Shame and Ridicule on the Howling plains of Twitter:

Reach lowres

Illustration: «Reach», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

In order to bring your regular blue-pilled and blue-balled man to his knees, whimpering and stuttering profound expressions of regret, you need two things. A woman. And shame. This is something that is difficult to spot at first, as it seems to be a thing that has been cemented in our cultural evolution just as much as it has been fixed in the midst of our biological evolution. As such, it is something that gets taken for granted, by both men and women. A part of the social game and fabric of our mutually assured societal suicide; a living, breathing entity trapped within the basement-dwellings of our primal reptilian longing to fornicate and procreate.

Women are the gatekeepers of sex; of fornication and procreation and thusly the ones who decide whether or not a man is allowed to create any form of progeny… or to see his lineage dwindle and die.

Little wonder then that we are willing to put up with so much ridicule and shame from the fairer sex than we would ever be willing to put up with from men. This is not to say that we should put up with it. It is to say that it is so commonplace that it is nigh impossible to see unless you have your eyes opened wide by some personal tragedy or by forcefully applied reason, logic and common fucking sense. And when you do not see it, you take it for granted. It is part of the social fabric; the way things have always been and always will be. Unless we change it.

See, during my much-needed hiatus from writing on these topics, I have not been lazy. Nor have I kept myself out of the loop, as any sane individual would do were they to take a break from everything. I am clinically insane. As a result of this, I can not take a break from things no matter how much my aching body and decaying mind tell me that they need to. The show must go on, I suppose. Well, the show and my obsession on certain topics of the day.

I am not someone who will willingly participate in a debate. Hell; I have to be dragged kicking and screaming out of my cave just to go outside and get something to eat, leaving behind me a trail of despair and destruction much befitting a pseudo-hermit like myself. Winding up in some online debate with a perfect stranger would be, to my gobsmacked intestinal tract, an ulcer in waiting and a prolapsed back emerging from the shackled shadow of the somewhat social teenager I used to be, with all the gloomy angst and mysterious stranger vibes I could conjure forth from my then-emerging extreme introversion.

No, I am not one for debates. I always wind up muttering, stuttering, mumbling something incomprehensible and then doing my best to fade into the woodwork or dig a hole in the ground where I could sleep for a thousand years.

Cause I am tired, I am weary.

My Twitter profile is a living testament to this, as one would expect. My tweets are few and far between. The “likes” I have doled out lovingly to the masterful guards standing in the way of the rampaging feminist hordes, shielded by facts and wielding flaming words of immense illumination are not that few and far between, as I very much enjoy reading and watching debates online. Whether that be professional debates in professional settings, or on online forums like Reddit or Twitter or what-have-you.

Used to be I’d watch or read debates on just about everything, in order to get a grasp on the thought-processes of people and the arguments espoused from either side of a debate. It didn’t matter then, and it don’t matter much now whether I agreed with any side or not. My interest lies in seeing and understanding a side, understanding their reasoning and their conclusions. Keeping an open mind is key to this; to view things from as many perspectives as possible, and then letting what makes the most sense guide my own view and opinion on things. Lately, what debates I have read and/or seen have been mainly feminist vs non-feminist/MRA’s. For obvious reasons.

And what is so absurdly and incomprehensibly gobsmacking in these debates – if you would even want to call them that – is the amount of shame and personal attacks ushered forth from the feminist harpies. There is very little argument of any value to be found – if there really are any.

There is a constant flow of shaming and ridicule, and that is more or less that. And these people seem to be absolutely unaware of this. It is funny to watch and to behold how their regular shaming tactics don’t work on men who have woken up to this horrifying fact and facet of life and the social fabric. How they take it all in stride as the frightbat tunes of shame and ridicule fall on deaf ears completely in tune with the harmonious winds of their own mad-genius laughter as they watch these tried-and-true tactics be completely useless in the face and eyes of the enlightened and noble transcendent spirits.

In encountering non-feminist women, the shaming tactics get even worse and more ridiculous.

Cause this is unknown territory – these are uncharted waters, captain, and we don’t have any particular framework to navigate. We can’t seem to shame them for the size of their genitals any more, nor their lack of sexual prowess and/or ability to provide for and protect a woman and children. God-damn, what should we do then? Well, arr, damned if I know, matey. I assume that there can not possibly be women who think like this, and as such it must be a man clothed and disguised as a female internet-persona as a fantastically smart way of bringing shame upon the global sisterhood. Because that is what I would do, god-damnit!

Clearly, no woman could possibly be opposed to the feminist mindset of being an eternal victim and permanently downtrodden; of being constantly so beat down by the world that she could not possibly be expected to navigate it on her own without breaking into hives, sweaty panic and full frontal feral nudity and madness in protest of the sexualization of her voluptuous body-rolls and ginormous foot-impact on the soil.

It is either a man, or a woman so desperate for intimacy with a man that she is willing to lie in order to get a foot within the door of his provider-protector shack. A “Pick-me” I believe is the terminology of choice to these people, so up their own ass and addicted to sniffing their own farts that they are completely incapable of comprehending the simple fact that sex and gender is not a unifying ideal; that neither sex is a homogeneous mass of drones doing and thinking the exact same thing in perpetuity. So foreign is the notion of women opposing feminism that there has to be some nefarious reason for them doing so; either an MRA – as of course are only men – posing as a woman, or a woman who can not find love and so must pretend to be opposed to the sexual inequality and infantilizing of women which feminism so clearly crafts and creates wherever they spread their filthy wings and period-blood, all hysterical and ovary-acting to anything not deemed suitable conduct for a woman. And what is suitable conduct for a woman? Anything feminism dictates. Anything feminism does not dictate is not suitable for a woman. Even if women can do whatever the hell they want. As long as they do what feminism wants, which is not what women in general want, but what feminism wants. Rinse and repeat.

The shaming of men who are opposed to feminism is much the same as the shaming of any man, whether they are opposed to feminism or not. Just another fucking Tuesday for those of us who grew up in the era of feminism. Nothing much changes there, to be frank and perfectly honest. It is the same old rhetoric of feminism when faced with the tragic horror of men and masculinity which they have always spewed from their gibbering jaws of wanton death and destruction; a constant stream of shame for men being men and doing whatever it is that men do.

And, to the eyes and fatty tissue of feminism – whatever it is that men do and are is exactly what feminism is opposed to. And this is subject to change at any moment of any day. Depends on if the moon is in the seventh house or not; if Jupiter is aligned with Mars and if the demented Moon-goddess Luna is on the rag or not.

Usually, an attempted debate devolves quickly into insinuations of a less-than-satisfactory genital size, a lack of sexual partners and sexual prowess, lack of income or ability to protect and to provide for a woman and for a family. Oddly gender-traditional, I always think, as I watch this train wreck occur in front of my eyes in slow motion. I swear to high heavens that feminism is the most gender-traditional set of entitled bastards you will see this side of a medieval romance novel. Both male and female feminists.

Words like “incel” are thrown around willy-nilly, never-minding if the man in question is in a relationship or not. I have seen feminists claim that men who are in a relationship or who are married are lying about it just to deflect from their incelhood. Further establishing the feminist view of men as beings incapable of detaching their selves from their lust to fuck; as if there is – to the poor sight of feminism – nothing more to a man than a throbbing and mutilated cock eternally on the quest for a quick rape or two in some dank alley infested with patriarchal lice and women – pick-me’s – willing to be defiled by the tragedy of male sexuality, begging for a cheap fuck to validate her existence. It is as if feminism sees men as being absolutely nothing without a woman in their life, to defile and subjugate.

Thus pouring the insufferable narcissism of feminism deeply into the cracks of our pavements and the paths on which we walk to our sudden and sullen gloom and doom. How can a man function without a woman in his life? Men, to the eyes of feminism and to society at large, are complete and utter failures if they are incapable of ensnaring some poor woman in their manspread manweb of incessant mansplained mancocks. Men are nothing without women. And women are the moral fabric of society, they shriek and shudder, as they shame men for not finding a woman and shame women for wanting so badly to find a man that they oppose feminism and the divine sisterhood to do so. Then they shame men for wanting to find a woman. And women for not finding a man. Herpityderp.

And of all the horrible things they could find to shame men for, they resolve to involuntary celibacy as the prime force behind their shaming; the core of their unending male shame: the male lack of partnership and sexual as well as emotional fulfilment.

Incels, as is my understanding of it, are often men who have been deeply damaged by society. Or who have some developmental issues, some mental issues, some physical issues that make it very difficult for them to find any meaningful companionship, platonic or not.

Often – but not always – these men have been abused and/or neglected by their parents. They have lacked love and understanding for most of their lives, and they are still incapable of finding love and understanding and so vent their frustrations on the internet, where there at the very least exist other people willing to listen to them and share a bit in their despair.

Most people do want to love and to be loved; to find emotional as well as physical fulfilment in the company of another human being. Physical contact is incredibly important to human beings. In particular in their younger years. Give a child everything but physical contact, and the child will suffer immensely for the lack of physical contact.

A whole hell of a lot of these incels are men who are deeply damaged, scorned and ridiculed by society. Who have been neglected and abused throughout their lives. Who have not found any place where they feel that they fit in or are accepted, and as a result they get angry and frustrated.

This is not to say that I agree with their venting, their anger and frustration. Nor is it to say that I don’t.

This – dear feminist horde of rampant rage and ruin – is what is called being understanding and compassionate; to show empathy. Which the entire world is in dire need of where men are concerned. The empathy-gap is real. Glaringly and obviously so, if one just manage to view men as human beings and not merely human doings; as utilities and a nifty set of tools to get the job done, the lack of empathy where men are concerned becomes really bloody obvious. Especially so the moment one takes a short pause to consider that “incel” is a term now used to shame men.

That incels, men who – more often than not – find themselves at the bottom rungs of society, who are deprived of emotional fulfilment and of physical fulfilment, who are lonely and despairing, are shamed for being just that. Shamed instead of understood and shown empathy and given help. Further hammering the point home in their heads and despairing psyche – that they are not now, nor have they ever been, wanted, loved or needed.

And still this gynocentric, feminist-infested society of ours will claim that the empathy-gap is not real.

It is enough to make me feel sick to the bottom of my soul.

It doesn’t matter what the facts are. It doesn’t matter how many studies and statistics are used in these debates to prove the point against feminism. For these people, feelings are more factual than actual facts are factual. I assume this is because the feelings are immediate and thus take precedence to the ability to stop and think, ponder and consider. If something feels bad, it must be bad. Never mind if it is true or not. Thus, facts counter to the feminist narrative that has been droning on for years uncounted that feel bad can not possibly be true. Cause they feel bad, and that is that.

In my ramblings, in which I will absolutely admit that I am not as good at dropping sources as I should be, there is not a single thing I have stated as fact that can not be backed up by statistics or studies or news-articles or whatever. My lack of dropping sources stems from the fact that I am a writer, not a scholar; an artist, not an academic.

I do my very best to make it obvious when I am talking for myself and when I am referring to some study or statistic or the like.

Believe it or not, given the rambling and hop-scotchy nature of my writing, I happen to chose my words very carefully. The rambling is by choice and by design. And I very often find myself having a hard time writing something if I am just a wee bit uncertain about it. If I have not completed my – admittedly very slow – thinking or research on a certain subject, I falter and my fingers stutter over the keyboard like some drunkard at the bar, searching in vain for that last glimmer of sobriety stuck somewhere in the back of his throat. This is because I want to be as sure as I can be that I am correct in what I write and what I say and what I think. Obviously, this is not to say that I am infallible – that I am always right, like some weird angry God. It is to say that I do my very best to speak truth, even if my style of writing is very much impacted by my emotional state at the moment of writing. My writing may very well be emotional. My reasoning, on the other hand, is not.

For reasons very much unknown to me, but which are probably tied neatly into the obscurity of my blog and of my channel as well as my lack of participation in debates, I have not experienced a lot of shaming and ridicule after I began writing on these topics. Nothing near what I expected. In fact, I have been shamed and ridiculed for my sex and sexuality more before I started writing about these topics than after. I guess it is easier to attack someone who does not speak openly on things of this nature in the holy name of feminism than it is to attack someone who does.

For blue-pilled men are easier prey to various forms of Succubi and harsh siren songs than red-pilled men are. There have been some attempted shaming and personal attacks. Of such grandiose stupidity that I refuse to reply to it. Because I can not understand why in the everlasting blowjob-sunrise I should reply to non-arguments presented as arguments; to self-contradictory statements made within the same paragraph of babbling monologues as each other. I see no reason to counter shaming tactics with anything but the wall of silence which it deserves. Because shaming tactics are not arguments; personal attacks will never be arguments. They are not worthy of a reply. At least not to my eyes. There is really very little to be said to someone who is so possessed by the ghost of feminism that they would claim – without so much as a flicker of regret or doubt – that the only possible conclusion to be had from my opposition to feminism is that I want to be free to abuse my wife however I wish. There is no reasoning with this type of madness, this type of ideological and dogmatic blindness. And I don’t have the time, the energy or the health for it.

Of course; I see that the point in any debate is not so much to sway the opinion of the one with whom one is debating but those who may be looking on. Which is much the reason why I so much enjoy watching debates. Not necessarily to see a feminist PWNED and WRECKED and DESTROYED by FACTS(!!!), however much fun that is, but to see those who may have been on the sidelines getting swayed as much by the behaviour of the feminist or feminists in the debate as by the reasoned arguments by the non-feminist in question. As much as I believe that fighting fire with fire may be worth it (if only for the lolz), as much as I think that holding feminists accountable to their own standard of behaviour and thusly replying to them in kind would be a spectacular display of hypocrisy on their part, there is very little doubt in my mind that the true path towards a society in which feminism does not hold as much sway and power and might and control that they do at the moment of writing is to debate them calmly and succinctly, to disprove their nonsense with actual evidence, with cold and hard facts instead of rambling emotional tirades and ad hominem potshots.

To gently and slowly sway the public opinion.

And to those who are capable of doing just that, I tip my fedora and wriggle my neckbeard in ecstatic glee. For you are the ones fighting. I’m just sitting sheltered in some bunker somewhere, doing what I can on my part, as little as that may very well be.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 17.07.2019

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On Violent Censorship and Quaint Duets: A postmodern tragedy in four parts:

howl lowres

Illustration: «Howl», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

To be frank and perfectly honest: I really can’t stay. The censorious bull-dickery has been nibbling at the base of my skull far too much lately.

It’s been far too much for quite some time. But who cares about that, right? There is quite a lot of wonderment and very little worry in someone having their opinions and speech censored. It is a price I am willing to pay, as long as the filthy fascists get their comeuppance. Preferably with a bike-lock through the skull whilst being subjected to the discipline of the acidic milkshake shower. Just as long as you don’t deem my speech and conduct to be hateful, it’s all quite alright you marvellous miracle-worker of do-goody nonsense, you; you fantastic YouTube and mass-engulfing-media you!

All these calls for censorship… so astonishingly weird and confusing. It wouldn’t be that bad were it just calls for censorship. We’ve had to deal with arseholes of that nature for as long as we have held different opinions and have had culture that have pushed some boundary or other.

Eek! Won’t somebody please think of the children!”

…And so forth and so on…

For something to offend someone’s delicate sensibilities to be censored and stowed away is far more important than the freedom of other people to enjoy something that offends some hysterical screeching cat-lady with all the sense and magical reasoning of a bat-shit insane speck of dust.

I don’t think the calls for censorship is the issue. The implementation of censorship, on the other hand, most definitely is. That someone wielding some kind of power is stupid enough or brainwashed enough or pussy-whipped enough or frightened of the mob enough to stoop to censoring opinions, speech or culture because someone is offended is frightening. Or – as is more likely – because someone pretends to be offended just to get their fix of dopamine, righteous indignation and egotistical power-trip of the day.

It is even more frightening that it is opinions going against the grain and holy dogma of society as it stands today that is getting censored and deemed verboten. Freedom of expression and speech is there to protect the rights of those who do not conform to whatever social standards we are handed, given or forced into to express their opinions, however contrarian they may be. When given the illusion that everyone holds the same opinion within a society, the immediate thought is of course that people are forced to hold the same opinion for fear of punishment if they do not.

Sterile, whitewashed walls… padded cells… no room for worry here… we are all the same… of one mind… one body… engulfed by the fever and sermon… the cult of the great leader… All because someone is offended… And then it depends on who is offended. Because offence is A-OK. As long as the offence given is trudging along with the dominance of the party-line.

This censorship of speech and opinion is tyranny disguised as protection; the powers-that-be deciding that the poor huddled masses are just to frail and stupid to handle dissenting opinions and edgy teen-humour from mouldy basements; that they are too weak of mind and of will to comprehend that someone can enjoy art and culture which they themselves do not enjoy.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

It is getting very cold inside as well.

Now it’s all just days spent waiting for the cops or the Stasi or the Gestapo or the KGB or whatever to knock my door down for daring to not only consume the wrong kind of media, humour, art, culture, opinion and entertainment but also for producing it.

Once, I laughed at a joke about Islam, and am now terrified for my life. I did the same about Catholicism Once or twice or thrice, but that doesn’t worry me as much for some strange reason. Imagine that.

I’ve got to get away! But getting away is easier said than done. I’m absolutely certain they are hiding in the bushes and in the poppies outside, waiting for the moment I escape from this fortified compound I call my apartment to shoot me down like a dog. No offence meant to dog-lovers. I am one. A dog-lover, that is. Not a dog. Though I wish I were. But that is besides the point.

…All this frenzied censorship and culling of the non-politically correct, of anyone labelled extremely right-wing for being slightly to the right of an amalgamation of Mao, Lenin, Marx, Pol Pot and sacred Dworkin no matter what they themselves have to say on the matter has got me reduced to a babbling mass of paranoid nerves and tendons swishing the air and screaming incoherently about the technocratic elite being out to get me! And the feminists, of course.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

We are witnessing the ruination of liberal values which our societies have held dear and fought for and paid for even more dearly over the course of centuries. And it is bothering me something awful. As well it fucking should. Anyone not bothered, to some extent or other, by this must have their head up their arse and their eyes firmly fixed on their navel. From within their digestive system. This evening has been… its been dreadful.

See, I can write about it in an over-the-top, obnoxious and paranoid manner, channelling all the Hunter Thompson the world could ever want or need. At the end of the day however, it is the grim and realistic spectre of George Orwell that is floating in front of my vision; a peculiar ghost; visions and warnings of tyrannies past, present and future with an elegant moustache, whispering in a kind-of half-mocking, half-disappointed voice: “I warned you, didn’t I? I warned you several times, yet you did not listen.”

And it is grim and it is serious, and we make a toast with Italian red wine, before I tell him:

I’ve been hoping that you’d drop in”.

So very nice.

I’ve been looking for someone to talk to for a long time about this, but no-one is willing to listen to me, George. They call me mad, George, Mad! Then they insist that if I have nothing to hide, I have nothing to fear. Or to lose. And I’m just sitting here, wondering who in all the glory of Stalin’s moustache decides what is needed to be hidden and what is not? And are they really that vain and selfish and egotistical that they don’t realize that they are not safe from the tyranny of censorship which they wish to impose upon others?

…And the ghost of George Orwell will laugh sardonically and repeat what he said, albeit slightly more soothing. Then he will say that he is very happy to be dead, thank you very much. And we mucked it up ourselves despite his warnings so we’ll damned well have to fix it for ourselves! And then he tells me:

I’ll hold your hands, they’re just like ice.” before telling me to stay out of Burma, invest in gold, don’t take any gruff from these swine and so forth and so on before fading into dust, leaving me stranded in my living-room, feeling maybe slightly more uppity and a hell of a lot more paranoid than before his ghost graced me with its presence.

***

You know; I recall, years ago in my early teens, when I first started getting into extreme metal – a poorly defined sub-genre of music I still very much enjoy – buying all kinds of early Scandinavian black metal records as well as a mixed bag of aggressive death and gloomy doom metal; all manners of filth and fury, thinking that soon, my mother will start to worry. As is the natural order of things; a sort-of, kind-of rebellion against the values of the parental generation through shock and horror that was lacking in anything even resembling subtlety. This was back in the hey-days of Marilyn Manson and at the tail-end of the satanic panic.

Man-oh-man: remember when Marilyn Manson was threatening? What a time to be alive! Now it’s all ballads and cute and quaint duets from way back in the early 20th century we are supposed to find threatening and consider worthy of censorship, in a weird backwards role-reversal of parent-child relationship. With all the snivelling teachers pets and tattle-tales we all despised in our forgotten classrooms filling the role of concerned mother for the generation of their parents and their grandparents, as well as civilization at large! People in their late twenties or early-to-mid thirties deciding that all is offence and nothing is anything but what they decide that it is. God forbid someone actually enjoy something without analysing it to death and beyond and promptly denouncing it!

As most people probably are aware of: subtlety is not the first thing on ones mind when one is in the hormonally induced drunken rampage of horrid puberty. Quite the contrary. Just about everything is up front and centre, and the more overt the rebellion, the better. As it very well should be.

Then it blows over and it settles and one is rounded, more secure in oneself and gaining traction on the path towards adulthood, having blown off quite a bit of steam in the process.

If one allows oneself to grow up and become an adult human being, capable of accepting that someone else has the right to voice their opinion, however much it differs from ones own, or even offends, that is.

As this happens, and one starts talking to oneself and thinking for oneself, acting for oneself and being oneself, there is a striking realization that it is all so beautiful, so beautiful. So what’s your hurry? What’s your hurry, indeed? Why hurry towards some ever-changing goalpost, some newfangled outrage that is always eluding your limited grasp? It is simply not worth the fucking bother unless it very directly – through laws, regulations and infringements impacts oneself. Such as state-sanctioned, mass-media frenzied infringements upon freedom of speech, freedom of expression and freedom of association. Which is slowly, yet surely, happening throughout the western world. Call me paranoid as much as you wish: it is happening. And no labels of paranoid schizophrenia and assorted clinical insanity will change that.

There’s no need to worry too much about what other people think or do or find funny or enjoy. It is just annoying to everyone. Including you yourself. Why should this bother you? How does someone laughing at a joke you find offensive in any way, shape or form hurt you? You are not the parent or guardian of the entirety of western civilization. As such, western civilization does not need to bow down and succumb to your will for censorship of anything you consider unfit for human consumption, be those differing opinions or culture or art or music or whatever. As this might have eluded your finite cognitive functions, allow me to dumb it down for you: you are not a worrying mother for a civilization that is a dumb and rebellious teenager needing to have its curfew in place and its consumption of culture curtailed to that which you deem appropriate.

There are more than enough overbearing mothers around. Everyone and their mums would do well to loosen their reigns and let other people be as other people are. Western civilization do not need an overbearing, smothering mother bearing down on them with all the protection and nurturing of a broken bottle of opiate-laced Jack Daniels; telling us that if we are not in our beds at this hour, if we do not turn of that devil music, if we don’t cut our hair, then Father will be pacing the floor with worry and Mother won’t be sleeping either, and you have ruined the stability of the family and will be the downfall of us all.

Expecting only opinions you agree with to be allowed in the public sphere – and YouTube as well as other social media juggernauts are public spheres, no matter what you say – whilst at the same time pretending to hold liberal values is hypocritical, unthinking nonsense born from an egotistical notion that the world would be far better if only everyone agreed with you and buckled down and did as you do, speak as you speak, think as you think, believe as you believe, and so forth and so on. A multitude of differing ideas, opinions and thoughts will always fare better than a forced, overarching and governing idea proposed by ideology and enforced with an iron fist.

A tyrannical notion of inclusivity and equality where all are equal under the sun, despite the sun being eclipsed by the moon and the nonsense trembling in your verruca warts travelling all the way to your flimsy attack-womb to give birth to the Antichrist who says that in order for all to be free and to be equal, some must be unfree to speak and considered unequal in opinion so that others shall feel safe from some imagined ill conjured forth in the elitist brains of piss-drunk arm-chair politicians with a graduate degree in gender studies and another graduate degree in guerilla warfare and propaganda of the Bolshevik revolution! Because words, as opposed to actual political violence from the likes of god-damned Antifa, are violence, for some strange and peculiar reason. If the ones committing violence of the spoken word does not tow the party-line of the fair and fragile few, that is.

And now, for this fractured notion of equality and inclusion which is defiling and assaulting our liberties – and that is liberties to offend as well as to be offended – I have to sit here and rant and rave and ramble endlessly about this nonsense instead of settling down some place and listen to the fireplace roar.

There are lots of other things that interest me, you see.

I don’t have to write about this treachery.

There are lots of things that I would enjoy writing about that is not infringements – or attempted infringements – upon my freedom to express myself. This seems to me to be the most pressing, however – the most important topic of discussion in our day and age, where we will either stumble into a censorious dark-age of technocratic tyranny and globalist nonsense, or through fantastic perseverance and grit fight our way into a new renaissance where we value and welcome all manners of speech, expression, art and culture and let them die or succeed on their merit instead of being so scared and timid of disagreements that we much prefer to censor that which is not in line with the current cultural zeitgeist so that we don’t need to see it co-exist with our brave new world.

Out of sight, out of mind.

If we do not see it, it does not exist.

If we redefine a word, it changes everything. Imagine the fantastic utopia; a world in which homelessness and poverty and violence does not exist because the words do not exist, or the words are redefined and everything is swept under the rug so that we do not see it. And when we do not see it, it can not be there, now, can it? There are no suicides in this utopia, in this frantically sterile world. Death by self inflicted gunshot wounds are deemed a curious accident; overdose on pills are just the same. A curious accident. For our utopia is so fantastic and so glorious and so equal and so inclusive that one can not possibly wish to kill oneself! Etc. etc.

We can’t have nice things like free expression of ideas and art and culture, because some raging and demented and ragingly demented social justice warrior or frazzled soccer-mom with feminist platitudes tattooed on the inside of her eyelids who does not think and does not speak for being too busy screeching, snivelling and roaring at the top of their lungs, will want to remove everything not fitting in with their narrow view of how things should be.

And everyone is all up in arms at the horrors these people have to witness; someone actually not agreeing, wearing symbols they do not like, listening to music they do not enjoy, saying something that offends them, laughing at jokes they do not laugh at… For some weird reason, people listen to this abhorrent censorious madness and lunacy. The lunatics have taken over the asylum, and the voices on the wind repeat the mantra and the slogan of the offended and insane: Ban it.

Ban it.

Condemn it all to the deepest and dankest pits of hell! Can’t have anything disrupting whatever remains of balance and calm in these choke-point minds of theirs, now, can we?

And so, really, I’d better scurry.

I had better get out of here before it gets even worse. But where should I run to, and how? There is no place to run. The walls are closing in. No room to roam no more. There’s nothing to do but to fortify this apartment even more; write some more nonsense that I get displeased with, only to hear my wife say that it is beautiful, please don’t hurry – or despair!

And so I will try and relax and I’ll have maybe just half a drink more, and I’ll ask my wife to put some records on while I pour so that we, at the very least, can have a good time as the world burns around us; so that maybe we can sit down and laugh at this atrocious absurdity unfolding before our very eyes instead of having to worry about what the neighbours might think, because, baby, it’s bad out there and it is getting worse and it is getting even more bad and I’m absolutely certain that the neighbours are spying on us, prepared at any moment to report us to the Stasi or whatever it is that keeps a track on us nowadays, and they’ll bust down our door, noses wrinkled in disgust, proclaiming loudly: “Say, what’s in this drink?”, then proceed to pour enough LSD in it to kill an elephant in order to frame me for something so that they can remove me from the premises for something that is not merely protesting the status quo and the frail and frantic feminist take-over of the government and the minds of the younger generation as well as our steady decline into petty tyranny and tin-box dictatorship.

Honk.

Fucking, god-damned Honk.

At the very least, they’ll give me a free car-ride as there are no cabs to be had out there any more since all the roads got paved with nails in order to force us to walk instead of drive and I wish I knew how to end this absurdity without slipping into complete and utter madness, but I don’t know how and – oh my – your eyes are like starlight now – it must be the LSD the Stasi slipped into my drink previously – and it is so terrorizing that in order to break this spell I will count the ways you wronged me and then I’ll take your hat, Mrs. Stasi madam – my, your hair looks swell…

***

We attempted to interview the subject, a Mr. Moiret Allegiere, on the morning of July 3, 2019. He appeared to be under the influence of some psychoactive drug or other, though that was hard to say with any level of certainty.

Later examination uncovered that he had been drinking wine laced with LSD; a rather powerful psychedelic drug.

As per regulations in situations such as these, we offered him Koolaid in an attempt to sober him up so that he would be capable of answering our inquires as to his activities since November of 2018. This had little effect, as he threw every glass we offered him at the wall, mumbling under his breath that “I ought to say no, no, no”. When asked why he did not accept this generous offer of Koolaid, he attempted to stare us down with his beard. He then proceeded to manspread like a true patriarchal oppressor, with little regard to the emotional well-being of anyone present.

This resulted in us having to bring in a new inquisitor, as <name redacted> broke down in fits of crying and literal shaking at this strange display of male dominance. We changed tactics and went for the tried and true approach of unlimited kindness and inclusivity. Not an easy tactic, of course, given the severity of the subject and his mansplained manspreading.

Mind if I move in closer?”

Inquisitor C inquired, in an effort to end the subjects obviously militant strategy of manspreaded beard-staring. The subject did not reply.

At this point, we were all at our wits end, I will have to admit, and we left the interrogation room to discuss our strategies further. As none of us inquisitors would like to admit to failure. In particular when faced with a fiend such as this.

Poor sinner; he does not know any better,” Inquisitor A stated, “at least I’m gonna say that I tried – after all, what’s the sense in hurting my pride?”

After letting the subject stew in our kindness-and-inclusivity-cell for a few hours, all inquisitors present, with the approval of the grand inquisitor, felt that the time was right to carry on with our interrogation.

Upon opening the door, however, the first thing that met us was the bare naked form of the subject – a sight, I will have to admit – that made me go temporarily blind. Of course, the temperature in the cell was slightly higher than average – somewhere in the vicinity of 50 decrees centigrade – we conceded, however, that this should not pose too many problems.

As an obvious result of this, his nudity was considered to be highly offensive.

This resulted in us charging him with sexual assault and battery.

I really can’t stay”, the subject said, in a hoarse whisper. He then proceeded to ask for water. Which inquisitor B was reluctant to deliver, fearing some kind of water-based assault. When told of our reluctance to deliver water, the subject simply stated “Baby, don’t hold out.” And asked, yet again, to be let out. As the subject seemed incapable of acknowledging the true nature of his crimes – that is intent to disrupt the peace, disrupting the peace, intent to spread misinformation, spreading misinformation, crimes upon good taste and decency, using the word “C**t” more than once, assault upon art, manspreading, beard-staring, mansplaining, manterrupting, manslamming, non-feminist activities, as well as crimes of thought, holding controversial opinions, sexual assault and battery as well as general crimes of a testicular nature and counter-revolutionary activities – we were understandably very reluctant to unleash him upon the general public, well aware of the heinous acts he has been carrying out for almost a year.

Despite it being summer, we felt that the best approach was to convince the subject that it was in fact winter, which, all things of course being subjective and objective fact no longer existing as anything but a remnant of patriarchal and white supremacist power-structures, really can not be considered lies, fibs or anything of that nature.

Said inquisitor A: “Ah, but it’s cold outside.”

Said the subject: “I’ve got to get home! My wife must be worried sick!”

Said inquisitor C: “Oh, baby, you’ll freeze out there.”

Said the subject: “Say, lend me your coat – that should help me with the cold.”

Said Inquisitor A: “It’s up to your knees out there – it’s all to do with climate change, you see.”

Said the subject: “You know, you’ve really been grand. And I thrill when you touch my hand!”

The touching of the hand was a result of inquisitor B attempting friendliness and comfort during the obvious inner turmoil of the subject in question. A tactic that was well planned out, had it not been for us not factoring in the subject proceeding to manbite the hand that comforted him, before manslamming his way to the door which none of us inquisitors had thought to close or lock, considering the passive nature of the subject after being left to calm down and relax in the kindness-and-inclusivity-cell. A tactic which have always worked before.

Upon which biting, Inquisitor B let out a scream, and in a strong and powerful and independent whimper stated: “Why don’t you see… that we are in the right? How can you do this thing to me? That really hurt!” In inclusion to the aforementioned charges, the subject is now also charged with general assault and battery of a patriarchal nature.

After manhandling his way to the door, the subject paused for a brief moment, his horrible mannaked manform outlined against the bright light of the hall outside, his manpenis swinging gently below his filthy manbeard like an improvised manclub. He gazed at us with his terrifying male gaze and said in his manvoice these words:

There’s bound to be talk tomorrow! Think of my life long sorrow; I have to deal with bastards like you all the time! At least there will be plenty implied if you caught pneumonia and died, you wretched puritans. But now, I am afraid to say – I really can’t stay. You should get over that hold out, you imbecilic purveyors of nonsense.”

The subject then manshook his manbeard in our general direction, turned around and promptly bolted out the nearest window. As one would expect, we were all frozen in pure terror and fright at this horrible display of toxic masculinity, and as such were completely unable to calm down the situation and restore order.

The subject is now on the loose, considered armed and dangerous. He must be approached with caution. Wanted dead or alive.

***

Ah, but it’s cold outside. A nuclear winter is looming on the horizon. A dreaded future in which all is sterile and complacent and apathetic. A future in which opinions and even facts that go against the dominant narrative is verboten, unfit for mass consumption for the perceived threat it poses against the delicate sensibilities of those who consider subjective feeling more important than fact; who consider facts and truth, reason and logic to be lies and slander or discriminatory statements despite being none of these.

We are going down the drain, flushed down and forgotten or trampled underfoot by the furious forces of basement-dwelling nincompoops pushing for a violent chaos for reasons they can not properly explain.

A generation lacking in empathy for anyone who does not share their limited and – to be honest – extreme point of view. For lack of reason, for lack of arguments, for lack of thought and conduct and empathy, they chose to beat up, beat down, rough up and pound anyone who disagrees to within an inch of their lives. Politically motivated violence from people to frail and weak and fragile and cowardly to consider the point of view of someone else. High on their own power; their own force in numbers, they become a mob – a buzzing, glaring, stupid mad, insane, rage-fuelled hive of violence and contempt claiming violence of words to justify their violent actions.

And in their minds, it makes perfect sense. In reaching the conclusion – dumb as it very well is – that words are violence, violence is then justified in order to stop violence. In considering words that they themselves have deemed to be hate-speech to be an act of violence, they have every right in the world to face violence with violence. To their fragile minds, caught in the intersection of indoctrination, brainwashing and cult-ish thinking, they are partaking in self-defence. Even when not directly attacked. And even when, by all metrics, being in the wrong, Antifa and their ilk truly believe that they are in the right.

These people are lost within a role-playing game; LARP-ing as revolutionaries; believing that they are bringing down the establishment, that they are fighting the rising tide of fascism… by implementing tactics used by fascists; the strong will survive, the weak will suffer. And the strong is the mass, the mob, the pack, the collective hiding the individual behind a mutually assured strength in black-walled numbers horrifying in their madness and violence against those whom they consider to be the truly violent ones.

These people are lost in their own demented belief in their moral superiority.

I would be inclined to pity them profusely, were it not for the fact that they hurt people immensely and with impunity; were it not for the fact that they seem immune to anything not covered by their hug-box echo-chambers, their backwards nonsense, their bored and pointless lives in which they seek so desperately some meaning, something to do, something to break the monotony and drudgery of their easy existence that they rave and roar and rampage and ridicule; that they bash and beat and break bones and skulls to gain some semblance of action, of meaning, of being part of something bigger than their pathetic weasel existence.

As it stands, I can not pity them. Nor can I hate them. I consider them a poignant tragedy; a symbol of a society sliding into pointless decadence and hedonism, into overabundant debauchery and degeneracy. A society in which living is remarkably easy, a society in which they have it so good that they feel sorry for themselves. And feel guilty for others not having it as good as they do. Lost within a society in which there is nothing to strive for, nothing to conquer, nothing to occupy the days with, nothing that gives any sense of meaning or belonging, prompting the bored beast within to go on a rampage, to complain and to bitch and to moan about non-issues just to break the pale and grey and dull monotony of every day slipping into the next day with no meaning, no point, no search, no quest, no nothing. There is no unifying idea, tradition or ideal. Just the endless fight. Preposterous petulant prepubescent post-graduate children hidden in the bodies of adults, bored senseless and prone to believing anything as long as there is some action, some feeling, something, whatever.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside.

And it will keep getting colder as long as this tide is not halted. As long as this tide is allowed to run free, backed by mass-media pundits just as pampered and decadent and dull and bored and meaningless as they themselves are. As long as this nonsensical violent beast is given free reign, is given protection and explanation and all manner of mental gymnastics to justify their abhorrent behaviour; their killing of opposing views, their culling of inquisitive minds who do not swallow their dogma hook, line and stinker, we will see more violence, more chaos, a steady escalation of beat-downs and debauchery until someone is killed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Prompting even more escalation.

And these people preach tolerance. It sickens me.

Tolerance.

Tolerance.

Tolerance.

How that word has lost all meaning. How that word has eluded the grasp of mental midgets, incapable of considering views from anything but their own coke-addled minds and echo-chambers. How that word – tolerance – has escaped the dictionary and floated into the midst of bullies, using it as nothing but an excuse for violence against those considered to not be tolerated or tolerant; using it as the sword or bike-lock or bludgeon of righteousness, when they are incapable of understanding that tolerance is a two-way street. In preaching tolerance, one must also be tolerant. And being tolerant is tolerating that other people hold views different from ones own. And that this is quite OK in a society that is not in the grip of some totalitarian tyranny.

Violently assaulting people for holding different opinions is not tolerant. It is quite the opposite. It is the hallmark of tyrants; the banner of obscene and horrible tyranny.

Which we are sliding into, gently, to mass applause.

Which we are drifting into, lovingly, to cheers and celebrations.

Which we embrace as though the worst crime in existence is someone having their feelings hurt and being offended for seeing or hearing that someone disagrees; for believing lack of tolerance in other people whom they beat to a bloody pulp for their lack of tolerance of opposing views spoken or written.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

The freedom of the west is dying.

Long live the freedom of the west.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 06.07.2019

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The Cult of Feminism Proper; a secular religion with all the bells and whistles of a dimly lit lighthouse:

When the musics over lowres

Illustration: «When the Music’s over», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

Have you accepted Dworkin into your heart and soul?”, she says, brushing a strand of hair dyed the colour of danger away from her eyes as she longingly sucks on her cigarette.

It’s all here, in the scriptures,” she continues, blowing a cloud of acrid blue-tinged smoke from her lips, half parted, cracked and vibrating with some strange inner restlessness almost, but not quite, mimicking nervousness, “embracing the light of feminism will release you from all your woes and worries. In finding Sacred Dworkin and Feminism, I also understood and found my place in this world.”

She fumbles around in her purse for a while, cigarette resting solemnly in an ashtray meant to mimic a pair of labia lips. Gazing around her room, I see, amidst the chaos and turmoil of empty bottles and strange exotic teas, posters hanging on the walls reminding her solemnly, with big bold words, that she is, in fact, a slave and a victim of circumstances beyond her control. In a strange and prophetic manner, these same posters miraculously manage to claim strength; a powerful and exemplary powerlessness; strength through weakness.

I was lost, you see. But now I am found.” She reappears from her purse and hands me a bundle of pamphlets, very similar to the posters in design and – I assume – in message. “It’s strange, how obvious it all is when someone just points it out to you. It’s not me, you see, it is the thrice-cursed Patriarchy pushing and prodding me, forcing me into bad decisions that have impacted my life in this most horrible manner.” Here, she closes her eyes and, with much reverence, makes the sign of the Holy Womb in the air. “My circumstance is not of my making. Girl howdy, was I happy when I figured that one out. Now I spend my days spreading the gospel and the teachings to any whom I encounter.”

Against such conviction one would be hard pressed to argue, I think, as I sip the bitter tea and ponder what the hell I am doing here in the first place. Some strange force compelled me into this darkly lit room, yet I can scarce understand it. It is not her room – that much is for certain – there is a certain air of… headquarters… floating around in here, scents of hustling and bustling… evidence of meetings… stains of strange liquids on the tablecloth and on the carpet… a sacrificial altar of sorts placed in a corner… soiled tampons strewn about the place… a strong smell of sweat… of body odour… a gust of decay… walls crumbling… broken windows mended with sanitary napkins… bloodstained dinner plates… S.C.U.M manifestos printed for cheap mass-consumption… gloom and doom… a meaningless search for meaning… a strong sensation of teenage activism… simplistic and naive… political know-it-all-ism… dogmatic explorations made to explain it all… religious undertones… pinned to the wall… crucified martyrdom… a lonely acceptance of vile submission… crumbling walls… crumbling narratives… clinging to myths as though they were true…

I thank her for the tea, grab the pamphlets and solemnly declare my intention to read them as I make ready to leave before more inhabitants of this foul cesspit arrive. She looks at me with eyes that do not see me, with eyes that see right through my skull and sees goodness knows what in my place: “You had better read them, fuckface!” Her whole demeanour changed in an instance. Where once was a sort-of, kind-of, distanced friendliness there is now only dishevelled madness. I assume she understood my intentions not to read the pamphlets. I assume the holy ghost of Dworkin inhabited her body for a split-second. I assume religious madness in place of reason. I assume many things, as I stumble backwards towards the door, never once losing eye-contact lest she stabs me in the back in a religious frenzy, driven by the certainty of her convictions and the quest for salvation, driven by a fanatical desire to cleanse the world of the unclean, unsaved, the ones who are not baptized in period-blood… the ones who have not accepted the light; the Dworkin, the Vulva and the Holy Womb.

*

We search for meaning and we think we find the answer.

These lives of ours is a great stumble and tumble towards the grave; a great wide chasm between birth and death that has to be filled with something. The eternal search for meaning is a confounding spectacle of weirdness. The meaning of life, I think, is not found. Nor is it meant to be found. It is permanently sought; life being more about the journey than any conclusion. Considering that the conclusion to life is death, which, in itself, makes little meaning, little sense, little of anything, there is little reason to keep searching for an answer to this age-old question. So pass the time with tiny tipsy trivialities instead, point to this and point to that to define and to explain something that is above and beyond explanation; always burying the fear of death and meaninglessness beneath layers of problems created to build an illusion of answers and of meaning. Then claim you have found the answer; that you have found meaning in that which is absurd and meaningless.

Life.

Consciousness.

Meaning.

Seeking answers in the meaningless is, quite literally, meaningless.

This is, obviously, not to say that one can not have meaning, goals and things of that nature in ones own life. Of course one can. To claim, however, that there is some overarching answer to the massive spectacle of life that is easily broken down into black/white good/evil and so forth and so on builds a fantasy upon which one can do little but point fingers and proclaim that all must live as oneself does and believe and act accordingly.

Humanity are, to my insomniac eyes, exemplary and fantastic in this regard, in this grand quest for answers where there is no meaning. For we are blessed with consciousness and curious curiosity, with an urge to seek and to explain the why, the what, the wherefore and whereto.

I consider this inquisitiveness, this curiosity to be one of the greatest traits of humanity. Don’t get me wrong.

The problem lies not in the ones who seek, but in the ones who claim to have the answer and, as such, the solution beyond any flicker of a doubt. People of that nature are so often blinded by their belief to such an extent that they do not consider other points of view. Minds that are shut down, that are closed forever to outside influence because they claim to have the one and only answer. As such, there is no need for further questions. In particular when their own convictions and beliefs are questioned. This is fanaticism 101. And a strong and determined stumble towards doom.

I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to make strong comparisons between religion and the victim-cult that is feminism. Other people, far more brilliant and insightful than myself, have made this claim already.

…And it is easy to see why.

Now, I would like to make it perfectly clear that this is not an attack on religion on my part. My issue lies not in what people personally believe. Nor does it lie with religion. My issue lies with people who demand that everyone who does not believe as they believe, who does not believe as fervently and blindly as they believe, must be forced to believe as they believe.

It all boils down to belief, as nothing these people state can be proven. And when disproven they still cling to their beliefs as though their beliefs are the only thing that brings any meaning or joy to their lives. As though their entire world would tumble and crumble were they to change their views. Or even question their views. In part, I suppose, this is because their entire identity is built around this one label, this one world-view in which the world is built upon smouldering ruins, ash and dust.

The bothering part of this way of thinking comes when people are so driven by their blindness that they aim to impose – with force – their meaning upon others. That they chose, willingly, to assault, harangue, harass and otherwise bully people into compliance, into conforming to their meaning, their path, their God and chosen destiny as though there is no other variables, no other path, no other meaning to be sought. People who claim to have all the answers are wilfully blind and should be stripped of their titles and their pride. They should be re-located to pig-farms or something of that nature, to leave the podium open to people who are humble enough to admit that they do not know with certainty, but they have an idea and would you please consider it, thank you very much.

Feminism is a secular religion.

It has its own canon of anointed saints. It has its own dogmas and rules and regulations. Its own scriptures and weird effigies. It has myths that will not die, despite being debunked time and again, despite being proven to be wrong. It is built around the belief that women are the chosen tribe, and that men are both God and the Devil; the ones responsible for all the evils of the world as well as being the ones meant to fix it all.

Women, in the eyes of feminism, are good for nothing but being slaves, permanently downtrodden and oppressed no matter what they do. And no matter what is done to ease the path women as a group walk through life, feminism will mumble and grumble and complain that it is not good enough. Because how could it be?

How can anything be good enough for the chosen tribe?

They are, after all, the chosen, and so they deserve anything, no matter how ridiculous. And it is men that must do for them, as men are God and the Devil. Women are but mere humans – an elevated tribe of humanity, perhaps, but human beings after all, no more capable or culpable than ants in an anthill. Whereas men are capable of all, and so must use this capability to ease the path women have to walk, poor wretches that they are. Women are, by the insistence of feminism, naught but humble servants, capable only of submitting to the actions of wicked men, hidden behind the obscenely obtuse God-Devil dichotomy that is the “patriarchy”. God works in mysterious ways, and so, even when doing good, it could be considered bad. And the Devil is a tempting and alluring son-of-a-bitch, and his temptations are difficult to resist for anyone, man or woman.

One need look no further than the words and deeds of feminism when faced with a woman so bold as to proclaim that she is in fact not oppressed, nor does she fear or detest men as a whole, to see the beast unveiled. They reach firmly and deeply into their bag of tricks to explain to her why she is wrong, that she is in fact oppressed and can not do what men can do, can not reach the heights that men reach for being held down for her gender and naught but her gender, so help me Dworkin! If she does not consider herself oppressed, feminism will do all that they can to make sure that she sees herself as oppressed. Even disregarding her lived experience, despite the importance feminism places upon lived experience, to disprove her. For feminism holds the answer.

And the answer to their wretched lives and inner turmoil is that they are not responsible for it. They carry the brunt and the burden of womanhood, which must be celebrated and detested in equal measure; which must be hoisted high above the gloomy reality of the world and must see no evil, hear no evil, feel no evil; which can do no evil, speak no evil and so forth and so on. It is the patriarchy making her believe she is not oppressed; that her choices and actions are her own and not those of the patriarchy. If she would only welcome the light of feminism into her heart and soul, she would see how oppressed she is. Her eyes will open to the realities of her slave-existence, and she will recoil in horror and let them baptize her in period-blood and see herself as one of the chosen tribe, put on earth to suffer such hardships at the hands of the patriarchy that she actually believe that her choices are her own and not driven by the nebulous hands of the Patriarchy, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-devouring that it is.

The devil made her do it, in other words.

And to repent for her sins, she must accept into her heart the shining light of feminism.

She must eat the cracker of communion baked with vaginal yeast; drink the period-blood of their saviour presented her and celebrate her vagina and her vulva and her womb as her own divinity and divine grace; her only saving grace, in fact.

Hell; they even have pussy-hats; a curiously non-obscene obscenity to wear as symbols of their tribe and truth and path and what-have-you. Just as a whole host of other religions wear headgear as a signifier of their faith.

Setting this female-centric and culturally dominant secular religion alongside the gynocentrism in our species – the biological reality that women are more important than men are for the continuation of the species – and you have yourself a secular religion driven as much by the primitive reptilian brain as it is by popular vote; that one must protect women – and children – above all, if this whole meaningless drivel of existence is to be driven forward. In protecting women the way that we tend to do, we accept and tolerate far more venom and vile and spite and wickedness from women than we do from men.

Feminism even goes so far as to insist that it is the other way around!

Because they do not live in reality, but in myths, legends, fairy-tales and fantasies. So, when feminism and its cohorts claim that men are all evil, all contributors to the nonsensical “rape-culture”, all guilty of oppressing women, we cave in and we apologize and we crawl on our bellies to beg forgiveness and swear to do all that we can to alleviate the burden of women. For a chance of procreation. Even if that means blatantly discriminating against men; even if that means blatantly hating and shaming all men for being men; even if that means placing all responsibilities on men for everything bad. And stripping men of the honour for anything good.

We do this, instead of calling it out for the bigoted, nonsensical, hateful and dishonest screech, vomit and noxious waste that it is. Because this society just hates women so-so-so much that we bow our heads and necks in silent submission and acceptance and allow this, that and the other from women which we would not tolerate from men. Because this society so hates women that we have allowed the female-centric cult of feminism to dominate the cultural narrative for the past sixty years or so; demanding all men apologize profusely and pave the road in front of women with rose-petals, gold and diamonds of the rarest and bloodiest sort.

And it is never good enough.

And the nonsensical screech never ends.

For now, the lines in front of women’s toilets are too long. And this is the fault of men. Blame men, then, blame the patriarchy, instead of spending less time on the toilet.

For now, the air-conditioning in office spaces are too cold for women, and this is the fault of men. Despite women’s dress-codes in these places allowing for far lighter and cooler clothing than the dress-codes do for men.

For now, in case of divorce, a proposed default 50/50 shared parenting is somehow a step back for women. This despite feminism claiming that mothers are the default winners of custody because of patriarchy hating women.

For now, women should not have to suffer imprisonment if they have committed heinous crimes. Men should still have to suffer this, of course.

For now, any accusation of rape must be believed at once and not investigated, thus removing the presumption of innocence, removing the need for evidence, removing due process.

For now, as it always have been, men are the only ones capable of domestic violence and as such men who are victims of domestic violence at the hands of women need no support and are given no support nor belief. This despite evidence quite clearly to the contrary presented time and again.

For now, women can not rape men.

For now, women are more often victims of violence than men are, despite the opposite being true.

And on.

And on.

And on.

And still they yammer on, lost endlessly within this perplexing maze of their own design, dimly lit clitoral corridors of self-assured weakness, frailty, insecurity and lack of personal agency clothed, for some peculiar and unbelievable reason, as strength in adversity! Feminism handcrafted a monstrous being; a beast of the apocalypse, hidden behind the ever-changing concept of equality.

And that is then: equal to whom, and equal how? For true equality in how our societies both view and treat the genders would most definitely be a step down for women. Feminism built this world in which they honestly believe that men are treated superior to women; they propose solutions to problems they themselves dreamt up in silent bedsits and boudoirs, egged on by a sensation that Me myself and I have suffered this, and someone else – namely men, namely God, namely the Devil, namely the patriarchy – must be to blame. Then demanding privilege – in the truest sense of the word, being: “private law” – for them being women and that is all there is to it.

Gripped by the religious fervour and blind submission to faith that one can only find in the most frightfully self-assured believers in myths and legends, in unproven and disproven claims that still persist, they still persist in claiming to hold the answer. And that answer is quite simple: we must do all we can to help women. With the other side of the coin of course stating that we need not help men. For men are both God and the Devil, not the chosen tribe, not even human. And in the midst of it all, in all the chaos and spectacle and noise and confusion, the question and the quest are both forgotten to those who claim to have the answer.

 – Moiret Allegiere, 29.06.2019

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We who fell from Grace/Alphabet-soup/Being but boys

Venlafaxine blues 1

Illustration: «Venlafaxine Blues», Moiret Allegiere, 2017

We, who so lovingly devolved and fell from grace; who longed to be devoured by the rush and the filth and the harshly whispered words…
who so quickly succumbed to illness, to tribal despotism and despair; who saw sudden surges of revenge pondered in school-yards a-flame…

…who so slowly broke down and fell apart on streets lined with gold…
who so openly announced our departure from our selves for all to hear…
who so honestly drank slow-burning ruination from chalices offered by silver-tongued Succubi speaking soft nothings in our ears…

who so truthfully believed belittling tattle-tales and nursery-rhymes, timid and scared and frozen in the headlights…
who so freakishly, annoyingly, self-devouringly swallowed the hook and line and sinker of preposterous tongue-tied dogmatism…
who so very much longed to prove our worthiness in shaded temples overrun by smog and asbestos by the light of her countenance…
who so dramatically disowned our inner-most being for the flicker of her shanty-town eyes and trash-heap domestication…
who so simple-mindedly tore our beating hearts from our chests through our throats and shattered jaws to present as tokens of our love…
who so lonely in nights beneath concrete-breasts, betwixt asphalt-thighs slick as weapons-grade plutonium, cursed ourselves just for being…
We, who so longed for love that we became a self-mutilating spectacle burning with desires deemed demonic, satanic, beast-like…
who so longed to be loved that we fell from our heads and minds and souls into caricatures resembling anything but ourselves…
who so believed the foul things we were told in classrooms steeped in ideology that our souls, our spirits, died by slight-of-hand suicide…
who so fell for the tranquil war-cry of dogmatic serpents, ideologically blinded by pins and needles, that we waged war upon ourselves…

We, who made ourselves disposable, expendable, throw-away-able..
who made necklaces from our own teeth and presented them as gifts…
who made solemn vows to never be the ones we were…
who made promises to sacrifice and to protect and to serve…

We, who were told we were – by our mere presence – dangerous…
who were told we were – by our very nature – fiends…
who were told we were – by testosterone itself – immature…
who were told we were – by birth – untrustworthy…

We, who were made to make amends for the sins of our fathers…
who were made to take a pledge of inferiority…
who were made to mimic serfdom from infancy…
who were stoned by popular vote…
who were put in laughingstocks for speaking up…
who were hung, drawn and quartered when we drew a line in the sand…

Where are we now?

…lost in opiate-daze, body-outlines drawn in charcoal upon streets of yesteryear, heads resting on pillows of impenetrable street-trash, sleeping rough beneath lonely midnight-clouds, being spat upon by passers-by whom we, in the prime of our youth, swore we should protect?

…lost in manic labyrinthine chores and demands with vision clouded by push-and-prod-and-pulls infinite, minds ensnared by senses of righteous indignation at the here-to, here-now, come-here-boy, slaving away at the rat-race in indebted servitude to make amends for the sins of our fathers?

…lost sleepless between lead-sheets where our groins are slowly eaten away by bedbugs crawling through our shameful erections, working to do what the constant buzz and drone and hum of puerile, infantile, prepubescent publications tell us that we must do in order to be men?

…lost in fulfilling a barrage of incoherent societal demands levied at us for being us; a disastrous crack-haven voice calling for our responsibilities, our self-sacrifice, for us to do better and to be better so that women and children shall be safe and free and be safe to be free and be free to be safe?

…from us…

…lost in alleyways, brutally beaten and kicked to the curb, shot between the eyes and mugged, robbed, ripped apart by violence gratuitous and grandiose, crawling our way through broken bottles and puddles of piss to be told, at the end of the line, that we must end violence against women?

…lost between the spread legs of time, shadows floating by, unseen and unheard, unnoticed and unwanted, vague bodies crippled from stress and melting minds, double-narratives told constantly, double standards imposed upon us, heart, soul, mind, body now lost in time and space?

Where are we now?

…free-falling with arms flailing impotently into some dread future-scape, numbed by cogwheels ticking away, by machinery, by mechanical contraptions brutally burying into our skin and bones, our skulls and minds, our hearts and souls.

…free-falling with temperaments doomed to die, with judgements passed on the monstrous cock, the savage balls, the passage of time from mirrors mirroring history viewed through period-blood, menstruated heavily from high-and-mighty academes who never once tasted truth.

…free-falling into delirious neglect from a society whose whispers maniacally conjure grins and glee toxic and nauseous through perpetual lies and misrepresentations, through hit-pieces a-plenty and the everlasting tide of self-assured cock-shamed shaming of the cock.

…free-falling maddeningly into spirals of deceit where once stood truth atop the shoulders of giants, now ground into spastic broken shards of glass doubtlessly preaching dubious equality handcrafted marvellously from uncertain rustling behind the shower curtains.

…free-falling, lambasted and ridiculed for standing up where once we fell down, delving ever deeper into the solemn solitude of cathedrals erected to honour the death of potent masculinity; the culling of young minds seeing young boys led to the slaughter viciously, maliciously.

…free-falling into chemical castrations; blood and chalk on blackboards coveted by legions of pedagogues armed with orthodox new-truth, pale and pasteurized, homogenized and swollen with lies of a dogmatic nature, dominatrix school-mistress with fell venomous fangs.

We, whose wings were cut, whose fangs were pulled, whose claws were trimmed…
we, whose thoughts were silenced, whose tongues were amputated, whose throats were slit…
we, whose heroism was dubbed toxicity, whose playful banter was labelled hateful, whose sexuality was considered primitive at best…

We of the conveniently neutered generation,
of the conventionally tortured generation,
of the chronically tormented generation…

Who are we now?

…A generation of boys and young men shamed into silence, into servitude, into self-flagellating microcosm misanthropy aimed squarely at our sex and gender…
…A generation of boys and young men whipped into the deserts and the tundra to be food for the vultures and the buzzards and the demons; to feed the roar of the moving dunes, like waves…
…A generation of boys and young men lost within the manifested reality of grim-faced bespectacled poet laureates of fame and befuddled fortune in feudal-systems crafted from narrative convenience in academic stupidity…
…A generation of boys and young men ripped from the arms of their fathers and thrown into dungeons to suffer and then be crushed beneath the weight of the wickedness of the world…
…A generation of boys and young men scarred from a thousand strokes of the whip; the cat of nine tails poignantly expressing the societal dissolution of our very nature…
…A generation of boys and young men being told that they are at fault for the demons in the wilderness, the ghosts at the door, the past, present and future atrocities of humanity…
…A generation of boys and young men who never witnessed the rod being spared; who were spoilt with the tongue-lashings of a million studiously inept traumatized graduate students of brainwashed notoriety…
…A generation of boys and young men lost within the vortex of a de-constructed society, within whose arms and upon whose bosom we were never wanted, wished or welcomed…
…A generation of boys and young men who have been socialized into sacrifice, who have had their sexuality scrutinized, their essence demonized, their eyelids sewn shut with barbed wire…
…A generation of boys and young men raised into self-loathing and cold despair, losing ridiculous societal games by their mere presence considered harmful to all within line of sight…

And we were promised that our problems also mattered.
And we were promised that all should be treated equally under the sun.
And we were promised, were we only to open up, we would be saved.

And we were told the problems of boys and men were of their own making.
And we were told the problems of girls and women were also of men’s making.

…then we were told that boys and men have no problems, but that we are boys and men.
…then we were told to shut up…
…then we were told that we were the problem.

…then we became the problem…

*

Agencies devoid of reason chase us out of bed in stone-cold mornings.

Belated birthday-wishes for the dream that was the child within,
Choked out at the corner of bedlam and squalor,
Delirious and dripping with fright-night splendour,
Eternally seeking empathetic connections – salvation through society.

Fear being what they taught us in our ruptured barnyard-schools,
Gullible as only small children could be,
Hated and shamed for nothing but our crucified cocks,
Illuminated by the rudimentary petticoat-philosophy of nincompoops.

Jealousy reigned supreme in the bloodshot eyes of low-gear thinkers;
KKK-lynchings emulated in child’s play: boys are inferior.

Lying is the path towards miss-understanding,
Maddeningly hiding truth for sake of ideological convenience.

None who speak truth live long to tell the tale;
Only death await those who dare defend the masculine –
Painting perverse, obscene portraits of we who fell from grace –
Quiet, quaint, devilishly innocent political “truth-seekers”,
Raped by sourced evidence and facts to the contrary,
Silencing us as we advance ever more; crossing the borders of obscurity.

To tear the blindfold away from the inebriated waste-face of society,
Understand that society need to know more than lies and slander.

Vile assaults on men, on boys, on masculinity called us out to war.

We will win through persistence this war of nuclear attrition,
Xeroxed and force-fed to our gutless, gullible generation;
Young and old are all the same, tranquillized and mindless,
Zombiefied by rigorous academic intellectual insanity.

*

Being but boys, we lived vivid summer-evenings entranced in woodland playtime, running wild and free through trees infested with trials and tribulations for us to conquer…
…being but boys, we slew monsters and crossed paths with gods in never-ending summer days where we dazed about in frantic free-form imagination, hopelessly devoted to expressive life and love…
…being but boys, we grabbed every minute, every moment, and shook it endlessly, heedless of time passing through us, ecstatic, burning internally with wild warlock energy…
…being but boys, we stomped the ground beneath our feet until it turned to mud, conquering horrifying demons and fears and sweating like mad, hungry, powerful beasts…
…being but boys, we were shamans and warriors, magnificent playwrights of our own shared destinies, found in the holiest of holies, the inner sanctum of boyhood imagination…
…being but boys, we danced to tunes only we could hear in the soft, warm, murmuring summer air, breathlessly entangled and ensnared in lifesaving, life-affirming explosions of joy…
…being but boys, we were unhinged, burning with rebellion, with piss and vinegar, with breaking the cataclysmic chains that tied us to the daily drudgery of routines like superstition…
…being but boys, we evolved and we grew and we came to be young men, affirmed through fear-mongering parasites in burnt-out messianic lectures at school to be viciousness and lust and rage and ruin…

…being but young men, we were thrown overboard, cast adrift, to float face-down in lost mid-summer dreams where hopelessness gripped our throats as saltwater filled our lungs…
…being but young men, we succumbed to the allure of life-denial, taught haphazardly with veiled words sung from irrational gurus atop pinnacles of forced chemical castrations…
…being but young men, we saw our heads stomped by tender feet preaching liturgies of our foul wickedness through tyranny clothed in excruciating religious fanaticism…
…being but young men, we were made to rebel against our selves in days and nights of self-flagellating dishonesty, disrobing our masculinity to cleanse the palates of tin-foil-hat dictators…
…being but young men, we were made to break the supposed mould of maleness imposed upon us by our tyrannical forefathers, whose words and deeds should trickle down from history and manifest in us as shame…
…being but young men, we were shame incarnate, rebuilt, reborn from aeons of historical dust and mist and mud, disgusting swine of society dribbling with glee at every lash of the whip across our backs…
…being but young men, we fell into despair and never uttered a word in opposition to clinical insanity reigning supreme in miraculous lamplight-plays of smoke and mirrors…
…being but young men, we were castigated, ridiculed and shamed, laid in chains and iron and led towards torture-chambers to be confronted with, to admit to, our sins and seek repentance through pain…

And we saw, as men, our friends fall into catatonic states of unbridled drug-abuse, chained to the bottle and the needle as time wore on and wore them down.

And we saw, as men, the falling-out of our sanity linked to pre-programmed academes interrupting the heartbreak with lectures plentiful of shame and neglect.

And we saw, as men, broken and beaten and crushed by the weight of all our sins, God pass by in miniscule whimpers to lead some other stranger to some other far-away land.

And we saw, as men, summer floating into winter, permanently frost-bitten and trembling with hypothermia and repressed rage, our selves blow chunks of brain across living-room walls and floors.

And we saw, as men, suicidal ideation taking the place in our minds where once we used to stomp the ground to mud, where once we used to laugh to our hearts content.

And we saw, as men, our own deaths mirrored in the eyes of society shining with self-assured mockery and overambitious celebration at the death of we, of us, being nothing but men.

And we saw, as men, a world which passed us by and flew above our heads, daring us to reach out and touch its wings and tender beak, to seek its nurture and its love and compassion and fail, for it to mock and laugh…

And we saw, as men, the dawn of our demise where we were drowned in monsoon-rain, choked by moonlight, thrown from the cliffs onto the lashing, crashing, smothering waves below…

And we saw, as men, our friends and then ourselves checking out and longing for release and, after quick snack-breaks in rudimentary ghettos, finding solace in dropping out…

Where are we now?

No longer lost.
No longer losing.

No further fall from grace.
No further need for grace.

No more mindless dogmatic self-flagellation.
No more mindless pilgrimages of redemption.

No more swollen tongues from shutting up.
No more swollen chests from having to prove our worthiness.

We were mockingly proven to be unwanted, unneeded, unnecessary.
We were mockingly proven to be lecherous, treacherous, syphilitic.

We were told we were violence incarnate; anti-Christ resurgence, war, pestilence, famine and death in one neat package of toxic testosterone and vicious venomous boners.

So that now, to still the beating of your hearts; we’ll stand repeating:
There is no balm in Gilead;
and we who fell from grace
shall play this game
ah
nevermore.

 

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– Moiret Allegiere, 22.06.2019

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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.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 15.06.2019

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The Child Within

Limited exposure lowres

Illustration: «Limited Exposure», Moiret Allegiere, 2019

 

There is, I think, a distinction needed to be made between being childish and being child-like. Childish behaviour in an adult, be that adult male or female, is not a good thing. Throwing tantrums when one does not get ones way is not an admirable trait in someone who is, supposedly, an adult human being. This goes for tantrums thrown when someone is merely disagreeing with a point of view, or offering some contradictory perspective as well. Good examples of this is, as one would expect, feminist and social justice warrior protesters, activists and their ilk. You can video evidence of this behaviour just about everywhere on YouTube – petulant and whiny six years old children trapped within the body of an adult. Male or female. It does not matter.

Children are sociopaths, you know. They need to be taught, they need to learn, how to empathize properly, how to see and consider something from someone else’s point of view. How to view other people as human beings of equal worth – and thusly – equally entitled to their opinion, to voice their opinion and to disagree where ever they may disagree. This is not to say that all opinions are of equal merit. Everyone should, no matter their opinion, have the undeniable right to voice their opinion. Without being assaulted for it, or denied the ability to speak.

Not accepting and understanding that other people have differing opinions, throwing temper-tantrums more befitting a child and calling for banishment to the land of ghosts and shadows all who have opinions different to ones own is childish and narcissistic behaviour. The behaviours of the supposedly woke tribe is like watching a kindergarten full of spoilt children whose parents have not done their job properly fighting over who gets to use the most popular toy during playtime. These kindergarten fights can get messy.

I used to work in a kindergarten, once upon a time. And though I never did see any fights breaking out between the entirety of the children there, there were quite a few fights breaking out between small groups of children, all reaching for the same toy, and all completely incapable of understanding that the other children also had needs and wants. Usually, this is something they learned quickly, as children are known to do, given proper guidance. When not given proper guidance, but being treated as though their shit don’t stink and subjected to doting, overprotective parents who are incapable of understanding themselves that their child can do wrong, the child never learns. And so, the child does not grow up. Not as such. And when the child does not grow up in temperament, the grown up acts like a spoiled child when his or hers needs are not immediately met.

This, I would dare say, is being childish.

And this behaviour is being celebrated as some sort of strength and virtue by mainstream media; these whiny children put upon a pedestal for all to marvel and gawk at their supposed strength in supposedly speaking truth to power. Here come the age of selfish, spoilt and childish entitlement from grown-ups who should, by all reason and logic, know better and act better.

Then there is being child-like. Keeping in touch with the inner child, being able to gaze at and marvel at the wonders of the world still; keeping an inquisitive nature alive and well, seeking answers to myriad questions. Being playful, joking, whimsical and witty, spontaneous and bursting with life.

By and large, it seems very clear to me that men as a whole tend to never lose touch with the child within. This is not acting like a child by any means, but keeping that sense of wonder, of curiosity and of playful exploration an integral part of ones life for the entirety of ones life.

I think it is safe to suggest that this could easily explain – at least in part – the fascination for, and love of, model trains and cars and planes and things of that nature exhibited by so many men. The same could easily be used to explain playing video games as well, by and large a very male-dominated hobby. It should be stated that this is just speculation on my part. What would you expect, from something that is merely the ramblings of a basement-dwelling, neckbearded, fedora wearing fringe lunatic such as myself?

The importance of keeping in touch with this inner child is something that can not be underestimated. There is a spark and lust for life found in that inner child so beautiful and magnificent that I would almost dare call it magical. It is a fantastic dance, where the child within is given free reign and is allowed to come out and play when it wishes to do so. This “playtime” of the inner child could potentially manifest in myriad practical and theoretical ways. It is not limited to model trains, cars, video games and things of that nature. The creation of art, for instance. Or philosophical musings on the nature of life, the universe and everything. There is a harvesting done of that inner child in the minds and hearts of great artists and of scientists alike; the exploration and adventure of the world done by the actions of an adult through the guiding hand of an inquisitive child, wondering what will happen if this object is taken apart and put back together again. Time and again. It is the quaint and curious, adventurous and exploratory nature of childhood potential focused by an adult mind through adult discipline into astonishing works of art and literature, into perplexing discoveries regarding the nature of humanity and the world at large.

When that inner child dies, or is killed through some unforeseen event, the man himself dies a slow death of a thousand cuts. He may not be dead on the outside, but he is sure as hell dead on the inside. The inquisitiveness, the playfulness, the adventurous and spontaneous nature at his core is stripped away, leaving nothing but a grumpy old man in its wake. A grumpy old man who has forgotten how to live, and as a result, how to love. Be that to love himself, or to love someone else. When all that is left is the serious, the material, the drudgery of work and monotony of everyday life; when that spark of childlike wonder and whimsy is stripped away from his being, life becomes not life, but merely existence. And there is nothing more hopeless and desperate than someone who is not living, someone who is merely existing in their own little segregated bubble of time dubbed “life”, wading to and fro at someone else’s beck and call and living someone else’s wishes for lack of their own fulfilment.

That death of the inner child may come as a result of both internal and external pressures and happenings. Tragedy is inflicted either way, no matter the cause and the reason for it. Strip away, or neglect, the inner child and all you have left is a lump of flesh acting on automation; mechanical, synthetic, going through the motions and not feeling much of anything but a slow dissatisfaction eating at a man bit by bit, day by day, minute by minute.

And therein is the crux of the issue: there is this expectation that, whenever a man settles down to raise a family, he is expected to give up anything he ever enjoyed in order to focus solely and squarely on his family and their needs. That all hobbies must be ended and all child-like glee over this or that be robbed from him for he now needs to grow up, take responsibility, and that is all he needs to do. Go from point A to point B – go to work, protect, provide, and that is that.

Now, I absolutely think it is important that children and the whole of the family must take priority in the life of any parent, be that a mother or a father, if the decision is there to raise a family. There is little doubt about this. This should not then translate into the man giving up everything that ever gave the man joy in his spare time. There is less time for it, this is true and obvious. But to give it up completely seems a harsh punishment for raising a family.

I belong to the generation where video games became a de facto norm. Growing up, every single boy I knew played video games. Most of them grew up to be men who still play video games, as did I. Over the course of time, I can not help but notice a trend in relationships of this generation, where the woman demands the man quit his hobby of video games for the simple reason that “grown men have better things to do than play video games.” This quote is verbatim something I saw written on a Facebook post by a woman who gloated over the fact that she finally made her fiancée sell his gaming consoles. There was much cheers and applause from the inhabitants of social media at this display of coercive control within the relationship. Were it a man gloating over something similar, in a similar manner, you can bet your colonoscopy-bag and wrinkled scrotum that there would not be much cheering and applauding. Quite the contrary.

According to her, he had better things to do with his life and his time. I assume those better things were focusing all his attention on her and her alone. It is, one must understand, absolutely horrid that a grown man should have any hobby outside of a relationship that does not revolve around her. It is also absolutely incredible that women are so bold-faced as to assert to know better than men what men should do with their own free time. Men don’t get to decide what they do with their time. Women get to decide that. That is fair and equal in a relationship, dont’cha know.

Anecdotal as it may very well be, I also have stories of men having to sell their much loved hi-fi system because the woman in the relationship felt that it took up too much space and were too ugly to have in the living room of his house which she moved into. The same goes for collection of records, cassette-tapes, and all and any manner of small bits and bobs that tend to make up men’s hobbies or interests, object-focused as men tend to be.

Enough of this happening results in the inevitable death of the child within, by a thousand small cuts. Every man is expected to drop everything if his woman demands it. And this is not considered coercive. This is not considered controlling. This is not considered abusive. It is cheered on and celebrated as some sort of strength exhibited by the woman. Men must grow up, and in growing up men must drop anything and everything that used to give them joy, to focus their attention on her and her alone. Under the pretence that it is focusing on their relationship and their relationship only. Clearly, I am speaking in general terms. Not all women act like this. Society, by and large, do celebrate and condone this kind of behaviour from women, to such an extent that is not only taken for granted, but also expected, that a man shall give so she shall receive whatever she may wish. Even when it results in the death of his inner child – that is, his playful nature, his essence and his core.

My own inner child was killed some years back. Not by external forces, but by internal forces caused by an absolutely horrible psychotic break from reality that saw my very being ripped apart. I spent more than a year in this horrible state of complete complex confusion, suffering an inability to find joy in anything. Even things that used to bring me great joy brought me nothing. All there was that used to be me was an empty, hollow shell that saw absolutely nothing but the inevitable end of the line when gazing at life. There was nothing to be gained from the future but death, so why bother? Had it not been for my art slowly, but surely, resurrecting that inner child, I fear that I should still be lost in that horrible witching hour, that gloomy, dreadful, horrendous state of being where there were nothing but being, but existing, widdling away the time and the days until life finally left me and I died physically, not only metaphysically.

That state of being is not something I would wish on anyone – so hollow, so empty, so devoid of absolutely anything that nihilism, in comparison, would be the most fantastic set of complex beliefs.

Now, the child within is awakening yet again, to such an extent that I find myself perplexed by the beauty of the potted plants growing on my balcony. I can stand looking at the flowers for quite some time, marvelling at the stunning display of colours, how it grows from seed to flower, and all that romantic jazz.

In these strangely corroded societies which we inhabit, where all things generally thought to be masculine is, somehow, considered to be of lesser worth – if not straight up dangerous – when compared to things generally thought to be feminine, it is not uncommon to see and hear and feel the winds blowing around our broken bodies and mangled flesh.

The voices on the wind whispering, in soft tongues tainted with spite and bile, that men who partake in video games, who find joy in things that are – by popular decree – considered childish, immature, silly or stupid…

…that men who play around, who joke, who are spontaneous and find joy in the present moment, marvelling at some small and – perhaps – insignificant happening in the world immediately around them…

that men who do not hide, who do not shame and chide and beat the child within to within an inch of its life, are somehow immature, are somehow doing nothing but shirking and avoiding the responsibilities that come with adult life. The thought that it is, not only possible, but maybe necessary, to balance the child within, the gleeful wondering, wide-eyed and marvelling child within, with the responsibilities and duties of adult life seems to be too far-fetched to grasp for those who are not in touch with the inner child.

There is a constant current of shame where men and the interests and hobbies of men are concerned running through the crack-house-streets of our societies. All things, interests and hobbies considered masculine must be shamed, or at the very least looked down at, if begrudgingly accepted. It is interesting to note also, of course, that if a woman should find interest in these things and hobbies traditionally masculine, she is often given media-coverage and praised to high heavens, for some reason. It is not unusual to stumble upon an interview or twelve with women that chose to spend time and money on a male-dominated hobby. A hobby that adult men are usually shamed for partaking in. Take this for what it is. I will absolutely admit that this might be a case of confirmation bias on my part.

To me, at any rate, no matter the howling of the winds and the whispers, the screeches, the careless glee exhibited in shaming the so-called immature hobbies of men, the petulant piss-take claiming men just wanting to shave away responsibilities and obligations of adulthood… it should not matter.

When masculinity is constantly shamed and merely being a man is enough to not be allowed to partake in certain discussions by the frantic forces of infantile mobs claiming justice and equality, it should not matter.

No matter the winds and tides and currents and ever-evolving psychosis of cultural decay and destruction.

No matter the shame and the blame and the nonsensical demands to give up this and to give up that.

No matter the forces pushing for dissolution and eradication of masculinity; the forces wanting to keep men browbeaten and subservient, shamed and silenced for the crime of being men.

No matter.

The child within is still present, self-contained enough to not give a flying fuck, self-aware enough to not stop marvelling and gazing at the pure bliss of the present moment, of the never-ending playtime of the soul.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 08.06.2019

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Limited not to escape:

Lonely parkbench blues lowres

Illustration: «Lonely parkbench blues», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

Limited not to escape are these dreams of complete liberty. Free-form expressions are denied by hands twisting and churning in feigned anguish, whose mere presence do nothing but waste time over disagreements regarding words judged to be not suitable for use by any but the twisters of hands themselves.

Aghast with sudden pain and thought-pattern-demise and blinking in the bright light of imprisonment, this sheltered spiritual decay of ours cry out in harmonious whispered whimpers, labelling as forces of liberty the same forces that lock the cage, that throw away the key.

Painting with broad strokes across the trembling sky, in black ink resembling soot and smog, a grand unifying manifesto calling the unburdened masses to arms, to fight, to feud, to fracture and dissolve what is, was and always have been through clinically insane trials of men whose only spoken crime is being men.

This manifesto adorn the walls and wails of bedsit-boudoirs under which roof sit fancy-free conformists claiming nonconformity, establishment pawns supposedly pawning the establishment, bound by unparalleled duty to spread the words and deeds and unthinking hate of this new morning of our mourning; a mutually assured suicide on part of both man and woman, on part of the feminine and masculine. Shaded, mumbled, jumbled, words thrown to the plasticine walls of society in a quest for sovereign ownership of the word and words hidden in and around the irrefutable, yet never understood term “equality”.

Smog-induced brain-fever is freely available, delivered with state-sanctioned gratification, with diaphragms vibrating with smug, superior glee. Dutiful neglect of responsibility. It was we who burnt the seas, who scorched the forest to spite the trees, who brought the mirage to the forefront, you see, thus removing any sense of truth and of justice and of liberty for all. Liberty is a pipe-bomb-dream, a long sought and forgotten treasure, a fragment of ages past standing in the way of this new sharp and shining razor-blade utopia.

To speak in tongues and gargled pseudo-intellectual cabbage-talk is divinity. Exhaustion and anxiety now revered by fragile nimble fingers seeking something to do. Drained by her sudden swollen body-odour and shaving her tongue with whiplash-cream, she turns to the camera obscura, proudly proposing personal hygiene to be a patriarchal conspiracy. It is her freedom to be just as fat, sloppy, stupid, sweaty, disgusting as men are.

Muttered words of some hardship or other spread like winged slimy eels beneath the slutwalk-moon and iron skies within this shallow and ridiculous opium-dream of hers. She thinks in terms of his and hers. Yet, surely, surely, surely, his and hers do not exist as anything but societal distractions from the radiant core, the essence that is all of humanity; the blank slate onto which all obnoxious behaviour on part of men is poured, all wondrous behaviour on part of women dripped and dribbled?

What, then, pray tell, is the doom and subsequent judgement of man? To be fat, sloppy, stupid, sweaty and disgusting? To have these shambled cornerstones of voluptuous ideology poured into our ears to ease the suffering and lamentation of the women, upon whose backs the chores and chains of the world left their mark as charred scars of some half-digested slavery?

Slavery making it so that she, now, carried on wings of affluent emotional labour, may soar like a vacuous eagle into the thin night of maladaptive malcontent. For her beak to spread this vile infection, this bubonic plague through spittle draining from her canker-sore eyes into the hearts and guts and golden cocks of men, onto these flat-chested streets paved with gold and oppressive affronts through words and deeds not proper etiquette in the presence of a lady such as herself.

Our illusion of liberty lying sprawled on the ground in some mockery of Christ, one thinks; crucified to die for our sins of masculinity and be buried in the gelatinous blob of intersectional feminism, transcendent academia throwing shade on history and on truth and on culture and on beauty.

Limited not to dreams of cowardly escape are these dreams of freedom and of liberty – to be allowed to speak and utter sentences and structured thoughts that go against the grain, the dominant cultural narrative of these decadent decades of socially engineered gender-blueprint-nonsense. This without the vile and violent milkshake-assaults from haggard street-thugs, soft and frail and weak and meek in the media limelight painting the assaulter as the assaulted, thusly blaming the victim and celebrating the victimizer, with no clarity of vision, focus, truth or sense of reason. Poor victims; fighting the establishment when the establishment is on their side. Detached from reality, pandered too and pampered still, delusions somehow given credence in this poorly painted plagiarized society of ours.

Should these labourers of self-induced coma ever harbour thoughts of more substance and more sense than grandiose hedonistic whispers of affront from some imagined ailment of the sexual interplay, I fear their caged minds would rupture and their spinal fluid leak out through their flaring nostrils.

The twitterati tweet and twatter with all the obscene and obfuscated flirt and flutter of a brilliant raven, perched atop the flaccid bust of a moral high horse just above their chamber door, speaking words that make less sense than “never-nevermore”.

Succulent whimpers from infant-like adults veiled as brave and heroic calls for censorship of hate-speech and thought-and-syllable-and-breath-hate abound in this spectacularly grim shell-shocked utopia. All hate-speech controlled by an unparalleled unified singularity; a cosmological universality deemed singularity by the chosen frozen few who consider it absurd that their calls to kill all men should be considered hateful speech and conduct, not proposed equality in luscious bullshit-peddling. Snake-oil is what it is, was and always will be. A fantastic cure for any and all, no matter the functionality of the thing. It is piss. Piss and ink. Call it what it is, and carry the fuck on.

Freedom does not equal freedom in the minds of so-called freedom fighters fighting for fragile freedom to be free from their own self-imposed frail fragility, bottled by operatic, dramatic, coagulated upper-middle-class snobs as heroic bravery. It equals freedom for them and theirs and their ideological equals, not for the likes of me and you and they and them who dare to disagree with the pussywillow-masses, shaking profusely and profoundly in glass-shoes and silk undergarments, donning battle-helmets of pink pussy-lips so empowering and fantastic; reducing women to their vulva, their vagina, their urinary tract infection and fungal-coated thighs and Venus fly-trap charm. Courage is being weak no matter what. Weakness is being courageous no matter what.

Are there any vaginas in the room?”, she says, to jaundiced cheers and mindless glee and thunderous applause. “Are there any vagina-friendly men in the room?” she carries on, to the same mind-numbing hum-drum, banal as only a room full of drools and dribbles may be; then complain that men reduce women to their vaginas, then complain about objectification, even when referring to women in a room full of women as “vaginas”. Woe unto the weirdness of it all. This is the age of instantaneous insanity, of moral decay through decadence and hedonism; we have it so good that we must have it bad. We have it so good that all must be bad, and we are bored and we are dull and we are nothing but a snake-pit floating out to see, sinking to the bottom, not realising that the only thing we need to do to stay alive is stay afloat. Or, perhaps, perchance, ride the currents of life and calm the fuck down for a moment or two.

Criticism is not tolerated by the equality-brigade, whose understanding of equality is not equality as one should think it is, but equality for those who are of equal opinion as the equality-brigade, engineering equality in equal measures to the equal opportunity destruction of society. All speech to the contrary of their definition of equality is akin to the clenched fist of a neo-nazi Obersturmbannführer wishing each and all a grand day and a free speech, thank you very much. A Nazi, a fascist, a true scum-fuck, is anyone who wishes that everyone should be allowed to speak and to listen. Whilst the true liberal view of liberty and truth and justice for all is the denial of the right to speak and listen for those who do not think as the equality-brigade and their vacuum-cleansed sense think. Hell hath no fury as a feminist scorned by someone disagreeing in a civil manner.

It is so painful, this lack of diverse thought in the dawning of our age of diversity; a clouded muddled mind shared by thousands upon thousands, the same thoughts and meaning and feeling and sensation, a shared experience, mutual as mutual may be, sound of mind and sound of heart and sound of body, yet hard of hearing, hard of seeing, hard of thinking anything but the buzz of the hive, the drudgery of the colony the beep and bloop of the collective.

This present-era diversity is doubtlessly good. As long as the immediate knee-jerk reaction of the eyeballs see representations of women and minorities, the rest do not matter. A superficial brilliant diversity in this dawning of diversity, diversified in appearance but not in thought by the might and power and influence of clawhammer-feminism, whose wisdom veiled the truth behind incoherent moutwash-gibberish, exposing cleft palates of distinguished beauty within their salty attack-wombs and sagging choke-hazard breasts.

This present-era hypocrisy is doubtlessly of the good and for the good. As long as no-one speaks out in disagreement against the salty brigades or the bonesaw-brutality of their rhetoric, dripping with venom re-named champagne, all shall be well and all shall be good and all shall praise the miraculous coming of the Christess from beyond the slutwalk-moon, from beyond the iron-labia sky, whose reign on this earth shall be the best and also the last, the finale, the end.

There is more at play and more at stake than anyone could have guessed. There is no path nor plan nor ploy nor play more distinguished in their brilliant stupidity than this force now sweeping across the world in a fantastically morbid dance.

This assault on basic liberties – to speak, to think, to express oneself – somehow wormed and wiggled and sucked enough cock to get all the way to the top of the elusive pyramid-hierarchy. A trail of dust and broken shields behind. Free speech is hate-speech. Thusly, hate-speech is not free speech. And those who control the language control the world. Those who control speech control thoughts, control patterns of behaviour, control the domesticated primates in their cages, in their cosy comfort-zone never seen as cages. Now repeat after me: I am free. Must be free. I can not see the bars and chains, now can I? Nor can I see the door closing shut, the roof falling in, the walls closing in around me. Individual freedom dies slowly. Bit by bit. So slow, that we do not see it go.

Limited not to escape is this dream of freedom; of emancipation from tyranny. To wish all and one the same freedoms as one wishes for oneself is the basic humanitarian approach. Not to curtail someone else’s freedom to elevate ones own, but to allow for the possibility that people dance to different tunes, and tread different paths than oneself, and that this truly is no problem, no matter how vehemently one might disagree. That this is cause for celebration: the diversity of ideas and of opinion; the battlefield upon which they are tested and tried and trialled.

In this evening of our society, this autumn of our civilization, a boot is stomping on a human face, forever. And the ones who are doing the stomping cry to the ones who are being stomped that they are oppressing the boot and foot with their face and head. The face and the head is denying the boot access to the ground, you see. And so the boot must stomp harder, the face be more pliable.

People do not think. people react. people do not consider. people act. Immediately, without pause, without glances, without second chances, without consideration for the fact that denying someone the right to express their views for fear of hate or fear of hurt feelings does not reflect kindly upon those who wish to suppress the basic liberty of speech and thought and expression of someone else. And who defines hate, and who defines truth, and who defines sanity in our mass-deceived societies? To the victor go the spoils.

People do not think further than the tips of their noses; do not have the self-awareness and introspective power to realize that they might be wrong. That these calls for the limitation of speech and expression should never hit them in the backs of their heads or in their drooling moron-mouths for they – they – they themselves are never in the wrong; self-obsessed and vain modern-era narcissists are they; gazing in the mirror admiring their own beauty, gazing at their mind-mirrors and marvelling at the beauty grasped from minds and thoughts that never stray from the trodden path, the accepted path of societal discourse where white men are bad, women are good, and minorities are stomped under the heel of the ever-affluent patriarchy, sometimes known as the kyriarchy, omni-present and elusive as fog, as mist, as smoke and mirrors.

Always present, yet never seen or pointed to as something concrete. Just a vague rumour, a susurrus, a rustling of the leaves and breeches of highly offended maidens of integrity and honour.

This patriarchy, who honours men and dishonours women, who elevates men and oppress women, is the same patriarchy that allows for calls to kill all men; that allows any critique of any women saying that all men should be killed to be labelled as hatred of women. For wanting to kill all men is not hate-speech. Attacking the harpies who shout from pedestals of translucent morality that all men should be killed is hate-speech. Under the reign and thumb and crushing weight of the cock and balls of the patriarchy, women shall never be criticized no matter what they say. And men shall have no say in any matter, no matter the matter at hand. This patriarchy who absolutely hates women, this society in which women are treated so poorly, allows for a movement for women and women only to speak on behalf of women and men as genders and as sexes, simultaneously denying a movement for men to speak on behalf of men.

You kerfluffled yet?

Limited not to escape from society is this dream of freedom. It is a dream of values and responsibilities. A future shared in co-operation, where diversity of thought and of opinion is valued, not diversity of shallow superficial traits. Where thoughts and thinking and ideas hold more sway than sex, than gender, than racial traits and characteristics. Where people are judged on the content of their character, not on the colour of their skin or the lack of a cunt between their legs.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 05.06.2019

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