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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Revolution for the hell of it:

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.