Period Talk – June Edition.

period-tango-slim-2.png “I’m nothing if not confused” many a person uttered that line with such finality you’d suspect they’re gonna be alright. That fatalism brings its own solution as I resigned to spend my weekend with the “guest” who for once knocked on my biological door on a Friday. Kindly enough. I thought it would be easy too. A bit chatty and uncommonly “sociable” are the side effects of being a bit high from internal chemical somersaults and blood-loss. It’d be fun with the in-laws.

Except, I over-slept. Still in bed at 11 o’clock on a Sunday while I should be serving tea for these other guests. I was in a cozy, hazy dream and only vaguely aware of my companion’s “subtle” cues of should-be-obvious-but-not-to-me noises as he got up at 10:30am. I guess I should be the one with the tea and breakfast ready. My bad. I wish I didn’t have to see that glance from the in-law’s eyes. The utter disapproval or disgust that she must have reserved for me all that morning. It mirrored my own. I wondered how much a failure I am for not being a good host, a good “daughter”, a good companion to an exceptional and long-suffering son.

The wound is a familiar one. You’d think I’d have learned how to take it by now. Then again, maybe not. I realized something though. It is my fault. For still looking for others for validation. For still blaming myself for being who I am. For still taking this passive-aggressive crap as a matter-of-course. I am my own human-being. I will live with it. In the meantime you can serve your own tea, pretty please.

May your flow be smooth.

Nursery Rhyme.

Hello, my child,
here’s something for your pouch.
A blessing from your elders,
a drop of tear from me as well.

It’s not what you believe I know,
don’t shake your head nor pout.
They’re there when you need them,
to remember us by when you fail.

Good night, little mouse,
here’s something for your satchel.
A piece of heart from the hunt &
a bone knife of your father’s will.

I know it’s not common any more
don’t feel embarrassed nor stutter.
There will be time for their use,
remember to keep them safe after.

Goodbye, my love,
take these letters to these men.
There are ladders you will need to climb,
use these jewels while you still can.

I know it’s not the way you’ve led,
don’t be put down nor think me wrong.
A life is not what one planned,
write me when you recount this song.

Saturday morning-noonish.

Indigo pot with Francis,
matcha tea with milk in a jar.
Chickens roaming
don’t know where.
Yes heart, be free
to rise above.

Saturday morning-noonish
breakfast egg
with raisin bread.
Fake fire crackling
in the stereo.
Easy-chair guards the books.

Open the window
just a crack,
summer winds
bring in life.
Nothing to do
but to rest.

Let’s all
take a breath.

And hold…

Fools.

I’m in love with your nipple,
I’m in love with your socks.
I love you as a whole,
and all the little parts.

When you are packing to leave,
I ask where are we headed?
When you do come back,
I say just this one more time.

I’m yours for life.
I’m yours for life.
And you are mine,
why won’t you accept?

I’m a fool for you,
but you are also a fool.
I offer you my world,
how lovely when you say:

“baby, so do I”.

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.