Missy Jubilee. Notorious

One of those long intimate post thingys huh? 

Sooooo…what’s this one about then?

Here’s the answer for minimalists who don’t like reading and are pushed for time.

New remix. Notorious B.I.G. Missy. Here. Click. Push play. Boom boom. Bye bye.


Now, for those of you who stayed, three things:

Firstly, hello….

2. this is the second part of the Penis Envy jigsaw. It is the second song for the film, without any visuals. It is a remix of an old Notorius B.I.G song called Get It On – but it isn’t the T Rex song. If you’re interested, it is worth having a listen to the original song before you listen to the remix. It is an example of the remix that is unlike the original. It is effectively a new song as defined by current copyright law.


3. Facebook keeps asking ‘what’s on your mind like some pseudo super emo empathic freak friend who is only ever interested in how you are ‘feeling’ and asks you that every time you look at them. 

I would find that creepy after a while. I would read a book hoping not to make eye contact. Don’t be that person Facebook.

But let’s just pretend you did ask ‘Missy, let’s have a coffee. Now tell me, what’s on your mind?’

I would say. Well thank you for asking. Not much. And ask you what was on your mind.

But if you dig below the not so subtle deflection, I would have turned the attention back on you because well, why would you ever be interested in what I’m thinking. I would just bore you.  

We would have a conversation and I would watch your face go from interest to ‘Jesus, will you just stop’. 

Then they’d be an uncomfortable silence. You’d leave. And I then I would think to myself, there you go, you’ve bored another person. Just stop trying. Just disappear.
That is one thing going on in one part of my brain. It is not rational. But it exists in my head.  

That part of my brain is quite down on itself. I imagine a goth or Neil from the Young Ones living in that bit of my head. 

But in another distinct part of my brain, this is what I am thinking. 

My creative process is on my mind. It seems to boil down to this:
1.    This is awesome.
2.    This is tricky.
3.    This is shit.
4.    I am shit.
5.    This could be ok.

So, my summary of my creative process is……..I am ecstatic about possibilities, but then rollercoaster downward on the self doubt express. 

‘It’s ok’. That’s as much as I will ever let myself think about my own work. 

In other words, if it doesn’t suck, I’ve had some kind of a win. 

Another interpretation is - It’s not going to embarrass anybody. 

(look for the words ‘How could you embarrass us like this!!!’ in an upcoming episode called ‘Descent into Hell’, it might help you understand why my mind defaults to this self belief)

I know things shouldn’t be like this. But they are. In that part of my head.

How is this relevant to listening to this remix?

This remix is different. It isn’t about its quality or expectations. 

It’s about its importance and significance as a genre to the project, and by extension – my sexuality  

This remix is about a couple of seconds in time. 

Two one second moments that are the only slivers of memory I have, frozen frames in my timeline, but these two seconds have had an extraordinary effect on my music tastes. 

Because this genre represents my sex music. The music of the predator.

But I don’t know why

However, I do have some conclusions about something else related to this music.


Actually, more time than clocks. 

I have come to understand by a process of observation that there are three times of the day that I can identify that cause physical emotional reactions in me, and therefore might be significant clues.

These times also repeat constantly in all my memories. I am not ruling out that other times are significant, but it is my assumption that these times are significant for some specific reason that I’m not aware of just at this moment.

These times are 10am, 6pm (dusk) and 4am.

6pm (dusk). 
If I am alone, I experience spasms of dread and fear that radiate through my body. You know that sick feeling you get in the pit of your stomach? That’s what I get. Every dusk. Like something bad is going to happen. I don’t know what I am fearing. I don’t enjoy the sensation. 

It stops as soon as it is completely dark. 

I only became aware of this about 2 years ago, even though I now know that this is how I have felt all my life. 

I am getting closer to identifying the age that it started.  

I have memories of me as a child of 6 years stopping myself going to the bathroom to defecate. 

I would hold on for days, days and days. When you do that, you create that fearful sick sensation in the pit of your stomach feeling. And a lot of pain.

It is agony. But I enjoyed the sensation. Immensely

I remember creating that feeling. I looked forward to it each day

I remember every afternoon at a specific time (around dusk) standing in a particular spot at my grandmother and grandfathers house, downstairs where my grandfathers workshop was, against the corner of a particular table with my legs crossed in complete painful ecstasy as I refused to let myself go to the toilet. 

I didn’t want to fail by giving in. I would do it until tears ran down my eyes and the pain caused me to double over.

Same place. Same time. Same thing. Every day for how long I don’t know. I could say a year, but I really don’t know. I am sure that was more than a couple of times. It was lots of times.

I have no idea why I started doing it, or when I stopped. But the memory is strong and clear, which is interesting, because I have so few memories of up to the age of 12.

No-one ever caught me doing it, so no-one ever knew about it. 

Before now, I have only ever told Max.

There are certain theories as to what this indicates in children. I am aware of them, but I don’t buy into any of them. There is no evidence or memory of the obvious. Those few memories of me feeling that joyous pain are all I have.

Psychiatrists have said that this behaviour in children is indicative of anal rape and is acting out the experience. 

But the counter is, there are children who do it who haven’t had this experience. It is not conclusive.

But it is linked to childhood trauma of some kind.

Nothing proves anything until I can get hold of a solid memory that I believe to be truthful by going through the process I’m going through dumping my brain, weirdly, onto the internet. If I have blocked something out, I believe I can recover it by laying everything out. Out of my head. Because my head has not really processed any of this effectively. This project has.

This has been the story of dusk.

If you watch our films, look for dusk settings. 

And………………….everything lived happily after.


The other two times are:

A pathological need to seek danger. Most of the beach videos happen at this time. My understanding at present is that this gave me the maximum danger time before the sun went down. Then I say to myself, does that link to the dusk feeling of fear?. Is there an inverse reaction to the danger when the sun goes down? And if so, what causes it? 

I don’t know. 

This is the time I enter a very specific persona. It is highly sexualised and hunts.
This persona only operates when all other personas have been shut down. There is only one voice when this persona emerges. This is the voice of a predator. This persona is only ever a silhouette. That is all I see in my mind. 

A dark shape amongst dark shapes of dark music

It hunts for weakness. Everything else in my head runs away from this persona. Except the little writer in the corner perched on the chair. She just takes notes. For some reason, the predator lets the writer stay. 

I find that curious.

Let me state for the record, I am the first person to realise that I sound like a total and complete tripper. 

But this my best attempt at explaining the possible significance of those times and what I have been able to observe happening in my mind through a process of detachment through writing.

I’m now doing this writing in public. To shock and overload my brain with memories as a way of jogging something loose. These are the notes we make films out of. This is my mind spilling. As it is wont to do.

I wish it wasn’t this confusing and cartoon like, but this is my reality. This is how my brain operates. These are the things I see in my head. If you think it’s weird, you should trying living in it. It’s totally fucking exhausting living in a constant state of fight or flight. 

No wonder I thought I was insane for so long. 

This remix is about the first time 4am became significant in my life.

It was in a black underground club in the meat packing district in New York. I was a white 22 year old girl in an underground black club, in New York, filled with only black people, at 4am precisely. 

It was hot. And fearfully loud. And it was the darkest club I had ever been in. You could only see silhouettes and shapes bathed in deep blue strobe light. And eyes. 

Lots and lots of eyes. 

No smiles. 

This was a serious place where smiling was a sign of weakness. You got that vibe straight up. You put your head down. A serious place with serious music and serious people. You didn’t smile at these people. And I liked that. Because I don’t smile. 
Have you noticed? 

And their music was angry. And threatening. And demanding. Full of menace. 

And it was poetry of the highest order, about things that were grimy, like power, and needs, doing what you have to do because of who you are

And they used the names they got called as empowerment.

Nigga. Thug. Gangsta
Slut. Pervert. Deviant

They are all the same. They are meant to exclude.

These early rappers were poets, and they told stories about being born into ‘a situation’.

This remix is an echo of that moment. This is that music as best I remember it. Even though this song didn’t exist then.

I have only two memories of that night.

Memory 1.

Every time I listen to this remix, it takes me straight back to that one specific and place, where all these anonymous eyes were looking at me with threatening sexuality because I was the odd person out sitting in the corner next to the speakers, hiding, having my brains scrambled a decibel at a time. 

The fear is the only emotion I remember. 

I always see one blue particular strobe light, one pair of eyes, and I am always in the same spot, and in the same pose. In the corner sitting on a chair like the cover of the film Birdy. 

I am just looking. Holding a notepad. But making no notes. Just dumfounded by the sensory overload.

And music just like this remix is pounding through my body, with the bass psychically moving my clothing it was so loud. 

You didn’t listen to this music, it assaulted you. It was dangerous. 

It was a mix of rap vocals and deep house bass and drum patterns at a speed I had never heard before.

Most rap, not all, but most is around 90-100 beats per minute. This was 125 beats a minute. Where most dance music is at.

But you didn’t dance to this music. It was all grind and prowl. Just a single heaving mass of aggression, threat and sex. 

Drugs were everywhere. And in every one. Not happy drugs. Trouble drugs. Really dark angry drugs. PCP drugs. 

That’s what I felt in the air, and what I saw was on their minds. 

I was so threatened by the environment that I processed it as sexual arousal.  

I liked the attention of the anonymous masses in a dangerous situation that was drenched in sexuality. 

Sound familiar? It does to me when I break it all down like this.

Another data point.

Memory 2.

The only other thing I remember is walking home alone through New York at 5am in the morning. And tripping on a pavement stone at a particular spot. 

I can remember what colour everything was. That is all I can remember. Nothing else. Just that moment. I don’t remember getting home. I don’t remember the next week. 

Nothing. It’s just blank.

Like a film missing footage.

Like so much of my memory.

So I taught myself film making because I have been living life within the intricacies of madness & delirium.

I am self taught in all creative pursuits.

Because I refuse to take guidance.

I refuse to read manuals, or learn the correct way to do things, or take courses. I just figure out how to do stuff my own way. I never knew why until quite recently. It’s because I believe deep down, if you learn to do things like everyone else, then your work will be like everyone else’s.

I have spent so much of my life not being everyone else through exclusion that it would make no sense at all to even try. Normal and I have a very tenuous relationship.

If I have any skills – they are in film making, music and writing. These are the things I want to get better at.

Probably the most important to me is the writing – because everything else supports the writing. 

The writing is the self-medication. No-one’s giving me pills anymore, except me.

If someone said, ‘Missy, you can have anything you want in this pretend world. What do you want?

I would wish to be considered an important & unique writer – like Charles Bukowski.

Actually, it’s the only thing really. Besides a unicorn. But unicorns aren’t really that useful. I don’t know why everyone fusses over them so much

I think great writers are all tortured. 

They are also mostly crazy, but that is their asset - their skill is to decipher their warped view of the world in a way that is interesting and accessible to the general population. 

Their other asset is their pain

Everyone wants to experience it through someone else. They can say they have lived. Without the damage.

When I read Bukowski, he takes me into his gritty sadly ironic damaged mind. You can feel him mending as he writes. The torment leaving his memory one word at a time.

That is the talent I seek most. Because that is what I need.

It is frustratingly elusive some days. Today’s been fair to middling.

Peace, beans & things

p.s. I know 50% of people don’t like rap. I don’t like 90% of rap, most of it is just dumb. This isn’t dumb rap. 

This is poetry. 

This is Biggie.