Prequel. Episode 54
Artificial Love at the Edge of the Void and the Vertical Colour of Sound while Falling
This is the documentation of a ritual childhood journey contained in a notebook filled with devilish detail and shared elements of precision, danger and sexuality.
It’s a deep and desperate search for something. It doesn’t matter what it is. As long as it is something. Else
But first, a poem
I put my soul in a paper boat
Got no idea if
It’s going to float
I heard that trying
Is like dying
The lazy person said
Because they were
A face in the picture
That never got framed
Warning: read from a safe distance. Otherwise you may be trampled by a Police horse
Here lies a body of work. Stitched up, but ready to come undone. These are notes from the ledge – where the heart is. Looking for a home. In the cage with a camera – behind the lens, a family affair shines darkly
I get high to find a place where the nightmares collide with cotton wool. The mental scars are still there, but they fade in the sunlight & the smoke
Part 1: A lack of human emotional symmetry and my sweaty adolescence
I poet my way around what would be simple in the eyes of another. I don’t know why I do that. Perhaps it is because my natural form of expression is to avoid being direct, to speak from far away – and I mean way the fuck across the table
I have long arms though – so here is my hand
The Dance of the Naked She Robot
What am I afraid of?
Of being un-strong
Of having human emotional symmetry
Of being a naked robot
Without a song
Of being pushed into a space
That leaves me clawing at my own face
I really am in awe
Of the whole picture show called life
But it leaves me with the question
Am I the nature
Or the nurture?
Life. It’s very circular in a roundabout kind of way
Part 2: Do waterfalls sound like sex to you? They don’t to me
enervate/verb: to deprive of force or strength; destroy the vigor of; weaken
I bought into the character assassination job they did. I truly bought it. Probably because I wanted to. All the years of hearing how wrong I was. It was an easy sell for them. I fought back with words but the shaming was more than a match for my rebuttals
My mouth denied the allegations but my self esteem ate them whole
I can’t dig holes anymore – not physical, emotional nor spiritual. I have dug so many I can see Mongolia. It looks cold
Would my father have done what he did if he had known I was watching? Probably not. Or maybe he would have found some other way to work out his own idea of loving
I didn’t physically murder my father and his lover that night, and that was a smart move on reflection. But the father figure that a kid needs did die though
Daughters look to their fathers image when choosing a mate. But I looked at him as a template
I choose a selfish, cold, distant manipulator as a role model to move towards (father)
I choose a selfish, cold, distant manipulator as a role model to move away from (mother)
I created a doppelganger based on the worst characteristics of my role models
I’m not sure if I was punishing my father, or my mother, or myself, or men, or women or the concept of love, or the concept of sex. This is not something I have wrestled to the ground yet. There seems to be an abundance of targets – but the concept of punishment is constant.
If it’s everyone, that’s a very big job I took on – and perhaps required more reflecting on than I gave it at the time
What can I say. Youth. They’re impulsive
Over time, I would become better than him at his core competencies of untrustworthiness & sexual self indulgence, in some vain attempt to validate something worthless within me that seemed priceless at the time
I don’t blame him. I made all the choices
I am now in a process of reverse engineering those choices to see what was at their core
I am simply the the conduit for emptying out what couldn’t be contained anymore
Meet me within your own self – Jerzy Kosinski ‘Steps’
My life has felt like a dream that has stalked me for a long time and caught me napping on the job. What changed could not be unchanged. But the opposite change is now being made. To count the cost of the past would be pointless
Maybe I can write in such a way that is useful to myself. Because some things become obvious but only when they are ready to be seen in isolation
Like the relationship between this film and the films Cream’D & Perve
“The ultimate mediator of most of our voluntary behaviour, as well as our adjustments to changes in our immediate environment, is the nervous system.” – Anderson & Shames. Human Communication Disorders
Thoughts on anxiety, what matters, what counts, how to breathe, walking through walls, David Bowie, collected harmony, finding a place to invest my blessings and letting the universe do what it does
Here we are. Writer and reader
I speak very softly, people often complain they can’t hear what I am saying. They lean in, I lean out, without a doubt afraid to shout
It’s different when I sing, different when I write. In music I am lost and that’s where I find myself. When I write, the fear seat is empty…writing is, writing down, trying, really making an effort to breathe out things. For me it is a net positive expenditure of time
The big light flashes, speak or you’re going to choke
Come a little closer….share with me a space…in my lived experience
We relate through familiarity of the alphabetic symbols we agree to be letters formed into words, and they make sounds between our ears. This is a medium of communication that is unspoken, yet has tangible form. But what is spoken and heard can be very different
This film is related to that
It is a sad comedy about drunk clowns laying on beds of nails with sad faces and dreams of levitation
Offstage. Extended silence. And shuffling of feet & papers
Someone whispers in the shadows – what the fuck is she talking about?
Is she talking about her father again?
Maybe we should put the kettle on and give her a minute?
Hang on, she just twitched. Cancel the tea
I am not Missy Jubilee. But Missy Jubilee is me. Just as Aladdin Sane is not, & also is, David Bowie. He said that using a stage persona gave him a lot of freedom as a performer. They are convenient brutal truthful facades for the weaker self image
With hindsight, in the 2 years before my 14th birthday, I was pushed, or fell, into a into a space I didn’t care to be in. It seemed that events were moving too fast, and they were pushing me inwards into a defensive crouch. I wanted to believe someone would save me from some piece of mind where the sun neither rose nor set
penitent/adjective: feeling or expressing sorrow for sin or wrongdoing and disposed to atonement and amendment; repentant; contrite
I said things, made arrangements of letters into forms which cannot be taken back….nor do I care to do so…it is done. I lost my head but found my heart. Should I make excuses for that?. Depends if I was lying, being manipulative or somehow found calm acceptance. I don’t sense any internal calamity, so I let it be.
Part 3: Vulnerability is a fuck of situation
“Breathe, motherfucker” – Wim Hoff, Dutch adventurer who climbed Mt Everest in nothing but a pair of shorts
A lot of my emotions are in chalk and get washed away with the rain no matter how pretty they are. The question I ask myself is. Why is that little Missy Insane?
“When a person goes mad, it simply shows that they were the weakest link in the group in which they used to live – for example, in a family
If the family is neurotic – as families are – then the person who is the weakest in the family will become neurotic. And through that person the whole neurosis of the family will start flowing. They become a safety valve for the neurotic family.
So the person is sent to the psychiatrist and the psychiatrist is ready to label them: she is a schizophrenic, or a manic-depressive, or this or that. She is labelled.
The family is happy – they were right. And she cannot say anything because the family says she is mad and now, finally, the psychiatrist confirms that she is mad.”
-Osho Rajneesh. The Pathless Land
Part 4: I know I’m not crazy because crazy people don’t know they’re crazy
Munchausen syndrome by proxy (MSBP) is a behaviour pattern in which a caregiver or parent
fabricates, exaggerates, or induces mental, psyhical or emotional problems in those who are in their care in order to gain emotional benefit for themselves
Why would anyone think in such a way as I do – I ask myself. Am I possessed? Only by inaccuracies which I invented, which I see now as self destroying
The one constant is I keep my expectations low
Some of my actions past could be condemned or likened to those of an animal concerned with survival, gratification..instinctual. Those actions weigh, have weighed, heavily upon my perverted self image
I am not rid of them, that may take the rest of my life – but I accept this as a gift not a challenge
Refuse me/Diffuse me
Tie me down/Accuse me
It’s ok/It’s ointment for my scars
You can’t delete me
I’ve already tried
every which way
If I knew how to un-be
I would be
There is a battle going on
in front of my eyes
Ego points a finger
Is that a surprise?
Or are you acting out again
Through those sweet blue eyes
I hear voices. That is a confession. I embrace them now as a sideshow. It is what it is. They are who they are. They seem to have settled in. I fear them less. They are even entertaining. I think everyone has them – it’s just that mine seem to be very loud
Mind you, I haven’t heard anyone else’s voices, so I have little comparative data to analyse
The most difficult thing about it is that they make my head run too fast for me to catch – it’s like running for a bus headed to a place of anythings and anywheres, and never catching it, so therefore going nowhere. And it is loud
The voice who wrote that is the smart one…quick wit..keeps up on worldly affairs..she takes care of business. No time for any foo foo stuff. But mention emotions and there is an immediate anger.
I tried to explain there is no way to get around a feeling, an emotion needs time and space, a bit of consideration. But she went quiet.
I’m looking into the screen trying to validate what I just wrote
I have some advice for you the voice says
Your Mom was a cunt. Your Dad was a cunt. But it isn’t a genetic character trait. Unless it is
She leaves the room
This all happens in a dark room in my head. The real me sits in the corner with a ragdoll and just watches and takes notes. She is always six years old
My head feels like a fishbowl. But more like the bowl than the fish
Beyond that, it gets little confusing
-readily assuming different forms or characters; extremely variable
Part 5: Sexual propulsion in conjunction with images, guilt and pleasure is intoxicating. It feels similar to riding your cat through a magical rainbow world and wishing the dream weaver could knit your thoughts together in a tighter pattern. Like I do that all the time
Is love a kind of gravity for the soul?
Is loving something to do when there’s nothing left?
What is love?
Maybe It is whatever you want it to be
Has anyone ever said “I love you” without you doubting it every goddamn time?
Rough love. Tough love. Hammer in a velvet glove
I have felt very lonely for a long time apart from books and notes arranged in musical form. It’s such a treasure to walk into the notes, the lining of somebody’s heart peeling out like a church bell
This detachment from society – it’s being handled. I am slowly coming to realize there has been a rather poor production of positive self image
Is this what they mean when they say life catches up with you – when your emotions are running around with their knickers around their ankles?
But nobody can say that bitch can’t take a beating. So there’s that
At 4pm each day, other voices wake
They are the night voices
I’m resisting another voice…literally telling it to stay away
Go away bad and ugly thoughts
Pack your shit
Your case is flawed
You should be hung in a Gallery
You steal emotion
You don’t feel
You’re not real
But you are
What really went through my head as I walked along the beach instead of submitting?
Did I give up at that point?
Did my 14 year old self say fuck it, they’re all fucked up, so why not?
I walked and walked to find peace. I didn’t find peace, but I found something to write about, something I had been looking for a long time – something to fill the silence in me
A piece of work
A history unwritten
A past in the works
My cups overflows
Darker, thicker and more electronic
Than your average dirt
But dirt just the same
And you can grow beautiful things in dirt
So I try