Missy Jubilee. 054. Prequel

Missy Jubilee. 054. Prequel

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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
Before sighing
And crying
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
Not unstrung
Of having human emotional symmetry
Gone wrong
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

And stupid

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

It is

I am

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 subject

An object

A piece of work

A history unwritten

A past in the works

My cups overflows

With dirt

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


Categories: Sex

One Comment on “Missy Jubilee. 054. Prequel”

  1. Dirk_Gently
    October 11, 2015 at 8:56 pm #

    This whispered discourse has floored me. I have wanted to respond now for what seems like ages, but could not find the one point I wanted to hang a response onto. I have chosen therefore this autumnal Sunday afternoon to put down my cup of tea and slice the cake into a quintet (to match your own).

    Part 1: I like ‘The Dance of the Naked She Robot’, you have that glint of idiom in your eye.

    Part 2: Do daughters look to their fathers image when choosing a mate? You know, I have never considered this. It has given me a protracted internal dialogue on the subject of influence that made my family think I was rebooting. It is true, that your children will be influenced by your actions. But as someone who’s formative years was spent with friends predominantly from single parent families, it is something I can’t relate to. Both my wife and I had lost our fathers before we were teenagers. Mine to cancer, hers to heart disease. Am I like her father? How the hell would I know? Are my Brothers-in-laws like my father? No idea. But the need for a role-model is strong when your clay is soft; in your teenage years. Finding like minded friends. Getting on with your Teachers at school. Having an active social life, are also influences. Some would say almost as strong as familial pressure.

    Part 3: Life is not all about choices. In fact your life is more determined by where you live, how much money you have and what sex you are born with than what you are able to do with the life you are given. Particularly as all of us have only a limited influence on those around us. Parents have more influence though, I agree with you on that. There is power in flooding a new human with thoughts and ambitions. Social skills, sharing, creativity, communication are all things learnt in the first few years of life, and the biggest influence on these are your parents then your teachers. But then you grow up. Then comes the raging hormones of puberty and suddenly you have a time bomb of emotions; through the cloud of which choices seem pointless or missing. Nurture is of therefore vital. But do not underestimate the power of nature in all this. Damaged people are often those who succeed in this world.

    Part 4: Life as an illusion. It is a tempting premise isn’t it? I get the multi personality nature of people. We all act out our lives to each other in different ways. The way we behave in front of certain people may not always be the way we act in front of others. If that makes sense. I guess it is different parts of our personality coming to the fore in different mixtures.

    Part 5: I love the poetry of this part, and the honesty. Love is not the same as sex. We learn that as we grow. But when you are young it seems as if they are one and the same thing. ‘Is love a kind of gravity for the soul?’ You got it.

Talk to me baby

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