Lashing out, lashing in, let me begin:

transcendence 2 a3 lowres

Ill: «Transcendence #2», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

This is going to be a relatively long one. Grab a drink, buckle yourself in and get comfortable.

Last night, (14.01.2019) I woke at five in the morning with the horrible sensation of not being able to breathe properly. A reasonable person would probably have taken this as a sign of some difficulties with the heart; a cause for great concern and an immediate evacuation to the halls of healing provided by our health services. Not me, though. I engaged in deep breathing until it passed, and then I fell asleep again, and woke with the mindshattering sound of my alarmclock going of three hours later. A reasonable person would probably consider my actioan in this instance to be of some concern; a sign that I am not taking my health seriously. The truth of the matter is that I am used to waking up like this. There is a lingering subconscious panic and dread somewhere in the dark recesses of my unconscious psyche still; a vague voice whispering that I am not yet, for lack of a better word, fulfilled.

Of course, these nocturnal bouts of panic and doom has lessened immensely over the course of the past two years. Prior to this, it happened every night and was far more severe. Every night for two years, I woke with what can only be described as night-terrors, and could not get back to sleep no matter how much I tried. The confusion and pure panic in those moments made me fear and avoid sleep as much as I could; sometimes not going to bed at all, but clincing to being awake as though my life depended on it. And maybe it did. At the very least, I belive my sanity – or what little was left of it in those fabled days of yore – depended upon it.

Sitting like that, alone at night with nothing for comfort but youtube and my own random, racing thoughts gave me a lot of room to think. Probably too much room to think. It also granted me the ability, over time, to control my thoughts and fracturing mind. Not as good as I would wish, but better than it ever had or has been. Some good came of it, even if I spent three years, give or take, in a state of constant agitation and panic. It put me on a path I desperately needed to be put upon, though I did not know it at the time.

For a multitude of years, I had been going to therapy. And their way of helping me was to put me on drugs, drugs and more drugs. I was given drugs to counteract the sideeffects of the other drugs I was on, and new drugs to combat the effects of those drugs which were meant to combat the effects of the other drugs. An entire, multicoloured galaxy of uppers, downers, screamers and streamers to keep me sane. That is: to keep me numb and burnt out. To keep my mind from being my mind. Due to the amount of drugs, and the relatively young age at which I was given these, they halted my emotional development and put my life dead in its tracks for several years. Nothing happened. I was sitting in stasis – gaining weight and gaining pessimism and gaining an everexpanding sense of frustration in regards to my life – or lack of life. This frustration was very much subconscious, but manifested in several severely selfdestructive ways. Which, of course, made the psychiatrists give me more drugs. The circle was complete. And the damage was done. And the damage still lingers.

At the time, of course, I believed that the fault for my life going absolutely nowhere was that of my own and my mind, fractured and ruined as I had been told that it was, from seeing shrink after shrink since I was fifteen years old and my teenage temperament, all gloomy depression and confused anxiety, was treated as a severe mental illness. Thus, being told half my life that there was something wrong with me meant that there had to be something wrong with me.

In essence, I was brought up into illness by the hum-diddle school of psychology. This is, of course, not to say that I am not responsible for the poor choices I have made. Because of course I am. My actions and choices were and are my own. There are contributing factors, however. And a lot of those contributing factors stemmed from the psychiatric dissolution of my self through drugs supposed to help me along the way, but who at their core halted my core from growing and developing roots which would gain sustenance from myself. Instead of aiding my growth, they halted my growth. Instead of making me better, they made me worse.

Diagnosis after diagnosis was thrown at me, and nothing seemed to stick. No diagnosis was correct, and yet I was given medications to treat the diagnosis which I did not have, time and again. Faulty diagnosis – medication – faulty diagnosis – medication. And then, of course – medication to combat the effects of other medications. Whenever a certain diagnosis was shown to be wrong, they did not halt the drugs given for that diagnosis. They conjured forth a new diagnosis and gave me drugs for that as well. My medical journal is a confusing mess. As was my life at the time; mirroring it perfectly, all jumbled and confused and frustrating. I could go on about this, but I won`t. I think I have gone on for long enough. I plan to expand on this, and my experience in quitting medication and psychology, at some later point. Maybe as a book, maybe as a series of blogposts. Probably both. Suffice it to say; I learned a lot from this experience through clawing my way through hell.

Now, the reason I am bringing all this up is very simple: it has to do with the mental health – or lack thereof – of boys and men. Or, more to the point – the lack of proper mental health services for men and boys. In particular since traditional masculinity – that is to say, masculinity at all – is now considered both pathological and as an ideology, whatever the fuck that means, by the powers that be. How, then, can a man trust to a mental health service when it deems masculinity itself to be at the root of all issues a man face?

What men are told, then, when seeking counseling, is that he is ill for the simple reason that he is a man. That if he only stopped being masculine, as nature has made him, he would be better. I can not conceive of how that would help him in any way, shape or form. Picture this scenario:

Therapist: So, what`s bothering you?

Patient: Well, I am feeling suicidal. My life is going nowhere. I can`t find employment and I can`t find any field of study to enter.

Therapist: Why do you think that is?

Patient: Well, they have these gender qoutas that is favouring women in my chosen field. And due to this, I can not find employment or somewhere to study despite being qualified and having tons of experience.

Therapist: Do you think this is a bad thing?

Patient: well, yes. I think the ones that are the most qualified should get the job.

Therapist: Do you not think women are qualified to work in your field?

Patient: Not when I am more qualified than they are, no.

Therapist: That, I think, is your male privilege speaking. You are so used to getting the world handed to you on a platter due to being a man, and now you are struggling to comprehend this loss of privilege.

Patient: what? No – I don`t think that is…

Therapist: Why are you so scared of gender equality?

Now, of course, this is probably a case of hyperbole on my part. But it drives the point home. Imagine seeking help due to self-loathing and suicidal tendencies, and then being told that your very nature is the cause of your issues. And then being told that it is not even your nature, but a social construct – a supposed ideology of masculinity – that has sown the seeds of your discontent. Now imagine being a young man. Or a boy. Seeking counsel and guidance for the same, impressionable as all hell and confused from the raging tide of hormones which only puberty can bring. This therapy and poor counsel can only breed more confusion. You are not you, they seem to say. Your nature is not in your nature. Moreover – that which is not your nature and which is not you, but which you still cling to and which still defines you – is toxic and destructive at its core and need to change. And this change, it seems, is not to help you grow, but to help the rest of the world grow.

Through counselling you are beat into servitude, one phony concerned sentence at a time, smooth as a serpents hiss, all forked tongue and whispered promises of betterment; if only you would understand your inherent toxicity and privilege, all would be well. Considering that men are the group most at risk for suicide, this does not bode well for the future of men.

This is not science. This is ideology parading around town masquerading as science. It is beautifully crafted; vile hatred of men and masculinity clothed as great concern for boys and men. I can not even begin to fathom how telling a young man who is struggling with suicidal urges – or a grown man, for that matter – that the fundamental reason for his suicidality is, in essence, his fundamental being, his very core. Couple this with the constant reminder – through massmedia, through social media, through schools and education, politics and parliament, through jobs and through parents, siblings, friends and family – that men are inherently bad, that there is something wrong with men, that men need to change for the betterment of all… You`ve got a recipe for disaster. Either individually, personal and private, or socially, public and societal.

Not only is a man told that he needs to change, he is told that he needs to change for the good of all, not for the good of himself. That his own emotional wellbeing takes the backseat to the emotional wellbeing of the world. And that his hurt hurts the world more than it hurts himself. He does not matter. Even when it is his wellbeing that he pays with blood and sweat and tears to be guided towards. What he is supposed to say is quite simple: «Serviam».

I will serve.

At the expense of myself, I will serve.

Which is, honestly and funnily enough, the traditional expectations levvied at men all the way from the beginning of time. What was that about the ideology of masculinity; the toxicity of traditional masculinity? Hah! It seems we have gone full fruitless circle once again. Now, imagine a girl or young woman going into therapeutic sessions and being told this; that her very nature is what is wrong with her. Can you imagine what levels of foaming-at-the-mouth-and-crotch outrage we would have seen then? And, I would like to add – rightly and justly so.

My school of thought is that everyone should be treated equally, regardless of gender or sexuality or colour of skin or what-have-you. This, it would seem, is not the school of thought which these self-proclaimed fighters for equality and justice for all is following.

This is, of course, not to say that people should not strive to be the best they can be. Bettering oneself and growing as a human being is of incredible importance, and gazing ever inwards deeply and labouriously is a important tool in doing just that. Know thy self, as the saying goes. When we have a cultural zeitgeist telling men – and only men – that they are flawed and need to change, however, we are at a loss of balance. Selfimprovement is not gendered. Nor is faults and flaws. Every individual, regardless of gender, has faults and flaws and room for improvement. Letting the faults of the world rest solely on the shoulders of one group is disingenuous at best and pure viscious malice at worst.

The outrage at claiming there is something wrong with the very nature of women would be immense. Of this, I think, there is little doubt. Claiming that there is something wrong with the very nature of men, however, is equality and justice made manifest; a social justice feverdream conjured forth from a mass-brainwashed collective psychosis, enginereed and finely crafted over decades. The genders should be treated equally. And so, we must teach men that there is something wrong with men – we must teach our societies that there is something wrong with men and nothing wrong with women. In the name of equal treatment. Summed up thusly: Men bad, Women good. For equality, for justice, for truth and mad pathology. One for one and all for one.

***

Now picture a young man. Confused by the hormones coursing through his body at the peak of puberty. Confused by a troubled upbringing, perhaps, or the loss of a loved one, or a lack of direction. Maybe only confused by life itself, and in need of some guidance and some help to overcome some obstacle or other. And so he seeks counselling. He seeks therapy. If only to gain some perspective, or to vent his frustrations to someone who`s job it is to understand and lend an empathetic and helpful ear. Someone who gets paid to help someone overcome difficult obstacles. And he vents. He opens up. He tells all. And is told that the reasons he feels like this is that he is conditioned to not feel – that he has been cast in the mold of oppressor and tyrant by a society which, apparently, only has his best interests in mind. That he should cast aside his notions of who he is and replace it with who his therapist thinks he should be. And who his therapist thinks he should be is far detached from the reality of who he, by nature, is. And who his therapist thinks he is – tyrant and oppressor, privileged and pampered – is far detached from the reality of who he, by nature, is.

Now, would not this cause more confusion? Would not this fester in his mind like a tumour; growing and growing more and more the more he is told that he is at fault for his own issues by virtue of his birth? Mix the condemnation levvied at men and masculinity by the educational system which he is forced through into the mix, toss the misandry imposed upon him through the news which he absorbs and the girls in his class into the cauldron, stoke the fires with politicians telling him that he is evil incarnate and that he has no real issues to worry about and that he should bend the knee to help girls and to help women overcome the obstacles which he is directly or indirectly responsible for by privilege inherent from birth. And now, bring it to a boil with a family which tells him the same.

Burnout.

Washout.

Done and dusted.

Cleared, cleaned, clinically insane.

And this is what our culture celebrates – a constant demonizing of men for the perceived benefit of not the men in question, but the world around them. And we dare paint this travesty as being of benefit to boys and men. We dare paint it as a major benefit, which sees boys and young men dropping out and burning out, not participating nor launching, but washing up on the dust-and-cobwebbed-bedecked shores of our cultural wasteland.

Any voices raised – by the boys and men in question, or by others concerned – in opposition to the proposition that boys and men need to be socially enginereed into useful objects, helpful to all but themselves, is shouted down and held forth as a shining example of exactly why we need this misandric turn of page and phrase, this hatred disguised disgustingly as concern. It is a lose-lose situation. For boys and men.

What the claim is is of course: oh, no, it`s not all men. (Excepting, of course, when the same voices shine through the fog with a beacon saying #yesallmen) It`s just the bullies and the rapists, the harassers and the violent carriers of toxicity, of the virus of masculinity. If you should feel offended by the message, it means you are one of them and so you prove the point of the message. Clever. Very clever. It`s that worldwide emotional manipulation poking its bedazzled head out of the sand again, turning the victim into the victimizer. Agree with the message, and you are a good man and it is your job to stop other men behaving toxically. Object to the message, and you are one of the bad men and proof that the message need be told. One man is responsible for the actions of all men, which is to say that all men are responsible for the actions of one man. When that action is bad, that is. Flip the script, and you will learn that one woman is not responsible for the actions of all women and that all women are not responsible for the actions of one women. If they are bad. If they are good, it is a cause for celebration of all women. Women good, men bad. The bad done by one man is proof of the wickedness of all men. The good done by one woman is proof of the kindness of all women. Nuance is dead. Both men and women have the same capacity for both good and evil. This is forgotten in the gender-wars and the propaganda of the language therein.

A man can not win either way. Either we need to change, or we need to make other men change. To serve and to please, to serve and to protect. Or to kill ourselves in the process; to fail at life and withdraw into the nothing, into the ether. To be drugged unconscious and met with naught but disdain in the public and the private sphere, and being met with naught but distrust and blame-and-shame when we seek therapy and understanding from medical professionals who`s very job is to help and aid. And then to be forcefed a multitude of drugs to suppress our nature, quite literally being turned into mindless inactive zombies incapable of participating in any way, shape or form.

The result is a generation of boys and men turned away at the gates of life; denied the respect and compassion, understanding and empathy which they deserve. An entire generation of boys and men being taught from birth that there is something genuinely wrong with who they are at their very core. This, one would assume, is not proper behaviour towards any group of people. And one would be right in assuming this. Such as it is, our societies need their sacrificial goat – their idol to be shouted at and despised and blamed for the ills of the fracturing world we see before us, and simulatenously being told to fix it: both God and Devil. It is a mass communal unleashing of frustration and the Jungian shadow of humanity itself. The evil and vindictive force within us all. Men are the only group in society upon which this vindictiveness, this hatred, this frustration and this perplexing shadow of our souls and psyches may be unleashed with impunity. And they dare label it as compassion and concern for boys and men!

Don`t believe it? Try throwing the same vile abuse and everchanging demands for change at any other group in our splintering culture, and see how far that gets you. Try telling women as a group that they need to change. Or blacks. Or muslims. Or jews. Or homosexuals. Pick and chose, and see how far you get before the armies come marching at you from the virtuous anthill of the chronically concerned and offended.

This hatred and abuse get internalized by the boys and young men in question. Creating ever more need for therapy and psychiatric assessments of their being and of their ruptured psyche. Yet another of those viscious and vacuous circles manufactured by our daycare-societies. And being met with drugs, disbelief and disillusioning tales of their inherent privilege and propensity for oppression and toxicity in therapeutic sessions from beyond the wide-eyed wonder of the massmanufactured concern-trolling of this noxious fume of feminist indoctrination, they come to believe in the evil of their being. And the mood changes, the mood spirals ever downwards and, in lew of understanding, they are given more drugs. Causing the mood to descend further into the abyss. And the abyss opens wide to engulf them and swallow them whole. Perpetually lost boys floating aimlessly in a continuing vacuum; emotionally flatlined by neurotoxins and with a growing rage and resentment for which there is no release, no understanding and no help.

And as men are drawn towards action in times of personal crisis, they reach a breaking point and lash either outwards or inwards. Drawing from the core of their being; the masculine call to action which has been supressed and denied and labelled as inherently toxic. They snap. As one does, who has stared into the abyss for far too long. Manifested most often in selfharm and selfdestruction – or – more visibly destructive to society as a whole, it manifests as them taking others down with them in a blaze of fire and fury. This is where you get your mass-shooters and mass-murderers, your posterboys for toxicity and hatred.

And then, refining and re-engineering the circle once again, this is a call for the media to write articles on what is wrong with masculinity, holding these individuals forth as definite proof of the fact that there is something fundamentally wrong and defective with boys and men; not showing the least bit of concern for the tragedy which happened and having no qualms in using it as a tool to push ever more anti-male sentiments, stoking the fires already burning under the feet of the young boys and men which are doomed to failure and bound to lose in a society who`s blatant hatred of them is veiled as concern for their wellbeing!

Imagine for a moment what would have happened if these young men were shown compassion, understanding and empathy instead of ridicule and scorn. Instead of being labelled as incels or virgin-losers by feminisms doctrine when they voiced their opposition, or being marked by birth with the sign of the devil; a swinging cock and balls eternally flagellating the poor oppressed under their naturally oppressive nature.

Ave, Ave, Feministas.

This doctrine creates men there is something wrong with. Men ruined and broken by a society which claims to care equally for all, but which shows time and again that it cares nothing at all for men and for boys; a society in which men and boys are told to man up in order to help women and to attack their brothers for perceived trespasses on the virtue of women. Men, you need to help women. Women, you need to help other women. Noone needs to help men; they can help themselves by bending the knee and helping women and only women. That is to say, as stated time and again: by helping feminism and only feminism. Not only that; they are also told that manning up is proof of toxic masculinity; the suppression of feelings inherent in the toxicity. So man up and help and don`t man up and help by not manning up. Only express your feelings in a way suitable to feminisms gold standard. Meaning: express our feelings about men and masculinity, and share our emotions.

I have stared into the abyss of selfloathing myself. For years upon years; indoctrinated into the eternal victimcult, being reminded over and over that it is me and only me that is at fault. That my being is wrong, defective, destructive and hateful. I have been told that we live in a society in which women are oppressed, and I have seen time and again how this is not the case. Yet; I could not see through the veil across my eyes nor break away from the chokechain around my neck. I considered qoutas and affirmative action a necessity; proof of womens oppression when it is, in fact, proof of quite the opposite. Preferential treatment is not proof of oppression. One being treated better than the other – at the expense of the other, I might add – is not proof of the other oppressing the one. It is proof of the one being treated far better than the other by the other, which is claimed to treat the one worse. And, yes, the words «One» and «Other» are used with a purpose in mind. We are othering boys and men, turning them into second-class citizens to be treated with mistrust, and if not mistrust, then downright fear and loathing. And we are turning women into the One, a saving force and perpetual grace; an aristocracy which we must never contradict, never oppose, under pain of social death.

As with most boys and men, I lashed inwards as the abyss stared back into me. And as a result of lashing inwards, I was drugged into oblivion, balancing on a razorblade and tiptoeing through existence with no goals, no mind, no motives, no nothing. Psychopharmaceuticals scorched my neural pathways and burnt a hole into my mind who`s damage still lingers with me, running through my mind and my body in white scorching lines manifesting as chronic pain and chronic fatigue. Still burnt out; four years after ending my days as a drug-mule for the pharmaceutical bliss of our un-empathetic psychiatrists offices. And I am pissed off. Rightfully so.

My days of lashing inwards is drawing to an end. I employ the pen and what little energy I still have left to explore ideas and to lash outwards in a more cerebral manner; employing what explosive energy might linger in the core of my being in an attempt to change minds and inspire others to do the same; to partake in the battle of ideas we are caught up in.

We need to show that we deserve respect and understanding, compassion and empathy. And we must stand still and strong in this storm. And in standing still we move ever forwards on our path to make our societies understand that boys and men need to be met with empathy and understanding, not ridiculed, shunned, feared and blamed when opening up. We need to turn this tide and we need to stand together to do so. What differences we may have in our core values – traditional or non-traditional, conservative or liberal, etcetera, etcetera, need to be forgotten and put aside for the moment so that we can focus our energies towards a greater good; showing that masculinity is inherently good and that men are inherently good. Cooperation across the board is what we need.

There is a mass-awakening to be done. Imagine if boys and men were met with empathetic ears and, through action, shown that it is in fact our current cultural zeitgeist that is flawed at it`s core, not them. We would see far less mass-shootings. Far less men snapping. Far less men committing suicide. Feminst doctrine have created a self-fulfilling prophecy in their toxic masculinity narrative. And, I suspect, they are intensely pleased with themselves about this fact. Men and boys need to support other men and boys. And we need to stop internalizing the constant feedback-loop of hostility and negativity we are met with. Make the feminists live by their own rules by stating, quite simply: «If you belive that the genders should be treated equally, then you ought to start treating the genders equally». Or do not engage at all; there is no use in debating someone who has no interest in listening; who`s only concern is to speak and to have their voices heard at the expense of the voices of others.

If something is OK to be said about men in general, then it is OK to be said about women in general. If it is not suitable to be said about women in general, then it is not suitable to be said about men in general. Use their rulebook against them. Do not internalize hatred. Be strong. Be proud. Be yourself. And never let anyone condition you into believing that your masculinity is toxic. Stand still, holding a candle of self-respect to your heart and whisper to yourself: «Non serviam».

I will not serve.

For the sake of myself, I will not serve.

– Moiret Allegiere, 19.01.2019

______________________________________________________________________________________________

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You can do better: on crybully asphalt rites and peace without peas.

coffee a3 lowres

Ill: «Coffee»,A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

A wild, wandering schoolyard bully comes of age through asphalt rites of gravel, mud and tears. She grows into the festering mold of mad, rupturing mycellium and hides her own insecurities in the safety of her projection that others are just as rotten and useless as she is. And through her veil of tears we are baptized in the gravel of her cottonmouthed words; a lingering foul odour of death and decay from her abysmal baptismal claws and painted cheeks. Grown up lost in the space-time continuum and seeking no solace in the self, solace comes only from reminding others of how she perceives them to be rotten, not seeing that she only recognizes the rot within herself.

Grounded not in reality but in a frantic mirage of her own design, she realizes that her own faults are not faults within herself but without herself. And so, the entire world needs to change to suit her needs. These needs change according to the flight of migrating birds, or according to the position of certain heavenly bodies of astrological significance, for instance the position of the moon, heaving and pulsating within her tremble-mind of virtue lost yet flashed dead-pan to an unsuspecting public.

And never growing past the point where she believed boys to have cooties, she lingers in statefunded institutions to teach others that boys have cooties still. And to teach her insecurities as objective fact, the closeted close-minded bully constructs gargantuan magical diagrams showing as objective fact that there are no objective facts; that only the subjective experience matters. And that is objective fact, no matter what her preaching choir sings about the dissolving of objective fact. All is subjective, except this which is objective by her design and hers alone.

And her disciples grow and flow along the same asphalt rites in which she herself was baptized in blood and tears and snot and snow; a fearful flight from introspection. The blame lies always somewhere else, and if it is not boys, it is a construct which boys created in ol` boys clubs fifteen thousand years ago, in the beginning of recorded time, subjective as the pitter-patter of tears streaming down the crybully-cheeks of her frail and delicate countenance, showing signs of shaming tactics and of shaming tacticians with magicians words that scream unfounded accusations as brilliant truths, hard as melting snow, solid as fog.

Within her own realm where nothing is truth, no truths will ever spring to mind but the truth that she is, in some way, shape or form oppressed terribly by the powerful cooties that be. The same powers that tremble and shake the very forces of the universe itself to make everything tailored to suit her everchanging needs and whims and flights of fancy. A spoiled child evaporating from the lack of the rod; never being told no and thusly never conceiving of the fact that other people have different needs and different opinions and personalities different from her own, spun round the thimbleneedle of her simpering baby-voice and childlike act.

A muttering, stuttering, perplexed and devouring parent stands over her in moonlit madness preparing ever-and-ever her bed and bedroom-stillness, checking every mattress to see if there is no pea underneath to disturb her slumber and much needed rest, frail and weak as she is. There is no pea, and yet she insists the pea is there, bright as day and clear as the bonefragments in her mirror-brain: there is a pea. If she insists, it must be true. Sorry princess, sorry – we shall bring new mattresses for you and we shall move you to a different room with a different view where no peas exist. And so it is done, and still there is a pea, conjured forth from her subjective manic pathology where all specks of dust grow into cobwebbed multitudes of trials and tribulations to be overcome by her and her alone, which she alone must face, and pity her in the grimness of this nightmare world which she must travail in horrid and deplorable whimsical fancies.

And as one, all voices rise to meet her demands, and proclaim that all peas shall be outlawed, lest they disturb her slumber. That some people might prefer to eat peasoup and object to this banning of all things pea-related is proof without doubt that there is a vast conspiracy to ruin her life for her and only her. Clearly, these people are out to get her and clearly they can not possibly like peas. Clearly, this is some madness they have been told to believe by the cootie-riddled boys of ol` boys clubs which she could not enter in the schoolyard years of her growing and developing temperament. Ban all peas: they are hurtful to her and others like her. And the objections to this banning is proof of this. If you like peasoup, you hate her. And by hating her, you hate all women. Liking peas is likened to hating all who do not like peas, and all who do not like peas are only her and those like her; her tribe of clean and sober right-thinking haters of peas, both personal and public. The logic is infallible in its infinite infantile infrastructure.

Orobouros shall be the symbol of the new dawn. Grand peaburnings are afoot. All cheer and marvel at this wild and tribal magic: the peas go up in flame, and now the world shall know peace at last, and our schoolyard bully, ravaged and ruined by the peas, shall be left in perpetual peace in this lack of peas.

That is, of course, until she notices that there are monsters in her closets when she sleeps. These monsters peak in at her while she is sleeping, and they disturb her sleep and her slumber and her peace of pealess mind. And so, they to must be removed by some stroke of some brush or some sledgehammer-justice doled out to crumbled cabinets and closets lurking in the corners of bedrooms world-over. And the whole thing starts over again. Her subjective knowledge trumps the clear objective fact of the matter. There are monsters in her closets, so we must ban closets. All must be banned, all the time, all over the world, to rid the world of monsters and cooties and emptyheaded disturbances infringing on her rights to sleep in her bed in complete and utter peace, with no peas and no monsters and no peace of mind but the piece that left with the peas and the monsters in the closets.

And who would have thunk it; the ol` boys club to which she protests and objects, which she claims hate her and all the others like her, wriggle in their seats in terror at her terror and, with a wish to protect her as much as her doting, overprotective parents did and do, they conspire to rid the world of her grievances as much as humanly possible. Peaburnings and closet-and-cabinet smashings are now written into law, mandated and enforced by violent thugs marching in uniform synchronicity through streets illuminated by the constantly combusting flames fuelled by her internal combusting engine; the burning of all things which offend her delicate bully-sensibilities and the enforcement of her will by the powers to which she object ever so much; the long violent arm of the ol` boys club which also must be torn down for their constant ignoring of her pleas for pealess peace in perpetuity; her clinging to catatonic cravings for a constantly cabinet-and-closet free cosmos.

Through her wishes and through her immaculate visions of peace from her psychologically projected rot, the world turns clinically clean and sterile. A cleanliness maintained through force via the evaporating deathgrip of a crybully choking the life out of everything; a boot stomping on a human face forever and ever, maintaining an illusion of freedom through freedom being gradually eroded by a voice whispering in cold shivers: save us from ourselves: we can not tolerate disagreements.

Moiret Allegiere, 12.01.2019

Is this really what you want to do with your life?

Lost at sea lowres A3

Ill: «Lost at sea», A3, 2018, Moiret Allegiere

 

Is this really what you want to do with your life?

To live in a constant state of inner turmoil brought on by opinions whose very existence you deem inappropriate to the maximum and offensive to the extreme? To seek out ever new and ever fresh occassions of offense so that you are free to flaunt your virtue and to stand atop your hill of moral superiority in order for everyone within the immediate zone of your selfimposed social-media-madness to judge and consider you to be of the highest moral standing and highest moral standard; to wave the elusive banner of justice immaculate and immediate in front of marching brigades of hysterically screeching butthurt tater-tots? To be caught in a crossfire of ever increasing infringements on what people may say or do so as not to hurt anyones vapourcloud-feelings; to pour ever more gasoline on the evergrowing fires of discontent and then fan the flames with religious fervour, all in an attempt to be seen as the most upstanding, most moral, most chaste cloud of the collective?

Is this really what you want to do with your life?

To live in a selfinduced bubble of stress and maniac madness gathered from the cloudshare storage of your fellow moral crusaders for part-time truths and post-justice justice; to look over your shoulder constantly lest the mad brigades come for you as well in the trenches of this war of fragility which you fight?

You may believe that they won`t.

But they will.

Come time, they will.

They will seek you out like sharks smelling blood in the water the moment you say anything that goes contrary to one tenet or other of the holy church of offense-seekers and victim-warriors; always looking to get atop the highest vantagepoint of victim-mountain, to become – essentially – king or queen of the hill and don the papal hat of victim superior. Ave, Ave, Victimas. This selfinflicted paranoia-induced stress ain`t good for you, you know! Don`t you ever get tired of selfcensoring so as not to upset the anthill, so as not to paint a target on your back for the predatory beasts to sniff out in dramatic re-enactments of past lynch-mob seekers of post-truth mob justice? Are you not tired of these cult-like patterns of thought?

Is this really what you want to do with your life?

To never delve deeply into the depths of your convictions and think things through properly? To never measure the foundations of your beliefs against something other than what you have already decided is good and pure and proper and true? Don`t you ever feel like plunging deeply into the murky waters of ideas; the darkest, deepest depths of intellectual curiousity and challenge yourself through internal monologues turned internal dialogues with some other part of your soul, chained away in the basement begging to come to the forefront and ask you a few questions?

You know – some questions just to shine a light on some things. See where you really stand. What really matters. Is the prospect of the depths of your own intellectual capacity frightening to you? It must be simpler, plainer, easier to take the quick-and-easy route towards social acceptance by riding the wave and saying what others say, repeating chants and drones and mantras, superficially sounding reasonable and just and moral. It is all for the greater good. The superficial greater good. And that is just it: superficial. Callous. Immediate. A product of attentionspans left out in the woods to be ripped apart by wolves and bears. The quick one-upping brought on by immediate gratification. The instantaneous dopamineburst of instantaneous action; jumping on the bandwagon of whichever moral outrage is popular at the present moment, never for one single moment stopping to think if this is really worth it, if this is really something that warrants this level of moral outrage. Because thinking things through takes time, and time is of the essence lest the case-in-point disappear into the misty waters surrounding the island of immediacy and noone acted, noone got their dopamine-burst and thus their fix for the evening. Them withdrawals are such a bitch. Gotta keep on your toes. Gotta keep them shots coming; perpetual gratification-junkies – exceptionally addicted to feeling righteous flames fanned in the superficial rewardcenters of the reptilian mind.

Is this really what you want to do with your life?

To scream obscenities at those who did nothing but disagree with you? To attack their characters and their personhood, never once attacking their arguments? To never listen when someone is attempting to share their opinions and their views, instead waiting for them to stop talking – or yelling in their faces until they do – so that you can spew whatever ready-made and pre-assembled grunts of arguments you gathered from someone else, somewhere else in the undying cloudstorage of your fellow outrage-afficianados?

Riding the wave is a thrill and a bliss; all that woozy and wollen social approval gathered through likes and shares and comments galavanting your way, to tell you that you are such a good and decent person; so clean and uncorrupted and untouched by the foul fascists hiding behind every single deluminated keyboard, seeking to oppress and destroy your hivemind-virtue by asking a simple question or stating a simple fact which you have deemed, through no thought of your own, a non-fact.

It is so easy, so simple and so outstandingly powerful to dismiss someone immediately as a fascist, a nazi, a misogynist, a racist, a sexist, a transphobe, a whatever. To make them defend themselves instead of the argument. Such a cheap trick, and so effective if one is not expecting it.

Yet, you never stopped to think that these words have lost all meaning through their overuse. And you never stopped to think that these are the tactics of people with no depth behind their arguments and opinions; to attack the person making the argument instead of the argument itself. It proves nothing but your own inability to consider a different point of view; to question yourself and to ponder – deeply – what you consider absolute truth. Don`t you ever think that this madness will stop at one point or other; that the foundation of your movement – such as it is – is built on sand and mud, and that it will all slip away and come tumbling down in a incredible earshattering implosion of blood and hysteria?

Where there is only superficiality, there is no depth. And where there is no depth, there are no roots to seek nourishment to keep the goddamned thing alive. Your castles are crumbling. We can see it. We can see it through the constant infighting amongst your groups. We can see it through the everexpanding nonsense of your outrage. We can see it through your ever more blatant hypocrisy and doublestandards. We can see it through the steadily approaching turning of the tide. Some beliefs have depth. Some beliefs have roots that seek nourishment and find it. Others do not. Anything built on the immediacy of the event will not stand up to scrutiny. Your grapes are dying on the vines. The times, as they say, are a-changin`.

And why are you allergic to simple facts of life merely because they run counter to your beliefs and your feelings? That you feel something is untrue does not make it so. That you feel something is true does not make it so. Some facts are facts. And denying these facts because they make you feel bad is ignorance at best and absolute selfishness at worst. Reality does not have to bend and twist to conform to your personal feelings and beliefs. It is hard to imagine anything more vacuous and selfish than demanding reality itself change to suit your needs. Goddamnit, get a grip! Children think like this. Not grown-ass adults.

Is this really what you want to do with your life?

To fight a battle you will lose because you are constantly changing the goalposts so that noone will ever have the time or the ability to follow through with anything? To levvy ever more demands for protection and pampering in ways which I can best describe by refering to Helen Lovejoy of simpsons fame and her own moral outrage; manifested in seven simple yet effective words: «Won`t somebody please think of the children?!?»; screeched hysterical with no thought, no rhyme, no reason. Merely appealing to affect. Blind to anything else. This is exactly what you and your brigade of rampaging thugs are doing. Think of the children; think of these poor people with no voice of their own whom I, in my grandiosity and grandstanding, care and compassion have decided to speak on behalf of!

Of course, without considering that these poor oppressed people whom you dare speak on behalf of may not be in agreement with you, and may not even want you to speak on their behalf. Do you really believe yourself to be the voice of entire groups of people? Or do you perhaps consider these people so stupid, weak and feeble as to be unable to speak on their own behalf? Well – that speaks more about you than it does the ones you claim to protect.

Do you really want to be lost in a hodge-podge vacuumchamber, insulated against the outside world so that you never have to ask yourself simple questions such as: «Maybe I am wrong about this»?

Is this really what you want to do with your life?

Never consider, and always assume? To paint the ones who disagree with you with the broadest brushstrokes imaginable; painting them as haters of women, or racists, or nazis or whatever suits your needs at that particular moment. Dismiss as hatred that which you do not even care to consider. Simple and easy. Dehumanize and carry on. Disregarding what genuine concerns may be there in order to caress and rub the clitoris of your own sense of affective and superb morality. There is no easier way to win than to consider your opponent as less-than; as not worth consideration.

Do you really want to float adrift on a sea of hatred and bigotry throughout your life because you have decided, within your echochambers, that a certain segment of the population is composed entirely of people so privileged that their concerns and needs need not be met? That it is OK to hate and vilify, seek out and destroy, an entire segment of the population merely because you have deemed them less-than-human through decades of lies and slander, shaming and hate?

Or is it maybe so that you dare not gaze within yourself because you would then be bare to yourself, and all your hatred and all your selfish bigotry and dehumanizing rhetoric would stand naked in front of you and you would see yourself true and through and the incredible shame and the overwhelming sensation of your own abhorrent hatred would flood into you and fill you with regret and paralyzing shame so that you are left in a catatonic state of despair brought on by the ugliness of your soul?

Introspection ain`t pretty when one has blamed the outside world for ones own shortcomings all ones livelong life. It comes highly recommended, though. Try it, and you may soon come to realize the importance of thinking things through at great depth and at great lengths of time. Try it, and you may soon realize that insisting the world change to accomodate your evershifting needs is selfishness and not selflessness; that immediate gratification is a fleeting thing and that the things that last are things that are built across eternal rivers of time, externally as well as internally.

She claims me to be filthy

Guilty A4 lowres

Ill: «Guilty», A4, Moiret Allegiere, 2018

 

She claims me to be filthy. Words like hers cut through flesh and bone and then follows through by grinding straight down to blood and stone. Struck blind by calligraphy-stillness, radiant concentration evaporates from her mouth, quivering monotheistically. Believe,she says, as she claims me to be filthy. Words rising from the gutter, reaching straight into the sun, fragrant dew settles cold-like and still on my forehead as I find myself labouring under the unaltered presumption of guilt. Crawling, creeping, yearning, the ooze of condemnation and damnation creeps in, closer now, closer still, towards the end. She says that I am filthy, clinging wildly to aerial telepathy; weird, unplugged daytime television psychopathy. Myriads of canned laughter and fragile upbeat hysteria, a cacophony of ravaging screeches. Her words are words, and so truth is spoken: hammer down, beat by beat, sledgehammer, cold whammer, straight to the slammer. Hoho. Bam. Bam. Muscles ache, mind melt, then break out into frantic spasms; odd feverish sacrificial rituals unfold behind my closed eyes. Assisted in her words and deeds by frenzied media outlets building up undefined ferocity in public eyes, bloodshot and close to catatonic. She claims me to be filthy.

She claims me to be guilty. Never have I ever heard words with such incredible power. Unbelievable, downright inconceivable in their unchallenged might! Her malignant madness made manifest through her manic, mischievous magicians words, would see all and one bow down and accept her unfounded words as absolute truth. No doubt. No need to pause and consider. No doubt. Wondrous world, how sweet thou art. How innocent and flowerlike, how like a willow whipped by the wind. How her delicate petals have whilted. Should I compare thee to a… long fingernails like claws dug deep into my brain, escaping yet the clutches of paranoid delusion, but only just. Grasping, no, clinging to a juvenile past of forgotten fancies, flushed down the drain and drawn exhaustively from the dying of the light. A ferocious claim of bygone guilt dragged up from the deep recesses of time immemorial. A past galloping, passing by, bygone days, forgotten eras of the here-and-now where here-and-now mattered and clumsy teen angst passed as charmed offense, given, not taken. Memories fail, come time. She claims me to be guilty.

Frightened and whipped mercilessly in the town square for all to see, I float away on the certainty of my innocence. Strange discourse, strange words, stranger sentences still grip my throat, squeezing, squeezing, choking. I have become unknown, undecided, unwanted, leper-like and shunned. Smell of print and tabloid-press, absurd unproven claims demand the headlines, claim the discourse, claim the papers printed on demand to feed the raging manic mobs, the hate, the smug selfrighteousness of society gripped by moral outrage, clinging to aerial telepathy, the psychic insights told it so: «He is guilty». There, in the spotlights: my name and face plastered on every wall in a wide world where there are only ever walls, to bash ones head against. Ready for judgements harsh, unthinking, unblinking. She claims me to be guilty. And so we feed the wolves, throw my name to the beasts and see them tear it limb from limb in bloodsports historical and histrionic. Enter the arena, enter the gladiators. We who are about to die, salute you… No trial, no verdict. Guilty by guilt assumed and by gender made. Guilty by nothing but her transcendent magicians words and squirmy, snakelike form, presented in drooling tear-like manners; woe is me. Goddamn, goddamn, where did it all go? Strung up in trees and lynched by frenzied pitchfork wielding maniacs unable to complete basic sentences due to their bloodlust-roars interrupting their anxious mental processes. «YOU UNCULTURED SWINE!» Anger feeds the hordes, anger selfrighteous and dubious at best. Enter barbarian hordes at mid-level societes forlorn and lost in the fight to do perceived right, to fulfill the need for perceived justice. Forgetting, in the heat of the fragmented moment of untettered lunacy, the undeniable rights of the accused. To be kept anonymous, to be considered innocent until proven otherwise. To be awarded basic humanity, a shred of common decency. Frightened now, so frightened. Be subservient. Be calm. Be focused. Don`t lose your cool. Don`t lose your… anything. Stay calm, collected, concentrated. Anything can be used against you, will be used against you, will become a knife to slit your throat with. Your own anger is immaterial when measured against the furious anger of the unquestioning and unquestioned hordes. You have no right to be angry, get upset, show emotion of any kind. Emotion is their right, not yours. Float away on hollow prayers and drowning wishes, spreadeagled and crucified long before truth and justice done and potential sentence served. And yet, and yet, I am innocent. I claim. I know. Might as well piss my words into the wishy-washy wind of the abysmal void. The court of public opinion deemed it so: guilty. Looming over me, shadows and blood, dust and bones. `cause the presses told it so, presented it so. No anonymity, no safetynet, no nothing. They claim me to be guilty.

They claim me to be guilty. Hungry wolves unleashed. Fangs glinting in the light of this eternal wolves moon. Howling outside my doors, the choir infernal towards damnation calls. Hoofprints in the snow. Drooling madness and calls for punishment, calls for my head, detained, then smashed, then destroyed. Trample, trample, skull and bones, death and destruction, assassination of character, of personhood and humanity. I have become none, have become noone, have become persona non grata ungratified. Still on the wind: laughtracks galore. Canned laughter turning to spinechilling howls. An entire world told what to think by biased presentations, even now clinging to aerial telepathy. Over and over. On and on. Do not presume, for one moment, that you will be allowed anonymity. Do not assume, for one moment, that you will be considered innocent until proven otherwise. The blood seeps into the ground, the wolves lap it up, then pray for more, more, even more. And here we go, rollercoaster rides, the signalling come, the virtue done, holier than thou and clean, on earth as it is in heaven. So clean, so clean as to be elevated to sainthood and later godhood. They know me to be guilty long before a trial, long before a sentence, long before I get to present my case. Barricade the doors, shut the windows, close the curtains, dim all lights, disappear, do not appear, do not call out for them to hear. They will not listen. They will not see. They refuse. You will not speak. They refuse. The world is faulty calamity, weird whines and howls. In the heat of the moment, at the pitch of the note, we forgot due process, the presumption of innocence, the right to not be locked in the laughing stock and pelted with rotten fruit. At the turning of the page, we forgot to think and so we skipped three pages, or more, glued together by drool and righteous dribble. Jumping straight to the conclusion, no further evidence needed, your honour. Filthy, guilty. And yet, there we go and here we are: there is no sense of right no more, merely justice legionaire, plentiful, hysterical. My name is broken, ruined, raptured, ravaged, long before any reason came out to play in gardens green and lush. My bones are fractured, eyes gouged out and tongue ripped out of my mouth by thongs burning with the flame of maladjusted societal upheaval. She claims. And so it must be true. No bouncing back, no coming back. Life is ended, done and dusted. `cause she claims me to be filthy, and they claim me to be guilty. The courts of public opinion, driven by the whips of their ascended god-emperor mediamasters, decadent and above criticism, have deemed me guilty and thusly raped my name with barbwire-dildos cut from treelike cacti.

Bedridden. Anxious. Shaking. I think I`ve lost weight. Haven`t slept for eighteen months. Colder than hell. The walls are closing in. Her words still ring through loudspeakers, maniac presence, crazy eyes and doctored voice. Still there, in waking, still there in sleeping. The circle is closing in. There is no escape. There is nothing left. She claims me to be guilty, fatigued, drained of colour and drained of love and life and love for life. My name still howled at the coming of the harvest moon. Drag me to the altar, drive the knife into my heart. No matter to go, no where to go, now where to go? This endless loop, a M.C. Escher drawing of a hangmans noose. The wild and weird and wacky adventures of evidence unseen. Somehow hidden, somehow forgotten, somehow not considered. I cling to warm memories, the ebb and tide of time and life. Lost. Just another lost boy. Old lost boy. Aerial telepathy. Seeing mouths move, hearing noises, weird guttural groans in lew of words. Understanding nothing. Babble, rabble, dust and cobwebs. Babble, rabble, claims and snakes. Arms and legs shackled. Stuck to the floor – Words flow, words shine, words trickle down and trickle up. Holy hell; what a circus, what a grandiose display of power unmoved, untouched, unquenchable, unchallenged! What a gigantic farce. And still, she claims me to be filthy, guilty. They claim me to be guilty, filthy. Crime. Punishment. Meet our demands. Bring us our sacrifice. All meaning is lost in the vortex. Longing for justice, but what kind? Mob justice. No other kind.

Here we go. Courts in session. One, two, three, four. Come at me. Coming at me. Skull smashed. Coming at me still. Eyes droopy, gaze unfocused. Bags under my eyes. Aged seventeen years in a week. Wasting away. Skin gone pale, translucent even. I`ve turned into a shadow and a shade, a whisper on the wind. Have become unseen, unheard, invisible. Evidence presented, evidence without question. No doubt. No guilt. Beyond the wildest shadow of a doubt: there is no guilt. There is no truth to this, that I am filthy, nor that I am guilty. There is nothing further to be said, nothing more that needs to be said. Free to go. They deem me to be clean, they deem me to be innocent. Cleared of any and all charges. Leave this room. Hammer down. Hammer down. Echoing, reverbarating through my body, shining through my bones and aching muscles. Uplifted. Elevated. Ascended. Clean, clean and so free, free! Laughter forms, but turns to weeping. Cold body, hands, arms, feet, legs, cold and numb. Feeling elated. Grand. I am cleared. My name is cleared. I claim her to be filthy. I claim her to be guilty. Justice shall be served.

They claim me to be guilty still. They nail themselves to the selfsame aerial telepathy, unaccepting of the unaltered truth. Once a victim; once a sacrifice. This never changes. Life is over still, even when I am cleared and the slate whiped clean. There is no doubt, no doubt at all. My evidence to the contrary of her claims where perfect, flawless, diamond-like and vibrant. She lied. She lies still. In the back of my head, a mass of filth, cancerous and gibbering, spreads. As it does through the pack, a pack of wild wolves still howling for blood beneath the harvest moon. They claim me to be guilty still, and I will never be completely clean. She claims me to be filthy still, and remains never to be guilty herself. Justice will never be served in the grim and stonefaced apocalypse of life no longer lived. They claim me to be guilty. They have all but killed me.