ENJOY YOUR SYMPTOM: 26 WEEKS, 4 DAYS
*this originally appeared on my Tinyletter but it’s going here too in case Tinyletter goes away*
First: a poem by Simone White, from Dear Angel of Death
Nicole Eisenman, I need you to make a picture
Nicole I saw you at the church and need your help. I think it’s important to record relaxin’s long term distortions. My legs are slightly bowed not from doing anything so that is immaterial. What about this gappy thing between my thighs there is something wrong with my hips they are stuck or something, I mean they get stuck when I move so there is an arc in trying to move forward so that every forward movement involves a circle that was not there before. When I bend over completely in Prasarita Padottanasana like my groin is released in such a way that I imagine my hip joints as padded with cork there is a softness such as was not there a soft hole that was not there in the groin which is related to the gappy hips. My boobs are ruined and ought to be painted as soon as possible as I cannot say whether they are ugly or beautiful; they are a ruin so how do you show that or what do you do about change of that nature where overnight you were one thing and then unimaginable punishments and then you were out of that even if you are not religious or a very small child I think you need a picture showing this kind of bodily rage although I admire certain aspects of angles of what I now see as the brutal indent of a formerly powerful ass. And the way I am eating which cannot be pictured but might be symbolically “pictured” or I pick up and secretly eat carbohydrates I load in ways previously revolting to me as my fear of obesity is intense everlasting earned. I think my digestion is ugly. Returning to the privations of the past is tough despite years of trouble sacrifice of blood blisters under the toenails I sweated this muscle in the modern way with only moderate success. The limp is runner’s knee.
You can read more of Simone White’s work here. Beautiful thoughtful work about Black mothering under late capitalism. Her book is really good, so good that I a speed-reader am reading it slowly to savor it. After I read this poem I looked at Eisenman's paintings online and felt distressed. They’re grotesque, kind of. Or: I don’t know, the beady eyes and big noses have a tragic effect. There was a fitting one for me to see, a woman with a blank-faced baby. The baby can’t walk and the woman (mother?) melts into the background. The woman’s nose is red (very Eisenman here), why? Crying or drinking? Crying and drinking? I reckon that I don't like Eisenman's paintings all that much though I respect what she's trying to do here, the way a baby makes you melt into the background. It is almost too obvious, isn't it?
Nicole Eisenman, Untitled, 2010-2014, Oil on canvas
In Like A Mother Angela Garbes has a wonderful chapter on the pelvic floor where she shares her experience with persistent hip pain following the birth of her daughter. My mom had a hip replacement surgery a few years ago and I went to help out the week following. At the time I was rereading the Neapolitan novels (I reread them a lot, I am sure you know this) and gleaning a lot of new information about the mother-daughter dyad. Every time I felt a hip pain I thought about Lenu beginning to embody her mother’s hip pain, her chronic limp, a pain that emerges mysteriously (“mysteriously”) after her own daughters are born. I am in less pain during this second trimester than in the last one. Maybe relaxin has loosened my pelvic bowl--certainly my butt is wider and flatter now, alas, not thrilling for me as my butt was never my favorite feature to begin with (too small, not feminine, have you seen my sister’s amazing butt??, &c. &c.) but White's words--"the brutal indent of a formerly powerful ass"--ring so true. Maybe I am more thoughtful now because I have less time to marinate.
I was thinking in yoga class about Simone White's "gappy hips". Yesterday we did chair poses along the wall and though I am a woman with a toddler and a birth worker and therefore a seasoned squatter these left me breathless, though I felt very powerful as I walked home. Not to be that bitch but yoga generally has left me feeling pretty powerful and when we end with our namastes I feel profoundly thankful for my body and what it can do. I told Shereen this but I can't believe that a decadent hedonist like yours truly is finding so much pleasure in this mind-body workout. It is very hard, universally so from what I can tell from conversations with others (thank GOD for other pregnant friends with toddlers, I swear...), to connect with a burgeoning fetus when you are worn thin by a two year old's galaxy brain but in the midst of cat-cows and Thai goddess poses feeling fetal movement lets me remember that there are many bodies I am caring for right now and each one deserves care, including my own.
Texts of the week:
I’m in Labor and Wondering: Why Doesn’t the World Recognize This as Work? by Maya Schenwar | I have long been a fan of Schenwar's abolitionist work so it is a thrill to read something from her that checks all my boxes: early labor, writing, being a pregnant and laboring person in prison, women's work....
How Well-Intentioned White Families Can Perpetuate Racism | Joe Pinsker interviews Margaret Hagerman on her new book about white kids. Now may be a moment to plug neighborhood schools over selective enrollment if you're a Chicago resident...
This is a great bread recipe!!!!
Francis flooded the bathroom today. Perhaps I can credit the yoga with my ability to laugh, open-mouthed, as he led me into the bathroom saying "HELP MAMA WASH HAND" (My hygienic angel, thought I....) instead of throwing myself into bed sobbing. Or maybe it's the zoloft. Either way....
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