Text:
Quick
and easy birth of a small, plastic 'baby' doll. The placenta extrudes
shortly afterwards, whilst the doll is held to the breast, and lands
upon a cushion of greys and browns that usually stays at the foot of
the bed. The placenta is grey matter; slippery, blubbery, and has
taken the shape of a hot water bottle (that also usually stays at the
foot of the bed). There is no blood on it, nor is it composed of
flesh or of blood. Not situated on the bed at home but that of S, who
hasn't yet been encountered (and yet the doll has birthed here in her
bedroom). Beside the doll-in-arms (it is wrapped in a brown towel and
a white-ish baby blanket - that for four years stayed at the foot of
the bed) is another, smaller doll dressed up in the costume of a
matador.
There's
a procedure that must be carried out. Firstly, a woman clad in white
inserts a cold cream - with a pair of latex gloved fingers - into the
vagina and spreads it around (internally) in order to numb or freeze
my reproductive organs in preparation for the procedure. The
procedure is to be performed by my lover, D. (I am menstruating in
Sweden). Now we are in a car, D's mother is driving (she is called
Lena but I can't pronounce her name). Two other people are there, in
the car. I am in the middle. Someone is on the right; D is on the
left. Looking forward at moving traffic. He begins by 'making me feel
better', and inserts, suddenly, decisively, all fingers of a hand,
making a three-dimensional diamond form deep inside my cunt.
Occasionally the motions made with this hand shape produce waves of
nervous-tense-pleasure that I know for sure herald the death of
fertility. This is the procedure.
Supposedly
there is a resistance. There is supposedly a bar in which meetings
are held – down-town and down a staircase behind the station beside
the dark arches by the stinking River Aire. I am accompanied by a
camera crew dressed entirely in black. Hidden knowledge. Incognito.
The bar has no signage – one has to be 'in the know'. The women
appear to possess a studied, standardised gender-antipathy. Everybody
exactly the same – cropped hair military garb young faces scrubbed
clean. Crouching beside a woman who is making a sign like this: the
pen-like contraption corrodes the material so the words appear
gradually like a developing instant photograph. Or – words
transformed into holes. Walk past the toilets, walk past the heaps of
excrement piled up like banks of sodden volcanic sand, flecked
(obscenely)with colour. Need to vomit. Leave. Forget about Susan and
whatever happened to her.
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