By Alan Rogers, London
There is a wide belief that men on average think about sex every 7 seconds. It is, of course, bollocks.
My theory is that nearly all men never stop thinking about sex. I suspect women do not either, although I accept that the difference in attitudes to sex mean that the thoughts vary wildly from person to person. And of course, not being born with a woman’s mind, mean that I cannot possibly hope to interpret the neural patterns behind the bangs.
I do not mean to suggest that sexual thoughts are ‘all consuming’ that nothing ever gets done. That the famous masculine trait of being inept at multitasking, mean that men cannot concentrate on anything else. That male pilots are always at risk of crashing their airplanes due to minds wandering to lust.
I mean that (I believe) thoughts about sex to be a continual background task being processed by the brain. It is (of course) at a base level; an instinct. Which is why I feel sex is never far from our thoughts in some form for both sexes.
Ah. You say. But what about asexual people?
Hmm. I reply. Of course there are those who have suppressed the instinct, possibly due to trauma or lifestyle, or maybe they were just born that way. But I am generalising. I mean the general populous. We are all passive light-switches waiting for the right action to turn us on.
For the background sex task to pop up front and centre waving its knickers in the air.
I remember a study being done where the eyes (pupils) of a group of people were analysed to see where they flitted during a mock social event. Men and women looked first into strangers eyes, but quickly flitted all over their bodies, lingering (most tellingly) for men on women’s breasts and/or buttocks, and for women on the male crotch bulge and/or buttocks. That is the background task at work; unconsciously assessing the likelihood of sex. The subjects were surprised as their (conscious) brain had not registered that they were even doing this.
7 seconds. Pah.
Warning this film contains a space cadet
I will keep my eye out for one.
PROLOGUE
What do you wnat to be when you grow up?
My sister swears blind that I used to say that I wanted to be a Canadian Mounted Policeman. Strange thing for a boy in London to want to be, but there you are.
The eternal un-ceasing question
That all kids are subjected to from age 5
Oh. The ambition!
A question repeated thousands of times
With only one guaranteed outcome
Childhood early onset anxiety disorder
I must have been a strange child. I doubt I worried about being a mountie.
At 5 years old, I wanted two things.
To be a librarian. Or to live in outer space
How about a librarian on the death star? That would be good. Telling Darth Vader to be quiet because people are trying to study.
Disparate aspirations
Yes. I grant you that
But both have the same three universal rules
The three rules of librarians & space are:
- BE QUIET
- THINGS MUST BE RETURNED NO LATER THAN THE LAST DATE SHOWN
- DO NOT INTERFERE WITH THE NATURE OF CAUSALITY
In Pratchett’s ‘Discworld’ series, the Librarian of the Unseen University is an Orangutan (he was made into one, due to a magical accident). He resists any attempt to turn him back into a human, as he prefers his ape form. Not sure that is interfering with the nature of causality though.
Those rules do not apply to space cadets
Warning: space cadet
Who? Where?
Slut (noun); woman who likes sex as much as a man
Ah. Haven’t seen that in a while. Still makes me smile.
TITLES
Manufactured dolls. No hidden meaning here.
Or, how I became the first barbie in space
ACT 1
I’m not sure of my reason for being
You are not sure of your reason for being what?
Like a dolphin. Always looking for your porpoise.
I have often wondered
Why did I wake up one morning
And decide that I wanted to be
An emotional space cadet
You did?
Well. I don’t know what an emotional space cadet is. Let’s assume it is something fun.
And make 250 films over 15 years
It was always a big task. 250 films is a lifetime journey. 15 years is getting close to a generational gap.
About myself and my sexual baggage
To be fair. Most of your films contain angst and wrath against the machine; but you have dropped some sexual baggage on the carousel too. I hope the confessions did not make you uncomfortable. You do not come out of them as someone who should be ashamed of their sexual history. In fact, you come across as someone who has enjoyed themselves and had the opportunity to do so. It makes a lot of us jealous I think.
I came upon enlightenment
RECENTLY
These films
Are my spaceship
A VEHICLE
In which I could leave
Reality and it’s gravitational pull
Ha.
Now. I used to dislike the fact that your life was being shown though a filtered lens. That there was an exaggeration of sorts. But I am susceptible to the narrative. Now, I don’t mind the filter. I want to know the story, regardless of fact.
Sometimes I find your films frustrating in that aspect. That the story is dangled like a carrot. But it is always out of reach. The conclusion eludes me (us?). I (We) never see what happened next. If I didn’t know you better; I would say you did that unintentionally.
I could be an aggronaught
Alone in outer space
Finally free from the abstractions
Whose truths have glued me to the earth
Nice words. Abstract Missy.
In a very real state of confusion
Then my mind posed two questions
Your mind?
Actually, one question and a doubt
ACT 2
Don’t fuck it up girlie
Sound advice. Normally given to someone just before they fuck it up.
The question was
What would I do in outer space?
So lets run with this metaphor then for a bit. You are in a spaceship of your own making, playing the role of a character you have invented. What would you do?
The doubt was more practical
Yes. There is the carrot; as the narrative dangles.
If I was to be
The first australian in space
Could I handle the pressure?
Let me google that for you. Nope; his name was Andy Thomas from Brisbane.
But this is a character in a play, right? So lets go with the story…
A whole country watching you
Collectively murmuring
Don’t fuck it up girlie
Would you trust this face with anything?
Rhetorical question. Move on.
That would be a lot of stress
So I changed the subject
This narrative is getting more abstract by the minute. Is this what you mean’t by the term ‘dream sequence’?
And the typeface
ACT 3
What’s the address of angels?
SOMETIMES..
WE HAVE..
Absolute certainty..
There’s something inside us..
That is so hideous..
And monstrous..
That if we search it out..
We won’t be able to stand to look at it..
It is when we are willing..
To come face to face with that demon..
That we can see our angels.
So this feels like an internal dialogue. A musing of the state of the ego.
It is true that we are all capable of the most hideous of acts. We are all capable of imagining the very worst of humanity.
The act of being is a complex dance. One which takes the extraordinary and creative mind, and partitions it off so that the boring part of our lives can be undertaken without drama.
ACT 4
Even space cadets have realisations
So what have you realised? Also, I presume by ‘space cadet’ you are referring to yourself?
Outer space is where angels are
Hmm.
It was all starting to make sense
Au contraire.
The practical question was this
What would I do when I got up there?
Can you hear me Major Tom?
It would have to be more consequential
Than staring out the window
Watching the world go by
And every 1 hour and 20 minutes saying
I’m pretty sure I saw my house down there
For some flights, my house is on the flight path into Heathrow. I have definitely seen my house from the airplane window.
And then, as I imagined liftoff
It came to me
I could throw out my emotional baggage
Not sure it is a good idea to open a door during lift off. Oh, you don’t mean literally?
Into each passing black hole
Best place for emotional baggage. Iv’e always said. Your black hole.
ACT 5
Telemetry horribilus
Not sure whether you mean Horribilis or Horribilus or even what the difference is.
What if my discarded emotional baggage
Caused a weight disparity
In the engineers telemetry calculations
Now you are talking my language.
And the unbalanced spaceship
Hurtled back to earth
And I was to be incinerated in shame
NO WOMAN
Would ever get another space gig
But you would die a hero, right?
Then something truly bizarre happened
More bizarre than opening a spaceship door and throwing emotional baggage into a black hole?
An out of control spaceship passed
Within inches of my head
So close I could touch it
Before it exploded into a fireball
You are right. That is truly bizarre.
90 seconds later
It was at this stage
That I probably wasn’t
Made of the right stuff
And astronauting was probably
Best left to the menfolk
Because they seem to be
Less flammable than women
You are not drawing me into that argument. I can see that trap from a mile off.
This is probably why
You rarely see female firefighters
Nope. Not going there.
The blast forcefield knocked me out
And I entered a trippy dream state
And the thing that occupied my thoughts
Was if a man crashed a $2b spaceship
Would he ever get another gig
What else could he do with his life?
You are assuming he would have survived the crash?
If he became a schoolbus driver
Yeah. Why not? Sounds plausible.
No mother would let their kid on the bus
He’s the bloke that crashed the saturn v
Nasa probably wouldn’t even send out
A search party
He would probably have to walk home
Or catch the schoolbus.
ACT 5
Advanced resusitation techniques
Misspelling of resuscitation and haven’t we already had Act 5?
Each person is a side effect
Of an evolutionary process
That cares little for individual lives
We are all failed experiments in mutation
Or successes. There are many ways to look at that problem.
‘nearly’ only counts
In horseshoes and hand-grenades
All memories to tell you the truth
AREN’T GOOD
ON THAT DAY
The failed astronaut felt the biting pang
Of every fulfilment
And then he saw me
‘great’ he thought to himself
I killed that naked chick too
I was waiting for these words to make sense, then all of a sudden a narrative breaks out. Is this the chance to bite the carrot?
But maybe she isn’t dead
If I saved her, maybe I could redeem myself
But the violent crash
Had scrambled his brain
And his biological perception
His plan was to save me
With mouth to mouth resusitation
Misspelling of resuscitation. But please continue. This is at last getting traction.
But complex spacecraft crash ptsd
Caused him to confuse my mouth
With my vagina
As he prepared to resusitate me
His whole body was sucked into my vagina.
Nope. We are back into the bizarre again. Carrot snatched away.
And the black hole inside me engulfed him
And then my vagina spat him back out
But he was not the same person
Is this a metaphor?
ACT 6
I don’t need anyone
Because I will be the last to fall
This argument can be made inverse. You could conceivably need someone if you believe you will fall first or last.
He had suffered a transference of spirit
Could be worse.
And it made him feel very lost
Emotionally, sexually & mentally
Although interestingly
He retained his sense of direction
He knew instinctively which way was home
Past the dinosaur then turn left
Ooh. The narrative has returned.
But he had been infected
With an unshakeable malaise
That became disabling every night
That’s when the memories returned
He had a chance to be a hero
But he fucked it up
There would be no cheering crowds
No marching bands
Isn’t there something absurd about marching bands anyway? Most of those instruments were not meant to be played while walking.
I saw (during the Jubilee celebrations) mounted bands. People playing trombones on horseback. I mean that sort of thing should only happen in the circus.
Not only had he failed
He now realised
He was a failure
His worst nightmare
Became his constant reality
There was only one option
Go to the refrigerator
There is a secret code
For failed astronauts
THE VACAY
The vacay had been discovered
On the dark side of the moon
And it only ate one thing
SADNESS
Like a human sucking out snake venom
The vacay would suck out sadness
But at a terrible price
Because it ate lifeforce as dessert
I thought you said it only ate one thing?
Leaving an empty human carcass
So not so helpful then?
As it feasted on the internal black hole
Until he was
Beyond fear
NEVER
ACT 7
What type of continuity shit is this
Yeah. I mean we all know this is Act 8. Don’t we?
You might wonder how I knew all this
I am guessing you made it all up.
Well, by co-incidence
My editor tiger-massimo dejulio
Was walking his dog along the beach
And he saw a man in a silver spacesuit
Disappear into my vagina
And then re-emerge five minutes later
Tiger-massimo is a man of few words
And all he had to say about it was
‘Stand by for re-entry?’
When I finally regained consciousness
I felt lighter
I realised something very important
I had to stop smoking this hydroponic shit
I had this very weird dream
That nasa had tested
An experimental resusitation technique
And used me as a guinea pig
I also dreamed that
The vacay is actually amber heard
Sucking the life out of vulnerable men
Are they putting pcp in dope these days?
Probably.
CREDITS
When you walk along the beach naked
It gives you time to think
And what I thought about was
Why aren’t there more women astronauts?
Fucking gender politics
In fact, the issues with the patriachy
(Patriarchy)
Made me so unbalanced
I had to check into the vacay clinic
But tiger-massimo came to visit me
He made everything ok
Because he told me
HIS TRUTH
EPILOGUE
Tiger-massimo dejulio loves me
Is this a confession? Sweet if so.
My past is everything I failed to be
But yesterday is not today
Many a true word spoken in jest.
THE END
Postscript
How to spot a vacay in 60 seconds
The vacay believes in herself
She believes in her quixotic ambition
Letting the failures of the previous day disappear
As each day dawns
Sounds legit.
Amber heard never failed
Other people just succeeded more than she did
And burning inside that funeral pyre is the truth.
Did JD slap AH? Probably. Did EM slap AH? Probably. Did AH slap them back? Possibly. Is slapping anyone (in anger) forgivable or justifiable? Nope. Is it provable? Nope. Is it newsworthy? Only because of celebrity.
I am not sure why you included the bit about AH in this film. There is much conjecture and of course the trial ran like a soap opera, but in terms of ‘lessons learned’ I cannot think of any. It was a lose-lose situation IMHO.
The film itself was (as expected) a creative abstract, with a wildly oscillating narrative that in places felt like you were trying hard to fit the visuals to the narrative rather than the other way around.
Footprints in the sand will not be there tomorrow. A new day beckons.
19°C Clear
London, England, United KingdomUntil next time. My heroine.
Alan Rogers