My Generation Killed Rock’N’Roll:

As my fedora gently weeps lowres

Illustration: «As my Fedora Gently Weeps», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

We are a generation lost, choking on our own fumes of self-righteous indignation egged on by dishonest academic coprophilia. Come past, come present, come future, we will all be forced to eat shit and then die, harnessed to our safety-bubbles and lost within the great wide world-void without a safety net. Cerebral coprophilia.

Where once we used to taste and thrive on danger – what could be considered dangerous – rebellion and wild vulgarity, rock’n’roll and free expression – we now thrive on telling others what they may or may not speak and how they should go about doing so. Or not doing so.

Where once we used to laugh and crack whiplash-jokes at just about anything, we are now so inoculated that our mediocre playtime schools tell us nothing of substance for fear of triggering the trigger-happy woke hipster squad armed with muscle-loss rifles. Pow pow pow.

We are the generation of South Park and gross-out humour. And we can’t stand anything offensive. It boggles the mind and shakes the spinal fluid out my nose and ears. If anything, we should be so used to wild kicks in all directions that nothing would phase us. But the loonies have taken over the asylum. They have overrun our institutions and turned them on their head very much over heels – wondrous institutions of higher indoctrination into the victim cult of burnt offerings – neck scarred by failed lynchings – free-form ideas replaced with cancerous tumours. We no longer seek to understand or heal through laughter and through humour. We seek to heal through trapping ourselves within a cage and throwing away the key. Demanding anything we don’t like be thrown out of society and beaten to a bloody pulp by those who are supposedly opposed to violence. Mad wild-beast-hysteria, mirroring those who protested rock’n’roll, who decided that Dungeons and Dragons was a pathway to satanism, who blamed Alice Cooper for murders and claimed Marilyn Manson as the reason for school-shootings and massacres.

Masculinity is taught in schools to be a dangerous ideology, through years of unchecked auto-cannibalism on behalf of western thought. Research gone the route of subjective opinion where objective fact is naught but triggers for the squad of woke dementia branded by their handlers and told that they must never have their feelings hurt. If they are of a non-masculine persuasion, that is.

For there are no checks in place, no balance to be had. Boys and men may still be subject to denigration and hatred, uncensored and shot out both barrels of rhetorical shotguns aimed flat-fisted and devoid of facts at the chests and beating hearts of young boys trapped in schools to be told that they are vicious visceral beasts of rape and annihilation. And girls are still sugar and spice and everything nice – en mass.

All boys and men should do is sit still, silent and complacent, as their inner world burns and wild teacher’s manifested telepathy reach into their minds to tell them not what they think but what the academic nincompoops of mass-indoctrinated hay-fever tell them that they think that they think. For boys are still snips and snails and puppy-dog tails. And there is something wrong with boys and with men that must be unlearned through rigorous academic shit-tests. And this is painted as being of great service to boys and men! Manufacturing confusion and inner turmoil, self-loathing and layers of shame in the souls of boys and men – attacking their core identity – is rendered as a service and not a full frontal assault on their very being. In a just universe, these people would be shunned and shamed for their blatant assault on a group of people for nothing but their innate characteristics. In a universe and a society that ran on reason, these peddlers of abhorrent hatred would be hated and curb-stomped and left in the wilderness.

My generation is doomed. Domesticated and complacent. Whipped into place by hatred and shame painted in the new glow of liberating equality; by gender-political con-artists espousing feminine virtue as the only virtue, demanding that they be the ones to decide what are the real problems facing men, never leaving men a space to decide for themselves. Or speak on behalf of themselves. Punctuated by the guttural roar of clenched teeth and fists flung violently towards the world of men. And never – never understanding that it is not in the best interest of men that men should not be allowed to speak for themselves as to what constitutes and makes a man a man, that it is not in the best interest of men that men should not be the ones to speak on what are the issues facing men.

A political movement that has picked its own enemy should not be the ones to speak on behalf of their enemy. This should be obvious. Yet, here we are, a society so firmly placed betwixt the unwashed butt-cheeks of feminist misandric ideology that all our noses and all our tongues are brown, and all we taste and smell is shit. So much so that we do not notice the taste and smell any more. We take it for granted. Part and parcel of the western utopian pipe-bomb-dream where sex and gender does not matter, except when it does matter. And when it does matter, it is when one is better than the other and one is worse than the other. Skewed heavily in favour of the fraud and sham of feminist poltergeist-philosophy, thriving on hatred and division when claiming to be nothing of the sort. Of course.

My generation were fed the notion of equal treatment through the myopic lenses of frazzled and bewildered feminism. We had feminism forced down our throats as the movement with a monopoly on equality; the movement of equality to end all other civil rights movements, past, present and future. So that no other voices and no other views were to be heard and were to be seen. Because there were no other movements of such fantastic vision, such fantastic truth and beauty. Opposition to feminism meant not only opposition to equality, but opposition to women. And opposition to women is worse than being opposed to equality. Which, I think, should be an eye-opener if ever there was one.

Any movement that does not tolerate dissent… that does not tolerate other movements… should be hastily ignored and thrown out the door flat on their anaemic arse. Any political movement so tyrannical and so domineering as to claim to hold the monopoly on this, that or the other should be hastily broken down and drowned in its own septic flesh. The obvious totalitarianism in this way of thinking is nothing that should be celebrated. Yet, it was and it is celebrated. It is taught and told and forced down our gullible throats as the only path towards equality – whatever that tenderly infected term “equality” means.

My generation had no personal choice in the matter. We were brow-beaten and whipped into compliance with feminist orthodoxy and dogmatic rule through pictures painted and presented us of poor oppressed women herded like sheep to the slaughter, opposed at all sides by the wickedness and cruelty of men. Leered at and raped at every turn of the cock, ticking timebombs as they were, throbbing and waiting for rape and pillage and plunder and the spoiling of virginal and sanctified womanhood.

All this to justify the building up of girls – the girl power rhetoric so hip and cool – at the expense of boys, whose shuddering and neglected shapes fell flat on their faces on the sidelines of education reform that taught us nothing but to feel ashamed and feel guilty for our sex; that taught us nothing but an inherent knowledge that we were bad. And all the while telling us, with serpent-tongues and crimson smiles, that it was not about hating men or boys.

Where once we dared to set course for uncharted waters… where we dared to face the world on our own terms, we have been rendered impotent and deemed incompetent. We have been thrown to the margins and forgotten; our pride and our masculinity swallowed by the serpent-shape of gender-politics claiming to speak on behalf of both genders, yet caring only for one, neglecting the other.

And the serpent gave birth to numerous offspring, clans upon clans of followers of the snake-cult, all clinically brain-dead and washed ashore on the rhetoric of shame-hate-rage-ruin-ridicule, hiding and cowering in fear if anyone should propose something outside their ideological comfort zone. Claiming offence if truths are presented, and then demanding protection from facts and from truths uncomfortable to their preconceived notions of supposed equal treatment, meaning, of course, “superiority for me, inferiority for thee”. An arrogant tribe of spoilt and rotten eggs, all claiming tolerance and lack of hatred, all claiming open-mindedness and truth and reason, whilst showing lack of tolerance, proving their unflinching and unbridled hatred at any turn, keeping their minds closed to anything outside their realm of proclaimed knowledge and disavowing facts and truth and reason countering their dogmatic, borderline religious, flat-earth-like convictions.

And claiming all things to be offensive, in order to shut down any opposition. This and that and all the other stuff is offensive. As if that is enough of an argument, as if merely the pregnant tunes of offence taken is a counter-argument. A glaringly obvious tactic of manipulation in place of arguments. Which somehow fucking bloody god-damned works within and without powerful institutions.

My generation killed Rock’n’roll.

God have mercy on our souls.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 20.07.2019

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Howling at a Slutwalk Moon – a book:

Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

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«Raven», and some news.

raven lowres

Illustration: «Raven», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

Something short-ish today, as have become the norm on wednesdays. For reasons far beyond my control, of course.

Well, not that far beyond, perhaps, but far enough that I feel comfortable in shifting some burden away from myself and onto the realm of happenstance. Happenstance, in this particular instance, having to do with overexertion and illness. Which is a god-damned bother in itself.

See; the bastard lovechild that is this book of mine; that glorious assault on public decency dubbed «Howling at a Slutwalk Moon» is due for release either this weekend or early next week. Editing it took its toll on me, frail sickling that I am, forcing me to place most of my focus, energy and concentration on that one looming threat on the horizon.

As such, it left me with far less energy and focus to direct at other things, leaving this little rambling-space on wednesdays dedicated to… well, ramblings of a less pre-planned and more spontaneous nature. Which is fine, I suppose, were it not for the hole in my nuclear brain cavity left there by what I consider to be a less-than optimal output these past few weeks. That is the way of things, however – some things must take less priority than others at times, and with limited energy come limited output.

At the very least, since I am exhausted and fatigued, my creative juices are flowing. As they are known to do when I have too little energy to do anything about the free-flowing ideas, elusive bastards that they are. What is needed is focus and energy. I find it astonishing how much energy can be drained by merely sitting down and writing. Or drawing. Depends, of course, upon the topic being written or drawn.

Lately, there have been much twisting of the brain and churning of the nuclear cavity within, leaving me drenched in sweat and something I assume is ectoplasm, but may very well be a manifestation of sleep-deprivation and good old fashioned grumpiness.

I have a comicbook in the works. And a collection of poetry planned. As well as working on this elusive book of mine wherein I chronicle my experiences before, during and after quitting a veritable potpurri of various psycho-pharmaceuticals. This whilst doing my regular drawings, writings and videos for the blog, YouTube and BitChute as well as editing «Howling at a Slutwalk Moon».

And now; my fear, my anxieties and my tribulations are two-fold: what if the book does not sell? or, possibly worse, what if the book does sell? Oh my, what a horrible state to be in; a sort of self-inflicted dissociative state of madness and fatigue, he said, half-mockingly.

There is a long post coming this saturday; a sort of satirical tragedy in three parts set in the present day. Inspired much by the recent nonsense from Antifa and their obscene thuggery as well as the looming threat of censorship.

And that was a horrible beast of a thing to write.

And I am very pleased with it.

Which tends to mean that no-one else will enjoy it.

But, oh, whatever, nevermind.

– Please like, share and subscribe

– Moiret Allegiere, 03.07.2019

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«Touching the Godhead of finite wisdom»

Å røre ved gudehovudet av endeleg kunnskap

Yet another case of old-ish illustration instead of something new. Labouring under some illness or other makes making art harder than it used to be, by golly.

Got something new and – hopefully – very good coming up this saturday. Though, I should probably be careful in stroking my own ego and artistic ambitions too much. Let’s say that the one coming up this saturday is at the very least decent, and leave it at that, lest my head gets too big for my shoulders and I tumble to a doom of my own design.

There is something to be said about being humble, I think. Remembering the simple fact that ones art may not be as good as one would like to believe does two things: it grounds oneself in reality and pushes oneself to always get better at whatever it is one does.

And that, my dear friends, is the way the cookie crumbles on this gloomy morning in June, resembling autumn in all but the temperatures being slightly higher than they would have been, were it truly autumn.

I miss proper summer.

– Please like, share and subscribe

– Moiret Allegiere, 19.06.2019

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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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«Roots and Heritage»

Roots lowres

Illustration: «Roots and Heritage», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

Nothing but a drawing today. A reminder of the importance in remembering and honouring ones roots and heritage.

Got a ramble coming up this saturday on the importance of solitude, which turned out to take me longer to write than expected.

These things happen.

No matter how hard I try, it is frightfully difficult to measure how long it will take me to write something-or-other.

At times, the words fly from my misfiring pineal gland, straight onto the paper in a frenzied, bloodhungry fury. Other times, they come slow and deliberate, dragged up from the very depths of my murky subconscious, lured out from their hiding place with promises of sunshine and daisies.

Then I chain the poor bastards to the paper; whipping them into blind and obedient submission and force them to do my bidding and all my dirty work for the rest of eternity.

All the while, I look on with murderous glee and sip my coffee, thinking: «Thought you could escape me, eh, you magnificent arseholes?»

There is no escape for words. Only the long bondage; an eternal toil in blind obedience to their cruel and inhumane master, trapped within a prison of paper and cardboard.

At the very least, they get to live for ever.

Until the book-burnings begin, that is.

 

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 12.06.2019

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«Filler Poetry»: Monsoons

Easter Sunday 2019, A4 lowres

Illustration: «Easter Sunday 2019», A4, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 
I dreamt monsoons as a kid

wired and lying still
and
wide awake
drowning in the nights satin madness.

And overcome with panic
floating in permanent
acid-solutions,
moon-mad and colder than cold.

I dreamt tall trees
and
blasts of air
and
drunk death
behind waking
eyes
as a kid.

I dreamt faces of stone,
marbled, garbled visions
of faces closing in
laughing with silver-fangs
as a kid.

Locked in, stocked up and shaking,
vibrating ferociously with mild
hay-fever
and
ridiculous fever-dreams
stir-fried and stiff beneath lead-sheets
grasping at midnight-straws
the colour of swans
giving birth.

Midnight lovingly left me
drowning in perspiration
dripping of my waxy skin

with

Calligraphy-lips sealed by
mad-monk-kiss
sounds of sweat
and whispered breath

drip

drop

Reciting verses
cold-heart mantras
reading chapters
buried in my pillow,

Repeating repetition
repetitiously

same as before
as a kid.

Engulfed in plague baths
and
cobwebbed whispers
chanting my name
and
hollow sounds of
disembodied breathing
and
hallucinatory tactile
sensations prodding
flesh and skin and bone,
cold as cold and
limitless, yet encaged,
yet
enraged
as a kid.

Bright stars high and slow
dazed my late night
night-light frenzy
calculated
and
as cool as
corner-store bullies
showing down in
grievous ecstasy
noiseless
voiceless,
voiceless
and noiseless
lessons learned from
sleep deprivation
as a kid.

Talk-show gibbering rubbish
gibberish through paper-walls
and
down the up-stairs
and
slam
and
bam
and
wham
and
thank you
ma’am
with white noise
buzz and drone
and drone and buzz
sat I, nonplussed,
dreaming monsoons

as a kid.

Weird surreal dreams
and
wicked wide-eyed
white-out absurdities
went premeditatedly
clink-clonk,
trembling
in a wishy-washy
wishing well
and
white feather fantastically
burning
brighter than the
brightest flame
deep within the
great wild yonder
and
smoke signals
and
varied visions
and
salutations
and
greetings,
singing
greetings
singing
greetings
trembling
weirdly
as a
kid.

 

– Moiret Allegiere, 24.04.2019

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We still remember laughter

A rose by any other name A4 lowres

Illustration: «A rose by any other name would still give you a hangover», A4, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 
We still remember laughter, we, who once felt alive beneath the blue and slightly shimmering skies of never-ending summer vacations, we who spent our teenaged years poking fun at the absurdities and oddities of it all, we who were alive in this fantastic past; in the summers that seemed to stretch into infinity and then beyond infinity, transcending invisible barriers seen and felt by none and all.

We still remember laughter, we who used to hang upside down by our legs from the street-lamps, bottle in hand, roaring with laughter as midnight came crawling in. We still remember laughter.
We who came to grips with reality through the very simple understanding that we should not, would not, could not take this weird and wacky ride of life too seriously, lest we lose our minds and marbles in the abyss right below our feet.

We still remember fundamental humour – the fantastic sensation of being able to detach from and, through heartfelt and bellowing laughter, transcend, comprehend and come to terms with the grimmer aspects of life – to get to grips with the shadow side of humanity through humour blacker and gloomier than the goth-infused melodramatic doom metal of our formative years.

We still remember being able to laugh at ourselves, to have that shining spark of self-awareness, of self-reflection, of self-irony that made it possible to simplify the process of bettering the aspects of our selves worth bettering through self-deprecating humour; all in jest, and yet serious behind the mask and glowing veils of laughter hitting us all in the chest and mouth and face and ears with joy exuberant and bountiful, telling us in sensual whispers that the most important aspect of humanity is to laugh at oneself first and foremost; that laughter is the one unifying force of the universe.

We, who processed death and suffering just as much as we processed life and pleasure through the same fantastic metaphysical optics of laughter and humour as rejuvenating as the fountain of youth – we still remember laughter.
We, who accepted and came to terms with the grim and horrid spectacle of death, of depravity, of despair, of torture, of tragedy and of terror through laughter and morbid, grim humour, bringing tears to our eyes both serious and simple, making us able to find pleasure and solace in one simple fact of this absurdist theatre that is life: life makes fools of us all, and laughter separates the enlightened fools from the fools living in perpetual denial.

We still remember laughter.

We, whose sense of fun and of humour and of laughter even in the face of personal tragedy were enough to get us labelled as strict nihilists, even in our teenaged years, as depraved, jaded cynics, as unfeeling, uncaring sociopaths with no empathy for, nor understanding of, the plight and pain of others – even when the opposite is, was and always will be the truth.

We still remember laughter.

We who knew, without even having to think about it, that humour and laughter is, was and always will be the greatest weapon humanity has ever had – the greatest tool in existence to tear down the walls between us and the vast empty void of existence – to separate us from the empty black pit of despair that lies lurking just behind us in times of trials and of tribulations. We still remember laughter.

Oh yes: we still remember laughter, we who dwell in the realms of unsolicited giggles, sniggers, snorts and various ululations of merriment and joy.
We who still remember giggling in principals offices when, having been caught in some trespass of authority or other, the hammer of judgement was coming down and we cleared our nervous system of nervous trepidations through barely contained humour, perceived, perhaps, as lack of respect, but being quite clearly a mechanism to detach and deal and cope.
Oh, yes: we still remember laughing at the absurdity of it all, at the great abyss that awaits us all at the end of our life. How should one – no – how could one come to grips with the finality of death without being able to laugh at it? How does one keep the joy of life alive when faced with the absolute inevitability of death?

Remember laughter.

We still remember humour.
We still remember laughter.

And we still remember the hushed voices, the looks of discontent, of disbelief, of quit-it-you-punks from those who did not see, nor care to understand, the amount of elation and salvation lying hidden in the simple act of laughing and seeing the light shining through the darkness which seemed to be coming down in full fucking force – to laugh, to laugh, to laugh and as such to understand, comprehend, process and become whole once again after tragedy struck and then be prepared for when tragedy will strike again. A coping mechanism for the enlightened individual, who has realised how laughter is used and at what – or at whom – it is aimed, when and where and how it actually works, a fantastic ability to find something to laugh at, even in the grimmer moments of life, even when the entire world crumbles and falls to the ground around oneself – this one core strength of humanity stands unbeaten still, in the era of censorship and hurt fee-fees.

Still we will remember laughter.

We remember still, in nightmares fuelled by grim spectres floating by and atop and underneath us all, the voices telling us to not laugh, to not crack jokes, to not bring our sense of despair to a fantastic boil-and-let-the-steam-go through bursts of unhinged, unbridled, unstopped emotions, bellowing at the top of our lungs, roaring with magnificent laughter, grim as grim may be maybe, but turning the grim realities of whichever topic was at hand on its head and making us understand and come to terms with it. And the cultural fever-dream we inhabit dare make the claim that men do not deal with their emotions properly! Maybe it is them who do not deal, but choose to hide neuroticism and inabilities to cope with difficulties behind a mask of severe offence; telling others to not cope as they see fit because they themselves are unable to deal with their emotions in a functional and healthy manner; making others submit to their will and whims and flights of fancy instead of learning how to deal with things themselves.

We still remember laughter – Even when displeased looks from teachers or from parents or from passers-by made it clear that this was not suitable, this was not the proper way of dealing with things – that it was, in fact, better to keep the mask of silent subjugation in place and not to laugh, never laugh, never crack jokes darker than the dried up chambers of a politicians heart to lighten the mood and turn it upside-down and inside-out for our benefit and for the great and grand and glorious lightening of the mood.
There are plenty out there who do not deal with life, who take life far too seriously and as such are unable to comprehend the extreme pleasure, the fantastic catch-and-release of emotion that laughter, humour, merriment and dark, morbid grim and final jokes make possible.
Those who cling to suffering like the last few drops of wine cling to the side of the bottle, refusing to come out and play.
Those who are scared, who are trapped within a prison of their own design, who will not, can not, dare not transcend difficulties through laughter and as such refuse others the joy of transcending, understanding and coping through laughter.
Those who wish to subjugate others to their will instead of appreciating the perspectives and coping-mechanisms of others, those who impose their will and lack of humour and understanding and remembrance of laughter upon others because they deem themselves to be above those who transcend the realms of suffering for subconsciously wanting to stay trapped within suffering.

Those who do not gaze into the darkness will never see the light shining within. Those who are unable to laugh or to let others laugh for lack of understanding and of comprehension of the very human urge to transcend tragedies, travesties, torture and terror will never understand and will never fully see the full release of terror from themselves, because they refuse to see themselves fully and wholly; they refuse to understand that laughing at suffering is not a mockery of those who suffer, but a mockery of those who make others suffer. That laughing at those who make others suffer turns a tyrant into nothing but a fleeting joke, an effigy that burns just as easily as any other effigy, that laughing at evil acts and deeds is not a laughter aimed at those who are made to suffer from said evil acts and deeds, but a disarming of the evil in and off itself; a way to make the darkness less dark, a fleeting candle in the dark which will light the way and make the darkness easier to get through.
Comprehension of the dark through the shining beacon of laughter is a very real thing, and something that should never be made to disappear.
Why do you think that tyrants always crack down on jokes made at their expense? Why do you think that humour is the first to go in the great purge, and yet the first – maybe even the only – thing that survives and raises its head once again from the remaining ashes of the purge; blowing, as only it can, on the embers of hope?

Oh yes; we still remember laughter, we who were told that our jokes and our humour was unsuitable, we whose jokes and whose laughter was suppressed by miniature tyrants who themselves were unable to crack a joke or smile a smile at the expense of themselves first and foremost, whose neuroticism enabled them not to have a crack and a go at themselves, but enabled them to crack down on the coping mechanisms of others because the mechanisms of others did not align with the un-lubed mechanism of their selves, all fragility and hopelessness and despair when faced with others who made coping with the dark and the shadow and the abyss a simple matter of catch, release, let go through laughter.

We still remember laughter, even beneath these oppressive skies of do-not-laugh, do-only-weep and do-not-be-humanity.
We still remember laughter, even in the face of those who wish to make fully automated machines of us all, who wish to dictate what is and what is not funny.

We still remember laughter.

And we still remember the class-room saints who proclaimed loudly for one and all that they were offended – highly offended – by our fits of laughter when watching videos or hearing tales read from ancient dusty tomes of wisdom of some tragedy or other, be that tragedy personal or societal, from something that happened and which we, through our laughter and through our cracking of jokes made easily digestible and as such something possible to understand, something whose claws would not dig deep into our shoulders and make a burden of itself and thusly a burden of our life.

We still remember jokes and humour and laughter and – most of all – being happy to be just where we were.

We still remember laughter.

Even in the here-and-now, where it is nigh impossible to laugh and nigh impossible to smile lest the full frenzied fury of the mob comes cracking down.

We still remember laughter.

Even in the here-and-now where the politically correct madness is rampaging through our very humanity, being arrogant enough as to proclaim that our way of coping with difficulties is inappropriate, even when the justice legionaries takes a sledgehammer to our teeth and vibrating diaphragm.

We still remember laughter – even when facing down totalitarianism reaching into the core of our being, cracking down on jokes said to be offensive as if those who are able to laugh in the face of tragedy are the ones at fault, not the ones who are unable to do anything but sneer and frown and grimace with self-aggrandizing dissatisfaction.

We still remember laughter, those of us who were able to, and are able to, come to terms with the very simple fact that we are all going to die, and as such, it is best to enjoy oneself and deal with the suffering and pleasure of life simultaneously, drawing strength from the one fantastic force that we all have in common, the force that ought to unify us and make us see both each other and our selves mirrored in a shining smile, overcoming any-and-all through laughing at the absurdity that is life.

We still remember laughter.

 

  • Moiret Allegiere, 27.03.2019

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