Fiction / Audio Recording
Notes of a Menstrual Cycle
Editor Zhi Zhi’s Note: Caya has created a scrumptious experimental performance piece here — you must listen to the audio!
or
Soundcloud
Transcript
DAY [DID-I-JUST-GET-MY-PERIOD?]
Iconic blotch of hostel-heat-dried ketchup
Flashing on-and-on-and-on-and-on-and-on-and-on the lighter
Was I falling into a Void of Anticipation and
Now Wonder If I Am Being A Burden
Is death a social construct?
DAY [I-FEEL-TERRIBLE-FOR-A-VALID-REASON]
your life poured out my eyes
[Em7] [??] [??]
The biggest regret of my life is that I have to look to the left to know what chords I’m playing, so when I record myself playing I am forced to look at the least favorite side of my face.
DAY [FOR-SURE-SENSITIVE-TO-MINOR-HURDLES-THAT-I-NORMALLY-WOULD-IGNORE-BUT-MAYBE-THIS-IS-A-REMINDER-THAT-THEY-DESERVE-SOME-ATTENTION]
the thought of writing about love initiated by a prompt in your handwriting despises me. i hope you never read this, and if you do, hope you understand that this is not me. also not about you. i need to stop judging and you need to stop taking things personally. or maybe i just need to stop assuming you do. ALSO the fucking audacity to put ‘love’ and ‘/(sex)’ on the same sticky note. maybe i should’ve kindly shown it the way to the trash. but i guess it serves this purpose now. sorry to disappoint.
DAY [HOW-THE-FUCK-AM-I-SUPPOSED-TO-KEEP-MYSELF-STANDING]
if i’m…
sick from three bites of flapjack
shaky from whatever the fuck is going on with my insulin levels
probably in need of protein, but since when has Minerva decided that cooking healthy substantial meals in a way that does not make survival without being on the brink of collapse the sole purpose of your existence a priority? right. NEVER.
but, oh well, here we are at Edeka, trying to [whilst sickened by flapjack, basically the opposite of wanting to buy the entire store while hungry] work with what we’ve got and keep myself afloat.
it was a spontaneous decision to prioritize my wellbeing, so my backpack was obviously not ready to carry two oat milks, a bunch of celery, a cucumber, a carton of eggs, two cans of chickpeas, two with tuna, two proteinbreads (i guess i really was convinced i was in need of dorm-room-appropriate-protein-foods), some blood oranges (might actually do my insulin levels good to have one now, I actually have no idea how that works).
[INITIATE EXPERIMENT: Independent variable → orange (blood), Dependent variable → mood, Confounders → frustration from peeling (it does not look like it will be easy), writing (might make me slightly less frustrated)]
So, I got all the goods, ready to check out, figured I’d grab myself a bag anticipating that not everything will fit inside this tiny backpack, not wanting to test my luck because today is not the day I’m gonna have the cashier realize I am not in fact German. Obviously take a paper bag because I’d rather stuff my groceries in my sweatpants than have my ego take a punch in the face for choosing a plastic bag. And, as you might have guessed, obviously, this fucking bag starts ripping on the side (THE SIDE WHERE MY EGGS ARE, LORD HAVE MERCY!).
but paper bags ain’t got nothing on me, except that even if i hold it like a teen mom holds her baby, my darn insulin levels won’t let me use my bicep for longer than a minute, then 30 seconds, then another 30, but eventually just 20 seconds at a time. and everytime i halt, adjust, rest, and continue, the bag rips further, now on two opposite ends. I CAN LITERALLY SEE THE END OF THE STREET I LIVE ON, but there’s no way i (or rather, my groceries, but at this point they have become me), will survive this last stretch.
so i stuff my pockets and my tiny backpack, hang the oranges (blood) to my handles, and cradle the rest.
i remember my noodles falling out of my pocket, running over them with my back tire. i picked up the bursted package with halved noodles (i had them later, it was like a bowl of mush), put it in my pocket, praying the crumbs wouldn’t fall out and stick to the fluff of my jacket. but… now i actually don’t understand why i was being so dramatic about this and i actually feel a bit better and more detached from these emotions. YAY for writing to process your feelings / eating blood orange to treat your hangry (awaiting conclusion from isolated variable testing).
DAY [MAYBE-THAT-WASNT-MY-PERIOD-CUZ-ITS-OVER-BEFORE-IT-BEGAN??]
I was quite happy biking home. The sun was setting and it had been an amazing day of card games, writing exercises, vitamin-D-upsoaking, talking to other Dutch people against my will, and lukewarm-white-wine-and-oat-chocolate-milk-drinking. IV → chillin’, DV → mood, Confounders → THE SUN!, Clue is also confused where the fuck in my cycle I’m at.
DAY [APRIL-18TH]
Het is ongekend hoe lekker ik ga op seksueel getinte muziek.
I now feel the need to apologize to any Professor reading this, but hopefully, their desire for emancipation is stronger than their reflex to report Duty to the Discourse.
(i cross my fingers and pray that using that word in this sentence made sense. it has only recently been added to my vocabulary.
and it is quite the [[massive] collossal concept to [grasp] seize]
colossal concept to seize (wow i made an alliter-
ation
(yes, i just did that
[insert picture of a 1L bottle of ATION])
and assonance (why do alliteration and assonance
alliterate but not assonate?
Sprawiedliwości stala się zadość.))
To conclude: it seems to have been exactly a cycle ago when I conceived of the idea to keep a cycl-y diary (like monthly diary, but more inclusive (i.e., acknowledging and embracing the variety of menstrual cycle experience) cuz very unlikely do many people have their cycles take exactly a month). I feel great. And I’m sure she felt great, too.
or
Soundcloud
Transcript
DAY [DID-I-JUST-GET-MY-PERIOD?]
Iconic blotch of hostel-heat-dried ketchup
Flashing on-and-on-and-on-and-on-and-on-and-on the lighter
Was I falling into a Void of Anticipation and
Now Wonder If I Am Being A Burden
Is death a social construct?
DAY [I-FEEL-TERRIBLE-FOR-A-VALID-REASON]
your life poured out my eyes
[Em7] [??] [??]
The biggest regret of my life is that I have to look to the left to know what chords I’m playing, so when I record myself playing I am forced to look at the least favorite side of my face.
DAY [FOR-SURE-SENSITIVE-TO-MINOR-HURDLES-THAT-I-NORMALLY-WOULD-IGNORE-BUT-MAYBE-THIS-IS-A-REMINDER-THAT-THEY-DESERVE-SOME-ATTENTION]
the thought of writing about love initiated by a prompt in your handwriting despises me. i hope you never read this, and if you do, hope you understand that this is not me. also not about you. i need to stop judging and you need to stop taking things personally. or maybe i just need to stop assuming you do. ALSO the fucking audacity to put ‘love’ and ‘/(sex)’ on the same sticky note. maybe i should’ve kindly shown it the way to the trash. but i guess it serves this purpose now. sorry to disappoint.
DAY [HOW-THE-FUCK-AM-I-SUPPOSED-TO-KEEP-MYSELF-STANDING]
if i’m…
sick from three bites of flapjack
shaky from whatever the fuck is going on with my insulin levels
probably in need of protein, but since when has Minerva decided that cooking healthy substantial meals in a way that does not make survival without being on the brink of collapse the sole purpose of your existence a priority? right. NEVER.
but, oh well, here we are at Edeka, trying to [whilst sickened by flapjack, basically the opposite of wanting to buy the entire store while hungry] work with what we’ve got and keep myself afloat.
it was a spontaneous decision to prioritize my wellbeing, so my backpack was obviously not ready to carry two oat milks, a bunch of celery, a cucumber, a carton of eggs, two cans of chickpeas, two with tuna, two proteinbreads (i guess i really was convinced i was in need of dorm-room-appropriate-protein-foods), some blood oranges (might actually do my insulin levels good to have one now, I actually have no idea how that works).
[INITIATE EXPERIMENT: Independent variable → orange (blood), Dependent variable → mood, Confounders → frustration from peeling (it does not look like it will be easy), writing (might make me slightly less frustrated)]
So, I got all the goods, ready to check out, figured I’d grab myself a bag anticipating that not everything will fit inside this tiny backpack, not wanting to test my luck because today is not the day I’m gonna have the cashier realize I am not in fact German. Obviously take a paper bag because I’d rather stuff my groceries in my sweatpants than have my ego take a punch in the face for choosing a plastic bag. And, as you might have guessed, obviously, this fucking bag starts ripping on the side (THE SIDE WHERE MY EGGS ARE, LORD HAVE MERCY!).
but paper bags ain’t got nothing on me, except that even if i hold it like a teen mom holds her baby, my darn insulin levels won’t let me use my bicep for longer than a minute, then 30 seconds, then another 30, but eventually just 20 seconds at a time. and everytime i halt, adjust, rest, and continue, the bag rips further, now on two opposite ends. I CAN LITERALLY SEE THE END OF THE STREET I LIVE ON, but there’s no way i (or rather, my groceries, but at this point they have become me), will survive this last stretch.
so i stuff my pockets and my tiny backpack, hang the oranges (blood) to my handles, and cradle the rest.
i remember my noodles falling out of my pocket, running over them with my back tire. i picked up the bursted package with halved noodles (i had them later, it was like a bowl of mush), put it in my pocket, praying the crumbs wouldn’t fall out and stick to the fluff of my jacket. but… now i actually don’t understand why i was being so dramatic about this and i actually feel a bit better and more detached from these emotions. YAY for writing to process your feelings / eating blood orange to treat your hangry (awaiting conclusion from isolated variable testing).
DAY [MAYBE-THAT-WASNT-MY-PERIOD-CUZ-ITS-OVER-BEFORE-IT-BEGAN??]
I was quite happy biking home. The sun was setting and it had been an amazing day of card games, writing exercises, vitamin-D-upsoaking, talking to other Dutch people against my will, and lukewarm-white-wine-and-oat-chocolate-milk-drinking. IV → chillin’, DV → mood, Confounders → THE SUN!, Clue is also confused where the fuck in my cycle I’m at.
DAY [APRIL-18TH]
Het is ongekend hoe lekker ik ga op seksueel getinte muziek.
I now feel the need to apologize to any Professor reading this, but hopefully, their desire for emancipation is stronger than their reflex to report Duty to the Discourse.
(i cross my fingers and pray that using that word in this sentence made sense. it has only recently been added to my vocabulary.
and it is quite the [[massive] collossal concept to [grasp] seize]
colossal concept to seize (wow i made an alliter-
ation
(yes, i just did that
[insert picture of a 1L bottle of ATION])
and assonance (why do alliteration and assonance
alliterate but not assonate?
Sprawiedliwości stala się zadość.))
To conclude: it seems to have been exactly a cycle ago when I conceived of the idea to keep a cycl-y diary (like monthly diary, but more inclusive (i.e., acknowledging and embracing the variety of menstrual cycle experience) cuz very unlikely do many people have their cycles take exactly a month). I feel great. And I’m sure she felt great, too.