Mud Blood and the Feminine Ideal

a response to a comment on a waaay cool blog :
I can't be satisfied with plain old PMS, I have to be a Zebra on the North American grassland and have PMDD Pre Menstrual Dysphoric Disorder. But you are correct when you say that is a time for truth-trekking. It is Persephone's descent into Hades in winter while the land above is barren bleak hopeless...until refreshed with drops of precious menstrual blood.
Each month since I was 12 I've gone into the deepest depressions around the time of my period, but never attributed them to PMS or anything except my own bad mood, bad attitude, bang BANG maxwell's silver hammer came down upon my head--and I was the one wielding it.

Funny how long it took me to put two and two together and get the connection. What helped was the blessed sense of light, joy, relief, "everything will be okay-ness" that poured over me soon after the first drops of blood appeared on my panties.

It can still catch me off-guard. I just recently had some slow hip-grinding dances with Death before I realized what was going on.

NO I don't want this. NOT YET. But Death wanted me and tried to seduce me like it has throughout my life.

Thanks so much for sharing the blood and the mess that we need to muck around in to get to the truth. I mean, if you're too prissy to get your hands dirty digging, how will you ever expect to get to the truth? It doesn't grow on trees, no,

truth is buried deep in the earth under the trees, nourishing the roots, feeding the whole system. Mud. Dirt. Blood. Love. It's all mixed up in the same package.

If you can't stand to get your hands dirty, how will you ever find true love? You will always have a pretty but empty candy box--chocolate melts and so gets dirty, so no chocolate for you, Missie.

Whilst we are dying for love, needing it like we need the next breath of air we take. Needing it and repulsed by it and afraid and angry it has to be this way and why bring this up can't you just look at the pretty empty card and box and be happy?

No. I can't.

Well, it's not that I can't. It's that I can't anymore.

In a Woman's Room Marilyn French talks about the disconnect between the ideal crystal clear light feminine in our culture and the sweat-soaked, fluids-covered, moaning in ecstasy full-fleshed creature in her natural environment: the temple of sex.

Virgin birth indeed. What an insult. What a dangerous concept. The horror.

Southern Cross with lyrics - Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young

I've always wondered: when you see that Southern Cross for the First Time...Then what? I never really heard any of the other lyrics. When I did see the Southern Cross for the first time, pointed out to me by my now ex-spouse as we stood on the dock of our new home in the Florida Keys, finally close enough to the equator, far enough south, far enough Away, to see it. Only very close to the horizon and only certain times of the year (I was not the astronomer of the family so I can't be more specific) can you see the Southern Cross from the Florida Keys, Southernmost City in continental US
It was about moving on. Detaching. In the Buddhist sense. Going Away. Leaving.

But I didn't know it then. Now, the spirit calls me like the horns of Jericho and I cover my ears and cry. Tear down that wall, you fool. Tear it down. Tear it down.