SEPTEMBER 14

I write so that with the passage of time my reading of all this isn’t bitter and unjust. Pregnancy is terrifying, you become a monstrous being, but it’s also a total placidity, your senses so sharpened. To eat feeling so much pleasure and be moved to tears by the color, the color that keeps coming and exciting me. I am, on the other side, a recipient missing a single drop, a drop and I’ll overflow. It’s difficult to stay sane.

SEPTEMBER 15

My routine is now more sedentary and my thoughts spin with a murderous violence. Life cannot be defined, but because of that it’s divided and rearticulated in every thought and now it imposes itself on the body. It’s an imposition that the body understands and gives into. My thoughts don’t stand down, my body does. My body cedes. Every organ consents, withdraws, adapts, and accommodates so the baby can live, but the thought obsesses. I feel the madness coming. I concentrate on the woman in the painting, on the waves of her hair that are waves in the dress and it’s from the fish on the plate, I concentrate on the image: fold, unfold, unwrap, wrinkled, pressed, folded fabric on the central organ; the heart among the intestines, the empty uterus. That’s where the baby is.

SEPTEMBER 18

There’s something that has been engendered in my body and it isn’t the baby. There’s something that has been engendered inside me and won’t leave, it will stay with me. Something has been engendered in me that I won’t birth, and that sensation is reaffirmed every morning when I drink my tamarillo juice and remember the man from the cave’s testicles, what those testicles engendered.

Again, the women from the foundation. I told them I understand their fear, but there’s nothing to be afraid of. The baby is theirs, not mine.

SEPTEMBER 19

When the baby is born, I’ll stop eating so the milk goes away and my body returns. I couldn’t nurse. I again think about how it’s something the body can do but I can’t. Feeding another being is inhuman it’s so beautiful. Maybe I can feed him just once. No. If I feed him, I won’t be able to let him go. I’m going to escape; I want to bury my milk. I feel like a mountain with all the lava inside. I feel like a bitch. The animal, what’s open, everything organic that happens outside of consciousness I now feel brutally, I feel my blood pump, I feel the assimilation of food, I feel the breathing inflate my body. The animal is the most intimate and in it I recuperate, in the herd. In the rest of women. To bury my body like my cat buries his shit. I think about my cat and am overcome by an infinite sadness. I’ll return with empty hands, and I’ll be able to hug my cat, holding him in both arms, petting his belly, studying his green eyes, getting close to kiss his stinky nose. I’m no longer assaulted by the mystery of everything coming together but the mystery of what is divided, the animal and human that are incessantly divided. I’m close to giving birth, it will happen any moment.