In the first few weeks of my pregnancy, I was living in a studio apartment with my dear and long-time friend, Ian, who had only returned to some Americanized state of normalcy a year prior, before which he was living in Panama, in a jungle, far, far away from anything I or anyone I know would deem comfortable, perhaps even livable circumstances. We weren’t able to communicate throughout the entire time that he was there, which I think was something insane like two years.
Ian worked at a chemistry lab, leaving late at night and returning in the early hours of the morning. While he was at work, I slept on his very modest but surprisingly comfy sleeping mat. If he was away during the day, I took advantage of the projector in his room. I checked out Bergman films I hadn’t seen from the library and played them on his projector, and sat in the middle of the floor, my hand already instinctively finding my belly.
Only once was I able to rope him into a viewing, and about half way through Wild Strawberries I realized I had seriously fucked up my chance at giving him a proper introduction to Bergman. Not to say that it isn’t wonderful, but for Ian, it simply wasn’t the right choice. I should’ve went with something I’d already seen. Ian, I know you’re reading this, please watch Persona and when the topic arises please say that it was your first. I won’t tell otherwise.
Ian let me use a grey plastic table, like the ones you’d see at a book fair, as a desk in his tiny kitchen. On my desk, sat book of poems by Denise Levertov propped open to “The Jacob’s Ladder” and a sizable piece of rose quartz, a rosy stone as the line reads, in the shape of a frozen flame which now sits on the windowsill in my daughter’s room. I would leave books open with the the passages I wanted to emphasize in highlighter for Ian to read when he returned from work so we could discuss them once we were both awake at the same time on his (also tiny) stoop.
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In the last few weeks of my pregnancy, I was living in an extended-stay hotel in Chesapeake, Virginia with my long-time and beloved partner, Stanley, who was most of the time working over-time over the bridge to help usher us into better circumstances. I spent a lot of time alone. I loved this little room so much. I always think of it fondly, especially when I read my journal entries from this time.
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