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.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 20.07.2019

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Howling at a Slutwalk Moon – a book:

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The Forced futility of Male-only Spaces

Dreams of solitude A3 lowres

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

 

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

Do not expect anything but pure, unflattering grump today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One word.

Futility.

Well, two words, really.

Forced futility.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is seen, time and again.

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

They have, however, been predominantly male.

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

That is some grade-A level entitlement right there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even when it is about men and not women.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 15.05.2019

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We Swim in Silence:

Meditating cynic 2 A3 lowres

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

 

We swim in silence;

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

We swim in overwhelming silence;

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

We swim in exhausting silence;

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

We swim in radiant silence;

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

We swim in washed-out silence;

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

We swim in deafening silence;

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

We swim in dilapidated silence;

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

We swim in absurdist silence;

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

We swim in pregnant silence,

In decadent decay,

in obscure relativity,

in relative obscurity,

we swim in nonsense, reaching only death.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 04.05.2019

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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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Revolution for the hell of it:

Howling at a slutwalk moon A3 lowres

ill: «Howling at a slutwalk moon», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

We slip and we slide and oh how gradually, and how quickly, we decline. How quickly we forget, how quickly we throw away all that we have. Caught in a vortex of dissatisfaction brought on by an incredible inability to see how good things actually are. And being bored and being lazy and being hollowed out from the inside by having all our needs catered to, we manufacture drama in order to bring points into an existence deemed as pointless by a refusal to see the point right in front of us.

We slip, wiggle and slide and crawl on the ground like the worms we are as we deny ourselves the pleasures of sitting back and just sitting, doing, being, enjoying. Seeing reality manifested as brutality where no brutality exist. Causes to fight for are not causes to fight for. They are manifestations of an insane need to fill an unseen hole dug out in the chasm that is our chests and beating hearts. Somehow, we have got to struggle, don’t you know. There’s got to be some cause to fight for, some glorious unifying ideal which we can hide behind and mine manufactured outrage from to fill an odd desire emanating from… something.

Is this the breaking point? Is this the point of no return? Is this the point upon which the west slides into decadence and hedonism; with no cause, reason, dreams and aspirations but the brilliant poster hanging on the wall of disgruntled college-students demanding revolution for the sake of revolution, having no idea what that entails? Am bored today. Time to bring the entire system crashing down for no other reason than it giving me something to do. Burn it down, you bastard, burn it down. Make it all crash and make it all burn. And from the ashes a fantabulous utopia shall arise, where all are equal except those who are not equal.

The proles will still walk the streets in gin-laden haze-dreams, and Big Brother will still be watching every step and every breath. And facecrime, thoughtcrime, nonsense words and newspeak come screaming towards us in mad perplexing dreams.

When the thought-police come crashing through your doors for misgendering someone on Twitter, you know you’ve reached the pinnacle of equality. My, what a beautiful, glorious, unifying collective pipe-dream you’ve got going there. All opinions are valid and all should be allowed to speak their mind. Excepting those whose opinions goes against my mirror-mind, of course. Hate speech is not free speech and free speech sure as hell ain’t nothing but hate speech. See how that works, grumble grumble, slip, slide, bullshit-artist and confidence trickster. Hide your solipsist need for censorship behind a paywall of unchallenged kindness as much as you want. It ain’t nothing but egotistical demands for controlling the discourse. Control. Censor. Remove. This one. It was this one, Officer, I swear. He looked at me funny through Twitter. Remove him from my sight at once. Off with his head!

It should be worrying to anyone that they come for the clowns and the comedians. The jesters are not safe any more; the fools have all been slain and the satirists are gagged and bound in re-education camps.

At the very least, they did manage to rid the world of the Nazi-pug death squads. I am happy to report that I finally feel safe walking the streets again, knowing that I will not be subject to the perplexed sniffles and grunts of uniformed pugs wobbling along in groups. Never again shall we suffer the horrors that was the night of the long whines! Context? Nah – never mind, no matter – you wanted to gas the Jews, remember? Shit – come to think of it – am I in trouble now, for writing “Gas the Jews”? Probably. If my blog goes down and my you tube channel disappears, you know they’ve come for me as well. It was a good run. Catch you later – it will be better, once I have been re-educated. Thirty lashes in the town square for that one, boy. Yes xir, thank you very much. I deserve this. What do you mean I’m not grovelling enough, Xir? I do the best grovelling I can. Gas the guys. Is that better?

Some years back, the virtual virtuous hive-mind of impeccable virtue and grace and style and intelligence came for a mens group on Facebook, over here in the frozen wastes of Norway. It was a fascinating display of moral panic the likes of which I had not seen in quite some time. This group for men was made for the sole reason of sharing non-pc humour, as opposed to NPC humour. And you all know what that entails. The horror. The travesty. The foul misogyny of men gathering in packs to hunt down and slay the whamens and the childrens whilst chomping on cigars, twirling their moustaches and saying “harumph” a lot. It was a grand unifying meeting of the patriarchy, where the true oppressive nature of men reared its ugly head and bared its fangs for all the world to see. Their crimes were so heinous that I hardly dare mention them. For me, the trauma is still real. The hurt and the wounds will never fully heal. It is as though I have been stabbed in the heart with a Morgul-blade.

Every week, the horrors of that Facebook group haunts me.

Some nights, I can still hear the screams.

They never leave me; hellish visions of such depravity and torture that I think anyone who encountered it will never fully heal.

Their crime? Telling crude jokes about pedophiles. The whole moral panic began with a blog-post written by some woman who just had a baby; a woman so stunning and so brave that she dared infiltrate this nest of filthy misogynists and rapists-in-waiting, disregarding her own safety.

And what a blog-post it was! She began the entire thing with – and I am paraphrasing here. This is not verbatim – “So there I sat, with my newborn son on my lap…” Already, we should be horrified. A clear appeal to emotion. She then went on to outline the horrors of the jokes, and how this impacted her and her son who was so sweet and innocent, lying there on her lap whilst she browsed Facebook looking for something to be offended by so as to attract readers to her blog. Whoops – sorry – I strayed from the script. I’ll do my best to crawl back into the lap of gorgeous conformity of thought and morality.

She went on, in her stunning and brave blog-post, to outline the horrible jokes she had seen within; jokes so foul and horrible as to wreak havoc on the green and sacred fields of the hallowed earth upon which we had thread up until this point; fields that were now besmirched and ruined by the creepy-crawling of jokes and humour so crude and offensive as to de-consecrate the fields and turn them into rotting marshes. They might as well have salted the earth so that nothing would ever grow again.

I can’t remember the jokes. I will absolutely admit that they were crude. That they were offensive. Seeing as that was the whole point of the group in question, I struggle to comprehend why this was shocking to this stunning and brave woman. But there you have it.

In this blog-post, she posted courageous screenshots of the jokes as well as the perpetrators of the jokes. Full names and all. Obviously at the expense, yet again, of her own emotional safety. She told that she had no qualms in showing their full names, because they deserved all they could get. In her words.

Fifty lashes in the town square. Death and dismemberment. Social ostracising. Being put in the laughing stock and publicly shamed. They deserved it all. For the crime of telling crude jokes in a private group on Facebook, which she infiltrated. Were I cynical, I might say that the entire reason for her doing this was to attract followers to her blog. Were I cynical, I might say that she was looking for something to be offended about so as to offend others and turn them on this group. Were I cynical, I might say that this was nothing but a grab for attention on her part; a quest to show her moral superiority and boost her superficial ego at the expense of someone she did not know, whose crimes amounted to nothing but telling crude jokes. But I am not cynical. I’m not allowed to be cynical by the moral crusaders. I must, at all times, be offended and show my moral superiority. Reason has no place here. This is the current year, after all!

Following her original blog-post, everyone was up in arms for weeks about this travesty. How dare these men tell jokes? And the shaming began. The newspaper articles, the politicians, the facebook-hangers-on and various and sundry all showed up in uniform groups to show their solidarity and their morality; to showcase their virtue and dignity and to shame, shame, shame anyone who dared go against the narrative of these men being evil incarnate for telling crude jokes. Whilst the original blog-post and writer of said piece, who very clearly invited violence upon these foul perpetrators of humorous assault through her saying that they deserved all they could get and thus clearly broke the law of the land, was painted as a whistle-blower of immense grace, moral purity and virtue. For some strange and inexplicable reason.

The fact that a website with a forum, dedicated to and focused on, women, had hosted for years two threads on said forum with titles such as “share your most offensive jokes”, wherein lied hidden the same crude jokes that were shared within this horrible den of misogyny and rape were mentioned but once in a newspaper article that was promptly ignored by all and sundry. This did not matter. We had our sacrificial goats. We had our men to whip into shamed submission and drive into the desert to appease the demons and soothe the gods. Because only men are capable of such heinous acts as ballistic assault jokes. And at the very least, only men shall be shamed for it. And, besides, the crude jokes within the forum for women were probably posted by men anyway. Women are the light and the saviours and the holders and banner-carriers of our shared morality. And don’t you forget it, bucko.

And the amount of hysteria surrounding this happening was such that I gave up on arguing my point that this was nothing but jokes. There were no reasoning with these people. There was no reason to be found, as the outrage machine went on generating outrage. There was no empathy to be found for the men who were shamed, vilified and threatened severely for telling jokes and nothing but jokes. The madness had begun. The sickness had eaten into the heart of the public, and the public demanded blood. Not one could argue why, nor could they argue against the points I brought up with anything but “My hurt fee-fees”.

That people had all the right in the world to tell jokes, even when the jokes were offensive, did not matter. When I inquired as to whether or not followers of this moral outrage had ever told an offensive joke themselves, I was met with derailing and perplexed silence. Perceived moral superiority above all, and not one semblance of introspection or empathy. “I might have told crude jokes, but these are worse”. Meaning: I am clean and holier than thou, and how dare you imply that jokes are nothing but jokes, or that people are allowed to tell jokes which offend my delicate sensibilities? There is no reason to be found when a mob has decided to charge. And the speed at which the outrage comes and is generated leaves no room to stop and no room to think. Part of the group, the click, the anthill, the mob. People jump on the latest outrage without a second thought, and are incapable of seeing more than their side – that is – the side of the mob; the hive-mind mentality of a mass of worms burrowing through the ground. There is no room for thought, no room for anything but the split-second emotional reaction.

In my more vengeful moments, I hope that they will have to face down the mob themselves one day, and that they will learn something from it. But they won’t. Having to face down an outraged mob themselves, they will be the victims and they will not learn anything because they will already have forgotten the outrage-mob they were part of; painted as a force fighting for good and nothing more. What we do unto others does not matter, and when others do unto us, it is evil and wicked. We have strayed so far from reason that madness is the only path left to thread. We have strayed so far from empathy, compassion and understanding of others that we paint the lack of empathy, compassion and understanding of others as empathy, compassion and understanding of others. We are so caught up in not offending that we do not care who or what we kill when looking to not offend. And, as stated before, someone will be offended no matter what.

What is left to do then? Kill all discourse, censor all lest someone, somewhere, gets their feelings hurt. That can be the only conceivable end-result, if all are to be treated equally in the unifying ideal of non-offense. No one must speak, lest someone gets offended. And my feelings are more important than your speech, your expression, your opinion. Only one opinion is valid, and that opinion is the one I hold. Because I, in my absolute grace and impeccable virtue, never offend but hold the truth and nothing but the truth. This is what we are seeing in the current cultural climate. This is the path we are slip-sliding down; so comfortable and so bored and so devoid of any real struggles that the only battle left to fight is to fight for our right to not get our feelings hurt by someone whose opinion or sense of humour differs slightly from our own.

  • Moiret Allegiere, 16.02.2019

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