Period Talk – May Edition.

period-tango-slim-2.png What Strange sceneries, even as the walls are closing in. Normal tasks that require focusing is out of mental reach. Instead I have this pulsing gray matter that goes away as I lay here. It refuses to settle down and rest even, sigh, I’m in the driver’s seat no more.

What do you say when you can’t say anything. Not because there’s nothing to say but because there’s too much. No time for pausing. And the frustration makes you have to let go. The grinding is just too much. Every second you are pushing against an invisible current. Somehow time conspires and pushes you out of the door and into the rabbit hole. You are left adrift in a loud, colorful foreign land fraught with danger. You just want to go home, you just want to rest.

But nobody knows what you are going through because they do not see. Even if you show them the bloodied bed-sheet they pretend it’s a flower thing. It is not a flower thing and fuck the bees. Period is messy, literally bloody and exhausting. Ever time I have it it’s just like the first time, and several times a day during that period I hate being a woman. Why do I have to go through this? Oh, right, they say it’s because of a sin. Well, fuck that, I’m going to take advantage of this “gift”.

It’s not quite getting high, for you do still have several degrees of control over your mind just enough to observe the fun experience. But the faster time flow has been activated. It’s like when you are recovering from a fever and you are floating between groggy land and a chaotic construction site. You can’t focus for shit, but guess what, free-association is all the rage.

Something tells me that we are all bags. Compared to grass we are a mobile entity. This is very important. Which means we are not bound by some patch of earth, we are master of space. But where should we go? Since we are less connected with nature we have to rely even more on nature for clues, and that gives us the ability to observe and reflect. Oh, you go the same way as I? Perfect, now we can be neighbors, let’s not kill each other on our first try shall we? All because we are bags of things that enable us to move around. I feel like a bag.

And other inspiring thoughts, most of which I don’t remember, mercifully. Oh, and music playing is actually much easier during period. You can say it really flows.

Sweet Orleans – Part Deux.

Bourbon Street New Orleans
It’s 11pm on a Wednesday, needless to say, the party is just getting started on Bourbon Street New Orleans. The masquerades with high expectations are arriving. The arteries start to flow in earnest: the music, the beer, the human-misery undertone. The last one keeps the former two company nicely. Vacationers here for the Jazz fest huddle at the bar-counter reminiscing the good times they just had during the day. You can tell they are not that impressed by this crowd. For it is but a chaser, the crazy after-party that never seems to end. It’s truly a testament to human endurance on the locals’ part.
On the street, there is all kind of humanity now. Most of them holding their beer as if it’s the Holy Water that can protect them from whatever ghost from their past. What I think though is that they are here to secretly rendezvous with their ghost. A glimpse of the damp, dark but warm and storied grave that this must feel like, with shadows of people too sober to be recognized, and consciousness too drunk to recollect. It’s a good feeling, you can get drunk without the beer this way. Being among this many people cheering, split-second decision making around you, you can’t help but feel alive. And there’s danger too, even better. The indifferent paces signal that they have seen more and ignored for less. Things happen on the street, this is where we celebrate both the real and the unreal. In this fervent twilight, we party till dawn when our soul crawls back to sleep.

Tree of Life
There’s nowhere I’d like to go but to visit the Tree of Life right next to the Audubon Zoo. I don’t know what an old oak tree should look like but this one looks young to me. And welcoming. With low trunk-like branches that shade you from the New Orleans sun and provide an almost hammock like nook for laying on. It is the tree of my dream. But I am reminded of something else that happened to the trees, or rather what these trees bared witness to. As I drink in the peaceful setting, on a warm afternoon, with other equally impressed visitors enjoying the same tranquility, I start to browse about lynching on my phone. If you want to look, remember Mary Turner. I try to unsee the torn black bodies hanging from the tree that I’m hanging about on. But something sweet hit the back of my tongue, to my surprise.

As I watch the Mississipi river flows before me now, carrying the cargos and garbages alike upstream and downstream, I can’t help but feel its disquiet. This river has been disturbed, and yet it’s silent like it’s gathering its strength. The sweetness transforms me, it soothes me to know that we are of the great people who are accepting of their fate, and still carrying on.

Sweet Orleans – Part Un.


The neighborhood.

“Hey you! Can you buy me some food!”
The black lady came at me as if she knew me, that I owed her money. After the initial shock, I knew what to do. I smiled and shook my head politely ignoring the other black ladies’ (who were standing around) startled stares. It’s night time, I was on my way back to my hostel from this Walmart nearby. This is a black neighborhood, the Garden District. But I was still surprised, as I was headed to the Wing Stop, searching for dinner myself.

I stepped inside the Wing Stop, expected to be saved from the unexpected unwanted attention. Immediately I saw this customer who was waiting for his order (Need I say that he’s black? Along with the employees who were fulfilling the take-out orders and cleaning the place up for closing?) rushed towards me, and before I could react, he reached out and held the door open behind me, for the clearly disabled lady who was hollering at me asking for food not a moment ago. I had almost shut the door on her. I escaped the Wing Stop, feigning indifference to their food options. As I was walking away, I saw that lady was getting some water from their fountain, and nobody thought that was anything but normal.

This person, who held the door for the poor and deprived lady to whom I had turned my back, made me ashamed but he also welcomed me, they all did. They had shown me the character of the place, the real character. I wonder who is the deprived one.

A party gone too long.

 It’s a public place, so I thought I was safe. Safe to zone out and enjoy the Mississippi River to my left, and the Jackson Square to my right. After enjoying some impressive impromptu Irish pipe music dealt out by a street artist in full kilt, who was then discouraged by the silent but pointed circling of a police officer for further profit, I was amused and clearly rendered content by the never-can-be-fully-described beignets. Another person was sitting one seat over, what of it? I wanted to be quiet to soak in the good-cheers and merriment. That person was trying to pick a conversation with some other folks sitting on the other side, to no avail. They seemed to be ignoring him. Well, thank god more people want some peace and quiet in this cool French Quarter evening. Then he poked me on my arm.

We struck up a conversation. He’s a middle-aged man, quite handsome and he knew it. He listed his artistic explorations, did some impersonations. He asked where my husband was, I was on guard but as his story progressed, I realized that an artist can never truly lie. So we sparred, we picked something outta each other, I think I won in the end. Before we parted I gave him $20 so he could eat that night, and because he asked. He’s off again on his way to find himself and others. I wish him luck.