On the subway yesterday there was a street performer. He was older, maybe in his fifties. I was on my way to Planned Parenthood because my period was a week late and I wanted to see if I were pregnant. You can walk in without an appointment and a get a free pregnancy test at Planned Parenthood. Anyway, he started to sing and play his guitar and I started to cry. I gave him a dollar. Right now I'm making the final edits to a photo essay that's due today. They are photos of my mom and her sister taken at my mom's house. I think they tell a story. Here is Eugenia in her home. Here is her sister, Victoria. She is putting medicine on Eugenia's scalp. Here are Eugenia's medicines. Here are Eugenia's pictures. Here is her furniture. Here she is. I'm sitting alone in a bedroom. The sounds of a jazz ensemble are heard. Someone is listening to the radio and brewing coffee. I am not pregnant.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
If I wasn't so self obsessed I could've been a wife and mother by now. It's true. I've been giving this some thought. I care about my narrative so much that I place things in some sort of made-up timeline. I have to finish this before I start with that. It doesn't matter that huge things like death, love, fear, and reality interfere with this personal ingrained trajectory. I could of just went through with it and realized sooner than later that the speculative future is a trap as much as it is a path.