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4 October 2015

October 4th, 2015 § 0 comments § permalink


Last weekend was the last moment of summer when the sun brought back 28 degrees in time for a Sunday of lovers.

Even though I have lived in Montreal for over four years now, I have never taken J to Parc La Fontaine. Time sinks between us and so it has taken this long.

Last weekend despite my deadlines, I insisted we pack a tote of snacks (which was not enough and I nearly fainted) and go before it is too cold and too uncomfortable for me to take strolls around the city. J wanted to relax in the sun while I insisted on photos at every turn. Not that taking photos is a new phenomenon, but I am obsessed with the visual culture of my pregnancy knowing that everything changes from one day to the next, changes in visible ways, in ways that my day to day never considered before. And so my solipsistic exhaustion endures. Although is it solipsistic if I’m now of two? Is my body now living two durational instants? There is the time of the baby, the time of me, and I guess also the time of us together—and the visual representation of not two, but three, durations? The holding still of these moments.


I read that having a child changes your conception of time and your drive to get shit done. For now, I want to hold onto all the durational instants of my pregnancy, even the uncertainties that come with pain. I want to move through all the Bergsonian philosophy of matter and memory as I live the Kristevian chora.

I am 26 weeks today. I was 25 weeks when those photos above were taken. I am a week away from the third trimester. The third trimester is your final trimester; it is the time to prepare for the birth of the matter that is making sense of itself inside of you. I can feel the third trimester coming, the joy and love of my body is shifting to make sense of sleepless nights and pains and gains I haven’t had yet—pains that wake me up at night, pains that wonder where my organs have gone, a scale that reads well above the “appropriate” weight gain for this time, pains that force me to take time. Time. How quantified is my pregnant body by the medical system, by the history of modern child birth? From the “you might miscarry at any turn” time of keeping pregnancy a secret in the first trimester, to the time of joy and energy in your second, to the painful and enduring time of the third? How convenient. How normative. How explicit with anticipation of how our body is supposed to respond to prescriptive time. Considering I almost exclusively refer to myself as the amount of weeks pregnant I am, it would be disingenuous to suggest I’m not part of that quantified discourse too, despite the ambivalent efforts to distance myself from it.

23 September 2015

September 23rd, 2015 § 0 comments § permalink

24 weeks

I have fully become my pregnant body. Everything is my growing abdomen. Everything I do is Pregnant Magda —where and how I sit, what I eat, how much I eat, my internet usage, the placement of our furniture because I trip over everything, strangers and acquaintances desperate to guess the gender of the baby against my wishes, what clothes I can still try to fit in, how I sleep, where I go. I want to go deeper. I want there to be nothing else but pregnancy. Except I want that as/for myself; I don’t want others to force me to perform it.

The day-to-day experience of the concept of pregnancy is different than carrying a growing child inside me. Being pregnant has become an obsession, a marker—it is now me as if nothing else of me has ever existed. As if this is it, the moment, the time of time. It is only at particular moments, when the baby kicks or rolls around I’m reminded that I’m not just pregnant, that there is a living creature inside of me making all of this happen. Even then, when I touch my moving belly, it is the belly and its growth I fixate on, not the baby inside me. Before I got pregnant I read many things about women, especially women artists, that developed intuitive connections with the world during their pregnancy, and that they were able to sense the baby, get to know them, be with them in these ways that read like myths. I thought I would get that too. I thought I would transform into an enlightened goddess that speaks to her baby every night and imagines it as part of her and her life and transforms the representative ways (because all there is is representations: medical diagrams and ultrasound images) into a feminine imaginary because she’s read Cixous enough to know the power of a woman. But I don’t do this, I don’t feel connected in the ways that I have read other women connect to their babies. I can’t imagine what it looks like, what tone of skin it has, or how it will be. Earlier on I used to hum deeply to get it to move, but now it moves regularly and usually on schedule so I don’t. How can a full absorption into a pregnant body also produce such detachment?

I do, however, listen to Sade every day (she is a Capricorn too) and hope the baby feels and hears her feminine powers.

20 September 2015

September 20th, 2015 § 0 comments § permalink


So far, the only things I have prepared for the ‘nursery’ which will be in my home office are two Louise Bourgeois prints, a photo of Clarice Lispector at her typewriter, a Mira Calix limited release record commissioned for the Ada (Lovelace) Project, and the A is For Activist children’s alphabet book. But other than a sheepskin rug, being surrounded by books, records, and feminist art on the walls, I’m uncertain of what else a baby needs in a separate nursery, especially given that we will be co-sleeping.

All of this is most likely a result of the “I’m growing a life inside me and feel the best I have ever felt in my life” second trimester elation, but I get to decide my fantasies and this one fits me now.


25 August 2015

August 25th, 2015 § 0 comments § permalink

Before this happened I was sure it would become an art project. Now, the more visible the pregnancy has become the more I want to hide it.

August 2015

August 22nd, 2015 § 0 comments § permalink



Sharing a Body.

on birth

October 7th, 2009 § 1 comment § permalink

My belly is swollen, protruding. I hold it below my belly button. That spot. I would then run my palm up over my belly button and say, “Yes, here it is, here is our love.”

“Would you want me to carry y/our baby?”

If this was a book, then yes, it could happen right here, right now. I am always acting like I am in a book. You want reality, but I only know fantasy. I could one day stop taking my birth control and wait, prepare, massage my skin with oils, let it gain elasticity for its expansion, stop getting fucked up, start eating meat even!

I could learn to love meat. You could feed me real beef burgers and chicken wings. I would want more all the time, for all the years I despised meat. But nine months is a long time to be reading a book, maybe it is one of those serials that isn’t really a serial because serials aren’t serious literature. But it would still be a series of novels about the same character doing life in a way to relate to me, but having the ability to jump away with words and end just like that. Just like Catherine asked Jim to sit inside her car while she drove the car off the split in the bridge in Avignon. I was there looking at the bridge this summer. You have to pay to go on the bridge now. I didn’t want to pay to stand on a bridge, so it only exists from afar but close enough I could recognize it in films like Truffaut’s Jules et Jim. My Avignon bridge meant nothing but a way to make money, for Catherine it meant a way out of her neurosis, for Truffaut it meant a way to end the film dramatically but easily. Crazy women always get killed off in the end. Erica Jong talks about this, refusing to kill of Isadora Wing. Down with death! The world needs consequence without pitiful tragedy of funerals! A man can’t imagine follow-through on a life of a labyrinthine woman.


November 15th, 2001 § 1 comment § permalink

The nurse coming in is running through my head like a flip cartoon.

— “It’s positive”
— “Really, oh yes, I’m not pregnant”
— “MMM, positive means you are”

Me just stone cold. I can’t be. I always fuk around about it,
but not now. Not me.
The denial is overwhelming, like maybe I will wake up and it
will all be over.


My birthday is tomorrow, and this is my gift.
I’m 19. I’m 19. I am more so than anything – fukt.

I want to do everything I can too keep it, but all around me
abortion echoes because I am too young, I will have to
quit school, because I’m not ready, because my life will never
be the same, and I have no one to really talk to other than
Jordan. But it’s his baby too, it’s not the same.

My body is turning and dancing in this eupohria far away from
my room. It’s smiling and giggling, I am of two.

I am of two.

Where Am I?

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