I wanted to write a book about the period since I had years of first-hand experience. But wait, someone has to have done that already.
There is overwhelming evidence that I’m not the only one having periods, though it sure does feel that way. I remember growing up in China, having had a very embarrassingly public announcement of my first period, spending years in bewilderment handling the monthlies in an offhanded way involving a piece of thin cloth with a long string and coarse tissues to cap the flow. Then one day I saw a TV show with a strong, non-traditional female character who after being criticized for being strong-willed and difficult, declared then and there, matter-of-factly, “I’m having my period.” Wow!! WOW!!! I still can not believe it. I remember that scene after all these years. I can picture the scene still: the lady, tall, confident, dressed in a white blouse, with a palpable air of dignity and no-shit-taking, evenly broadcasted her mensuration status to a male counterpart. She stood up for all of us by being herself, and challenged the norm. She’s still my hero.
Other flow news.
Welcome back, Amy!
After some Googling, I found that the earliest book written about period is called “The Wise Wound” which was published in 1978. Strangely, my wonderful local library carries not one book regarding such subject. So I got it from Amazon.
I wish I’m not tired all the time,
so I can behold the vast beauty.
To keep my eyes peeled, ears unclogged,
fingers poised to record whatever comes.
As it is I’m just meat & veins,
they deposit shells on the shores of my perception.
I’m exhausted just to look, much less to feel.
It’s stretching me, my universe.
Where does my light go?
There’s a door.
I can sense it.
I don’t know what’s inside,
maybe it’s me I’m opening.
There could be darkness.
If so I’d be content.
I’d give it a go
to prove a point of pointlessness.
Can’t recall the steps,
so how did I end up here?
Isn’t it all the same?
The twists equal the turns?
Not fair to the guide, but,
all in truth, no faith, not brave,
just energy to disperse,
heavy dose of “get me outta here”.
It must’ve been silent,
then why do I hate the noise?
Can’t pay off the voices
so they just up & left.
Fill myself with
whatever I can grab,
how it comes to be, a piece of you
on what’s left of me.
A door too many,
stepping onto the balcony.
It’s all somber & majestic.
The birds are mocking me,
“you don’t belong here,
the air’s thin, the sun’s gonna kill.”
Where am I supposed to go?
After one door too many?
Silver, jade, emerald,
life is the most valuable.
Light it up to the utmost,
in the dark the secret holds.
Summer evening, cricket choring,
high alert for the mosquitoes.
Bothering the flesh as the eyes roam.
Field of grass just turned gold.
All I feel like is to cry.
Maybe I’m already dead
which is why I can’t draw a breath.
Or have I been running all this time?
Oh why, oh why?
Can’t keep my eyes dry?
Can’t keep my heart alive?
Still needing a place to hide.
Guilt & fear had their fun with me,
as I had my fun with them.
I push away from that shore
the ranges, the desert, the glacier,
the transient joys & encounters,
the answers & the sights.
A light-footed traveler.