I always feel very conflicted about writing about “mundane” things.

I read the results of a scientific study that revealed that a person struggling with poverty is as intellectually impaired as a person who has gone without a night of sleep, or what is equivalent to a 13 point drop in IQ. Constantly. Every single bit of their mental resources are focused on trying to survive, or spinning their wheels in stress, fear, and worry.

With such intense pressure to find a new place to live and do it yesterday at war with lacking an income sufficient to rent the most inexpensive apartments in the five boroughs and — on top of that — insufficient to get into housing lotteries geared toward housing poor people, and losing the insurance that makes it possible for me to afford mental healthcare and therapy, and one of the drugs I need, the trouble I’ve had with focusing on anything at all seems to make rather a lot of sense.

When I went to fill the prescription that I would have to pay out of pocket for, my supposed-to-be-discontinued-on-the-14th insurance covered it, and I only had to pay a dollar.

I immediately thanked Freyr. Profusely.

Despite calling in and doing what I was supposed to do and what I do every month, they had no record of my attempt to reauthorize my pain medication. Stress causes an increase in pain, and pain causes an increase in stress. I’ve also done something to a set of old injuries I acquired in an accident and my knee. Due to the holiday, I’m very unlikely to be able to get a hold of it before Tuesday.

I have half of my health clearance to apply for supportive and/or public housing — the other half is a tuberculosis test, which they do by blood, these days. So Instead of staring at my arm, I’ll have to call them to find out if I’m consumptive in a week.

Someone (nonhuman) suggested to Brand the other day that instead of biting his nails into the quick and silently panicking while waiting for the bus that he attempt to converse with the ginkgo tree at the bus stop. It didn’t especially work, but he was distracted by the lichen patterns.

When I came home, I touched all of the trees on the side of the sidewalk I tend to use while somewhat poorly singing the Medicine Buddha mantra. It’s been a long time since I sang. As in decades.

I checked on the pussywillow, but could not linger because of the landlord. I am thinking that if I can manage to do so, I will take one of the branches when it is pruned and make it into a wand of sorts so that I will have it as a focus to speak with her more easily while I am inside or after I move, since it is very rare that I can have even a few minutes to myself out there without the landlord demanding to know what I’m doing and staring until I leave.

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