The Child Within

Limited exposure lowres

Illustration: «Limited Exposure», Moiret Allegiere, 2019

 

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

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

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

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

This, I would dare say, is being childish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No matter.

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

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 08.06.2019

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The cultivation of fear. A ramble on forced fragility and manufactured frailty:

Make your own damn culture lowres

Illustration: «Make your own damn culture», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere.

 

Preface: I have a redbubble shop where some of my art can be bought, should you wish to show everyone your impeccable tastes and don the regal t-shirt-print of inscrutable style and elegance, as well as throwing some money my way for the continued glory of my ramblings: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop

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In some strange past I struggled with severe anxiety. It seems centuries ago now, looking at it with the beautiful lenses of hindsight. Understanding this type of anxiety is not easy. It should be experienced in order to understand it. Imagine being in a constant state of fight-or-flight, a body and a mind constantly tense; clockwork all wound up ready to spring into action – or retreat from action, sensing danger around every corner and in every shadow.

It should go without saying that this permanent stress, this level of heightened awareness in regards to ones surroundings, this constant over-thinking and over-analysing of situations in order to weed out any threats takes its toll on body and mind.

It is not pretty.

The results of this chronic stress, these sudden surges of adrenaline through the body, uncalled for, unwanted and unnecessary does not lend itself to good health, be that health physical or psychological. In the end, isolation seems to be the best and wisest choice to make. It seems to be the only option available; a survival tactic so as not to suffer the horrors of sudden panic, dread and despair. This just feeds the beast, as constant exposure to whatever triggers the anxiety is the only way to overcome the anxiety. Not isolation, but exposure. Isolation breeds further insanity – if you will allow me some self-deprecating humour.

The reason I am bringing this up is simple. It is the fostering and nurturing of fear, anxiety and dubious trepidation; the culture of fear crafted by feminism when gazing at the dynamics between men and women. The notion, disgusting as it is, that men and masculinity is something that women need to fear – that all men everywhere have nothing else on their mind but to assault and oppress women. It is a culture of fear, a bacterial culture handcrafted by the might and influence of an ideology whose very survival hinges on painting men as perpetrators and women as victims, forever and ever. Nurturing this fear and keeping women constantly on their toes for fear of men is not healthy. Not for women, not for men, not for society at large.

The rhetoric and false and cherry-picked statistics of feminism and their cohorts gave birth to a constant fear and mistrust between men and women. With the prime notion being that women need to fear men, and men in turn have nothing to fear from women. As the old saying goes, old as time itself: women good, men bad.

This is not, under any circumstances, a view of the genders as equal. Viewing the genders equally would be understanding – as stated time and again – that men and women both have the capacity for bad and for good. One is not worse or better than the other. Claiming that one is worse than the other, that one is better than the other, is quite the contrary of viewing and treating the genders equally. This is seen, time and again, in politics as well as the justice system, as women are given leniency in sentencing, whereas men are not. Harsher sentences for men for the same crimes as women. For women are wonderful. And men are not.

Female perpetrators of whatever crime are given excuses for their actions, more often than not. They need to be understood. Often they are painted as the real victim, because she must have been abused at some point in time. Probably by a man. Men who have been abused prior in their life, are not given leniency or understanding of the trauma. Men who do bad are simply monsters. Women who do bad are simply victims. Very peculiar.

In viewing men in this light, and women in the other light, there is no wonder that men are painted as monsters and, in being monsters, also being something that women need to fear. When men do bad – it is because they are, at heart, bad. And when one man is, at heart, bad, there is a possibility that all men are – that this is something that exist in the very nature of men. Men do bad because they are bad. Women do bad because they have been hurt by someone doing bad. And this is not equal treatment. All manner of mental gymnastics and round-about excuses do not detract from this simple fact.

When I struggled with this severe anxiety of mine – and it was severe, there is no doubt about that – it blew the fucking lid of the scales, and prompted my psychiatrist at the time to tell me that the best solution for me was isolation. Now, this is of course some terrible and horrible advice to give to someone when they are supposed to overcome some trembling and futile ailment of the psyche.

It is obvious to me now, when looking at it through a mind not muddied and clouded with medications, that he had completely given up on me – that he saw no future hope for me getting better and overcoming this nonsensical fear and trepidation of mine. It also went completely contrary to what I had read and heard about overcoming anxiety.

It is something that must be overcome through exposure, gradual at first and then – feet first into the murky and cold waters of society at large, to understand that my anxiety was driven by delusions crafted by prior experiences with people who did not – to put it lightly – wish me well or treat me well. Wallowing in these delusions did nothing but paint a picture in my mind of everyone being my enemy in some way, shape or form. When the reality is something else entirely. Most people are completely neutral towards me and my existence. Most people have more than enough with themselves.

That is the simple fact of the matter.

And so, what I did to conquer this anxiety of mine was some deep and thorough soul-searching combined with the aforementioned exposure. I had not then, nor do I have now, any interest in living a life of anxiety, fear and trepidation. And I should not wish this on anyone. Of course, I dropped any and all connection to psychiatry. To me, at any rate, they did far more harm than good.

The root cause of my issues was not examined at all. Merely a superficial fixing of the symptoms through medications and a call for isolation. Out of sight, out of mind. And me, then, through medications and maltreatment, even more out of my mind. But at the very least out of the sight of society at large. No exploration of my anxiety. No treatment either. No therapeutic path to walk, no deep dive into my psyche. Drugged into oblivion and washed away.

I can not help but think that my treatment would be far different and more empathetic had I been a woman and not a man. The emotional pain of men is something society does not wish to see. This goes for professionals as well. The emotional pain of women, however, is something society must band together to fix.

I remember reading an article, this was several years ago now. I could not dig it up if I tried. It was written by a man. The title was something along the lines of “Last night, I became a rapist”.

He did not become a rapist.

In fact, there was no sexual encounter at all.

What had happened was this: he was walking home, and was walking behind a woman who was scared of him, constantly looking over her shoulder and fearing this horrible man walking behind her. He solved this anxiety of hers by crossing the road and taking a detour on his way home so that she should not feel the discomfort of having to walk on the same pavement as a man.

Obviously, from having the same paranoid sensations myself whenever I was out walking by myself, I recognized her anxiety. And I remember thinking that he should not have to inconvenience himself due to her neurosis. He is not responsible for some random stranger and her anxiety. Had he just kept walking behind her, she could perhaps have learned something from the experience. She could have learned that not every single man out there is out to get her. She might have overcome some of the anxiety.

He ended the article, simpering and stupid as it was, by telling all men that if they walked behind a woman on their way home, they should cross the road and take a different route to get home so she should not feel this discomfort. How fucking ridiculous!

No-one ever did this for me when I was in the throes of some stupid delusional anxious fever-dream. That would be doing me a disservice. And it was doing her a disservice. And it is doing every man everywhere a disservice.

Go out of your way, men, to make the burden of walking home easier on women, lessening her neurosis for about two seconds. So she can go home and say that she was followed by some stranger on her way home, giving further credence to the feminist fear-mongering. Heh. I am saying this only partly in jest.

You have to make it harder on yourself, of course, as you have to take a detour. Then despair for being born a man and thusly the object of scorn and fear from women, who of course happen to be your superiors in every way, shape and form. What horrible objectification of men this is, viewing us as nothing but objects of terror and violence and primal sexual urges. Gaze upon the privilege granted us by being born men! The righteous privilege of being feared and shunned and scorned and ridiculed and demanded to sacrifice so that someone whom we have no ill intent towards shall feel safe based on her own neurotic delusions born from paranoid dementia in feminist rhetoric.

It is even more strange when considering the simple fact that men are far more likely to be the victims of violent assault from strangers than women are. This does not matter, of course, as we have been spoon-fed this silly lie that women are victims of violent men far more than men are. That men have nothing to fear, whereas women have all to fear. When a man attacks a woman, it is because he hates women. This is taking into consideration whether or not he has assaulted more men previously. As is very likely.

Men who experience violence is par for the course, commonplace, and something that is expected. Most every man will, at some point in their lives, experience violence. Usually from other men, this is true. I fail to see why this should matter, though. It only matters when one views the genders as being at war with one another. When men and women are on opposing teams, any violence done towards a woman by a man is an act of war, done because she is a woman and not for any other reason. In painting masculinity as toxic, any violence done upon a man by another man is further proof of the degeneracy of the opposing side. The language of feminism is the language of war-rhetoric. This side is degenerate scum, that side is pure and clean and just.

Women need not change the way they think. They need not become braver. They are free to wallow in their misery, their anxiety and their dread and mistrust of all men. Men must change the way they behave, even when it is a tiny minority of men doing bad, all men must rethink their lives and take collective responsibility for the actions of a few bad men. I fail to see how this is any different than claiming that the Jews have poisoned the well.

Women, whether as a group or as individuals, need not change a thing about themselves. The messengers of feminism have ridden into the town-square and read aloud a statement from the queen, proclaiming all women everywhere to be perfect just the way they are. No faults, no flaws, no nothing. And everything they feel is true, no matter if it is true or not. No matter if it is factual or not. There is no objective fact. All is based on subjective feeling. If you happen to be a woman. The experiences of men need not apply. Nor do the facts of the matter.

Fostering powerless women is the bread and butter of feminism, and so is forcing men to submit to the delusions of neurotic women instead of having these women face up to, understand and overcome this neuroticism of theirs. This neuroticism, this tactical usage of frailty and weakness and anxious trepidation is nothing but emotional manipulation. When you see women in positions of leadership – politicians – pretending to shake in their boots and in their knickers for some passing joke made by some passing man several months ago, it begs the question as to why anyone so frail and weak should be in that position to begin with.

One should think that anyone in a position of leadership, be they male or female, ought to be strong enough to withstand the storm. Of course not. Not when they happen to be a woman, whose frailty and weakness and fear and anxiety is nothing but a bargaining chip, a methodical manipulation of our emotions to feel pity for her and as a result of this barge in to her defence, preferably with votes or through her gofundme-account.

I should not think it too harsh a trespass on reason to actually want the leaders of a nation to be strong enough to handle a passing joke or comment without breaking down emotionally, without crying crocodile-tears and telling everyone around them how pitiful they are and how much we must pity them for having to deal with the brutish nature of these horrid men. The strength of these women are their facade of weakness. Being powerless, or rather – portraying herself as being powerless, means men barge in to protect and to provide, to save her from the horrors of being a woman in a male-dominated field. Whatever the hell that means. It is this stupidity, this nonsense, once again. This ridiculous fuckwittery of the genders being at war instead of in a state of co-operation. It bothers me, more than it probably should. Or, as my wife is wont to say, it should probably bother me way more than it does.

Alas, no – having strong and powerful leaders – that is not the beat of the funeral drum to which we march. We march beneath the banner of forced female fragility, to the tranquil rhythm of weaponized fear. The fear of men manufactured through decades of social engineering felt by all women everywhere, whose feelings are fact and not some hand-crafted frail fear and anxiety designed to gather our sympathies and our empathies and place them at their feet, to bow down before their emotional distress and say, singingly, soothingly, lovingly: “Sorry mother dear, we will behave”.

Being a man struggling with anxiety is not easy. See, there is no empathy nor understanding there from the concrete-jungles of society. Merely a push into the bubbling cauldron, boiling away at my sanity. The interesting part of it is that, of course, there must be this push, there must be this poke-and-prod to get out there and actually do something about it instead of isolation. Which is frantically fascinating to me. It is as though the behaviours were switched between the mental health professional who treated me and those around me, be they professional acquaintances or friends and family, with my psyche-docs telling me to hide away and the ones who did not understand the thing pushing and prodding, in short telling me to “man up”.

Now, this pushing and prodding did not come from a place of empathy – that much was certain, as there was no understanding of the anxiety nor any attempt to understand why I suffered this anxiety. Nothing but disbelief. And of course, the usual sentiment that I was making it up. For what gain, I never understood.

Grown men should not act like that, and so the only thing left to do was to dive into shallow waters, head first, and break my neck on impact. Then one is just left with confusion, with constantly changing messages, trite trash and a complete lack of understanding and empathy.

Men must talk about their emotions more. Even when men need not talk about their emotions. In particular not when in emotional distress or suffering emotional weakness. There is no-one there to listen. Men in emotional distress breed disgust. Particularly in the minds of those who claim to fight for equality. Telling men to open up about their emotions, and then poo-poo it as being nothing when they do creates confusion and inner turmoil.

What the old “men need to be more emotional” actually mean is for men to listen more to the emotions of women, and speak of their own emotions only in a manner deemed suitable by feminism. Which translates to admitting to their male privilege and toxic masculinity; that all the emotional distress a man may feel is born from him being a man, and nothing more. Seeing how society treat women in emotional distress in comparison to how society treat men in emotional distress is disconcerting, to say the least. Experiencing it first-hand upon ones mind and body is something else entirely, and teaches one nothing but the simple fact that one is all alone. No-one is looking out for you, even when they claim to be looking out for everyone equally.

Nurturing and fostering delusional anxiety and fear in women the way feminism does is damaging. Creating this mirage, casting this holographic picture over all of society that what any woman may feel is real, no matter the facts and the reality of the situation is severely damaging. It is also incredibly dangerous. To all but feminism, who thrive on female victimhood and see no qualms in manufacturing this fear, these delusional anxieties and holding them up, waving in the wind, as some sort of strength in women instead of it being a weakness, as some manner of fact instead of delusion.

Trembling in anxiety from someone telling a joke is not being strong. It is being severely weak. As well as lacking in humour and understanding of humour. Of course, they paint it as strength by the woman withstanding the horrors of man-joking, man-spreading, man-splaining, man-slamming, man-terrupting, man-existing or whatever. Then she gathers empathy and understanding by the bucket-load, further creating a wall between them and any criticism they may encounter by painting any-and-all criticism as an attack on all women everywhere and playing on the gynocentric nature of us all in order to build human-shields around themselves so they are free to say and to do and to spew whatever abject hatred they wish without facing any repercussions for their actions.

Kill all men.

Men are trash.

And so forth and so on.

All this while trembling in forced fear and fragility; whilst screaming strength and powerful resistance to misogyny and the patriarchy, demanding protection and pampering from the patriarchy by the forces of patriarchal evil. For they are so strong, so powerful, so fantastic in their strength and endurance that they are too frail and weak to handle criticism without yelling and screaming about male chauvinism and a society that absolutely hates women, despite treating men like second-class citizens, ordered to go out of their way to better the existence of women and women only. So incredibly oppressed by the man that all of society only listen to feminism and women on issues having to do with sex and with gender. So oppressed by the evils that men do that they are in complete control of all our institutions. So oppressed, in fact, that merely a trembling finger in the direction of a conference on men’s issues is enough to shut it down for the controversy of the thing.

Strange, that.

In this society in which men have all the power and all the privilege, whereas women and feminism hold no power and no privilege, the mere trembled mutter from the quivering lips of a feminist is enough to close down conferences on issues affecting men due to controversy – or fear of controversy. How many hoops does one have to jump through in order to pretend that men are the privileged ones, when discussion of men’s issues not seen through the wrinkled binocular lenses of feminism are deemed controversial? One should think that it would be the other way around, were the rhetoric of feminism based on truth and not lies.

Feminism have told women that they must fear all men. Creating a hostile world for men is not a problem what-so-ever. Because that would be equality, that is the pinnacle of feminism, the perplexing wonder of its beacon, its shining light, its lonely kitten-wail into the night beneath the twinkling stars of ill intent. To create, to manufacture, to nurture and make bloom a constant fear and distrust of men in the hearts and minds of women, telling them that they are children in need of constant supervision, that the state need to step in and remove responsibilities from their shoulders and place ever more on the shoulders of men. And supervise constantly all doings, all goings, all lives, be they private or public. The personal must be political. The political must be personal. Such a frightening thing to see happen. Weaponized female fragility to allow the state to meddle even more in our lives and affairs. As long as women are kept safe.

As long as men don’t matter.

And we cope with it. And we accept it. And we bite the bullet, time and again. And we put up with it and we lay our lives and our mental health on the line. Over and over again. For the safety, the benefit, the protection of women. All the while these same women shout at us to do more, that we are dangerous, that we are a material manifestation of the wickedness of the world. That we need to disregard our own safety and our own needs so that the safety of women and the needs of women be met. By our hands, the world shall be saved from us. We do not need to talk about our issues. Because we have no issues, we have no problems, we have no societal ills eating at us, picking at us, devouring us bit by bit by bit, day by day. For all their impotent raving about toxic masculinity, the forces of feminism are sure as all hell good at telling men to man up.

If you give them an inch, they will take a mile. And then they complain that they never receive anything. And they twist and they turn and they spin on the truth until truth means nothing and facts are nowhere to be found and all is a confusing mess; a neurotic network of twisted cables and forced anxiety, a culture of fear handcrafted by ideologues whose collapsing sanity and frail weakness is painted as sanity, is painted as strength and as truth and as beauty.

Look at this weak-willed woman – how strong she is!

Look at this weak-willed man, how pathetic he is!

On and on it goes. The circle has no end and no beginning. It just goes on and on for ever. Unless it is broken. And it can only be broken by not playing this game, not partaking in this ridiculous clown-world reality of ours, where weakness is strength, up is down, down is up, strength is weakness, masculinity is toxic, even when masculinity is called forth to save the poor women who can never be toxic, unless influenced by some man more powerful than she is. Weak as she is, weak at the knees.

Let us all fall down on our knees and weep and tremble in fragile fear together.

The future of our societies is one in which anxiety, fear, trepidation and delusion is celebrated and shown to be strength. Where standing in the storm, surviving the trials of life by trudging ever forwards and not giving up, not giving in, but being strong in adversity is made out to be toxic behaviour.

Oh, mama, the path towards the future is paved with the frantic waving of anxiety; the celebration – not overcoming – of mental illness, a wallowing in fear and fever, in despair and weakness. Used to be we had to learn how to cope. Now we have to learn how not to cope. For if we cope, if we learn to cope and if we teach other people how to cope, the powerful will lose their power. For the powerful do thrive and grow on fear and fanaticism. There is much strength in female weakness. The sight of a woman in distress sends any man into protect-mode, running on overtime, and he will do whatever he can to save her from whatever imagined ill she is labouring beneath.

And the feminist hive-mind know this, even when they paint men as the enemy. They know that men will do whatever they can in order to ease the suffering of a woman. And they play and they prey upon this exact thing, upon this drive in men.

Too bad that so many of us are beginning to see this for what it is.

Too bad that more and more are waking up to this fact.

Even if it is slow-going.

Even if it takes forever.

Even if it will take an entire generation to undo the societal damage done by feminism, whose roar and screech and weaponized fear and weakness created a generation of perpetual victims incapable of looking at themselves, incapable of thinking inwards, incapable of doing anything but perpetuate the constant war, keeping the narrative going of men as the forces of evil and women as the forces of good.

We have always been at war with Eurasia.

War is peace.

Freedom is slavery.

Ignorance is strength.

The stability of feminism and their stranglehold on everything rely on keeping the status quo up and running; the view of men as eternal victimizers, strong and able and powerful, and women as perpetual victims, frail and weak and powerless.

There has to be a war between the genders. Otherwise, what is the point of feminism? Where should they then get their money, their power, their might, their influence? Where should they get their manipulative kicks and desires, if everyone woke up to this scam of theirs?

Just keep painting women as wonderful victims, then, and claim this to be strength.

Just keep painting men as horrible perpetrators, then, and claim this to be reasonable.

Just keep pushing for women to be treated better than men, then, claiming this to be equality.

Just keep telling the same old story; demonizing men and masculinity, sanctifying women and femininity, labelling it equal treatment.

Then wait.

Then look.

Then see what happens when your paper-castles crumble, your straw-men all fall down, and your gargantuan global industry comes crashing down around you to the sound of cheers and applause from those who finally woke up from their state-induced coma, driven, in no small way, by your propaganda.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 25.05.2019

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Fear and Loathing on the Educational trail:

snackbreak lowres

Illustration: «Snackbreak», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2019

 

There is a certain level of dangerous absurdity, or absurd danger, in education. Considering the climate in places of education – be that education primary, secondary, or higher – where men are concerned, one would be hard-pressed not to understand why men are dropping out of higher education at alarming rates. When all one is faced with as a male student is hostility directed at ones gender, either covertly or overtly, the easiest path to tread is to burn out, drop out and fade away into obscurity, leaving what could possibly be ones own brilliance in a field to rot in a vacant lot in some hellish ghettoised suburbia.

Higher education was not something that appealed to me in any way, shape or form. Lectures and sitting still and not doing anything for hours on end but listen to some holier-than-thou authority drone on endlessly does not come easy to me. I am far too fidgety. I also happen to be one of those arseholes who believe in autodidacticism in no small way. Chalk that one up to a high level of distrust in authority on my part, I suppose. May be a flaw, may be a strength. It depends on the situation at hand.

Either way – flaw or strength – the path I wished to tread through life was very clear for me from an early age. That path would be the thorny, bushy, broken and difficult path of art. Despite my love of literature and my love of writing, I find visual art to be the most appealing to me, both aesthetically and practically. It gives my nimble fingers and fidgety nature something to do, and provides a fantastic outlet for whatever is going on in my ramshackle psyche at that moment in time.

I believed, with all my thorny-bushy pride and artistic integrity, that studying art would be suitable for my nature; all anti-authoritarian dreamery and eccentric shaman-shape. I honestly thought that this would be a haven for just such a repugnant freak as myself. Now; studying art in any academic sense was out of the question; dry lectures on dry art history in dry halls with dry professors and dry paintings with dry interpretations beneath dry roofs of dry academic arrogance and humourless wisdom accumulated from dry and dusty tomes of prior dry art history did not appeal to me in the slightest.

I wanted the practical approach to art – as I do in most things; a practical and efficient approach to life in general. This is not to say that there is no room for theory – of course there is. I would not be reading and writing as much as I do, if I did not place value on theory. It is, however, the practical approach that appeals the most to me. And a practical approach to art means that I get to create art, which is – excepting writing, bending over in anguished pain, and producing alcoholic beverages – the only thing I’m any good at in life.

And so I applied to, and got accepted into a liberal art school of no ill repute. Judging by the reviews and this schools eloquent and fanciful self-promotional material, it seemed to be a perfect place for me to enter and so expand my nerve-twitching approach to art. I wanted to learn how to create, and also to be free to create. Considering my highly introverted nature and severe social anxiety at the time, I thought this would be a great place where such things as forced socialization so common in education – at least where I’m from – would not be in bountiful supply. I just wanted to be left in relative solitude to tinker with my things and to let others tinker with their things.

This is not, of course, to say that I do not enjoy being social. It means that I enjoy my solitude and enjoy the company of a few like-minded friends. There should not be anything wrong with this. And boy, how wrong I was in thinking this.

Opening the doors into this school was a learning experience in no small way. I ascended the stairs and in so doing descended into hell. This was prior to my red-pilling. At this point in time, through years of – quite literally – indoctrination and brainwashing from prior incarcerations in schools, I was a feminist. Why wouldn’t I be, considering the hardships and horrors women had to face whilst men had it so easy through life that we literally had no issues, and if we had issues it was due to other men and due to being men ourselves, which could easily be remedied by not acting like a man all the time. No easy task, to be honest, when one is born a man.

Now, this self-defeating philosophy of feminism instilled into me a self-defeating self-loathing which I could not name at the time for the simple reason that I did not know it at the time. It is a weird thing to ponder, considering my current stance on the cosmic horror that is feminism. I was blinded by the light and so did not understand that the light was only put in place to mask the darkness behind, beneath and above, engulfing all of the light. It was presented in schools from teachers not the least bit ashamed nor afraid to present their own personal political beliefs as the grand truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me Jezebel.

Feminism had been intravenously injected into our very young and eager minds as the only path to equality between the genders; a steady drip-drop of arsenic concealed behind blissful morphine telling us that women had all the issues, men had none of the issues and so boys must do all they can to make the lives of girls easier. There is no gendered discrimination in treating girls better on a systemic level, we were told for years uncounted. Because that is nothing but levelling the playing field, dont’cha know, and that is all there is to it.

I feel stupid, falling for it and being ensnared by it for so many years, despite the evidence to the contrary of the claims of feminism being so prominent, so obvious and so right-in-your-fucking-face as to be impossible to not see unless one chooses willingly not to see it. But that is the power of indoctrination, that is the power of allowing one ideology to become so powerful as to be virtually untouchable, that is the power of being able to hide the dark, evil, bloodstained beast behind the inscrutable saying; the holy no-true-scotsman-fallacy of “not real feminism”.

As we all should know by now, there is no real communism, and there is no real feminism. “But that’s not real communism.” “But that’s not real feminism”. Spouted as sucker-punch jargon all the while the world burns and people die and nothing is done about it due to ideologues being completely blinded by the light fantastic. It is a frantic wilful blindness to the vapid insanity of ideology slowly becoming dogmatic religion; cult-like in thinking and so infused with either-or pictograms that it crossed the bridge of fanaticism aeons ago.

In this school of art, I might as well have studied feminist dance therapy. I might as well have studied the eradication of masculinity. I might as well have studied shit under a microscope. Come to think of it; studying shit would have given me a far better understanding of art than my two years of art-school ever would or could. For one very simple reason: art was not the important topic in this school of art. Feminism, political correctness and what would later be dubbed social justice warriors were. The very simple pleasures of doing art took the back-seat as a sledgehammer approach to feminism took the front-seat, riding shotgun with all the radical feminist theory one could ever hope to have dripped in ones ears and forced down ones throat, or up any other orifice of ill repute.

Obvious disclaimer time; this is anecdotal. This is personal experience. I have no evidence to show for what I experienced but a re-telling of what I experienced. Looking to the stats, numbers and so-and-such in any area of education, excepting only a few, will prove without a shadow of a doubt that men are dropping out of education. Looking even further beyond the rainbow-coloured lenses of feminism and into the environment created on schools all across the western world by the forces of feminism, and one will quickly come to the realization that my personal experience is an experience shared by many a man bold enough as to believe that studying a field will mean that they get to study in that field, give or take some details.

Now, imagine if the world gave a damn about the experiences of men, be that one man as an individual or men as a whole. If that were the case, this blatant hatred of men would not be tolerated, would not be accepted and would not be celebrated. And yet it is, and the furious forces that be have the gall to claim, have the auspicious audacity to claim, that we live in a world where only the voices of men are heard, to the detriment of women!

What a wonderful, topsy-turvy, grand collapse of sanity one must celebrate and gather around to believe in this abhorrent nonsense when the evidence to the contrary is so obvious. That is what happens, I suppose, when one instils into impressionable young minds the damsel in distress trope and the chivalrous knight needed to save her.

…All the while complaining about the damsel in distress trope and the chivalrous knight needed to save her…

And then daring to brand this as something new, when it is nothing but the same-old-same-old expectations of gallant chivalry and male self-sacrifice we are so accustomed to seeing; demands placed on men to help women at the sacrifice of themselves. Demands placed on women to help themselves and other women at the expense and detriment and social de-valuing of men.

There is expected responsibilities for men to carry all the burdens of the world, and then some. There is expected freedom for women to place all the burdens of the world, and then some, on the tense and fractured shoulders of men.

Instead of responsibilities and liberties being shared.

All this granted by the holy goblin-ghost of feminism, whose stout and stalwart onwards march into the midst of our civilization have made them able to cease the means of production and create a global mythology that sees them – and only them – as the only force striving for equality, even when that equality means female supremacy; the hoisting up of one on the shoulders of the other. This trickling down into our schools and then into the minds of pupils and of students, is incredibly dangerous. It leaves no room for nuance, teaching only the absolutist thinking of feminism and portraying not only men, but masculinity as a whole, as the one destructive force in our world – the only negative and the core reason for all our woes and terrors. No Pandora’s box here; no multitude of reasons and complex complexities of humanity to contend with and to ponder and to consider. Nope. Only men as the problem. This it is, and nothing more.

But I digress.

The first six months or so in this school went fairly well. All fanciful introductions and clever displays of “look how free-form and free we are; how open-minded and so-and-such.” Of course, the feminist rage and hatred was very prominent, constantly boiling beneath the surface and the layer of scum, popping ever so often to the surface in swift and fell swoops designed to shame the men therein for being men, evidenced by needless meandering and monologues from the teachers – not labelled “teachers”, but “educators” for some reason – when they were to showcase their art, all ferocious feminist fancies and ill-conceived vapid silliness brought on by what I can only deem a wish and a longing to be oppressed and persecuted for their gender were they female, or a longing to prove themselves worthy men were they male.

After a while it became obvious that the progressive stack was in full fucking force within the walls and sheltered halls of this institution of indoctrination. Or, that is to say, it would have been had I the words to explain the situation and the madness at the time. I did not, and though it felt wrong at some visceral gut-level, I could do nothing but nod in dumb-struck agreement; to go with the flow of cerebral nothingness shown in so-called art and in so-called introductions to art where they – as feminist virtue-signallers are known to do – could not shut up about gender for more than three seconds at a time, using gender and political leanings as the basis for their judgement of art and not the work of art in and off itself.

I am doing my best not to reveal the identity of anyone. My gripe is with ideology and with bad ideas, not with individuals. As a general rule, I am not interested in going after individuals. I am interested in going after the ideas and the ideology, as that seems to me to be the best path to tread. Keeps me out of trouble, and keeps others out of trouble as well.

I find myself hard-pressed, however, in this instance. As revealing the position of certain teachers within this school might also reveal their identity. Thus, I stay away from revealing their positions as well. I think that is only fair.

Things turned on their head at around the six month mark, and the hostility towards men became more tangible, an electric buzz tasted at the tip of my tongue and in the back of my throat as the blood rose and the fever worsened. A madness seemed to descend upon the school; all gripped in the holier-than-thou attitude of being untouchable, and as such allowed to say and to spew whatever they wished, as long as it was said and spewed towards men, capitalism and some perceived beast of right-wing leanings.

I think one anecdote is good enough to paint a decent picture of the goings-on. My art tend to be fairly personal. This is usually done to battle personal demons. Of course, I do my best to make the art look beautiful and be relatable to those who view it as well. Beauty is of no importance when it comes to art – as we all know, who have seen modern art devolve into a piece of shit within a glass-container.

I had done some drawing or other of a personal nature, drawing on my experiences with severe insomnia, only to be met with the judgement from one of the teachers that it was so personal that she felt sick looking at it.

Now, criticism is criticism. I did not expect to study art and not meet negative criticism of my art. That would be absurd. And so I did not think about this too much, until the very same teacher praised to high heavens a piece of art done by a female student, just as personal as the art I had done – albeit coarser and more, I would say, in-your-face than mine. If memory serves, it was not a bad piece of art at all. But that is not the point. The point is that she was touted as being brave and strong and courageous for creating something this personal and sharing it like she did. So; my personal art made the teacher in question feel “sick”, as she put it. A female student’s personal art, however, was praiseworthy for her courage in doing exactly what I did to make this teacher sick through my art. You get my point.

Men, being severely privileged by nature, can not have any issues worth anything to the mind of a feminist, and so when men have personal issues, they would rather not know about it. All empathy, understanding and praise must go to the female students, as empathy, understanding and praise is a finite resource to the minds of people who view everything in terms of power-dynamics and not in terms of mutual respect and equal treatment. Balancing their imagined scales by giving praise in the direction of women and scorn in the direction of men.

At around the same time – at the six month mark – I met my future wife in this school; we were in the same class and hit it off almost instantly. Both of us being highly introverted probably contributed a lot to us hitting it off so good. And so we became a couple. This, it seems, is the greatest grievance ever and the worst trespass I could ever have done both to this school and to this poor unfortunate woman who had fallen into my cunningly laid trap and been swayed into my arms and eager mouth, waiting to devour and corrupt her.

The teachers at this haunted mansion, infused with the essence of the feminine divine and the feminist gospel, did all they could to keep us apart and break us up. I wish I were joking. But I am not. I wish I were making this up. But I am not.

Some of our fellow students partook in this as well, which I find to be fairly interesting. Now – to be fair, I do not have any evidence that this was fanned by the teachers, or if they just felt the general direction the winds were blowing and wished to gain favours with the teachers.

Teachers pets are not an uncommon thing, and doubly so, it seemed, at this shack of a school, all Gothic towers and underlying sense of doom rivalling a short story from Edgar Allan Poe.

When teachers go on friendly visits to their students in their past-time, some foul smell of favours and corruption and favourable corruption is not exactly without their merit.

And yet, and of course, it must be mentioned that us both being highly introverted also meant that we kept ourselves to ourselves mostly, and so did not take part in the grand collective too much. This, by default and by definition placed the role of “outsiders” upon us. Which is kinda funny considering the archetypal outsider-role of the artist generally speaking.

When once one is deemed an outsider, it is easy to also earn the wrath and the ire of most. Somewhere, somehow, upon someone, fault must be laid and blame must be placed. It seems very human, in all honesty. It is a tale as old as time. However; when teachers, who are supposed to treat all students equally, misuse their authority and take part in the caning and the shaming of the outsiders, something is lost and broken which should not be lost and broken. And I would dare make the claim that it is not the job of teachers to meddle in the personal life and affairs of students. In particular when those students are of age, and are mature, and so should be left alone to do with their lives as they wish to do with their lives and with their time of study as they wish to do with their time of study. As long as whatever is supposed to be done in study is done, that should be the extent of their meddling.

This was not the case. And the mutual introverted natures of my future wife and myself were enough for the teachers to pass judgement most foul upon me for being a man so horrid and so offensive as to dare be in a loving relationship with someone of the female persuasion.

As time moved on, the hostility became ever more apparent. And so did the attempts to keep my future wife and me apart.

I could go on and on about lectures, supposedly about art, bringing up feminism and male-female power-dynamics, and the horrors of masculinity ad infinitum. I could go on and on about the shaming of men so common now, and so common then. I could mention the feminist seminar which which was taking place, prominently advertised at our school, and the shaming of a male student who wished to attend this by a female teacher who made it very clear that she did not think he had any place there. I could mention the visiting artist supposed to have a presentation showcasing his artistic endeavours being browbeaten by a teacher in the audience for daring to state his support of the state of Israel, halting the entire presentation in order for this teacher to showcase his moral superiority and derailing the entire presentation into a mass-shaming of this poor artist who just wished to talk about his art.

The political correctness ran rampant, and I was stupid enough to take part in the political correctness. I was suckered into the follies of the PC-police, despite being assaulted by it at the same time. It is the powers of indoctrination, of brainwashing, showcasing itself yet again. The horrible, nagging feeling of this being wrong was overshadowed by the glorious sensation of being in the right, of doing something good and proper and true.

I am ashamed to admit it.

But that is the way it was.

Now, in my defence, I did not verbally assault anyone. Nor did I act like we now see the hive-mind social justice warriors do. I did not reach that point of insanity, not by a long stretch. But the foundations were there, laid down after years of schooling showing no nuance and teaching not a semblance of critical analysis of a situation. I had to learn that on myself.

Lucky break of random chance, then, that I am a strong believer in autodidacticism and so read ferociously and feverishly all manner of books and articles critical to the school of thought driven and promoted and – in many ways – owned by the feminist hive-mind.

Lucky break of random chance, then, that I should suffer this horrible treatment by feminism, insisting they work for equality but showing quite the contrary, and so making me doubt the very foundations of my education up to and including that point in time.

Lucky break of random chance, then, that the feminist hive-mind behave the way they do and in the manner they do, so as to make someone like myself who was so ensnared, so shackled and chained by the programming break free from the programming by witnessing them doing exactly the opposite of what they claim to do.

The roots of my eventual red-pilling draw their sustenance from my years studying feminist dance therapy. By which I of course mean art.

At the start of the second year, the teachers at this school quite simply refused to give me any feedback on my art. I received no guidance, no education, no feedback, no nothing. I was – it would seem – un-personed, a non-person, a non-existent nuisance, a blemish on the gigantic arsehole that was this school. My crime was being introverted and having a girlfriend who also happened to be introverted.

This was made very much evident at the six month mark of the second year at this school, in which each and every student were supposed to have the art they had produced during the previous six months evaluated by the masters of indoctrination and feministing. I produced a fairly decent amount of art – some good, some of it not exactly good – but quite a lot to be evaluated nonetheless. And so I brought bags upon bags of my art, as well as some short films I had made into the hall of judgement, prepared to be taken behind the shed and shot like some mongrel dog. What greeted me behind the doors of this elusive hall of judgement were two teachers who, quite obviously, had conspired together and laid plans for their strategic assault on me as a person, not my art, not my output, not my creativity, but me, myself and I.

What followed was a long lecture on how wicked I was in not being social enough, and in not being social enough also forcing my girlfriend to isolate herself from the rest of the school. For sixty minutes, give or take.

It was a completely pre-planned fervent assault on my horrid character: the patriarchal oppressor doing all in my power to oppress my would-be-wife in the most horrible way possible. That is: by refusing her to mingle and be social with the rest of the over-social mad and positively over-acted gleeful scoundrels at this school.

It became obvious after five minutes that they were not in the least bit interested in viewing my art. Not at all. They were there to judge my character. A deeply disturbing act, to be perfectly honest, as I could not for the life of me comprehend where this vacuous hostility, these illogical assumptions, these nonsensical sentiments stemmed from.

In hindsight, I know precisely where they stemmed from, of course: it was the feminist ideology at full force, wherein my would-be wife was viewed as a weak and useless victim of my absolutely fantastic authority – in their fractured hallucinatory fantasy, my would-be wife, by virtue of being a woman, had no agency of her own and so could only do what I commanded her to do. Which is very peculiar, obviously, considering feminism proclaiming to work for the right of women to do what they wish with their lives. This, of course, only ever extend to women doing precisely what feminism wants them to do with their lives. Obviously, my would-be wife did not do what the frantic forces of feminism would have her do; she did not act as they expected a strong, powerful and independent woman to do and so the fault must of course lie with some man or other. This is clear, as feminism perceives women to have no agency of their own; being crushed beneath the weight of the thumb, cock or balls of whichever man they were unlucky enough to have in their lives.

They had not spoken with my would-be wife on this matter. They had just assumed that her lack of social participation was due to me and my introverted nature coupled, of course, with my severe social anxiety at that point in time. A social anxiety, I must add, which I thought would be remedied by forcing myself through studying in some place I believed would be good for my mental health. Obviously, it was not. It made it far worse. At the very least, it laid bare the view feminism hold of both men and women.

As the highly moralistic assault on my very character continued, all I could do was stand there in jaw-dropped silence as these two pre-programmed androids kept lambasting me with this and with that, having no mind or no concern for what they were actually supposed to do. It was clearly pre-planned, wolves circling their prey and slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, closing in for the kill. As the assault neared its end, they suddenly remembered what they were there to do – that is to say – what they were actually receiving fucking pay-checks to do.

With one swift swing of the sword, with a baring of the teeth, one of the synthetic wolves snarled that I should show some of my art. I showed one piece, which was – with no exaggeration – laughed at. Loudly. Mockingly. Childishly. That is one piece out of probably fifty or so which I had brought with me, expecting to have reviewed and judged on their merit. Now, obviously, this mocking laughter combined with the scorn and the shaming I went through in this hall of judgement, did not exactly fill me with high spirits and some hope for what the morrow would bring.

Quite the contrary.

I do not think it unfair to assume that in a review of ones art, one would expect to have ones art reviewed. I do not think it unfair to expect a level of professionalism from supposed artists posing as supposed teachers at a supposed good school for studying art. I do not think it unfair to assume that the personal and/or romantic life of students should not be scrutinized by moral busybodies with no grasp on reality and no understanding of anything but their own preconceived notions, their own pre-programmed ideological definition of male-female power-dynamics. I do not think it unfair to expect to not meet this level of hostility, to not be met with baseless assumptions in regards to my own romantic relationship, painting me as some horrible oppressor and my would-be wife as some horribly oppressed poor damsel in distress needing the teachers to save her from me and my forcing her not to be social. Especially not when the only thing that was supposed to be reviewed were my art, my work and the sole fucking god-damned reason I was in this hell-hole to begin with.

As this was completely unexpected, I could do nothing but stand there and feel that old sense of dread; that anxiety welling up and coursing through my body and my mind as blasts of misplaced adrenaline ran through my body, numbing my skin and my mind and my senses and clouding my comprehension of the situation at hand. Were I not as anxious as I was back in those days, I would have done something or said something or complained or, well, whatever. As it were, the real nature of this encounter did not sink in until it was too late to do anything about it.

Anxiety is such a weird thing to suffer from, and to explain it is impossible, I think, to anyone who has not experienced it first-hand.

Then, push came to shove. My feeble psyche had withstood all that it could endure during that year and a half within this glorified gulag, this re-education camp for horrid male oppressors and their flaccid and weak-willed victims. I suffered a full and complete nervous breakdown.

Keep in mind that there were several individual instances of similar nonsense which I have not mentioned for the simple reason that this would be a never-ending ramble were I to do that.

Keep also in mind that I had struggled for years at this point with mental health issues of no small impact. This nervous breakdown came complete with dissociation, with a worsening of my insomnia, never-ending nightmares, panic-attacks and wild and vicious exhaustion and fatigue. For which I was given, until the line at the psychiatrist opened so that I could receive mental health “treatment”, as many bottles of Valium as I wanted with the instruction to take up to five pills a day.

Yeah.

That was the level I was at, and the state of the treatment I received prior to the waiting-in-line was done. A full four weeks of medically granted sick-leave was also given me, which was not enough. Of course, I should have quit that god-forsaken place instead of letting it drive me insane. Quitting was not an option, however, as I had dropped out of education previously. For much the same reasons, in fact – not personal attacks on me, as was the case in this school, but the over-reaching feminist indoctrination and control of these schools which constantly vilified men, making it a fucking chore to study when, just around the corner, some cleverly veiled assault on masculinity was waiting and ready to pounce.

I can not, for the life of me, fathom how the ideology of feminism is viewed as such a grandiose and beautiful thing. Its most ardent followers are quite clearly living within a world of their own delusional design, wherein all choices a woman makes, if not done in a manner accepted by feminism, must mean that the woman is oppressed and unaware of it herself, being too weak and too frail and too stupid to be aware of it.

Feminism, it seems, does not exactly have a high opinion of women.

At the same time, I can not fathom the depths of unthinking assumptions being made by feminism wherever men are concerned, painting men as all-powerful and, in being all-powerful, corrupted by their own power to such an extent that they do not see their power for their, well, power. Which, clearly, causes all men everywhere to oppress women, even if they don’t mean to do it. This just lies in the nature of men, according to feminism, and so we must be taught not to act like this just as women must be taught not to act like that.

Feminism, it seems, does not exactly have a high opinion of men.

Feminism does not like anyone or anything, except feminism. And those who do not align with their rigid guidelines are either forced to the fringes of society, metaphorically killed or whipped until they submit to their world-view, their dogma and their ideological and narcissistic drivel. You are either with feminism, or you are free game. Conform, or be killed. To quite the Borg: “Assimilate!”

And it is so odd and it is so strange that, for all their gooble-de-gook about female empowerment, they are completely unable to accept a woman behaving in a manner they do not consider proper. A woman not behaving as feminism would like a woman to behave is oppressed, even if she does what she wants to do. She just does not know it – as stated before.

The only possible explanation that a woman does not behave like feminism would have her do, is one man as an individual or all men as a collective keeping her from doing what she wants to do – that is, what feminism wants her to do. There can be no other reason, and if she does not see this for herself, it is up to the good forces of feminism to do the work for her, to emancipate her from the horrors of a loving would-be husband who is just as introverted as herself.

You see, there were parties at this school which my would-be wife and myself did not attend for wanting to stay at home instead. In a normal world, this would be accepted. This, however, was not a normal world. This was the world according to the gospel of feminism. And so not going to these parties were brought up in my time of judgement as evidence of me keeping her from being social. Which, of course, was an absolutely absurd statement, considering it was my would-be wife who most of the time expressed interest in staying home instead of attending the parties.

Odd, that the assumption was that it was my fault – this lack of gleeful socialization. I wonder if they would have considered it her forcing me not to be social, were they to have been informed of this?

Of course not.

They would probably not have believed it, for the simple reason that their view of the world does not allow for such a thing to occur. Or they would have, by some magical mental gymnastics or other, found a way around it.

Now, to make myself perfectly clear – my would-be wife did not force me to not attend any parties either. It was very much a mutual decision, and it should be respected as a personal choice. To a feminist, however, personal decisions does not seem to matter too much. The personal has to be political. Even when the people involved don’t want I to. It especially does not matter when some victim and victimizer power-play can be manufactured to their hearts content, power-fetishists as they seemingly are. It seems the only thing that brings any form of meaning to their dishevelled lives.

Now, of course, that is just me being mean.

I am sure they find lots of joy in other things. Like for instance filming three women standing on a bridge pissing, forcing us to watch it, and calling it art.

Luckily, my time at this school came to an end and I attended the graduation-ceremony, such as it were, stoned to the max on Valium and being almost unable to complete structured thoughts due to long periods of sleep deprivation and the wonders of Valium turning me into some weird and pervertedly enlightened Benzo-Buddha.

Believe it or not, this usage of Valium was not even me intending to get stoned on them. I just did what the doctors said that I should do. Which, I later learned from another doctor, was highly irresponsible from the other doctor.

The scars ran, and still do run, deep. This school opened the doors for me to venture even further into the whimsical world of mal-practiced psychiatry. A world which I had, prior to attending this school, all but quit for feeling better, getting better and wanting to cope with life without the aid of mental speech-bubbles labelled therapeutic help.

It is the sole reason I was put on so many psycho-pharmaceutical drugs that I can not even remember the names of half of them. Shortly after this school ended, I completely lost faith in art. Not only art, but in my own ability to create art. By extension, I also lost complete faith in myself. This, in turn, caused more need – or perceived need – for psychiatric help, which fanned the flames of the feral drug-industry of the mental health services, prompting ever more drugs to be thrown in my general direction. These drugs were thrown my way along with diagnosis of various and sundry, each more dangerous, clinical and serious than the rest, prompting more drugs, and so forth and so on. That is, of course, another story waiting to be told. And I am writing a book – believe it or not – on this particular branch of madness, this weird halting of my life for six years, abruptly ending by an abrupt ending of the drugs. Well, the book is more focused on the quitting of the drugs than what led up to it.

It was very clear through the madness of psychiatry that the core reason for my eventual breakdown, the root cause of it all, was of no interest. Any mention of the negatives of feminism was shooed away, and it was clear that this was not a topic to be discussed. At the very least not in any depth or detail. Just throw drugs at the problem, and it will all go away.

And I find myself thinking, all these years later, after clawing my way through hell from medications and from quitting medications, through piss-poor treatment at school and from teachers supposedly there for my benefit, being there solely for their benefit and the benefit of feminism and the perceived benefit of my poor and oppressed wife-to-be…

I find myself thinking that there really is no wonder why men are dropping out of education, failing to launch and failing to live.

There is no wonder in this at all, as the places of higher indoctrination do all they can to make sure that no man shall feel safe or feel fulfilled or feel anything but a deep-seated sense of shame, regret and remorse for being born male.

Feminism has dug its claws so deep into the skin and neural interface of education that they can not be removed without tearing the skin, ripping the flesh and damaging the nerves.

Without tearing it all down and rebuilding it without the political indoctrination, the call for ideological purity, the unopposed forces of feminism so prevalent in any-and-all corner of this throat-tearing silliness called education, it can not be saved. At the moment, it is only men paying the price. In just a few years, however, it will be all of society paying the price.

I paid a not insignificant amount of money to attend this school. This, I think, is akin to having to pay for the rope to be used when one is sentenced to death by hanging. It is having to pay for the toxins in ones lethal injection. This school did, directly and indirectly, mess up the trajectory of my life in no small way. It brought me six years of complete and utter drugged-out apathy. Why should any man wish to do this? Why should any man be forced to do this; to pay in order to be told that they are evil incarnate, that they are doing nothing but causing distress to all the women around them? Why should any man pay to go to a place of learning dominated by women to be told that more must be done to get women into higher education, despite women making up a severe majority of students in higher education?

Why should any man pay to be – in short and in essence – discriminated against for their gender?

It does not make any sense.

And the senseless, heedless, needless downplaying of the needs of men is only surpassed by the severe display of lack of compassion and lack of empathy; the clear and blatant hatred and shaming of all things masculine, of all men in all areas of education. And this is labelled as a quest for equality! It makes me sick to my twisted stomach and trembling oesophagus.

It makes for a better grasp of oneself and ones sanity, such as it is, to not partake. It is a survival tactic, this, to not study, to not attend higher education, to not attend education at all, but to fade away and burn out – a flame being snuffed before it managed to burn.

A candle that burns twice as bright may very well only burn half as long. A candle that is snuffed before it is allowed to burn does, at the very least, not stain the carpet with melted wax.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 11.05.2019

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«Filler Poetry»: Monsoons

Easter Sunday 2019, A4 lowres

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

 
I dreamt monsoons as a kid

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

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

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

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

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

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

with

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

drip

drop

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

Repeating repetition
repetitiously

same as before
as a kid.

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

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

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

as a kid.

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

 

– Moiret Allegiere, 24.04.2019

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Emotional coping mechanisms and the Spark of rebellion:

Female nude lowres

Illustration: «Female Nude», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

 

Way back in the ticky-tacky days of late January or early February of 2019, something happened of a severely personal nature which caused a severe decline in my health and happiness – a rather significant double-barrelled shotgun shock to the solar plexus of my misfiring central nervous system, if you will allow me my poetic flights of fancy. Now, the nature of this happening and the circumstances surrounding it is something I aim to keep private and personal. Suffice it to say that it was directly related to my writings.

What I am interested in, is not so much exploring and explaining the severe emotional and physiological distress I found myself in as a result of this happening, but the coping tactics I employed in dealing with it. Of course, I will be explaining the pain and distress. But not in too much detail.

See, it has bothered me for quite some time this insistence that boys and men don’t deal with their emotions, or that when they do, they deal with their emotions in an inappropriate manner, whatever the hell that means. That we suppress our emotions and pretend we don’t have any. I find this to be both insulting and belittling, and more like than not, I can find several other words to use as proper descriptors for this nonsensical idea, each of these hypothetical words more inflammatory and pissed-off than the next.

The whole thing smells and reeks of social engineering, and that is a frightening prospect in and off itself.

See, back in the days of high-strung muscle-tension that is the ever trembling body of feminist “research”, it was decided that the one true way to properly express – and deal with – ones emotions is the feminine way of expressing – and dealing – with ones emotions.

Since the feminine way is deemed the only way, boys and men have needed to be re-structured and re-programmed on a societal level to express their emotions as women tend to do, and in so doing toss their own nature to the fires of Hades as the sinful parasite on society that it is. What else could one gather from this hopeless denial of biology and this shameless shaming of masculinity, than the attempted re-engineering of the nature of men, the biological truth of men mastering their emotions instead of being governed by them; than the tired old view of women as moral and emotional superiors to men, and so the only moral and emotional guidance needed?

If you, like me, have been a victim of this attempted re-engineering, a victim of this brainwashing which claims masculine identity to be wrong and feminine identity to be correct, despite both apparently being solely societal with no biological underpinnings at all, you might know what is coming up next. And that is very simple: our society do not wish to hear about men’s emotional pain. Or the pain of men at all, for that matter. For all the slack-jawed talk that men need to emote, need to open up and talk, there are sure as all hell few ears – if any – willing to listen. More often than not, a man is shamed and shunned should he dare to express his pain and his insecurities. By both men and women. That is to say: by society at large. Strange that this should happen in a society which claims that men, in order to be free from the constraints of traditional gender-roles, need to express their emotions with tears and valuable dialogues; how odd that this should happen in a society which claims that men are treated far better than women in all respects. When the same forces that claim this are the same forces that shame and ridicule men when men do what they claim men need to do, confusion and isolation creeps in.

On the one hand, this is said.

On the other hand, this is shown.

And both hands do nothing but shove a giant middle-finger right into the glazed-over eyes of confused men, trying the best they can to be heard above the hubbub and the constant background noise of women-worsting.

Men, being of course fairly practical by nature, goes by what is shown them. And what is shown, time and again, is that no-one will listen, no-one will offer support. Quite the contrary. People will go out of their way not to listen. People will derail, hijack the attempted conversation, ignore completely or completely miss the point of what is being said. Or they will, quite simply, state that women have it worse or that women experience this as well, and so the man should consider that before complaining. Because in this society in which women are hated ever-so-much(!), the happiness and well-being of women goes above all. Even on an individual level, when speaking of one-self and not having gender as a part of it, it will creep in. This, it seems to me and my perplexed and eternally confused mind, is due solely to the fact that our societies are completely obsessed with gender whilst claiming that gender does not matter. It is a strange level of discord and chaos; gender does not matter, so lets bring gender into everything, even where gender has nothing to do with it – as in the emotional or physiological distress of one individual.

I would dare to offer this one thought in regards to this; or to point out the elephant in the room, as it were: gender does matter. And in trying to not make gender matter, we are making gender matter even more by our insistence that it does not. The elephant can only be ignored for so long. Eventually, something or someone will be trampled.

What I mean by this should be self-evident. Men and women are different. We deal with things differently. We are wired differently. We are biologically different. In trying to erase these differences and claiming complete same-ness in body and mind, we are shooting ourselves in the foot whilst riding the elephant in the room straight over the cliffs, to tumble to the doom of both itself and ourselves. In trying to eliminate and disregard gender and gender-differences, we can not help but see them and in seeing them, we can not help but bring it up. Even when it should not matter.

The simple solution to this should be, in my humble opinion, to let people deal with their emotions and their pain the way that works best for them, regardless of their gender. To treat the pain of one individual and the way this pain is processed as both the pain of, and the path to healing, of that individual, not wrong or right, but his or hers way of dealing with it. Let be, and let others let you be, instead of forcing someone to do something that goes contrary to their core being.

If he would talk and cry about it instead of seeking action or solitude, as men are known to do, this should be treated the same as if he seeks action or solitude. There is no shame in either, and there should be no shame in either. Clearly, this is something I believe should apply to women as well. My focus, however, is on men.

And men, by and large, are drawn towards action or solitude as a way of dealing with their pain. The action, I find, is more often than not of a constructive and creative sort. And I can think of no better way to tackle difficulties than to turn what could easily be a destructive force – for instance depression or anger into something constructive. To create something out of that which would otherwise seek to destroy. To claim, as the feminist hive-mind do, that men suppress their emotions because they do not deal with their emotions as women do – and I am speaking broadly, of course – is to claim that one way is better than the other, instead of it just being different paths to take.

It is as insulting as it is stupid.

In particular when the experiences of men, by and large, who listen to and are suckered in by this attempted re-programming is that no-one listens when he attempts to speak about it. Or that he is shamed for it. By women as well as men. Now, imagine if the feminist hive-mind had not been so hell-bent on dismantling any and all male-only spaces, whilst, of course, keeping female-only spaces female-only. Men have always offered support to one another. It just takes a form different than the one women tend towards, and in dismantling male-only spaces, a whole hell of a lot of that support flew out the window. Just look to the men’s shed stuff in Australia. But more on that in a later ramble, I think.

From personal experience, anecdotal as it may well be, this holds true. I suffer from chronic pain and chronic fatigue, as well as being constantly in the grips of insomnia, which one would expect does not exactly benefit my emotional state. These three are fairly severe. Of course, it is all intertwined and interconnected, and when the mind is in distress, the body is in distress, and vice versa. Which makes the usual view that body and mind is somehow separated bother me immensely.

Those few times in the past where I have been so bold as to complain about this in writings or in social media posts, the resultant reactions have been interesting, to say the least. More often than not, it has been ignored. This, I think, is to be expected with posts on social media as a general rule. Other times, I have been shamed for it. With one instance in particular tickling my rage-boner something awful.

In short: I was sent a private message on Facebook by a woman who, of course, self-identified as a feminist, telling me in no uncertain terms that I was “not allowed to make myself out to be so pitiful”. A very interesting way of treating someone in severe pain, don’t you think? In particular considering it is the feminists claiming that men need to talk about their emotions and how they are doing. And that women are more empathetic than men!

Another very interesting observation I have made in regards to my declining health, is that the first instinct of people – and this goes for everyone – is to ask how my wife is doing whenever my health is declining. Her happiness is more important than mine, and the way in which my declining health impacts her is more important than how it impacts me. Now, of course, I am aware that this is a normal thing to ask of people. It has to do, in these instances, with context. And the context here is simple: I am/was in pain. And the first instinct of people was and is to ask how my wife was or is doing in regards to my pain. The first question asked. Not “How are you doing?” but “How is she doing?” In short: how is my pain affecting her?

As a result, and as my eyes have opened more and more to the reality of the world we live in, I have learned to process emotions and to deal with my pain in a manner far more creative and far better suited to me as I am. I have learned that all this talk that men need to open up and be more expressive in regards to their emotions and their health, be that mental health or physical health, is nothing but talk. Because the moment you – as a man – start to open up and talk, you realize that it will hurt you more than it will help. Telling men that they need to express their emotions in a more feminine way presupposes firstly that someone is willing to listen, and that is seldom – if ever – the case. Secondly, it presupposes that what men do and how men do it is harmful, whereas what women do and how women do it is not.

I would be so bold as to state, as I have done before, that neither is bad or good; that they are merely different, that different people have different needs and different methods and that to shame and ridicule and to un-learn, through force that which comes natural does far more harm than it does good. I would also be so bold as to state that it is only ever how men, generally, do or do not that is shamed and need to be un-learned. Yet again, something incredibly self-evident to anyone willing to see and to listen.

Why not create a movement telling women that they process and deal with their emotions all wrong? Well, that would be sexist. But it is quite alright to tell men that they process and deal with their emotions all wrong. That is not sexist. That is equality made manifest! Because, to these people, equality is whatever they say that it is at any given moment, as long as women can somehow be made to be better than men at something – preferably all the things. Or, as long as the feminine can be made to be better than the masculine, despite none of these, apparently, existing as anything but socialisation and as such could be written off as just as expendable and nonsensical as each other. So why, then, pray tell, is the feminine better and more natural than the masculine, when both are made-up cultural constructs, just as much as cultural construct is a made-up cultural construct which, of course, might just as well be dismissed alongside all the other cultural constructs? In short: why is one better than the other, if none of them are real anyway? Nihilism ho! They talk the talk, but do not walk the walk.

This is not to say, of course, that I believe culture and society does not play a part in how we behave. It most certainly does! But to claim that biology plays no part in it is, to my bloodshot and near-catatonic eyes, nonsensical.

How I have learned to cope is fairly simple; I write, and I draw, or I retreat into solitude to mull things over, thinking on it and grinding on it until it is ground into dust and I have transcended it. Some things are of course far more difficult to transcend than others, as is the case with what happened in late January/early February, the results of which still manifest as a severe flare-up of my pain, fatigue and insomnia. Even in the midst of April, when I should be enjoying the early days of spring. Of course, I should give a big shout-out to the wonderful world of self-deprecating humour as well. Finding something to laugh about, even in the midst of severely debilitating pain, loosens the reigns of the thing. And that thing, that wonderful joy of finding something to laugh at, or about, even in the darkest moments of life, lifts the spirit immensely. It turns the whole thing on its head. So; I may be ill. But at the very least, I get to sit at home and get high on painkillers. And that ain’t all bad. Heh.

My writings and my drawings are, as a result of this being a big part of my coping mechanisms, subject to my emotional state at the moment of writing or drawing. As a general rule. Evidently so, considering the bleakness of the thing and things since February. For all my logic – or illusions of logic, depending on which way one sees it, I assume – my writing is highly emotional. And this does not bother me in the least. It may bother other people, of course, which, when one tries to get other people to listen or to read might prove itself to be a problem. The point of it is that it gives me a healthy outlet for anger, depression, anxiety or good old fashioned sarcastic snark. It’s either that, or self-loathing. And I have done enough self-loathing to last me a good dozen life-times or so.

See, in my darkest moments – in prior incarnations of my ever-evolving personality and barely contained psychosis – I was very much a prisoner of feminist indoctrination, and as such considered myself to be a fault and a flaw in and off the world around me. Growing up with the message that men are scum imprinted upon the plasticity that was and is my brain, I could not help but internalize the message. If one viewed it from the outside, one would not hesitate to label it as political indoctrination. For the very simple reason that this is exactly what it was, is and always will be. It was not until I was 28 years of age that I actually heard someone say anything positive about men in general. Prior to this, it had been nothing but shit; hardly a day going by without the message of men’s inherent wickedness and cruelty being fired into my subconscious mind with all the subtlety of a nuclear bomb.

When teachers, subtly or not-so-subtly, constantly and consistently hammered the message of the flaws of men into our immature and under-developed psyches, one could not help but embrace it as a part of ones own personal belief-system. Couple that with the media insisting the same, as well as relatives and everyone else in the social circles of days gone by, one is left with the resultant war-cry, echoing and reverberating within as well as without: “There is something wrong with boys and with men!”

How one can look to this constant message, this constant bombardment, this constant assault upon boys and upon men and upon masculinity as a force of pure good instead of the destructive force of pure chaos and hatred that it is, speaks volumes to the might of gynocentrism and of the manipulative powers of the immense fraud and sham that is feminism.

To look upon the way boys and men are constantly devalued, ridiculed and shamed by not only feminism, but by the society which we inhabit, and then claim that it is a force seeking equal treatment of the genders is absurd on its face. But that is the level of indoctrination, that is the level of manipulation, that is the level of our societal psychosis and the value women have in our society. How one can look upon the treatment of men and the treatment of women in our societies and claim, in unison, that women are oppressed and that men – all men everywhere – are guilty of oppression is as ridiculous as it is laugh-out-loud funny. We ought to howl with mocking laughter at this ridiculousness. But we can’t. The tears get in the way. A wondrous male privilege this; to be allowed to see my very nature dragged, kicking and screaming through the mud and ground-up glass all the way to the hang-womans noose, sentenced to death by our moral superiors!

For years, I believed it all. Swallowed it hook, line and sinker. To sacrifice myself and what I want for the betterment of women. To step down and shut up, not object, not even to the gravest trespasses upon my own personal space or to the devaluation of my mental well-being, were it done by a woman or someone claiming to do good for women. And as the self-loathing grew, so too did my natural expressions of my own masculinity diminish. To the point where I was but a shell, a flimsy transparent nothing. My previous ability to say what was on my mind in regards to any given subject was thrown into the abyss, alongside what was left of my self-respect. I had been, not only told, but shown time and again that any objection to the feminist rhetoric would be shot down, no matter what facts I had, no matter what the truth was. The objections were not shot down by facts, reason or logic, but by shame and ridicule from women, which, for a young man burdened by puberty, the insecurities of puberty as well as insecurities emanating from the feminist insistence that there was something wrong with me by my very nature, was and is absolutely horrible.

For years, I did not cope. I settled for disappearing instead. Isolation and a bleak and nihilistic outlook took precedence. I sought the void, and became a lost boy; not going anywhere, not staying anywhere, not being anything but an over-medicated mess of man forced into psychiatric help which did not wish to see the root cause of the issues I was facing, but chose to medicate the symptoms into oblivion instead, and in so doing medicating me into oblivion alongside the symptoms.

And so, when realisation dawned after years and years of this vast and empty nothing, it dawned with the crash and the bang of a thousand suns imploding and exploding, a constantly repeating pattern of implosion and explosion, immediate, immense, powerful, mighty, frightening and masculine as though the gates of hell were opened, unleashing the hounds of war!

I marched to war with what strengths I had, which was – and is – art and writing, wrote the piece “Remembering Rebellion”, not knowing whether or not I would keep writing about these topics. Turned out I would, even at great personal expense.

That, I think, is one of the great masculine virtues: being able to turn something severely destructive into something fantastically constructive, no matter how long it takes to get to that point; to transcend tragedy and despair, not through crying, not through talking, but through action, through creativity, through honestly translating pain and heartbreak, trauma and destruction into language, into symbols, into lines and scribbles aiming, always and ever to transcend, to overcome, to grow and then to follow the process and become stronger, better and even more suited to survive whichever difficulties life – with all its suffering – will throw at one self.

Through “Remembering Rebellion”, I found the rebellious spark which was present in my formative years. And I would urge others to re-find, regain, re-awaken that spark of rebellion, that force seeking to rebel against all that is, all that was, all that ever will be and capture it vividly, fantastically, glowingly, immediately within your minds and guts and balls. To explore it, expand it, explain it through what ever strength one has.

Teenage rebellion is one thing – an unfocused force of self-exploration and self-expression; a force designed to rip one-self loose from the looming authority figures of that time in ones life. Something deep inside which makes one pound ones chest with ones fists and roar primeval, primitive, primordial, beast-like, reptilian that “I am here, and don’t you dare challenge my right to be here or belong here!”

And now, in adult life, with the damage done by feminism so clear to all who are not indoctrinated, who are not clinically insane, who are not still caught in the grips of our dominant ideology, of our demand for ideological purity and conformity, that spark of rebellion seems to me to be more important than ever it was before.

And now, in adult life, with boys and men being beat and shamed and medicated into submission and subservient subjugation to the demands – not of women, but of feminism – an adult mind would be, should be, could be capable of focusing that spark of rebellion through a lens of reason, truth and a demand for consideration and compassion, to make that spark of rebellion so focused, in fact, that it tears through the feminist rhetoric; that it burns right through the skin of feminism and so exposes and utterly dismantles the core, showing it to be nothing but what it always has been; Marxist rhetoric of class and class-warfare re-clothed as gender and gender-warfare.

This is not a war of the sexes. It is a war of ideology against one sex, harming both sexes in the process. It is not men against women or women against men. It is feminism against men and against the very fabric of our societies and all common sense. It stuns me in how cleverly it has been implemented; how fantastically smart it has been in painting any opposition to feminism as an assault on women and on equality between the genders. And how sly and manipulative it has been in painting the abhorrent hatred of boys, men and masculinity as nothing but the actions of “a radical few”, even when the hatred of men evidently lie at the very core of feminism! In order to make people understand that feminism cares for nothing but feminism, fearless rebellion is necessary in exposing feminism for what it is.

It ain’t easy. But then, nothing worthwhile is.

Feminism employs terrorist tactics, terrorizing any opposition, creating fear and layers upon layers of fear in any who dare oppose and object to their ridiculous assertions. Don’t want to lose your job and livelihood, your place of study or your social life?

Better not object.

This is the means through which they maintain power and control. Total social domination under fear of total social death and annihilation of the self. Tyranny clothed in justice. The emperor has no clothes, and only a few are willing to point this out. When one does not show fear in pointing this out, their power diminishes. In the end, they will expose themselves to more and more people as having nothing but flimsy emotional manipulation and the threat of social death and ostracising on their side. They themselves are doing the non-and-anti-feminists the greatest service there is by behaving just as they do, and in not backing down, not showing fear, but countering and re-countering, they will be forced to expose themselves for the hateful pile of ideological serpents that they are.

Rebellion ain’t easy.

But: we have two things on our side. The truth, and the very simple fact – however silly it may sound – that everyone, whether they admit it or not, loves a rebel.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 13.04.2019

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Poetry: In Vacuum

Dualism paradise reclaimed lowres

Illustration: «Duality/Paradise Reclaimed», A4, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 
Vacuum in
vacuum spreads

together and
separate, vacuum
spreads in
vacuum
sealed and insulated,
indoctrinated and
in throves

spread in vacuum
vacuum values
virtual supremacism
in hindsight:
blind immaculate misconception
misconstruing niceties
hidden in
folds of valium-vacuum
as Benzo-Buddha arises
in hazed mind,
hosed and enlightened

peculiar deeds and
misdeeds
seen as such in
vacuum-values
valued vigorously
with no minds
and little matter

as long as
noone says anything
in vacuum
folds of
folky vacuum
we grab coronations
or disparaties of
coronations
to construct
social equality
vacuum-wise

in vacuum everyone
is equally
miserable and in
vacuum and under
the same sun:
vacuous and vague
exposing
nonbinary reality
misconstrued as
factual evidence
oh, do behave.

  • Moiret Allegiere, 03.04.1029

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Stating the Obvious and Finding God in my Coffee: a ramble on the double-speak of feminism.

You find god I fix coffee lowres A3

Illustration: «You go and find God, And I’ll make some Coffee», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2019. 

 

 

There are those of us who, the day after one too many bottles of nefarious homebrew of dubious alcohol content, tend to find that the eternal quest for God begins and ends with the first cup of coffee in the morning. Of course, finding God in such a way also means that faith in humanity and in the world in general is restored as a sensation of pure, harmonious ecstasy courses through our veins with that first jolt of caffeine in the morning kick-starting the central nervous system.

The sensation of ecstasy and faith in humanity is short-lived, however, and tends to disappear quicker than a geriatric erection the moment one enters the realm of chaos and despair also known as Twitter.

Within this realm of eternal punishment, we find the banished souls, the lost souls, doomed to an eternity of anger and misinformed rage, perpetually tormented by their lack of cogent arguments and their ability to spout only barely coherent rhetoric which, when disproven and disassembled by the angels of salvation come to save their shattered souls from the realm of doom and gloom, either block, insult or carry on with their gooble-de-gook gibberish passed down from the top layers of the stinking pleghm-soup that is online feminist doctrine.

The lost souls are truly lost. The cage within which they live is a cage they built around themselves; a cage whose bars and lock-and-key keep them safely and securely trapped in the fantastically woven web of pesudo-knowledge that tells them that they are not responsible in the slightest for anything wrong in their lives, as they have no control over their lives because they are, in one way or other, oppressed, shackled and chained by the might of the all-seeing, all-knowing, omnipotent and omnipresent Godhead patriarchy; crushed and smashed and destroyed beneath its thumb and glaring cock-and-balls. A set of ideas telling them constantly two definite truths: you are powerless, and in being powerless, you can do no wrong. To such an extent that any opposition they meet can be countered with the single, simple and conversation-destroying phrase “Blah!”.

One would believe, of course, that any movement designed – as they claim – to eradicate injustice and inequalities would be pleased – immensely so – by clear and concise evidence that their inequalities ain’t there, that they ain’t all they are cracked up to be. One would be inclined to believe that this would mean that they had won, and that their brave warriors of virtue and grace and morality, their knights and sacrificial storm-troopers, would be pleased to know that they have one less battle to fight.

This is not the case.

Of course it is not.

Blah.

Feminism is a self-fulfilling prophecy, prophetizing oppression then manufacturing it in order to keep itself going, in order to be necessary and in order to make both a profit and a prophet. Because feminism is big fucking business, big fucking busyness, big fucking busybodies poking their noses and claw-like fingernails into every facet of life, the universe and everything and dedicating their time and sole purpose to dictate, manipulate and govern the lives of others. Or attempt to do so. Often in minute detail. Forget personal freedom, personal responsibility and personal choice. These disappear when faced with the might of the feminist machine, all greased cogs and microswitches. Wanna be a housewife? You are betraying the sisterhood. Wanna be a stripper? You are betraying the sisterhood. Wanna do something that goes against the holy tenets of feminism? You are betraying the sisterhood. And as such, are a gender traitor, a female uncle Tom and – obviously – brainwashed by the flimsy structural integrity of the Patriarchy. Because women thinking for themselves instead of having feminism think for them are clearly in the wrong, and must bow down to and submit to their superiors who wish them nothing but the best, as long as what is their best falls in line with the orthodoxy of feminism.

There is enormous amounts of social control, power and coercion in presenting oneself as a weak and powerless victim of circumstance; a poor and pitiful damsel in distress much in need of being saved. The virgin, as it were, being saved from the dragons den by a knight in shining and shimmering armour whose sense of self and sense of value lies only in his willingness and his ability to sacrifice himself so she shall be saved; whose only value to society lies in his willingness to risk his life and his limbs and his livelihood and thus meet the criteria needed to be rewarded the social bribes and goodies that comes from his supposed privileged position.

Please, men, save us from the other men.”, they whisper, with trembling lips and quivering hips, “you, sir knight, are surely slightly less trash than other men. Please take this token as a reward for your somewhat goodliness and slightly kind-heartedness. Would the mere and slight possibility of a whiff of my panties be a fitting reward, perhaps and perchance?”

Now, from what I have gathered, men are hard-wired to prove themselves worthy. Men want to be seen as capable, strong, brave, heroic, able and willing to sacrifice themselves and their lives – if need be – for the betterment of the tribe. If my understanding is correct – and I admit absolutely to not having delved into this completely; it is a relatively new topic of research for me – this is biologically hard-wired. The provide-and-protect role rises up from the murky past of protoplasmic ooze and the hazy mist of history, flowing elegantly and fantastically through aeons and stemming from times and places of far more harshness and difficulty of life than here-and-now; shades of history which can not be viewed or understood through the lenses of our very safe, secure lives of abundance and – comparatively – wealth. Things that, quite simply, were done out of necessity back in the beginning of our ascent to the status of domesticated primates, can not be viewed through a modern lens of morality, equality or justice. It was a whole other state of being, a whole other state of life, a whole other pleghm-soup in which to swim, or to sink and drown.

It is this hard-wired desire to provide and to protect which the feminist hive-mind manipulate so efficiently and wonderfully. A role of provider and protector which, in times past, at least may have granted men some respect and gratitude, but which now grant men nothing but scorn, ridicule, shame and abuse. Even when called upon to still fulfil this role by the same powers that shame men for fulfilling this role. Double-bind and gobble-de-gook from feminists, elegantly and brilliantly swinging from the vines of their jungle of manufactured outrage and perpetually self-fulfilling prophecy.

My writings are part of this self-fulfilling prophecy, in their circular reasoning as to why feminism is still needed; any objection to this hateful ideology of bile and stupidity is all the proof they need as to why feminism is still needed.

Strange, however, that this line of reasoning do not extend to the men’s rights movement. One would believe that, as much ridicule, shame and vile abuse that the men’s rights movement get handed from all of society, this is – by their logic – evidence that we surely need a movement for men and the human rights of men. Alas, it is not.

The pendulum of equality must ever and always swing only one way. And that way is towards the greater good for women, which is to say the greater good for feminism. Because, as stated time and again: feminism does not equal women. Women do not equal feminism. Feminism is an ideology. Women are not. Though women may, on a surface level, benefit from feminism, it should be clear to anyone that women do not benefit from feminism, if one but scratches the surface of the thing.

I would not accept any ideology purporting to speak on behalf of me who did nothing but paint me as a weak, powerless and helpless victim unable to speak on behalf of myself, and thus in need of this ideology to speak on behalf of me. I could not, for many years, fathom why so many women put up with this absurd ideology claiming to speak on behalf of them and their best interests.

Then it dawned on me: there is immense social power for women to be portrayed, or to portray themselves as weak, helpless, powerless, oppressed. Because there is no lack of men jumping into the fray to help them, to save them, to be their knight in shining armour and to bend the knee for the slightest possibility to be granted a chance to procreate. There is no lack of men wanting to prove that they are, in fact, not like other men. That is to say: not like what she perceives or projects other men to be like.

In all our intelligence, in all our wit and all our wonder and our splendour, humanity has forgotten one basic fact: we are mere animals. We, just as any other animal, are driven in no small way by instincts and by biology. And one of the greatest drives we have in common with all animals is the drive, the need, the urge to procreate, to carry the species onwards into the wild and weird and wacky wonder of the future!

For as much as feminism claims to eradicate the traditional gender-roles, they sure as all hell like to play and prey upon them. The eradication of gender-roles only goes so far, it seems. At a certain point, the light is bent and the light twists and turns and reaches peak enlightenment; returning, oddly enough, to the beginning of time and of life, where women are in need of protection and where men need to protect. Where women are strong and beautiful, gracious and the pinnacle of morality, and men are frail and weak and fragile, toxic and primitive, barely cogent in their guttural roars and driven solely by their desire for sex when they are not busy oppressing the very ones who call upon them to save them from men and from society et all! Feminism is maddening in its constant double-speak. In its lack of values when claiming to hold all the values. In its hate and bile and arrogance, in its totalitarianism.

And it is totalitarian.

It is incredibly totalitarian, in fact.

Any ideology demanding to be the only ideology to speak on behalf of this or of that is totalitarian. You are either with feminism, or you are opposed to equality. You are either with feminism, or you hate women. You are either a catholic, or you are a bad person. You are either part of the communist party, or you are an enemy of the state. There is no in-between, no other view and no other voice capable of speaking on gender and the issues of gender. Only feminism, and nothing more. Quoth the hive-mind: “misogyny”. And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor…

Some years back, prior to me awakening to all this gobble-de-gook and snoot-wafflery that is feminist dogma, I had a discussion with a feminist. Now, I love music and so the discussion was on music. I mentioned some of my – at that time – favourite musicians, who all happened to be male. Her response was, of course and as one would expect: “What, don’t you have any female favourites?” To which I replied, listing quite a few of my favourite female musicians; Patti Smith, Janis Joplin, Nina Hagen, Joni Mitchell, and more. Now disarmed, seemingly unable to attack my horrid misogyny based on the simple fact that I had quite a few female musicians on repeated rotation in my listening sessions, but apparently still longing to claim female victimhood, she replied with “any normal female favourites?” My favourites were not normal women, apparently, and as such not good enough to be included in the list of female musicians deemed appropriate listening for such a foul male as myself. Evidently, the longing for victim-points for a feminist overshadows and over-rules any evidence to the contrary. If there is no evidence of wilful refusal to listen to music made by women, evidence must be created that I wilfully chose to not listen to music by women. By painting said women as being not normal women, whatever the hell that means. And, of course, does this not make the position of the feminist worse than what she perceived my trespasses on equality to be?

Then there is this claim by the feminist orthodoxy that gender does not matter. Why then, prey tell, does it matter the gender of my favourite musicians? Had I only listened to male musicians it should matter or not matter just as much as if I had only listened to female musicians. Of course, what the feminist hive-mind say and what the feminist hive-mind do are on opposing poles; as bipolar as the fluctuating Norwegian spring.

Picture now, a man, asking a woman listening solely to female musicians if she listens to any male musicians at all. If the answer is no, she is empowered and she is empowering other women. If you get an answer at all. The probable, and, to be honest, only reply worth anything to such absurd and downright stupid questions should always be: “Does it even fucking matter, you twit?” I can not for the life of me picture the reasoning behind making gender a factor in what art or culture one enjoys. If one enjoys it, one should enjoy it, despite such obvious arbitrary factors as the gender of the artist! And other people would do well to not try and shame someone for what music or art they enjoy or do not enjoy based on the same. Just keep your fucking, snivelling busy-body snoots out of other peoples hobbies and interests and lives. Why, in the name of all that is holy, is this so incredibly difficult to comprehend? Why is it so incredibly important to seek control over the doings and goings and hobbies of others? Let be, and let others let you be.

Gender does not matter”, they scream and roar and screech and rage. “Except when it does. And when it does, it is when we decide that it does.” And they decide that it does whenever they spot an opportunity to win powerful victim-points, and thereby be granted protection and provision by portraying themselves as weak, frail, powerless yet strong, brave, powerful all at the same time, in the infinitesimal and infinite loop of feminist gobble-de-gook.

It is, in all honesty, incredibly clever. Very cunning, very sly and very – very – manipulative. If gender does not matter, they should cease harping on and on about the wickedness of men and the saintliness of women. If they should start thinking the way someone who actually considers the genders to be equal, and as such treats them equally does, they would come to the realisation that victim does not have a gender just as victimizer does not have a gender. They would come to the realisation that shitty people do shitty things, and that this should be treated as shitty people doing shitty things, not as a gender doing this and the other gender doing that. They would come to the stark realisation that humanity is composed of individuals, each one as complex as the next, and that any shitty behaviour should – first and foremost – be treated as the shitty behaviour of that individual, disregarding gender in both the judgement of and subsequent punishment of said shitty person exhibiting said shitty behaviour.

This is not, of course, to say that one should not look to statistics and consider groups more at risk for this or for that, or more at risk for doing this or for doing that.

This is of course a helpful tool. The problem arises when the simplistic black-and-white thinking of feminism points to these statistics, see more men than women doing bad and then pointing to this as proof that there is something wrong with men, disregarding, in the process of assaulting masculinity, other factors and variables contributing to this. Such as parental alienation, childhood neglect, childhood abuse, culture and so forth and so on, as well as disregarding the inherent biological differences in the male and female brain, making us very different creatures in how we cope with difficulties, in how we cope with trauma and in how we cope with life.

Now, we could probably get into skewed statistics, into ideologically driven and, as such, biased research. We could get into the fact that there are more options and more empathy available to women who fall outside of society, or the very gendered approach to therapy and on and on. I think, however, that this would cause this ramble to be longer than anyone would be willing to listen, or to read, so I’ll leave that topic for another time and another place. Suffice it to say that feminism crafts the world in very simplistic ways, seeing only black and only white, with no room for nuance and no room for opinions or facts that go contrary to their holy dogma. And that they package their dogma and their doctrine in language designed to sound intelligent, to sound complex and nuanced, but that it boils down, at the end of the day, to: men bad, women good, presented in the dissonant and convoluted monochromatic language of the feminist jungle where madness and gibberish intersect.

I have found it very interesting, over the course of the past two years or so, to view the difference in reaction to violence perpetrated by women and violence perpetrated by men. In particular domestic violence in heterosexual relationships. All I can say to this is quite simple; for all their talk that gender does not matter… for all their talk that there are no differences between the genders… the feminist hive-mind are sure as all hell willing to let a woman abusing her partner get off scot-free by claiming differences in strength and in size. By stating, quite emphatically, that gender matters. Of course, this goes for all of society. Considering, however, that feminism is supposed to be the force fighting for equality, I find it more than fitting to drag them out of the shadows and to put them front and centre in this travesty. Where are your calls for equal treatment of the genders when women are perpetrators of domestic violence? A hushed silence envelopes the room. A strange cobweb floats from the ceiling. The silence becomes profound, then broken by a whispered voice vibrating, as if scared, trembling and childlike: “it is different when it is a man being violent.”, the voice, barely a whisper, continues: “She probably defended herself against him, violent brute that he is by virtue of being male. See how innocent and frail she looks. Do you not wish to protect her?”

If gender does not matter, in the frail and fragile philosophy of feminism, surely it should not matter in all areas of life? Because it looks to me as though it sure as all hell matters when women are perpetrators of violence, and men are the victims.

Just your standard double-speak, your virulent serpent tongue, your fantastical notions of equality standardized to mean protection of women, privileges to women, provisions and pampering to women at the behest of men, even when men are victims and women are perpetrators. Because when men are victims at the hands of women, they must have done something. Victim-blaming to hell and high heavens; normalizing and trivializing the suffering of men to shine a spotlight on the suffering of women and only women, even when that suffering is only suffering as perceived by feminism in the choice of a woman to be a stay-at-home-mom or a housewife, or any other choice which the feminist gobble-de-gook decides is not a proper choice for a woman. Because women should be free to choose. But if they choose something feminism disapproves of, they have no choice in the matter and must therefore be shamed and forced to submit to the feminist army, gathering under a banner that tells women that they may choose as they wish, as long as they choose what feminism decided is their choice. And don’t any of you silly, stupid, uneducated women dare protest the choices made for you. Because feminism knows what is best for you. Surely, this is a deity under whose loving embrace we shall all be smothered to death in the name of love and of compassion and of justice for all!

And I can ramble and we can object and we can protest and we can wish as much as we wish to wish to see a change or see actual equal treatment come shining through the broken remnants of our societies; we can hope for this or for that and we can write angry letters to empty-headed politicians more interested in their own careers than they are in the people they are supposed to represent.

We can, and we must.

But what is more important, I think, I believe, I honestly feel with all my heart and gut and balls, is for men and women alike to reject this perplexing victim-hood narrative, to not be suckered in by the preying upon our very natures so eloquently utilized as a weapon by the feminist machine; to consider women as human beings just as we would consider men to be, to hold both to equal standards of responsibility and individuality, to stop the either-or thinking the feminist claptrap have suckered us into, to respect the personal choices and personal autonomy of both men and women and protect – or not protect – both equally. To consider the very simple fact that if the feminist bullshittery considers it proper conduct to label all men as trash, then they should also consider it proper conduct to label all women as trash. After all, that would be treating the genders equally. Hold these pestilent bastards to their own standards, and watch their paper-castles crumble as they realise that their mental gymnastics can only go so far when more and more people wake up to the fact that what we have been presented with for decades as the one true voice of equality is nothing more than yet another totalitarian ideology seeking supremacy for one segment and one segment only of the population, and then only if this one segment of the population falls in line with the orthodoxy of the party.

Just as I tend to find God in my morning-coffee, I tend to find hope in the fact that more and more people are waking up to the hogwash of feminism. More people are rejecting it, even if it doesn’t seem that way in my darkest moments and in my darkest dreams. The very simple fact of the matter, I think, is that feminism is our greatest ally when it comes to making people wake up to its double-plus-good doublespeak. Because the more these horrid harpies squeak and squawk on prime-time television, or in newspapers or on the wide whimsical wondrous world of the internet, the more people will see that their actions and the dictionary definition, to which they always point when faced with backlash, do not align. That, for all their squawk and squeak of “muh equality”, their actions and their vitriolic, unhampered, uncontrolled and unchecked rage and pure, radiant hatred of men as a group and masculinity as a whole, shine through their garbled word-salad masquerading as a quest for equality. People can only be fooled for so long, before they say – to borrow a legendary phrase from an equally legendary song from a legendary band: “We won’t get fooled again!”

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 30.03.2019

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