(im)possible Birthing Texts

BIRTHING no.1

The next time I stand in front of you, we will be in a small corrugated iron hall with our loved ones sitting expectantly.

 

I will place myself at the front after greeting you all and then insert myself into the body of a pregnant cat where I will birth myself as a black ball of mewing kitten and there my hairy body will be stark new and foolish.

There will be no foam that rises when spewed out by the cat I will slip out with no mess at all just shiny fur and a certain bounce which easily rolls out to the other side of the hall in front of your feet. There will be no need to stand and be bi-ped now it will be all spiralling - body fusing into itself without side or face. 360°of body means I will show myself to no-one any more. I will burrow instead of stride.

It will not matter that I know nothing and have nothing to say for the sheer miracle of birthing myself as a ball of fur for you all will be enough. But more remarkably is that my body will have shed its violence. I will no longer carry the hurt and lies that have been put upon it. When I look at you with eyes that say ‘how could you’ you will not look away so I will no longer have that stricken look. I will reproach you for nothing I will command you to think nothing of yourself; all of this will be gone.

 

Will the hurt be gone or will it still be there? But will it will it will it? Will I need to display the hurt? Does it need to resonate or can I just keep rolling around–come inside the fur to really see –you will need to come inside. You need to come inside to witness something, to see my great escape.

Is the first covering nonviolence? Is the coat to protect the bareness of my body that can make men do things that are so-called out of their control?

But you will not follow into the inside space there is not enough room and so therefore I will need to convey that place to you instead. What will it be like to be born a cat? I’ll have to show you later on.

BIRTHING no.2

In the garden in the soil on the grass on top of the flowers up into branches we are in the branches of the tree- skin on bark the barking of the ribs - the rib tree we are part of the rib tree–take your branch put it in water and grow me–

I have descended from cutting–A cutting of wood flesh or is it your flesh? I have become tree and I am no longer me but I am you–

My toes are growing in a jar from tiny seeds and they float up to the surface all ready to be moulded on to the stumps. My eyes are the last things to form somehow from flowering buds. The rib tree is sturdy and stronger than you will ever be. 

I have grown the whole time whilst being watched I do not have those private moments in the womb I have been on display gazed at, grazed at. I do not have that moment of hiding in the cat in order to transform. My unfurling has been steady and uncloaked. 

Today a hand appeared all the channels and vessels quickly aligned themselves into the palm and spread to the fingers a veined structure was etched stretched wide echoing the vocal chords which opened for you all and bellowed. A Sound flew out ejected from the feet that were so firmly in the ground now. 

Every time the wind rushes around my structure I am able to bellow. Now you know there is something to be said you’re so silent as you watch this entire process over three months you have watched me become myself without help you did not even water me. Filigree veins march on so that my insides are forming in front of you. 

The endocrine system is forming itself through minuet lines, whilst the sounds of bones form into dark shards. 

Maybe if you boil them into a broth something will rise from the soup. Bone marrow seeps into clumps, or rather a paste turning itself back into blood again in the pan. The heat blanches the bones as they soften and curve into vital organs. The brain and the heart are in there bubbling. The heat is forming the genitals–all in there. No stirring–blood congealing in the right places–liquid forming self through heat and bone.

Now it’s your job to pour it over and watch the organs fuse with the rest.

BIRTHING no.3

I performed a subterranean rebirth once with stinking milk bottles collected around a bed, which slowly filled up with earth. Eventually the bed opened up and I sank down into it pouring right into the bowels of the earth and upon entering the hard rock and caves I settled to seed myself.

 

My flesh morphed into a giant kernel until I began to sprout, shooting upwards searching for the light. 

Before this process there was the gathering of soil, the punching of pillows, the recording of words, the severing of chords and the constant dreaming and waking. I was driving into the unconscious and willing the dream world to merge with the day world - slipping into liminal space and never coming back.

I never knew what kind of plant I would be as my consciousness had gone by then. 

I practised my growing with the midnight gathering of plants in the middle of the city, bringing them back to the bed. Finally I took the moon down into the gaping hole with me into the caves - they were all left to flourish–Lilies taking over the mattress. Meanwhile I buried myself deep into the centre of the earth and germinated.I did all of this behind a screen of voile –images projected on top of me whilst I cried like a baby with mics picking up my wails and looping them into the room through speakers. Those cries reverberated as I created the shape of a body, of an angel out of pills in the bed. Forensics or archaeologists will find the body made of pills, and will try to bring it back to life but they won’t so instead will project a kind of history onto the pill person; Always seeking escapism will be one of the traits and trying to get well will be another. Wanting to be well, to heal, to get better, to transcend all those ailments, to numb, to kill the pain, to restore balance, to get high.

Pill baby you are my pill baby and I am your pill pill mum.

Pill pill baby you’re going to make it, you’re going to make it through.

 

There will be no pain in your world I’ll make sure of that.

You are my pill pill baby you’ll never go crazy or ever get sad it won’t be in your DNA.

 

The only way you can leave me is if you jump into a glass of water so keep your feet in the earth and you’ll be safe and sound.

 

Pill pill baby I adore you don’t you know that I adore you.

 

I knitted an umbilical cord with red wool on my birthday and blindfolded myself as I walked down Oxford Street backwards in my nightdress and then fell into the bed of lilies. Always holding the moon, always at night in dreamtime. In the morning there was always the comedown - ramblings on the Dictaphone from four in the morning come back to haunt, discoveries of hair and soil with stale milk in the bed. This was the birth that never happened.

 

Let there be no pain this time– Oh there will be pain. 

Let there be no mess this time– Oh there will be mess.

 

Let there be no blood this time oh there will be blood.

Let there be no knives this time oh there will be knives. 

Will there be a sucking cup? Will it be sucked out of me? A force of rubber and steel placed on the crown and sucked out of me– to yank out the flesh and rank liquid– By hook or crook they will get it out callipers pressed inwards they press inwards and pull out and it will come coerced and squeezed. Did it not come out properly? It did not come out properly. Let it come out in its own time please- let it not bow down to the long weight of steel or thunder. Have you stolen it? Did we steal too many of you too quickly? 

BIRTHING no.4

There have been many babies that fell over the edge down the ravine. I managed to catch one by its juicy leg and haul it up to safety. It was a plump one that needed a lot of feeding. Its brothers and sisters had disappeared as globules of blood in a miscarriage. There was not much I could do to save them. They just needed to stream out and hit the ground.

I have of course been banished from birth –Someone else turned up to take over without me, I was sent away with my bags and was told I had to go. I was wrought with tiredness and I was pushed out. The baby was born later on that day. I never could get over that banishment from the birthing room. It was a stab in the heart at the time.  

 

It’s coming it’s coming the baby’s coming it’s coming oh God the baby’s coming. Banished snivelling along dual carriageways not allowed in the chamber any more had my mere presence created a blockage? It’s not working any more– Time to change tactics you need to leave– is this an exile from making forever? You cannot do this– There’s just a black hole gaping. There is nothing noble about being on the edge of experience– to be on the sidelines. Stay home. From now on you will watch others growing their own extended reality and you will be on the outside always. Even your own ovary will be taken away from you and yes there will be your cyst baby but it will be put straight into the bucket, the lab then incinerator. Yours will be burnt, an aberrant disaster and without a pulse. I was not there for the first breath of yours or mine.

 

There are some concert halls that are too out of my reach. I leave those ones to those who have taste and knowledge.

 

The juicy leg I saved from the ravine was a casual moment and I will give it back hurriedly. I am not important in this instance what is, is the gaze of mother and child. I cannot interfere with this I am mere prop. My songs and strokes were not enough and do not work there is the failure always of that moment just like the book that will never be written or the performance that never gets made. It never came through I didn’t guide well– squashed and never allowed to breath, it stayed in the dark and so shrivelled away and disappeared. I am not a good mother I am an un mother an un mother that will only tend to themselves - Each day a new version but disappointingly the same. Unmother me here. 

The real one stepped in and did the job I was an impostor. She rolled up her sleeves and weeded out the inept– She knew, she could smell it from miles away and so something had to be done. Kick the rotten out of the basket and let her walk into the wet night and she will find her way eventually. Look after the new life.

Goodbye weak sister this is the way of the world. You’re not ready, never will be. You are still girl and maybe not even fertile.Do you have your periods? Do you know how to hold a brush? Do you know how blood flows between your legs and what it is for? Are you forgetting about why this happens every month?  You didn’t get that guidebook to your own body you missed out on that delivery– You are charlatan. 

Inside you have a dog snarling and it bares its teeth whenever someone gets close or whines for the food it will never have. You have a dog but will never give birth to it. It will stay there curled up and angry. The baby heard the dog and knew never to come out. It could not have it near. It needed to be gone so the growl would leave that poor babe alone. The snarling dog was too loud and is not a playful beast. 

BIRTHING no.5

I was not born I was made out of cyber dust and cable throttling the faded glory of the thin blood to lubricate my delivery. In the light shafts you’ll see the dust floating and gathering until they thicken into clouds where an ear will be formed–most of me is grit and a snarl from the dog who rolls around in the specks– the fleas become my kidneys feeding on all that is not needed. 

Flea 

Dust 

Dog

My mother laid down in the dirt and on hands and knees barked out my existence– She barked through the night until I was formed with the conception of microbes and parasite –it did not hurt but tickled which allowed her to holler through. She did not need much food for this quest and an empty stomach rumbled and this hunger did not go away in her and yet the fleas had plenty to feast on. There was no way that I could not travel far have you seen the legs of those fleas I am strong and with a bite. 

This skinny frame was my vehicle into being made all with the help of the selfie stick pumping and clicking with pleasure capturing each moment with a filter. I was made in perpetua. The ink of brilliance and exposure with plenty of contrast–each flash takes the darkness of the cunt as my image– I am made– wet walls and dark– I am her I am it. 

BIRTHING no.6

A durational piece, which lasts all day and night and involves watching seaweed bodies floundering as they come onto the land, crawling out of the water. 

Thin slimed bodies are gasping for breath as they are puked up by the water– Flat and thin and able to slide on the ground. Hundreds of shiny seaweed bodies- they need food. You must feed them but what? Molluscs, tit bits you must find and quick. We gave each one of you a jar as you arrived to help out. Take them to your lap and pop them in their mouth. You must keep them moist and cool, you can drop your tears on them this will help– your saltwater will give them nourishment. Cry all your sorrow out onto their bodies and sit on the ground with them until you have wept your last tear. Hold them close but not too close. They will grow and seaweed rings will unfurl. We need to dance with them as they hover and nuzzle your face. Then they will fly up and leave after their sustenance. Up in the air almost as tiny leaves blown off from an autumn tree they surf on the wind and could almost be sand. You sit on your knees and watch the air as they disappear. The tide has gone out and the sun reflects the skim left behind. You are left to contemplate your role and what comes next. You can leave now.

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BIRTHING no.7

The figure walks on and bows towards the crowd its head is already invested in barrelling up into the cervix. This contortionist knows how to create shapes that please and shock. The head is inside and looping like a domed crab and endless serpent, it arches round and round. Its legs kick up every time it makes a circuit. When the head is finally free a crown of feathers is displayed and a beak, a hatched ostrich no longer buried. A shimmy and a courtesy is all it takes and we’re dazzled.

 

We never hear it speak but it knows how to dance it is doing the dance of life morphing into other shapes, expanding and contracting. One minute the body is filling the stage the next it is the size of a pea rolling about in the debris. In a puff of smoke it returns centre stage all snakes as head in a long evening gown a song is considered as the writhing snakes uncoil and stretch out to the corners creating a star. The spotlight is not big enough to capture all of the snakes. The light extends. The dress is pale lilac satin and the snakes are bright green. The band plays on for a number a known riff and refrain keeps us in the frame of the song as the snake tongues flicker in and out ssssssssssssssssssssssss or is it shshshshshshshshshshshshs hush now hush now and listen. There are many heads that are not tethered; well their tails are tied in knots at the end. She is like a snake tree - Both into one again. The Apple has already been eaten when sucking into the cervix oh what a sweet taste no reason to come out from that hidey-hole. If you throw rotten fruit into the light the heads will just eat them. Throw throw and see what happens. This mute song is nearly over now and the light will die down and the snakes will darken in the shadows. The band will quieten and you will hear the hiss like static from a radio, background noise, white noise, you will tune it out soon enough and it will be like silence.

BIRTHING no.8

There is no difference when living in the garden–the impossible act of being born from a rib is already too much–I am Char siu beast–

The sound of ribs cracking under the skin could be dulled but it is distinctly there and definitely more brutal than the hymen. You know when it is your first time. They crack and then splinter– shards digging into the membrane. After this you are extinct. There is not much you can do other than lie on your side and cry with the pain. Really you should be shot afterwards as a mercy killing. 

Out of the marrow and through the cage comes myself. I really had to fight for this and there is not much room in between each bone, which is why I had to kick through a few of those strips. Apparently there was someone sawing through on the outside dressed up in sequins and constantly smiling but they were long gone by the time I had arrived. I’m pretty sure they held my hand as I stepped through but I can’t really remember. I mean I was covered in blood and couldn’t see much. They put some kind of sash around me, over my shoulder and left. 

Getting through that bone was so painful. That first kick took it out of me. I could barely stand and boy was I hungry. No afterbirth just cartilage to suck on.

 

He could never survive my entry. I had to kill him off in order to survive. I managed to sit on his dick just before he gasped his last breath and I supped my first. I collected his seed up inside me for later and then that was enough he kicked the bucket, extinct and broken. He became a pile of bones and I will become a great scholar making it all up on my own. Did you know the worms love eyeholes? The rain on my skin can wash anything away, even caked flesh. All of this is easy when you are on your own and away from the drain of longing–no such thing anymore. I am free from all of that. There were whole libraries dedicated to that at one point not any more I don’t need that burden. Thanks for the sacrifice. Now I need to sleep it’s been a long day.

BIRTHING no.9

I was born into a new age where I was enough I was enough I was fully formed and it was enough. There was nothing to stop what would flow out of my mouth or what colours or shapes I would make. I didn’t need to extend to the local department store or research lab I could keep myself to myself. This season the seeds in the ground germinating are enough. My hibernation is enough. My introspection and nonproduction is enough. I can roll about in my own dirt–file my useless receipts or just look outside the window. This is what it is like to be born enough. There is nothing missing not even a whisker on my head it is all there. I don’t need to travel anywhere or be anything to anyone except myself. The contours on my body, the crevices and the texture are all perfection down to the odour between my legs and the itches on my nose. There is nothing to be done here any more. It is all fully formed. To be born enough is how we are down to the pink gnarly carrots, which made the stew the colour of blood that could not be eaten by the young child. I will gladly suck that juice and if needed bathe in it dyeing myself for a while like a winters sunburn. 

Enough

 

Enough 

Enough.

 

Empty space? Do you know how intricate it is in there all sorts of machinations that never cease, regenerating cells and moist pools that keep sustaining–that gaping hole is a liquid grotto with gems that glisten.

TROVE TROVE TROVE

You don’t need to dig so deeply really. 

Enough Enough Enough. 

Let’s see how long each day can be filled with just enough. Can a whole year go by and it all to be enough. If we all sat around together and all felt that glow of the trove what would that bring? Enough already. I was born with a trove. 

Trove Trove Enough Enough. 

Wave to me and it is enough. Ignore me and it is enough. I do not want to be angry any more or hurt. This new age sees that I am all I see that you are all we are all. Enjoy the ride. 

Back to the inside where there is all this movement and gurgle, my body is creating all of the time. This is a galaxy of possibility. This is all there is and it is all within. I know I can do it if I really have to go into the wilds and just be. Hopefully with a cart load of food a cart full of food to fill my belly with all its glisten. When do you stop having enough? I’ve had enough of enough. 

Enough Enough Enough 

I have had my moments.

 

I care enough I create enough I work enough I listen enough I think enough I speak enough I listen enough I do enough I feel enough I dream enough I sleep enough I wake enough I eat enough I live enough I give enough I hold enough I take enough I move enough I love enough I cry enough I smile enough I learn enough I teach enough I lose enough I change enough. The hero does not need to be a hero they can just be a dragonfly and skim the waters for bugs even though they are not needed. 

Oh Dragon fly what noise do you make when you’re happy? How will I know you are content? Is that the silent hum you make all of the time? Is that content or avoidance of the question? I would like to know how you are today or are these moments all the same? I love you but do you love me? Do you know why? Of course I will never enter your small head. Would you hum differently if you met me? Would you vibrate in a different way? Just from having seen me? I think so there would be some kind of ripple. I would leave an impression on your tiny body and you may not fall in love with me but you will at least register me maybe that is enough? It is enough that you do not love me today or the next day or the day after that.