Period Talk – July Edition.

There’s a time for everything. I was never into Goddesses. Anything or anyone that’s too perfect, I instinctively distrust. I was not into the latest nail polish color. I didn’t pick my cloth to impress. I didn’t try behaving a certain way to fit into a particular crowd. When I heard women, with that confident and dreamy voice, saying, “I’m a spiritual being, I’m one with the Goddess.” I would barf and roll my eyes.

But something changed recently, I’d guess it’s in lockstep with the self-acceptance and the empowerment it afforded. The confusions and agonies I felt when I had to tend to my infuriating body had changed into a kind of mirth, an understanding, seeping from a deeply-felt fondness. What do I understand now that I didn’t before? Looking beyond the brain fogs, the unhealthy cravings, the ultra self-consciousness, I found there was something else at work. The kind of things that were on the other side, that were, and forever would be beyond my control. But I have learned to look at myself and my relationship with all these other things objectively.

I was open, against my will almost, to life and the natural processes that came with it. So open that life could wash through me without drowning me. It’s rushing and crushing and unrelenting. When it did retreat, it promised the retrial next month. I was always reeling from something. It didn’t help that I judged myself by other people’s standard and always found myself wanting. At last, it’s quiet, and I’m still. I can reign in myself better which gave me the space to really listen and feel. Now when life bubbles up, I can be present, to greet it like an old friend. To be part of the flow. As a woman.


It's a divination.
With life, you're flowing,
in the stream, the mystery of creation.
Breath deep, when you greet the origin.

It's a divination.
You have to be open to know wisdom.
Through and through, a natural woman.
In the dark, still, you're glowing.

It's a divination.
Kept under locks & keys, not given any reason.
Mother of all civilizations.
Out of balance, since forced silence.

It's a divination.
A crash course, a do-or-die enlightenment.
Rivers of blood, sacred intonement.
How they blame the creator,  for the creator

is a woman.

Summer bile.

Every evening I say goodbye.
How many times? To the day, then to the night.
Can’t remember even a single one.
A residue of some impression of some sentiment.

It’s time like this I have to escape,
propelled by the resentiment of a lazy satisfaction.
Why do I feel tired just to return?
The trash’s still outside, the same couple just passed by.

If the view’s ocean’s end, or the martian soil,
will I still feel the need to pollute paper with my bile?
I may still pity myself just to see if I’m capable.
A drop in the ocean of inert particles.

It’s not blue, it’s gray & white & colorless.
The oppressiveness is felt through the closed window.
Artificial breeze bellows for the creatures inside,
who are cut off, sequestered, cornered & comfortable.

The summer’s cooking something rotten.
Pop the lid, bear the smell & the sight of the skeletons.
The water rises, the sun bakes, pay no attention.
Don’t worry, be happy, nothing ever really happens.

Once upon a time.

I try to escape a feeling,
& I know you know it too,
that the world’s at your fingertips
& you can fuck it if you so choose.

But I’m afraid of something,
something up above,
that tells me, “no, no, no,
you are not enough.”

You are not enough.
You are not enough.

So I got outta the way,
to sulk, to reflect,
to find a way to have faith.
I thought it was OK.

Thought it was OK.
Thought it was OK.

But, but, why can’t I breath?
Choices I didn’t make.
Living a life that
I’m watching from the outside.

The world’s at my fingertips.
I’ll fuck it if I so choose.
You can stare or look away.
You can tell me you’re not afraid.

But don’t be late, time won’t wait.
Enough is enough, to read & meditate.
You’ll never know it all.
Greed is your downfall.

You’ll never be loved
like you are now.

A reader.

I try to be myself but I’m scary and alien,
pretending to be human though I don’t know what that is.
So I live through you, I hope you don’t mind,
to learn about love and compassion, how am I doing?

I try not to do harm, which means I can’t do good either.
It’s a binary path, no-one cares how it’s discovered.
Over-crowded, building fences, maintaining the order.
How’s the view? Let me visualize, become a real hero.

No, not really, never really cared how others see me,
though I want to know how does your life go?
I don’t have one, it’s last night’s wind, today’s sun.
Am I missing someone?

True, true, everyone’s balancing
between enlightenment and insanity.
There’re the over-achievers showing off.
You are not them, don’t kid yourself.

Don’t model yourself.
Be crazy and just act yourself.
Time will tell.
Then hopefully, you will.

No wild heart.

No wild heart, yo,
I can’t afford.
I’d rather get my teeth pulled,
I got no insurance.

It’s a pay-per-live world,
we’re closing the gate
on what’s real benefit,
40 years a slave.

Sure, they gave you promises
when you’re young & good-looking,
just don’t say what you’re really thinking,
they ain’t listening.

Human nature is the killer app,
joy-button’s broken, that’s OK,
40% off, amazon prime.
Mama didn’t teach me how to refrain.

Ole, ole, let’s see that body.
Oh shit, not a size 6?
Go kill yourself,
you don’t exist.

Your life has but one aim,
to look good, sexy puss.
Here, give me a smooch,
I will buy you a Starbucks.

Eyes wild open & heart wide shut.
Precious commodity, someone giving a fuck.
Super cereal, we have to save our planet!
Can’t do that with all these infightings.

Who gains, who loses?
Maybe we want things to go KABOOM.
Hauling this history of unbearable weight,
now running out of water & space.

Kids shot, women raped.
How to go out, be open & relate?
Can’t tell friendlies from the fake.
To keep it safe, shields in place.

Period Talk – June Edition.

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.

The overcast sky.

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?

One door too many.

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?