Moiret Allegiere

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Do not lose yourself in despair

Freehand fancies A3 lowres

Illustration: «Freehand Fancies», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

Let me preface this ramble with a short announcement: I opened a shop through Redbubble. As one would expect, I aim to push this a bit over the coming weeks. Should you ever wish to wear my luscious assaults on fine art on your clothing, or hang it on your wall for all to marvel at your fantastically good taste, follow the link to the shop. More designs are coming soon. https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop

Do not lose yourself in despair, in childhood play-pretend suicides where dreams fell through luminous cracks in the floor and walls and roof; or in ancient remnants of past Halloween, hidden away beneath some dusty sheets of some old dusty bed, or in morbid drawn-out fights over the curtains like some old grumpy fart, shamed and shunned by some mystic’s frantic nightmare showing furious future-scapes.

Do not lose yourself in despair, forcing you to disassemble playful creative forces for some fuckwit genius’s genuine idea of how and what and where and when is true and proper art and true and proper artistic endeavours on the path to future galleries surrounded by piss in bottles and shit-stained sheets, laboured over by some pretentious douche-nozzle with more garble than sense and more gaggle than talent.

Do not lose yourself in despair, in an eternal opiate-haze between bottles brightly shining and shunned by the roaring hiss of angry needles, venomous and vile, offering sympathetic salvation from the numbing of your soul and sanity; lost in the salivating grasp of her diluted arms.

Do not lose yourself.

Do not lose yourself in despair, finding solace in cold comic-book style rampages, ravaging through concrete-jungles with a war-cry rising from your chest and throat, saviour, saint and messiah in new-found post-graduate violence, silenced by mutual decision on the path to post-conscription, ruined by the forces of the wailing horde and might of the waning, fluctuating night.

Do not lose yourself in despair, marching backwards through time in your minds eye, searching ever and always for that one path to take you back to the past. A past in whose embrace you felt as though you belonged or might have had a purpose or might have had a future, future turning to the present, the present being veiled and clouded by a mythological mist claiming you yourself to be the faulty wire of the great grey mass of worms that is society, now up in arms for imagined grievance, punctuated by miniscule problems shouted fanatically in your face and ears and eyes and festering on your throat and tongue.

Do not lose yourself in despair. Nor to demands for labour-intensity clouding judgement and clouding mind and matter both; to become a slave for someone else’s varied wishes for a future shared in separate encounters; a monotheistic burgeoning religion proclaiming you to be at fault for doing all that you are told to do, and yet never doing good enough, being good enough, being deemed good enough to win some respect and gratitude from the domineering cargo-cult whose vision is clouded by superstition, demanding divine intervention in your life.

Do not lose yourself in despair, to falter and to fail and then to fall from precognitive visions of the future based on knowledge from past experience that it won’t work, so why bother? In being told, time and again, that your matters matter not to those whose matters matter; whose material matters matter more than your emotional desires and needs for understanding, a raised middle-finger and a guffawing laughter in mockery and contempt is all the reply you should deliver to the maniac brigade; carriers of the perpetual pussy-pass, who dare demand you worship at their altar and at their beck and call jump in to sing their praise and aid in their fight for them and them alone.

Do not lose your Self.

Do not lose your Self in permanent solitary confinement; the isolation manufactured for convenience, to keep safe and sane and sacred that which should not be touched.

Self-worth denied by the wrath of the vampire-legion, whose main mission is to suck all the joy from life and remind you over and over of your lack of worth, to shame you incessantly, perpetually, constantly, for crimes of the soul and spirit, for crimes of your minds eye seen in their blinded minds eye, creating calls for constant self flagellation and mental castration for desires deemed brutish, primitive and flawed, demonic, primal, violent.

Self-worth stolen by old scarecrow time, time and again, pecking at your sense of self in classrooms over-run by ideology and knowledge filtered through a thin mesh of grievance-ritual, displacing history and laying the burden of its displacement on your shoulders, frail and fractured by the grinding of the tide and time and sands of time, flowing gibberish from mouths of offended this-or-that who decided you should be a scapegoat tied to the whipping-post in the town-square, a king of fools, the blind in the land of the one-eyed, the apocalypse made manifest in flesh.

What is the loss of one man for the betterment of all?

Nothing.

That is the risk they are willing to take: your life on the line for their self-aggrandizement, the pushing down and punishing of one for the betterment of those who are decided to be the all.

Do not lose your Self to the vibrational fancies of their will and wish; the demands for superstitious beliefs to better your standing based on the standards they have placed upon you; standards that can never be met or matched.

The goalposts are constantly moving. Appeasement is impossible; more rubbish will be manufactured. Prophetic visions of the future tell it to be so; the truth fantastic lying at the feet of those who have no truth but the never-ending barrage of hostility. Rage and wrath and ruin. Dancing to a tune that never ends, an eternal free-jazz improvisation over whose long-winded notes and tunes poetry is read in tongues by some fell beast who has no goal but to fight, to fracture, to fragment and to freak-out over an unseen line drawn in the asphalt and on the pavement before the gates of hell. The hounds of war are unleashed. First in silence, now with growls and barks and snarls. No more lurking in the shadows, poking here and there and everywhere with surgical precision from some whose positions are waved away as the position of a radical few.

No.

It is not a radical few. It is the rotten, beating heart of the new religion; the ideology completed. The destruction of all and one and one and all from new-found everything, anywhere, everywhere, a star-studded brilliance shining and shimmering in minds bent in on themselves to see only what they wish to see, hear only what they wish to hear, know only what they wish to know. The solipsist mania; narcissist drivel made purgatorial society; promiscuous puritanism, wishes to appease the Goddess divine, whose stature and statue all shall love and all shall fear and all shall despair but those who are clean enough and good enough; who have lost their self enough to become one with her shape and force and will and whim and majestic notions and views of self.

Do not allow yourself to be crushed beneath the weight of this new-found religion, this dominant ideology which must never be questioned. Demands for censorship of opposing views is the final strike of the hammer, judgement passed by a judge grimacing in delight, the final crushing blow from a Self demented and torn apart from lack of something they will never know: to be fulfilled.

To be fulfilled is to understand that life is neither good nor bad, but both. That most everything is grey; simultaneously black and white, a cycle of both to be challenged and conquered and survived, taking the good with the bad and the bad with the good, standing in the midst of the storm and marvelling at how beautiful the lightning looks.

To be fulfilled is to understand yourself, to see yourself as a being capable of both infinite compassion and infinite cruelty, but to decide on knowing, understanding and controlling the shadow and the light. The world and the life and the self will never be freed from evil, from big or from small issues.

We lack nuance.

We lack the ability to see that the Devil is in the details. We do not see the details on account of being distracted all the time from the forces claiming to fight the good fight for one and all, showing only the superficial qualities of their divine ideology, never acknowledging the devil in their midst whose sole purpose is to divide and to conquer; to crush underfoot all who dare point to the Devil and say that, hey, now, wait a minute: surely there is someone running around there with horns and a pitchfork, poking here and there and laughing viciously and maliciously.

These petulant demands of these overgrown children should not be listened to. They should be met with a barrage of laughter, loud and beautiful. A wall of backs turning away and leaving, not giving a fuck any-more and leaving them to die on the sick-bed they made for themselves.

Did they want a gender-war? Fuck that noise, fuck that nonsense, fuck that gibberish. I’ve got shit to do. The path of non-violent resistance do smell of daffodils and roses, man – and don’t forget that.

Strewn on the path towards self-worth is the knowledge that hope is not lost.

I thought, as the silly “day without women” took hold – the women there and then being so privileged – and so blind to their privilege – that they could take a day away from work to protest some imagined ills and grievance fuelled by the vampire legions of the doomed undead: imagine a day without men. If all men everywhere just up and left. What would happen, do you think?

Imagine men finding worth in their self. Not searching for worth in what they do, but in who they are, thinking: this mess ain’t worth it.

Through this overwhelming sense of despair, this sensation of dread and doom and gloom, we can see a light shining – ever so slightly – at the end of the road. Some fire on the hearth, smell of burning wood and good wine. Old wood to burn, old books to read, old friends to love and old wine to drink. A hope for rest at the end of the journey, at the end of the day when night comes crawling in and realization dawns that all is well that ends well. It will end well, the moment men find their worth and stop being the permanent work-horse, the busy body pushing that rock up the hill too see it tumble down again, to be repeated again and again.

The sooner we laugh, turn around and refuse to participate in this stupid little game any longer, the sooner our worth will be made evident.

Men’s lack of worth in society has been pushed as a truth for decades; men’s inherent lack of morality and decency through manipulation becoming established truth.

Well, then, you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

Now look and see what happens when you push and prod and poke, when you burn and scar and break something until it’s gone.

– Please like, share and subscribe

– Moiret Allegiere, 22.05.2019

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Woe unto the state of it all! (A slightly coherent ramble):

Illustration: «Disintegration», A4, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

Quoting George Orwell is easy. More likely than not, it is done to death. As well as being too easy. This ramble could easily begin with a quote from that marvellous prophet, that seer of visions and visitor of the future without there being the slightest doubt about the accuracy of his wisdom or his words. It would tie nicely and neatly into the present, into the absolutely abhorrently absurd state of it all. Because who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.

I don’t think there should be any doubt about me being a fan-boy of his, drooling at the feet of his literary output and worshipping at the altar of his steadily increasing pessimism regarding the future, which turned out to be the present.

Our present.

The here-and-now absurdity of our fragmenting layers of forced and superficial inclusivity; this neglectful hallucination of altruism and equality where all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others. I say neglectful, because neglectful is precisely what it is.

It has been declared by those who control the past and the present that men as a whole are the non-penitent bourgeois; the all-oppressive, non-inclusive tyrants of our day and age. And so, for forced inclusivity, for the flimsy and ever-changing notion of equality, the needs and rights and value of men must be neglected for the altruistic intentions of the inclusivity-brigade, ever and always shining the wonderful spotlight of non-discriminatory measures at the most superficial characteristics they could possibly hope to find; race, sex, sexual orientation. A lack of one and an overabundance of the other here, there, anywhere, must necessarily mean discrimination at play, as all and one are exactly the same in this brave new world we see, spread-eagled before us. And crucified for our convenience, spread-eagled and castrated on the cross, are all semblance of reason, logic and thought.

There are no differences, as differences necessarily mean, to the thoughtless tinkering thinkers of tinkering sociopathic sociology, that one is better than the other. Viewing, through this lens of smoked glass, differences in outcome as institutionalized differences in treatment instead of differences in biology, in brain-chemistry and thusly as differences of interest and of outcome.

Through this way of thinking, more men at the top has to mean discrimination of women. Of course, neglecting the fact – for philosophical convenience and convenience of conviction – that there are more men at the very bottom of society than there ever will be women. This does not fit into the world-view concocted by ideological academics with more hallucinatory and ideological dreamery than fact, truth, sense and reason. And so it can be ignored, or, through stunning mental gymnastics, be portrayed as some fault of men as a class. Because it is all about class in the modern gender-war. This gender-war being naught but a cleverly veiled and highly traditional Marxist class-warfare. It is Marxism with gender thrown in there for good measure, as well as sexual orientation, racial characteristics and so forth and so on – the path of secular feminist intersectionalism slam-dunked and bravely implanted in our brains through thoughtless wishes for absolute equality of outcome. Not of opportunity, but of outcome. Kneel before your goddess-empress, puny mortal untermensch! Kneel, and repent, and do penance for your sins!

Equality ain’t what it used to be, by golly. In my way of thinking, and I should think this is a very reasonable way of thinking, equality simply means equal treatment under the law and on the land and the law of the land. And that is all there is to it.

When all and one are free to chose their path, understanding that their chosen path also comes with other paths being closed due to limits of time and limits of options from time being a limited resource and taking personal responsibility for these choices, that is equal treatment, that is equality, that is all there is to it.

Equal treatment means just that: equal treatment. Slap as much word-dodging and word-salads and re-structuring of language on it as you wish. It does not change that fact. Treating people equally is treating people equally, and understanding that being equal means that people also need to take equal responsibility for their actions; that choosing one path and thusly closing another path is ones own personal responsibility to deal with, and not some nefarious scheme concocted by the fragile hetero-normative patriarchal kyriarchy – or whatever the current year buzzword of choice is. In short; you can not have your cake and eat it too.

Very often, the choices one has to make boils down to this or the other, not this and the other. Every choice one makes has consequences. Big or small does not matter. What matters is that we have to acknowledge this fact – simple as that fact may be. And, in acknowledging this fact, people have to take the responsibilities of the choices they make, not cry foul discrimination whenever something does not go their way for reasons of a previous choice.

Thoughts like these immediately pop into my mind whenever I read, hear or see some nonsense from some gender-studies major or other complaining loudly and incoherently about the lack of women in STEM-fields. If this is such a big concern to you, why then, in the name of the hallowed womb of lackademia and all her incoherent splendour, did you yourself not chose to enter the STEM-fields?

It strikes me as absolute arrogant absurdity; to study some useless and pointless and futile degree, then complain that women are not represented in some other and more useful degree which they themselves could have studied had they just made that choice instead of the other choice. Or had the brains, wits and will to do so.

“Grievance studies” is a term for a reason. And that is what this field of study is; perpetual grievance, political platitudes and nonsensical bullshit designed to perpetuate the silly notion that women are victims of their own choices, their own choices being forced by the almighty patriarchy from them being far too frail and weak to think for themselves. Gender studies teaches this, that and the other, giving no agency to women. Simultaneously giving all agency to men, loudly claiming with double-vision and minds spinning from huffing ether all day that men – and only men – are responsible for everything bad. In being responsible for everything bad, men are also the ones responsible for fixing everything bad. By bending the knee and succumbing to the alluring succubus-will of feminism and its ideological cohorts. Both God and the Devil; the saviour and the original sin and sinner. Such a powerful force and divine will is masculinity that men are both the cause of, and solution to, all the problems of the world. Were we only to bend the knee and accept feminism into our hearts and souls, all would be fixed by men and men alone.

And so, for lack of women in STEM fields, we need to shoehorn women into the STEM fields for the perceived diversity this creates. The superficial sight of seeing more women there and having more women there, not for any talent in the field, not for their merit, but for their sex. Of course; substitute sex for race or sexual orientation if you so wish – the sentiment remains the same.

And so, for lack of women in position of leadership, we need to shoehorn women in there so that it looks good for our pre-fabricated and mass-manufactured notions of inclusivity and representation.

Representation and inclusivity is, after all, far more important than talent and merit and the hard work and sacrifice needed to gain these positions of leadership. Because it looks good in a photograph and it looks good on paper.

If there is any inequality of outcome, it must be due to inequality of treatment. And, since it is inequality of treatment, inequality of treatment is needed to fix this. Thus; white men need not apply. Thus; all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others. And don’t you dare object to this, you manlet-pig, son of a thousand oppressors and defiler of virginal womanhood.

Wanting people to be treated equally, regardless of their sex, race or sexual orientation is contrary to the tenets of holy feminism, whose church is so profound as to have found the way around this silly notion of equal treatment by treating women far better than men and labelling it equality.

Any objection then, is of course painted in the gobsmacking and sacrilegious light of men just being scared of powerful women, or afraid of losing their privilege or some-such nonsense. This is because feminism acts on dishonesty when it does not flat-out lie. And it acts on lies when it is not flat-out dishonest. And round and round it goes, where it stops, no-one knows.

Men and women are completely equal in every aspect. Excepting where women are better than men. And you have to remember this bucko, wielder as you are of the double-edged sword of male privilege. It is absolutely confusing; biological sex becomes an established fact whenever women can be found to be better than men at something. Sex becomes nothing but a social construct whenever men can be found to be better than women at something. It is almost as though it is a matter of convenience, not a matter of being factual.

See, I have no doubts that women are able to do all that men can do. And vice versa. Excepting, obviously, childbirth, production of sperm and so forth and so on, these biological factors that somehow seems to elude the elucidated hordes of the feminist hive-mind whenever it suits their needs.

Biological factors like bone density and muscle-mass should also play a part in explaining the overabundance of men in professions such as police and firefighters and so and such. You know, where physical strength and endurance is an absolute necessity.

Being the stout-hearted saviours that they are, feminism remedied this by lowering the physical tests and standards needed in these professions so that more women should be let in, despite women being just as capable as men and thusly capable of competing for the job in just the same way that men do.

Obviously.

Women are just as capable of men, so we need quotas, affirmative action and lowered standards for them to compete on equal footing with men. This is equality on the rocky road towards insanity. Or insanity painted in the colours of equality.

When all else fails, cry discrimination.

…and the girl cried wolf…

For the sake of clarity, since the feminist hordes struggle with cancer of the reason, and as such are not able to read or hear anything without crying flaccid discrimination and insinuating that I have a tiny dick: I do not object to women in leadership. Nor do I object to women as firefighters or police-officers. I don’t even have a tiny dick. I do, however, have a big nose and a receding hairline.

But I digress.

I don’t object to women in any profession. And there are not many that do object to this, despite what the vitriolic forces of feminism claim. I am absolutely objecting to treating people unequally and claiming that this is equality. I am objecting to lowering the standards so that women should gain easier access, when these standards are there for a reason. I am objecting to the feminist notion that women can not compete for a position on equal footing with men; winning a position for merit and not for sex and gender. And I am objecting to the notion that all bad in the life of a woman is due to men as a whole.

Whenever feminist women meet some critique or other, the reply given is ever and always that it is only because she is a woman. It has nothing to do with her opinion or her toxic sludge presented as a personality.

No, no, no – it is only because of her sanctified vagina and her golden womb. What a nice cop-out. What an easy way to not having to respond to criticism. Cry harassment and neck-beard misogyny from the demonic small-dicked basement-dwellers being scared of powerful women with opinions and what-not.

This strange and peculiar notion that women are victims of their own choices show up time and again, not buried beneath some old layers of feminist academia, but right out there in the open for all to see. Women should never have to face the consequences of their own actions, as seen most exemplary in what happens when a woman gets drunk and fucks a man who is also drunk. He is painted as a rapist. She is a victim of rape. Despite both being drunk. And this is incredibly strange.

One would think that women should be treated as adult human beings, and then – when they make poor decisions in a drunken state of drunkenness – they should be held to the same level of accountability as the man who made a poor decision in a drunken state of drunkenness.

She is, for some strange reason, painted as a victim. Whereas he is not.

Men are actors, women are acted upon.

Sounds like objectification to me.

But what the hell do I know?

Must be my neckbeard creeping into my brainstem again.

This is just keeping in line with the radical feminist notion that sex is something men do to women, something women have no control over excepting being victims of his brute primal sexuality. Exemplified through the old saying that “He got her pregnant.” She did not get pregnant. She did not participate in the act. He got her pregnant. He bears the brunt of the responsibility of the pregnancy and all that led up to it. Oddly gender-traditional, is it not?

Women have no agency of their own, then, and particularly not when drinking alcohol. Alcohol is the ointment used to remove responsibility. From women. Not from men. Then, it stands to reason that women should not be allowed to drink alcohol, if they lose all responsibility for their actions when they drink alcohol.

Sounds harsh, no?

This is the inevitable conclusion of the flimsy and faulty logic of feminism when followed to its end result. Women are children, incapable of taking responsibility for their choices and their behaviour. And so, they must be protected and tended to as if they were children. This means, of course, keeping them away from alcohol, giving them a curfew and making sure that they are safely and securely tucked away in their beds round and about eleven at night. Also never letting them go anywhere without a chaperon, so as to make sure that their honour is not spoiled and besmirched by horrible, predatory men luring them into alluring nights of sullen ecstasy. Because women – to the eyes and minds of feminism – are weak of will, and easily ensnared by the webs of men.

Traditionalism is the progression of feminist ideals, don’t you know, buddy-boy!

Now, come over here and protect this woman from the lurkers in the basements and the shadows.

Do your part in protecting women from their own choices!

Do not treat women like children if you expect them to be treated like adults. Do not expect not to face any consequences for your actions, choices and so forth and so on. Do not push the burden of responsibility for drunken one-night-stands straight into the lap of the male; proclaiming virtue and fragility and virtuous fragility for lack of your own responsibility for your own actions. Do not use the morning-after regret of drunken sex to lay accusations of rape in his lap and on his drained testicles.

Equal treatment means just that; that your drunken actions are just as much your own actions as his drunken actions are his own. Your actions are not his responsibility. Being drunk does not suddenly absolve you of responsibility.

Of course, not having stupid god-damned drunken one-night stands in the first place is probably a good idea.

But that would be slut-shaming, would it not?

Even when I think this applies to men as well.

They would have no standards, were it not for their double-standards.

So, which is it?

A) Sex between two drunk people is rape of the woman, as she can not consent (even when he can).

B) Women are free to have sex with whomever, whenever they want without having to face any social ramifications for it. Despite how drunk she is.

You can not have it both ways, ladies.

Also, out of curiosity: if two women get drunk and have sex, who is the victim and who is the victimizer? Do you judge this by haircut or something? The one who is the most butch is the one who is the rapist? Or does that simply not matter, since women can never be rapists from lack of personal agency brought forth and laid upon their golden tranquil crown of princess-like unreasonable nonsense by the likes and trembling hands of feminist victim-hood?

Don the crown fantastic!

Carry the golden apple of illusionary feminist pussy-pass transcendence!

Bah, humbug! These people should be punished for their imbecility in the harshest way I can possibly imagine. They should be forced to wear wet socks lined with Lego-bricks for an entire week.

Alas that there should be such power in female victimhood that it can be easily weaponized by some women who do not wish to shoulder the responsibility of their actions.

Alas that these evil days should be mine!

When treating men and women equally; viewing them in the same light, not the bewitching spotlight of women are wonderful, it becomes very clear that women and men are just as capable. Women can do everything men can.

This also includes violence.

It also includes rape.

It also includes toxic behaviour.

It also includes child-abuse.

It also includes domestic violence.

It also includes lying.

It also includes having to take the responsibility for their actions.

Women are capable of anything men are capable of. Even the bad. Somehow, this is not considered in the shining and shimmering spotlight of equality, as all negative behaviour is considered to be masculine and all positive behaviour is considered to be feminine. Transcendently odd, I think and ponder, since gender does not matter.

When gender does not matter, and when things should not be gendered, it makes little sense for the forces proclaiming gender does not matter to gender behaviour.

To categorically label all toxic behaviour as inherently masculine and all compassionate behaviour as inherently feminine.

Both are capable of good and both are capable of bad. This is the view of men and women as equals; as being on equal footing: that both are capable of good and both are capable of evil.

That neither gender is better or worse than the other.

We happen to have different strengths and different weaknesses. Neither bad nor good, just a state of being.

The violence that men do tend to be more physical, more primal, more immediately obvious. The violence that women do tend to be more psychological, more covert, more shaded by layers of self-doubt created in their victims. Women also tend towards violence by proxy, be that by the state or by the simpering white knights, ever and always ready to step in and save m’lady from the man insulting her honour, never-minding whatever events my have preceded it.

Boys have grown up being told that they should never hit a girl. Never. Under any circumstances. They may hit other boys, though, and face far less repercussions for this.

Girls are not told they should not hit boys. And so, when they do, they hardly face consequences for this. When they are children or when they are grown-up.

Now, what does this tell us?

…violence is the domain of men, after all, and so – when a woman is violent towards a man, he must have done something. That is the view we are presented, and will be for a long while if people don’t start listening to fact, truth and reason.

Victim-blaming is, as are all things, no problem at all as long as it comes from feminism and is directed at someone feminism considers incapable of being a victim, and someone they consider incapable of victimizing someone else.

This moronic view of things; this way of looking at equality is nonsensical. In viewing men and women as equals and as such as equally capable, one must also admit to both sexes capability for violence and toxicity, for making bad decisions and then face up to the consequences of these bad decisions. One can not claim that only men do bad and women only do good, and label this as equal treatment, as viewing the genders in an equal light.

It is obviously faulty.

You don’t even need to scrutinize it.

Men act.

Women act.

Both act.

One should not be given excuses for their actions.

Nor should the other.

– Please like, share and subscribe

– Moiret Allegiere, 18.05.2019

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The Forced futility of Male-only Spaces

Dreams of solitude A3 lowres

Illustration: «Dreams of Solitude», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2019

At the moment of writing this, I am in the process of quitting cigarettes for the umpteenth time. I might admit to being a bit testy. Maybe even slightly grumpy. In particular since previous attempts at quitting cigarettes have only ever lasted until the sun comes out and I have a beer or a glass of wine outside in said sun. It seems such a futile task; a week of withdrawals and weird bodily sensations to be broken so easily by the weak and flimsy will of someone who really fucking enjoys his tobacco and his booze. Preferably at the same time.

Do not expect anything but pure, unflattering grump today.

The seeming futility of the thing is, obviously and clearly, a deep-seated longing within myself to keep smoking cigarettes, the clear fact of the matter being that I do not want to quit – I have to quit, for reasons of health and of economy.

Both of which can kindly go fuck themselves as my entire brain and body screams out for cigarettes in a longing and drawn-out howl. If anything, my subconscious is very talented at telling me exactly what I don’t need and is marvellously skilled at rationalizing exactly why I need what I don’t need. In this case it is cigarettes, which have been a steady friend since I was thirteen years old, broken only now and then by some lovingly implemented absence.

Don’t worry, cigs, I’ll come crawling back to worship at your feet and inhale your divine essence once again!

This is the sensation of futility at play; the mind-numbing and reality-twisting mental gymnastics skipping about within this rambling psyche and incoherent subconscious of mine.

Now, of course, this is a very defeatist attitude. Seeing as I am aware of it with all my nicotine-craving madness and silly pop-psycho-babbling nimble fingers, I think it is more a case of not wanting to admit to myself that I really do like cigarettes. Not need, as much as like.

So, why this ham-fisted introduction; this personal non-issue presenting itself as some cleverly forged introduction to the ramble at hand?

One word.

Futility.

Well, two words, really.

Forced futility.

See, lately I have been thinking about male-only and female-only spaces, and the necessity of both. There should be nothing wrong with having a chosen space for only women and a chosen space for only men, where women are free to act as women amongst women and men are free to act as men amongst men. There is a need within all of us to be around like-minded people, and despite all being individuals, the common man will have more in common with a fellow common man than he will with a common woman, and vice versa.

Gender being the great state-sanctioned divider that it is, by the grace and whimsical will of feminism, men will almost always alter their behaviour in the presence of a woman. The great primal force of sexual competition at display; a biological drive and need to impress a prospective mate, whether or not one is already tied down with another mate. Male primacy at display; the hierarchy in full fucking force. There is nothing wrong with this. Nor is there anything good with this. It is what it is, and that is all that it is. Just as oestrogen and testosterone are neither good nor bad, it merely is what it is and that is all there is to this.

This behaviour, I am fairly certain, is something most people are not aware of. Not consciously. It just happens, laid down with pile-driving force after aeons of sexual selection.

Now, to be perfectly honest: I believe women to be more aware of this tender fact than men are. I also believe that they tend to use it to their advantage more often than not. Considering the fact that women are the gatekeepers of procreation and the ones who do the sexual selection, being more biologically important and far less disposable than the male of the species, it really is no wonder.

There is always this drive from the forces of feminist fury and frivolous freak-outs for male-only spaces to be shut down; to have their doors opened so that women shall, must and need enter.

The justification for this is, as it always fucking is, some pretence of horrid and foul sexism and discriminatory behaviour from men in the general direction of anyone with a pair of tits and ovaries. It is the most obnoxious ghost of patriarchy-present besmirching the hallowed name of gender-inclusivity!

On the other hand: female-only spaces are quite alright to the ruptured mind and not-all-there psyche of the feminist. Because women, being the frail and delicate flowers that they are, need their safe-spaces away from men where they are allowed to be women in the vicinity of other women and just do what women do around other women. This demand for a space free from men is driven by a word, fluctuating and wildly incoherent; “Equality”.

Under the preposterous pretence of equality between the sexes, one sex is not allowed a space for only that sex and one sex is allowed a space for only that sex. Because women must be safe from men. And men don’t need to be safe from women. Men pose a threat. Women are only sugar and spice and everything nice.

Well, then, if men pose this horrid and trite threat towards women, why is it then so important for women to enter male-only spaces?

One should, were there any semblance of logic in this vile pit of hate and misandry that is the feminist cauldron of nonsense and gibberish, believe that women would shy away from male-only spaces instead of forcing the doors wide open for women, under the shamelessly derivative word “discrimination”.

Women are so scared and terrified of men that they need a space for only women to be safe from men. At the same time, being so terrified of men, they need to be included into spaces where there is only men. One assumes, to combat their own ridiculous pathological anxiety.

Have you learned nothing, young apprentice? There must always be women present so as to make certain and make sure that men do not have too much fun. Men can not behave properly unless they are under the strict supervision of a woman. Preferably a feminist woman, to make sure that the joyous cavorting do not get too joyous or out of hand. There is, to be sure and to be certain, only a thin line separating male camaraderie from the re-implementation of patriarchy-past.

This is seen, time and again.

Over the course of the last decade or so, as “nerd-culture” has become mainstream and kinda hip and cool and oh so trendy; hobbies that tended to be largely tended to by men suddenly got an influx of women being interested in it. From the trendiness of it all. This is not an issue in and off itself, as these hobbies have never been men-only spaces.

They have, however, been predominantly male.

The issues arise when women enter these hobbies and expect to be catered to and expect the men therein to alter their behaviour so as not to offend her delicate sensibilities.

That is some grade-A level entitlement right there.

Imagine being so conceited, so entitled, as to enter a space and demand to be catered to by the ones being in that space from the very beginning.

Imagine being so far up ones own ass that one demands that ones mere presence in this space will alter that space to fit ones own needs, and then not considering this as pure, shameless and unfiltered egotistical selfishness!

There have always been women in these hobbies, for sure. After the main-streaming and hip-and-trendy image of nerd-culture laid upon the pimpled ass-cheeks of the world its highly constructed counter-culture convenience, however, these women seem to have been forgotten by the ones who came after, riding the tail of the trend and wanting inclusivity for the sake of inclusivity; demanding altered behaviour from those who tinkered with these hobbies for years and years. The women who were there for the sake of being there and dabbling in this hobby did just that – they dabbled in this hobby. Gender did not matter. What a whimsical thought, no? That gender don’t matter none, but ones interest in this hobby.

Now – the reason I am bringing this up, despite it never being a male-only space, merely primarily male, is for the similarities between the behaviours seen with the influx of women into nerd-culture as it became trendy and mainstream, and what happens when male-only spaces are deemed discriminatory and forced to open their doors to women. I could probably digress a bit here and point out that, even when a space is not male-only, but occupied by mostly males, it is painted as discriminatory towards women solely for being mostly male. Because men and women don’t have different interests, of course. And more men than women must necessarily mean discrimination from the horrid men therein, being pawns of the patriarchy and foot-soldiers of female oppression.

…Because admitting to different interests might just also be admitting that there are differences in the male and female brain leading to differences in both interests and in outcome. And we can’t have that, since all and one are tabula rasa and that is all they are. Therefore, it must be discrimination. And when it is discrimination, women are free to do whatever they wish within this space so as to end the discrimination, never-minding and no-mattering both the men and the women who co-inhabited that space from the beginning, paying no heed to the fact that it was predominantly male because the understanding is that it was the fucking interest in the god-damned hobbies that started the space in the first fucking place.

And so, in spaces designated to be, by choice and by design, male-only spaces, women will enter, men will alter their behaviour – or be forced to alter their behaviour – and the entire place will fall straight on its face as the woman expects to be catered to. Even if she is the sole woman there.

Her delicate sensibilities goes above all, and merely the whispered word “cunt” – not aimed at her, but being a part of the male-hazing-male-bonding ritual could have serious ramification as this delicate flower might take offence to it. Men acting like men do in the presence of other men, is frowned upon.

A woman might take offence, boys, so change this at once.

There is more to it than that, of course. The simple fact of the matter is that men open up to other men when men do things together.

Men also have this beautiful and remarkable ability to be together in silence, doing something, enjoying each others company, and finding solace in the fact that they are there together.

No words need to be spoken. There is just an understanding there, something that can only be shared and understood by men being men together.

Men tend to share their concerns, their lives, their fears, their trials and tribulations, when men do things together. That is when and how men open up to each-other, and it is through this we find solace in each-other. Men stand shoulder to shoulder with their friends, and eye-to-eye with their enemies, as the saying goes.

This is not to be understood as anything but men standing side by side, doing something together and, in standing shoulder to shoulder, not having to watch the other for fear of an attack. It is trust. And when there is this trust, men open up. Or they don’t, knowing that this trust is there, this mutual love, honour and protection, is there and is something to take solace in and be comforted by. Sometimes, there just is no need for words.

Something women, in particular feminist women, don’t seem to understand, painting this as a sign of toxic masculinity when it is quite the contrary – it is self-assured and mutually recognized safety; a bond that goes incredibly deep and a trust that goes beyond mere words.

If women are so determined to enter a male-only space, one should expect that she was interested in what goes on in there. One should think that she would be interested in partaking. She should not, then, expect altered behaviour and altered this-or-that to suit her needs and her temperament, surely? for instance, take a look at the men’s shed in Australia, which of course have their doors opened to women, and see what’s going down.

I would dare propose that it is up to men to not alter their behaviour; the onus is on men to act like men do in these spaces, and not fall for this demand for altered behaviour. It stands to reason that, if women want to enter male-only spaces, then they should submit to the rules therein, instead of demanding they be changed and altered for reasons of her being there.

Clearly; it is easierto just keep male-only spaces male-only and female-only spaces female-only. This would be the best for both. When the demands are there to open the doors for women, however, I see no reason why men should alter their behaviour to impress and protect the women entering. Of course, blue-pilled and stupid as we men tend to be, the woman has to be protected. And so her word has to be law, even if she is in a space meant to be a space where men can be men together with other men and not having to think about impressing some woman or other.

And, in thinking and in doing what we do, there is no room to share these weaknesses, these fears and flaws and trials and tribulations of ours with the other men in these spaces, because being seen as weak by a woman means that we are flawed, that our genetic material is not good enough for procreational fun and fancy. This biological need to prove ourselves is what makes the divisive drivel of feminism so powerful, so untouchable, I think: men must protect women, and time and again we must prove that we are able to protect women. And so we must cater to every whim and fancy of feminism. Otherwise, we are weak, we are not protectors.

Might it just be another feminist power-ploy, a demand for the eradication of everything masculine whilst demanding a celebration of all things feminine? Even when playing on the traditionally feminine and the traditionally masculine? Women are so strong and powerful and brave and heroic that they can not be in a room with men being men without shaking and trembling in horrified anxiety; without men having to stop being men for fear of ruffling her feathers!

Oh, see here, boys, this place could surely use a woman’s touch.

And there lies the beating heart of it all, this forced futility, this nonsense.

Feminist demand the dismantling of male-only spaces → the male-only spaces are dismantled, women are allowed in → feminist demands the men alter their behaviour as it is a scary place for a woman → men complain, are not heard, then start leaving → the space is now a feminist space, men complain, are told they can start their own space → men start their own space → feminist demand the dismantling of male-only spaces. Repeat ad infinitum.

That is the futility of it all; there is not only a call to dismantle male-only spaces and allow women to enter – the space must also conform to the feminist orthodoxy, or be labelled a toxic place for women in need of all manners of interventions and calls for men to check their privilege and think about how their behaviour impact the women in these spaces. Men are morally inferior to women, and so need moral guidance from the women when they are in a space that used to be their own.

Now, of course, the blatant double-standard of the thing is bad enough; the allowance of female-only spaces and the dis-allowance of male-only spaces. Discrimination based on sex is quite alright, as long as it is women doing it; saying that women need their own space because they are scared of men is quite alright, even when it paints all men in a negative light and all women in a positive light. And that is where it gets even worse than the fucking double-standards: a completely obvious, out-in-the-open hatred of, and shaming of, men for being men is quite alright. But don’t you dare say that men need a space where there are only men – because that is hating women, even when women are not mentioned.

Men just wanting to hang around other men without having to be shamed, hated and vilified for being men is deemed as discriminatory towards women. Because, for some strange and mystical reason understood only by the clinically insane holders of the esoteric and occult wisdom of feminism, everything has to be about women.

Even when it is about men and not women.

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– Moiret Allegiere, 15.05.2019

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Fear and Loathing on the Educational trail:

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Illustration: «Snackbreak», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2019

There is a certain level of dangerous absurdity, or absurd danger, in education. Considering the climate in places of education – be that education primary, secondary, or higher – where men are concerned, one would be hard-pressed not to understand why men are dropping out of higher education at alarming rates. When all one is faced with as a male student is hostility directed at ones gender, either covertly or overtly, the easiest path to tread is to burn out, drop out and fade away into obscurity, leaving what could possibly be ones own brilliance in a field to rot in a vacant lot in some hellish ghettoised suburbia.

Higher education was not something that appealed to me in any way, shape or form. Lectures and sitting still and not doing anything for hours on end but listen to some holier-than-thou authority drone on endlessly does not come easy to me. I am far too fidgety. I also happen to be one of those arseholes who believe in autodidacticism in no small way. Chalk that one up to a high level of distrust in authority on my part, I suppose. May be a flaw, may be a strength. It depends on the situation at hand.

Either way – flaw or strength – the path I wished to tread through life was very clear for me from an early age. That path would be the thorny, bushy, broken and difficult path of art. Despite my love of literature and my love of writing, I find visual art to be the most appealing to me, both aesthetically and practically. It gives my nimble fingers and fidgety nature something to do, and provides a fantastic outlet for whatever is going on in my ramshackle psyche at that moment in time.

I believed, with all my thorny-bushy pride and artistic integrity, that studying art would be suitable for my nature; all anti-authoritarian dreamery and eccentric shaman-shape. I honestly thought that this would be a haven for just such a repugnant freak as myself. Now; studying art in any academic sense was out of the question; dry lectures on dry art history in dry halls with dry professors and dry paintings with dry interpretations beneath dry roofs of dry academic arrogance and humourless wisdom accumulated from dry and dusty tomes of prior dry art history did not appeal to me in the slightest.

I wanted the practical approach to art – as I do in most things; a practical and efficient approach to life in general. This is not to say that there is no room for theory – of course there is. I would not be reading and writing as much as I do, if I did not place value on theory. It is, however, the practical approach that appeals the most to me. And a practical approach to art means that I get to create art, which is – excepting writing, bending over in anguished pain, and producing alcoholic beverages – the only thing I’m any good at in life.

And so I applied to, and got accepted into a liberal art school of no ill repute. Judging by the reviews and this schools eloquent and fanciful self-promotional material, it seemed to be a perfect place for me to enter and so expand my nerve-twitching approach to art. I wanted to learn how to create, and also to be free to create. Considering my highly introverted nature and severe social anxiety at the time, I thought this would be a great place where such things as forced socialization so common in education – at least where I’m from – would not be in bountiful supply. I just wanted to be left in relative solitude to tinker with my things and to let others tinker with their things.

This is not, of course, to say that I do not enjoy being social. It means that I enjoy my solitude and enjoy the company of a few like-minded friends. There should not be anything wrong with this. And boy, how wrong I was in thinking this.

Opening the doors into this school was a learning experience in no small way. I ascended the stairs and in so doing descended into hell. This was prior to my red-pilling. At this point in time, through years of – quite literally – indoctrination and brainwashing from prior incarcerations in schools, I was a feminist. Why wouldn’t I be, considering the hardships and horrors women had to face whilst men had it so easy through life that we literally had no issues, and if we had issues it was due to other men and due to being men ourselves, which could easily be remedied by not acting like a man all the time. No easy task, to be honest, when one is born a man.

Now, this self-defeating philosophy of feminism instilled into me a self-defeating self-loathing which I could not name at the time for the simple reason that I did not know it at the time. It is a weird thing to ponder, considering my current stance on the cosmic horror that is feminism. I was blinded by the light and so did not understand that the light was only put in place to mask the darkness behind, beneath and above, engulfing all of the light. It was presented in schools from teachers not the least bit ashamed nor afraid to present their own personal political beliefs as the grand truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me Jezebel.

Feminism had been intravenously injected into our very young and eager minds as the only path to equality between the genders; a steady drip-drop of arsenic concealed behind blissful morphine telling us that women had all the issues, men had none of the issues and so boys must do all they can to make the lives of girls easier. There is no gendered discrimination in treating girls better on a systemic level, we were told for years uncounted. Because that is nothing but levelling the playing field, dont’cha know, and that is all there is to it.

I feel stupid, falling for it and being ensnared by it for so many years, despite the evidence to the contrary of the claims of feminism being so prominent, so obvious and so right-in-your-fucking-face as to be impossible to not see unless one chooses willingly not to see it. But that is the power of indoctrination, that is the power of allowing one ideology to become so powerful as to be virtually untouchable, that is the power of being able to hide the dark, evil, bloodstained beast behind the inscrutable saying; the holy no-true-scotsman-fallacy of “not real feminism”.

As we all should know by now, there is no real communism, and there is no real feminism. “But that’s not real communism.” “But that’s not real feminism”. Spouted as sucker-punch jargon all the while the world burns and people die and nothing is done about it due to ideologues being completely blinded by the light fantastic. It is a frantic wilful blindness to the vapid insanity of ideology slowly becoming dogmatic religion; cult-like in thinking and so infused with either-or pictograms that it crossed the bridge of fanaticism aeons ago.

In this school of art, I might as well have studied feminist dance therapy. I might as well have studied the eradication of masculinity. I might as well have studied shit under a microscope. Come to think of it; studying shit would have given me a far better understanding of art than my two years of art-school ever would or could. For one very simple reason: art was not the important topic in this school of art. Feminism, political correctness and what would later be dubbed social justice warriors were. The very simple pleasures of doing art took the back-seat as a sledgehammer approach to feminism took the front-seat, riding shotgun with all the radical feminist theory one could ever hope to have dripped in ones ears and forced down ones throat, or up any other orifice of ill repute.

Obvious disclaimer time; this is anecdotal. This is personal experience. I have no evidence to show for what I experienced but a re-telling of what I experienced. Looking to the stats, numbers and so-and-such in any area of education, excepting only a few, will prove without a shadow of a doubt that men are dropping out of education. Looking even further beyond the rainbow-coloured lenses of feminism and into the environment created on schools all across the western world by the forces of feminism, and one will quickly come to the realization that my personal experience is an experience shared by many a man bold enough as to believe that studying a field will mean that they get to study in that field, give or take some details.

Now, imagine if the world gave a damn about the experiences of men, be that one man as an individual or men as a whole. If that were the case, this blatant hatred of men would not be tolerated, would not be accepted and would not be celebrated. And yet it is, and the furious forces that be have the gall to claim, have the auspicious audacity to claim, that we live in a world where only the voices of men are heard, to the detriment of women!

What a wonderful, topsy-turvy, grand collapse of sanity one must celebrate and gather around to believe in this abhorrent nonsense when the evidence to the contrary is so obvious. That is what happens, I suppose, when one instils into impressionable young minds the damsel in distress trope and the chivalrous knight needed to save her.

…All the while complaining about the damsel in distress trope and the chivalrous knight needed to save her…

And then daring to brand this as something new, when it is nothing but the same-old-same-old expectations of gallant chivalry and male self-sacrifice we are so accustomed to seeing; demands placed on men to help women at the sacrifice of themselves. Demands placed on women to help themselves and other women at the expense and detriment and social de-valuing of men.

There is expected responsibilities for men to carry all the burdens of the world, and then some. There is expected freedom for women to place all the burdens of the world, and then some, on the tense and fractured shoulders of men.

Instead of responsibilities and liberties being shared.

All this granted by the holy goblin-ghost of feminism, whose stout and stalwart onwards march into the midst of our civilization have made them able to cease the means of production and create a global mythology that sees them – and only them – as the only force striving for equality, even when that equality means female supremacy; the hoisting up of one on the shoulders of the other. This trickling down into our schools and then into the minds of pupils and of students, is incredibly dangerous. It leaves no room for nuance, teaching only the absolutist thinking of feminism and portraying not only men, but masculinity as a whole, as the one destructive force in our world – the only negative and the core reason for all our woes and terrors. No Pandora’s box here; no multitude of reasons and complex complexities of humanity to contend with and to ponder and to consider. Nope. Only men as the problem. This it is, and nothing more.

But I digress.

The first six months or so in this school went fairly well. All fanciful introductions and clever displays of “look how free-form and free we are; how open-minded and so-and-such.” Of course, the feminist rage and hatred was very prominent, constantly boiling beneath the surface and the layer of scum, popping ever so often to the surface in swift and fell swoops designed to shame the men therein for being men, evidenced by needless meandering and monologues from the teachers – not labelled “teachers”, but “educators” for some reason – when they were to showcase their art, all ferocious feminist fancies and ill-conceived vapid silliness brought on by what I can only deem a wish and a longing to be oppressed and persecuted for their gender were they female, or a longing to prove themselves worthy men were they male.

After a while it became obvious that the progressive stack was in full fucking force within the walls and sheltered halls of this institution of indoctrination. Or, that is to say, it would have been had I the words to explain the situation and the madness at the time. I did not, and though it felt wrong at some visceral gut-level, I could do nothing but nod in dumb-struck agreement; to go with the flow of cerebral nothingness shown in so-called art and in so-called introductions to art where they – as feminist virtue-signallers are known to do – could not shut up about gender for more than three seconds at a time, using gender and political leanings as the basis for their judgement of art and not the work of art in and off itself.

I am doing my best not to reveal the identity of anyone. My gripe is with ideology and with bad ideas, not with individuals. As a general rule, I am not interested in going after individuals. I am interested in going after the ideas and the ideology, as that seems to me to be the best path to tread. Keeps me out of trouble, and keeps others out of trouble as well.

I find myself hard-pressed, however, in this instance. As revealing the position of certain teachers within this school might also reveal their identity. Thus, I stay away from revealing their positions as well. I think that is only fair.

Things turned on their head at around the six month mark, and the hostility towards men became more tangible, an electric buzz tasted at the tip of my tongue and in the back of my throat as the blood rose and the fever worsened. A madness seemed to descend upon the school; all gripped in the holier-than-thou attitude of being untouchable, and as such allowed to say and to spew whatever they wished, as long as it was said and spewed towards men, capitalism and some perceived beast of right-wing leanings.

I think one anecdote is good enough to paint a decent picture of the goings-on. My art tend to be fairly personal. This is usually done to battle personal demons. Of course, I do my best to make the art look beautiful and be relatable to those who view it as well. Beauty is of no importance when it comes to art – as we all know, who have seen modern art devolve into a piece of shit within a glass-container.

I had done some drawing or other of a personal nature, drawing on my experiences with severe insomnia, only to be met with the judgement from one of the teachers that it was so personal that she felt sick looking at it.

Now, criticism is criticism. I did not expect to study art and not meet negative criticism of my art. That would be absurd. And so I did not think about this too much, until the very same teacher praised to high heavens a piece of art done by a female student, just as personal as the art I had done – albeit coarser and more, I would say, in-your-face than mine. If memory serves, it was not a bad piece of art at all. But that is not the point. The point is that she was touted as being brave and strong and courageous for creating something this personal and sharing it like she did. So; my personal art made the teacher in question feel “sick”, as she put it. A female student’s personal art, however, was praiseworthy for her courage in doing exactly what I did to make this teacher sick through my art. You get my point.

Men, being severely privileged by nature, can not have any issues worth anything to the mind of a feminist, and so when men have personal issues, they would rather not know about it. All empathy, understanding and praise must go to the female students, as empathy, understanding and praise is a finite resource to the minds of people who view everything in terms of power-dynamics and not in terms of mutual respect and equal treatment. Balancing their imagined scales by giving praise in the direction of women and scorn in the direction of men.

At around the same time – at the six month mark – I met my future wife in this school; we were in the same class and hit it off almost instantly. Both of us being highly introverted probably contributed a lot to us hitting it off so good. And so we became a couple. This, it seems, is the greatest grievance ever and the worst trespass I could ever have done both to this school and to this poor unfortunate woman who had fallen into my cunningly laid trap and been swayed into my arms and eager mouth, waiting to devour and corrupt her.

The teachers at this haunted mansion, infused with the essence of the feminine divine and the feminist gospel, did all they could to keep us apart and break us up. I wish I were joking. But I am not. I wish I were making this up. But I am not.

Some of our fellow students partook in this as well, which I find to be fairly interesting. Now – to be fair, I do not have any evidence that this was fanned by the teachers, or if they just felt the general direction the winds were blowing and wished to gain favours with the teachers.

Teachers pets are not an uncommon thing, and doubly so, it seemed, at this shack of a school, all Gothic towers and underlying sense of doom rivalling a short story from Edgar Allan Poe.

When teachers go on friendly visits to their students in their past-time, some foul smell of favours and corruption and favourable corruption is not exactly without their merit.

And yet, and of course, it must be mentioned that us both being highly introverted also meant that we kept ourselves to ourselves mostly, and so did not take part in the grand collective too much. This, by default and by definition placed the role of “outsiders” upon us. Which is kinda funny considering the archetypal outsider-role of the artist generally speaking.

When once one is deemed an outsider, it is easy to also earn the wrath and the ire of most. Somewhere, somehow, upon someone, fault must be laid and blame must be placed. It seems very human, in all honesty. It is a tale as old as time. However; when teachers, who are supposed to treat all students equally, misuse their authority and take part in the caning and the shaming of the outsiders, something is lost and broken which should not be lost and broken. And I would dare make the claim that it is not the job of teachers to meddle in the personal life and affairs of students. In particular when those students are of age, and are mature, and so should be left alone to do with their lives as they wish to do with their lives and with their time of study as they wish to do with their time of study. As long as whatever is supposed to be done in study is done, that should be the extent of their meddling.

This was not the case. And the mutual introverted natures of my future wife and myself were enough for the teachers to pass judgement most foul upon me for being a man so horrid and so offensive as to dare be in a loving relationship with someone of the female persuasion.

As time moved on, the hostility became ever more apparent. And so did the attempts to keep my future wife and me apart.

I could go on and on about lectures, supposedly about art, bringing up feminism and male-female power-dynamics, and the horrors of masculinity ad infinitum. I could go on and on about the shaming of men so common now, and so common then. I could mention the feminist seminar which which was taking place, prominently advertised at our school, and the shaming of a male student who wished to attend this by a female teacher who made it very clear that she did not think he had any place there. I could mention the visiting artist supposed to have a presentation showcasing his artistic endeavours being browbeaten by a teacher in the audience for daring to state his support of the state of Israel, halting the entire presentation in order for this teacher to showcase his moral superiority and derailing the entire presentation into a mass-shaming of this poor artist who just wished to talk about his art.

The political correctness ran rampant, and I was stupid enough to take part in the political correctness. I was suckered into the follies of the PC-police, despite being assaulted by it at the same time. It is the powers of indoctrination, of brainwashing, showcasing itself yet again. The horrible, nagging feeling of this being wrong was overshadowed by the glorious sensation of being in the right, of doing something good and proper and true.

I am ashamed to admit it.

But that is the way it was.

Now, in my defence, I did not verbally assault anyone. Nor did I act like we now see the hive-mind social justice warriors do. I did not reach that point of insanity, not by a long stretch. But the foundations were there, laid down after years of schooling showing no nuance and teaching not a semblance of critical analysis of a situation. I had to learn that on myself.

Lucky break of random chance, then, that I am a strong believer in autodidacticism and so read ferociously and feverishly all manner of books and articles critical to the school of thought driven and promoted and – in many ways – owned by the feminist hive-mind.

Lucky break of random chance, then, that I should suffer this horrible treatment by feminism, insisting they work for equality but showing quite the contrary, and so making me doubt the very foundations of my education up to and including that point in time.

Lucky break of random chance, then, that the feminist hive-mind behave the way they do and in the manner they do, so as to make someone like myself who was so ensnared, so shackled and chained by the programming break free from the programming by witnessing them doing exactly the opposite of what they claim to do.

The roots of my eventual red-pilling draw their sustenance from my years studying feminist dance therapy. By which I of course mean art.

At the start of the second year, the teachers at this school quite simply refused to give me any feedback on my art. I received no guidance, no education, no feedback, no nothing. I was – it would seem – un-personed, a non-person, a non-existent nuisance, a blemish on the gigantic arsehole that was this school. My crime was being introverted and having a girlfriend who also happened to be introverted.

This was made very much evident at the six month mark of the second year at this school, in which each and every student were supposed to have the art they had produced during the previous six months evaluated by the masters of indoctrination and feministing. I produced a fairly decent amount of art – some good, some of it not exactly good – but quite a lot to be evaluated nonetheless. And so I brought bags upon bags of my art, as well as some short films I had made into the hall of judgement, prepared to be taken behind the shed and shot like some mongrel dog. What greeted me behind the doors of this elusive hall of judgement were two teachers who, quite obviously, had conspired together and laid plans for their strategic assault on me as a person, not my art, not my output, not my creativity, but me, myself and I.

What followed was a long lecture on how wicked I was in not being social enough, and in not being social enough also forcing my girlfriend to isolate herself from the rest of the school. For sixty minutes, give or take.

It was a completely pre-planned fervent assault on my horrid character: the patriarchal oppressor doing all in my power to oppress my would-be-wife in the most horrible way possible. That is: by refusing her to mingle and be social with the rest of the over-social mad and positively over-acted gleeful scoundrels at this school.

It became obvious after five minutes that they were not in the least bit interested in viewing my art. Not at all. They were there to judge my character. A deeply disturbing act, to be perfectly honest, as I could not for the life of me comprehend where this vacuous hostility, these illogical assumptions, these nonsensical sentiments stemmed from.

In hindsight, I know precisely where they stemmed from, of course: it was the feminist ideology at full force, wherein my would-be wife was viewed as a weak and useless victim of my absolutely fantastic authority – in their fractured hallucinatory fantasy, my would-be wife, by virtue of being a woman, had no agency of her own and so could only do what I commanded her to do. Which is very peculiar, obviously, considering feminism proclaiming to work for the right of women to do what they wish with their lives. This, of course, only ever extend to women doing precisely what feminism wants them to do with their lives. Obviously, my would-be wife did not do what the frantic forces of feminism would have her do; she did not act as they expected a strong, powerful and independent woman to do and so the fault must of course lie with some man or other. This is clear, as feminism perceives women to have no agency of their own; being crushed beneath the weight of the thumb, cock or balls of whichever man they were unlucky enough to have in their lives.

They had not spoken with my would-be wife on this matter. They had just assumed that her lack of social participation was due to me and my introverted nature coupled, of course, with my severe social anxiety at that point in time. A social anxiety, I must add, which I thought would be remedied by forcing myself through studying in some place I believed would be good for my mental health. Obviously, it was not. It made it far worse. At the very least, it laid bare the view feminism hold of both men and women.

As the highly moralistic assault on my very character continued, all I could do was stand there in jaw-dropped silence as these two pre-programmed androids kept lambasting me with this and with that, having no mind or no concern for what they were actually supposed to do. It was clearly pre-planned, wolves circling their prey and slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, closing in for the kill. As the assault neared its end, they suddenly remembered what they were there to do – that is to say – what they were actually receiving fucking pay-checks to do.

With one swift swing of the sword, with a baring of the teeth, one of the synthetic wolves snarled that I should show some of my art. I showed one piece, which was – with no exaggeration – laughed at. Loudly. Mockingly. Childishly. That is one piece out of probably fifty or so which I had brought with me, expecting to have reviewed and judged on their merit. Now, obviously, this mocking laughter combined with the scorn and the shaming I went through in this hall of judgement, did not exactly fill me with high spirits and some hope for what the morrow would bring.

Quite the contrary.

I do not think it unfair to assume that in a review of ones art, one would expect to have ones art reviewed. I do not think it unfair to expect a level of professionalism from supposed artists posing as supposed teachers at a supposed good school for studying art. I do not think it unfair to assume that the personal and/or romantic life of students should not be scrutinized by moral busybodies with no grasp on reality and no understanding of anything but their own preconceived notions, their own pre-programmed ideological definition of male-female power-dynamics. I do not think it unfair to expect to not meet this level of hostility, to not be met with baseless assumptions in regards to my own romantic relationship, painting me as some horrible oppressor and my would-be wife as some horribly oppressed poor damsel in distress needing the teachers to save her from me and my forcing her not to be social. Especially not when the only thing that was supposed to be reviewed were my art, my work and the sole fucking god-damned reason I was in this hell-hole to begin with.

As this was completely unexpected, I could do nothing but stand there and feel that old sense of dread; that anxiety welling up and coursing through my body and my mind as blasts of misplaced adrenaline ran through my body, numbing my skin and my mind and my senses and clouding my comprehension of the situation at hand. Were I not as anxious as I was back in those days, I would have done something or said something or complained or, well, whatever. As it were, the real nature of this encounter did not sink in until it was too late to do anything about it.

Anxiety is such a weird thing to suffer from, and to explain it is impossible, I think, to anyone who has not experienced it first-hand.

Then, push came to shove. My feeble psyche had withstood all that it could endure during that year and a half within this glorified gulag, this re-education camp for horrid male oppressors and their flaccid and weak-willed victims. I suffered a full and complete nervous breakdown.

Keep in mind that there were several individual instances of similar nonsense which I have not mentioned for the simple reason that this would be a never-ending ramble were I to do that.

Keep also in mind that I had struggled for years at this point with mental health issues of no small impact. This nervous breakdown came complete with dissociation, with a worsening of my insomnia, never-ending nightmares, panic-attacks and wild and vicious exhaustion and fatigue. For which I was given, until the line at the psychiatrist opened so that I could receive mental health “treatment”, as many bottles of Valium as I wanted with the instruction to take up to five pills a day.

Yeah.

That was the level I was at, and the state of the treatment I received prior to the waiting-in-line was done. A full four weeks of medically granted sick-leave was also given me, which was not enough. Of course, I should have quit that god-forsaken place instead of letting it drive me insane. Quitting was not an option, however, as I had dropped out of education previously. For much the same reasons, in fact – not personal attacks on me, as was the case in this school, but the over-reaching feminist indoctrination and control of these schools which constantly vilified men, making it a fucking chore to study when, just around the corner, some cleverly veiled assault on masculinity was waiting and ready to pounce.

I can not, for the life of me, fathom how the ideology of feminism is viewed as such a grandiose and beautiful thing. Its most ardent followers are quite clearly living within a world of their own delusional design, wherein all choices a woman makes, if not done in a manner accepted by feminism, must mean that the woman is oppressed and unaware of it herself, being too weak and too frail and too stupid to be aware of it.

Feminism, it seems, does not exactly have a high opinion of women.

At the same time, I can not fathom the depths of unthinking assumptions being made by feminism wherever men are concerned, painting men as all-powerful and, in being all-powerful, corrupted by their own power to such an extent that they do not see their power for their, well, power. Which, clearly, causes all men everywhere to oppress women, even if they don’t mean to do it. This just lies in the nature of men, according to feminism, and so we must be taught not to act like this just as women must be taught not to act like that.

Feminism, it seems, does not exactly have a high opinion of men.

Feminism does not like anyone or anything, except feminism. And those who do not align with their rigid guidelines are either forced to the fringes of society, metaphorically killed or whipped until they submit to their world-view, their dogma and their ideological and narcissistic drivel. You are either with feminism, or you are free game. Conform, or be killed. To quite the Borg: “Assimilate!”

And it is so odd and it is so strange that, for all their gooble-de-gook about female empowerment, they are completely unable to accept a woman behaving in a manner they do not consider proper. A woman not behaving as feminism would like a woman to behave is oppressed, even if she does what she wants to do. She just does not know it – as stated before.

The only possible explanation that a woman does not behave like feminism would have her do, is one man as an individual or all men as a collective keeping her from doing what she wants to do – that is, what feminism wants her to do. There can be no other reason, and if she does not see this for herself, it is up to the good forces of feminism to do the work for her, to emancipate her from the horrors of a loving would-be husband who is just as introverted as herself.

You see, there were parties at this school which my would-be wife and myself did not attend for wanting to stay at home instead. In a normal world, this would be accepted. This, however, was not a normal world. This was the world according to the gospel of feminism. And so not going to these parties were brought up in my time of judgement as evidence of me keeping her from being social. Which, of course, was an absolutely absurd statement, considering it was my would-be wife who most of the time expressed interest in staying home instead of attending the parties.

Odd, that the assumption was that it was my fault – this lack of gleeful socialization. I wonder if they would have considered it her forcing me not to be social, were they to have been informed of this?

Of course not.

They would probably not have believed it, for the simple reason that their view of the world does not allow for such a thing to occur. Or they would have, by some magical mental gymnastics or other, found a way around it.

Now, to make myself perfectly clear – my would-be wife did not force me to not attend any parties either. It was very much a mutual decision, and it should be respected as a personal choice. To a feminist, however, personal decisions does not seem to matter too much. The personal has to be political. Even when the people involved don’t want I to. It especially does not matter when some victim and victimizer power-play can be manufactured to their hearts content, power-fetishists as they seemingly are. It seems the only thing that brings any form of meaning to their dishevelled lives.

Now, of course, that is just me being mean.

I am sure they find lots of joy in other things. Like for instance filming three women standing on a bridge pissing, forcing us to watch it, and calling it art.

Luckily, my time at this school came to an end and I attended the graduation-ceremony, such as it were, stoned to the max on Valium and being almost unable to complete structured thoughts due to long periods of sleep deprivation and the wonders of Valium turning me into some weird and pervertedly enlightened Benzo-Buddha.

Believe it or not, this usage of Valium was not even me intending to get stoned on them. I just did what the doctors said that I should do. Which, I later learned from another doctor, was highly irresponsible from the other doctor.

The scars ran, and still do run, deep. This school opened the doors for me to venture even further into the whimsical world of mal-practiced psychiatry. A world which I had, prior to attending this school, all but quit for feeling better, getting better and wanting to cope with life without the aid of mental speech-bubbles labelled therapeutic help.

It is the sole reason I was put on so many psycho-pharmaceutical drugs that I can not even remember the names of half of them. Shortly after this school ended, I completely lost faith in art. Not only art, but in my own ability to create art. By extension, I also lost complete faith in myself. This, in turn, caused more need – or perceived need – for psychiatric help, which fanned the flames of the feral drug-industry of the mental health services, prompting ever more drugs to be thrown in my general direction. These drugs were thrown my way along with diagnosis of various and sundry, each more dangerous, clinical and serious than the rest, prompting more drugs, and so forth and so on. That is, of course, another story waiting to be told. And I am writing a book – believe it or not – on this particular branch of madness, this weird halting of my life for six years, abruptly ending by an abrupt ending of the drugs. Well, the book is more focused on the quitting of the drugs than what led up to it.

It was very clear through the madness of psychiatry that the core reason for my eventual breakdown, the root cause of it all, was of no interest. Any mention of the negatives of feminism was shooed away, and it was clear that this was not a topic to be discussed. At the very least not in any depth or detail. Just throw drugs at the problem, and it will all go away.

And I find myself thinking, all these years later, after clawing my way through hell from medications and from quitting medications, through piss-poor treatment at school and from teachers supposedly there for my benefit, being there solely for their benefit and the benefit of feminism and the perceived benefit of my poor and oppressed wife-to-be…

I find myself thinking that there really is no wonder why men are dropping out of education, failing to launch and failing to live.

There is no wonder in this at all, as the places of higher indoctrination do all they can to make sure that no man shall feel safe or feel fulfilled or feel anything but a deep-seated sense of shame, regret and remorse for being born male.

Feminism has dug its claws so deep into the skin and neural interface of education that they can not be removed without tearing the skin, ripping the flesh and damaging the nerves.

Without tearing it all down and rebuilding it without the political indoctrination, the call for ideological purity, the unopposed forces of feminism so prevalent in any-and-all corner of this throat-tearing silliness called education, it can not be saved. At the moment, it is only men paying the price. In just a few years, however, it will be all of society paying the price.

I paid a not insignificant amount of money to attend this school. This, I think, is akin to having to pay for the rope to be used when one is sentenced to death by hanging. It is having to pay for the toxins in ones lethal injection. This school did, directly and indirectly, mess up the trajectory of my life in no small way. It brought me six years of complete and utter drugged-out apathy. Why should any man wish to do this? Why should any man be forced to do this; to pay in order to be told that they are evil incarnate, that they are doing nothing but causing distress to all the women around them? Why should any man pay to go to a place of learning dominated by women to be told that more must be done to get women into higher education, despite women making up a severe majority of students in higher education?

Why should any man pay to be – in short and in essence – discriminated against for their gender?

It does not make any sense.

And the senseless, heedless, needless downplaying of the needs of men is only surpassed by the severe display of lack of compassion and lack of empathy; the clear and blatant hatred and shaming of all things masculine, of all men in all areas of education. And this is labelled as a quest for equality! It makes me sick to my twisted stomach and trembling oesophagus.

It makes for a better grasp of oneself and ones sanity, such as it is, to not partake. It is a survival tactic, this, to not study, to not attend higher education, to not attend education at all, but to fade away and burn out – a flame being snuffed before it managed to burn.

A candle that burns twice as bright may very well only burn half as long. A candle that is snuffed before it is allowed to burn does, at the very least, not stain the carpet with melted wax.

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– Moiret Allegiere, 11.05.2019

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(Filler-poetry) Micro-Dystopian Junk:

Blame it on rembrandt A3 lowres

Illustration: «Blame it on Rembrandt (Selfportrait)», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere.

From the spectrum analysis
of the void; wishy-washy
nonsense bottled and sold as perpetual
freedom grieving the loss of
some-odd something.

Veiled gurus cowering in shades,
hiding mumbo-jumbo recordings
of coked-up politicians flinging
shit on the stage.

Weird visions emanating from the
microcosm of cataclysmic
bacteria in my gut. I hear
strange noises in the inner ear;

a hum, a drone,
devoid of meaning.
’tis wordsalads and
stoned gibberish from the ranks
of growling throats and teeth and tongues.

’tis a slow descent into madness:
storytime sellouts, loud-mouth,
obnoxious and drunk
on power
shouting at us from a pinnacle
of perceived morality.

And we:
we have become fat and bored
cold and callous
narcissistic, vapid, overcivilized,
crammed into the backseat
of an undersized Honda
and labelling it love.

Our revolutions have become pedantic
miniature-scale overthrowings of
the what-ever-man-I-didn`t-dig-it variety;
gibberish of cancer-ridden mind-morons,
cowering behind a shower-curtain
drowning in an inch
of proclaimed hate-speech.

All our piss-poor grievances bottled
and sold wholesale as micro-dystopian junk
to be injected constantly into the eyes
and flaring nostrils
of the clinically dead conscientous junkies;
offended and having no shame.

Chemically castrated, side by side and in pairs
we walk jubilantly to mass-graves
singing songs
of joy and celebration and
of joyus celebration,
blinded to the truth
by ideals too clinical to be sane.

Castrated and morally feverish
we raise the flag of superficial fellowship,
a banner of solidarity,
free-falling, drunk and damaged,
just another take on the old
new world order of old
new-speak.

Kallo! Kallei! Hey-nonny-nonny-neigh!
Here we are, lost in permanent
displacement; within a void, within electric buzz!
Hey! Ho! Hey-nonny-nonny-no!
Here we fall, lost in a progressive
shitshow; a hollow tune, a loss for words.

All our words, swirling
down the drain (Hey honey, I’m home)
seeing reason in the face of madness
dance away, flip-flopping into the ether
or into crowdfunded oblivion
permanently scarred by the toxicity
of freedom-fighters fighting for tyranny.

Visionary journeys numbed by drugs and by TV
trashtalking gossip and no-nonsense dreamscapes
in bent reality reality-television, starstruck
by witnessing the vast open canvas of apocalypse

coursing through the veins of reflected
imagination and wild cosmic vibrations
fucked up by lack of oxygen –
nutritient deficiency on the mental plane
balanced by grievance-fuelled
moral stupidity;
we grow accustomed to the night light.

A sudden bright-light flash of
full frontal nudity whilst,
in the background,
heaps of cocaine-stunned nocturamas
plow the cottonfields eternally
in old world plantations.

What ya saying, humdinger?

don`t chase the fractals
don`t frighten the children
kill yourselves instead

melt into the background
disappear in bad music
hands at your sides
or tied behind your back
disappear

choke the life from your
throat, tear your voice from
your eyes, silence and
then
disappear.

A vast freak-out on a global scale,
weird pent-up lack of self-control
in this moment: a permanent fixture.

We die, laughing maniacally.

We die, smiling goofily, succumbing to
a fantastic death-dance.

We die, celebrating our death masqued
as some rebirth or other;

built by futurescapes too horrible to comprehend
past bleeds into the future –
eternalism in the works, oh baby,
our time is what once was will be
again
and
again
and again.

Cycles of mischief and of decadence
dull and numbed and bored,
grinning at nothing
and laughing at noone, smiling at
chasms or at wild-eyed wonders
with childlike innocence.

And so, and now, and there and then,
with childlike glee,
we march backwards
to our solitary confinement and,
confined to isolation, silenced and killed,
we think: this is proper, this is good, this is just.

We are going back.
Backwards in time.

Shamanic madness on the fringes of society
mystical and stained with blood;
teeth at our throat
and hamfisted theory
theorizing hamfistedly
blood and guts and gore
from archaic esoteric
wisdom.

Our cultures merging and diverging,
coo-ee, coo-ee, it`s only me,
it’s only me,
shattered, tattered,
torn apart by raven claws,
smooth as skulls
and dopamine.

It’s only me; an eerie collapse,
an aerial view of animal frenzy,
an inverted comma on your lips,
cold as the dawn
and serotonin.

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– Moiret Allegiere, 08.05.2019

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We Swim in Silence:

Meditating cynic 2 A3 lowres

Illustration: «Meditating Cynic», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

We swim in silence;

With laced veils tied around our faces, across our mouths and hands and chests, we swim engulfed in silence, profound and deafening, quietly maddening. Waves crash at the shores of desolate desert-islands and we crash to the shores with them, ground into the coarse sand and broken shells of futures indeterminate.

We swim in overwhelming silence;

Beneath skies clothed in iron underneath its flowing gown of silk and satin; beneath a moon of complex and dubious duality, beneath the majestic majesty of translucent travesties, we sit and watch the bonfire at the beach in whose magnificent flames our accumulated wisdom burns and turns to ashes. By whose flames our midnight camp-ground is illuminated with pages of books floating by, ablaze, aflame, unheeded and unheard, accentuated by a loud death knell not in mourning, but in celebration.

We swim in exhausting silence;

For ours is the vampiric era of censorious insanity. Ours is an age in which we must pretend we do not have a past upon which to build; an age in which we must do all we can to undermine accomplishments of days and days before our time and before our shadow showed itself. This is the age where all that is, was and ever will is considered offensive criminal offence, criminal neglect and superfluous ridiculousness. Ours is an age in which all that dissent from the proclaimed truth, who disagree with the dominant cultural narrative – forged by culture-war convenience – must be silenced, must be brought to their knees and suffer silent silencing by any means necessary.

We swim in radiant silence;

Caught in opiate whirlwinds of fanciful fanaticism, we march with pandering, meandering, misplaced, misguided notions of altruism upon our brows and around our waists and wrists and ankles. We march with superficial knots tied around our necks, with tattoos upon our eyes and tongues and nimble fingers commanding: “Be malignantly virtuous, or else.”.

We swim in washed-out silence;

With gag-orders forced down our throats from hastily scribbled pen-pal-like petitions to hinder and to halt and then to silence; a proclamation of continual dependence on fear and tribulation, a co-dependent tangling of the untangled social madness and hysteria at the dawning of the age of superficial identity politics. Through the bonfire we see, glassy-eyed and cold, manipulation of history, ruination of free-form discussion, wreckage of words and collapse of meaning presenting only one side and making sure that only one side is seen, to tear sanity, truth and reason asunder, to turn a hard-spun, hand-woven lie into truth and into beauty unquestioned.

We swim in deafening silence;

Where it is considered better to censor history, better to burn and to ban and to eradicate literature than it is to suffer someone reading and learning on their own accord; where it is better to bring all we see and all we built and all we gained crashing down in feral wild and violent crash-bang-booms, than it is to learn from past mistakes which are naught but mistakes of the past. Better to view all of history and all of literature in deep black and white rather than learn from the negatives and build upon the positives; to view it in a much more nuanced light, stating: this is what it was, this is how it is, we learned from this, we can learn from this as well.

We swim in dilapidated silence;

We find ourselves cast adrift and floating, in chains, tied up with seaweed, with post-truth and with rot and riot, in a time and place and day and age where all but one is one and all but one is all, where all-or-nothing thinking is perceived to be and are presented as nuanced thinking, where we lose if we should stop to think, where those who understand, where those who comprehend, that a willingness to expose oneself to a multitude of ideas, opinions and speech is the mark of an open mind are burned alive on metaphysical pyres of indoctrinated mumbo-jumbo magic imposed upon them by ravaged authority, or hunted down for sport in dark woods of social media rapture, frozen over, doomed to die.

We swim in absurdist silence;

…for the perception of one trump the perception of the other; the perceived and subjective feelings of one trump the facts of the other. In order for none to have their feelings hurt but those whose feelings are not considered real and proper and true feelings, we censor, we de-platform, we chase the witches out of the cities and into isolation, into desolation, into alienation.

We swim in pregnant silence,

In decadent decay,

in obscure relativity,

in relative obscurity,

we swim in nonsense, reaching only death.

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– Moiret Allegiere, 04.05.2019

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