Gender is as Gender does; A Few Lines on Gendered Language

runes lowres

Illustration: «Runes», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

It has come to my attention that gendered language is offensive and non-inclusive. This is something that has to be dealt with by altering our language, and as such altering our methods of communication. At least in the long run. “Manhole” is not acceptable, and as such must be changed to “Maintenance hole”. To be fair and perfectly honest – this is not something that bothers me all that much. The “Maintenance hole” bit, that is. The altering of language, on the other hand, might be slightly worrying. Depending on how far people are willing to take it.

Double-plus-good, newspeak, Ingsoc, 1984 and all that jazz, you see. And so, here I am, invoking the sacred spirit of George Orwell once again. I am sorry. Truly. But I can not help but see the writing on the wall or the mirage flickering on the horizon where our societal descent into totalitarian madness is concerned. I would much prefer not to say this, but I would have to admit that I think Orwell might have maybe been a bit of a prophet or a visionary, seeing the writing on the wall and then placing that writing onto paper magnificently. As though he was beholden to certain fits of visionary journeys.

This altering of language is a sort-of, kind-of nonsensical waving and flailing of the arms, showing severe weakness and frailty on part of the feminist/SJW-crowd. If the mere mention of the word “man” is enough to keep women out of a profession, I would dare say that these women are probably to timid and frail to handle such a profession in the first place.

And I do happen to find it very difficult to believe that women are as weak and frail as the feminist hive-mind would have us believe. That is probably not up to me to decide, of course – I will gladly leave the projection of female fragility in the trembling arms and flapping bingo-wings of the secular feminist slut-marchers, with all their rambling and juggling of word-salads as well as internal inconsistencies.

It is clear as polished steel to me that the hive-mind wishes us to perceive women as weak and incompetent, completely incapable of handling the slightest bit of criticism, the softest of jokes and simple words that do not have anything to do with them, yet still see them diving head-first into the soup of dialogues to flaunt their frailty and tremble at the spoken word “man”. Or the written word “man”. Or anything that has to do with “man”. After all, it is the current year and we should all refer to each other as “peoplekind”, lest we offend the women and frighten the children.

Now; I am not much of a linguist. That much should be established. I merely juggle the words, know what they mean, but don’t know all that much about their roots, their history and their deeper meanings. I have picked up a little here and there, of course, but not enough to consider myself an expert by any stretch of the imagination. What is clear to me, however, is that language does not pop up in a vacuum, does not suddenly spring forth from the ground ready to use as a gift from the Gods. And so, I have picked up that “man” in “mankind” has nothing to do with man as a sex. Nor does the “man” in “woman” or the “men” in “women”.

In my way of thinking, this attempt at altering language is not so much to do with anyone being offended or the language not being inclusive enough. As is with all things in regards to the feminist hordes and the SJW-types, I suspect that it has to do with control and with power, which is at the burning authoritarian core of this hydra-headed movement of theirs.

It has to do with governance and complete domination, making it easy for these masterful emotional manipulators to claim offence at any word uttered that does not comply with their ridiculously rigid standards of behaviour, and in so doing being able to derail and shut down any discussion where they do not have counter-arguments to the claims, facts, arguments, statistics or whatever they are faced with, thus shutting down the discussion by claiming bigotry on part of their ideological opponent.

Very clever, very sly, and very snake-like.

In attempting to alter the language to be more gender-inclusive or gender-neutral, they will then be able to call out anyone who does not use the new-speak of our fantastically warped current year, instead of actually arguing their case, thus forcing their opponent to defend themselves against ridiculous claims of bigotry instead.

I see – and I suspect others do as well – behaviour such as this from the god-awful hive-mind all the bloody time. I remember witnessing someone attempting to debate a prickly social justice warrior urchin of thinly veiled contempt on Facebook on something regarding feminism and social justice. This SJW fruitcake ran out of arguments, as these people do when faced with facts contrary to their overarching narrative where feels equals reals. And so, instead of admitting to being in the wrong, the fruitcake started running her mouth about being mis-gendered by her horrible ideological opponent, screaming, cursing and roaring as though she were in the midst of complete and utter hysteria that he should not refer to her as her, but as they or as them. This of course despite her never giving any indication of this prior to the altercation, and having a pair of tremendous tits staring at us from her profile-photo in a very low-cut cleavage, showing very clearly that she was a woman and then some. It is important to mention that this mis-gendering did not come up as a topic before she started running out of counter-arguments, making it very difficult to believe any offence were really and truly taken – it sure as hammered hell was not given – but making it very easy to come to the conclusion that she derailed the conversation onto bigotry on part of her opponent so that she could take the moral high ground, showing him as a bigot as opposed to her virtually virtuous self, thereby winning the argument on grounds of morality, leaving the original topic of discussion behind in the dust whipped up by her infant-like flirt and flutter. How quickly we forget the original topic when being presented as a bigot in no small way. It smells an awful lot of rank bullshit and distraction; diverting the discussion onto a playing field that is all but level.

As an aside, and in order to air some perfectly reasonable personal grievance on my part, I would like to mention that this SJW fruitcake reacted with offence on behalf of my wife – with whom she had never spoken – when I shared a picture of my wife’s giant collection of shoes, with the comment “Help me – I’m drowning in footwear!”; an obvious joke and a pop-cultural reference to Buffy the Vampire Slayer. That’s how hip I am; referencing 90’s TV-shows in the apocalyptic days of the 2010’s. Sigh. I must be getting old.

Anyhow: this severely busty and thusly be-titted gender-neutral fruitcake snowflake commented with “What about your record-collection Moiret, Hmmmmmmmmm?” as though I had done my wife some horrible injustice and disservice by cracking a joke, horrible patriarchal oppressor that I am. It is amazing the lengths these people will go to in order to seek out offence where no offence is, in order to control and govern what other people do – going so far as to take offence on behalf of someone with whom they have never uttered a single syllable of communication. My wife was not impressed, as she found my joke to be funny and absolutely within the realm of the acceptable. Clearly, these petulant nut jobs do not value the individuality of women, assigning themselves the role of absolute protector of the poor and helpless maidens of chronic neuroticism whose frail submissive nature renders them incapable of speaking for themselves. In particular when faced with something so horrible as a simple and – admittedly – not particularly funny joke at their expense. What should have been a cheap laugh devolved into accusations of this and that from someone taking offence on behalf of my wife, who did not in the least bit take offence to this obvious joke. And so it goes – if no offence exist, offence has got to be found. And if it is not found at once, one must dig and delve a little deeper so that offence may be found, taken and then revelled in so that moral superiority and imbecilic virtue-signalling may reign supreme. Because these people have no personality to speak of. There is nothing there beyond the repeated mantras of offence and victim-hood, of simulated strength shown through opposition to whatever it is they deem offensive or oppressive or offensively oppressive. It is sad, really. And I would be inclined to pity them, were it not for their absolutely insufferable nature and them actually managing to get things censored, shut down and de-platformed by virtue of feigned offence!

It has all to do with power and nothing to do with actual offence taken, or given. For lack of decent arguments or truth, they seek censorship. Because this movement of theirs would die a quick and horrible death were they not able to shut down their opposition.

And what better way to do so but claim offence, discrimination, hatred and bigotry on part of their opponents, appealing to emotion instead of intellect, bringing forth the knee-jerk reaction of anyone who consider women and minorities to be above any and all criticism and disagreement? From deeply rooted trad-cons to the most radical of feminists, there is this in common: women shall not be critiqued or face jokes at their expense. Or, for that matter, take responsibility for their actions. They are to be pampered and protected by men. That is – the very forces that apparently are the enemies of women. It boggles the mind.

Any disagreement with a feminist will be painted as harassment of women by misogynist trolls, and may as such be easily waved away. Any poor criticism of any new movie predominantly starring women will be painted with the same brush; misogynist trolls just out to attack women instead of the film being yet another remade pile of trash from an industry completely devoid of any-and-all originality and creativity, dying on their fields of incessant wailing and attempting to regain past glories through the fractured lenses of our brave new world, cashing in on the momentary cash-cow of intersectional feminism and social justice.

I find it incredibly interesting and frightening. It is a tactic so blatant and so glaringly obvious, and yet people fall for it time and again. Because people in general do not wish to be perceived as bigoted, and so follow the new rules of the discussion. These new rules are that they must defend their person against accusations of whatever these troglodytes may conjure forth from the vast void of their emotional reasoning.

But – to get back on track – this started as me rambling on gendered language and the attempted re-structuring of language, something ripped straight from the pages of 1984. If one may control how people speak, one will also be able to govern the way people think. In altering language in this way, little by little, claiming inclusivity and non-discrimination at first, playing on emotions and perceived superior morality on the progressive push forwards, I fear they will begin to take larger bites after a while, redefining and restructuring language and terms and words to fall more in line with their dogmatic secular religion of feminism and social justice.

It should be fairly evident that their gripe is not with gendered language, considering their frequent and ridiculous use of gendered language to paint behaviour done by all humanity as something done by men and men only.

Mansplaining” – meaning talking in a condescending way – for example. Something both men and women do, but is painted to be something only men do, thus creating a new word – a new gendered word – to replace a gender-neutral term.

The same could be said for “manspreading”, of course, where they paint behaviour done by both sexes – that is taking up more room on public transportation than they need, being inconsiderate of other people in that space – as something done primarily by men, creating a new and gendered term for something not only men do, and, what is worse, something men have to do based on their biology. It has not only to do with genitals, but also with centre of gravity and being able to sit without swaying like a madman on moving transport, being that both the hips and buttocks of men are smaller than those of women, making it more difficult to maintain balance when seated, forcing the legs to be spread slightly so as to allow for balance. Whereas women tend to spread their bags and purses onto any-and-all seats available, or rest their legs on the seat opposite or whatever. This is behaviour both sexes exhibit, but of which men are made to be the only perpetrators.

There is also the term “manslamming”, made to describe men bumping into other people when they walk, in order to establish dominance and show strength, never-minding in the mess of faulty wiring that is their melted-machine-minds that both men and women do bump into other people by accident all the fucking time.

By accident.

But accidents don’t happen when it is men doing something, as the holy light of feminism have told us. For whenever men do anything, it is always with some preconceived plan in mind, some scheme of dominant tyranny. Men are held to such a standard by feminist ideologues that we are absolutely incapable of any accidents. All our accidents – all our clumsiness – is pre-planned acts of violence, dominance and tyranny. Men are perfect beings, to the eyes of feminism, completely incapable of doing anything by accident and as such being held to impossible standards of conduct.

Then there is the term “manterrupting”, meaning men interrupting women when women speak. This is despite the fact that women talk more than men on average, and of course despite the fact that this is something both sexes do. It is a human thing to do. Not something only men do. And I would dare say, based on personal experience, that this is something women do far more than men.

To be fair, this is only anecdotal. I can not prove it by any study I have seen, and it has to be taken as as such.

Based on these few examples, I would think it absolutely ridiculous that the de-gendering of words has anything to with actually removing sex and gender from these words for being offensive and non-inclusive. Given that the hive-mind is more than willing to create, to manufacture, new gendered words to add to the rambunctious vocabulary of the world, it would be supreme bullshit of the finest vintage for them to claim opposition to gendered words.

One can not oppose something and then create more of it at the same time. It would be like beating someone up in an alley whilst screaming that “I fucking hate violence with all the phlegm in my mistreated body.” It makes absolutely no sense.

When they restructure – or attempt to restructure – language in this way, removing gendered words for perceived offence, whilst simultaneously creating new gendered words which are actually offensive given that they are made to describe bad behaviour as something only men do, I can only come to the conclusion that this is some weird scheme of social engineering. I can only reach the conclusion, despite this probably making me sound like some tinfoil-hat wearing bastard, that the attempt is to restructure language in such a way that all negative behaviour is inherently masculine, and that all positive behaviour or profession is – at least at the first stage – gender-neutral.

That this is some strange way of saying through language remade that, though both genders are capable of good behaviour, only men are capable of bad behaviour. In altering language in this way, and attempting to make this stillborn spontaneous abortion that is the holy tongue of divine feminist new-speak go mainstream, it will cement itself in our minds and in our way of thinking.

Language is a very complex thing. And – to repeat myself – I am not a linguist by any stretch of the imagination. Yet, it seems obvious to me that altering language will also alter the way people think and thusly alter the way people view the world. Like looking at the dictionary definition of feminism as being only about equality between the genders have cemented this view of feminism in the hearts and minds and souls of our societies of only being about equality, despite their actions proving that this is a faulty definition. Easily proven to be wrong by simply seeing what they do as opposed to what they say. Actions do speak louder than words ever could.

It is very easy to laugh at, crack jokes and ridicule these new gendered words and terms that the hive-mind has manufactured. And I absolutely think they should be laughed at, scorned, ridiculed and shown the door.

However; there is still this terror floating in front of my eyes, this scary and sneaky subversive tactic used that is more than meets the eye. Main-streaming words that can not be viewed as anything but inherently negative towards anything masculine will make the words part of our daily thought-process and will, eventually, take part in painting the way we view the world.

Now, of course, the very same thing could be said in regards to gendered words such as fireman, policeman, manhole and the like. To repeat myself: I don’t mind genderless language or descriptors as a general rule; it really does not matter to me that fireman becomes firefighter instead, or that policeman becomes police-officer. In all honesty, this sounds fair to me. It does not bother me in the least, one way or the other. Now; do the same to “midwife”.

What bothers me is the blatant hypocrisy of supposedly opposing gendered language whilst creating new gendered language. What bothers me is the re-engineering of language to manufacture this view that so-called negative behaviour is purely masculine, whilst so-called positive behaviour is either gender-neutral or strictly feminine.

Though I am aware that language changes all the time, that it is a fluid thing that take new forms and shapes constantly, I can not help but think that – as is with all change, all evolution – it has to come about natural in regards to evolution, and has to be well thought-out, pondered and considered in regards to man-made change. I can not help but think that things have to change slowly and over time, not being implemented where there is no rhyme or reason to it at the whim and will of a movement hell-bent on dismantling any-and-all in regards to western civilization.

I can not help but think that this altering of language, this restructuring of the way we interact with one another, is but a small part of a greater machine designed to manufacture even more distrust of anything masculine, sowing even greater seeds of discontent than are already sown where the relationship between men and women are concerned, furthering this nonsensical gender-war and keeping it going far into the future. And, in so doing, making us drift even further apart.

This movement, that claims to work for non-divisiveness do, as a matter of fact, foster nothing but divisiveness, does nothing but drive the hammer home and create vast schisms where once the sexes were co-operating, where once the sexes were on the same team instead of being forced into opposing teams, caught in an eternal head-on-head battle where no-one will emerge the victor but the ideologues who seek to divide and then to conquer.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 31.07.2019

____________________________________________________________________________________________

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon:

Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
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Beneath the Streets; A Song of Male Sacrifice:

Blue light spasm lowres

Illustration: «Blue Light Spasm», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

Beneath the streets of our civilization lie the burnt and mangled corpses of men. Centuries of rotten carcasses piled beneath our feet, upon whose skulls we trample and whose broken ribs forever carry the brute weight of our desired rampage towards the sunset.

In the midst of our rivers and our sewers flow the blood of men, coursing through our quick-and-easy lives as the pulse beats in our chests and juggle in our jugulars, cut deeply into our shared destiny and yet snap-chatted into complete and utter oblivion.

The smell of sweat mingled with the smell of molten metal; volcanic eruptions of steel-farms-and-mills tingling the spine of our calculated wreckage of the scenery—apocalyptic graveyards grey and industrial in streets naked and unafraid, unashamed.

Rising like the heaving chest of an asthmatic; black oozing smoke from coal-fires or explosions in mines underneath the feet of our history analysed by puritans in wretched excess—now forgotten, now pushed away as damage done to nature more than men.

Or perplexingly perceived to be damage done by men upon the face of earth; scars cut into her beating heart by the uncaring hands and terrorist actions of men wielding knives sharpened to pick-axe-points to dominate and destroy, to exterminate and terminate.

Drawn as damage done by pure malice, by ideological disinterest in the ecosystem and its careful symbiosis with the floral fauns of ages past; prophetic visions not of mechanical necessity but of the three X’s – Explore, Expand, Exterminate, building not on hope but upon hate.

And all the corpses maligned and magnified that line our streets and pampered pockets died in vain and—in some strangers eye—a pragmatic parasite to be displayed as archaic tools of oppression for doing what they had to do, not what they wanted to do…

…and all the blood pumped to and fro our synthetic urban symbiosis, picturing the city as an organism, heart pounding, carrying vessels to and fro to do the work and duty that need be done; heroes hidden in the everyday soot and grime of displaced malcontent…

…and all the dead and all the dying whose hearts and souls were lost in permanent war, worn down and torn asunder by outside forces in chivalrous regalia marching to defend and to protect their very own ifs and buts and homes and hopes and dreams…

…all our eyes turned away from the crucified and martyred millions who died and are still dying for ideals and for ideas which they did not understand or maybe even share, but whose heartbeats beat for all and one all at once; who was called to sacrifice for some wicked strangers dream…

…all our eyes turned away from the loss of innocence and loss of life and glimmer in the eyes of those who fell in line and fell into entrapment permanent within the grey brick walls of soul-sucking industry for their lives and the lives of their family in near-yet-forgotten history…

…all our eyes turned away from soul-crushing sacrifice done by men whose wish and will were for others to be better off in the future than he; whose calloused hands and blackened lungs illuminated by the fires and spasms of industry paved the road upon which we walk carelessly…

…for all who fell into the flames of indentured servitude, who made their mark upon the world and who were forgotten and unsung – we turn our eyes away and shake our heads in dutiful neglect to forget and sing a different song to different tunes…

…for all whose arms and legs and backs were beat and broken in picket lines naught but a century ago, who cut the dried umbilical cord of industrial infancy to raise the standards indefinite are now cut and dried in the scorching sun of vain and vacuous whining…

…for all whose tedious toil in the grubby mud and soil whose song should be sung and celebrated are left to die in the annals of history as burdensome and oppressive tyrants; patriarchs of unchecked privilege existing at the cost of the suffering of others…

others whose toil and blood and meagre existence were hampered not by him but by the society in which they co-existed in dire circumstance and need, burnt by the scorching rain of dehumanized elitism in serfdom mimicked and mirrored in the days as the days were then…

…we sing of him and they and them as de facto Machiavellian tyrants, wielding uncensored power with machinelike efficiency, heaping scorn and ridicule upon the memory of past-time struggles where times were hard for all and one, not merely for her…

…we sing of him and they and them as all their struggles are all but forgotten in the moonlit glow of easy times birthed by his struggles and careless self-sacrifice done in the daring glow of the hope that is the new daze of new days dawning in the unforeseeable future…

…we sing of him and they and them as simplified black/white explorations of history viewed through binocular lenses cracked and covered in soot by a generation – give or take – of easy living relative to the past whose presence we have dutifully decided to forget and revise…

…we sing of him and they and them as were he and they and them enemies of the women and children for whom blood were spilt for the sake of them and of future generations; for whom backs were bent and bones were broken on the road to better living…

…we sing of him and they and them as if they matter none in the building of our easy day-daze societies, where we now find ourselves lost dancing in the silver light spat upon us by the moon under whose streaks of silver we have fallen into thankless, dubious, immediate lives…

…we sing of him and they and them as relics of some former era of male supremacy under whose boot and heels all who were not men were crushed and smothered into relentless compliance with his governing will and steel-tipped iron glove of rape…

…we sing of this and of that, remembering little and knowing even less, permanently googling the eye of the beholder as though the eye of the beholder matter more than the beholden who wore the rags of deep despair and desperate danger to save others at the cost of himself…

…we sing of this and mumble about that, understanding little, and caring even less, about the men upon whose shoulders we grandstand to amplify our virtue by caring about everyone but him and his life, his sacrifice and premature industrial accident or war-planned death…

…we sing of this and celebrate that and forget – in our relative ease of living, in our somewhat simple lives – the many centuries of dead and broken men below our feet where we walk with ease, carrying Instagram-models in our pockets and thinking no further than our memes…

…we celebrate this and sing of that, as all our shared struggles and all our historical nuance and difficulty and nuanced difficulty is flaccidly flashed into unblinking social-media existence dragging on into our self determined societal suicidal samba…

…we forget this, as we shame that which we should remember with reverence and respect; our water still poured from sinks by the blood of men, our pocket computers built upon the rotting corpse-hands of those men who died for our lives, whose lives and memories we now shame.

Beneath the streets of our civilization lie the burnt and mangled corpses of men. Centuries of rotten carcasses piled beneath our feet, upon whose skulls we trample and whose broken ribs forever carry the brute weight of our desired rampage towards the sunset.

 – Please like, share and subscribe.

 – Moiret Allegiere, 27.07.2019

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Links:

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon:

Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

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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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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