oh I am scared. Wait, why am I scared? I am sweating though the body is cold. I pull the fabric down.

Oh. Suspended breath. Dark indigo infinite space.

My eyes run down certain areas clocking the patterns that please me, the snags that don’t. The textile is a mess, but there are some parts I do like. Call them experimental, if you will. Not a complete loss. Maybe not a loss at all.

I pull threads, snip here and there. Like Odysseus’ Penelope I undo it all until it’s just me, a tangle of many strings, and the loom. I reach for a yarn of lovely red, and rub the string between my fingers. So warm. So lovely I could make it all this color. I think that would please me immensely. But then a blue catches my eyes. Blueberry, the Arctic Sea. It reminds me of him. I pull it gently, persistently, out of the mess, and weave it in.

Tight threads, lift, a flick of the wrist, thunk, release, switch, repeat.

Beautiful.

And what about that yellow, almost gold? It looks like tinsel. Gorgeous. And some white? Yes.

The body pangs in remembrance of the years I roamed the earth sick with existential amnesia. Perhaps, we’ll skip the grey.

But this green?

I gulp down the last of my fears.

I look up and around me again. On walls hang many of my past tapestries. Each unique: some feature one color predominantly, others are a kaleidoscopic fever dream. A few are very short. One is black and tattered, eaten by moths. Some are made from diaphanous strings, others from the thickest yarn I could possibly make. Delicate. Robust. Chunky. Neat. Pathetic. Triumphant. There isn’t a reality I haven’t explored.

I look down at my current project. Hmm, I think this one... I will make extra special.

I chuckle because I say that every time.

Tight threads, lift, a flick of the wrist, thunk, release, switch, repeat.

a story of death and rebirth
 

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“Hey, can you set the dinner table silverware for the event tonight? Put two forks here, then two tablespoons, and a sharpie knife there, and a...”

“Please set the example on the main table,” I interjected.

“Come on. You can’t remember this?”

I sucked in my breath sharply. I wanted to scream. Poor man wasn’t even the reason. He was just doing his job, but the money being swiped from my bank mere hours ago, this job paying me half the rate after 4.5 hrs (so fucking weird, I know) and it potentially lasting till 11pm (my call time? 4pm), and generally being super displeased that I am not elsewhere geographically...

“Give me a second,” I say, and in a faint exasperated murmur I trail off, “I am at my wit’s end.” I flee to the restroom where I clench my fists as hard as I possible can.

I hate this. I hate this so much, I chant, channeling my rage out through brutally frank affirmations. I unfurl my hands, my fingers feel sore.

Why can’t people pay their employees reasonable wages? Why do I have to grovel to get MY money back? Why is it taking so long to get their problem fixed?

If this country I live in is all about free market, then why am I not seeing that? All I see instead is exploitation. Callous handling of company mistakes at the expense of the worker. Two or so years ago I even had to report a restaurant to the labor department because they were pocketing all our tips! Rest assured that unscrupulous man paid out what he owed us.

I currently work two jobs. People I know juggle same amount, sometimes more. Others work doubles, regularly. And mind you, most of us are using that money for basic necessities. Forget Gucci, we want groceries, bus passes, no debt!

I’ve had experience on the other side of the spectrum too. I remember living in LA and almost falling into depression because no matter what little hobbies I picked up, everything seemed soulless. Giving it my all as a ‘kingdom builder,’ I volunteered countless hours every week at my church (audio, camera, teen program), and tithed generously on the regular. Come to find out that the pastor and his wife had been using it to fund a new lifestyle — Cartier bracelets, first class flight tickets, expensive dinners, and all. It felt like these religious leaders completely forgot who Jesus was.

I used to have such an easy relationship with money growing up. It was always there, and so I never really had to think about it. I wanted to take a trip to India after freshman year. No problem. New LV Neverfull? Cool, want your initials embossed on it? Going to college was an immense joy. The privilege was incredible. But after graduation, I cut off that easy access. The money bound me to a family that hurt me, no matter the distance.

So now that I am in different circumstances, class consciousness: on, I grapple with the question — what do I actually want. Do I want billions? Honestly, no, not really. I care too much about people to go down that road anyhow as there is no such thing as an ethical billionaire. Do I want to own 5 houses? Nope. All the latest “luxury” items? I mean if it’s made well and I actually need it, sure? But I am good. What I want is to be with my man, write, travel, pet cats, puppies, birds, laugh with my friends, bake for my neighbors. I want to live.

WHITE BUTTER

I made a torta paradiso a few weeks ago. One of the first steps was to mix the sugar with the butter for up to 15 minutes. You’ll know it’s ready when the mixture turns white — not cream, not pale yellow, but white. The minutes flew by, and though my arm grew tired, I marched on, excited for the delicious cake I was making. There’s something almost meditative about that repetition, the way the texture changes under your hands, granules dissolving, resistance giving way to silk. Later I’d add the eggs. I almost freaked out because the batter now looked a bit curdled but I trusted the process and the recipe.

The cake was divine.

I don’t mind putting in the elbow grease. I can work long hours. I can make guests feel welcome and taken care of, anticipating needs before they’re spoken. I can sit myself down and write satisfying amounts of words within a specific time frame, wrestling language into something that sings. I can do a lot. I have the endurance and general goodwill to deliver something wonderful.

But here’s where it gets murky: that transformation I create — where does it actually go? When I whip butter and sugar into something white and cloud-like for a cake, I know exactly what I’m making and who will eat it. The exchange is clear. The value is visible. But when I work a shift that generates thousands of dollars for an establishment, creates repeat customers through careful attention and genuine care, transforms a dining room from empty tables into an experience people remember — what am I actually receiving in return?

Getting paid less than $25 an hour is crazy to me when I can track my labor’s worth in real time. Even more insane is how in the US, a la carte servers are paid $2.13 an hour in some states, with the rest supposedly made up in tips. Many restaurants expect you to stay after closing to clean the entire front of house. So yes, you’re scrubbing floors and wiping down every surface for $2.13 an hour. We are such cheap labor, my god. The transformation we create — turning strangers into regulars, chaos into smooth service, raw ingredients into memorable meals — that alchemy is worth so much more than what hits our bank accounts every two weeks.

I think about my arm getting tired while making that cake, and how I joyfully pushed through because I knew it’d turn out great. But when our efforts out there in the world don’t even guarantee personal satisfaction, much less a livable wage, how are we to reconcile out innate sense of fairness? Our labor transforms and transforms and transforms, and the white butter we’ve created just... disappears into someone else’s profit margin and pockets.

The question isn’t whether I can do the work. I can. The question is: what is my labor actually producing in this exchange, and why does it feel like I’m giving pound cake but getting back crumbs?

RASPBERRY COMPOTE

Money, currency, is like a flowing river. Or at least it should be. I receive, I let go. I bless, I am blessed. Over and over again.

This summer I really tried to get down to it. I wanted to get the metaphysics right. It’s an energy. Got it. You have to allow flow. All right. Don’t block yourself from receiving. ...Umm? As if I would turn down a windfall.

You know what though? There’s some truth to that advice, even if it sounds like LinkedIn wellness nonsense. When you’ve experienced hardship, what do you tend to do when you hold something in your hands? You hold it tighter. Scarcity doesn’t just empty your wallet. It rewires your nervous system. Every dollar becomes precious in a way that makes it hard to let anything move through you. The river freezes.

When I had steady income and family money, I definitely overbought, but I also dropped off the coolest things at the closest Goodwill without a second thought. Circulation felt natural. So I personally can’t speak to why many wealthy individuals are so keen on rolling around on their mountains of gold, fuck everyone else. Maybe it’s a different kind of scarcity they’re responding to? Never enough power, never enough security, never enough proof that they matter. I don’t know. What I do know is that this experience — working hard and still struggling — taught me how fear can dam up the flow.

For a moment, I had to surrender and ask for help. My community, mainly neighbors, didn’t give handouts (I’m too proud for that anyway) but their kindness softened my anxiety. The little culinary treats we exchange are a delight. Someone leaves banana bread or the tastiest shrimp EVER at my door. I bring over tangerines, flowers, slices of torta paradiso. We’re not doing charity; we’re doing circulation. I keep trucking at work, but at least now I am not mentally tortured by constant worry. I feel loved. The jar I give away, raspberry compote with a gingham lid and ribbon, comes back as something else. A quiet pleasure that sits warmly in the navel. Joy.

I didn’t stop giving things away, even when money got tight. In fact, I may be generous to a fault — or maybe not, because I don’t regret anything I’ve given. I think things through. I’m deliberate, keeping in mind the receiver’s likes and dislikes, how to give it without making a big deal out of it, and so on. I simply refused to let fear of a proverbial winter turn me into a dam. When I have extra food, I share it. When I have books I’ve finished, I leave them on bus seats or little libraries in front of people’s houses. When someone needs something I have, and I can spare it, I give.

It would be easy to call this foolish when I’m working two jobs and tracking every dollar, right? But no, friend. Wealth isn’t just what you hold. It’s what moves through you. Raspberry compote takes time: gathering the berries, cooking them down with sugar, jarring them carefully, sealing the lids. It’s preservation, yes, but preservation for sharing. You can’t eat seventeen jars of compote yourself. The abundance is in the circulation.

Community wealth works like this. You give what you can, you receive what you need, and somehow (✨ mysteriously ✨, against all capitalist logic) everyone ends up fed. Not equally, not perfectly, but genuinely. The metaphysics supersedes manifestation magic, the ‘attracting abundance through positive thinking’ line of thought1. Laws of the universe are about recognizing that you’re already part of a system of exchange that’s older and truer than the modern take on money. You’re the raspberry plant and the person dissolving the raspberries in sugar and the neighbor who’ll receive the jar. All at once.

To quote Job from the Old Testament, “Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither.” I give. I receive. What a joy it is to experience life as an unending gift exchange.

BLUE FUR PELT

One of my friends who is older and Canadian, grew up on a farm, was telling me how a kid will be so completely bewildered when they’re told that the nugget they’re eating is a dead chicken. Knowing a creature’s life had to be stopped short so one can eat feels weird, doesn’t it? I’m not saying I don’t eat meat, but when I do, the thought of what it used to be does cross my mind. And I feel gratitude. For the creature that I’d probably pet if it let me, back when it had life. For the hands that prepared it, and those that cooked it.

Sometimes I imagine this awareness as a blue fur pelt. Strange, not from this world, something that fell into my hands when I wasn’t looking. Now that I have it, I can’t pretend I don’t see. The pelt is alien, uncomfortable even, doesn’t quite sit naturally on my shoulders. But it’s real, not synthetic. As in something had to shift, crack open, maybe even die in me for this awareness to arrive. Once you wear it, everything looks different.

I see the chicken nugget differently now. I see my paycheck differently too. I see the phone in my hand and know what it cost to extract the minerals inside it. Not just dollars, but Congolese blood, children’s hands in mines, ecosystems destroyed. This is why I went and got a refurbished phone instead of giving Apple more money. Now that I know what that piece of technology costs us, I refuse to be a complacent participant in the suffering of another fellow human being. The blue fur pelt on my shoulders doesn’t let me look away.

A lot of us simply forget that we truly only have one planet we can call home, and whether we like it or not, we share it. I smile when I remember that as I type away there are pods of orcas traversing the Pacific. That when I clock in for my dinner shift, pigeons are cuddling in forgotten recesses of the city, maybe cooing to each other about what fries and donuts they got to eat that day. During my breaks, I go to the park nearby, and as I inhale deep, I watch how the trees sway over me. They’ve been breathing out what I breathe in long before I arrived, and they’ll continue long after I’m gone.

The awareness sits heavy sometimes. It’s a gift I didn’t ask for and can’t return. To be honest, I don’t think I even want to return it. Going back to ignorance gives me zero solace. Once you see that everything you touch required someone else’s life force, whether it be animals, tech devices, trees breathing out oxygen, or the labor of invisible hands, you’re responsible for how you hold that knowledge. You become a steward whether you want to be one or not.

The blue fur pelt also reminds me of what Jesus said about how man doesn’t live on bread alone. Beyond the terrestrial, there is the momentarily unseen. Our ecosystem is far greater than what we imagine. It extends beyond the ecological and encompasses the spiritual, the energetic, and the relational. We’re bound up in exchanges we can’t even track. The orcas and I share saltwater currents. The pigeons and I share city air. The Congolese and I share humanity. My heart beats just like theirs.

Suddenly my banquet serving job seems like a speck of sand on a very long shoreline. Not because it doesn’t matter, but because it’s part of something so much larger than the transaction my employer thinks we’re having. They think they’re buying my time, and morbidly so, they may even think they own me. But what’s actually happening is I’m in constant life force exchange: with my neighbors, the orcas and the trees, Congolese children, my coworkers and the guests. And you.

Money is not the end all, be all. But you know who is? Honey...

It’s us.

White butter, raspberry compote, blue fur pelt.

Labor, community, stewardship.

We are what gives money meaning.