Eulogy for the lost boys

Eulogy for the lost boys Lowres A4

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

 

Starting from the bottom of lungs suffering a incredible infection of long-lasting and irrational hatred, we hear a roar bellowing forth. Twisting and turning and winding its way up and out, it is transformed through the larynx and trachea – moving from a roar to a screech, highpitched and fierce, as if driven by some latent demonic force. The screech spreads as spittle through industrial fog. It clings to every single droplet of dew, stained black with ash and smoke: spittle from a reverbarating echo of hatred blending with the dew of industrialized zones of spiritual decay. Upwards we are carried, clinging to the spittle still, until we mingle and blend with the clouds and get a full-on birdseye view of the world. Like eagles we soar and float above the world.

From this vantagepoint, much that is lost to us we may now see; strange echoes from a void of cloudy despair fill the air about us, charging it with tremenduos energy. Electricity is building up, and we find ourselves drawn apart from the updraft, drawn away from the clouds, separated from the spittle of irrational hate, we seek the void.

Gazing towards the void until the void is all we can see. And in the void; drifting and afloat from shipwreck to shipwreck we see the lost boys. Perpetually lost and stripped of meaning and direction. Cast adrift by forces beyond their control, beyond reason, beyond madness, beyond the void. Grey cliffs bend over the void, cliffs cast in concrete, in piss and blood; a eternal monument of paradise lost and never regained. A grey spectre of isolation cast it`s grim countenance upon their faces and their eyes. And their eyes in turn reflect nothing but a grim spectacle of a future chopped down and left to rot where it fell, meeting nothing but indifference for those who might see them lying there as they walk past under the scorching sun of summer eternal. There is no future in the void. Empty promises. Enormous, cavernous waiting rooms; rows upon rows of empty seats flashing golden rays of light mocking the lost boys for their absence, demanding at the same time access to their seats.

And we – soaring overhead – mock and laugh and ridicule. We wallow in their demise and urge it on. We pick at their flesh and at their bones with long beaks reenforced with metal and barbwire, asking in a mocking, sing-song voice: «Why aren`t you doing anything with your lives?».

They don`t respond. They drift further away. Deeper into the void. Shadows cast from the concrete cliffs of infallible madness fill their cranial chambers, bouncing from wall to wall, gaining speed, gaining momentum, faster, faster, back and forth, until it all becomes a blur and the cranial chamber, so pure at the beginning of time, turns into a chamber of excruciating hate in it`s own right. And we come full circle. Clouds close down. Rain pours. The ground is turning to mud. It don`t matter in the void. Rain or shine, the void stays the same. And we laugh and mock and frown; our collective faces turn into grimaces of pure disgust and disbelief at how grown men can behave as the lost boys do; clinging to chimes of the past with breakneck loneliness and escaping into that which seems familiar and, at the very least, shows no judgement – and to hell with the rest of the world, to hell with the void and the reason and the madness both. It don`t matter much, in the void.

And from the depths of catatonic despair come the deathparade; a marching gaggle of ghouls and monsters, each marching to their own beat, but all marching still to the same drum, out of rhytm, out of tune and out of touch, but still there, moving ever onwards towards the same goal: the void.

And from their mouths hiss the noise of ill intent, whispered at first but gaining in volume and intensity. Whom but the lost boys themselves know what words the lost boys hear at the peak of yet another sleepless night, or in the hollow tunes of yet another sleepless morning, lost in the perplexing horror that is the hour of the wolf; the long and dreary teatime of the soul? Wash it away then, with booze and pills. From despair shall freedom from despair be sought. Or, failing even that, a piece of despair be carved away, masked as loss-of-despair, but in reality nothing but a postponing of grander despair yet to come.

Through eyes clouded with numb sensations of free-form experimental poetry, come the grief. A great build-up of years wasted. A great build-up of wasted potential. A great failure to launch; turned away at the gates and trampled down into the very gravel coating the roads of misspent youth. Time and again in trouble. Drunk and derailed, faded into obscurity by the very same powers that claimed to work towards a greater good for all. All flowing to and from the same source. To bad the source was poisoned. To bad the source left them behind to float into the ether, and be lost. And then to be cemented as a permanent fixture in the void, and be lost. An entire generation of boys doomed to be lost at sea, clinging to whatever might fill the trembling void in the midst of their souls and in the midst of their manhood so that they do not wither and waste away completely. A generation ignored, forgotten and made out to be evil incarnate. A generation scorned and cursed and subject to the greatest betrayal ever bestowed upon anyone by the same hands and minds that purported to love and care about them. A great and world-encompassing lack of empathy and understanding. The fall of man. Paradise lost. Stuck in permanent purgatory to grow cynical. To grow resentful. To grow bitter. To grow into their own demise, either by their own hand or by someone elses. Either to take as many as they may with them into the abyss beyond the void, or to go fearlessly into the abyss beyond the void themselves.

An entire generation of boys and young men raised to walk gladly into their own death – to be born and to live and then to die in hatred – and to be told simultaneously that they are the lucky ones, and should be ashamed of and make amends for the rare privilege of being bestowed a cock upon birth. And we shake our heads and wonder why our boys are failing so, and we blame them for their own failures just as we blame them for the failures of the girls; and the rage and the riots and the shaming and the unfiltered hatred fill their minds and fill their bodies and fill their souls, and they fall. And as they fall, we are lessened. And we don`t see that we are lessened, and we don`t care, and we dont notice that we are lessened. For they are nothing but lost boys.

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Resting on the loadbearing daze of depression: why I do what I do.

Introspection A3 lowres

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

 
I have been fighting a depression for the better part of two weeks. It is a slow, long, lingering and deliberate depression. The type of depression that does not leave me feeling sad as such, but drains me of all energy and any-and-all ability to enjoy anything, which in turn makes it nearly impossible to get into a headspace where I am able to do much without thinking that it is – at heart – futile.

And then, just to really shake the core of my haphazardly put together cerebral cortex, this possessive fuckery is in deep conspiratory cooperation with a horrifying ailment which causes me chronic pain of some severity, as well as chronic fatigue, this also of some severity. This, my friends, is a recipe for disaster; a grade A psychological collapse. If I don`t keep it in check, that is.

Of course; depression is nothing new to me. This is, more likely than not, the same depression I`ve been fighting on and off for seventeen years.
I will absolutely admit that I draw a lot of despair from the everincreasing infringements on allowed speech and allowed action. The world is balancing on the edge of a razorblade. Slowly being cut in half. Tip-toeing about, walking on eggshells, so as not to offend those who must not take offense; the protected and the pampered who can not comprehend that people hold different beliefs and values.
It is, however, far too easy to lay the burden of blame strictly on this and this alone. It goes far deeper than that. As these things usually do. Truth be told, I am burdened with the melancholy and an overabundance of pessimism. Well, that is to say: pessimism in my darkest moments and realism in my lighter moments.

As the world stands, it leaves me precious little room in which to manouver and elaborate on the structure of my mind and expect to be taken seriously. This, it would seem, goes for men in general.
The feminists are quite content with telling men that they must not hide their feelings. Then they ridicule and protest whenever men try to talk about their feelings. In particular when doing so under the tainted term «mens rights advocacy».

«Do it our way, or you hate women.»

The idea, it seems to me, is this: men getting together to talk and ponder the struggles of men is proof of mens hatred of women. Men need to talk about their struggles in a way that is tolerated by women. That is to say, by feminists. Men struggling is, in the reality behind the looking glass inhabited by feminists, something that needs feminine values and virtues. Not masculine ones, as the masculine ones are inherently toxic. And so, any struggles men face will also be fixed by feminism. And the serpent of feminism glides on, coopting and devouring any-and-all in its path. Were feminism, as they have claimed whenever the topic comes up, concerned at all with mens issues, they would not be named feminism.

Consider this: men and women differ – often substantially – in the way they approach dealing with their feelings and the state of depression. Men often being drawn towards activity and solitude I.E: actions done in solitude to work through the grief, women being drawn towards networks of support to vent and talk and find comfort in others. One is not better than the other, it just works better for one or the other.

I have often, in the murky past of my bluepilled existence, attempted talking about my feelings. And have been met with little to no understanding when I do. More often than not being told that others also struggle, and that I should consider their struggles before my own. This does not matter much, in the end, as simply talking about how I feel has never offered me any form of release. Producing something of value; drawing from whatever inner turmoil is festering in my soul at the moment, does offer release. A most cathartic release, to be frank. Should I dare to be so bold, I would even claim that it might be of help to others with struggles similar to my own. A shared sigh and release of pent-up energies from whichever feeling has the strongest hold of heart and soul and mind in that instance.

Of course, this does not break the shackles and chains of my ongoing battle with depression. It merely offers some release; an outwards expression of my neverending inner monologues and/or dialogues.
The depression must do its work, trampling about in my subconscious until it makes like a tree and fucks off. Only to come back at some later point in time. It might be a chemical imbalance. It might be a continued spiritual crisis of some form or other. Or it might just be that I am clinically insane. Blame whichever seems most suitable.

What things I can do to alleviate this sense of misery, dread and doom are already done. Or in the process of being done. And yet, enlightenment is far away.

Thus, it is a perfect time to try and explain why I do what I do with this blog of mine and this youtube channel of mine. Somehow, the fog in my mind will find its way onto the keyboard and then be spat out for consideration and judgement by the frozen tundras of the internet – haven for all outcasts and madmen. Myself included. Release is sought and found in thoughts racing to find their place on the white background-noise of digital paper.

So why do I do what I do? Mainly, and as previously stated, it offers some release. Selfish reason, I will admit. Now, there is more to it than that, of course. As is the case with all advocacy work. I say advocacy work, because that is – at heart – exactly what I am doing. It may have sown its seeds in a place of subjective experience. During my travels through the brightly lit sanctuaries of the internet, however, it is clear to me that my subjective experiences fall more in line with objective experiences for boys and men; that what I have experienced in regards to this gender-war-nonsense that has been going on for ages is a experience shared, in part or in full, by other boys and other men; that the misandry abundant in feminism is a coiled snake lurking underneath the mud and blood and bones of our societies. And the venom dribbling from the jaws of this snake drips into the muddled waters of our civilization, rippling outwards and poisoning everything in its path. A cataclysmic ripple-effect tearing us down from within and from without.

In one fell swoop, it has been unilaterally declared that, though both sexes suffer, women suffer hardest. Thus: only womens suffering will and must be dealt with. Men, being the ruling class in the corrupted minds of gender-ideologues, is by definition the privileged class. And as such do not suffer anywhere near as much. When men do suffer, it is because men are the ruling class and those men who do not make it to the top of the pyramid-like hierarchy of masculinity will suffer at the hands of stronger men. Just as women do. Albeit not as much. In this way, feminists decry that they are the only ones who should be allowed to talk about and do something about gender and gender issues. Men, as a group, are the problem. And women, as a group, the solution.

The arrogance astounds me.

Feminism has managed to work its way into the collective consciousness of our species as the alfa and the omega of all things equality, sacroscant and holy. And as such, everyone is a feminist by default. If you are not, you are opposed to gender equality. And there is nothing more foul and horrid than being opposed to gender equality, I.E: feminism.

It is clever worldwide emotional manipulation. And it works. It works so well that pointing out the faulty reasoning and logic behind feminism, or pointing to the blatant hatred of men so abundant within feminism will result in «oh, well, those are not real feminists! Feminism is about equality!»
By who`s authority then, I feel inclined to ask, is feminists the only ones allowed to speak on issues of gender? Why, by golly, by the authority of feminism, of course!

See how that works?

Criticism of feminism is turned on its head and drawn full circle to its vague and emptyheaded emotional circular logic reasoning of – «see? This is why we need feminism.» And those of us who actually believe that the sexes should be treated equally – that is equal rights which come with equal responsibilities and accountability – are waved away as womanhating misogynists of the foulest, meanest sort. For simply daring to point out the many ways in which men are not, in fact, treated equally, be that under the law or in society as a whole.

By declaring themselves the sole saviour of gender – meaning, women, of course – and playing on the gynocentrism inherent in us as a species, they have been able to occupy all the space there is to speak on gender issues. They have colonized our shared spaces, and the mycellium grows like mad, claiming one and all under their dominion.
Gender equality has come to mean this: all genders are equal, but some genders are more equal than others. By manipulating the media and our politics cleverly with laced words and veiled notions of equality; hiding their hatred and shaming of men across decades behind the backs of a supposed radical few who are not «real feminists», they have managed to dehumanize men to such an extent that we are not heard when we speak about issues affecting us. Not heard, nor taken seriously. And ridiculed more often than not.

Dehumanize, and carry on.
Cultivate female friendships.
Lets band together to kill all men.

Yet, they claim that feminism helps men too. By helping women. Men help men too. By helping women. And only women. It is astounding in both its arrogance and absurdity. And I don`t much care about your soggy knees anyways. I`ve got my own issues to worry about. Men have their own issues and their own needs, and attempting to «solve» these issues through the warped magicians lens of feminism will do naught but bring forth the ruination of both our western societies and men as a whole. One would not be amiss to believe that this is their purpose.

The dehumanizing of men has gone on for so long and reached so far into our culture that it has become nigh invisible. We are so used to seeing it that we don`t notice it. Even if it is waving its filthy hands right in our downcast eyes. Which brings me, at long rambling last, to when I reached my breaking point and started writing about these things. Why I do what I do, and in the way I do. As I stated previously – it does stem from a place of selfishness. If one would be inclined to label it as such. It has been a slow awakening for me. Yet it all seemed so sudden.

Over the past five or six years, more and more of my friends – both in social media and in real life – started spewing what can only be described as vile hatred of men in general, and white men in particular. Little at first, then more and more. Coming to the realization that every single one of my friends – bar only a few – saw no issues at all in hating me based on my gender and the colour of my skin, was not a easy task. And when they were called out on it, the response was something akin to «Oh, not you. Fragile masculinity. Blah-blah – notallmen – but most men – blah-blah – it is our turn now.» According to these people and these views, men are not fully human beings. Or we deserve what ever comes our way because some men have been evil for too long, or some such garbled nonsensical mumbo-fucking-jumbo which makes them feel just and makes them feel righteous and makes them feel, not least of all, good about themselves.

To be clear: I have been noticing things like this my entire life. To me, at any rate, it is only recently that everyone and their mums seem to spout the same vacuous bullshit, or share the same dimwitted view that all men are privileged scum, and as a result the one group in society unto which all bile may be spewed and all wishes for death and dismemberment are A-OK!

Then there is the idea to get rid of any-and-all gendered words. An idea of feminists which seem particularly ridiculous when you look at their own gendered terms such as «Mansplaining», «manslamming», «manspreading», etcetera. I left Facebook, never loking back, shortly after a supposed friend shared an article with a title something akin to «I walked with the entitled swagger of a white man for a week». Everything men do is wrong. How we sit, how we talk, and now – how we walk. That was the straw that broke the camels back, and made me finally leave my selfimposed hermitting to try and talk about these things in the only way I know; through drawings and prose.

Men are now effectively dehumanized. Second-class citizens. To such an extent that articles and videos and what-have-yous which vilify and demonize men are shared willy nilly by one and all, with no consideration of the effect this has on men within their own fucking circle of friends and family, because men are nothing but mere homunculi to shame and ridicule and dance to their tunes for their amusement!
Everyone plays along, as if this is a perfectly fine thing to do. Mothers telling their sons that they are rapists-in-waiting? A-OK. Teachers doing the same? Quite alright. Media also? Go on. Ain`t no thing!

But don`t you dare disagree with one single woman. By the logic of these malicious tyrants, this makes you hate all women. Their claim is that the reason for disagreeing with a woman is her gender, not what she says. And by pulling the victim-by-virtue-of-vagina card, the ones in opposition are shamed and bullied into silence by a rampaging mob of fevered madness collapsing into the moldiest abyss of socially approved hatred.
Unless the woman is a conservative. Or a nonfeminist. Then she is also fair game to the feminists. Because women are strong and powerful and one should always listen to them. Unless they are nonfeminists and unless they speak on behalf of themselves and not feminism. Straying from the path of feminism makes women heretics. Burn the witch. She is a gender traitor; a festering sore on the trembling lips of the messianic sisterhood of feminism.

Name me, I implore, one other human rights organization claiming to be the only human rights organization allowed to speak on behalf of human rights. And show me, please, how the garbled woo of patriarchy theory differs from the jewish banking conspiracy. See, the term Feminazi originated for good reason. The nazis blame the jews with garbled conspiracy-nonsense and the feminists blame men with muddled conspiracy-bullshit, and the only differences are popularity and gender.
And of course, with the birth of intersectional feminism, in which feminism – in its grandiosity, care and compassion – coopted the cause of other groups under their laced panties-umbrella-term «equality», sexuality and skincolour and ablebodiedness also play a significant part in their victim-narrative- poop. And they aim at being the only movement allowed to speak on behalf of perceived equality; to create a monumental monolithical church under which all banners aiming at equality wave, all painted in the same colours and all flying the same flags. Different causes, same cause: women first, then the rest. The reach and might and influence of feminism is immense. Power corrupts. And feminism is corrupt. It is rotten at the core.

What follows in this wake is the supression of free speech. Denying someone their right to express themselves because someones feelings may be hurt in the process. This is incredibly frightening; a gallant glide into the waiting arms of totalitarianism. Liberty dies to the sound of thundering applause. Free speech applies only to the few, whose hatespeech is not hatespeech because the targets for the hatespeech are men. Every other group is to be protected. Then it follows: if every group in society, but one, is protected – what does that really say about the one group that is not protected?
To the reasonable mind, this group is not in any way, shape or form privileged. And yet the claim is that it is. That the reason for protecting every other group but this one group is that this group is privileged. Nevermind that extending special protection to some groups but not others is, by definition, privileging those groups at the expense of the other.

I honestly believe that all and one should be allowed to speak their mind; to try their ideas, however stupid, silly or hateful on the grand battlefield of ideas. This includes feminists. My aim is not to stifle their speech. Far from it – the more hate they spew and the more open they feel they may spew it, the more they show their shrivelled, rotten and unbeating hearts. The push from feminists to stifle speech in opposition to their speech should tell all one needs to know.

And yet, in my minds eye and in my darkest moments I envision ethereal medieval castles enveloped in fog; a dreary and corrupted feudal system built around feminism. Scraps trickling down from the quivering lips of goddess-queens, dribbling down onto the hungry masses, each with their own place in the victim-hierarchy with needs needing to be met. These needs then being graciously met; offered from the hands of the goddess-queens themselves; to each according to their needs and from each according to their abilities. And then: who decides what ones needs are, and who decides what ones abilities are?
Downwards the trickling go, until men are left with the hardest labour and the driest, moldiest crumbs. Equality and justice for all is served following the rules as laid down in dusty cobwebbed tomes of feminist academes of ages past; vague history barely remembered at all, and with all nuance and all fact and all truth hidden away in sacred chambers where neither man nor woman dare thread under pain of death.
I see dystopia emanating in waves from the burning, sacred heart of feminism; a future both sterile and putrid with all sense of humour stripped away and all speech and all conduct governed by laws impossible to abide by for all but the saintliest of saints and godliest of goddesses. I see the totalitarian tango danced through streets lit brightly at night by radiant spotlights; eternally searching for offense. And if no offense is found, offense will be conjured forth by high-priestesess, immaculate in their cleanliness and virtue. The walls of civilization will crumble and all that remains is a whispered word of ages past: «Equality»; a word which has lost all meaning through the phantasmal dance of time. And the glowing embers of madness will be fanned into an allconsuming fire, to cleanse the world of nonbelievers and bring forth the shining light of the future; progress for the sake of progress, with no thought and no pause and no purpose but to tear down and rebuild for the sake of tearing down and rebuilding.

And I sit here. And I write. And I sit here. And I draw. About these topics. And I try, to the best of my abilities, to shine a light on this. Maybe it will help. Maybe it will not. At the very least, I will go to my grave knowing that I did something right with my life; that I partook in fighting one battle for a just and good cause, in a small and, most likely, insignificant way. And yet, I did it. And yet, I tried. And that is not all bad.

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For some great books on how men cope with Grief, please take a look at Tom Goldens books on the topic. They did wonders for me, in my own moment of grief:

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

Lost at sea lowres A3

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

 

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

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

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

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

You may believe that they won`t.

But they will.

Come time, they will.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A rant about violence.

schools lost A3 Lowres

Ill: «Schools Lost», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2018

 

Buckle up, Buckaroos! Grab a drink. Have a few. We`re going on a wild ride, a mystical journey to the center of the mind. Or at the very least to the center of certain insanity. Destination unknown, trajectory wonky, wobbly, uncertain. See the writing on the wall. Fasten your seatbelts. Down we go.

Have you ever heard the saying «End violence against women»? Thought so. Did you shake your head and mutter something along the lines of «those poor women, disproportionately suffering violence at the hands of evil men?» Thought so. Sounds fairly typical. Yet another episode wherein visceral gutinstincts overtake the usual rational response. Because we sure as hell need to end this terrible wave of violence washing over the poor defenseless women. Why should they suffer so? And at the hands of men at that! Poor girls. Time to don that armour and fight for their honour. Just as we have always done, time and again. It is chivalry returning for the umpteenth time. Protect women. Always. Even at the expense of men.

The fact that the overwhelming majority of victims of violence are men don`t matter much to us. We need to worry about the minority of victims of violence instead. And this minority just so happen to be women. The reasoning seems to be that men are the perpetrators of violence more often than not. And as such it does not matter much that far more men than women suffer violence. The gender of the perpetrator makes the violence acceptable when swung in the general vicinity of the disposable male; evil mercenary of the patriarchy that he undoubtedly is.

Nevermind that this tells us that the small percentage of men who are likely to be violent would rather assault another man than he would assault a woman. We do not have a call to end violence. Not as such, no. Just a call to end violence against women. Framed in such a way that it is mens violence against women. And only mens violence against women. Of course: women are seldom, if ever, violent against men is what we are told. And when they are, it is brushed of or even given excuses, explanations and mental gymnastics galore to make the female perpetrator out to be the real victim of her violence against the male victim. Deny and reverse victim order yet again. He must have done something to deserve it. Because of course he must have. Victimblaming, superb and absolute, is quite alright as long as it is a man, tainted by original snakelike sin, being blamed for the actions of a clean, angelic and innocent woman.

Now, I will admit that I absolutely think it is a good idea to end violence against women. I just so happen to believe that ending violence against men is just as important. And considering, yet again, that the vast majority of victims of violence are men one would not have to be particularly imaginative to imagine that more resources ought to be directed towards the group most affected. At the very least one would expect more resources. Some resources, even. Yet, that is not the way the swings are swung. Violence against men is commonplace, and mens pain and humiliation – both emotional and physical – is a source of amusement and humour in the zoological paradise of the domesticated primates.

Who can forget Sharon Osbourne laughing, at starspangled daytime television no less, at the very real story of a very real man who got his very real penis chopped off by a very real furious harpy fuelled by bloodlust extreme, and then thrown into the very real waste disposal bin? Snip, snop, chop-chop, blood and pain and humour eternal. Considering that male genital mutilation is legal and not considered mutilation, it is not a far stretch to say that this indifference to the wellbeing of boys and men begins early in a boys life.

Laugh at the mans pain and dismemberment, audience. Add to his humiliation and add to his pain. Laugh, I tell you, laugh! And an army of trained seals applaud and laugh, as the magic is absolved by the zeitgeist, a magic that makes us immune to empathy whereever men are concerned.

The wonders of aerial telepathy told them not only that they were allowed to laugh, but that they had to. The victim in this instance singled out for ridicule. Not only dismembered and victimized, but shamed and furhter victimized for being so! The mutilation of his penis, his physical and psychological pain turned into a joke through dreary daytime television horrors. With little-to-no serious repercussions for Sharon Osbourne, I might add, who made a half-assed apology later on which she snickered and sniggered and giggled her way through; a mean girl lost in the adolescent haze of high school still.

She still has a career.

A man doing the same, were the genders reversed, would without a shadow of a doubt have no career after the inevitability of a nuclear winter following his jokes at the expense of a mutilated woman. He would have been subject to the ferocity of mob law and mob rule. He would have been lynched, his name tarred and feathered, then driven out into the desert to wither and die. Considering that men can not even make a private joke amongst themselves in the presence of a woman without suffering backlash, this is not something I just pulled out of my ass. Look to «Donglegate» for one example amongst many.

Since the victim was a man, he must have done something to deserve his fate. If not directly, he must have done something indirectly. Due to vagueties of patriarchal hierarchies and explain-it-all-away-please.

And so we are blind to his pain and humiliation. Societally, we have no empathy for him. A mans pain is either taboo, or it is a source of amusement. A womans pain, however, is something that we need to band together to end. No matter how small and insignificant that pain may be. Feelings trump facts in this regard, and feeling as though a man looked at her wrong means the man commited sexual violence in some shape or form. «He done eye-raped me, y`all!» And then it`s all «Girl power! Go Girl Go! Show them evil men-folk who you are, how strong you are!» And other such slogans; one-upping the patriarchy, one severed penis at a time. If his right eye offends you, then you must pluck it out.

Is it then any wonder that few men report being victims of domestic violence? No wonder that the statistics previously have shown few men as victims of domestic violence, even though Erin Pizzey have said since the 70`s that women are just as likely as men to engage in domestic violence; that most domestic violence is bilateral. Not only are men not believed nor taken seriously, they are ridiculed if they dare to step forward and tell their story of violence at the hands of women. As a natural effect, it is underreported. There is also the Duluth-model to take into consideration, of course. I will not go into that one here and now. This is long enough as it is!

Many factors conspire and work together, so that we believe that it is mostly women who are victims. Of course, the feminists would tell you that this is the fault of the omnipresent patriarchy, which views women as weak and incapable. Which sounds an awful lot like «The Devil made me do it». Odd, then, that the very same feminists are the ones who scoff at the idea that men can suffer domestic violence at all.

Katherine Spillar saying that «Domestic violence is just a clean-up word for wifebeating» in Cassie Jayes fantastic documentary, the red pill, should tell one everyting one needs to know. There is no domestic violence. Only wifebeating. What a trip, eh? See how they try to change words around and how they manage to shift the definition to suit their agenda. Luckily, it seems that the tides are turning and that men have finally started reporting domestic violence. Mayhaps we will see a change in the general cultural norms come time. I wouldn`t count on it any time soon, though. Changes such as these do take time. We are fighting a long battle. And the siege has only just begun. We need to be patient.

Oh, goodness gracious me – I almost forgot – men are stronger than women by far, dontcha know! So they would have no problem defending themselves. And here I sat years ago, believing the feminists when they told me that women can do anything men can do. And do it better. Anything but violence, apparently. Strange, this, that biological differences suddenly pop to the forefront of our cultural knowledge and the blank slate social constructivist nonsense suddenly gets spirited away whenever it suits a certain worldview and a certain agenda. Gone in a puff of smoke and leaving nothing behind but a lingering aroma of rotten eggs and synthetic hairdye. It is not either-or. Stick to your scripts. Men as the perpetrators, women as victims. For all time, for ever and ever. Hail Bindel, Praise Dworkin, Amen. Nevermind women using weapons. Nevermind emotional abuse. There is a reason that the caricature of the henpecked husband have been around for aeons.

Oh, my bad, that caricature of the henpecked husband is of course an attack on womanhood and as such evidence of rampant misogyny throughout the ages. Even if it is the henpecked husband being made fun of! Nevermind, nevermind, wipe it under the rug, dust gone, all settled, now we are clean and good to go. Just as long as we know where we have to stand on these issues, dontcha know?

Going back to my teens, I remember the school, as well as the youth club I attended every friday offering classes in selfdefense for girls. Nothing for boys, of course. And at this point, I had been assaulted twice. Not talking about scuffles amongst friends – those happen with teenaged boys, full of piss and vinegar and more pride than sense. It is to be expected. A small scuffle, a quick fight, done with it, nothing major, friends again now. Nah, I`m talking about proper, out of the blue, assaults by relative strangers. People whom I knew by name, and nothing more. And I was thinking back then the same as I think now: why would only the girls be allowed to learn how to defend themselves, and why would the boys be expected to know how? It seems to me that we were, and are, expected to experience violence and as such are expected to be able to defend ourselves. Violence enacted upon men are so commonplace that we don`t register it. It just happens. It is a fact of life. Deal with it. Brush it off and man up! Don`t complain and don`t ask why you are not allowed a free selfdefense class or two, lest we label you a hater of women and scoff in your general direction, you son of a silly person!

Violence against women is so rare and happens so seldom, relative to that against men, that we notice when it happens. We are wound up tight by the wheels and cogs of gynocentrism and a philosophy of protect-the-women, that we feel a absolute and most definite need to end it. Socially, societally, globally. We notice and we weep for the poor defenseless women who needs all the help they can get their poor hands on. Bring back our girls. Boko Haram. Thousands of boys kidnapped, tortured or killed over the years. Forced into becoming child-soldiers. Merely a flicker of a fly buzzing through our collective consciousness. Kidnap some 200 girls, however, and everyone is all up in arms. Women and girls must never experience violence. Men and boys, on the other hand… not so much. It`s different, we are told and led to believe by aerial telepathy and the clicking of the presses, the machines at work. Why is it different? Well – it just is. The apathy disgusts me. The inability to see boys and men as victims, only perpetrators ought to make our foundations shake and tremble with rage.

And I have to wonder if male victims of violence which may leave them crippled physically or psychologically worry or even care about the gender of their perpetrator, or if they would rather see justice served and be done with it? The gender of the perpetrator should not matter. Only the violence enacted should matter. The act. And justice. Not justice legionaire, but justice at all. Justice for one and all. Ideally, we should all be equal under and in front of the law. In reality, though, this is not the case.

If we are to be so stupid as to look at violence through the mindnumbing glasses of partly or completely blinded gender-ideologues, where the gender of both the victim and the perpetrator matter, how does this work in actual reality?

If one follows the cracked and poisonous eggshell-logic of these modern-day victorians, should it not also be the case that a woman assaulting a man is evidence that this woman hates all men? Should it be considered a hatecrime? Is it not evidence of womens violence against, and hatred of, men? What are the rules exactly?

Of course, we know that it is not viewed as such. Were the rules evenly applies across the board, though, it should be viewed as such. Because that would make the woman attacking the man attacking him solely for being a man, if we are to believe that a man attacking a woman does it solely because she is a woman. But the rules are, of course, not applied evenly in the feminist claptrap utopia of doublethink, mental gymnastics and bigotry.

Because of something-something-mumbo-jumbo-woo-woo invisible power structures and patriarchy reigns supreme, it is something completely different.

But what if a woman assaults a woman? Who would be the main victim there? Would the assaulted have done something to the assaulter that warranted the attack? How many factors do we take into consideration when measuring the harmful effects of an assault? Gender? Age? How about sexuality? Skincolour? Mental state? Intelligence? Should we delve even deeper into the vacuos rabbithole of identitypolitics and superficial qualities? What should we factor in? Depends, it would seem, on the time of day, the phase of the moon, wether or not there was a full or partial eclipse of the sun sometime prior and so forth and so on. A butterfly flaps its wings. Women are most affected.

The feminist narrative changes according to the whims and wonders of the universe. Sometimes, there are biological differences between men and women that make things different when women do it, or when men do it. Other times, there are none and gender is a social construct, so why-oh-why are there not more women in STEM fields? Oh, fiddle my bump and call me names – I forgot once again – Feminism is not a monolith, and as such views and opinions may vary. Yeah. It`s great to have excuses and explanations at the ready, floating around in the ether to be picked out of the air and presented when needed. A entire list of made-to-order excuses and pre-recorded arguments to pull out of a tricksters hat in order to justify a clear and cut case of double standards and discriminatory practices.

There is also this to consider: this same non-monolithic ideology view men as a monolithic entity. #yesallmen, anyone? #menaretrash? #killallmen? I find it incredibly strange that subscribing to a ideology by ones own choice; that labelling oneself a feminist, grants one the freedom to not be held accountable for the evils done in the name of said ideology. Actions do speak louder than words, and the actions of feminists do not reflect their claims of working for equality. Quite the contrary.

Being born, through no fault of ones own, as a man makes one part of the evil force of masculinity. By random chances of birth, by simply sharing genitals with the few men who commit to evil acts and deeds, one is guilty and need to take on the responsibility of the evils of a few men. Yet, labelling oneself a feminist does not make one responsible for the evils done by feminists. Feminism, I stress, is a choice. A selfinflicted identity whose wounds run deep and whose noose is firmly tightened criss-cross around the neck of the world.

In short: By virtue of my dingaling, I am directly or indirectly participating in the violence against women. And so I must, directly, contribute to end it.

Shame on me otherwise.

The fact that I wish to take a egalitarian approach to these things matter none. Wanting to view violence as violence, no matter the genetic makeup and chromosomal haphazardness of the victim as well as the perpetrator makes me, somehow, diminish the seriousness of violence against women. The fact that I suffered a violent and out-of-the-blue assault by a random stranger at the age of sixteen which dramatically altered the trajectory of my life don`t matter none. Working towards ending violence against all is stupid and bigoted. Ending violence against women on the other hand – well, that is just downright virtuous and something that all and one should aim at. I can`t comprehend the mindset that taking a non-gendered approach to violence takes something away from women. But that is what happens when one views the sexes as being at war. That is what happens when one projects unto others that which one does oneself: by looking at one, we necessarily need to take something from the other. The feminists would do well to remember what they themselves have been saying: when you are used to privilege, equality looks a hell of a lot like discrimination.

Pointing out the fact that men are the victims of violence more often than not, not only the perpetrators, turns us into evil mansplainers wanting to take away from women. So they bathe in, and drink, male tears instead of extending, or taking, a hand so that cooperation to end violence in all shapes and forms brings us closer to a common goal. The feminists would rather ridicule and shame boys and men than they would acknowledge the fact that boys and men are the vast majority of victims of violence. They would rather humiliate than cooperate, shame than emphatize. No fraternizing with the enemy, you know. The discussion has to be onesided, for some reason or other.

According to the feminists, talking about both genders and their issues somehow detracts from the conversation about women. It is a supremacy movement; a push to give women all the advantages they can, at the expense of the wellbeing of boys and men. Giving equal consideration to both genders is impossible, in the eternal quest for victimpoints and woe-is-me; in the neverending quest to put women atop the pedestal. All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others. If you don`t agree, you sure as hell hate some animals more than others. And hating some animals instead of the other animals is the worst crime imaginable.

And now we are stuck in a climate in which boys in elementary schools are made to stand in front of their class and pledge to never be violent against girls and women. Girls are not made to do the same. What message does this send to boys? And what message does it send to girls?

Nothing much. Merely that the life and wellbeing of girls matter far, far more than the life and wellbeing of boys. Not a big deal, you know. Boys have been told never to hit girls, no matter what. Girls are never told not to hit boys. To believe that this would not lead girls to abuse this obvious power is absurd. Women and girls are human beings, and as such are capable of both good and evil, just as men and boys are capable of good and evil. People who actually believe that the genders should be treated equally and held to the same standards would know this.

People who do not believe that the genders should be treated equally, however, would not know this. And there we see the cobwebbed lies spun by feminism; a move for supremacy and increased privilege and pampered protection for girls and women. In the guise of equality. A move for beating down and shaming boys and men for being boys and becoming men. Hidden behind the flowing, glowing and fantastically laced panties of equality.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Some Links which may be of interest:

https://web.csulb.edu/~mfiebert/assault.htm

http://menaregood.com/wordpress/maryland-report-domestic-violence-and-male-victims/

https://www.bbc.co.uk/bbcthree/article/5d33c36d-cd41-4351-97ed-4516962d5c44

http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:-BLvmB5o20UJ:www.csulb.edu/~mfiebert/assaults_bib343_201307.doc+&cd=2&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us&client=firefox-b-1

https://psychnews.psychiatryonline.org/doi/full/10.1176/pn.42.15.0031a

http://menaregood.com/wordpress/the-one-sided-narrative-of-domestic-violence/

https://domesticviolencestatistics.org/men-the-overlooked-victims-of-domestic-violence/

https://www.foxnews.com/opinion/men-are-not-monsters

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=80JqoyaL-p4

Wrong Timeline. Reboot the universe, please.

Protection A3 Lowres

Ill: «Protector», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2018.

 

We`ve slipped into the wrong timeline. Took a step too far to the left and left our feet lingering in quicksand, got them sucked down, unable to get the bastards back up again. Atleast not without losing a perfectly good boot in the process. And noone can stand losing a perfectly good boot. So, instead of losing that perfectly good boot, we`ll just stand here and wait for someone to help us out of this mess that we created by breaking the space-time continuum and drifting into a alternate dimension.

Enter now a wide-and-wild-eyed crackhead dimension, where the lunatics run the asylum and nothing is anything anymore. Up is down and down is up, planets and galaxies collide in cranial cavities. They explode and they die. Then they are reborn and reborn in a chronic attack on the calamities of thought, so much so that the sane is left unseen and unheard, bewildered and confused by madness and pampered random accusations, by buzzwords spraypainted on the crumbling walls of civilizations lost in the loadbearing fog of history. The sane have become incompatible, unable to regain the ability to speak. Lost in a hedgemaze of randomly generated mass-extinctions of reasoned debate. Thrown in jail behind a dead and dank door of cosmic scale, blasted into oblivion by staring into the abyss for far too long.

Alone and despairing, reason lost. Or so the unreasonable would tell the tale as they swing from chandeliers flinging shit in the general direction of evidence-based argumentation. Attacking truths unspoken with allegations of bigotry and too much privilege. Timelines slipped, dimensions shifted, we got sucked into the vortex, blasted into the sun of a crumbling society dancing to the beat of the funeral drums with a heart beating madly out of rhytm, out of tune and out of meaning.

Driven to the point of medicinal submission to an empty space of future internal combustions of the mindscape. Fearing repercussions for speaking truth to power. The drone goes on and on, echoing the same old sentiments. Some kind of buzz in the distance, so limitless and free. What a rush; the buzz of fractured conversations droning on and on, highpitched at first, then raging, then throwing tantrums on the kitchenfloor. Screech with us, they demand. Assimilate, concern-troll for a while, then annihilate. Annihilate vague niceties of the individual. Cast yourselves in the image of the hive. Strip the selves of any-and-all, ravage their corpses and defile their cis-het-white-straight-whatever-normative-privilege, so normative it fills the buzz of the hive with disgust.

Quick breakdown: join us. One of us. One of us! Gooba-gaaba, gooba-gaaba, one of us! Diversity is strength. Diversity is nonconforming conformity. Diversity is complex compliance. Diversity is the greatest good. (The greatest good!)

Yes, we are all individuals in this timeline, (I`m not!) part of the hive, part of the crew. So open and so honest individuals that all secrets are shared within the hive, no secrets are spared within the hive. All your secrets are skewered on the tip of the stinger of the Goddess-queen, glistening and shimmering and golden. Golden wax, gorgeous and divine, the hive and the Goddess-queen, all in one and one in all.

Join us, they keep saying, droning on and on through time and space. This timeline has the best sex, they claim: just jerk off straight into the bottle and see your seed whipped into the fruiting chamber, to spawn a flush or two of drones of peculiar tastes, oh so special and oh so precious, so diverse, so classically nonbinary, non-traditional and nonconforming in compliance with the rules of conformity within the hive.

None more victimized than the rest, none less victimized than the rest and none more open and honest and free than the rest; free to float atop the waves of these strict and stringent rules designed to keep us free and safe and sane, sane, so sane that the grid closes down on us and we smile and we wave at the web spun of truths untold for our benefit in dictionaries sold to the highest bidder of varied and diverse purity. And what gobsmackingly, eartwistingly beautiful purity! Purity of the clearest sort, of the cleanest sort! Revel in the divinity of this ideological purity! Such tolerance, such beautiful ideals, such ideological cleanliness and style that I scarce was sure I saw it before it all came tumbling down and filled my innermost being with promises that were never meant to be kept.

Powerful urges sweep me towards the vortex, into the tide, into the hive, into the wish to become something more than myself and then to pour my soul into the fight for identity nonconforming in conformity, for status in the victimhierarchy of peculiar and eccentric needs homegrown through mycelium spreading underneath our feet, to guide my hands and eyes alike into the cosmic singularity of taller tales and harsh demands for government to overreach straight into our brains and wipe them clean with cheapass bleach.

Wiped clean, blank slate. Now the Goddess-queen enters our room. Oh, instill into me thy wish, Goddess-queen Grandiose and Fabulous. Pour it into me, pound by pound and slab by slab. Send me back to the grinding floor to make amends for distant sins or sins of birth or both. There is no backwards compatibility in this paradise paved with honey, no need for different views and unattainable ideals from ages past, designed to make us screech and wreak mad rage at trashcans and small businesses alike, no need to seek any understanding of the self. First commandment: do not seek to know thyself. There is no self to be understood anymore, no self left to defile the hive with independent thoughts and words, viscious and hateful and fierce, fiercer than the blackness of your whitewashed soul, uglier than the clinking clang of your privileged position of unflinching power granted at birth, by random chance and not enginereed spectacularly by docile social constructs. There is no privilege in the single point behind the fact; the unspoken truths of our Goddess-queen divine. There is no truths left to be spoken. All truths are known and held dear by one and all. And all is honey, milk, shimmering gold and jewels. So virtuous, you guys, more virtuous than you and yours. Seriously, you guys, I`m super-serious.

Through the dimensional shift.

Back into the hubbub.

Which timeline are we in?

Reboot the universe, please.

Seeing eerie premonitions, hanging on for dear life to the memory of the vacuum of her bulbous eyes and massive form, a giant in the playground, the goddess of everlasting victimhood, toppling the sandcastles of the other kids out of nothing but jealousy.

Inabilities to do and to be turn into demands for others to do and to be or be unable to do and to be, so that her bulbous eyes and trembling lips don`t have to experience the hardships of dealing with something of which she does not approve or does not comprehend. So that her flailing words and flailing arms and quivering mass does not have to go through with bettering herself and trying something again, time and time again, until she at last succeeds. Or having to deal with the simple and universal facts that people don`t agree with one all the time, that people do things of which one does not approve and that is quite allright. If someone does or says something contrary to ones personal beliefs, and noone is hurt, let them do it. Why do you mind? Moral busybodies, puritans in hiding, authoritarian crybullies and totalitarian fingerpointers; always looking to change everyone and everything else to suit their own needs and wants, their own warped sense of morality. Because the notion that people disagree is scary. And that notion in itself is a fucking, goddamned, fuckety-fuck-fuck-fuck scary-ass… fuck it, I can`t swear properly… notion in-and-off itself.

Disagreement is not harassment. Complaining that people are enjoying something you don`t is not evidence of anything but your own inability to cope with people enjoying something you don`t. Forcing someone to not enjoy something because you do not enjoy it is frightening to the extreme.

Raised to believe in the perfection of the projection of her limited personality, the Goddess-queen does not gaze within. She gazes without instead, miles upon miles outside, with hawkeyed determination and bloodied beak and some other fucking pretentious poetic metaphor, eluding my inhibited grasp at the present moment. She claims all under one, and one under her, to pave the roads in front of her with silk and to level the mountains for her instead of her climbing the mountains herself. Others must change for her and her demands, grand voluptuos madness of genocide en mass, conquerer of the reasoned and the sane, Goddess-queen of the victim-hierarchy and flagbearer of the inevitable tide of the hive.

We stream from real-life still, fighting the good fight. Everyone should be free to think and to speak and to express themselves. Yet, here we are: lost in a blind kids nightmare. Transcending the boundaries of human reasonability and sensibility into the other side; the side governed by people who have never once in their entire googleridden lives had anyone tell them a clear and concise «No!», so that no character and no ability to withstand storms or difficulties get to grow inside the twisted hive of minds turned in on themselves, within eyes and mouths and fingers pointing eternally externally, shivering and quivering and trembling from within due to the horror and the fear of someone daring to disagree with her divine will and saving grace.

And if only everyone knew, saw her point of view and saw it from her malignant tumour-warped mind, they would understand. And since they will not do so willingly, they are forced by rule of law to understand, even as the tide turns and the points-in-fact change from whim to whim and wish to wish and desire to desire, they will be forced to understand and throw themselves at her stinger and her point of view, face first. Laws are altered and rewritten and changed to match the Goddess-queen and her perceptions of what constitutes a morally righteous and upstanding set of thoughts and beliefs.

If there is no foundation onto which to establish values, there are no values, only desires. Sudden desires and hungers to be quenched immediately. Sudden changes of heart and rewriting of previously stated goals and beliefs. Look to the gridgirls. Or look to striptease.

«Women are free to do with their bodies as they will. Noone is to tell them what to do with their bodies», out of one corner of the mouth. And then, from the other corner: «Striptease is demeaning to women. Pure objectification. And so are gridgirls. These women should not do this. They contribute to the ongoing objectification of women. Let us deny them their right to do as they please with their bodies.»

And the immediacy of the event, the sudden thrill of getting their way, fades as it always does, with no foundation and no reason to build upon, and the next desire pops into their hydra-heads and other obstacles present themselves, and so the gears shift and the words fade and turn to something else, and demands are levvied and demands are met and everything repeats in a silken sad uncertain circle of each frizzled hairdye, to make the silky road even more bearable, to fluff the pillows under her arms, and to make sure that she does not encounter anything that could be in any way difficult for her to bear. The world must change to suit her needs. Time and time again.

And try as I might, I can`t wrap my head around why people listen to and submit to these ridiculous, everchanging demands. The thirst for power, unquenched, drives these forces. Or so it seems. However: the irrational and emotionally driven reasoning behind these demands from the Goddess-queen of the hive are so easily debunked. As evidenced by the barrage of ad hominem attacks and evershifting goalposts whenever the arguments of feminists are disproven. When counterarguments are met with namecalling and personal attacks instead of counterarguments of their own, one would not be amiss to believe that the cause is lost in the eyes of the public, that the feminists disprove themselves by turning the conversation so that the ones arguing against feminism is forced to defend themselves against accusations of misogyny or whatever -ism are thrown their way instead of arguing the case-in-point. Oddly enough, that is not the case. For some reason, if a feminist attacks the person instead of the argument, the feminist is viewed as strong and courageous instead of dishonest and weak. And when they call for the banishment of speech which they deem offensive and hateful they are cheered on. Not by a majority. By a minority of aristocratic virtuesignallers with more fake virtue than sense, with more power than wisdom and with more ingroup preference than empathy. And yet, they keep getting their nonsense pushed through. The Goddess-queen reigns supreme in the era of delumination.

And yet, they are free to spew whatever hatred and bigotry they like under the guise of fighting against their oppressors. And one has to wonder: in what world and in what universe does the oppressed class not receive punishment and severe backlash from their oppressor by attacking them so blatantly and so often? And in what world is the oppressed class in full command of the discourse? The mind boggles and the rational tremble. None of this makes any sense. No sense. No sense at all.

Reboot the universe, please.

She claims me to be filthy

Guilty A4 lowres

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let Boys Play

Monsters and Gods A3 lowres

Ill: «Monsters and Gods», A3, 2018, Moiret Allegiere.

 

Let boys play.

Let them play in the mud, roll down the hills, fall and scratch their knees. Let boys play. Let them expend their energy, expand their imaginations, learn the ways of the world through practical applications of childhoods whimsy and wonder, wide awake, on the right path.

Let boys play.

Let them play as only they know how. They`ll figure it out. Through play and rough-and-tumble tumbling, they`ll figure it out. They`ll learn the boundaries and they`ll learn empathy, they`ll learn to read confusing social situations and they`ll learn to interact accordingly.

Let boys play.

Do not deny them their boundless energies and furiously burning curiosity. Do not deny them their natural state of being; their state of learning through doing, and through doing learning how to be, how to live, how to breathe and how to navigate the slumbering wormhole that is the world.

Let boys play.

Let them express themselves completely, utterly and magnificently. Let them chase their dragons through the woods of shared childhood-fantasies in packs, feral and strange and glorious. Let them trample the ground to mud in magical initiation-rituals, dancing fantastically wild and free!

Let boys play.

Do not whip them into woeful submission with drugs designed to numb the spirit and the senses. Allow them their natural shaman-state of visionary journeys through fantasies fantastic in their majestically shared exploration of their bodies and their minds.

Let boys play.

Do not smother them with an overabundance of misguided rules and regulations, designed in no small way to make them sit and make them still and deny them movement extraordinaire. Do not nail their youthful exhuberance to washed-out blackboards in search of meaning meaningless.

Let boys play.

Let them purge their bodies of energies defined by boyish fancies; to spend and to exhaust and then recharge in dull and boring classrooms until the next recess comes around and the process repeats and then repeats again in a loop and a circle, functional and fantastic.

Let boys play.

Let boys play, and they will learn how to navigate the world instead of burning out and wasting away due to misguided notions that boys are inherently defective and need to be tamed, subdued and controlled. Teach them that they are good, and all good things will follow.

Let boys play.

Do not tell them that they are rapists in waiting; unapologetic sociopaths in need of re-programming and worldwide chemical castrations. Do not allow them to believe that they are bad, that the very core of their being is rotten and toxic. Tell them that their masculinity is good, pure, clean.

Let boys play.

Boundless, deeply rooted imagination instead of state-enforced tranquility and trepidation. Let boys play, free and open and honest, and there are no limits to the gods they will meet or the monsters they will slay, in boyhood carefree and expansive or in manhood, careful and all-embracing.

Let boys play.