May 23, 2012 § Leave a comment
When I started menstruating my mother gave me a single sheet cardboard calendar to keep in my bedroom cupboard. I learned it was identical to one in her cupboard, and in all probability, to one in my grandmother’s cupboard of the early 70’s. On this calendar I was to mark crosses for the days on which I bled. I may, it was suggested, want to use a different sized cross for lighter flow, or a different symbol altogether for suspected days of ovulation, or anything else I might want to associate with my cycle: chanting, invertebrate spawning, human sacrifice, so on. It was a glimpse of the outside world. The fact that I am no doubt surrounded by people who can be bothered doing this is key to my understanding of my inevitable doom and failure in the human struggle. I just this morning stumbled, pre-coffee, into the W/C and was literally shocked to find that I was leeching blood. Ah! Oh yes. That. Good. Must get something from around the house to stem it I suppose, can’t exactly sit here all day. Then I have to set about cancelling everything for the week, of course; notifying my supervisor at uni that I could possibly drag myself in towards the end of it but if I get a sour and bored look on my face at the mention of theory it is almost certainly due to a lack of iron. Though privately, there is something spare and jolly about the whole thing: nothing like a bit of colour, and yes, quite pleasing in many ways to find that I am still alive. Retrospectively – no, no actually I’m sure – it’s timely. There are, thankfully, sections of this organism that are maturely and resignedly getting on with it with seemingly little care for the state of literary criticism vis-a-vis a new media society and words upon words smacked together like two handed patty-cake. Instead, we have the alarming flourish of a deep and constant, self-obliterating renewal; the assured and continual flow from the cherished idea of within.