Instructions: To Cleanse
Pinch my tongue between thumb and forefinger. Pinch and pull. Pull the tongue. Rip it out.
[Draw your hand back]
The thick oesophagus will follow. The damp. The wet strings of nerves. Pull them through the mouth tethered to the now bodiless tongue. The bundles stretching taught and drooping.
[Keep pulling]
You step further away, hand extended. Pulling. Tug. It gets stuck as my uterus catches on teeth. Hear my jaw click. You pull harder, tugging my womb free.
[Laugh]
I feel so light. That itching I’ve felt in the soles on my feet for years stops as the hairlines of nerves are sucked out my legs. My whole body is static. A radio out of signal. I am static. Humming.
[Eyes flicker]
I can’t move I am grey pixels. Humming. Fizzing. My skin is holding nothing. I am outside where I was. So far away, Anchored by my eyes. I see you. I am so far away from what I can see. But I see you.
You hold me at arm's length.
[Arms out]
A tangled mess of string hanging limply. Metres and metres of self, of sensation, swaying slightly. To that naked string, it is cold. Harsh and sharp. But grey. I am grey and I am static. I am moving in the breeze; I can see that. You’re holding me by the tongue. A root system expanding out beneath. I’m looking and you’re looking, both observing the mess in your hands.
Large sections are ropey; made thick by the phlegm that's weighing it down. Lines stretched thin by the mucus. I’d been made of tangled ligature. Matted. Hair balls that had lived in my chest. My arms. My feet. Itching. Blocked. The inertia is obvious. We can both see the stagnation. You look at me now,
[look at me]
the rest of me,
[the me with the eyes]
I look back through from the other side, as you raise your arms above your head, my tongue gripped tightly by both hands now. And you’re raising me up up up high high high. You pull down fast, whipping me against the ground. A wet, sharp crack. You lift your hands again. High. Down. Lift. Down. Lift. Down. Slap slap
[slap]
You beat me against the ground and I’m watching. Your mouth is open, panting lightly. Hands gripping my tongue, muscle purple around your fingers. You beat me against the ground, tangled string coming free, flying through the air and whipping the floor at your feet. Mucus dislodged, landing wetly. Small puddles are forming between us. Slap slap slap.
​
You stop; it has been a long time now. I am grey. My tongue has angry blue half-moons where your nails dug in. I swing in your hands. String once again moving in the breeze; lighter now. Phlegm piled at your feet. I am clean. I hang limp from your hands. Limp but light. All bodies feel lighter than they have ever been before.
Eyes meet as the question arises: how do we get it all back in?
[We’re not sure that we can]
Would it be such a bad thing? I could be a rug. Beat me on the stones outside and I will be cleaned over and over forever. Pass me down to your children and teach them of tapestries and of the stories woven in the string. Teach them the knots of survival in my nervous system. Lie and use my uterus as a pillow. I will be clean. I am grey but I am clean. Mucusy floor. You step towards me gesturing vaguely with the untangled mass. You want to hand it back to me; I can see that. I want to take it back, but my hands don’t move. They’re by my sides, I think. I am static and I am stuck, and you are holding my movement. I try to speak but you have my tongue. You realise this and try to put it back. Gathering me up and pushing into my mouth, string catching on dry lips, on nails. You try to bundle it all in. Moving fast to catch it when it spills. I am grey and I am static and the itch from my feet has reappeared but it's behind my nose now. You force the strings back into my body, down my chest, my arms.
​
OPTION 1: (ending 1)
​
[Wear my hands like gloves]
as you push each nerve pathway back to the tips of my fingers. But I am too smooth now. As you withdraw your hands, my body follows. Slipping out from inside myself. Falling out my mouth. My tongue falls to the floor, dragging the strings with it. There’s a wet slap. We look at each other. I am sorry. But I am clean. I can see myself on the floor and that is clean. I can’t move I can’t speak, but you understand what I would have said: thank you. You nod.
OPTION (2): (alternative ending)
I am wearing me like a glove. Once again existing as one body, yes, but the external doesn’t seem so important anymore, doesn’t end where it did before. I don’t end where I did before. The static is still present, but it has shifted, moving outwards. I’m unused to the movements and the breath that should be familiar. It is different. I can feel the air inside me. The lines of energy unobstructed. I am clean; it's foreign and uncomfortable. Being displaced within one’s own body.
[hands stretch]
My muscles are unused to the shape I am now; but they can be taught. I’ll relearn. I did before. I will again. I open my mouth to speak, but my tongue hits my teeth, jaw jerking to the side. Pain jolts down my neck. I can feel the static, everywhere. Humming. I choke out unintelligible sounds, musculature and intention clumsy in their attempts to coordinate. Form and thought disjointed. Your gaze is fearful. Uncertain. I understand, I feel it too. Scared. You’re here but I’m alone; an alien within myself.
[Inhale]
Chest rises. Feel the air cleanse.
[Exhale]
I won’t look in the mirror for a while. It won’t be me reflected back. Not the me that I am used to; she is no longer.
[Look At Me]
Can you feel the static, too? I can’t speak, but you understand what I will say: thank you. You nod.