I have a cyst on my right ovary which the doctor told me is a ball of biological material which can be made up of teeth and hair and flesh. I wish the doctor didn’t tell me about the teeth and the hair and the flesh. Because ever since, I’ve pictured it living in there with The Lady: a grumpy mutant flesh-ball giving her frights if she turns the wrong way.
The doctor assures me that it’s not possible for the cyst to frighten the baby, nor come into any contact with it. In fact, the cyst is not capable of doing much other than sitting there, being ugly.
But I still wish she wasn’t there.
I see the cyst, or Cysty, as I’ve named her, as a sort of Ms Pac Man-like feral gob. With a Mohawk and big chompy hillbilly teeth – the sort that stick out at all different angles. A fleshy lump with no eyes, just these random, misused bits of me, all rolled together like a fur-ball the cat chucked up. I hate Cysty and I want her Out. And then I want to keep her in a jar like I did with the wisdom teeth, so I can taunt her and know every time I look at her that she is indeed in the jar, and not inside me with The Lady.
But they won’t take her out until The Lady has left.
The only danger, they tell me, of Cysty being in there is that she can turn on herself, creating agonising sensations that require emergency hospital transfer and immediate surgery. The doctor said this is unlikely to happen. But if I get a sensation of agony, especially while I’m overseas, call an ambulance straight away.
And sure enough, last night, deep in sleep in Berlin, I awoke to an agonising sensation and broke out in a cold sweat. Cysty had gone on a rampage crunching and twisting her ugly little face upon itself.
I lay there, heart racing. I didn’t want to wake The Love unless I Knew.
In my mind I said Back Off Cysty. Though I was panicking at the thought of getting out of the building and into an ambulance. Ambulinchen? Ambudeutchkopf?
And miraculously, after a few moments Cysty chilled out. I must have just turned funny in the bed or something. She went back to munching on her remnants of brain fat.
So then I fell asleep to intensely weird dreams.
I was at Marieke Hardy’s house again – I keep going there for some weird reason. Her house is always a big airy one in a scary Melbourne street and she leaves her windows and doors open and I’m always amazed she’s not afraid of the madmen. She had friends over again, none of whom I knew, I didn’t even know her very well either, but she liked me, and so did the others. They were mainly women and we sat around in a group cross-legged. We were out on the footpath smiling. And a madman from the house across the road approached us and pointed at me saying,
And then he screamed something awful at me that I can’t remember. It was terrible, an accusation, a premonition. Something awful enough to make me feel that it was my responsibility to leave Marieke Hardy and her friends so as not to endanger their lives.
Marieke was apologetic. But I could tell she was relieved I was going. She didn’t want to die, and her friends didn’t either.
So I went to this huge auditorium where Gennadij Bogdanov was doing a masterclass with thousands of actors. I was annoyed as I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be an actor any more. All the actors were sucky and trying to be good and it was driving me nuts. Plus, I was pregnant so I couldn’t do the moves properly. I kept leaving the workshop saying “I’m not sure I’m going to be here full-time, I’m just going to come and go.” I felt like an outsider. And I hadn’t paid so I knew they were wondering what the hell I was doing there.
We did this exercise on a white floor and it was one, two, three slow steps, then one, two, three quick, and I closed my eyes and did it. I thought what I was doing was magnificent, authentic. But when I opened my eyes there was this young little sprite girl jumping up on tables and doing a little dance and everyone was watching her in admiration.
She won the prize. But she wasn’t doing the exercise according to the rules.I gnashed my teeth.