I want to have my partner’s baby.
I want to have my lover’s baby.
I want to have Kurt Vonnegut’s baby.
I want to have Thom Yorke’s baby.
I want to have Naom Chomsky’s baby.
I want to have John Steinbeck’s baby.
24 & it’s all too real. I feel the creaking hand of age trying for me already. I wake up stiff sometimes from my unforgiving mattress. I’m tired. My knee hurts when it rains. The kids have slang I don’t know about & it scares me.
I suppose it’s only logical—to hide from my worst fear behind a belly swollen with hope. To solidify loves, to create a pink & shining family in this brave new world. I suppose it’s only biology. But then, it does feel like giving up. I say to myself, there is nothing to live for anymore. For me, there is only decline. I’ve cycled through all the fun drugs. They’ve lost their psychoactivity, now only listless powders and liquids. Inert & unfeeling, like myself. I’ve thought all I have to think & now the thoughts repeat. Moths, fluttering feathers, swirling whirlwinds echoing in my empty skull. I’ve been a vegan, I’ve been unfashionable, I’ve been well, sick, too thin. I’ve hated myself. I’ve been loved, I’ve been abused. I’ve been a mystic & a scientist. Now nothing remains to experience but this unity with humanity, my most daunting creative potential. I do want it. I don’t want to want it.
I’m afraid of the world she’ll be born into. What a choice, to create from my body another body, another window. I didn’t ask to be born, neither does she. Only I want her. We want her. She’ll come into this dying world far too late. She’ll come into a world where all sentiments have been shared already, where peak oil has been reached, where there can be no new songs. She’ll come into this world superfluous. She may have to fight wars for water and arable land. We’ve destroyed so much already.
I’m afraid of so much.
I imagine her looking up at me, from one of my eyes and one of his. I imagine her asking, why? & I can have no answer. My answer can only be, I was afraid of dying.
I’m afraid of the mistakes I’ll make. I won’t be my mother but perhaps I’ll be too far on the other side. Same problems, opposite chirality. I might make her weak, dependent, unsure. She could be oblivious, blinded by too much love and acceptance. She could be—worst of all—boring.
As an animal, as a vehicle for DNA, there is nothing else to aspire to. As a cancer on this earth, there is nothing else to aspire to. I want it, he wants it, I suppose I’ll make peace. & I believe the joy will cancel the dread. I might become a gentler being for it. I might become listless, inert, satisfied. She might tear me up and create me as I create her.
Time will tell.