Watch episode 43 of 250 - the new film 'Masturbativ'
Washing Day is an over-exposed pictorial deep dive into my childhood sexualisation of a domestic chore - for an audience of one peeking over the neighbours fence. His name was Brian. He was a quiet boy. I wonder where he is now. I hope I didn't break his brain
Note to self. Remember to never fall into the audience. The mirror is dangerous enough
Stills, long form script & background briefing about the upcoming film 'Washing Day'.
A film about clothes and control, or lack thereof
So…it’s been a while.
The last original film we released was Sunshine in October 2014.
For someone so prolific, it has been quite an about face. You could blame it on randomly mutating personality disorder.
Or complete mental burn-out.
'Work will set you free' says the motivational poster. That's a crock. It's also a sign the Nazis hung at the entrance to Auschwitz
Two years, 64 films, five deep cut scars on my wrist, and a charge of assault occasioning actual grievous bodily harm. It's almost suicide bomber-esque in its nihilistic trajectory
Can you fathom the answer to questions I left un-asked about my state of mind. Does it involve the word un-hinged?
Am I looking to be rescued? I don't know. The rescue scenario is wishful thinking. It's like asking does the Devil need rescuing from trauma and pain. Some things are just embedded in our DNA, or experience. If it hadn't have taken place, I wouldn't have to figure it out now. Maybe that would be a bigger shame?
Fortunately, those days are gone, but the memories are still around - which is why I work hard to deconstruct them
All things in moderation, including moderation
Now, it's down to one word
A simple 2x4 letter word. Is it something to do with absolution? I hope so
I think that word has a lot to do with being done.
To be done with the self-inflicted crime and punishment
To be done with the perceived personal short comings
To be done with the self criticism
What a thought. Where do I sign?
Creativity earned, but at the cost of the razors edge, is ruthless self sabotage dressed in the cloak of progress.
For us, this projekt has had real life, and real body, costs. Best slow down and make sure I'm still driving the bus at the end of the dreams of completion I once dreamt
fritter/verb - to squander or disperse piecemeal; waste little by little
I felt something break after Christmas. Pretend got upended. I felt all bent the fuck up like I was being spoon-fed gravity. It killed my entire artistic mental subculture. Becoming hell bent on pulling that one loose thread that seemed to be the only thing holding my head together
Ask anyone that has suffered through a slow motion mental breakdown
My resume almost read 'dead person' - if a couple of scars were a millimetre to the left
It's not the resume I want, so can somebody just give me a box of fucking chocolates so I can eat myself into a sugar high?
During the last three months, I often felt like giving up. But each time I remembered, I have a lot of motherfuckers to prove wrong
Washing Day is me back in the saddle
Back in control of my mind after a 2 week, 2,000 kilometre road trip without any cameras, to regain some sense of self that isn't for public consumption. To create a small safe space for dangerous times
Washing Day is me writing about my past
Not my present writing about me
It's all about control of the inputs
"No man knows himself until he has seen the darkness within himself" - Epictetus. Greek Stoic philosopher (55 – 135 AD)
As a film, Washing Day will be different
It will be the first film to my voice as the voice-over instead of titles
With every film, we try to do something different.
Whether it is the way we film it, the content, the music, the structure, the pacing, the way we use titles or the way it is edited.
Some go too far. Some go not far enough. It's the only way to know where the edge is
The formula is - not to have a formula.
The goal is to be able to see an artistic & creative progression from film 1 to film 250. And also get people talking honestly about sexuality. Simply inspiring debate is a heck of an accomplishment when we live in such a spoon fed world of information.
And that means being comfortable with the concept of never fearing to fail. To always be willing to push past the boundaries knowing you can always dial it back.
And it means never ever pandering to audience expectations, because those expectations will limit me to my best to date.
My best is yet to come. That is one of the few things I do know with certainty
Because my job is not to entertain. My job is to make you think, to make the viewer uncomfortable with truths, that as a society we have learnt to avoid.
Sometimes I succeed.
Sometimes I fail.
I believe that is the nature, and cost of art that is truly original. A success rate of 51% is what I seek. It is the reason I get up each morning. It is the reason I think about everything. Including why I prefer to hang out the washing naked. Even if the neighbours can see my perversion in action in real time
Do their whispered conversations about my kink mean I exist? That I'm not invisible and powerless?
It is what it is.
I didn't choose it. It chose me.
But then again....
Let me state for the record - I am a girl
It is an unspoken and un-acknowledged truth that girls like being looked at, and desired, when they are naked. It's biology. It is calculated. And it is primal. Attract, entrap, breed. It is how the human race and most of the animal kingdom is wired, and it is why we are all here.
Comfortable-shoe wearing feminists would burn me as a witch for writing such a truth, even though burning the messenger has never historically fixed anything
But I do love the smell of angry feminists denying the basic engineering of the female sexual psyche in the morning
It smells like the only Nirvana song you know
Teen spirit disguised as dangerous teen sexuality
And it starts young. Very young in some cases. Especially in mine
Anyone for a little Lolita with your main course of normality?
"Moments of clarity are so rare, I'd better document this. The view is fierce..." - Bjork, Vulnicura
There is a reason that the concept of the 'Lolita' is one of the most taboo and unspoken aspects of sexuality. Because as a society, it is forbidden to think of a girl under the age of 16 being in control of her sexuality, much less using it for her own enjoyment
For me, my journey to Lolitaville started here. On a washing day. A sunny Thursday
Who is to blame? Me? My mother? Brian? Society? Or the psychological construct that says children don't sexualise until the age of 12?
You decide. I just have opinions and some personal experience
Washing Day. My mother and me.
Or how I became a poster child for no-fucks-given sexuality
And so the story begins.....
I have strong clear memories of sitting next to my mother as she hung the washing out when I was 4 years old. Before I started writing this, I did not realize how much I remembered about this day. At some point early on in my life, this memory became important, and it was captured clearly in my mind
My mother was always naked when she hung out the washing. There was a lot of nudity in my childhood. For better or worse, it shaped my sexual adolescence
I watched her intently
While I picked flowers.
I too was naked, while I watched her. Seemingly peaceful, but shit was heavy in my little head. The whole time deconstructing adult sexuality. Unpicking the politics, predjudices and motivating shapes of the naked female body in a primitive four year old way.
My mother seemed a giant, all powerful, all good, all loving. Her nature didn't know ambiguity.
She liked to sing, like a bird on the wing. She would make all the bells go ding a ling ling. That was her thing. To sing
She looked beautiful, with a her halo of enlightened sex appeal. Too beautiful to be contrived. Too shapely to be calculated
But to me, she seemed needy. It was obvious, but not understood then, that attention meant she wasn’t invisible. It was pre-meditated ego preservation. I could sense the vulnerability to the weakness even then. It would help me see the same weakness in myself years later.
I was my mothers daughter, in name, attitude and foibles
Perhaps my mother was a victim of a confusing childhood too . Young minds get flipped with feelings of guilt, pleasure, shame - causing sensory and emotional overload.. We are all casualties of childhood in some way or another. Childhood is a bitch. On reflection, this may have influenced my attitude to having children
So how the fuck did I get here? A childhood memory about mirroring my mothers sexuality.
Well, I regret to inform you that I am simply trying my best to understand myself. I have no answers. Just the blurry facts.
Which are sometimes inconvenient or embarrassing. Or both
This is what I know.
I clearly remember watching her arms stretch up. Breasts lifting. I now know I was assessing the best views for a future male audience. And my mother was passing on her knowledge. Subversively. And secretly. With complete deniability.
My end purpose?
Well, it came to pass that I was in the early stages of a long game plan to understand, and use, female sexuality to effectively, and efficiently engage, and ultimately mesmerise and control a male audience. For my own evil ends. Because an erect penis has no capacity to think rationally. It is powerful men at their most vulnerable (see Bill Clinton,
Female sexuality is the one definitive power women have. It is an un-comfortable truth, but that doesn't make it less factual
Did you just call me a manipulative bitch?
If the name fits
I'm cool with it
So calm your tits
In 'The Big Blue Book of Insults to shame women who have too many opinions' - the first word is 'manipulative'. The second word is 'bitch'. If you want to shame me, at least read to the second page
Manipulative is a word almost exclusively applied to women
Manipulation, like taste in art, is subjective. It depends whether it is being done to you, or whether you are doing it. If you're a man, it's called strategy. In the great game of life, self interest & gender will always shape the insult.
Society judges women on everything to do with sex. Their attitude to sex, the number of sexual partners, the way they dress, the point in a courtship at which they choose to be sexual, the way they express their sexuality. It is no wonder that most women also have trouble confessing their actual turn-ons - even to themselves
I have no such problem
Superficially, sexuality is a feast for the senses
But at its essence, sexuality is about power. And if you're not a woman, you don't understand the lack of power women have to exist with in todays society. The imbalance is quite shocking
Somewhere deep in my four year old brain I said 'fuck that shit'. Or something similar
As the cliche goes - I didn't invent the game, I just play the game with what's available.
I started learning the tricks of my manipulation trade way back then - 28 years ago.
But I didn't know what I was learning.
Now I do
It was the first lesson in a PHD degree in the Weaponisation of Female Sexuality. From this moment on, I was on my way to being a future graduate of the Sexual Manipulation Industrial Complex
For me, admitting this truth is the foundation of a new real life - a life that does not rely on a Disneyland slaughterhouse of a negotiated and sanitised history
Because something was opened up way back then in order to put something in
Some would say that 'thing' was an awareness of coercive power and its corruptive abilities
Others would say it was the first manifestation of future sin
I would say it was both.
And who said women couldn't multi-task?
Eight years later, at the age of 12, I have my first memory of owning and using the perversion that my mother had innocently introduced me to
subrogate/verb - to put into the place of another; substitute for another
During school holidays, I would wait until both my parents went out, leaving me alone in the house
I would get undressed, do all the washing, and then go outside and hang it all up. My mother would be so impressed that her little girl was so very helpful. Little did she know what lurked behind this seemingly selfless deed. The concept of plausible deniability had entered my lexicon and thinking
But I would take the inch of awareness she gave me, and create a foot long dangerburger to play with.
A little sexual knowledge goes a long way in a young girls mind
I would start timing the hanging of the washing with the 16 year old boy next door practising his tennis swing against the fence. A fence you could see over, not by much, but by enough for my purposes.
He just didn't know it yet
I would walk to the clothes line
I scanned peripherally for him
I sensed him
I smelled him
I breathed him
I felt him being in the right spot
That was the sound of the moment when his mind his went from 'what the fuck' to 'oh my fucking God'
And for him, everything would stop. Time. Space. The Universe
Because in a world of a billion things
If it is possible to fixate on one thing
And one thing only
To the exclusion of everything else
And everyone else
To be completely & totally detached
From the rest of the world
And reduced to
A puddle of sexual white noise with a pulse
This was that moment
For me, something also happened that had never happened before
I realised I wasn't invisible.
In fact, I was the only thing that existed in his vacuum
In that brief moment, everything snapped into place, and I realised that I would no longer have to rent that 'invisible' headspace for the rest of my life
A reboot of my mind and a reset of my internal opinions was going to be required over time
I had learnt that 'visible' wasn't the opposite of 'invisible' in the sexual spectrum
The most powerful knowledge I would ever learn was....
Is the opposite of
Infatuation and invisible are absolutes at either end of the continuum
Visible is just a state somewhere in between the absolutes
You could have poured a ice bucket challenge over my head
This was not information any dictionary was ever going to tell me
And while I'm at it, stupid ice bucket challenges
But I still never looked at him, because that would make it too real. Anyway, I didn't need to see him. Like a blind person, every other sense would go into hyperdrive to compensate
I could feel every one of his glances, and they were making me question my vague sense of right and wrong.
Actually, to be truthful, there was no questioning of right and wrong. That was the furtherest thing from my mind
The perception of me as damaged goods was years away.
The self-loathing and the dirty laundry that went with my perversion were yet to enter my mental orbit
The whispers at school, the slut shaming and the judgements had not yet started
Right here. Right now
Quiet Brian from next door
Staring at me incredulously
Created tingles that made my body feel all weird and goosey
This was fun.
More fun than I had ever had
I liked this game
I could feel his obsession consuming him as he left his world and entered mine. Like a Tin Man on heat, more concerned with gathering memories for later masturbatory viewing than having a plan.
Nothing else existed for him in that vacuum of teenage lust but me
And it was the first feeling of control I had ever experienced.
This naked Babelism was as powerful and addictive as any drug I have ever tried since
And it was cheap, and easily accessible, like all good drugs of addiction
This body that I saw every day,
that I took for granted,
that I didn't particularly like,
which wasn't anything special
was able to create this obsessive indulgent reaction
I was bewildered
And confused by its power
But I was now weaponised with knowledge
and I should have been classified by the FBI as
dangerous as fuck
Because I was
I was like an infant Dr Evil
And I had just been given a naked nuclear weapon to play with
With hindsight, this was never going to end well
The more he watched. The safer I felt. Because he was embedding himself deeper and deeper in a moralistic hole
A basic math equation formed in my head
Judgement = time x repetition
If he told anyone now, after many long viewings, he would be judged the pervert. Not me.
Blame shifting disguised plausible deniability. Was it a slogan, a formula or a future way of life?
Besides, what was he going to do? Call the cops? Call his parents?
If you win Lotto, does it make any sense to question why you got the numbers?
Or if they are right? Or why it is happening? Or why the numbers aren't wearing clothes?
Way too much intellectualising of a simple two element equation
Naked + Girl = Good
It is the one biology test that every teenage boy will pass without even studying
And to pass, all he had to do was look
The strongest memory I have was feeling his stare as I bent over to pick up the clothes, and then reaching up to the clothesline to peg them up.
He saw what I saw. In my mother
Arms raising. Breasts lifting. Subtle bouncing, even with my still small, though rapidly developing, future weapons of mass distraction
I had learned the lesson of angles and lighting well. I had developed an eye for shapes that motivated and corrupted
As I reached up to the clothes line each time and felt his stare, I was being consumed by a sensation I had never felt before.
Intense sexual pain caused by danger
His focus felt like someone had attached a peg to each one of them, making them so hard and sensitive that I had trouble standing. My knees seemed to have been sent to another address for a holiday, and they didn't even have the courtesy to send me a postcard
At the age of 12, I finally figured out what these nipply things were for
They felt like they were trying to escape my body. It scared me, because I didn't ever want that feeling to stop. Ever
My three word mission statement became
Never ever stop
If nothing, it was concise
I even learnt how to increase and intensify the pain as time passed
I would let the clothes brush against my breasts as I hung them up. The sensitivity, and therefore the pain, would increase ten fold, making me close my eyes and silently let out weird little animal-like sounds that I had never heard before. More akin to growling than howling
I had no idea where the noises were coming from, or why I was making them, but I sure as hell wasn't going to stop - even if I could
It was at this moment, on reflection, that I can see that I made myself, unwittingly, into a trainee sexual masochist. It was not something any career counsellor ever identified
This went on for about three school holidays.
The shocking thought that I remember thinking, but not constructing conciously, during the last time this little show happened was....
'I really wish you would ask your friends to come over to watch'.
Seriously. What the fuck?. Did I just think that? Who the fuck am I? What the fuck am I?
These were the thoughts that filled the shocked space in my head, and they killed all sexual feeling I was experiencing up to that point
Another important lesson was learned. A conscience is not conducive to being a pervert. So I buried that memory, and my conscience very deep. The thought, but not the conscience, would re-emerge when I was 18, and start to be acted on in a numbers game that only karma would keep the score of
But quiet little Brian from next door never did invite his friends. Because he never knew what I thought
ZHe wasn't a mind reader, so danger never increased. So I had to move on
Because I had just sub-conciously introduced myself to the concept of...
'more is better'
It was to become the primary guiding motif that would come to shape my perversion. And it was birthed as a random thought that day in the backyard with Brian, the boy next door peeking over the fence, while he was masturbating his little heart out below the fence line, unbeknown to me at the time
Years later I would come to realise that the concept of exponenetial shame creation - One is good. Two is better. 10 is not enough - was a very efficient way of getting from A to B very quickly
I would come to understand that there was an exponential relationship between numbers and shame.
If 2 men produced 10 increments of shame, but 10 men produced 100 increments of shame - the way to efficiency was clear. To me anyway.
Maths had finally become useful in my life
So, if the masses wouldn't come to the pervert, the pervert would go to the masses.
A journey had started that day that would go from the backyard, to the open shower window, to the park down the road, to cars & buses and then to hundreds of beaches - and thousands of psuedo Brians.
All for one purpose. To relive and re-create that intense sexual pain from that day in the backyard
Conceptually, the formula was struck with broad brush strokes. Being naughty flicked triggers. But there was constant refinement and tinkering around the edges, as it was fine-tuned and made more effective and shocking over the years
The only ingredient that changed was the element of danger. That had to increase every time. Until it was off the charts. Until there was no chart big enough. Not even a chart in space
Theory has it that junkies are junkies because they spend their whole life chasing the euphoria of that first high with larger and more dangerous quantities of their drug of choice
I would not disagree with that theory
Excitement, shame and danger are the best words to describe the actual pyshical triggers for the manifestation of that sensation that I would chase for the next twelve years
In Junkieland, it's called Chasing the Dragon. The un-ending search for a replacement for naturally occuring serotonin and adrenaline - in excessive quantities
More is better is the junkie creed
That is why childhood my memories are gigantic creaking bytes of sexual shame from the muddy trenches of my sex life, surrounded by acres of calculated strategic indifference.
Sexuality as a weapon
A missile has no awareness of moral complexity. That would be problematic to the concept of war. It is a missile. It does what missiles do. It is why missiles exist.
It is why I existed
Clarity of purpose is a useful state of mind
There was no need for 'why?' - because that can be rationalised with 'why not?'
The only relevant question is....
By the time I finished hanging the washing, Brian would shamefully sneak away from view, while I was empowered by his infatuation - secure in the knowledge that he would be back for more.
Same time. Same place.
I don't think training dogs is as easy as training Brian was. That is not a critcism. It is a compliment. He indulged his kink just as much as I did. In art, it is called having a muse. In crime, it is called having an accomplice
I would see his light on in his room at night
I would wonder what he was thinking
Was he thinking about me?
I hoped so
I had no concept of male masturbation then. Of course now I know the obsession would have stayed like an infection consuming his teenage brain
Years later, I would see the same mindstate in casualty wards when meth addicts were bought in and locked in safe rooms to detox. Masturbating for days on end, they were chasing a sexual fixation that the meth had triggered deep in their brain - chasing orgasms that would never come because the meth had stolen their ability to resolve the brainlock that possessed them
When I was looking at the light in his room, he was probably beating the crap out of his penis trying to make it explode. Again. And again. And again
Should I apologise? You would have to ask Brian
Twenty eight years later, I walk out into the backyard naked, and a line full of laundry suggests that history has spun its yarn again with a different actor of the same last name, and a similiar fucked up emotional arrangement carried around as sexual baggage.
The circle has been squared. It ends where it started
But it never ends, if that is the only thing you know.
It just goes round and round. A surreal sexual merry go round that never gets old because each ride is more fully phreeky than the last
So many memories, and so many Brians - like pegs in my head
Each peg has a story. And a purpose. And a significance. And they are all stored in my brain so I can access them like porn addicts access Pornhub - except I don't need a password or a username
Each memory is relative to what I was looking for - or what I thought I lacked. My only one regret is - I was looking out, when I should have been looking in
When you boil it all down, life is quite simple really
A memory is a memory, until it's not. It is the first to be. And the last to see
I wish my sub-concious would learn to speak fucking English and stop majoring in cryptic shit
With 20/20 hindsight, I realise I have ended up creating a life that most resembles soap on a rope.
Hard to grab hold of, and always slip sliding away.
From one generation to the next.
From one person to the next.
From my mother to me.
From me to Brian.
From Brian, and hundreds of others, to......who the fuck knows
A disease. Like Ebola. But more fun
Long story short
The known unknown that is known is this....
You, yes you, are the newest, latest Brian from next door
See what I did there?
Technically, it's called a plot resolution in the third act
In real life, it's called a simple truth
The question is - did you win, or lose? Or was it mutually assured synchronistic moral corruption of like-minded souls?
I really don't know. But it certainly is a head scratcher
However, if you suffered any trauma along the way - here's a flower as a consolation
I picked it just for you.
28 years ago
Because we are all Brian, in one way or another, at sometime in our life
Is that what metamorphosis is?
"I'm Brian, and so's my wife" - Monty Python's Life of Brian (Crucifixion scene)
From universal consciousness
Of infinite dimension
I believe I heard
But made the mistake of
Thinking it was me
Where is my mind?
Would it like a cup of tea?
Can we sit and have a natter
About the thing
I thought was me?
"Like self-doubt, fear is an indicator. Fear tells us what we have to do. The more scared we are of a work or calling, the more sure we can be that we have to do it" –Steven Pressfield, The War of Art
Boo fucking hoo. I got washing to do
Meanwhile, in a parrallel universe - the Karma Circus was about to close for the night, and the last merry-go-round ride just pulled out
As it did, she felt the screams of all her wrongs in her shoes
Weird, she thought to herself. I thought I killed my conscience years ago
Turning to the fly on the wall for answers
I came with the right change
I came with the right game
I fought the good fight
Why was I on the wrong side of good, always feeling like a loose feather on the back of a constantly migrating goose?
'Bzzz' said the fly
At that moment, she realised that the wisdom of the fly is nothing to be under-estimated
Welcome to my mind
Where life is circular when you use insects as metaphors
Yours, while trying to fill out this damn form to live a normal life. Scroll down. Select. History. Illness. Option B. Mental. Click. Click. This is a long form. Click click click. Clicking like an African Bushman who has shot his last straight arrow at the only surviving unicorn on Earth. And missed. That's random he thinks to himself. It takes a while for the enormity of the situation to sink in. But at the end of the day, he rationalises, it's just more stuff. Besides, it wasn’t a perfect day. They rarely are. It was just another day. A day to give in to what is. So he walks home. Hungry. And alone. Again. Just like yesterday. And the day before.
This has been a short chapter from Missy Jubilee's 'Vagina'. My Lolita Life from the Inside Out
It contains fancy-schmancy odes about my sex life & abnormal existence within normal society, at a speed of 80,000 words a year
Disclaimer: These sentences were constructed by a button pushing monkey in the Missyverse Highfaluting Word Factory located in Outer-La La Land. When that monkey looks in the mirror, it sees bones, skin and musculature used for the sole purpose of survival. It realises it is a living thing that will kill, maim or eat itself, if push comes to shove.
The moral of the story?
Be careful when shoving monkeys. It can result in a full fat serving of fierceness. Just hand over the chocolate and make like the weather. Side note, it is ok to shove Unicorns. They are quite placid.
The preceding paragraph has nothing to do with any monkey living or dead. That I am aware of. But since 90% of my memory is corrupt - maybe not
"She didn't belong anywhere, and she never really belonged to anyone. And everyone else belonged somewhere,and to someone. And that's why she liked him - because he just thought she was crazy." -C. JoyBell