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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Lashing out, lashing in, let me begin:

transcendence 2 a3 lowres

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Therapist: So, what`s bothering you?

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

Therapist: Why do you think that is?

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

Therapist: Do you think this is a bad thing?

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

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

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

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

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

Therapist: Why are you so scared of gender equality?

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

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

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

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

I will serve.

At the expense of myself, I will serve.

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

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

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

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


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

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



Done and dusted.

Cleared, cleaned, clinically insane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ave, Ave, Feministas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will not serve.

For the sake of myself, I will not serve.

– Moiret Allegiere, 19.01.2019



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

coffee a3 lowres

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moiret Allegiere, 12.01.2019

Happy new year 2019!

2019 A4 lowres

Ill: «2019», A4, 2019, Moiret Allegiere


Happy new year! As is tradition, I spent January 1 being severely hungover. This means, of course, that 2019 will only get better from that point onwards.

Considering the strange and unknown horror that lurked in the corners and then came to the forefront of 2018, one can only hope that 2019 will be a better year. Mayhaps this will be the year where the pushback against the new totalitarians and their collective psychosis will gain momentum; a year where more people will wake up to and subsequently protest against the «enlightened» push toward thought-and-speech control.

Maybe, just maybe, we will remember how to sing, dance and laugh again. Not being allowed to do so by the soc-jus hivemind of virtue impeccable, but doing it despite and in spite of their veiled move towards tyranny; a move hiding in the shade of «justice» and moral superiority. Remember laughter. Remember dancing. Remember singing. And then do it, delivering a monumental middlefinger to the inquisitors knocking at your door, all the while grinning and dancing and singing and laughing as if there were no tomorrow.

Moiret Allegiere, January 2, 2019


Don`t apologize, don`t back down.

Mine your mind A3 lowres

Ill: «Mine your mind/mind your mine», A3, 2018, Moiret Allegiere


I am not now, nor have I ever been, in the habit of apologizing for something which I have never done or taken any part of. I have no intentions of apologizing for the random chances of my birth. And I will not check my privilege, as the nonsensical drone of inoculated safe-space inhabitants would have me do. Conversely, I have never been in the habit of taking pride in the circumstances of my birth. I take pride in what I do, what I accomplish, what I create. Not random chance.

The mere notion that anyone should have to apologize for the way they are born is beyond ignorance. It reaches far and deep into complete and utter madness; a madness which would make the inhabitants of H.P. Lovecrafts literary world tremble and shake in their boots. The call of intersectionalism. Do you hear it; a soft murmur and a thunderous crash both? Ia, Ia, Intersectionalism Fhtagn!

And yet, here we are, caught in a vortex and going down, down, deeper and deeper down into the madness of foul gibberish vomited from stomachs rotting, enveloped within a horrifying stench of decadent decay. Have you checked your white male privilege today? Confessed your sins of masculinity? Thrown yourself at the feet of your betters to lick their toes and jackboot stillettoes clean of cobwebs and insecure self-aggrandizement, or sought repentance by paying tribute or reparations to those whom, the claim is, you have hurt deeply and gravely through no fault of your own; through nothing but the shitstain of original sin?

Collectivizing blame is as simplistic as it is evil; a nonsensical thought conjured forth from the deepest recesses of a fevermad collectivist dream. You are this. And thus you have done this. A thousand years in the past, you have done this. And you must repent. And you must change. And you must meet our demands. Then, and maybe then, you shall be considered human. Or atleast partly above utter scorn, humiliation and hate. And yet, the original sin will remain with you; a constant barrage of blame and shame and ridicule to beat you down, deeper down into the mud and blood and dust. The mark of the Devil upon your brow and tainted soul. And you will try and you will apologize and you will bend the knee and still the blame will come, more and more, more and more, the more you apologize and the more you let the hive have their way. Apologizing means admitting that they are correct in their mindfuck assertions of inherited privilege. And then they win the right to keep going. They win the right by admittance of guilt where no guilt exist. The more our societies grovel at the feet of this intersectional nonsense, the more powerful the background murmur becomes. The more powerful it becomes, the grander and more absurd the demands become. There is no pleasing it. There is no stopping a train that does nothing but gain momentum; who`s mere existence is designed to keep going, keep going, keep going with no end in sight. Do not apologize to these people. Do not back down. Do not give them an inch. And watch them grumble, mumble, crumble and waste away, driven back across the borders and back into the padded cells of their safe-space asylum.

To hear these whiny, petulant and spoiled children of overabundance preach and tell me that I am at fault for being male and for being white is as insulting as it is bigoted, as stupid as it is hateful. The idea that I, on the basis of naught but my gender and the colour of my skin, have led a life of unbridled privilege is racism without doubt, and clear-as-the-fucking-day sexism. And that is all it is. They may hide it behind carefully crafted narratives of power + privilege as much as they want. It still does not make it any less of what it, in actual fact, is. The notion that people who do not know me should dare to pass judgement on me and my life based solely on my arbitrary characteristics is sickening. Here I sat, believing that people should not be judged on the colour of their skin or the genitalia betwixt their legs, but on the content of their character. Each as an individual, a person in and of themselves, a fellow human being worthy of all that a fellow human being is worthy of. Of course, and by Joe: I near forgot: men are not human beings but human doings. And do, do, do, young boy, please do. Interesting, is it not, that the word «boy» used to mean servant? To serve and to please and to disappear into the corner, to become one with the wallpaper when not needed; to shut up and be quiet until called out to serve and to please. Do, do, do, if`n you please, please do, please please.

And yet, here we go, feeding the buzz and the drone with stupid assertions and unfounded accusations of genetical privilege, or lack thereof. All based solely on superficial attributes. And the fingers and the quivering lips point and ridicule and label ME a bigot for not being so bigoted as to judge and deem someone worthy or not worthy of consideration, empathy and understanding based on their genitalia or the colour of their skin. The virtuous are now the bigots. The bigoted are now the virtuous; tearing down bigotry and hatred, one racist or sexist statement at a time.

Should they try to think further than the tips of their powdered, upturned noses, their very world would tremble and their very minds would melt and become one with the chasm opening underneath their feet to swallow them whole, as their entire world dips and turns and disappears into the ether and into the flames and fires of hell. There are no foundations beyond their bigotry and ignorance. Locked stocked and smoking barrels filled with pre-approved and well rehearsed diatribes; noise and bellowing, smoke and fire, brimstone and death, signifying nothing at all. Depths of intellect need not apply. Deep, slow and methodical thinking need not apply. There is nothing beyond the immediate gratification of having their hatred and bigotry justified and sanctified. By pointing fingers and laying blame and accusing others of the very sins they are engaged in themselves. And we are all bigots for pointing out their hateful bigotry, their nonbinary pseudointellectual wordsalad-gibberish posing as intelligent philosophy. Cry wolf enough times, however…

Scratch but a tiny layer of the surface and you shall see it all tremble and crumble to dust and dirt. And you shall see them deny their incompetence and lack of reason; hiding it behind hideous anger posing as the right of the oppressed to hate the oppressor. Should you get angry in return – as well you fucking should – this will then be brought forth as one example amongst many of mens inherent hatred of, and violence towards, women. The circle is complete. Men being angry is violent and dangerous. Women being angry… now, that is just empowering! Go girl, go. No matter how insane and dribbling with unreasonable quackery!

And we are indoctrinated to believe this lie, and thousands other to follow, across years and years, vast oceans of time, hardwired to protect and listen and do for the hive as they point and blame and shame and weep crocodile tears and whisper in our ears how evil, wicked, tricksy, false we are.

I am a man. And as such I am less human, less capable of humanity than they are. My greatest sin is being born into sin. And for this, I must apologize and flagellate myself before them as they point and judge and babbel on and on. And it is never good enough, never grovelling enough, for them to not point, not mock, not ridicule, not demand more and more and more, ever more. Driving us to the point of utter destruction. And we cave, we, as a society, cave in and we grovel and we say that, yes, we are so privileged and oh, we are so oppressive and, oh, we are benefitting from hundreds of thousands of years of evil incarnate in the shape of testicles and swinging cocks and oh and oh oh oh, how wicked and how evil we are, is, always have been.

One mans transgressions is every mans burden to fix. And so is one womans transgressions the fault of every man. In their minds and in their eyes, all the faults and flaws of the world are the fault and flaws of men, and men must step down and apologize and let women rule. But men must also fix it, even if we are not supposed to rule and fix and govern. Let women hold the reigns, they say. And let men do the work, they say. And by women, they mean feminism. And by men, they mean men.

And am I, by virtue of being male, to take the fault of every man upon my shoulders and let it burden me to the point of despair and selfdestruction? Well, yes, I am, and I have to admit to my privilege as the jackboot-stillettoes of our victimized tyrants poke me in the eye and are driven deep into my central nervous-system – I`m sorry I`m male, I`m sorry I`m white, I can feel my privilege and my oppressive nature coursing through my veins. Let it flow, then, let it flow, outwards, and then seep into the ground so that I can repay the sins I have commited – albeit by the hands of others, and a thousand years before my birth, let it flow still, until all is driven out of me and I am left as nothing but a empty husk, a shell in which to foster the true and caring nature of intersectional collectivism; the state of nature true and through; a protoplasmic ooze in which all love reigns supreme, where all is grey and shattered and scattered and driven together by travesties and tragedies both. A state of nurture, through and true where naught exist but mangled limbs and strangled words, a whisper fading on the lips of a dying son smothered in his crib by caretakers claiming it an act of love and compassion.

There is no hate beyond the world of men, they claim. The only bigots are the filthy white men. They should all be killed. That`ll teach them that to hate someone based on their gender and the colour of the skin is bad! All I want for christmas is a white genocide. Kill all men. See, there is no hate in that. We normalize and accept hatred of men and hatred of whites by painting men and whites as evil incarnate; as privileged haters of all but themselves. The ridiculousness is astounding. As are the doublethink, the doublespeak, the doublestandards galore. One rule for thee, another for me. So it is, has, and always will be. They would have had no standards where it not for their double standards. Yet, they stay oblivious to their own obvious psychological projection. And our societies stand in gobsmacked attention, refusing to point out that the empress has no clothes, that the reason they think that men as a group think like this about them is because they, as a group, think like this about men. They think that men would do to them what they wish to do to men. And all the fencesitters and all the babysitters sit and nod their heads and refuse to listen, claiming that it is the work of a radical few, this hatred and shaming and wishes of death and destruction and curtailing of our freedoms. It is but a radical few. A vocal minority. With enough power and control and dominance to dominate the discourse and the state of affairs and change all and one to suit their needs, hiding their battle for supremacy behind the skullsplitting mantra of equality; equality for all, which of course has come to mean equality for women, which has come to mean equality for feminism.

I ain`t apologizing for something I have had no part in.

I ain`t taking blame for something I have never done.

Nor should you. Nor should anyone.

But I shall follow the flawed fragmented-psyche logic of these ill constructed, fermented brainstems. If I am to take on the burden of the responsibility of every bad act perpetrated by every man that has ever done a bad act, I will also take on the responsibility of all the good ever done by every good man – from every single kitten saved that was trapped in a tree, to every single war fought and won for the benefit of all; from every single tender fathers kiss upon his childs brow, to every scientific innovation which bettered or saved the lives of millions. I shall follow their logic and I shall take it upon myself and put it upon my own shoulders the collectivist nonsense they spout, and demand their gratitude and demand their admiration for every kindly deed done by every man who has ever lived. And lo, and behold – the good far outweighs the bad. And lo, and behold, I am good. And so is every man.

Men did not start this war; this endless nonsensical cycle of blame and retribution. But we can sure as hell end it. In one swift strike, we can end it.

Do not apologize.

Do not fall for their tricks and crocodile tears. Do not internalize blame and do not internalize hatred and do not give them an inch.

Don`t apologize.

Don`t back down.

Stand your ground.

Don`t apologize.


Differing thoughts need not apply: a ramble on differences and cooperation.

Reflection A3 Lowres

Ill: «Reflection», A3, 2018, Moiret Allegiere


I have a fondness for hi-fi equipment. At the moment I am saving up to buy myself a new stereo amplifier. It is a rather expensive one. And it looks fantastically beautiful, just to add to the perceived value of the beast. When I point out to my wife how good some of my hi-fi equipment looks and sounds, her reply is something along the lines of «Meh, it looks black like the other ones». Fair enough, I think.

Conversely, my wife has a passion for makeup. That classic 1950-ish makeup look – simple, elegant, remarkably feminine. Whenever she gets a new lipstick in some shade of red or other, I fail to see the difference in the shades. «It looks good on you. Just like the other ones», I remark. To which she thinks «Fair enough».

Of course, I am simplifying things for storytelling convenience. Still, it functions as a decent, albeit slightly forced, introduction to the topic at hand. That topic being differences and this incredible allergic reaction our societies suddenly developed in regards to all things different. Suddenly, acknowledging difference causes a painful and chronic eruption of hives and rashes on the paperthin skin of the followers of the church of the latter day offended. For is it not written in the scriptures that everything is a social construct? And lo, with no hesitation, it was deemed as such! And there was much joy and festivities.

Since everything is a social construct, each and every difference of outcome in our societies have got to be a result of some form or shape of discrimination; this catch-all word whos mere utterance is enough to bring forth a legion of saints and saviours clad all in white and softly woven flowing gowns to tell us all how mean and evil we are for being discriminatory, and that measures need be put in place so that we do not discriminate needlessly.

We may, however, discriminate by need. Should there be less than 50 percent women somewhere, this is undeniable proof of discrimination against women, and so we must discriminate against men – shamelessly and justifiably so – in order to artificially boost the number of women. The same goes for any other «marginalised» group one could conjure forth from the bright light of our lord and saviour Id-pol, bright light in the night that xe truly is.

Straight white men are collectively deemed so powerful that they can not in any way, shape or form experience discrimination. Even when the discrimination is blatant, obvious and staring us down as some wild beast preparing for the attack. And so, when it gets to be more – even far more – than 50 percent women somewhere, this is a victory for gender equality. Men need not apply for preferential hiring or affirmative action as this overabundance of women merely shows us that women are better than men, or more drawn to this-or-that than men are. It is all a matter of choice, dontcha know. Differences exist between the genders. When it suits certain needs, certain agendas and certain everchanging goalposts.

In this worn-down shack of feminist hodge-podge in which we live, this allergic reaction to differences – excepting where women are better than men at something – is confusing beyond all reason. Differences are what draws us together and makes us cooperate. To build something sustainable, each of us drawing on our strengths to fulfill both ourselves and the others around us. It is complementary. Now, of course: this does not mean that all and one should not be free to pursue whichever path they would like to pursue in life. It simply means that we are hardwired, biologically speaking, to seek one path over the other. The structure of our brains are different! Our choices, our different paths through life, ought to cohabitate and blend together so as to unite and make this goddamned chaotic mess we live in work as well as it possibly could. Men and women chose different paths. These choices are somehow contorted and twisted so as to reflect a heavy hand of gendered discrimination. That is, if women – and women only – make up a minority. Facts, differences, choices – this does not matter at all. As long as the narrative can be driven forward, all will be twisted and contorted. And you shall be blinded by the light.

I am aware that I sound very traditional. To which I can only say that, yes, I do. At some level, I suppose some of my values are traditional. At some other level, they are not. Do not dismiss my ramblings out of hand as trad-con musings, please. At least not for the present. Truth be told, I have not given this matter proper consideration yet. I plan to think more about traditional values and write some more about it at some later time.

As it stands at the present moment, the feminist soc-jus hivemind of virtue impeccable is incredibly traditionalist themselves, as they view women as weak victims of the actions of men; objects being acted upon by all of societies forces and completely unable to act – and think – for themselves.

Women are being painted as damsels in distress, needing to be saved. And so, here come the he-for-she-bullshit flying through the open windows of our collective conscience, calling for the strong and powerful men to bend the knee and save the women from the evil menfolk. The menfolk who are not as good as you are. That is to say: the other men. Whom you are better than, all shining and shimmering with white knight strength and saintly virtue.

Men are, by feminists themselves, and society as a whole, still expected to fulfill the traditional role of provider-protector. Women are free to do and to chose as they please. Unless they chose to be a housewife, or chose some other traditional path through life. Then the feminists will complain and jitter and tremble with all their shape and form; proclaiming loudly that this one women is singlehandedly curbstomping all the progress the womens movement has done in the past fifty years. She must self-flagellate, and prostrate herself at the altar of feminism to seek forgiveness for her wicked ways. This goes back to things which I have written and spoken about previously, and I fear repeating myself. I think, however, that this blatant hypocrisy by feminists need be called out and mentioned as often as possible: women can do whatever the hell they want to do. As long as it is preapproved by feminism. And as long as they give their praise to feminism and offer forth their womanhood to be scrutinized and acknowledged, or not acknowledged, according to the buzz-buzz of the hive.

Now, I will allow myself a anecdote. This anecdote, I think, proves perfectly what I am aiming at here. It is but a anecdote, of course, and as such should be treated as one – not proof of anything as a whole, but a good way to draw a thick line underneath what I am talking about. With that said, here we go, slip-sliding into the past.

This was some years ago. Years before my marriage. My wife and I were just engaged at this point. But I will, for the sake of simplicity, refer to her as my wife.

It was at the end of a very wet evening. We had been drinking at a bar, and I was sitting deep in a discussion on music with a friend of mine; music being a passion for us both. My wife was sitting there with us, but partook very little in the discussion. She was tired, and we were getting ready to pack it up and go home. Then, out of the blue, a wild feminist materialised. She had only met my wife once, earlier in the evening. And had then merely exchanged a word or two with her. She knew nothing whatsoever about my wife and her highly introverted nature; a listener and a thinker more than she is a talker. Much the same as me, in fact.

This rampaging feminist sat down right in front of my wife, rudely interrupted the conversation my friend and I were having, and asked my wife – with no shame and no reservation – «Aren`t you tired of being oppressed like this?» This was unexpected, to say the least. Absolutely out of the blue.

After much finoodling, it became clear that this feminist was certain of my wife being oppressed because she did not take part in the discussion. It did not mattter what my wife said; that my wife was completely in disagreement with this moron and her moronic assertions. The personality of my wife did not matter. Her own personal choices were immaterial. She was oppressed, and this feminist had taken it upon herself to descend into hell to free my wife from the tyrannical shackles my friend and I – by virtue of being men – had placed upon her. My wife tried, time and again, to tell her that this was her own choice. That she was in fact not oppressed. It fell on deaf ears and blind eyes. The feminist in question was quite content with reducing my wife to an object upon which she could lay all her hatred of men, all her bile and all her own insecurities.

My wife told her that «I am shy. I am reserved. I speak when I want to.» To which this sanctified saviour of womanhood replied «So am I, but I don`t act like you do.»

This nonsense went on for quite some time, with this feminist completely and utterly disregarding what my wife said and what I said. She had decided that my wife was oppressed. And that was that. There was no question about this absolute fact, to her dishevelled and murky mind. To hell with what my wife said. My wife was not a feminist. She couldn`t possibly understand.

Now, you want to talk about objectification? You want to talk about oppression? Look at how feminists treat women who do not fall in line with feminist dogma. Refusing to listen, denying them their own opinions and their own experiences. Viewing them as mere objects to be acted upon, with no will of their own.

And as a man, it was my obligation to give my wife attention onehundred percent of the time. This is equality, as viewed through the grimy lens of feminst dogma: for me to metaphorically poke my wife in the side continually so that she should not be left out of anything. That is to say: so that the feminists should not feel that my wife was left out of anything. To hell with the opinion of my wife on the matter. To hell with the opinion of those around who actually knew her. To hell with my wife having a personality of her own; feminism is the only opinion worth a goddamned fuck in the stagnant pond of quackery, so to hell with a individual womans preferences!

How can anyone, with a straight face, claim that feminism cares about women? Feminism cares about feminism. Differing thoughts need not apply. Women are all one and the same, in the looking-glass reality of feminism. And feminism has come to mean women. And women has come to mean feminsm. Protesting one means protesting the other. There are no differences among women. There are no differences among men. There are no differences between women and men. All are one and the same; a shivering, gelatinous blob devoid of all colour and all life. If you do not align, you are simply misguided and need to have the devil of misogyny or internalised misogyny driven out of your sinful, frail form through feminist exorcism. Then, and only then, will you see the light: That nothing is different. All is the same. All is constructed in the filthy mad-scientist-laboratory of the patriarchy, and it must be torn down. You need to be re-educated. And you need to be happy about it. Accept this shining beacon of light and truth, or perish!

It would be nice to have some fucking consistency from feminists on the issue of differences between the sexes. Whenever scientists discover some difference where women are better than men, it is held forth as a supreme example of how women are far superior to men. Because SCIENCE deemed it so. Odd, how the differences are a gift by nature when women come out on top. And how the differences are a product of, and proof of, systemic discrimination and socialisation whenever science shows men to be better at something. It is almost so that one would be inclined to believe that consistency doesn`t matter, only the ideological narrative. Men and women are completely equal. And so the outcomes should be completely equal between men and women. But women are better than men at some things. So there is no wonder that women reign supreme at some things. Hurr-durr. Hue-hue-hue-hu.

By this logic, since men and women are completely the same, there is no reason other than genderbased discrimination that there are more men in positions of power. How could there be, given that the only differences are arbitrary, skindeep, superficial traits with no bearing whatsoever on ability or chosen path or both? Thus, we need more women in positions of power. And they must be shoehorned in there, to give them the advantage they imagine men are given. A headstart. Women are just as capable, strong and talented as men. So they need special care and consideration and quotas so that they get a headstart. Because of course they fucking do. Nothing discriminatory about blatantly and obviously giving women preferential treatment. Nothing at all.

That`s all fine and dandy, then. You want to play that game? Where only the superficial qualities of the applicant matter? I will then make it my sole purpose in life to elevate any and all nonfeminist, conservative, anti-abortion woman I see struggling to break through the glassceiling to the greatest heights of our societies. Women must be in positions of power. Opinions and abilities matter none. Merely vagina. This is now my purpose, my drive, my attempt at redemption from the sin of being male. You are quite welcome, feminists. After all – he for she. I do my part. Now do yours.

If you object to this, you hate women.

So there.

At the same time, I will try, to the best of my abilities, to get more women into other professions where there are extreme overabundances of testosterone. How can we, as a society, sit idly by and watch as our garbage is collected by men and men alone? As if women are too delicate to collect garbage? How horrid. How trite. What a display of male supremacy, to believe women incapable of getting their hands dirty. Now there`s some gender stereotyping if ever I saw it! This needs to end. Women are just as capable as men of doing the dirty jobs. Here we are most definitely in need of affirmative hiring and gender quotas. Clearly, we need to remove some women from the universities to fill these roles. If this means that some men will lose their jobs and be forced to get a education, that is a price I am willing to pay!

If you object to this, you hate women.

So there.

As it stands, far more women than men go into higher education. And far more women than men complete higher education. One should believe that, in the interest of fairness and equality for all, there would be a big push to affirmatively action men into affirmatively actioned higher education. To fill the gender quotas so that we see a clear and defined 50/50 representation of women and men. Split the bill straight down the genderbinary, if you please. It`s only fair and just and equal!

This is of course not the case. There are still affirmative action for women. Gender quotas for women. Save the women only from the bondage of meritocracy and having to prove themselves worthy. Even when women are the majority. A peculiar topsy-turvy gravy as icing on the delicately twisting hogwash-cake of enginereed equality, where equality is only equal where women are concerned. More women than men is equality made manifest. More men than women is inequality made manifest.

I consider quotas and affirmative action a nonsensical solution to a manufactured problem; a symbol of our times. We are completely incapable of admitting that we are different. Where the mere utterance that men and women differ in their interests and their priorities is enough to send us into anaphylaxis, in desperate need of medical attention and a shot of adrenaline delivered straight into the heart. The only way for the body to survive the shock of difference.

For some strange and curious reason, differences are now considered a negative; that somehow this means that one is better than the other, instead of it meaning that one is better than the other at some things, and the other is better than one at other things. That these differences bring us closer together and makes it easier for us to cooperate and coinhabit this strange world we are put upon. Each using their strengths to the betterment for all. But, instead of building bridges upon our differences to cross the gap in peace, we tear the bridges down and make people take leaps of faith, and then fail in their attempt to cross the gap; to tumble to their doom, hit the noxious ooze underneath and grasp at straws to try and stay afloat, still claiming that there is no gap to build bridges over, no differences to nurture and cherish and build upon. Nuance is dead. It is either-or. You damned well better be with, or we will make damned sure that you shall be without.

Even as it kills us, slowly, we claim that any and all difference is manufactured. And through claiming so, we manufacture outrage at insane levels. We have been handed a rope. And with this rope, we tie a hangmans noose, claiming that it will set us free.

Searching for the lost boys

Searching for the lost boys A4 Lowres

Ill: «Searching for the lost boys», A4, Moiret Allegiere, 2018


Our boys are failing at schools. Consequently, they drop out of society. An entire generation of boys and young men left behind and forgotten. A generation of lost boys, searching for, yet never finding direction and purpose. We have decided it is better to grind them into dust instead.

I could drone on, but I won`t. Not today. Consider only this: it is not our boys failing at schools. It is our schools failing our boys.