Soliciting Solitude

Portrait artists two dogs after bath lowres

Illustration: «A portrait of the artists two dogs post-bath», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2019

Are we ever truly alone in this age of social media? I would dare propose that we are not. Ever and always, there is the pressing and thumping of the mob. Society is constantly beckoning, pounding at our doors and at our windows, demanding our attention. And we get suckered in, dragged down into the very pits of despair, into the fires of hell, by an unruly mob that jabbers on and on and on and on infinitely, without ever shutting up.

Or, for that matter, thinking about what they are saying.

…Or how they are saying it.

Demanding split-second reaction to any and all murmured drone that makes itself heard above the constant commotion, shouted from high and impenetrable fortresses of moral decay and ineptitude. We have reached a point where social media is a necessity more than it is a fun and fancy past-time activity. It is no longer a tool to stay in touch with friends and family. It is a tool vital to our survival in society, if we are to keep on playing this silly game of society. If one chooses to tap out of the constant hum and buzz, one is a freak, an outcast, a weird and frightful spectacle, a bed-time story whispered to children to teach them of the horrors of checking out and not participating. Soon, the pyres will be erected. The outcasts shall be burnt and cleansed of their social sins and ills, saving us all from their presence in the present.

For sooth, sire, he is surely a witch; he did not even like my status update!”

Goodness gracious me, squire, never have I ever heard tell of such a horrible transgression on the rules and law of the land! By my neck, such heresy can not be tolerated! Burn him!”

The reality of the situation is dire. For all our connectedness, our constant mass-chattering, clittering, clattering and goings-on, there is precious little room to think. There is more than enough room to absorb information, though. Albeit in a puff of smoke and a quick and frantic inhalation.

No room to move, no time to digest the information. It must be absorbed and reacted to within a split second of chronic cerebral indigestion; straight from this and onto the next. Information has become a consumable item; now here, now gone, onto the next. In a frantic search, in a hysterically stressed-out manner, seeking constantly that next tid-bit of information gleamed from some loud-mouthed inebriated freak shouting his or hers lungs out in the middle of the town-square, proudly proclaiming their truth as the one truth, the only truth, the holy truth of the holy trinity of our day and age; the Information, the Reaction and the Holy Outrage! God bless, and good night. And you must react, you must stay on top of it, for all time, for ever and ever, lest you fall from grace in the infinitesimal patience of the muddled nest that is social media madness and rapture.

Only a true freak, a pervert, an obscene vagrant, a derelict hermit, would stop to think and consider and ponder the information delivered before reacting in a manner most suitable for this particular piece of the information-pudding! Do not dare to delve too deeply into the mud and ground and blood and bones of the issue. That would mean halting the outrage for about two seconds; that would stop everyone and their moral grandstanding straight in their tracks and leave them flabbergasted and cotton-mouthed in desperate need for their next fix of anti-psychotics, anti-depressant and intravenously injected benzodiazepine. Anything to keep from getting to insane and anxious from the mere thought of thinking things through; or even worse: to feel alone, separated from the hive-mind and the constant buzz and drone of brilliant madness. There is no longer a concept known as “being alone”. There is no room for it. And we don’t need it any way, by golly!

The worst doom laid upon a man or woman; the worst punishment bestowed upon anyone in this disenfranchised enlightened era of the information age, is the doom of being alone, the doom of solitude. There is a tremendous undercurrent of fear and loathing. Merely the word, the thought, the perceived punishment of being cut off from the constant hub-bub, the clattering from the wheels of the information machine, the hive-mind pompously screeching and screaming, one wanting to be heard above all else, or else, but wanting to be heard delivering the same lines as the hive-mind in their deliciously frosted cake-and-nursery-rhymes; separate, but as one, is enough to cause a nuclear melt-down and cosmic-scale freak-out in all and one.

The grand machine of society must move forward, ever and always, no matter the road or the direction. It must progress. Even when it does not know the way forward. In creating this mould, this tremendous cookie-cutter slice-and-dice machine of social media, social media has become the grand machine of society and societal discourse. Society will ever and always show its wrath and trembling ire beneath its succulent and delicately whispered words of tangled information to set us all free from the bondage of solitude.

You are either in, or you are out.

And if you are out, you shall damned well know the meaning of being out.

…The grand machine, caught in a feverish display of moral virtue and socially approved dignified behaviour, show no qualms in exacting its grandiose vengeance upon you, horrid freak of nature, daring to mull things over and thinking before reacting. Imagine breaking the eternal circle-jerk by seeing things from a differing perspective; namely – the perspective that is thought out and mulled over in the sobriety only true solitude can bring.

When there is no room to think, no time to think, no place to think, there is only and ever room, time and place to react. Immediately. And the immediate act of reacting is formed and shaped by the formless and shapeless blob of the mob. And the mob… well, the mob is a foul and bloodthirsty beast acting on pure instinct. Not thinking, but reacting to the slightest and tiniest perceived threat to its continued survival. Any and all will be devoured by the mob, should it come to that. So best to stay on top of the mob, to take part in the unthinking and unfeeling assault on the threat; the outsider doomed to carry on an existence devoid of dignity, devoid of understanding, devoid of anything but the roar and rage and rampage of the mob, fuelled by madness harvested from the souls of a million mutants whose greatest fear is loneliness, is being alone, is not having their virtue and their swollen feet firmly placed within the beautiful mass of worms and tentacles that is society. So that they shall be free to be dragged down, and to drag others down with them into the wicked nest of tentacled madness and self-devouring progression, diving head first into a future built upon ash and skulls broken by bike-lock-extravaganzas, swimming in a sea of spilt milkshakes over which spilt contents one should not weep.

You do not weep over spilt milkshakes, nor do you weep over the spilt blood of a hundred crypto-fascist Neo-Nazi scumbags marching the streets to demand any and all have the right to speak freely, you hate-fuck-machine bastard!

…Now shut the hell up, fuck-face, and leave the progression to the infantile herd. What the hell has this society come to, anyway, when people are not free to bash each-other over the head with bike-locks over differences of opinion? Jesus Christ, it is as though these freaks, weirdos and social outcasts are actual human beings! Hah! That will be the day, you transgressive arsehole. Now, where the hell is my self-serving selfie-machine? Gotta update Twitter and Facebook about this glorious bike-lock punch against tyranny and fascism I just done did. What, me, a miniature tyrant; a tin-box dictator? Well, I never! Upon my oath, I am not a violent people-kin, nor am I opposed to freedom of any kind. I just don’t wish for bastards who disagree with me to be free to speak their disagreements. You saw him. He had a gun, and he was coming straight for me! I swear officer, nothing happened. Nothing happened, officer. Stop filming me, you free-speech extremist crypto-fascist fuck-face-kin!

…Now, why in the hell would anyone willingly subject themselves to this roaring pit of madness and childish despotism? Why in the hell would anyone partake honestly in this social game, when the price for going against the grain is a padded bike-lock through ones skull?

You tell me.

I don’t get it, man.

But then again, I am a weird and oddly bearded fellow; a pseudo-hermit in my own right, with more need for solitude than most and an understanding of human nature bordering on pop-psychobabble of the most popular and oafish kind.

And upon my oath and honour, I am not a social man. There is very little, I believe, that can be stated with absolute certainty when it comes to social dynamics of any kind.

Never understood it myself to be honest, being an introvert to the extreme, much more in tune with the buzz of my own mind and my own company than the constant buzz and drone of the tumultuous streets out there. It is, quite simply, getting far too crowded and weird out there.

One thing, I believe, is an absolute certainty: We are pushed and prodded into never being alone, into never seeking solitude of any kind. We are moulded, from an early age, into partaking in the social game. To take part in the power-play, the laborious process of being in, not being out. To not go against the grain, but do what is done by the majority. And what is being done now by the majority is the constant need for social validation; a constant grip-and-shake-and-bake of popular opinions cooked up in some meth-lab somewhere and served with absolute certainty of belief, even when it has not been tried and tested through critical thought.

Even when it has not been run through the mind-mill of thought and speculation. Even when it has not been mulled over in solitude, with no distractions and no constant whining background noise. Even when it is easily disproven with facts presented by those who are weird and freakish enough to do something so horrendous as take time out to think, research, ponder and provide evidence.

I struggle to understand why people are so willing to react and so unwilling to think. I mean; I think I know the reason for it. The game of social acceptance, the long-running and never-ending treadmill of being in and never being out. The immediate piling-on to whatever some high-and-mighty merchant of supreme morality say in regards to some fragmented bit of information becomes ever so important if one wishes to stay in tune and rhythm with the disharmonious beat of the funeral drum.

The more connected we become, the less connected we are. The less connected we become, the more we fear being alone. For those who are not used to being alone, the mind-chatter brought forth from the overwhelming silence surrounding oneself may indeed be very scary. Even disturbing. Because, in solitude, thoughts may surface that have been hidden. Thoughts that have been blocked from sight and vision from lack of clarity of vision. And from lack of wisdom. This might cause some self-reflection, some introspection, some ideas that one is not as perfect and morally clean as one believed. And we can’t have that, now, can we, in this age of unbridled narcissism and holier-than-thou sentiments from the morality-police? Can’t have people trying to fix their own defects and ineptitude, when it is so much easier to blame everyone else for ones own failures in life, coming to the short-handed conclusion that me myself and I do not have any defects, thank you very much. You must fix yourself to suit my needs and desires. I, on the other hand, need not fix anything because I am always right. Always right, even when there is nothing left but a shivering gelatinous blob of barely contained self-righteous rage and childish temper tantrums.

We, as a society, are bid to dance a dance of blatant superficiality; a long and slow and annoyingly short-sighted dance where no-one is sure about the next move because no-one ever bothered to think that far ahead.

Instead of thinking ahead, we are caught in this extraordinary feedback-loop of self-righteous diatribes gaining popular votes through the currents of the social media anthill. Like, share, carry on, straight into the next righteous crusade and obvious hypocrisy from warriors of graceless harmonies and piss-poor coordination who never once bothered to think before reacting. This lack of thought makes these people completely blind to their own hypocrisy, shouting from atop their padded towers, as the cannons roar and fire milkshakes a-plenty down upon the poor huddled masses below; “It’s alright when we do it, but don’t you dare reply in kind. For that would be hateful conduct!”

This lack of thought becomes blatantly obvious the moment one attempts to discuss matters with them. The only thing one can expect to gain from such an endeavour is a regurgitation of points – often previously refuted – which someone else in the midst of all the frenzied social media nonsense have said and spoken as truth divine. It is the same points, the same arguments, rebuked and regurgitated over and over and over again, with no semblance of individual thought and personal agency to be found from within the madness and the gibberish. Blame men, blame the “Nazis”, blame the “fascists”, blame misogyny, blame racism, blame homophobia or transphobia or whatever is the most popular thing to blame; the most popular shaming tactic available at that point in time. And when pressed, when poked and prodded as to what in the everlasting fuck any of this actually means, the replies tend to remain the same: “I am not here to educate you; educate yourself. Read a book.” Or something of that nature.

It is infuriating. Not for any personal reasons – I don’t much care about engaging this nonsense in discussion. I consider it a futile endeavour. I find it infuriating for the pure lack of thought and self-criticism exhibited. I find it infuriating that these vile and hateful cretins point fingers and label me and people with whom I tend to agree purveyors of hate-speech for daring to disagree with the current cultural narrative, flawed and fragmented beyond repair. All the while they themselves cough up bloody chunks of hate-infused vomit and actual fucking calls for, and acts of, violence from their rotten, worm-infested lungs without a seconds pause, consideration and thought. Because everyone else is doing it, so it must be alright, surely. And, as we all know, the ones whom we decide, in our grace and glory, are the “other” are ripe for plucking and ripe for being devoured, skin and flesh and tendons and bone.

If one seeks out solitude on ones own terms… if one engages in solitary thought, in meditations if you will… there is a humongous chance that one will meet one self. And that is frightening in and off itself, as the self is not always what one would like to believe that it is. More often than not, it is nothing like what one would think. When ones faults and flaws makes themselves heard, there is little to do but to change it. Or be devoured by it. And to change something of that nature, of that size, if one has not met it head-on previously is a frightening prospect. As well it ought to be. Nothing worthwhile is easy, as the saying goes.

It makes for far easier living to blame everything else; anything but oneself. Then come the crisis. Then come the sudden forced rush of introspection. At some point in life, things will begin to crumble, one will begin to break down, bit by bit and piece by piece. The biological clock will tick and tock. And if ones entire life up to that point has been built around superficial and immediate reaction; superficial and inconsiderate and egotistical reaction, with no room for self-examination, with no room for introspection, with all the chitter-chatter of the hive taking the place where solitude should have been… castles will crumble and the self will grumble and something resembling pure madness and insanity will emerge.

Then it is either to buckle down and back-pedal like someone possessed, infuriatingly finding something to hold on to in order to keep the illusion of being righteous and justified and this-or-that alive. Or, it brings a sudden rush to rectify what is wrong with the self, quickly and immediately, before time runs out. But if most of life up to that point has been wasted away in superficial grandstanding and virtuous shouts and howls and snarls and grunts… what is there to build upon? How does one go about rectifying something of that nature, if it all comes tumbling down in a short, swift stroke; a brutal blitzkrieg of truth-bombs and sudden maturation of the mind and spirit combined?

See, for all my criticism and blatant attacks on this new web of lies and tangled misinformation that is the social justice warriors and their ilk; for all my rants and rambles and ravings on feminism and their cohorts… there is precious little I am as critical of as my own thoughts, values and opinions. I find myself fact-checking vigorously and researching like mad, to make sure and make certain that when and if I speak on a concrete case, I am presenting truth. I engage in long internal dialogues with myself to see if my opinions on this or on that; if my thoughts on this, that or the other stands up to scrutiny. Or if they are easily torn down. I do this by viewing things from perspectives different from my own. Novel thought, no? To actually lend some credence to differing perspectives and take them into account when making ones mind up on a certain topic. Were I so inclined, I would dub this “empathy”. As it stands, though, I am no longer certain what the word “empathy” even means. That seems to be the case with all words in this day and age; the fantastic dawning of new-speech and thought-control. Now, I would like to state that this does not mean that I consider myself to never be wrong about something. That would be foolish. It simply means that I tend to think before I react.

Due to this, I tend to think very slowly. Which makes for decent enough material in long-winded and hop-scotchy writing, but makes me absolutely useless in debates. It is both a strength and a weakness, depending on how I would like to present it. It is a strength in that I am very sure and certain in my beliefs and opinions, in what I know and in what I think. It is a weakness in that I can not for the life of me enter a debate. It also makes it difficult to write on very recent events with any level of certainty.

What makes this long and slow and deliberate pondering of mine possible is my love and longing for solitude, my seeking it out whenever I can. Of course, it is the same situation that makes debates nigh impossible for me. Now, to be clear, the somewhat extreme levels of solitude which I tend to longingly seek is not the levels of solitude I think most people would enjoy. Or maybe even benefit from.

What I would recommend in regards to solitude, is a balancing-act. Treading a fine, a gorgeous line between the hyper-social madness we see and the extremes of solitude. To put time aside every day to be alone. To shut off, drop out, tune out, do whatever necessary to bar the windows and lock the doors so you have room to think in silence. It does not do for anything but a stressful life, in my opinion, to be constantly tuned in, constantly part of the buzz and the drone, anxiously awaiting the next bite-sized bit of information to react to on gut-instinct, lest you fall from grace and the mob turns on you instead.

Social media may be many things. The technology in itself is neither good nor bad. It just is. This over-use, this dependence we have built around it coupled with the constant need for social validation, creates nothing but a breed of humanity who only ever seeks social validation, who will write and say and agree with just about anything, as long as it is what the hive demands. A breed of humanity that never thinks things through properly, relying instead on hissyfits presented from someone else in the social hierarchy whose opinions, for some reason or other, matter more than the opinions of someone else; then regurgitating these hissyfits, with all their impotent points and immediate knee-jerks to be in, to be part of, to not have to face the shame of being a solitary voice in the wilderness of our concrete jungles and tangled wires like knotted branches.

When news and media report on tweets and twatter immediately, with no pause and no reflection and no research necessary, you know we are going downhill as a society. When the immature chattering of a cancerous mass of social media activists infest and spreads through everything, even when their behaviour and reasoning is obviously not built around thought or solid arguments, but built upon immediate emotional reaction, you know we are going downhill as a society.

When there is no more room in hell, the dead will walk the earth.”

In my more vicious moments of arrogance and spite, I think that we are in the midst of a zombie-apocalypse. Dawn of the dead-style, with zombies mindlessly roaming the halls of social media instead of the halls of a cathedral-like mall, ready to pounce on and devour those who do not act like them; stumbling and fumbling their way through hurdles built from words and from wrong-think, seeking the delicious flesh of the unnecessary, the unwanted, the unseen and unheard.

In other moments, I feel a tremendous sense of sadness and pity. Pity, because I am certain that at some point down the line, some of these people will actually wake up and see the damage they have done to themselves, and to society at large for lack of thinking. I believe that those who are prone to waking up from being drunk, high and stoned on a sense of being right, doing right, being just and doing justice, will sense that what they have done with their life, and the lives of others, have turned them into selfish and petty tyrants for the greater cause of some manufactured war which they have been tricked into fighting through decades of indoctrination bordering on social engineering.

These people will wake up. And they will feel shame and remorse and regret from having to face actual reality, not manufactured reality. And then, all the world around them will crumble. And they will be completely and utterly lost within the ruins of their life.

I have my doubts, however, that enough of them will wake up to undo the damage done, to turn the tide away from tyranny and back towards liberty.

When there is no more room to think, the fools will rule the earth.

And the greatest fools there is are those who believe that having others think for them makes them smart.

…and the ones who believe that thinking and speaking on behalf of others, disregarding what the others may say and think, is a virtue will steer this ship of fools straight into the abyss.

And good god-damned riddance.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 15.06.2019

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The Child Within

Limited exposure lowres

Illustration: «Limited Exposure», Moiret Allegiere, 2019

 

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

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

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

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

This, I would dare say, is being childish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No matter.

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

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 08.06.2019

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Limited not to escape:

Lonely parkbench blues lowres

Illustration: «Lonely parkbench blues», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

Limited not to escape are these dreams of complete liberty. Free-form expressions are denied by hands twisting and churning in feigned anguish, whose mere presence do nothing but waste time over disagreements regarding words judged to be not suitable for use by any but the twisters of hands themselves.

Aghast with sudden pain and thought-pattern-demise and blinking in the bright light of imprisonment, this sheltered spiritual decay of ours cry out in harmonious whispered whimpers, labelling as forces of liberty the same forces that lock the cage, that throw away the key.

Painting with broad strokes across the trembling sky, in black ink resembling soot and smog, a grand unifying manifesto calling the unburdened masses to arms, to fight, to feud, to fracture and dissolve what is, was and always have been through clinically insane trials of men whose only spoken crime is being men.

This manifesto adorn the walls and wails of bedsit-boudoirs under which roof sit fancy-free conformists claiming nonconformity, establishment pawns supposedly pawning the establishment, bound by unparalleled duty to spread the words and deeds and unthinking hate of this new morning of our mourning; a mutually assured suicide on part of both man and woman, on part of the feminine and masculine. Shaded, mumbled, jumbled, words thrown to the plasticine walls of society in a quest for sovereign ownership of the word and words hidden in and around the irrefutable, yet never understood term “equality”.

Smog-induced brain-fever is freely available, delivered with state-sanctioned gratification, with diaphragms vibrating with smug, superior glee. Dutiful neglect of responsibility. It was we who burnt the seas, who scorched the forest to spite the trees, who brought the mirage to the forefront, you see, thus removing any sense of truth and of justice and of liberty for all. Liberty is a pipe-bomb-dream, a long sought and forgotten treasure, a fragment of ages past standing in the way of this new sharp and shining razor-blade utopia.

To speak in tongues and gargled pseudo-intellectual cabbage-talk is divinity. Exhaustion and anxiety now revered by fragile nimble fingers seeking something to do. Drained by her sudden swollen body-odour and shaving her tongue with whiplash-cream, she turns to the camera obscura, proudly proposing personal hygiene to be a patriarchal conspiracy. It is her freedom to be just as fat, sloppy, stupid, sweaty, disgusting as men are.

Muttered words of some hardship or other spread like winged slimy eels beneath the slutwalk-moon and iron skies within this shallow and ridiculous opium-dream of hers. She thinks in terms of his and hers. Yet, surely, surely, surely, his and hers do not exist as anything but societal distractions from the radiant core, the essence that is all of humanity; the blank slate onto which all obnoxious behaviour on part of men is poured, all wondrous behaviour on part of women dripped and dribbled?

What, then, pray tell, is the doom and subsequent judgement of man? To be fat, sloppy, stupid, sweaty and disgusting? To have these shambled cornerstones of voluptuous ideology poured into our ears to ease the suffering and lamentation of the women, upon whose backs the chores and chains of the world left their mark as charred scars of some half-digested slavery?

Slavery making it so that she, now, carried on wings of affluent emotional labour, may soar like a vacuous eagle into the thin night of maladaptive malcontent. For her beak to spread this vile infection, this bubonic plague through spittle draining from her canker-sore eyes into the hearts and guts and golden cocks of men, onto these flat-chested streets paved with gold and oppressive affronts through words and deeds not proper etiquette in the presence of a lady such as herself.

Our illusion of liberty lying sprawled on the ground in some mockery of Christ, one thinks; crucified to die for our sins of masculinity and be buried in the gelatinous blob of intersectional feminism, transcendent academia throwing shade on history and on truth and on culture and on beauty.

Limited not to dreams of cowardly escape are these dreams of freedom and of liberty – to be allowed to speak and utter sentences and structured thoughts that go against the grain, the dominant cultural narrative of these decadent decades of socially engineered gender-blueprint-nonsense. This without the vile and violent milkshake-assaults from haggard street-thugs, soft and frail and weak and meek in the media limelight painting the assaulter as the assaulted, thusly blaming the victim and celebrating the victimizer, with no clarity of vision, focus, truth or sense of reason. Poor victims; fighting the establishment when the establishment is on their side. Detached from reality, pandered too and pampered still, delusions somehow given credence in this poorly painted plagiarized society of ours.

Should these labourers of self-induced coma ever harbour thoughts of more substance and more sense than grandiose hedonistic whispers of affront from some imagined ailment of the sexual interplay, I fear their caged minds would rupture and their spinal fluid leak out through their flaring nostrils.

The twitterati tweet and twatter with all the obscene and obfuscated flirt and flutter of a brilliant raven, perched atop the flaccid bust of a moral high horse just above their chamber door, speaking words that make less sense than “never-nevermore”.

Succulent whimpers from infant-like adults veiled as brave and heroic calls for censorship of hate-speech and thought-and-syllable-and-breath-hate abound in this spectacularly grim shell-shocked utopia. All hate-speech controlled by an unparalleled unified singularity; a cosmological universality deemed singularity by the chosen frozen few who consider it absurd that their calls to kill all men should be considered hateful speech and conduct, not proposed equality in luscious bullshit-peddling. Snake-oil is what it is, was and always will be. A fantastic cure for any and all, no matter the functionality of the thing. It is piss. Piss and ink. Call it what it is, and carry the fuck on.

Freedom does not equal freedom in the minds of so-called freedom fighters fighting for fragile freedom to be free from their own self-imposed frail fragility, bottled by operatic, dramatic, coagulated upper-middle-class snobs as heroic bravery. It equals freedom for them and theirs and their ideological equals, not for the likes of me and you and they and them who dare to disagree with the pussywillow-masses, shaking profusely and profoundly in glass-shoes and silk undergarments, donning battle-helmets of pink pussy-lips so empowering and fantastic; reducing women to their vulva, their vagina, their urinary tract infection and fungal-coated thighs and Venus fly-trap charm. Courage is being weak no matter what. Weakness is being courageous no matter what.

Are there any vaginas in the room?”, she says, to jaundiced cheers and mindless glee and thunderous applause. “Are there any vagina-friendly men in the room?” she carries on, to the same mind-numbing hum-drum, banal as only a room full of drools and dribbles may be; then complain that men reduce women to their vaginas, then complain about objectification, even when referring to women in a room full of women as “vaginas”. Woe unto the weirdness of it all. This is the age of instantaneous insanity, of moral decay through decadence and hedonism; we have it so good that we must have it bad. We have it so good that all must be bad, and we are bored and we are dull and we are nothing but a snake-pit floating out to see, sinking to the bottom, not realising that the only thing we need to do to stay alive is stay afloat. Or, perhaps, perchance, ride the currents of life and calm the fuck down for a moment or two.

Criticism is not tolerated by the equality-brigade, whose understanding of equality is not equality as one should think it is, but equality for those who are of equal opinion as the equality-brigade, engineering equality in equal measures to the equal opportunity destruction of society. All speech to the contrary of their definition of equality is akin to the clenched fist of a neo-nazi Obersturmbannführer wishing each and all a grand day and a free speech, thank you very much. A Nazi, a fascist, a true scum-fuck, is anyone who wishes that everyone should be allowed to speak and to listen. Whilst the true liberal view of liberty and truth and justice for all is the denial of the right to speak and listen for those who do not think as the equality-brigade and their vacuum-cleansed sense think. Hell hath no fury as a feminist scorned by someone disagreeing in a civil manner.

It is so painful, this lack of diverse thought in the dawning of our age of diversity; a clouded muddled mind shared by thousands upon thousands, the same thoughts and meaning and feeling and sensation, a shared experience, mutual as mutual may be, sound of mind and sound of heart and sound of body, yet hard of hearing, hard of seeing, hard of thinking anything but the buzz of the hive, the drudgery of the colony the beep and bloop of the collective.

This present-era diversity is doubtlessly good. As long as the immediate knee-jerk reaction of the eyeballs see representations of women and minorities, the rest do not matter. A superficial brilliant diversity in this dawning of diversity, diversified in appearance but not in thought by the might and power and influence of clawhammer-feminism, whose wisdom veiled the truth behind incoherent moutwash-gibberish, exposing cleft palates of distinguished beauty within their salty attack-wombs and sagging choke-hazard breasts.

This present-era hypocrisy is doubtlessly of the good and for the good. As long as no-one speaks out in disagreement against the salty brigades or the bonesaw-brutality of their rhetoric, dripping with venom re-named champagne, all shall be well and all shall be good and all shall praise the miraculous coming of the Christess from beyond the slutwalk-moon, from beyond the iron-labia sky, whose reign on this earth shall be the best and also the last, the finale, the end.

There is more at play and more at stake than anyone could have guessed. There is no path nor plan nor ploy nor play more distinguished in their brilliant stupidity than this force now sweeping across the world in a fantastically morbid dance.

This assault on basic liberties – to speak, to think, to express oneself – somehow wormed and wiggled and sucked enough cock to get all the way to the top of the elusive pyramid-hierarchy. A trail of dust and broken shields behind. Free speech is hate-speech. Thusly, hate-speech is not free speech. And those who control the language control the world. Those who control speech control thoughts, control patterns of behaviour, control the domesticated primates in their cages, in their cosy comfort-zone never seen as cages. Now repeat after me: I am free. Must be free. I can not see the bars and chains, now can I? Nor can I see the door closing shut, the roof falling in, the walls closing in around me. Individual freedom dies slowly. Bit by bit. So slow, that we do not see it go.

Limited not to escape is this dream of freedom; of emancipation from tyranny. To wish all and one the same freedoms as one wishes for oneself is the basic humanitarian approach. Not to curtail someone else’s freedom to elevate ones own, but to allow for the possibility that people dance to different tunes, and tread different paths than oneself, and that this truly is no problem, no matter how vehemently one might disagree. That this is cause for celebration: the diversity of ideas and of opinion; the battlefield upon which they are tested and tried and trialled.

In this evening of our society, this autumn of our civilization, a boot is stomping on a human face, forever. And the ones who are doing the stomping cry to the ones who are being stomped that they are oppressing the boot and foot with their face and head. The face and the head is denying the boot access to the ground, you see. And so the boot must stomp harder, the face be more pliable.

People do not think. people react. people do not consider. people act. Immediately, without pause, without glances, without second chances, without consideration for the fact that denying someone the right to express their views for fear of hate or fear of hurt feelings does not reflect kindly upon those who wish to suppress the basic liberty of speech and thought and expression of someone else. And who defines hate, and who defines truth, and who defines sanity in our mass-deceived societies? To the victor go the spoils.

People do not think further than the tips of their noses; do not have the self-awareness and introspective power to realize that they might be wrong. That these calls for the limitation of speech and expression should never hit them in the backs of their heads or in their drooling moron-mouths for they – they – they themselves are never in the wrong; self-obsessed and vain modern-era narcissists are they; gazing in the mirror admiring their own beauty, gazing at their mind-mirrors and marvelling at the beauty grasped from minds and thoughts that never stray from the trodden path, the accepted path of societal discourse where white men are bad, women are good, and minorities are stomped under the heel of the ever-affluent patriarchy, sometimes known as the kyriarchy, omni-present and elusive as fog, as mist, as smoke and mirrors.

Always present, yet never seen or pointed to as something concrete. Just a vague rumour, a susurrus, a rustling of the leaves and breeches of highly offended maidens of integrity and honour.

This patriarchy, who honours men and dishonours women, who elevates men and oppress women, is the same patriarchy that allows for calls to kill all men; that allows any critique of any women saying that all men should be killed to be labelled as hatred of women. For wanting to kill all men is not hate-speech. Attacking the harpies who shout from pedestals of translucent morality that all men should be killed is hate-speech. Under the reign and thumb and crushing weight of the cock and balls of the patriarchy, women shall never be criticized no matter what they say. And men shall have no say in any matter, no matter the matter at hand. This patriarchy who absolutely hates women, this society in which women are treated so poorly, allows for a movement for women and women only to speak on behalf of women and men as genders and as sexes, simultaneously denying a movement for men to speak on behalf of men.

You kerfluffled yet?

Limited not to escape from society is this dream of freedom. It is a dream of values and responsibilities. A future shared in co-operation, where diversity of thought and of opinion is valued, not diversity of shallow superficial traits. Where thoughts and thinking and ideas hold more sway than sex, than gender, than racial traits and characteristics. Where people are judged on the content of their character, not on the colour of their skin or the lack of a cunt between their legs.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 05.06.2019

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Fear and Loathing on the Educational trail:

snackbreak lowres

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead of responsibilities and liberties being shared.

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

But I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am ashamed to admit it.

But that is the way it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quite the contrary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It does not make any sense.

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

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

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

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 11.05.2019

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(Filler-poetry) Micro-Dystopian Junk:

Blame it on rembrandt A3 lowres

Illustration: «Blame it on Rembrandt (Selfportrait)», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere.

 

From the spectrum analysis
of the void; wishy-washy
nonsense bottled and sold as perpetual
freedom grieving the loss of
some-odd something.

Veiled gurus cowering in shades,
hiding mumbo-jumbo recordings
of coked-up politicians flinging
shit on the stage.

Weird visions emanating from the
microcosm of cataclysmic
bacteria in my gut. I hear
strange noises in the inner ear;

a hum, a drone,
devoid of meaning.
’tis wordsalads and
stoned gibberish from the ranks
of growling throats and teeth and tongues.

’tis a slow descent into madness:
storytime sellouts, loud-mouth,
obnoxious and drunk
on power
shouting at us from a pinnacle
of perceived morality.

And we:
we have become fat and bored
cold and callous
narcissistic, vapid, overcivilized,
crammed into the backseat
of an undersized Honda
and labelling it love.

Our revolutions have become pedantic
miniature-scale overthrowings of
the what-ever-man-I-didn`t-dig-it variety;
gibberish of cancer-ridden mind-morons,
cowering behind a shower-curtain
drowning in an inch
of proclaimed hate-speech.

All our piss-poor grievances bottled
and sold wholesale as micro-dystopian junk
to be injected constantly into the eyes
and flaring nostrils
of the clinically dead conscientous junkies;
offended and having no shame.

Chemically castrated, side by side and in pairs
we walk jubilantly to mass-graves
singing songs
of joy and celebration and
of joyus celebration,
blinded to the truth
by ideals too clinical to be sane.

Castrated and morally feverish
we raise the flag of superficial fellowship,
a banner of solidarity,
free-falling, drunk and damaged,
just another take on the old
new world order of old
new-speak.

Kallo! Kallei! Hey-nonny-nonny-neigh!
Here we are, lost in permanent
displacement; within a void, within electric buzz!
Hey! Ho! Hey-nonny-nonny-no!
Here we fall, lost in a progressive
shitshow; a hollow tune, a loss for words.

All our words, swirling
down the drain (Hey honey, I’m home)
seeing reason in the face of madness
dance away, flip-flopping into the ether
or into crowdfunded oblivion
permanently scarred by the toxicity
of freedom-fighters fighting for tyranny.

Visionary journeys numbed by drugs and by TV
trashtalking gossip and no-nonsense dreamscapes
in bent reality reality-television, starstruck
by witnessing the vast open canvas of apocalypse

coursing through the veins of reflected
imagination and wild cosmic vibrations
fucked up by lack of oxygen –
nutritient deficiency on the mental plane
balanced by grievance-fuelled
moral stupidity;
we grow accustomed to the night light.

A sudden bright-light flash of
full frontal nudity whilst,
in the background,
heaps of cocaine-stunned nocturamas
plow the cottonfields eternally
in old world plantations.

What ya saying, humdinger?

don`t chase the fractals
don`t frighten the children
kill yourselves instead

melt into the background
disappear in bad music
hands at your sides
or tied behind your back
disappear

choke the life from your
throat, tear your voice from
your eyes, silence and
then
disappear.

A vast freak-out on a global scale,
weird pent-up lack of self-control
in this moment: a permanent fixture.

We die, laughing maniacally.

We die, smiling goofily, succumbing to
a fantastic death-dance.

We die, celebrating our death masqued
as some rebirth or other;

built by futurescapes too horrible to comprehend
past bleeds into the future –
eternalism in the works, oh baby,
our time is what once was will be
again
and
again
and again.

Cycles of mischief and of decadence
dull and numbed and bored,
grinning at nothing
and laughing at noone, smiling at
chasms or at wild-eyed wonders
with childlike innocence.

And so, and now, and there and then,
with childlike glee,
we march backwards
to our solitary confinement and,
confined to isolation, silenced and killed,
we think: this is proper, this is good, this is just.

We are going back.
Backwards in time.

Shamanic madness on the fringes of society
mystical and stained with blood;
teeth at our throat
and hamfisted theory
theorizing hamfistedly
blood and guts and gore
from archaic esoteric
wisdom.

Our cultures merging and diverging,
coo-ee, coo-ee, it`s only me,
it’s only me,
shattered, tattered,
torn apart by raven claws,
smooth as skulls
and dopamine.

It’s only me; an eerie collapse,
an aerial view of animal frenzy,
an inverted comma on your lips,
cold as the dawn
and serotonin.

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– Moiret Allegiere, 08.05.2019

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We Swim in Silence:

Meditating cynic 2 A3 lowres

Illustration: «Meditating Cynic», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

We swim in silence;

With laced veils tied around our faces, across our mouths and hands and chests, we swim engulfed in silence, profound and deafening, quietly maddening. Waves crash at the shores of desolate desert-islands and we crash to the shores with them, ground into the coarse sand and broken shells of futures indeterminate.

We swim in overwhelming silence;

Beneath skies clothed in iron underneath its flowing gown of silk and satin; beneath a moon of complex and dubious duality, beneath the majestic majesty of translucent travesties, we sit and watch the bonfire at the beach in whose magnificent flames our accumulated wisdom burns and turns to ashes. By whose flames our midnight camp-ground is illuminated with pages of books floating by, ablaze, aflame, unheeded and unheard, accentuated by a loud death knell not in mourning, but in celebration.

We swim in exhausting silence;

For ours is the vampiric era of censorious insanity. Ours is an age in which we must pretend we do not have a past upon which to build; an age in which we must do all we can to undermine accomplishments of days and days before our time and before our shadow showed itself. This is the age where all that is, was and ever will is considered offensive criminal offence, criminal neglect and superfluous ridiculousness. Ours is an age in which all that dissent from the proclaimed truth, who disagree with the dominant cultural narrative – forged by culture-war convenience – must be silenced, must be brought to their knees and suffer silent silencing by any means necessary.

We swim in radiant silence;

Caught in opiate whirlwinds of fanciful fanaticism, we march with pandering, meandering, misplaced, misguided notions of altruism upon our brows and around our waists and wrists and ankles. We march with superficial knots tied around our necks, with tattoos upon our eyes and tongues and nimble fingers commanding: “Be malignantly virtuous, or else.”.

We swim in washed-out silence;

With gag-orders forced down our throats from hastily scribbled pen-pal-like petitions to hinder and to halt and then to silence; a proclamation of continual dependence on fear and tribulation, a co-dependent tangling of the untangled social madness and hysteria at the dawning of the age of superficial identity politics. Through the bonfire we see, glassy-eyed and cold, manipulation of history, ruination of free-form discussion, wreckage of words and collapse of meaning presenting only one side and making sure that only one side is seen, to tear sanity, truth and reason asunder, to turn a hard-spun, hand-woven lie into truth and into beauty unquestioned.

We swim in deafening silence;

Where it is considered better to censor history, better to burn and to ban and to eradicate literature than it is to suffer someone reading and learning on their own accord; where it is better to bring all we see and all we built and all we gained crashing down in feral wild and violent crash-bang-booms, than it is to learn from past mistakes which are naught but mistakes of the past. Better to view all of history and all of literature in deep black and white rather than learn from the negatives and build upon the positives; to view it in a much more nuanced light, stating: this is what it was, this is how it is, we learned from this, we can learn from this as well.

We swim in dilapidated silence;

We find ourselves cast adrift and floating, in chains, tied up with seaweed, with post-truth and with rot and riot, in a time and place and day and age where all but one is one and all but one is all, where all-or-nothing thinking is perceived to be and are presented as nuanced thinking, where we lose if we should stop to think, where those who understand, where those who comprehend, that a willingness to expose oneself to a multitude of ideas, opinions and speech is the mark of an open mind are burned alive on metaphysical pyres of indoctrinated mumbo-jumbo magic imposed upon them by ravaged authority, or hunted down for sport in dark woods of social media rapture, frozen over, doomed to die.

We swim in absurdist silence;

…for the perception of one trump the perception of the other; the perceived and subjective feelings of one trump the facts of the other. In order for none to have their feelings hurt but those whose feelings are not considered real and proper and true feelings, we censor, we de-platform, we chase the witches out of the cities and into isolation, into desolation, into alienation.

We swim in pregnant silence,

In decadent decay,

in obscure relativity,

in relative obscurity,

we swim in nonsense, reaching only death.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 04.05.2019

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Here and Now: The Dawn of the Honk.

In remembrance of Notre Dame A3 lowres

Illustration: «In memory of Notre Dame», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

Here and now, like conjoined twins fused together at the wrists, sharing the same pounding pulse and trembling beat of neo-neuroticism disguised as strength and courage, celestial government bodies align with ridiculous demands over-reaching in their moral grand-standing and demands for conformity in thought as well as speech.

Vast powers claiming to fight the powers-that-be have become the powers-that-be, the autocratic hyper-tense authority whom they purport to fight, whose souls sole purpose is demanding suppression of speech and of thought and of ideas whose fluctuating neural patterns viewed through macroscopic histrionics are considered wishy-washy hate-speech by control-freaks governed not by some concrete idea or concrete concern for anything but using power for using power, might for might, submission for submission.

Beneath the glowing bulbous ball of vibrational intensity that is the harlot sun of necromantic glee and splendour, all voices align in speculative speculation to demand recognition of them and theirs and is and isn’t, which is to say: “what hate we utter is not hate for we hate only those who hate and we are the ones to define what is or is not hate.” Genius reconstruction of language, mutable, undefinable, flat-on-its-face donkey-punch ridiculous; language re-defined to mean and to say not what the speaker says but what the listener claims is said instead.

That over-reach, so preposterous as to assume the listener being capable of mind-reading and, in reading minds, attributing purpose and intent which was not there and is not there, yet will be created to be there by powers falsely trembling from some manufactured threat to their own safety, governed not by their molly-coddled mannerisms or hysterical demands for safety-bubbles, but governed by their lust for might and power and complete and utter domination.

Lost now beneath the waning waxen moon of hard-spun lie-fuelled gibberish, we see shades of doubt cast from pinnacles of learning. What used to be pillars of our world and vision and wordly vision of thorough thought and knowledge; our academic splendour turned on its head and becoming lackademic lackademia, lecherous, leprous, treacherous centres for politicised nonsense and abhorrent hatred defined peculiarly as right, as proper, as truth and beauty and justice whilst telling us, with straight-laced smiles and fractured grins that there is no truth, there is no beauty, there is no justice, there is no anything, only a wide chasm of absolutely nothing.

Nothing is true. Not even the aforementioned is true. Not even nothing is true. Hit me with your spasm-stick, your trembling Greeko-roman tragedy, your best bipolar persona laid in chains from self-indulgent fantasies of being enslaved and tell me, once again, that in order to be free, others must be denied their right to be free. Freedom is slavery; and to speak freely one must suppress ones speech so others shall be free from your tyranny of thoughts and mouthy vibrations hitting the wrong cosmic frequencies so that we do not get the free feeble freak-outs, so we are hit with them ol’ cosmic blues again, mama! Through this we falter. Through this we fall, and liberty dies to the thundering applause of those who do not think that they will ever put one toe over the line hastily drawn in the sand; a line whose position is not fixed but will be moved back and forth, back and forth at the feeble whimsical will of those who wield the power to tell others which thought is proper, which speech is correct, which opinion is the only opinion one should hold.

All our notions of liberty, of freedom, of emancipation from tyranny and horrid authority whose might and reach should never reach into our minds and thoughts and words and opinions being buried six feet beneath the plasticine mud and soil of our synthetic blocky buildings, our micro-chip buildings whose shoulders carry the blunt and brute force made ready to suppress our speech for daring to voice opposition to nonsensical demands for governed speech and thoughts; for blind and herded conformity in packs clad in grey, whose thoughts are grey, whose skin is grey, whose life and outlook is grey and fragmented, rupturing, as all the world and all its people become soul-less, monotonous, herded into compliance under the letter of the law demanding that you shall not speak this, think this, feel this, opine this. Or, for lack of law or lack of letters, subjected to mob rule demanding the same all the while the law and the letters and the letter of the law looks the other way as the pack closes in on you, trampling you beneath their boots or hollow television-screens demanding you become one of them, to think like them, to speak like them, to act like them, to hold the same opinions as them or to be cast away from underneath the warming glow of our newfound lack of journalistic integrity whose sole purpose is to shame wrong-think in the obsessive micro-aggressive lingo of our day and age! In our folly, we accept. In our folly, we submit. In our folly, we bend our heads and we dare not object to the culling of our minds and thoughts through incremental steps. Today, the non-conformists. Tomorrow: the world!

Our flip-flopping slippery slide into tyranny is packaged as beauty and justice, as safety and non-harm to all. Forgetting, in the moment and by design, the harm done to those who wish to voice opposition when, beneath our feet, the ground is eroding and our madness is evolving into mutually assured societal suicide. Pretending safety. Pretending justice. Pretending freedom from harm. Like children playing God. And all who do not fear, who cheer it on, who partake in creating laws to govern speech and regulate thought are lost in their own moral arrogance, thinking that their being, that their soul, that their moral integrity is above and beyond reproach and that they will never suffer the fate of those whose life they will attempt to ruin for the crime of having a wrong thought, of holding opinions and using words that is painted as wrong, doubly and triply so. Implementing laws limiting speech will damage one and all, even those too arrogant to see that they themselves are not the clean paragons of virtue they wish themselves to be. And yet, this is the point we are at. This is the cosmic over-reach drawn from governmental decree; do not say this but do say that. In order for all to feel safe, no-one should feel safe to speak their mind on certain topics judged controversial by supposedly oppressed minorities who, despite being oppressed, wields the power to tell others what to say, what not to say, how to say it and how not to say it.

It is Pythonesque absurdity, over-analysed Dadaist irrationality. To think that I should live to see the collapse of truth, of beauty, of sanity; to see the world around me tumble into decadence, into hedonistic tunnel-vision and a loss of self so perplexingly selfish as to be painted as selflessness, despite being nothing but personal grievances amplified to the umpteenth degree and painted with strobe-light effect as issues affecting all of whichever identity-group one represents, or claim to represent, through tribal pipe-dreams like echoes of ages past, mirroring the dawn of mankind in its simplicity; my tribe good, your tribe bad.

Maniacally, we accept. We impose limits on speech, on words, on sentence-structure. We allow a small group of people to re-invent language, deciding through miraculous revelations, which words mean what, which words are accepted words and which are not, which words are deemed offensive and which words are fully acceptable despite being offensive in nature and by design; despite being language created to shame and to blame one group of people, one tribe, if you will, the non-dominant tribe in our kaleidoscope cultures. Mansplaining. Manspreading. Manterrupting. Manslamming. Toxic masculinity. Fragile masculinity. Testosterone-poisoning. I have no interest in banning these terms, these words, this flaccid and divisive terminology. It is interesting, however, to note, that the push to get rid of gendered words and gendered terminology does not include words and terms made for the sole purpose of shaming and blaming men. It is almost as though one would be inclined to believe that the notion is not equality for all, but suppression of thoughts, words, sentences and notions that could hurt the feelings of one of the myriad protected tribes, while allowing for ever more sentiments designed to attack that one tribe who is, oddly enough, considered to be the dominant tribe, despite all other tribes being granted special protection. Which, in turn begs the question: If all tribes, but one, are protected – what does that really tell us of the one tribe that is not protected?

When you get right down to it, when you cut through the fluff and the fancy and grind your way down to the bone, it becomes clear that, if all tribes and all people and all groups of people are supposed to be safe from having their feelings hurt by people who present opinions or facts they don’t like, nothing will be spoken in the end. No matter what one says, no matter how benign, no matter how inoffensive and tame and common-sense it is, someone, somewhere, will take offence to it. And, if all feelings are to be considered holy and as such not to be hurt – in the name and guise and formal dress of the ever-fluctuating word “equality” – all must be protected from it, and so all speech must be curtailed, all sentiments destroyed, all thoughts devoid of meaning, all sentences synthetic, preprogrammed and pre-approved by a mighty force who claims to know, with absolute certainty, what is or is not offensive, what is or is not meant by one sentence or one quietly whispered word.

It seems that more and more are trapped within their own reality-bubbles, in their own echo-chambers, in their own minds and in their own world to such an extent that the possibility that they might, in fact, be wrong does not ever enter through the tightly sealed doorways of their mirror-mazed minds. Confirmation bias is a very real thing, and it is something we all partake in. Confirming what one already knows to be true feels good. I think this is a very human thing, a very normal thing, a fairly harmless thing, in fact, as long as the mind is open enough to accept evidence to the contrary and alter ones view of the world accordingly. Emotion will always play a part in our lives. I don’t think there is any way around this.

Feelings should never, however, take precedence over facts. A paranoid schizophrenic may feel, may know, with all their heart and bonesaw mind that the pizza-van parked outside, delivering pizza to their neighbour, is really yet another government goon spying on them – another piece in the conspiracy designed to destroy them completely; a conspiracy that has been going on for ever and ever. That they feel this to be true does not make it true. And to act as though it is true is giving credence to their delusion, which does not heal them, but rather harms them immensely.

Ideas rise or they fall, depending on their merit. And to suppress, or attempt to suppress, the ideas of people whom one is in disagreement with does nothing but prove to one and all that ones own ideas have no legs to stand on. This is how tyranny is born. This is how authoritarianism, totalitarianism, madness and brutality keep a stranglehold on its power: by crushing underfoot all who dare to voice opposition. History is riddled with this atrocious behaviour, these acts of severe control, this barbarism clothed as civility, these demands for conformity of thought, of speech, of conduct, of uniformity of ideology. You are either with us, or you are an enemy of the state. And if you are an enemy of the state, the state will get you. And what is the state, but a body of people frightened that they will get the same treatment that you get if they don’t conform and sync with the tribe, killing you with egotistical selflessness for the good of all?

It frightens me more than it saddens me – though it absolutely does both – to see the world we inhabit sink into this kind of behaviour, this kind of ever-increasing demand for censorship and control of speech, of words, of opinions. It should be frightening to anyone who wishes to be at liberty to express themselves – and I should think this would be anyone – that it is not only social media mobs and the odd lunatic who demand this, but politicians and government implementing laws unironically labelled hate-speech so loosely defined that they can get you for anything and nothing at all. Particularly frightening is it that these laws are only protecting certain groups of people, making them by definition privileged and under special protection by law! How this is supposed to reflect equality, I have no idea. But, of course – those who champion it do, and so bring forth the same old nonsense about power-structures and institutional this and that, making it impossible to discriminate against a certain tribe because yada-yada and the structure and so and such and so forth and so on ad infinitum. Strings of words like sausages on a string; fluff and filler with no real substance and no real meat. But it sure as hell sounds good, looks good, makes sense from a distance if one squints and has the sun in ones eyes.

Liberty and freedom dies by increments, a slow and painful death, to the sound of applause and roaring cheers. And those who do not wish to applaud, who do not wish to cheer, can do nothing but honk their noses once or twice and laugh like mad clowns trapped in a maze with nowhere to run as the world burns around them.

Honk.

Fucking honk.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 20.04.2019

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