Reality is a Corporate-sponsored Victimhood Narrative:

At some point, reality has to be faced. For reality will force its way into reality on account of being god-damned reality. One can claim reality to be nothing but subjective; based solely on lived experience or some calamity that happened twenty-seven bloody years ago that now, now, now has got to be dealt with with swift and immediate social media justice; thirteen homespun steps to reach the gallows head and the peak of the noose. No evidence needed, merely the swift and quick and easy execution of the goon-squad, the blood-frenzied sharks that never see any qualms in deeming someone guilty for being named and shamed and blamed through the might and awesome influence of queen Neoteny and her mighty state of hysteria.

At the end of the day and at the end of the rope, reality will come spinning and deliver a swift and brutal kick to the teeth and the senses that will leave those with chronic emotional diarrhoea reeling and spinning head first into the drain and communal sewers of the grand and glorious brave blue world.

Reality is Chaotic Neutral, you see – it cares and it does not give a flying fuck in equal measures. It is equal rights and it is equal lefts and no-one is left any the wiser for trying to shave reality or trim its mighty beard to fit the mould of miniature tyrants who decide that reality is whatever the hell they say that it is; that reality is subjected to the whim and flightless fancy of brainlet birds that pick and peck and grasp at straws to tip-toe around the facts of the matter which are simple facts that can not be wiped away by brutal displays of emotional manipulation from those that suffer emotional castrations at the mere sight of a disputed word they have decided is offensive in the abstract haze of emotional reasoning that is the dry-heaving hysteria of our new and easily offended aristocracy.

…And that is an aristocracy that can not stand dissenting views or opinions that go against the grain and holy doctrine of their chosen saviour of the hour – a saviour that changes every hour, at the hour as the clock strikes doom and gloom and boom and guides the merry hands of society into its allotted 24 hours of reality-avoidant temper-tantrums thrown for realizing that not everyone agrees with each and every sudden call to arms to fight the bloody power of the bloody oppressors that are, at this point in time, anything and anyone as long as one of the supposedly oppressed decide that these are the oppressors, these are the tyrants and wielders of magicians words that magically marginalize those that are apparently marginalized by the might and influence of the marginalizers that appear ferociously in the dreams of those that are one the margins of society – supposedly.

The linguistic tendencies of our societies is non-inclusive to the core; it marginalizes the trembling trunks of the vibrato-mafiosos. You are no longer allowed to say “Hey guys”. For, you see, women are so weak and frail that they can not succeed if anyone says “guys” in their presence, and they are so fearful and tearful and so eloquently in denial of reality that reality must bend its knee and kiss their nimble finger-things and gizmo-rings and fungus-feet and pledge allegiance to their alterations of language and the structures of our brains. More frightening, of course, is the simple fact that these highly offended fighters of shadows and ghosts have absolutely no problems with admitting to partaking in social engineering; that they see no issues with stating, quite bluntly, that they wish to remodel our brains. This is terrifying.

There is no shame in social engineering, see, no dreary dead-eyed jabberwock too mighty yet to slay. We have moved beyond the looking-glass, gone straight into the serpents ass. For in this elegant serpent-rectum we shall rebuild society and mould it on the fancy and the whim and wallowed misery of those who have decided that they are the ones to tell us how to live and breathe and think and eat and speak and fuck and move around.

We do not live in reality any more.

We are locked within the jaws of chaos, trapped in a never-ending spiral that spiral ever downwards into the worst and most grotesque of orifices. And playing nice will get us nowhere. And playing hard-ball will get us nowhere. And nothing will get us anywhere as we left the land of reason and set foot upon the shores of insanity where insanity looms at every corner to grasp and shake the trembling minds of aristocratic revolutionaries that do not understand the context of anything but their own cold and staring eyes that gaze ever and anon into the distance, never seeing what is right in front of their eyes. Which is reality as reality is, not reality as reality is wished to be by those who never see anything but blues sung from blue toes and frostbitten blue balls in the blue winter of our blue bloody societies.

Reality is a non-existent figment of fantasy in these end-days of ours. A crumbling and decaying civilization that suffers the end-result of good times and high-flying fancies. The revolution will not be televised. It will be corporatised, syndicalised, sanitized and sanctified. It will be modelled, painted, sculpted and moulded by the hands of those that should never be close to anything resembling power, might or influence. It will be authorised, tyrannized, totalitarianised by rhetorical beasts of punctured lungs and intelligence-dysmorphia, believing themselves not only cleverer than every-man and every-woman, but cleverer than they, in reality, are. It will be a garbled mess of word-salad gibberish, saying nothing but using all the buzz-words and trendy linguistic tricks needed to make themselves sound relevant, hip, cool, down to earth and moving with the beat of the revolutionaries. Proudly proclaiming profound insights into reality as reality is by referring to reality as solipsist in nature; as my reality trumps all other realities in the reality of realities. Nothing can possibly exist outside of my sphere of existence, nothing can possibly exist that goes against my lived and experienced reality. And all that I say is truth and all that I do is truth and all that I experience is truth, even if I lie. For lie is but a facet of truth and of reality as it is a tool used to make those that do not understand my reality understand my reality. Get it?

It is a death-trip, a swollen road towards extermination. Bought and sold by the pound and bulk, corporate sponsored punk-brewed travesties from corporations glimmering with crows-nest silver, elitist finger-painting manufacturing dissent and poisoning the well, steering our attention towards non-issues so that we are bogged down with muscle-tension and chronic eye-strain making it impossible to see anything but the miniscule and laughable, the ridiculous and absurd, the first-world problems of frail and fragile ferocious fuel-for-the-fire-twats. Forcefed mass-hysteria deserving of a hysteria-ectomy, the economy of the silver-spooned ones who decided victimhood and victim mentality to be the best, the greatest, the most brilliant currency there is, was, ever has been. For no-one in their right mind will ever consider a victim of anything to be someone with whom one should disagree; that would not be considerate, would not be compassionate, would not be anything but terrible. As long as the victim inhabits certain superficial characteristics that turn their saliva to streams of silver in the eyes of those who do not wish to offend. And fuck everyone else, of course. Let them eat cake.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 25.09.2019

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Hobbies, Mental health and Emotional Wellbeing:

This is my third attempt at writing on hobbies. I keep getting sidetracked onto other things. And I have no idea why! Must be some alien interference… some particularly odd and diabolical scheme from our reptilian overlords… peeking into my brain and altering the chemistry so that the neural pathways get overloaded with scatter-brained fits of free-form dissociative writing… you’ve got to understand: free-form associative writing is a thing of the past. It’s all about free-form dissociative writing in the here-and-now – something more fitting to the tides and currents of the times we are living in – times that, to be sure, are a-changin’.

And you’d better believe it.

Whatever else one may say, we are at the very least living in interesting times. And whatever grand societal change that will be the result of these odious and turbulent times, be that change good or bad, it will alter the course of history and society immensely when once the fog-of-culture-war lifts and reveals a brave new dawn peeking out at us from somewhere within a bubble of reality that no-one saw coming. Or currently inhabit, for that matter.

For in this day and in this age, it seems that close-to every single human being refuses to live within an actual objective reality.

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream, to borrow a phrase from Edgar Allan Poe. Again. I keep borrowing bits and bobs from his poetry. Uncontrollably so. He keeps popping up in my head to remind me of my first love affair with poetry at a young, tender and impressionable age.

Anyway; that quote is to say to society at large: get your head out of your socially conditioned arse and smell the free and fresh air again. For, ya know, there is a world outside ones immediate brain-chemistry and terrible social media addiction.

But I got sidetracked again. Gods be damned; it seems that the stranger that drives the grand machine that is my mind have refused to lubricate the cogwheels properly – the little bastard that sits inside my head and steers my thoughts hither or dither is somewhat reluctant to tackle the subject of hobbies, for some strange reason. But I shall try and I shall aspire to write this beastly thing and I shall persevere and I shall conquer the subconscious desire to write spontaneously on something other than the topic which have been growing in my mind the past three weeks. So here we go; the introduction only took me about 400 words this time around. I consider this a step in the right direction.

I once had the slightly weird pleasure of speaking with a woman who had no hobbies or interests. It is the strangest thing I have ever experienced. The conversation was not bad, and I do not for one second think that she was a bad person. It was just so incredibly strange to speak with someone who – by her own admittance – had no particular interests and no particular hobbies. She was unemployed. And spent her days watching television. And that was that. I asked what she was watching, and she replied something along the lines of “whatever is on”. It was, as one would expect, a very superficial conversation.

Is this even possible, I remember thinking, is this even a human being? Of course, and admittedly, I may be projecting here since I have interests and hobbies up the grand wazoo. So that, to me, not having any particular interest or hobby is such an alien concept that I can not imagine a life like that… so devoid of any subject, art or craft to delve into and lose oneself in. I kept thinking that this must be a ridiculously hollow existence; to get out of bed, watch television, then go back to bed. Having nothing in the days but the stuttered mock-reality of television to fill the long hours until sleep. Such a strange existence.

Come to think of it, I might have met a genuine dyed-in-the-wool NPC. That is – a person with no internal monologue, no internal dialogue, no internal narrator, no internal anything. The only thing existing in her reality-bubble would be an external world absorbed and interacted with through the dreary medium of daytime television, from which all horrors and terrors once sprung forth… our modern era Pandora’s box.

The idiot box; a hollow altar of passive entertainment that bestows upon us its flickering light and induces a sort of hypnotic and highly suggestive state, demanding that we throw ourselves down and bask in the light of its countenance. For ever and ever…

Praise be to the blue light of canned laughter and mediocre tropes; ave, ave, soap-opera and reality-television that blur the lines of reality and frames the narrative under whose roof we seek shelter; for I have seen its light and heard its message in my bones and brain! And I was born again, clothed and loved by its flickering full frame image! HALLELUJAH!

…I have not watched television for seventeen years…

Surely; hobbies and interests are one of the few things that separate us from the great and painful void of death. That is – a spiritual death, if you will allow me some pseudo-mystical language. What I mean with spirit and spiritual in this sense is nothing more than the self. Ones personality and whole being. In my way of thinking, which admittedly may very well be a masculine way of thinking, ones personality is made up in no small way of what interests and hobbies one has. What I mean by that is hard to explain, I find. But I shall try to the best of my abilities.

I believe it will be safe to assume that a persons interests and hobbies can tell you a lot about a person. This can be seen on, for example, dating sites. People tend to list their interests and hobbies, in the hope that they will find someone whose interests and hobbies are compatible with their own. If interests and hobbies did not tell you a lot about a person, it would be absolutely pointless to list them.

Following on from this thought: if interests and hobbies are of such immense importance in understanding an individual and how this individual operates within, and interacts with, the world, would it not then be safe to say that a person with nothing of the sort is lacking something – that is – is not a whole and fulfilled person? This is not to say that I think hobbies and interests are the only thing that makes a person. Far from it.

Still: it is very clear to me that it plays a major part in determining what kind of person one has to deal with. To such an extent that listing interests and hobbies seem to be of more – or at the very least the same – importance as other character traits, for example kindness, generosity, patience, etc. etc. And no small wonder. For it would be an absurdity to shack up with someone with whom one has not a single interest in common.

Not every interest need to be shared, of course, for a relationship to function. I would think it is incredibly important to have something that is ones own and ones own only – that is, something to do and enjoy in solitude. This does not change the fact that there does appear to be quite a lot of importance placed on mutual interests and hobbies in order to determine compatibility in a relationship, be that relationship platonic or romantic/sexual. Which, to my eyes and mind – governed as they are by our reptilian overlords – tell us of the importance of interests and hobbies for individual well-being in no small way.

And it is this individual well-being that is so important, I think. And the solitude. Coming from a man who very much enjoys his solitude and time spent with hobbies and interest in those moments of solitude, I can tell you that I always feel refreshed and fulfilled after being able to indulge in it.

My primary interest and one of the greatest pleasures in my life is listening to music. When I have my moments of solitude, they are usually spent lying down and listening to music. For however long I may be alone. After such a session, I feel very much relaxed and invigorated. Not a small feat, considering my stress-related illness, chronic pain and fatigue making the simple task of relaxing a very difficult task indeed! It is during those moments that I am able to completely tune out, turn the constant chattering of my hyperactive brain off – for the most part – and lose myself completely in the present moment. A task that is not impossible for me otherwise, and an ability that can be trained and learned and applied to other areas of life that are more dull and mundane than these precious moments spent in solitude with a major interest or hobby, but which seem to come on its own accord when I indulge in these solitary listening sessions – or meditations, if you will – of mine.

It should then come as no surprise that I have invested a lot of time, energy and money into this hobby, spawning – of course – a new hobby and interest in audio equipment, which I also spend a lot of time, money and energy on. These are things that are incredibly important to me as a person, and as such for my mental health and emotional well-being. If removed, for some reason or other, I would be very much diminished. I would have lost a great part of myself. And be left with a void which I think I would have a hard time filling with anything else. For the enjoyment – almost obsession – of music is something that have played a major part in my life for as long as I can remember. It is one of my prime sources of joy, healing and of relaxation. And something with such an amount of power is not something to be trifled with and taken lightly. Nor is it something to be hastily tossed aside.

Yet; tossing it aside seem to happen with guys as we grow older, as we settle down and raise families. It is a given, obviously so, that there will be less time for certain interests and hobbies. Other things must take prime focus, and raising and maintaining a family is certainly one of those things.

But to lose something of immense importance to oneself completely – to lose such a great part of oneself fully and wholly… strikes me as odd, if not complete and utter evil. And that is evil if giving up a hobby is something that is expected. Which it tends to be, by and large, where men are concerned in this society of ours. For when a man settles down, all that once he was must be lost and his only role – not his primary role, but his only role – is that of protector and provider. And that is all that he is, was and ever shall be again. For as long as he lives.

Anecdotal as it may very well be, I will bet you that every single man (and some women) you encounter of a certain age… say 25 and up… will have observed the same. Either happening to himself, or to someone he knows. The expectation being that his hobbies and interests are of less importance than that of his partner, and that he must put them aside and focus solely on her, her needs and their relationship and family, should they be in the process of raising one. Note that I write “solely” not “primarily”. I don’t think it a bad thing to focus primarily on ones family, should one be raising one. I think it a bad thing should this be the only focus, the only thing in ones life. All else gone out the window, as the windows and the doors close and the walls come closing in.

From personal experience, I have seen friends be forced to sell their hi-fi equipment, their gaming consoles and entire music collection on three separate occasions because their partners was of the opinion that the hi-fi equipment was too ugly to be in their living room – which was in his house which she moved into – in the case of the missing hi-fi equipment. Knowing this man and his love for his system, this can not have been easy.

The reason given for the selling of the gaming consoles was that grown men don’t indulge in such childish past-times as playing video-games according to his partner. This coming from a woman whose main interest was collecting animated Disney features. I kid you not. The awareness of self may be somewhat lacking. She bragged all high-and-mighty on Facebook that she managed – finally – to get the guy to sell his gaming consoles, to much cheer and applause from those that refuse to understand that a man is his own person, even when he is in a relationship with a woman. This does seem to be par for the course where women in relationships are concerned in these end-days of ours, driven by a culture that has said for decades that he shall sacrifice and expect nothing and she shall receive and give nothing. For equality between the sexes and an equal relationship necessarily must mean that she shall have all the say and sway and he shall have none. Makes sense, of course, if one is fully lobotomised by gynocentrism and feminism and the unholy union of the two.

And, in order to hammer the point home lest I shall – yet again – be considered a foul misogynist who wishes for nothing but to chain his wife to the kitchen and keep her as something of a cross between a maid, a trophy and a broodmare (Yes, I have been told this through the insane ramblings of a feminist lost so deep within the feminist orthodoxy that the only sunlight touching her face must come through her own arsehole): I do not think there is anything wrong with women as a whole, as a group or, for that matter, at all. There is something wrong with quite a few individual women, just as there is something wrong with quite a few individual men. Of course; we all know that critique of women equals sexism and critique of men equals fantastic progressivism and true and proper justice. If that critique of men is filtered through the sieve of feminism fantastic and done in the style of the mumbled misandrist mambo, of course.

There may not be anything wrong with women, but there is most definitely something severely wrong with how our societies treat women and socialize a not insignificant amount of them into pampered princesses with a severe entitlement-complex, driven by thirsty blue-balled and blue-pilled men who are completely incapable of saying no to a woman for fear of losing access to pussy.

To channel the voice and reason of Paul Elam for a little while: The onus is on men to say no to unreasonable demands from their partners, and to end the relationship if need be. If the thirst for pussy goes above ones own emotional well-being, I would dare say that the greatest problem in that man’s life is a severe misplacement of priorities.

Going along with such ridiculous demands as the aforementioned is enabling such horrible behaviour, and the responsibility for getting rid of loved and cherished hobbies and/or interests lie squarely on the shoulders of the man who is stupid enough or thirsty enough or blinded enough to go along with it. A simple no should suffice, should such demands arise.

If a simple no is not accepted, a thank you and farewell should do the trick. Expecting that a man should give up the simple little things that give him pleasure in life – pleasure being, more or less, the small and simple things in life – is an expectation that should not be accepted.

There is always room for compromise, should always be room for compromise in a relationship. For that is what a relationship is; a constant dance, a bedazzling back and forth to make room for both within a shared space. There should not be room for ridiculous demands from one partner, to be obeyed without question. And going along with selfish and entitled demands is enabling this behaviour, and more will come. A relationship does consist of more than one person. That is to say: a relationship consist of more than the woman. Which our cultures seem to have forgotten in the great push and leap towards gender equality. And that is gender equality that says that only women matter, no matter where, what, when and how.

Because, for some reason, focusing solely on the needs and wants of one, neglecting the other, is equal treatment in the shanty-town of intellectual diarrhoea that is feminist-infused-and-indoctrinated societal slack-jawed yodelling.

And so – enter the man-cave. The one space in a shared place that is dedicated to the man and his hobbies and his interests. The rest of the house more often than not overflowing with her knick-knack and décor. In essence, this is not an issue if it is a wish from the man. Which it may very well be, considering that men tend to seek solitude far more than women do. And, in seeking solitude, what better way to do so than dedicate one room – one space – in their home for him and him alone, to be filled with his interests and his hobbies where he may allow himself to be engulfed by them for a little while, in solitude, then re-emerge refreshed and relaxed? It becomes an issue when all his stuff is confined to that room for reasons of it not fitting in anywhere else amongst her various decorations and such – when it is forced down there, into the pit under pain of the pendulum of shame and ridicule permanently scarring his throat and face and cock and balls – it is an issue.

From what I understand, it is mainly a wish from the man or a compromise. Which I see no problems with. Nor should anyone else.

Yet – the man-cave – this one space dedicated to his hobbies and interest becomes an issue. For now – now – he is spending too much time down there, amongst the filth and accumulated dust of his interests, hobbies and most priced possessions. And too little time up there in the sunlight with his partner. Again bringing in the wish for him to quit his hobbies and his interests and spend all his time on his partner, even when those hobbies and interests are now confined to a small space within their home. This is not good enough. It needs to be confined to a small space within his mind, pushed further and further back. He needs – preferably – to forget all of it and focus entirely on being a provider, being a protector, being not his own person but a person for the doings that need be done for the relationship or the family or both. The human being is now nothing but a human doing; governed entirely by the needs and wants of others and made to forget his own needs and wants. To do for others and sacrifice all those small pleasures which once he held so dear, which is the plight of men, the underappreciated and taken-for-granted sacrifice that men do.

Which they don’t need to do, if co-operation would be key. There is no reason why a mutually beneficial agreement could not be reached. An agreement that sees the needs of both partners – or the needs of all within a family – fulfilled. Time is a resource that should be spent wisely. The days tend to fly by, and they get shorter – perceivably so – the older one gets. Suddenly, it is difficult to find time for hobbies and interests that was once so dear. Which makes it ever more important to take time for them, to take the time and the space needed and deserved.

Without time set aside, taken and grabbed for these joyous past-time activities, a man becomes a shell and a husk. This goes for women as well, of course. But I focus on men, because so precious few do.

I have one day a week set aside completely for listening to music. More often than not, alcohol is also involved. Because I have a love for alcohol – not in the sense that I get drunk all that often, but in the sense that I have a severe passion for the stuff. See; for all my jokes of heavy drinking, I am afraid to say that my drinking ain’t all that heavy. I am getting too old for that shit. No more sex and drugs and rock’n’roll past age thirty. Now it is all sofa, painkillers and a glass of wine – if the painkillers have not been involved. Sigh. Woe is me.

My interest in alcohol is enough that I actually do have a small collection of somewhat pricey and exciting wines of varying rarity that is saved for a special occasion. And a collection of fairly expensive whiskeys, some of them fairly rare, that I will have a glass of once in a while, to really get that special something going on one of my evenings of music and well-regulated hedonism, decadence and debauchery. And this is not including my severe hobby, interest and passion in home-brewing. Which I would write more about, were I not so ensnared by all this gender-stuff and culture-war nonsense.

This one day a week is something my wife and I agreed on. We each have one day set aside exclusively for our own interests and hobbies, where nothing matters but what I want on my day and what she wants on her day. Of course, this is simplified a bit – there is always room for interests and hobbies, but those days are exclusive to me and to her.

And it works.

Now, I don’t have a man-cave at the moment, as that is simply not possible in this tiny and cramped apartment. We are, however, saving up to buy a small farm and get the hell out of the city. And when we do, I am getting a man-cave on my own insistence. Because I want a fortress of solitude, where I can indulge in my hobbies and my interests and be alone when I need to be alone. Which is more often than most people, I am aware, as my introversion and need for solitude is pretty god-damned severe, anti-social bastard that I am.

My wife understands this perfectly.

And I understand that she does not want me disappearing into the man-cave forever, emerging only to eat, fuck and sleep.

So we compromise. And we do that dance that couples do. And then we figure out how to fit both of us into all that is ours, with enough room for our selves, our own and both of our interests and hobbies.

This is not a difficult thing to do. It only takes a willingness to listen. On both sides. As our societies stand, however, it is expected that only the man shall listen and only the man shall sacrifice. And that is an impossible thing to do, without killing the soul of a man.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 24.08.2019


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Soliciting Solitude

Portrait artists two dogs after bath lowres

Illustration: «A portrait of the artists two dogs post-bath», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2019

Are we ever truly alone in this age of social media? I would dare propose that we are not. Ever and always, there is the pressing and thumping of the mob. Society is constantly beckoning, pounding at our doors and at our windows, demanding our attention. And we get suckered in, dragged down into the very pits of despair, into the fires of hell, by an unruly mob that jabbers on and on and on and on infinitely, without ever shutting up.

Or, for that matter, thinking about what they are saying.

…Or how they are saying it.

Demanding split-second reaction to any and all murmured drone that makes itself heard above the constant commotion, shouted from high and impenetrable fortresses of moral decay and ineptitude. We have reached a point where social media is a necessity more than it is a fun and fancy past-time activity. It is no longer a tool to stay in touch with friends and family. It is a tool vital to our survival in society, if we are to keep on playing this silly game of society. If one chooses to tap out of the constant hum and buzz, one is a freak, an outcast, a weird and frightful spectacle, a bed-time story whispered to children to teach them of the horrors of checking out and not participating. Soon, the pyres will be erected. The outcasts shall be burnt and cleansed of their social sins and ills, saving us all from their presence in the present.

For sooth, sire, he is surely a witch; he did not even like my status update!”

Goodness gracious me, squire, never have I ever heard tell of such a horrible transgression on the rules and law of the land! By my neck, such heresy can not be tolerated! Burn him!”

The reality of the situation is dire. For all our connectedness, our constant mass-chattering, clittering, clattering and goings-on, there is precious little room to think. There is more than enough room to absorb information, though. Albeit in a puff of smoke and a quick and frantic inhalation.

No room to move, no time to digest the information. It must be absorbed and reacted to within a split second of chronic cerebral indigestion; straight from this and onto the next. Information has become a consumable item; now here, now gone, onto the next. In a frantic search, in a hysterically stressed-out manner, seeking constantly that next tid-bit of information gleamed from some loud-mouthed inebriated freak shouting his or hers lungs out in the middle of the town-square, proudly proclaiming their truth as the one truth, the only truth, the holy truth of the holy trinity of our day and age; the Information, the Reaction and the Holy Outrage! God bless, and good night. And you must react, you must stay on top of it, for all time, for ever and ever, lest you fall from grace in the infinitesimal patience of the muddled nest that is social media madness and rapture.

Only a true freak, a pervert, an obscene vagrant, a derelict hermit, would stop to think and consider and ponder the information delivered before reacting in a manner most suitable for this particular piece of the information-pudding! Do not dare to delve too deeply into the mud and ground and blood and bones of the issue. That would mean halting the outrage for about two seconds; that would stop everyone and their moral grandstanding straight in their tracks and leave them flabbergasted and cotton-mouthed in desperate need for their next fix of anti-psychotics, anti-depressant and intravenously injected benzodiazepine. Anything to keep from getting to insane and anxious from the mere thought of thinking things through; or even worse: to feel alone, separated from the hive-mind and the constant buzz and drone of brilliant madness. There is no longer a concept known as “being alone”. There is no room for it. And we don’t need it any way, by golly!

The worst doom laid upon a man or woman; the worst punishment bestowed upon anyone in this disenfranchised enlightened era of the information age, is the doom of being alone, the doom of solitude. There is a tremendous undercurrent of fear and loathing. Merely the word, the thought, the perceived punishment of being cut off from the constant hub-bub, the clattering from the wheels of the information machine, the hive-mind pompously screeching and screaming, one wanting to be heard above all else, or else, but wanting to be heard delivering the same lines as the hive-mind in their deliciously frosted cake-and-nursery-rhymes; separate, but as one, is enough to cause a nuclear melt-down and cosmic-scale freak-out in all and one.

The grand machine of society must move forward, ever and always, no matter the road or the direction. It must progress. Even when it does not know the way forward. In creating this mould, this tremendous cookie-cutter slice-and-dice machine of social media, social media has become the grand machine of society and societal discourse. Society will ever and always show its wrath and trembling ire beneath its succulent and delicately whispered words of tangled information to set us all free from the bondage of solitude.

You are either in, or you are out.

And if you are out, you shall damned well know the meaning of being out.

…The grand machine, caught in a feverish display of moral virtue and socially approved dignified behaviour, show no qualms in exacting its grandiose vengeance upon you, horrid freak of nature, daring to mull things over and thinking before reacting. Imagine breaking the eternal circle-jerk by seeing things from a differing perspective; namely – the perspective that is thought out and mulled over in the sobriety only true solitude can bring.

When there is no room to think, no time to think, no place to think, there is only and ever room, time and place to react. Immediately. And the immediate act of reacting is formed and shaped by the formless and shapeless blob of the mob. And the mob… well, the mob is a foul and bloodthirsty beast acting on pure instinct. Not thinking, but reacting to the slightest and tiniest perceived threat to its continued survival. Any and all will be devoured by the mob, should it come to that. So best to stay on top of the mob, to take part in the unthinking and unfeeling assault on the threat; the outsider doomed to carry on an existence devoid of dignity, devoid of understanding, devoid of anything but the roar and rage and rampage of the mob, fuelled by madness harvested from the souls of a million mutants whose greatest fear is loneliness, is being alone, is not having their virtue and their swollen feet firmly placed within the beautiful mass of worms and tentacles that is society. So that they shall be free to be dragged down, and to drag others down with them into the wicked nest of tentacled madness and self-devouring progression, diving head first into a future built upon ash and skulls broken by bike-lock-extravaganzas, swimming in a sea of spilt milkshakes over which spilt contents one should not weep.

You do not weep over spilt milkshakes, nor do you weep over the spilt blood of a hundred crypto-fascist Neo-Nazi scumbags marching the streets to demand any and all have the right to speak freely, you hate-fuck-machine bastard!

…Now shut the hell up, fuck-face, and leave the progression to the infantile herd. What the hell has this society come to, anyway, when people are not free to bash each-other over the head with bike-locks over differences of opinion? Jesus Christ, it is as though these freaks, weirdos and social outcasts are actual human beings! Hah! That will be the day, you transgressive arsehole. Now, where the hell is my self-serving selfie-machine? Gotta update Twitter and Facebook about this glorious bike-lock punch against tyranny and fascism I just done did. What, me, a miniature tyrant; a tin-box dictator? Well, I never! Upon my oath, I am not a violent people-kin, nor am I opposed to freedom of any kind. I just don’t wish for bastards who disagree with me to be free to speak their disagreements. You saw him. He had a gun, and he was coming straight for me! I swear officer, nothing happened. Nothing happened, officer. Stop filming me, you free-speech extremist crypto-fascist fuck-face-kin!

…Now, why in the hell would anyone willingly subject themselves to this roaring pit of madness and childish despotism? Why in the hell would anyone partake honestly in this social game, when the price for going against the grain is a padded bike-lock through ones skull?

You tell me.

I don’t get it, man.

But then again, I am a weird and oddly bearded fellow; a pseudo-hermit in my own right, with more need for solitude than most and an understanding of human nature bordering on pop-psychobabble of the most popular and oafish kind.

And upon my oath and honour, I am not a social man. There is very little, I believe, that can be stated with absolute certainty when it comes to social dynamics of any kind.

Never understood it myself to be honest, being an introvert to the extreme, much more in tune with the buzz of my own mind and my own company than the constant buzz and drone of the tumultuous streets out there. It is, quite simply, getting far too crowded and weird out there.

One thing, I believe, is an absolute certainty: We are pushed and prodded into never being alone, into never seeking solitude of any kind. We are moulded, from an early age, into partaking in the social game. To take part in the power-play, the laborious process of being in, not being out. To not go against the grain, but do what is done by the majority. And what is being done now by the majority is the constant need for social validation; a constant grip-and-shake-and-bake of popular opinions cooked up in some meth-lab somewhere and served with absolute certainty of belief, even when it has not been tried and tested through critical thought.

Even when it has not been run through the mind-mill of thought and speculation. Even when it has not been mulled over in solitude, with no distractions and no constant whining background noise. Even when it is easily disproven with facts presented by those who are weird and freakish enough to do something so horrendous as take time out to think, research, ponder and provide evidence.

I struggle to understand why people are so willing to react and so unwilling to think. I mean; I think I know the reason for it. The game of social acceptance, the long-running and never-ending treadmill of being in and never being out. The immediate piling-on to whatever some high-and-mighty merchant of supreme morality say in regards to some fragmented bit of information becomes ever so important if one wishes to stay in tune and rhythm with the disharmonious beat of the funeral drum.

The more connected we become, the less connected we are. The less connected we become, the more we fear being alone. For those who are not used to being alone, the mind-chatter brought forth from the overwhelming silence surrounding oneself may indeed be very scary. Even disturbing. Because, in solitude, thoughts may surface that have been hidden. Thoughts that have been blocked from sight and vision from lack of clarity of vision. And from lack of wisdom. This might cause some self-reflection, some introspection, some ideas that one is not as perfect and morally clean as one believed. And we can’t have that, now, can we, in this age of unbridled narcissism and holier-than-thou sentiments from the morality-police? Can’t have people trying to fix their own defects and ineptitude, when it is so much easier to blame everyone else for ones own failures in life, coming to the short-handed conclusion that me myself and I do not have any defects, thank you very much. You must fix yourself to suit my needs and desires. I, on the other hand, need not fix anything because I am always right. Always right, even when there is nothing left but a shivering gelatinous blob of barely contained self-righteous rage and childish temper tantrums.

We, as a society, are bid to dance a dance of blatant superficiality; a long and slow and annoyingly short-sighted dance where no-one is sure about the next move because no-one ever bothered to think that far ahead.

Instead of thinking ahead, we are caught in this extraordinary feedback-loop of self-righteous diatribes gaining popular votes through the currents of the social media anthill. Like, share, carry on, straight into the next righteous crusade and obvious hypocrisy from warriors of graceless harmonies and piss-poor coordination who never once bothered to think before reacting. This lack of thought makes these people completely blind to their own hypocrisy, shouting from atop their padded towers, as the cannons roar and fire milkshakes a-plenty down upon the poor huddled masses below; “It’s alright when we do it, but don’t you dare reply in kind. For that would be hateful conduct!”

This lack of thought becomes blatantly obvious the moment one attempts to discuss matters with them. The only thing one can expect to gain from such an endeavour is a regurgitation of points – often previously refuted – which someone else in the midst of all the frenzied social media nonsense have said and spoken as truth divine. It is the same points, the same arguments, rebuked and regurgitated over and over and over again, with no semblance of individual thought and personal agency to be found from within the madness and the gibberish. Blame men, blame the “Nazis”, blame the “fascists”, blame misogyny, blame racism, blame homophobia or transphobia or whatever is the most popular thing to blame; the most popular shaming tactic available at that point in time. And when pressed, when poked and prodded as to what in the everlasting fuck any of this actually means, the replies tend to remain the same: “I am not here to educate you; educate yourself. Read a book.” Or something of that nature.

It is infuriating. Not for any personal reasons – I don’t much care about engaging this nonsense in discussion. I consider it a futile endeavour. I find it infuriating for the pure lack of thought and self-criticism exhibited. I find it infuriating that these vile and hateful cretins point fingers and label me and people with whom I tend to agree purveyors of hate-speech for daring to disagree with the current cultural narrative, flawed and fragmented beyond repair. All the while they themselves cough up bloody chunks of hate-infused vomit and actual fucking calls for, and acts of, violence from their rotten, worm-infested lungs without a seconds pause, consideration and thought. Because everyone else is doing it, so it must be alright, surely. And, as we all know, the ones whom we decide, in our grace and glory, are the “other” are ripe for plucking and ripe for being devoured, skin and flesh and tendons and bone.

If one seeks out solitude on ones own terms… if one engages in solitary thought, in meditations if you will… there is a humongous chance that one will meet one self. And that is frightening in and off itself, as the self is not always what one would like to believe that it is. More often than not, it is nothing like what one would think. When ones faults and flaws makes themselves heard, there is little to do but to change it. Or be devoured by it. And to change something of that nature, of that size, if one has not met it head-on previously is a frightening prospect. As well it ought to be. Nothing worthwhile is easy, as the saying goes.

It makes for far easier living to blame everything else; anything but oneself. Then come the crisis. Then come the sudden forced rush of introspection. At some point in life, things will begin to crumble, one will begin to break down, bit by bit and piece by piece. The biological clock will tick and tock. And if ones entire life up to that point has been built around superficial and immediate reaction; superficial and inconsiderate and egotistical reaction, with no room for self-examination, with no room for introspection, with all the chitter-chatter of the hive taking the place where solitude should have been… castles will crumble and the self will grumble and something resembling pure madness and insanity will emerge.

Then it is either to buckle down and back-pedal like someone possessed, infuriatingly finding something to hold on to in order to keep the illusion of being righteous and justified and this-or-that alive. Or, it brings a sudden rush to rectify what is wrong with the self, quickly and immediately, before time runs out. But if most of life up to that point has been wasted away in superficial grandstanding and virtuous shouts and howls and snarls and grunts… what is there to build upon? How does one go about rectifying something of that nature, if it all comes tumbling down in a short, swift stroke; a brutal blitzkrieg of truth-bombs and sudden maturation of the mind and spirit combined?

See, for all my criticism and blatant attacks on this new web of lies and tangled misinformation that is the social justice warriors and their ilk; for all my rants and rambles and ravings on feminism and their cohorts… there is precious little I am as critical of as my own thoughts, values and opinions. I find myself fact-checking vigorously and researching like mad, to make sure and make certain that when and if I speak on a concrete case, I am presenting truth. I engage in long internal dialogues with myself to see if my opinions on this or on that; if my thoughts on this, that or the other stands up to scrutiny. Or if they are easily torn down. I do this by viewing things from perspectives different from my own. Novel thought, no? To actually lend some credence to differing perspectives and take them into account when making ones mind up on a certain topic. Were I so inclined, I would dub this “empathy”. As it stands, though, I am no longer certain what the word “empathy” even means. That seems to be the case with all words in this day and age; the fantastic dawning of new-speech and thought-control. Now, I would like to state that this does not mean that I consider myself to never be wrong about something. That would be foolish. It simply means that I tend to think before I react.

Due to this, I tend to think very slowly. Which makes for decent enough material in long-winded and hop-scotchy writing, but makes me absolutely useless in debates. It is both a strength and a weakness, depending on how I would like to present it. It is a strength in that I am very sure and certain in my beliefs and opinions, in what I know and in what I think. It is a weakness in that I can not for the life of me enter a debate. It also makes it difficult to write on very recent events with any level of certainty.

What makes this long and slow and deliberate pondering of mine possible is my love and longing for solitude, my seeking it out whenever I can. Of course, it is the same situation that makes debates nigh impossible for me. Now, to be clear, the somewhat extreme levels of solitude which I tend to longingly seek is not the levels of solitude I think most people would enjoy. Or maybe even benefit from.

What I would recommend in regards to solitude, is a balancing-act. Treading a fine, a gorgeous line between the hyper-social madness we see and the extremes of solitude. To put time aside every day to be alone. To shut off, drop out, tune out, do whatever necessary to bar the windows and lock the doors so you have room to think in silence. It does not do for anything but a stressful life, in my opinion, to be constantly tuned in, constantly part of the buzz and the drone, anxiously awaiting the next bite-sized bit of information to react to on gut-instinct, lest you fall from grace and the mob turns on you instead.

Social media may be many things. The technology in itself is neither good nor bad. It just is. This over-use, this dependence we have built around it coupled with the constant need for social validation, creates nothing but a breed of humanity who only ever seeks social validation, who will write and say and agree with just about anything, as long as it is what the hive demands. A breed of humanity that never thinks things through properly, relying instead on hissyfits presented from someone else in the social hierarchy whose opinions, for some reason or other, matter more than the opinions of someone else; then regurgitating these hissyfits, with all their impotent points and immediate knee-jerks to be in, to be part of, to not have to face the shame of being a solitary voice in the wilderness of our concrete jungles and tangled wires like knotted branches.

When news and media report on tweets and twatter immediately, with no pause and no reflection and no research necessary, you know we are going downhill as a society. When the immature chattering of a cancerous mass of social media activists infest and spreads through everything, even when their behaviour and reasoning is obviously not built around thought or solid arguments, but built upon immediate emotional reaction, you know we are going downhill as a society.

When there is no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth.”

In my more vicious moments of arrogance and spite, I think that we are in the midst of a zombie-apocalypse. Dawn of the dead-style, with zombies mindlessly roaming the halls of social media instead of the halls of a cathedral-like mall, ready to pounce on and devour those who do not act like them; stumbling and fumbling their way through hurdles built from words and from wrong-think, seeking the delicious flesh of the unnecessary, the unwanted, the unseen and unheard.

In other moments, I feel a tremendous sense of sadness and pity. Pity, because I am certain that at some point down the line, some of these people will actually wake up and see the damage they have done to themselves, and to society at large for lack of thinking. I believe that those who are prone to waking up from being drunk, high and stoned on a sense of being right, doing right, being just and doing justice, will sense that what they have done with their life, and the lives of others, have turned them into selfish and petty tyrants for the greater cause of some manufactured war which they have been tricked into fighting through decades of indoctrination bordering on social engineering.

These people will wake up. And they will feel shame and remorse and regret from having to face actual reality, not manufactured reality. And then, all the world around them will crumble. And they will be completely and utterly lost within the ruins of their life.

I have my doubts, however, that enough of them will wake up to undo the damage done, to turn the tide away from tyranny and back towards liberty.

When there is no more room to think, the fools will rule the earth.

And the greatest fools there is are those who believe that having others think for them makes them smart.

…and the ones who believe that thinking and speaking on behalf of others, disregarding what the others may say and think, is a virtue will steer this ship of fools straight into the abyss.

And good god-damned riddance.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 15.06.2019



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The cultivation of fear. A ramble on forced fragility and manufactured frailty:

Make your own damn culture lowres

Illustration: «Make your own damn culture», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere.


Preface: I have a redbubble shop where some of my art can be bought, should you wish to show everyone your impeccable tastes and don the regal t-shirt-print of inscrutable style and elegance, as well as throwing some money my way for the continued glory of my ramblings:


In some strange past I struggled with severe anxiety. It seems centuries ago now, looking at it with the beautiful lenses of hindsight. Understanding this type of anxiety is not easy. It should be experienced in order to understand it. Imagine being in a constant state of fight-or-flight, a body and a mind constantly tense; clockwork all wound up ready to spring into action – or retreat from action, sensing danger around every corner and in every shadow.

It should go without saying that this permanent stress, this level of heightened awareness in regards to ones surroundings, this constant over-thinking and over-analysing of situations in order to weed out any threats takes its toll on body and mind.

It is not pretty.

The results of this chronic stress, these sudden surges of adrenaline through the body, uncalled for, unwanted and unnecessary does not lend itself to good health, be that health physical or psychological. In the end, isolation seems to be the best and wisest choice to make. It seems to be the only option available; a survival tactic so as not to suffer the horrors of sudden panic, dread and despair. This just feeds the beast, as constant exposure to whatever triggers the anxiety is the only way to overcome the anxiety. Not isolation, but exposure. Isolation breeds further insanity – if you will allow me some self-deprecating humour.

The reason I am bringing this up is simple. It is the fostering and nurturing of fear, anxiety and dubious trepidation; the culture of fear crafted by feminism when gazing at the dynamics between men and women. The notion, disgusting as it is, that men and masculinity is something that women need to fear – that all men everywhere have nothing else on their mind but to assault and oppress women. It is a culture of fear, a bacterial culture handcrafted by the might and influence of an ideology whose very survival hinges on painting men as perpetrators and women as victims, forever and ever. Nurturing this fear and keeping women constantly on their toes for fear of men is not healthy. Not for women, not for men, not for society at large.

The rhetoric and false and cherry-picked statistics of feminism and their cohorts gave birth to a constant fear and mistrust between men and women. With the prime notion being that women need to fear men, and men in turn have nothing to fear from women. As the old saying goes, old as time itself: women good, men bad.

This is not, under any circumstances, a view of the genders as equal. Viewing the genders equally would be understanding – as stated time and again – that men and women both have the capacity for bad and for good. One is not worse or better than the other. Claiming that one is worse than the other, that one is better than the other, is quite the contrary of viewing and treating the genders equally. This is seen, time and again, in politics as well as the justice system, as women are given leniency in sentencing, whereas men are not. Harsher sentences for men for the same crimes as women. For women are wonderful. And men are not.

Female perpetrators of whatever crime are given excuses for their actions, more often than not. They need to be understood. Often they are painted as the real victim, because she must have been abused at some point in time. Probably by a man. Men who have been abused prior in their life, are not given leniency or understanding of the trauma. Men who do bad are simply monsters. Women who do bad are simply victims. Very peculiar.

In viewing men in this light, and women in the other light, there is no wonder that men are painted as monsters and, in being monsters, also being something that women need to fear. When men do bad – it is because they are, at heart, bad. And when one man is, at heart, bad, there is a possibility that all men are – that this is something that exist in the very nature of men. Men do bad because they are bad. Women do bad because they have been hurt by someone doing bad. And this is not equal treatment. All manner of mental gymnastics and round-about excuses do not detract from this simple fact.

When I struggled with this severe anxiety of mine – and it was severe, there is no doubt about that – it blew the fucking lid of the scales, and prompted my psychiatrist at the time to tell me that the best solution for me was isolation. Now, this is of course some terrible and horrible advice to give to someone when they are supposed to overcome some trembling and futile ailment of the psyche.

It is obvious to me now, when looking at it through a mind not muddied and clouded with medications, that he had completely given up on me – that he saw no future hope for me getting better and overcoming this nonsensical fear and trepidation of mine. It also went completely contrary to what I had read and heard about overcoming anxiety.

It is something that must be overcome through exposure, gradual at first and then – feet first into the murky and cold waters of society at large, to understand that my anxiety was driven by delusions crafted by prior experiences with people who did not – to put it lightly – wish me well or treat me well. Wallowing in these delusions did nothing but paint a picture in my mind of everyone being my enemy in some way, shape or form. When the reality is something else entirely. Most people are completely neutral towards me and my existence. Most people have more than enough with themselves.

That is the simple fact of the matter.

And so, what I did to conquer this anxiety of mine was some deep and thorough soul-searching combined with the aforementioned exposure. I had not then, nor do I have now, any interest in living a life of anxiety, fear and trepidation. And I should not wish this on anyone. Of course, I dropped any and all connection to psychiatry. To me, at any rate, they did far more harm than good.

The root cause of my issues was not examined at all. Merely a superficial fixing of the symptoms through medications and a call for isolation. Out of sight, out of mind. And me, then, through medications and maltreatment, even more out of my mind. But at the very least out of the sight of society at large. No exploration of my anxiety. No treatment either. No therapeutic path to walk, no deep dive into my psyche. Drugged into oblivion and washed away.

I can not help but think that my treatment would be far different and more empathetic had I been a woman and not a man. The emotional pain of men is something society does not wish to see. This goes for professionals as well. The emotional pain of women, however, is something society must band together to fix.

I remember reading an article, this was several years ago now. I could not dig it up if I tried. It was written by a man. The title was something along the lines of “Last night, I became a rapist”.

He did not become a rapist.

In fact, there was no sexual encounter at all.

What had happened was this: he was walking home, and was walking behind a woman who was scared of him, constantly looking over her shoulder and fearing this horrible man walking behind her. He solved this anxiety of hers by crossing the road and taking a detour on his way home so that she should not feel the discomfort of having to walk on the same pavement as a man.

Obviously, from having the same paranoid sensations myself whenever I was out walking by myself, I recognized her anxiety. And I remember thinking that he should not have to inconvenience himself due to her neurosis. He is not responsible for some random stranger and her anxiety. Had he just kept walking behind her, she could perhaps have learned something from the experience. She could have learned that not every single man out there is out to get her. She might have overcome some of the anxiety.

He ended the article, simpering and stupid as it was, by telling all men that if they walked behind a woman on their way home, they should cross the road and take a different route to get home so she should not feel this discomfort. How fucking ridiculous!

No-one ever did this for me when I was in the throes of some stupid delusional anxious fever-dream. That would be doing me a disservice. And it was doing her a disservice. And it is doing every man everywhere a disservice.

Go out of your way, men, to make the burden of walking home easier on women, lessening her neurosis for about two seconds. So she can go home and say that she was followed by some stranger on her way home, giving further credence to the feminist fear-mongering. Heh. I am saying this only partly in jest.

You have to make it harder on yourself, of course, as you have to take a detour. Then despair for being born a man and thusly the object of scorn and fear from women, who of course happen to be your superiors in every way, shape and form. What horrible objectification of men this is, viewing us as nothing but objects of terror and violence and primal sexual urges. Gaze upon the privilege granted us by being born men! The righteous privilege of being feared and shunned and scorned and ridiculed and demanded to sacrifice so that someone whom we have no ill intent towards shall feel safe based on her own neurotic delusions born from paranoid dementia in feminist rhetoric.

It is even more strange when considering the simple fact that men are far more likely to be the victims of violent assault from strangers than women are. This does not matter, of course, as we have been spoon-fed this silly lie that women are victims of violent men far more than men are. That men have nothing to fear, whereas women have all to fear. When a man attacks a woman, it is because he hates women. This is taking into consideration whether or not he has assaulted more men previously. As is very likely.

Men who experience violence is par for the course, commonplace, and something that is expected. Most every man will, at some point in their lives, experience violence. Usually from other men, this is true. I fail to see why this should matter, though. It only matters when one views the genders as being at war with one another. When men and women are on opposing teams, any violence done towards a woman by a man is an act of war, done because she is a woman and not for any other reason. In painting masculinity as toxic, any violence done upon a man by another man is further proof of the degeneracy of the opposing side. The language of feminism is the language of war-rhetoric. This side is degenerate scum, that side is pure and clean and just.

Women need not change the way they think. They need not become braver. They are free to wallow in their misery, their anxiety and their dread and mistrust of all men. Men must change the way they behave, even when it is a tiny minority of men doing bad, all men must rethink their lives and take collective responsibility for the actions of a few bad men. I fail to see how this is any different than claiming that the Jews have poisoned the well.

Women, whether as a group or as individuals, need not change a thing about themselves. The messengers of feminism have ridden into the town-square and read aloud a statement from the queen, proclaiming all women everywhere to be perfect just the way they are. No faults, no flaws, no nothing. And everything they feel is true, no matter if it is true or not. No matter if it is factual or not. There is no objective fact. All is based on subjective feeling. If you happen to be a woman. The experiences of men need not apply. Nor do the facts of the matter.

Fostering powerless women is the bread and butter of feminism, and so is forcing men to submit to the delusions of neurotic women instead of having these women face up to, understand and overcome this neuroticism of theirs. This neuroticism, this tactical usage of frailty and weakness and anxious trepidation is nothing but emotional manipulation. When you see women in positions of leadership – politicians – pretending to shake in their boots and in their knickers for some passing joke made by some passing man several months ago, it begs the question as to why anyone so frail and weak should be in that position to begin with.

One should think that anyone in a position of leadership, be they male or female, ought to be strong enough to withstand the storm. Of course not. Not when they happen to be a woman, whose frailty and weakness and fear and anxiety is nothing but a bargaining chip, a methodical manipulation of our emotions to feel pity for her and as a result of this barge in to her defence, preferably with votes or through her gofundme-account.

I should not think it too harsh a trespass on reason to actually want the leaders of a nation to be strong enough to handle a passing joke or comment without breaking down emotionally, without crying crocodile-tears and telling everyone around them how pitiful they are and how much we must pity them for having to deal with the brutish nature of these horrid men. The strength of these women are their facade of weakness. Being powerless, or rather – portraying herself as being powerless, means men barge in to protect and to provide, to save her from the horrors of being a woman in a male-dominated field. Whatever the hell that means. It is this stupidity, this nonsense, once again. This ridiculous fuckwittery of the genders being at war instead of in a state of co-operation. It bothers me, more than it probably should. Or, as my wife is wont to say, it should probably bother me way more than it does.

Alas, no – having strong and powerful leaders – that is not the beat of the funeral drum to which we march. We march beneath the banner of forced female fragility, to the tranquil rhythm of weaponized fear. The fear of men manufactured through decades of social engineering felt by all women everywhere, whose feelings are fact and not some hand-crafted frail fear and anxiety designed to gather our sympathies and our empathies and place them at their feet, to bow down before their emotional distress and say, singingly, soothingly, lovingly: “Sorry mother dear, we will behave”.

Being a man struggling with anxiety is not easy. See, there is no empathy nor understanding there from the concrete-jungles of society. Merely a push into the bubbling cauldron, boiling away at my sanity. The interesting part of it is that, of course, there must be this push, there must be this poke-and-prod to get out there and actually do something about it instead of isolation. Which is frantically fascinating to me. It is as though the behaviours were switched between the mental health professional who treated me and those around me, be they professional acquaintances or friends and family, with my psyche-docs telling me to hide away and the ones who did not understand the thing pushing and prodding, in short telling me to “man up”.

Now, this pushing and prodding did not come from a place of empathy – that much was certain, as there was no understanding of the anxiety nor any attempt to understand why I suffered this anxiety. Nothing but disbelief. And of course, the usual sentiment that I was making it up. For what gain, I never understood.

Grown men should not act like that, and so the only thing left to do was to dive into shallow waters, head first, and break my neck on impact. Then one is just left with confusion, with constantly changing messages, trite trash and a complete lack of understanding and empathy.

Men must talk about their emotions more. Even when men need not talk about their emotions. In particular not when in emotional distress or suffering emotional weakness. There is no-one there to listen. Men in emotional distress breed disgust. Particularly in the minds of those who claim to fight for equality. Telling men to open up about their emotions, and then poo-poo it as being nothing when they do creates confusion and inner turmoil.

What the old “men need to be more emotional” actually mean is for men to listen more to the emotions of women, and speak of their own emotions only in a manner deemed suitable by feminism. Which translates to admitting to their male privilege and toxic masculinity; that all the emotional distress a man may feel is born from him being a man, and nothing more. Seeing how society treat women in emotional distress in comparison to how society treat men in emotional distress is disconcerting, to say the least. Experiencing it first-hand upon ones mind and body is something else entirely, and teaches one nothing but the simple fact that one is all alone. No-one is looking out for you, even when they claim to be looking out for everyone equally.

Nurturing and fostering delusional anxiety and fear in women the way feminism does is damaging. Creating this mirage, casting this holographic picture over all of society that what any woman may feel is real, no matter the facts and the reality of the situation is severely damaging. It is also incredibly dangerous. To all but feminism, who thrive on female victimhood and see no qualms in manufacturing this fear, these delusional anxieties and holding them up, waving in the wind, as some sort of strength in women instead of it being a weakness, as some manner of fact instead of delusion.

Trembling in anxiety from someone telling a joke is not being strong. It is being severely weak. As well as lacking in humour and understanding of humour. Of course, they paint it as strength by the woman withstanding the horrors of man-joking, man-spreading, man-splaining, man-slamming, man-terrupting, man-existing or whatever. Then she gathers empathy and understanding by the bucket-load, further creating a wall between them and any criticism they may encounter by painting any-and-all criticism as an attack on all women everywhere and playing on the gynocentric nature of us all in order to build human-shields around themselves so they are free to say and to do and to spew whatever abject hatred they wish without facing any repercussions for their actions.

Kill all men.

Men are trash.

And so forth and so on.

All this while trembling in forced fear and fragility; whilst screaming strength and powerful resistance to misogyny and the patriarchy, demanding protection and pampering from the patriarchy by the forces of patriarchal evil. For they are so strong, so powerful, so fantastic in their strength and endurance that they are too frail and weak to handle criticism without yelling and screaming about male chauvinism and a society that absolutely hates women, despite treating men like second-class citizens, ordered to go out of their way to better the existence of women and women only. So incredibly oppressed by the man that all of society only listen to feminism and women on issues having to do with sex and with gender. So oppressed by the evils that men do that they are in complete control of all our institutions. So oppressed, in fact, that merely a trembling finger in the direction of a conference on men’s issues is enough to shut it down for the controversy of the thing.

Strange, that.

In this society in which men have all the power and all the privilege, whereas women and feminism hold no power and no privilege, the mere trembled mutter from the quivering lips of a feminist is enough to close down conferences on issues affecting men due to controversy – or fear of controversy. How many hoops does one have to jump through in order to pretend that men are the privileged ones, when discussion of men’s issues not seen through the wrinkled binocular lenses of feminism are deemed controversial? One should think that it would be the other way around, were the rhetoric of feminism based on truth and not lies.

Feminism have told women that they must fear all men. Creating a hostile world for men is not a problem what-so-ever. Because that would be equality, that is the pinnacle of feminism, the perplexing wonder of its beacon, its shining light, its lonely kitten-wail into the night beneath the twinkling stars of ill intent. To create, to manufacture, to nurture and make bloom a constant fear and distrust of men in the hearts and minds of women, telling them that they are children in need of constant supervision, that the state need to step in and remove responsibilities from their shoulders and place ever more on the shoulders of men. And supervise constantly all doings, all goings, all lives, be they private or public. The personal must be political. The political must be personal. Such a frightening thing to see happen. Weaponized female fragility to allow the state to meddle even more in our lives and affairs. As long as women are kept safe.

As long as men don’t matter.

And we cope with it. And we accept it. And we bite the bullet, time and again. And we put up with it and we lay our lives and our mental health on the line. Over and over again. For the safety, the benefit, the protection of women. All the while these same women shout at us to do more, that we are dangerous, that we are a material manifestation of the wickedness of the world. That we need to disregard our own safety and our own needs so that the safety of women and the needs of women be met. By our hands, the world shall be saved from us. We do not need to talk about our issues. Because we have no issues, we have no problems, we have no societal ills eating at us, picking at us, devouring us bit by bit by bit, day by day. For all their impotent raving about toxic masculinity, the forces of feminism are sure as all hell good at telling men to man up.

If you give them an inch, they will take a mile. And then they complain that they never receive anything. And they twist and they turn and they spin on the truth until truth means nothing and facts are nowhere to be found and all is a confusing mess; a neurotic network of twisted cables and forced anxiety, a culture of fear handcrafted by ideologues whose collapsing sanity and frail weakness is painted as sanity, is painted as strength and as truth and as beauty.

Look at this weak-willed woman – how strong she is!

Look at this weak-willed man, how pathetic he is!

On and on it goes. The circle has no end and no beginning. It just goes on and on for ever. Unless it is broken. And it can only be broken by not playing this game, not partaking in this ridiculous clown-world reality of ours, where weakness is strength, up is down, down is up, strength is weakness, masculinity is toxic, even when masculinity is called forth to save the poor women who can never be toxic, unless influenced by some man more powerful than she is. Weak as she is, weak at the knees.

Let us all fall down on our knees and weep and tremble in fragile fear together.

The future of our societies is one in which anxiety, fear, trepidation and delusion is celebrated and shown to be strength. Where standing in the storm, surviving the trials of life by trudging ever forwards and not giving up, not giving in, but being strong in adversity is made out to be toxic behaviour.

Oh, mama, the path towards the future is paved with the frantic waving of anxiety; the celebration – not overcoming – of mental illness, a wallowing in fear and fever, in despair and weakness. Used to be we had to learn how to cope. Now we have to learn how not to cope. For if we cope, if we learn to cope and if we teach other people how to cope, the powerful will lose their power. For the powerful do thrive and grow on fear and fanaticism. There is much strength in female weakness. The sight of a woman in distress sends any man into protect-mode, running on overtime, and he will do whatever he can to save her from whatever imagined ill she is labouring beneath.

And the feminist hive-mind know this, even when they paint men as the enemy. They know that men will do whatever they can in order to ease the suffering of a woman. And they play and they prey upon this exact thing, upon this drive in men.

Too bad that so many of us are beginning to see this for what it is.

Too bad that more and more are waking up to this fact.

Even if it is slow-going.

Even if it takes forever.

Even if it will take an entire generation to undo the societal damage done by feminism, whose roar and screech and weaponized fear and weakness created a generation of perpetual victims incapable of looking at themselves, incapable of thinking inwards, incapable of doing anything but perpetuate the constant war, keeping the narrative going of men as the forces of evil and women as the forces of good.

We have always been at war with Eurasia.

War is peace.

Freedom is slavery.

Ignorance is strength.

The stability of feminism and their stranglehold on everything rely on keeping the status quo up and running; the view of men as eternal victimizers, strong and able and powerful, and women as perpetual victims, frail and weak and powerless.

There has to be a war between the genders. Otherwise, what is the point of feminism? Where should they then get their money, their power, their might, their influence? Where should they get their manipulative kicks and desires, if everyone woke up to this scam of theirs?

Just keep painting women as wonderful victims, then, and claim this to be strength.

Just keep painting men as horrible perpetrators, then, and claim this to be reasonable.

Just keep pushing for women to be treated better than men, then, claiming this to be equality.

Just keep telling the same old story; demonizing men and masculinity, sanctifying women and femininity, labelling it equal treatment.

Then wait.

Then look.

Then see what happens when your paper-castles crumble, your straw-men all fall down, and your gargantuan global industry comes crashing down around you to the sound of cheers and applause from those who finally woke up from their state-induced coma, driven, in no small way, by your propaganda.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 25.05.2019


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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

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

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

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
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

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.

– Please like, share and subscribe

– Moiret Allegiere, 08.05.2019



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