RISING SIGN
I am watching my womb on television. On my back, knees high and wide. The doctor has inserted a wand that carries sound inside me. Sound I cannot hear is echoing through my interior, visualising the black cave of my body, detecting abnormalities. I think about how dark it must be in there and how strange it is that sound lets us see inside things.
The doctor with greying hair and black straggly eyebrows is saying things, pointing to the screen at things I can barely see. Something about ovaries, lining and follicles but I’m not listening. The image is so unstable: white, grey and black swish around as the wand turns inside me. I wonder if sound is like water, if it ripples and churns. The screen looks like an abandoned mineshaft with daylight slanting down from above. It reminds me of the dusky underground car parks in the estate where I grew up.
He is talking about my womb and its shape and I’m struck by the fact I carry this space around in me. As an architect, I think a lot about spaces and dimensions. I’m used to taking a model and imagining myself inside it. I’d forgotten that part of me is designed to be a home for someone else to live in.
The doctor is winding up the examination. I don’t want it to end so I ask a question about a strip of darkness in the centre just to keep myself up on screen. The enjoyment of seeing my invisibleness is
