(Pages turn silently)
(Silence continues...)
(Laura) When we were planning
the central section of this film,
about a mother and child,
we decided to use the voice of the Sphinx
as an imaginary narrator-
because the Sphinx represents,
not the voice of truth,
not an answering voice,
but its opposite:
a questioning voice,
a voice asking a riddle.
The Oedipus myth associates
the voice of the Sphinx
with motherhood as mystery
and with resistance to patriarchy.
In some ways the Sphinx is the forgotten
character in the story of Oedipus.
Everybody knows that Oedipus
killed his father and married his mother,
but the part played by the Sphinx
is often overlooked.
Oedipus set off for Thebes,
turning away from Corinth, where he'd
been brought up by foster parents.
The Sphinx sat perched on a cliff or pillar
outside the city gates;
she asked every man who went past
a riddle.
If they couldn't answer,
she devoured them.
Then she stopped Oedipus
when he went past
and when he answered her correctly,
she threw herself down from the pillar
and killed herself.
The myth of the Sphinx took on new life
after Napoleon's campaigns in Egypt
when the Great Sphinx at Giza was
disclosed once again to Western eyes.
The Egyptian Sphinx is male,
but on its blank face,
resonant with mystery and with death,
the spectator could project the image
of the Greek Sphinx.
Once again the Sphinx
could enter popular mythology,
in the image of male fears
and male fantasies,
the cannibalistic mother,
part bestial, part angelic, indecipherable.
Oedipus is different
from other Greek heroes
in that he defeated the monster,
not by strength or by bravery,
but simply by intelligence.
In his answer to the riddle,
Oedipus restored the generations
to their proper order,
but by doing so he fell into a further trap.
In his own life
he disordered them once more
by marrying his own mother.
It's almost as if Oedipus
stands for the conscious mind
and the Sphinx for the unconscious.
The riddle confuses
and disorders logical categories
and the monster is a hybrid
of human, animal and bird.
But reading between the lines
the myth confirms women's sense
of exclusion and suppression.
The Sphinx is outside the city gates,
she challenges the culture of the city,
with its order of kinship
and its order of knowledge,
a culture and a political system
which assign women a subordinate place.
To the patriarchy, the Sphinx as woman
is a threat and a riddle,
but women within patriarchy
are faced with a never-ending series
of threats and riddles -
dilemmas which are hard
for women to solve,
because the culture within which
they must think is not theirs.
We live in a society ruled by the father,
in which the place of the mother
is suppressed.
Motherhood and how to live it,
or not to live it,
lies at the roots of the dilemma.
And meanwhile,
the Sphinx can only speak
with a voice apart, a voice off.
(I Ambient electronic music begins)
(I Music continues...)
(I Music fades)
(I Murmuring electronic music begins)
(I Music continues over dialogue...)
(Voice Off) Time to get ready.
Time to come in.
Things to forget.
Things to lose.
Meal time.
Story time.
Desultory.
Peremptory.
Keeping going-
Keeping looking.
Reading like a book.
Relief.
Things to cook.
Keeping in the background.
Fish-slice.
Domestic labour.
Disheartened.
Burdened.
Keeping calm.
Keeping clean.
Fitting like a glove.
Remorse.
Things to mend.
Losing touch with reality.
Dish-cloth.
Narcissistic love.
Idolise.
Tranquillise.
Losing count.
Losing control.
Shaking like a leaf.
Release.
Things to say.
No time to make amends.
No time for tea.
Time to worry.
No time to hold.
Things to hold.
Things past.
Meal time.
Story time.
Keeping going-
Keeping looking.
Reading like a book.
Things to forget.
Things to lose.
No time lost.
Story time.
(I Music fades)
(I Minimalist electronic music)
(Voice Off) Distressed.
Strained.
Nesting.
In the nest.
Comfort.
Effort.
At the breast.
At rest.
Resting.
Take leave.
Take moss.
Be close.
Be clasped and cleft.
Be close.
Nesting.
Acquiesced.
Memory.
Mystery.
Dispossessed.
Depressed.
Trusting.
Make cross.
Make grieve.
Morose.
Subject to conquest.
Object to incest.
Nesting.
From the nest.
Blood.
Brood.
From the breast.
Caressed.
Hurting.
Bleeding.
It was obvious.
It was as obvious as it was oblivious.
Brooding.
It was plain.
Be close.
It was as plain as it was pain.
Make love.
Make grieve.
Marries.
Mother's and another's.
Mysteries.
Nesting.
"If only I hadn't minded," I used to say,
but I did mind very much.
I minded more than very much.
I minded more than I could ever
have dared.
Mind the door.
Mind the glass.
Mind the fire.
Mind the child.
I never minded the warmth.
I minded the need.
"It was needed to have minded,"
I used to say,
but was it needed to have minded
more than very much?
More than I could ever have dared?
(I Music fades)
(I Buzz of electronic music begins)
Transformed, I would confide.
I could have cried.
I could have died.
Transformed, to cold from warmth.
The warmth.
It pacified and purified.
The warmth was far within.
Hidden within.
The warmth was deep and far within.
The cold.
In labour.
In hiding.
In the storm.
Sheltered.
Nurtured.
The warmth.
It was inside.
It was in hiding.
The warmth was far within.
Hidden within.
The warmth was in the centre.
In the calm.
The cold.
Underneath.
Beneath.
Beneath the quilt.
Mothering.
Covering.
The warmth.
The cold conceded nothing.
Whoever, frozen, pleaded,
it conceded nothing.
The warmth consoled.
The warmth was needed.
The cold.
Transformed.
Preoccupied.
I could have cried.
It never died.
In repose.
From warmth to cold.
Frozen.
Controlled.
Preoccupied.
There's nothing much more
to say really is there'?
...said it all...
Look.
You've got my number haven't you,
at Keith's?
Just ring me if there's anything.
All right?
Bye, Anna.
(Murmur of children's voices)
- Oh, hello!
- Hello.
- Anna.
- Hello, Anna.
(Children's voices over conversation)
(Maxine) Are you going shopping
with that? Will you take me to the shop?
- (Girl) The shop?
- We can buys some things at the shop.
(Chaotic notes from piano)
(Girl) Can we play outside?
I don't want to be in here.
We could go outside?
(Maxine) What shall we measure?
What shall we measure?
(Pencils tumble out of a cup)
(Girl) Whoops!
Let's see which one's heaviest.
You want to get into the shop?
All right then.
What are you going to sell me?
(Louise) Bye bye, my love.
I've got to go now. I've got to go to work.
I'll see you later,
I'll collect you after tea.
(Anna) Bye.
(Louise) Bye my love.
(Maxine) Say goodbye.
Don't worry. We'll look after her.
(Fragments of conversations amongst
the clattering of plugs into sockets)
Number, please?
- Hello, Mrs Smith...
- ...extension 510.
Extension 203...
- Hello, who's calling?
- Number, please?
I'll put you through to extension number...
Extension 506 is still unavailable.
I'm afraid the number is engaged.
Will you wait?
Extension 8...
Would you just like to hold the line,
I'll try and find out what extension it is?
(Talking continues...)
(Louise) Ah, Maxine, good.
ls Anna all right?
Oh, that's a relief.
I knew she'd be all right with you
once I'd gone.
That's why I'm ringing.
I don't think I'm going to be able to.
No, it's not that really, it's just
I can't talk now, I'll tell you when I come
and collect Anna.
We'll arrange something else perhaps.
Listen, I must go now, OK?
Bye.
I'm sorry. Did I cut you off?
Can I reconnect you?
What number was it you wanted?
498...
I'm very sorry.
Fernbrook Products...
Extension 222 is engaged, will you hold?
You could do with a cup of tea now.
(Fragments of conversations and
clattering of switchboards continue)
(Murmur of conversation)
(Louise) We really have to think about it.
(Woman #1) Oh, definitely.
You do have to think about it.
I mean,
it costs a lot of money doesn't it?
(Louise) What happened to you then?
Well, you know I have to take
my Ellie to the child minder's.
Well, this morning she was ill
and she couldn't cope,
so I had to go right across
the other side of London.
The child minder's got a friend, you know,
and she helped her out. But I mean,
I had to go right down Holloway Road
and it cost me twice as much as usual.
They ought to have a nursery here,
the company ought to provide one.
(Lyn) Well they should really. I mean,
it would make my life a bit easier if they did.
(Woman #2) I'm not sure. I don't really
like the idea of my kids here where I work...
Louise, put the milk in that tea then.
...I like to think of work as being
a bit separate from the house.
(Louise) Well, they're rich enough,
aren't they'?
(Woman #1) Yeah, I know,
but it's such an effort, isn't it?
It's just a job isn't it?
Look how many mothers there are here.
They've all got young children. They've all
got problems about leaving them.
I know I have.
I hate leaving mine,
- I can't keep my mind on my work.
- But you are the worrying type.
Well, it's not that, is it?
If you've got to take your child
to the nursery before you get to work,
no wonder you're in a flap
when you get here.
(Woman #4)
What was all that about then?
(Woman #5)
Something about nurseries, I think.
(Woman #4)
Oh. What, is she worried about her kid?
(Woman #5) Yeah, she doesn't like
leaving her you know.
Coming in,
leaving her somewhere else.
She's only been here a little while,
but she's talking about lots of problems.
She's rig ht though.
- We ought to have a nursery here.
- Yeah.
We've got a Personnel Manager,
give him something to do.
Oh, yeah, they'll probably only
take it off the wages anyway.
Oh, no, not if the Union's involved.
Somebody ought to find out
what they could do about it really.
I think Louise should.
I mean, it was her idea in the first place.
Yeah, I suppose it depends
how many people there are
who've got kids and need this.
Yeah, I think the important thing to do
is to find out
how many kids are involved
and the ages as well,
and then take it to the Union
and see if they can do anything about it
with the management.
(Louise)
He should be here by now.
A little boy with fair hair.
(Maxine) I think he's got to come
across the footbridge.
(Woman) What were you asking
about your little girl?
(Louise) Well, at the moment, she's in a
community nursery, where Maxine works,
but I was wondering whether it wouldn't
be better to have the nursery at work.
Have the Unions thought about that?
(Woman) Not much really.
You're lucky to get any sort of day care,
let alone the one that suits you best.
(Maxine) Hello. Give this to your mother
and say thanks for waiting.
(Child) Bye!
(Maxine) Local authorities are cutting back
on nursery education aren't they'?
(Woman) Yes that's right.
It may stimulate the women
to demand more for themselves though.
(Louise) Have the Unions ever done
anything at all about day care?
(Woman) They haven't done very much.
The TUC is in favour of free state nursery
care for any parent who wants it,
but we're a long way from that.
(Louise) I was wondering whether...
(Woman) There are some nurseries
in the textile industry
and the Unions do negotiate
about child care there,
but that's an industry that really depends
on women's labour.
Unless there's organised action around it,
the Union wouldn't have any reason
to take it up, it's like most things.
(Maxine) We have to do something first
if we want the Unions to take it up.
(Louise) How can you make people see
the connection between better wages
and providing day care?
(Woman) Well, trade unionism
isn't just a question of wages struggle.
It's about work conditions too, it has to be.
(Louise) In that case, might the Unions
get involved in running nurseries?
(Woman) They might.
All sons of questions come up
with workplace nurseries.
Should the mothers be allowed to visit
during the day?
Should the creche stay open to let women
shop before they collect their children?
Some Unions want the employers
to pay for company nurseries,
but have the nurseries
run by Unions and parents together.
(I Electronic music imitates
powerful cathedral organ)
(I Music fades)
(I Murmuring electronic music)
(Voice Off) Questions arose
which seemed to form a linked ring,
each raising the next
until they led the argument
back to its original point of departure.
Should women demand special working
conditions for mothers?
Can a child-care campaign attack anything
fundamental to women's oppression?
Should women's struggle be concentrated
on economic issues?
Is domestic labour productive?
Is the division of labour
the root of the problem?
Is exploitation outside the home
better than oppression within it?
Should women organise themselves
separately from men?
Could there be a social revolution in which
women do not play the leading role?
How does women's struggle
relate to class struggle?
Is patriarchy the main enemy
for women'?
Does the oppression of women
work on the unconscious
as well as on the conscious'?
What would the politics
of the unconscious be like?
How necessary is being-a-mother
to women, in reality or imagination?
Is the family an obstacle
to the liberation of women?
Is the family needed
to maintain sexual difference?
What other forms of childcare
might there be'?
Are campaigns about childcare
a priority for women now'?
(Music continues over dialogue)
(Voice Off)
Question after question arose,
revolving in her mind without reaching
any clear conclusion
They led both out into society
and back into her own memory.
Future and past
seemed to be locked together.
She felt a gathering of strength
but no certainty of success.
(I Music fades)
(I Soft electronic music)
Let's go and have
a nice time in the garden.
Oh, look they're looking at photos.
You go and have a look at those
while I go and see to the bonfire
(Passing aircraft drowns conversation)
(Music continues over dialogue)
Now this one.
Ooh, that's a lovely drink too.
Here are the tomatoes.
This will make them all lovely and red.
We don't want green tomatoes, do we?
No, we want lovely red ones...
Some are here, look.
There you are. That's it.
Ooh, look at those. What are they up to?
Quick! Quick!
OK, put that in there for Grandma.
That's right.
And there's a stick.
Put the stick in.
That's right.
- There's a stick.
- Shall we blow it'?
Blow it!
That's right.
There we are...
There we are, all lovely and blazing.
No, no. Come on now,
I want you to help me.
Put more paper on
because that makes a lovely blaze.
Oooh! That's better.
That's better!
Yes.
Bye bye.
Bye bye.
BYE bye.
(Chris) Do you mind,
I've just got to get this film ready.
Won't be a moment, OK?
(Maxine and Louise) - OK.
- Right.
(Maxine) Hey, Louise,
I've got something to show you.
Have you got a mirror?
(Louise) Here.
- See?
- Mm-hm.
- Look.
- What?
It should be in mirror writing.
- It is.
- OK. Now, look.
Oh! It's not in mirror writing.
- How does it work?
- Magic.
No, seriously, it's the cellophane.
It acts as a special kind of filter.
It puts the letters back to front again
so they appear the right way round.
Do you know, I think camels
are my favourite animals.
I like the way that camel's much bigger
than that pyramid.
And the way the desert
just stretches out to the horizon.
I think it's their shape,
all lumpy and baggy,
hanging over a ramshackle old skeleton.
(Chris) OK, I think I'm ready.
Shall we start?
(Louise) Oh, Chris, by the way,
there's something I wanted to say to you.
I've decided...
I want to sell the house.
(Chris) Oh. Erm...
Umm...
OK, if that's what you want .
What about the market though?
It's a bad time to sell, isn't it?
(Louise) It's a good time for me to sell.
- I've decided I want to be rid of it.
- All right.
(Chris) You won't get much money
for anywhere else, you know,
once we've sold the mortgage.
(Louise) I don't think
I want anywhere else.
I'm going to be staying with Maxine.
(Maxine) She'll be much nearer
and you'll be able to see Anna more.
(Louise) Yes, Anna's older.
She doesn't need me all the time now.
You mean you don't need her?
(Louise) Well anyway that's what
we've decided, haven't we?
Right.
Shall we start?
(Maxine) Is it work by a woman artist?
Yes that's right.
It's about her child
and herself as the mother.
I've got some film,
I've got some video tape as well.
I'll put the lights out.
(Projector whirrs)
(Sound recordist)
Mary Kelly, retaping.
(Mary Kelly)
The diaries in this document
are based on recorded
conversations between mother and child,
that is myself and my son,
at the crucial moment
of his entry into nursery school.
The conversations took place
at weekly intervals
between September 7th
and November 26th 1975.
They came to a natural end
with his/my adjustment to school.
There also occurs at this moment
a kind of 'splitting'
of the dyadic mother/child unit
which is evident in my references,
in the diaries,
to the father's presence
and in my son's use of pronouns,
significantly in his conversations
and of implied diagrams
for example, concentring markings
and circles in his drawings.
The marking process is
regulated by the nursery routine,
so that almost daily finished 'works' are
presented by the children to their mothers.
Consequently, these markings become
the logical terrain
on which to map out the 'signification'
of the maternal discourse.
September 27th.
I was shocked to find that he was crying
when I picked him up from the nursery.
I didn't think about coming early
and he saw the others leave.
Now he's very suspicious when I take him.
I can't forgive myself for that
because I should have known.
Although, I thought that,
I was so convinced that he was different,
that he is very sociable.
The second day
he actually screamed when I left.
The teachers made me leave.
I was shocked because Ray
was not upset by it at all
although I couldn't
take him again that week.
I had Sally take him the first three days
and Ray took him the rest of the week.
I suppose it's kind of lack
of boundary definition.
October 11th.
I was distressed all this week
by his apparent anxiety over going
back to the nursery
and I felt a bit guilty about being away
teaching every day until Wednesday.
And he had tantrums
which freaked Sally out.
Thursday was the first day that I saw him
and it bothered me as well
(Sound recordist) Roll 34, Take 1.
(Clapper board)
(Mary Kelly) October 24th.
I was amazed that he actually said
I like school this week.
At least that's sorted out
but why doesn't he get over
this tonsillitis.
He had to go
to the doctor again this week.
It was a very unsatisfactory check-up,
it took about one minute.
It just makes me feel
more responsible for him
when other people
don't show concern for him.
But I guess I'm just as bad,
I forgot to give him his medicine.
Weaning from the dyad.
For both the mother and the child,
the crucial moment of "weaning"
is constituted by the intervention
of a "third term",
that is, the father,
thus consolidating the oedipal triad
and undermining the Imaginary dyad
which determined the inter-subjectivity
of the pre-oedipal instance.
This intervention situates the imaginary
'third term' of the primordial triangle,
that is, the child as phallus,
and the paternal imago
of the mirror phase
within the dominance of the symbolic
structure through the word of the father.
That is, the mother's words referring
to the authority of the 'father'
to which the real father
may or may not conform.
(Whirring of projector stops)
(I Shimmering electronic music)
What does it mean?
I can't understand most of it.
Oh... they're thoughts.
Pieces of thoughts...
I put into words, and...
pieces of words...
which seemed to mean something
and I wanted to remember.
What about this?
What does this mean?
"They make a groove or a pattern
into which or upon which
other patterns fit
or are placed unfitted
and are cut by circumstance to fit."
I don't know. It must be something
I copied out of a book.
I see what it is.
She felt she had been living
in a fairy tale,
the oldest fairy tale that we still know,
from the Valley of the Nile.
It matched with something
she remembered very clearly
from her childhood.
Yes. Now I remember now.
It's about how she went out
with her mother and her little brother
and how her mother laughed at them
when they said they weren't going home.
Her mother just turned
and went round the corner.
(Louise) Do you know,
I remember almost the same thing.
I remember sitting on the kerb
and refusing to move.
There must have been something I wanted
and my mother wouldn't give it to me,
and a little group of people
gathered round.
(Maxine)
It's like when you go to a demonstration.
There's a ring of people standing
looking at you
and you don't know
whose side they're on.
(Louise)
You feel very defiant and eventful.
What about this? When was this?
I was on a boat, sitting on a stool
in front of the mast,
eating a pear which had been out
very carefully into slices.
It was a large boat,
some kind of naval vessel,
because it had large guns and sailors
wearing helmets with plumes.
They must have been soldiers,
a whole regiment of them.
I was afraid of the soldiers.
It seemed to me that
they were finding fault with me.
I think it was
because they wanted to weigh anchor.
So I went down to my cabin
and looked at myself in the looking glass.
Only instead of myself,
I saw my father carrying a saucepan.
He said he had come
for the wool-combing.
There was going to be
some kind of festival
where the sheep
were going to be sheared
and the wool combed by women.
The sheep were held down by straps.
Then my father blew on a bugle
and the soldiers
with plumes on their helmets all came in.
My father ordered me to begin
combing the wool.
I said, "I can't, I'm dead beat."
He said that I must,
or I would infect everybody at the festival
with some kind of disease,
or rather, all the men at the festival.
They all began to show
horrible symptoms.
They were growing gills
and their entrails were falling out.
I was very frightened,
and picked up the comb
which had a number of notches cut in it.
My father began to coax me
to begin combing
but I was not able to.
Then I noticed that standing
behind my father was another man,
who seemed to be lame,
or perhaps some kind of priest.
He asked me
whether I was an oyster woman.
Everybody was excited by this question,
which they seemed to think
was very shrewd,
but I did not know what to reply.
I ran to my father
and seized the saucepan
which he had been holding in his hands.
It was full of jewels,
which had a rind on them.
When I began to shell them,
all the men began
to grind their teeth
but I carried on peeling the rind.
Inside there were hundreds
of tiny caraway seeds.
When I looked up,
I saw that the lame man was wearing
a feathered headdress,
like an Indian Chief,
I suddenly realised that all this time,
I had been wearing a veil.
I tore it off
and threw the caraway seeds at the
lame man, dressed like an Indian Chief.
He became all distorted
and disappeared.
Only my father was left.
I felt very perplexed.
Then he said,
"You must receive communion at Easter."
I realised that it was Ash Wednesday
and I thought that I must be my mother,
although I knew she was dead.
I had a feeling of jubilation
and in a very loud voice I ordered that
all my father's property
should be sold by auction.
All the women threw away their combs
and shouted...
"Bravo! Well done!"
They unstrapped all the sheep
and knocked the helmets
and the military caps off the soldiers.
I don't remember much more
except that I was dancing
on the deck of the ship
in front of a sheet of canvas or sailcloth.
There were colours and banners.
When I looked at the sea,
it seemed to be made of silk.
What does that mean, I wonder?
(Maxine) I don't knew exactly.
That's why I wrote it.
I hoped that I'd understand it more.
I guess it has the texture of meaning.
(I Oscillating electronic music)
(Voice off) She remembered reading
somewhere a passage from a book
which she could no longer trace,
words which had struck her at the time
and which she now tried to reconstruct.
Inscribed on the lid of the box were
the words "Anatomy is No Longer Destiny"
and inside, when she opened it,
she found the figure of the Greek Sphinx
with full breasts and feathery wings.
She lifted it up out of the box
to look at it more closely.
As she did so,
it seemed to her that its lips moved
and it spoke a few phrases in a language
which she could not understand,
except for three words
which were repeated several times:
Capital, Delay and Body.
She replaced it in the box
and closed the lid.
She could feel her heart beat.
The rhythm of the sentences
was not quite right
and she felt sure there was
some particular she had forgotten.
She tried to imagine the scene
as the writer might have.
Would the box have been
padded with cushioning,
a quilted material,
folds of velvet,
black or red,
buttoned or embroidered?
What would the pattern
of the embroidery be?
She imagined an intricate web
of curved forms, intertwined knots,
like the tendrils and fronds in the marsh
where, according to Bachofen...
the first matriarchy arose,
or the curls of pubic hair from which,
according to Freud,
women wove the first veil.
What kind of material
was the Sphinx carved from?
Soft like wax or hard like agate?
Ancient like amber
or modern like bakelite'?
Were the feathers real,
rippling under her heedful touch
like overlapping waves?
Whatever it was that she'd forgotten,
it was surely more something central,
more weighty,
not some detail of design or manufacture.
Could she have known the name
of the language which the Sphinx spoke?
The more she tried to remember,
the more she found her mind wandering,
mislaying the thread
of logical reconstruction
and returning to images
from her own childhood.
She remembered how,
when she had been very small,
her mother had lifted her up
to carry heron her hip
and how she had hovered round her cot
while she fell asleep.
She remembered her feeling of triumph
when her father left the house
and the sudden presentiment
of separation which followed.
There was the time when she had opened
a drawer with a little key
and found a piece of coral and a badge
which had gone darkish green.
And she remembered one morning
coming into her mother's room
and finding her mother's friend
sleeping next to her mother,
and she suddenly understood something
she realised her mother
had tried to explain
and she felt a surge of panic,
as though she'd been left behind and lost.
She thought her mother would be angry,
but she smiled,
and, when she got out of bed,
she noticed the shapes
of the arch of her foot
and her heel and the back of her calf.
She had been drawing acrobats,
trajectories of the body
and displays of skill and balance.
She saw them no longer
as pioneers of the ideal,
but as bodies at work,
expending their labour power
upon its own material.
She was fascinated by the gap
between the feeling of bodily exertion
and the task of drawing and writing,
gestures which consumed themselves
in their own product,
giving a false sense of effortlessness
which no acrobat
could hope to approach.
Capital, Delay and Body.
She replaced it in the box
and closed the lid.
She could feel her heart beat.
She felt giddy with success,
as though after labouring daily to prevent
a relapse into her pristine humanity,
she had finally got what she wanted.
She shuddered.
Suddenly she heard a voice,
very quiet, coming from the box,
the voice of the Sphinx, growing louder,
until she could hear it clearly,
compellingly,
and she knew that
it had never ever been entirely silent
and that she had heard it before,
all her life,
since she first understood
that she was a girl.
The voice was so familiar
yet so fatally easy to forget.
She smiled and, in her mind,
she flung herself through the air.
(I Syncopated electronic music)
(I Music stops abruptly)
(Laura on tape)
...into a social hieroglyphic.
Later on, we try to decipher
the hieroglyphic to get behind the secret...
To the patriarchy, the Sphinx, as woman,
is a riddle and a threat.
But to women,
who live under patriarchy...
To the patriarchy, the Sphinx as woman
is a riddle and a threat.
But women within patriarchy
are faced by a never-ending series
of threats and riddles -
dilemmas which are hard
for women to solve,
because the culture
within which they must think is not theirs.
We live in a society ruled by the father,
in which the place of the mother
is suppressed.
Motherhood and how to live it,
or not to live it,
lies at the roots of the dilemma.
And meanwhile, the voice of the Sphinx
is a voice apart, a voice off.
(Voice Off on tape)
I was looking at an island in the glass.
It was an island of comfort
in a sea of blood.
It was lonely on the island.
I held tight.
It was night and, in the night,
I felt the past.
Each drop was red.
Blood flows thicker than milk, doesn't it?
Blood shows on silk, doesn't it?
It goes quicker.
Spilt. No use trying.
No use replying.
Spilt.
It goes stickier.
The wind blew
along the surface of the sea.
It bled and bled.
The island was an echo of the past.
It was an island of comfort,
which faded as it glinted in the glass.
(Playback crackles...)
(Playback stops)
(Silence continues...)
(I Syncopated electronic music)