The bar was slammed, shouting into a dark agreement: “this is the atmosphere”.

The show: Vagina Monologues performed by Bangkok Rising, an up n growing volunteer organization aiming to raise awareness and promote advocacy to end violence against women and children across a myriad of cultures, values, beliefs, and experience.

Vagina Monologues is a play written by Eve Ensler. Eve Ensler created the play based off of real interviews with women and the relationships they have with their bodies. This global non-profit movement promotes the international stage of the play as it esteems the voracious, the shame, the aggression, the wisdom, the liberation, the tenderness, the laughter, the ugliness and beauty, of the encompass; a woman’s experience of her body.

The venue: Checkinn 99, is a cabaret club and nightclub located off of Sukhumvit in Bangkok, Thailand. Both parties donated all funds from the performances to In Search of Sanuk: a local non-profit organization that reinvigorates survivors of torture and trauma.

We retain meaning. We are not all survivors. Some of us are.

The play opens with a series of voices, most prominently rising towards justice, when “the story is told,” and the “law is a living and breathing thing”. I witnessed both performances and each was alternatively significant. The first show I could not stop my loud guttural laugh. As I ingested my second watch, I listened to the monologue “Water Village,” a story based off of female genital mutilation, and the internalization of emotional scars forced me to leave.

7-10 people in Thailand agree that abuse is a permissible action. 3-4 women in the United States are abused in some manner during their lifetime. I left the building. I came home. I drank. I left for morning to get breakfast with a friend. I left my purse with my friend. I blacked out and woke up in the lobby of a Thailand police station crying as I asked them to take me home.

“Are you sure this is who you are?” They kept asking me, laughing. The police chief drove me home on his new classy private white motorbike. I remember the folks giving me a tour of the station. I do not know if this was real.

I went to a punk show the next night. I spiked my friend’s hair for three hours. I jumped in the mosh pit. I fell down. I was picked up. Many times. I sat outside and someone kicked me in my back. I made out with a someone. I spent the night with a someone. I wondered what they hell was going on and where I was going to move.

I went to work, I did laundry, I thought about how reprogramming the after effects of trauma are instrumental connections to the movement of one’s own multiple characters.

Today my mother emailed me to let me know that my horse died. Her mother’s name was Saturday Sunday. She died on my Sunday and her Saturday. The best confluence of moments happened in forgiveness.

I am a survivor. It is the year of the lunar horse.

.

my horse died today

no man should be that adorably ridiculous

I’ll do some grading

I’m fucking tired man and super super bored, wishing that guacamole was my universe right about now

 

just thinking about operating .

and bushy .

pheromones . and language .

and something to brush skin .

 

the best confluence of moments happen in forgiveness

my horse died today

 

operating the room of her light to preserve in us a gallon more than pores

a name is what you need to die

 

he needs someone to circle his circles

you are trying to remember the telephone in a sensible manner

a girl watching is mouth

 

the best confluence of moments happen in forgiveness

if feathers could spasm

 

the best confluence of moments happen in forgiveness

my horse died today

my horse

died today