Bad Hostess

Foley, Razer, May 2013, Fairfield

DONATE AT POZIBLE NOW 

It was three days after Christmas and one day before My Breakup™ that Gary Foley sat in my backyard and consented—or, at least, did not object—to a proposal.  I had been buttering this un-butter-able thinker up for some time in the hope that he would agree among sandwiches to let me follow him around for a couple of years. And on this quiet afternoon alarmed only by Joanne at Number Seven—whose fondness for sauv blanc is outshone by her fondness for yelling at the kids while the Black Eyed Peas upchuck noise—he said, “Get me another coffee and I might let you be my biographer”.

Nearly six months have passed since Foley’s non-binding utterance and in that time I have neglected to measure out in teaspoons the coffees I’ve delivered. There’s been a lot of latte.  There has also been—his ambivalence about the project notwithstanding—the kind of discussion that would probably change any life but actually served to save mine.

Gary Foley fixed me up.  I’d like to return the favour.

I am asking you to buy a man some time away from the everyday. 

It would be easy for me to tell you what Foley has done for the nation; you can read about it elsewhere. I am going to tell you what he has done for me personally, though.  So you know that he is a man of both reason and of feeling.

When my partner of fourteen years left me for another without warning, I threw myself on the floorboards of a house built in a suburb in which I would myself NEVER choose to live. I howled and I howled and I howled; sounding possibly worse than the Black Eyed Peas and at least as troubling as a mother fed-up with her children. For years, my physical and emotional advances had been resisted and now they were vanquished and I felt like I was bleeding from a dozen wounds which could—of course—only be treated with appalling sex.

It was with relatively little trouble I found appalling sex.  But, more about that later as I continue my other, less lofty project, the Helen 100.

My point here  is: one of the things that people DON’T tell you how to repair after the end of a long relationship is your faculty for thought.  You can find help to ease you out of the sex-and-feeling pit of hopelessness. You can find people to tell you that you are not ugly or repulsive. It’s a bit harder to find people who will make you feel less stupid.

I received some great advice on how to cope with physical and emotional rejection; I didn’t find so much on how to heal my intellectual vanity.  It was perhaps that she had long since begun to find me boring that I found the hardest to take.

I explained this through tears to Gary.  I had called him the day after Shitty Pants left me (please excuse; working on a better fake-name) to ask for his forbearance and vommed something along the lines of ‘SHE THINKS I AM STUPID I AM STUPID AM I STUPID?” and he did not respond with overt kindness but with Foucault.

Fuck-only-knows which titbit of Foucauldian method the historian shared with me that day.  It doesn’t matter because it served as a reminder that this man—a genuine and glorious threat to the intellectual safety of the nation—liked me sufficiently to utter the name of the great crypto-Marxist.

It was immensely flattering.

I have written down many of the things that he has said to me in past months.  “The document is the pay-dirt of history.  Without the archive, we are nothing”.  “I am not a fucking Elder.  I will not Welcome You to Country”.  “I do not have an ancient Ooga Booga relationship to the land. I have the need for land as an economic base from which to survive”.

Foley has been immensely influential in honing my own thoughts these past months about the current primacy of emotion and symbolism over material action.  Gary believes absolutely that our fixity on the symbolic comes at the expense of real action.

(Incidentally, he didn’t approve entirely of a rather divisive piece I wrote on Adam Goodes, but he did encourage my lack of emotion.  ”Don’t look at the hurt in his eyes”, he said of Goodes at the press conference. “You look at hurt on the faces of Aboriginal people and you just get nowhere”.)

Foley’s reason got me past my own selfish sadness and back into the habit of thinking.  I know this man—now a PhD in history from Melbourne University—can help the nation get past its muddle of selfish sadness and smack-dab into some fucking sense.

Gary teaches at Victoria University and for him, this is the project that matters right now. I’ve sat in on his extraordinary lectures and I can see him turning students into real scholars; his memory throws Foucault, Freud, Marx, Lévi-Strauss up in seeming chaos and it lands in perfect formation and suddenly, we all understand why the Native Title act was a crock.

But, as an old media slag, I want more.  I want his refusal to be an Elder to be understood and I want his use of knowledge as a cutting device to be known by a popular audience.  I want to write his biography and I need him to find the time.

Gary is 63 and when he is not teaching and parenting and striving to find some time with his garden and his partner Susie, he continues to work as an advocate for the Aboriginal community. He talks to Marxists, anarchists, football leagues and anyone sensible enough to understand that Aboriginal history is the key to our culturally and socially prosperous future. He does a lot of this stuff—despite my screeching—for virtually no money and even though I know that refusing money is key to what he does, he could do with some money every so often.  If I had it, I’d give it.  I don’t.

Today I learned that Gary’s brother Kevin Foley is dead at 53.  Last Friday, the man Gary described as the “handsome and talented Foley brother” passed away in Yeppoon.

Now, Foley has been going flat-chat teaching winter school and marking three-hundred undergraduate essays. Stuck at the PC, he has had no time to ride his bike or tend his garden; the two activities that most reliably keep him in good form.  He’s been feeling old and creaky and jokes quite often that he will die soon; after all, he’s already exceeded the average mortality age for a  blackfella.

I usually laugh but today it’s not funny. Today, Kevin Foley is dead and Gary, normally a man of pure reason, is pure feeling.

The man needs time. I am asking you to buy him some time. He needs time with his family and he needs time to grieve and time to prepare for a Melbourne winter where he will—and YES this is entirely selfish—work with me to write a book.  I am thinking a couple of grand to give the guy some time with his girls, Susie and Ruby, and a rest in the sun.

If you can help me out,  you can deposit straight to Pozible; a reputable AU thingy.

I have no effing idea how to do one of those kickstarters.  Or even if they are not criminal. But it would be pretty fucking funny, considering the object of my fundraising, if this was not an entirely legitimate enterprise under Commonwealth law.

If you care to proffer some advice on that matter or that of disclosure (I am aware I am asking a herd of strangers to deposit money in a bank account and I would really like to be transparent in the matter) please do; via comments or by email.

If you want to know more about Gary, go to his website, his Wikipedia entry or to this little trifle I wrote on him for Time Out.

Look. Don’t get me wrong. I have great respect for Sufism and if I were ever to make a Madonna-like grab for enlightenment, Islam’s mystical order would be my one-stop shop. Think about it. You’ve got the whirling, the outfits and all those lovely poets who give us beautiful comforts.

When I am with you, we stay up all night.
When you’re not here, I can’t go to sleep.
Praise God for those two insomnias!
And the difference between them.

This is from Rumi, the thirteenth century Sufi we know best. I think we can all agree he is much better than Coldplay.

The one fly in the salve of my conversion fantasy, though, is the knowledge that “This too shall pass” is, in fact, a Sufi proverb.

This too shall pass. Fuck I hate it when people say that. It reminds me that all passage is painful And/or that all things are fleeting. It sounds tedious and terrifying and brings to mind the overuse of laxatives. It is never soothing.

Well, almost never. Sometimes it is soothing and funny.

My mother said it to me once at a major Matisse exhibition while we were packed like beasts in the Fauvism section. I have always found my mother’s impatience with visual art every bit as funny as my rather more aspirational father finds it galling.

Luxe, Calme et Volupté ("Luxury, Calm and Pleasure") by Henri Matisse, 1904. Musée d'Orsay, Paris.

This too shall pass she said as we walked by the unremarkable Luxe, Calme et Volupté. She HATED these pictures. This too shall pass.

Mum was right.I laughed and we went to the bar while my father stroked his chin (not figuratively; my father actually strokes his chin at blockbuster art exhibitions) and used words like “painterly” looking at that lurid picture of a woman in a hat. This too shall pass. Fauvism did pass pretty quickly. I think it lasted only three years.

This is not very long; especially when you consider that I stayed in a dumbass relationship for fourteen years. AND it could have gone on longer, too, thanks to loyalty of a sort so unstinting and panting that even a Golden Retriever would refer me to his therapist. This fourteen-year art-movement only ended when the ex had a new subject lined up.

Now she is painting a pastoral work of a compliant heifer ready for emotional-milking in the pastures of deceit.

MOO. I hope you’re happy together in your tedious landscape.

So I’m a little angry about disbursing the last of my youth and my money in a loveless hate farm. But apparently THIS TOO SHALL PASS.

Like fuck it will. When? WHEN WILL IT PASS? I am so, so angry with the waste of my time. I want this rage to pass.

I’m going to be, perhaps, a little too frank and tell you I thought that it had passed. Just one week after being left for a heifer. Almost as soon as my first date in the Helen One Hundred showed up. We shall call him “J”.

After my partner had left to pursue new dimensions in art and vagina, something strong and strange began to happen to me. I was overcome by old appetites with a force for which there is no marker.

I am not talking about sex alone, here. My appetites for reading returned and for debate and for running, too. But my libidinal drive in particular began to combust beyond the limits of convention.

And so. It was my id that signed up to an internet dating system and my id that agreed to meet a chap after a little more than two hours of affectedly idle online chat.

It was my heart that stopped when I saw him.

Freud would say that it was not a failure of the heart but of the super-ego that caused me to gasp on a pavement in south-east Melbourne on the sort of summer night so hot I, a creature effective within a very moderate temperature range, would otherwise shun. And, you know, Freud is more often right than I am.

Freud would say that I was willing myself to erotic disaster. I had been reading Freud again after my partner had left me and I knew even as I stood there watching this tall man approach that I would repeat the mistakes of eros I had been rehearsing since I was a child

But Freud doesn’t have much to say about big brown eyes, does he? And Freud has little to offer on the question of walking in twilight with a body that smells of butterscotch and tobacco. And Freud is silent on the topic of posture.

The way J held himself was, um, id-shaking. From an orthopedic standpoint, it was terrible. From mine, though, there can be no human bearing that will ever move me quite so much. His big and perfect body said, “I’m sorry”.

Actually, for much of the night, J said “sorry”; about everything. Sorry for not looking exactly like my photograph. (He looked better.) Sorry for not being more interesting. (He knew all of the books I had been reading and was able to discuss them with ardour and grace and gently direct my reading further; he was smarter than me.) Sorry for not bringing anything. (You brought yourself, you fuckhead.)

Sorry. He looked sorry. Even – and especially – from a distance, his carriage said I’m Sorry.

Over six feet, he’d grown fast enough at some point to become apologetic for it. I thought about how he must have tried to hold that body for so long and instead of a man my age I saw a young, reluctant full-forward kicking goals to please the coach. Then, of course, I was gone. Or, rather, my super-ego failed.

We walked around the suburb and returned a lost Tonkinese to its owner. We derided ourselves for having, apparently, stumbled into an indie rom-com starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt with an unforgivable meet-cute involving a pedigree cat. We spoke about the difficulty of speaking for the first time outside the rhythms of online chat and it became an easy decision to invite someone who liked cats and critical theory and smelled of butterscotch into my home.

What do we say about what came next? Contingent on my mood, I will tell you that this evening – which became a month or two of evenings – proceeded very well or very poorly. What else can I tell you? I don’t think the subject of my story would mind if I told you that the sex became very good and immersive and frequent.

He made me come the hardest and I felt it even in my knees for days. I cannot think for too long about the sex because I will not think of anything else. I submitted completely and I cannot trust myself not to submit again. Even with Freud screaming in my ear

We are never so defenceless against suffering as when we love, never so forlornly unhappy as when we have lost our love object or its love.

For a week or two or perhaps for a month, I was fairly sure that my heart had begun to beat again. But, it seems that the sound of the pulse was just an echo; a pre-recorded message from a time when one was, if not happy, then just actually content.

Freud reminds us we are doomed to repeat our romantic disasters.

This knowledge will not stop me for a moment in replaying those mistakes at least ninety-nine times in my life. (Apply within!)

This knowledge will not claim the memory I have of staying up all night with J who , as it turned out, was a Twitcher and could name the birds calling outside the window at dawn. Nor will it make me regret the sleeplessness I endured from the sound of my prerecorded heart bouncing around the bed he had vacated.

When I am with you, we stay up all night.
When you’re not here, I can’t go to sleep.
Praise God for those two insomnias!
And the difference between them.

This shall not pass. I won’t allow the memory of this lovely man to pass. Although he is already gone.

99 Dates To Go. Wanna Date? Enclicken?

It is hot, my life remains in the lavatory and I have no icecream. More to the point, my #Helen100 date scheduled for tonight cancelled and so I am left alone on a Friday.  With my empty muff and head.

Frankly, I’d rather write more about the former but its neglect cracks open the latter; and she is bordering upon madness at this hour, the close of International Women’s Day.

Don’t. Even. Talk. To. Me.

Seriously, don’t.

Anyone who knows me even a little makes sure to avoid the topic of gender in my company.  Actually, one of the #Helen100 tried it in a pub in Coburg last week but we’ll get to that story – which ended with me raging “I couldn’t possibly fuck a biological essentialist; not even one with an EH Sedan”– in the fullness of time.

That guy didn’t know me.  If he did, he’d know my ideas about gender come more from Judith Butler than they do  from, say, Growing Pains.  He’d know that an express route to my trousers is to talk about the seams that join Freud to Marx. He’d know my relationship with feminism is long, ardent and difficult.

Feminism.  It keeps me awake at night.   Yeah, I got problems.  But not so many, I’d venture, as an Australian feminism that produces twaddle like this.   For International Women’s Day, here is a piece that considers the special qualities women might bring as leaders of professional media.

WHAT?  What? WHAT?

Are women better media leaders?

Rebekah Brooks is the answer.   Marissa Mayer is the answer.  Gina Rinehart is the answer. Fucking NO is the answer.

That professed feminists can think – just as the man in the Coburg pub did – that women have “special” qualities that they might bring to enterprise is fucking beyond me.  Women are not nicer.  Women are not a civilising influence.  Women are just as capable of avarice and stupidity as anyone.

This “If Only Women Ruled the World” shit has no place outside the Hallmark Corporation. Ascribing a Marian grace to my gender might work in the Catholic Church but it really shouldn’t have any function for those who do not worship the Blessed Virgin.

Women are not gifted, either socially or biologically, of anything special.  If we believe that they are, then we must also accept the possibility that the gender could be marked with unpleasant characteristics.  If we believe that women are “better negotiators” or “great multitaskers”, we can also easily believe that they are “not very good with money” or some shit.

I find any work that even considers the idea that privileged white women do things in any way that is markedly superior or different to the things done by  privileged white  men so ineffably deluded I want to take ALL of the Alanis Morissette CDs purchased in the 1990s and make a sculpture of an enormous plastic masturbating woman and win the Turner Prize with a piece I have called Enormous Plastic Masturbating Woman Wins the Turner Prize.

Anyhow.  The writing.  One of many pieces of crap I saw today. I know little of its author Jenna Price. However, I certainly do know how to Google and, as a Media Professional, could easily pretend I have been aware of the lady’s work as an activist and academic for some time.  And, in a way, I have as she is one of the architects of the local “movement” known as “Destroy the Joint”.

No.  Destroy the Joint is not a competitive league of doobie smokers nor is it the work of those who especially like to eat spring lamb. It is, in fact, the locus for much feminist “action” and so, for my dateless purposes here tonight, a good site for inquiry.

Look. If you don’t know about it, read this hagiography. In short, the campaign sought to reignite feminism through a social media critique of traditional media.

For mine, Destroy the Joint began, very quickly, to Destroy the Point.  As a fairly rash user of social media myself, I made the view known to tens of followers that I found the exercise distastefully onanistic.  The fast cycles of uncritical rage that greeted a number of purportedly “misogynist” incidents – the average comedy of Daniel Tosh, the dressing of children in inappropriate clothing, the naming of a racehorse as a woman – brought to mind the usual pace of my own visits to RedTube.

We sit in front of screens and we suspend our thought to enhance our desire and then we mash our own genitals to the point that they explode in a brief but ecstatic frenzy of nothing especially productive.  It’s a sad little  ragegasm we need to repeat seven times a day  in the absence of genuine congress.

I do not mind a good wank but I have little patience for a bad one and this mean and dessicated  DTJ masturbation must, at some point, cease.  The expense of this libidinal energy cannot be calculated.  We are spending our climaxes in tiny online moments when, really, they are due elsewhere to fuck the system.

Feminism is the struggle against masculinsed violence and feminised poverty.  Or, the acknowledgement that physical violence is enacted disproportionately by men and poverty is experienced disproportionately by women. That’s it, really.

And don’t give me that “there are many feminisms” shit.  Yes, of course there are and my experience of gender is markedly different to that of a lass (or lad) living, say, in Maputo. But, for the sake of fuck, at SOME point, we have to agree about our basic aims and get off this DTJ-endorsed fap-wreck before we all perish from the carnal stink.

There are two chief DTJ problems and the first is that it feels like a cultural studies tutorial from 1991.  I know what it is like to be absorbed in the novelty of semiotics and that “Angrily Calling Out Sexism Wherever You See It” is habit-forming.  The behaviour is compulsive and sometimes, you know, it makes you act before you think and you get it wrong.  SO wrong.  I recall, for example, this  moment in which DTJ ally Anne Summers called a urinal shaped like a mouth “misogynist”.

That the mouth urinals purchased by a Sydney restaurant were very clearly referencing the famous John Pasche Rolling Stones male mouth logo was immaterial; the lavs are on display at a Rolling Stones museum in Germany.

And, that these latrines had been present for years just a kilometre away in Oxford St in the bathroom of a club for homosexual men was not deemed relevant, either. Didn’t matter. Here, recourse to logic and facts would mean a pause in the fun, fast online work of screaming “MISOGYNY”.

In one social media conversation, a DTJ “pledge” told me I was a misogynist for “supporting” (N.B. if one is not objecting along with DTJ then one is supporting rape et al) this “crap”.  As a great fan of Marcel Duchamp’s readymades, I couldn’t have been happier when she told me that “a urinal could never be art”.  HA HA HA.

How am I the only person reminded here of the Piss Christ shame of the nineties with Summers and DTJ cast as George Pell? The idea that art (yes, even low or middle-brow art; and that includes Sexist Comedians) needs absolution from the Feminist Cardinal is, to me at least, anathema.

(Was it a similar frustration with dummies that drove both Greer and Paglia to publish on the topic of visual art?)

So. Yes. Bad cultural studies practice is the first problem.    The second problem is that DTJ and her associates actually believe they are healing the faithless.

Look.  Here’s the thing: telling people they are being disadvantaged is a tricky business, Caroline Chisholm. There’s something dangerously missionary in an approach that seeks to draft sisters to a Crusade chiefly at war with nonsense on the behalf of hollow gods.  You are make-believe-slaying paps that snap pregnant celebrities.  Oooooh.

Are these your true adversaries?  Do you REALLY think The Patriarchy will cease to function if you boycott a bar or a performer or a clothing store? Are you jamming the gears of capitalism by defending Chrissie Swan?

No, honey.  You’re not.

Baby, what are you fighting for?  I presume the rationale is that by talking about “Everyday Sexism”, Everyday Women will join the struggle.

No.  Don’t think so.  People aren’t that easily led or recruited   I know the ALP deludes itself that the electorate can be nudged to good by marginal lies and marketing.  Don’t make the same mistake.  Tell your constituency it is the struggle against masculinised violence and feminised poverty.  They are bright and brave enough to hear it.  It is arrogant and unhelpful and even alienating to suppose that they are not.

If you want to politicise someone, here’s a thought: talk to them about politics.

You don’t need some ridiculous spin about inappropriate plumbing or sexist wallpaper or whatever the fuck it is this week to apprentice folk to The Struggle. You need to read some macroeconomics, bitches, and spread the fucking word.

Hey.  I’m right.  I was, in fact, appointed feminism’s door bitch. And, no, you can’t come in if all you have to talk about is The Need For More Women CEOs and Less Sexism in Ads.

I am, however, flexible about double denims.

No one told me the end of a fifteen year relationship would smell exactly like barbecue chicken. But this, as it turns out, is misery’s signature scent. It has been sixty-one days since my partner left me with the words “I’m leaving you” and with little to do but sob into well-finished floorboards.

At first, I sobbed into the floorboards beneath the sounds of Cher: Empowering Homosexual Diva.

I’m listening to Mercury Rev, now. Also, Midlake, Danger Mouse, The Boss and other emotionally constipated white men. Cher is gone but the house still smells of chicken and I cry three, possibly four times every day. Chiefly, I cry in the loo.

Should you feel mildly troubled by this disclosure: don’t. I’m doing okay. I am engaged by projects and people of extraordinary quality. Really. I am working with some of the best thinker-activists you’ll ever meet toward goals no less lofty than civic good. I have loving parents, good, good friends and two handsome cats. I exercise daily.

However, the house still smells of chicken.

Chicken purchased from a man of belligerent friendliness which recalls the 70s Australian bush-chiller Wake in Fright. Chicken eaten in bed. Naked. Chicken consumed with a near-grandiose revulsion between great sobby gulps of unsatisfying oxygen and cries of ‘I AM GOING TO DIE ALONE”.

The cats eat most of it. The cats eat the corpse of the bird with the same heedless relish they will one day visit upon mine. Yes. You will find me dead, smelling faintly of chicken grease clutching the Girls box-set in a hand that has been gnawed to the bone by a tabby named Eleven. Probably.

As you can tell from my elevated and sunny tone, I have grabbed the opportunity for personal development. Just as I have grabbed the chicken: with cruel detachment and in one slippery hand.

Oh, kids. I think I fucked up.

I did EXACTLY what the ethical person ought to in the weeks following an ugly, devastating and unexpected break-up. Viz. immediately find a perfectly wonderful human of great erudition, fuck their hot, tall body to a vulgar mash and then, just as they begin to look at you with rare love, turn into a Succubus of Selfish Hate and apportion to them the blame for all the pain from your previous shitty relationship JUST BECAUSE THEY DIDN’T ANSWER YOUR TEXT MESSAGES WITHIN FIVE MINUTES OF RECEIPT, YOU MAD WHORE, HELEN. (Dude. I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Be my friend. You can’t know how sorry I am.)

I am ashamed. I am ashamed and I am not very good at humans.

I need to get better at humans. I don’t want to do this sort of thing to a sweet person again. And, I don’t want to live in a love-vacuum with someone who loathes me again. I don’t want to cohabit at all. I don’t want to reproduce; my eggs are probably powdered, anyhow. I don’t want to consume you whole.

All I want. All I want. Well, at my age, all I want is to move from unstinting self-regard and a wan obsession with my “needs” and desserts to real friendliness; to genuine intimate and accommodating interest in my fellows.

Also, I would quite like to have sex, eventually.

To this end, I have decided to “date” persons and to do this with an attitude of minimum expectation and of maximum respect. I am aiming to date one-hundred persons by the end of the year so, naturally, I seek your help in attaining this goal.

If you are neither biologically old enough to be my parent nor young enough to be my issue, I cordially invite all comers to a low-cost assignation.

I would like to embrace all sorts of people. However. I should say that I have, ahem, an “issue” with addiction. Particularly alcoholism. I can’t be around it. And, I’ve an issue with those to whom it has not yet occurred that the material conditions of existence determine, in large part, the shape of a person’s life. Yes. I know. I am looking for a moderate drinker from the left. WHAT THE FUCK AM I THINKING?

Good luck with that unicorn, Razer.

Clearly, if you’re a racist, an essentialist or have ever uttered the sentence, “You know, that David Icke makes a lot of sense”, who the fuck even ARE you?

Of course, you should know before accepting my invitation that I (a) will blog all details of our encounter in this space and (b) am really – despite a genuine desire to be better – quite a tit. And I’m not just saying that as a sort of coy double-bluff that will have you refusing with a “No, no! You are clearly lovely.” I’m not. I’m awful. And if we are to have any hope of a second date, it’s pretty important that you are, too.

I have attempted to compress our mutual awfulness in short advertisement form:

Sexually ambivalent middle-aged crank seeks unusually literate hard-left nut-job for mutual distraction from suicidal ideation.

44-year-old newly divorced chicken carcass seeks fellow Marxist snob for complex hate-fucking.

Ageing poseur with unhealthy interest in spanking and the works of Jean Baudrillard seeks recently bathed human.

Baffling old woman with reasonable cans seeks more-or-less sober life-form who genuinely dislikes Coldplay.

This is who I am. I am a heartbroken heartbreaker who never learned to hold her tongue. I think I’m right but am thrilled by those who satisfactorily prove me wrong. I am full of love. I am full of revulsion. I am leaking with compassion. I am the world’s worst snob.

Oh. And I can’t eat barbecue chicken in company.

Anyhow. If you’re up for a meeting in flattering light and don’t mind being the topic of polite inquiry (which will always have ME as its central topic of derision; never you) then be in touch.

My first date is next Monday with a lady from Twitter called Bernadette, She is bringing her mum. Who is 83.

It’s part-heartsickness, part-art. It’s Kathy Acker in Sweet Valley High. It’s Co-Ed Sluts Vol 2 Look Back in Anger. Oh, I don’t know. It’s a way for me to be knee-deep in nuts masquerading as “experiment”. Whatever this thing is LET’S DO THIS THING.

Let’s do the Helen One Hundred.

Today I choose to express my feelings through the medium of animated lady robots.

For a written version on my views of the matter of “body image” “feminism”, you may travel here or sundry other places.