Hobbies, Mental health and Emotional Wellbeing:

This is my third attempt at writing on hobbies. I keep getting sidetracked onto other things. And I have no idea why! Must be some alien interference… some particularly odd and diabolical scheme from our reptilian overlords… peeking into my brain and altering the chemistry so that the neural pathways get overloaded with scatter-brained fits of free-form dissociative writing… you’ve got to understand: free-form associative writing is a thing of the past. It’s all about free-form dissociative writing in the here-and-now – something more fitting to the tides and currents of the times we are living in – times that, to be sure, are a-changin’.

And you’d better believe it.

Whatever else one may say, we are at the very least living in interesting times. And whatever grand societal change that will be the result of these odious and turbulent times, be that change good or bad, it will alter the course of history and society immensely when once the fog-of-culture-war lifts and reveals a brave new dawn peeking out at us from somewhere within a bubble of reality that no-one saw coming. Or currently inhabit, for that matter.

For in this day and in this age, it seems that close-to every single human being refuses to live within an actual objective reality.

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream, to borrow a phrase from Edgar Allan Poe. Again. I keep borrowing bits and bobs from his poetry. Uncontrollably so. He keeps popping up in my head to remind me of my first love affair with poetry at a young, tender and impressionable age.

Anyway; that quote is to say to society at large: get your head out of your socially conditioned arse and smell the free and fresh air again. For, ya know, there is a world outside ones immediate brain-chemistry and terrible social media addiction.

But I got sidetracked again. Gods be damned; it seems that the stranger that drives the grand machine that is my mind have refused to lubricate the cogwheels properly – the little bastard that sits inside my head and steers my thoughts hither or dither is somewhat reluctant to tackle the subject of hobbies, for some strange reason. But I shall try and I shall aspire to write this beastly thing and I shall persevere and I shall conquer the subconscious desire to write spontaneously on something other than the topic which have been growing in my mind the past three weeks. So here we go; the introduction only took me about 400 words this time around. I consider this a step in the right direction.

I once had the slightly weird pleasure of speaking with a woman who had no hobbies or interests. It is the strangest thing I have ever experienced. The conversation was not bad, and I do not for one second think that she was a bad person. It was just so incredibly strange to speak with someone who – by her own admittance – had no particular interests and no particular hobbies. She was unemployed. And spent her days watching television. And that was that. I asked what she was watching, and she replied something along the lines of “whatever is on”. It was, as one would expect, a very superficial conversation.

Is this even possible, I remember thinking, is this even a human being? Of course, and admittedly, I may be projecting here since I have interests and hobbies up the grand wazoo. So that, to me, not having any particular interest or hobby is such an alien concept that I can not imagine a life like that… so devoid of any subject, art or craft to delve into and lose oneself in. I kept thinking that this must be a ridiculously hollow existence; to get out of bed, watch television, then go back to bed. Having nothing in the days but the stuttered mock-reality of television to fill the long hours until sleep. Such a strange existence.

Come to think of it, I might have met a genuine dyed-in-the-wool NPC. That is – a person with no internal monologue, no internal dialogue, no internal narrator, no internal anything. The only thing existing in her reality-bubble would be an external world absorbed and interacted with through the dreary medium of daytime television, from which all horrors and terrors once sprung forth… our modern era Pandora’s box.

The idiot box; a hollow altar of passive entertainment that bestows upon us its flickering light and induces a sort of hypnotic and highly suggestive state, demanding that we throw ourselves down and bask in the light of its countenance. For ever and ever…

Praise be to the blue light of canned laughter and mediocre tropes; ave, ave, soap-opera and reality-television that blur the lines of reality and frames the narrative under whose roof we seek shelter; for I have seen its light and heard its message in my bones and brain! And I was born again, clothed and loved by its flickering full frame image! HALLELUJAH!

…I have not watched television for seventeen years…

Surely; hobbies and interests are one of the few things that separate us from the great and painful void of death. That is – a spiritual death, if you will allow me some pseudo-mystical language. What I mean with spirit and spiritual in this sense is nothing more than the self. Ones personality and whole being. In my way of thinking, which admittedly may very well be a masculine way of thinking, ones personality is made up in no small way of what interests and hobbies one has. What I mean by that is hard to explain, I find. But I shall try to the best of my abilities.

I believe it will be safe to assume that a persons interests and hobbies can tell you a lot about a person. This can be seen on, for example, dating sites. People tend to list their interests and hobbies, in the hope that they will find someone whose interests and hobbies are compatible with their own. If interests and hobbies did not tell you a lot about a person, it would be absolutely pointless to list them.

Following on from this thought: if interests and hobbies are of such immense importance in understanding an individual and how this individual operates within, and interacts with, the world, would it not then be safe to say that a person with nothing of the sort is lacking something – that is – is not a whole and fulfilled person? This is not to say that I think hobbies and interests are the only thing that makes a person. Far from it.

Still: it is very clear to me that it plays a major part in determining what kind of person one has to deal with. To such an extent that listing interests and hobbies seem to be of more – or at the very least the same – importance as other character traits, for example kindness, generosity, patience, etc. etc. And no small wonder. For it would be an absurdity to shack up with someone with whom one has not a single interest in common.

Not every interest need to be shared, of course, for a relationship to function. I would think it is incredibly important to have something that is ones own and ones own only – that is, something to do and enjoy in solitude. This does not change the fact that there does appear to be quite a lot of importance placed on mutual interests and hobbies in order to determine compatibility in a relationship, be that relationship platonic or romantic/sexual. Which, to my eyes and mind – governed as they are by our reptilian overlords – tell us of the importance of interests and hobbies for individual well-being in no small way.

And it is this individual well-being that is so important, I think. And the solitude. Coming from a man who very much enjoys his solitude and time spent with hobbies and interest in those moments of solitude, I can tell you that I always feel refreshed and fulfilled after being able to indulge in it.

My primary interest and one of the greatest pleasures in my life is listening to music. When I have my moments of solitude, they are usually spent lying down and listening to music. For however long I may be alone. After such a session, I feel very much relaxed and invigorated. Not a small feat, considering my stress-related illness, chronic pain and fatigue making the simple task of relaxing a very difficult task indeed! It is during those moments that I am able to completely tune out, turn the constant chattering of my hyperactive brain off – for the most part – and lose myself completely in the present moment. A task that is not impossible for me otherwise, and an ability that can be trained and learned and applied to other areas of life that are more dull and mundane than these precious moments spent in solitude with a major interest or hobby, but which seem to come on its own accord when I indulge in these solitary listening sessions – or meditations, if you will – of mine.

It should then come as no surprise that I have invested a lot of time, energy and money into this hobby, spawning – of course – a new hobby and interest in audio equipment, which I also spend a lot of time, money and energy on. These are things that are incredibly important to me as a person, and as such for my mental health and emotional well-being. If removed, for some reason or other, I would be very much diminished. I would have lost a great part of myself. And be left with a void which I think I would have a hard time filling with anything else. For the enjoyment – almost obsession – of music is something that have played a major part in my life for as long as I can remember. It is one of my prime sources of joy, healing and of relaxation. And something with such an amount of power is not something to be trifled with and taken lightly. Nor is it something to be hastily tossed aside.

Yet; tossing it aside seem to happen with guys as we grow older, as we settle down and raise families. It is a given, obviously so, that there will be less time for certain interests and hobbies. Other things must take prime focus, and raising and maintaining a family is certainly one of those things.

But to lose something of immense importance to oneself completely – to lose such a great part of oneself fully and wholly… strikes me as odd, if not complete and utter evil. And that is evil if giving up a hobby is something that is expected. Which it tends to be, by and large, where men are concerned in this society of ours. For when a man settles down, all that once he was must be lost and his only role – not his primary role, but his only role – is that of protector and provider. And that is all that he is, was and ever shall be again. For as long as he lives.

Anecdotal as it may very well be, I will bet you that every single man (and some women) you encounter of a certain age… say 25 and up… will have observed the same. Either happening to himself, or to someone he knows. The expectation being that his hobbies and interests are of less importance than that of his partner, and that he must put them aside and focus solely on her, her needs and their relationship and family, should they be in the process of raising one. Note that I write “solely” not “primarily”. I don’t think it a bad thing to focus primarily on ones family, should one be raising one. I think it a bad thing should this be the only focus, the only thing in ones life. All else gone out the window, as the windows and the doors close and the walls come closing in.

From personal experience, I have seen friends be forced to sell their hi-fi equipment, their gaming consoles and entire music collection on three separate occasions because their partners was of the opinion that the hi-fi equipment was too ugly to be in their living room – which was in his house which she moved into – in the case of the missing hi-fi equipment. Knowing this man and his love for his system, this can not have been easy.

The reason given for the selling of the gaming consoles was that grown men don’t indulge in such childish past-times as playing video-games according to his partner. This coming from a woman whose main interest was collecting animated Disney features. I kid you not. The awareness of self may be somewhat lacking. She bragged all high-and-mighty on Facebook that she managed – finally – to get the guy to sell his gaming consoles, to much cheer and applause from those that refuse to understand that a man is his own person, even when he is in a relationship with a woman. This does seem to be par for the course where women in relationships are concerned in these end-days of ours, driven by a culture that has said for decades that he shall sacrifice and expect nothing and she shall receive and give nothing. For equality between the sexes and an equal relationship necessarily must mean that she shall have all the say and sway and he shall have none. Makes sense, of course, if one is fully lobotomised by gynocentrism and feminism and the unholy union of the two.

And, in order to hammer the point home lest I shall – yet again – be considered a foul misogynist who wishes for nothing but to chain his wife to the kitchen and keep her as something of a cross between a maid, a trophy and a broodmare (Yes, I have been told this through the insane ramblings of a feminist lost so deep within the feminist orthodoxy that the only sunlight touching her face must come through her own arsehole): I do not think there is anything wrong with women as a whole, as a group or, for that matter, at all. There is something wrong with quite a few individual women, just as there is something wrong with quite a few individual men. Of course; we all know that critique of women equals sexism and critique of men equals fantastic progressivism and true and proper justice. If that critique of men is filtered through the sieve of feminism fantastic and done in the style of the mumbled misandrist mambo, of course.

There may not be anything wrong with women, but there is most definitely something severely wrong with how our societies treat women and socialize a not insignificant amount of them into pampered princesses with a severe entitlement-complex, driven by thirsty blue-balled and blue-pilled men who are completely incapable of saying no to a woman for fear of losing access to pussy.

To channel the voice and reason of Paul Elam for a little while: The onus is on men to say no to unreasonable demands from their partners, and to end the relationship if need be. If the thirst for pussy goes above ones own emotional well-being, I would dare say that the greatest problem in that man’s life is a severe misplacement of priorities.

Going along with such ridiculous demands as the aforementioned is enabling such horrible behaviour, and the responsibility for getting rid of loved and cherished hobbies and/or interests lie squarely on the shoulders of the man who is stupid enough or thirsty enough or blinded enough to go along with it. A simple no should suffice, should such demands arise.

If a simple no is not accepted, a thank you and farewell should do the trick. Expecting that a man should give up the simple little things that give him pleasure in life – pleasure being, more or less, the small and simple things in life – is an expectation that should not be accepted.

There is always room for compromise, should always be room for compromise in a relationship. For that is what a relationship is; a constant dance, a bedazzling back and forth to make room for both within a shared space. There should not be room for ridiculous demands from one partner, to be obeyed without question. And going along with selfish and entitled demands is enabling this behaviour, and more will come. A relationship does consist of more than one person. That is to say: a relationship consist of more than the woman. Which our cultures seem to have forgotten in the great push and leap towards gender equality. And that is gender equality that says that only women matter, no matter where, what, when and how.

Because, for some reason, focusing solely on the needs and wants of one, neglecting the other, is equal treatment in the shanty-town of intellectual diarrhoea that is feminist-infused-and-indoctrinated societal slack-jawed yodelling.

And so – enter the man-cave. The one space in a shared place that is dedicated to the man and his hobbies and his interests. The rest of the house more often than not overflowing with her knick-knack and décor. In essence, this is not an issue if it is a wish from the man. Which it may very well be, considering that men tend to seek solitude far more than women do. And, in seeking solitude, what better way to do so than dedicate one room – one space – in their home for him and him alone, to be filled with his interests and his hobbies where he may allow himself to be engulfed by them for a little while, in solitude, then re-emerge refreshed and relaxed? It becomes an issue when all his stuff is confined to that room for reasons of it not fitting in anywhere else amongst her various decorations and such – when it is forced down there, into the pit under pain of the pendulum of shame and ridicule permanently scarring his throat and face and cock and balls – it is an issue.

From what I understand, it is mainly a wish from the man or a compromise. Which I see no problems with. Nor should anyone else.

Yet – the man-cave – this one space dedicated to his hobbies and interest becomes an issue. For now – now – he is spending too much time down there, amongst the filth and accumulated dust of his interests, hobbies and most priced possessions. And too little time up there in the sunlight with his partner. Again bringing in the wish for him to quit his hobbies and his interests and spend all his time on his partner, even when those hobbies and interests are now confined to a small space within their home. This is not good enough. It needs to be confined to a small space within his mind, pushed further and further back. He needs – preferably – to forget all of it and focus entirely on being a provider, being a protector, being not his own person but a person for the doings that need be done for the relationship or the family or both. The human being is now nothing but a human doing; governed entirely by the needs and wants of others and made to forget his own needs and wants. To do for others and sacrifice all those small pleasures which once he held so dear, which is the plight of men, the underappreciated and taken-for-granted sacrifice that men do.

Which they don’t need to do, if co-operation would be key. There is no reason why a mutually beneficial agreement could not be reached. An agreement that sees the needs of both partners – or the needs of all within a family – fulfilled. Time is a resource that should be spent wisely. The days tend to fly by, and they get shorter – perceivably so – the older one gets. Suddenly, it is difficult to find time for hobbies and interests that was once so dear. Which makes it ever more important to take time for them, to take the time and the space needed and deserved.

Without time set aside, taken and grabbed for these joyous past-time activities, a man becomes a shell and a husk. This goes for women as well, of course. But I focus on men, because so precious few do.

I have one day a week set aside completely for listening to music. More often than not, alcohol is also involved. Because I have a love for alcohol – not in the sense that I get drunk all that often, but in the sense that I have a severe passion for the stuff. See; for all my jokes of heavy drinking, I am afraid to say that my drinking ain’t all that heavy. I am getting too old for that shit. No more sex and drugs and rock’n’roll past age thirty. Now it is all sofa, painkillers and a glass of wine – if the painkillers have not been involved. Sigh. Woe is me.

My interest in alcohol is enough that I actually do have a small collection of somewhat pricey and exciting wines of varying rarity that is saved for a special occasion. And a collection of fairly expensive whiskeys, some of them fairly rare, that I will have a glass of once in a while, to really get that special something going on one of my evenings of music and well-regulated hedonism, decadence and debauchery. And this is not including my severe hobby, interest and passion in home-brewing. Which I would write more about, were I not so ensnared by all this gender-stuff and culture-war nonsense.

This one day a week is something my wife and I agreed on. We each have one day set aside exclusively for our own interests and hobbies, where nothing matters but what I want on my day and what she wants on her day. Of course, this is simplified a bit – there is always room for interests and hobbies, but those days are exclusive to me and to her.

And it works.

Now, I don’t have a man-cave at the moment, as that is simply not possible in this tiny and cramped apartment. We are, however, saving up to buy a small farm and get the hell out of the city. And when we do, I am getting a man-cave on my own insistence. Because I want a fortress of solitude, where I can indulge in my hobbies and my interests and be alone when I need to be alone. Which is more often than most people, I am aware, as my introversion and need for solitude is pretty god-damned severe, anti-social bastard that I am.

My wife understands this perfectly.

And I understand that she does not want me disappearing into the man-cave forever, emerging only to eat, fuck and sleep.

So we compromise. And we do that dance that couples do. And then we figure out how to fit both of us into all that is ours, with enough room for our selves, our own and both of our interests and hobbies.

This is not a difficult thing to do. It only takes a willingness to listen. On both sides. As our societies stand, however, it is expected that only the man shall listen and only the man shall sacrifice. And that is an impossible thing to do, without killing the soul of a man.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 24.08.2019

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Happy new year 2019!

2019 A4 lowres

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

 

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

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

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

Moiret Allegiere, January 2, 2019

 

They will not divide us

Sjølvmord lowres

 

«He will not divide us!», say the ones who aim to divide us; a movement stretching further than the grand ol` US of A. A global globular movement of closed minds incapable of asking questions, incapable of thinking inwards. Instead: projecting their insecurities outwards, blaming the rest of the world and demanding others change instead of them. Introspection dying at our feet. No reason to admit to fault within. All fault and every flaw lies with someone else, something else, somewhere else. Push the blame away.

«He will not divide us!», they chant in circles unbroken, solipsistic and so eternally conforming. Breaking the world into the pitter-patter of labels astronomical in their divisiveness. I identify as this and therefore am more or less priviliged than you, who identify as this and that. A fell swoop to break the structure, the very fabric of humanity itself into subcategories so absurdly small that the only conceivable end result is for them to eat themselves from within. The poison feast has begun. Ouroboros lost, Ouroboros reclaimed. Divine divisiveness.

There is a worm growing inside the monorail minds of this monotonous gibbering mass, a worm aiming to drool painted words of disconnect onto the canvas of the world. Words that, at first glance, sound enchanting and profound as all hell. Postmodern lingo to combat radical expressions of ideas. Wordsalads used to mask the nonsensical calamity of the ideas hidden within. Sure, it sounds intelligent, it sounds smart, to use larger-than-life words who`s true meaning is so simple, so translucent, as to be ridiculed were the worms able to convey honesty in the structure of their sentences. Don`t ever expect a clear answer from the worm. The worm will mask the inability to answer honestly as profundity behind a paywall of magnificently painted nonsense-words. Hey—nonny-nonny-hey, hey-nonny-nonny-no. Paint it as religious relevations of grandiose truth, and then use the grandiosity of religiousity to deny others their opinions. Pitter-patter of concern and offense. Feels equals reals, yo. What a humdinger, what a goldslinger, what a mad state-of-the-art-affair. Why are people listening to this nonsense? How come us domesticated primates are so willing to deny expression of ideas based on someones subjective sense of offense? Grow a thicker skin. Learn this: not everyone will agree with you. And that is quite allright. Understand this as well: the rules of speech which you fight to implement will be used against you as well. It is only a matter of the brilliant flow of time. Before we know head or tail of anything, we are confined to concrete cells within our own minds, unable to say anything lest we offend anyone. Good morning Worm, your honour, I have not been thinking wrongly all morning, thank you very much.

«He will not divide us!» Break the world into pieces instead. Divide the undivided, divide and multiply by negatives. Unity in nonsense. Free speech is hatespeech. Nonsense is now sense, new sense. Communication dies as conformity to closedmindedness grows. An open mind is able to entertain and ponder ideas which run contrary to ones preconceived notions and opinions. The mature mind is empathetic and open, able to view the world from different vantagepoints, and in so doing broadening its understanding of the world, with all its madness, hellfire and glory! Ideas meet and blend and grow on the battlefields. Ideas grow from external input. Or die on a hill from their lack of output, input or reason.

An inqusitive mind used to be a badge of honour. Now it has become a mark of deep shame! To question the current cultural zeitgeist requires the testicular fortitude of martyrs past, and brings the rampaging mobs of pitchfork-wielding maniacs all the way to ones doorstep. Tolerance of everything turns around and becomes tolerance of nothing. Except, of course, the ideas spouted by random wordgenerators in dimly lit halls of cranially deficient academia. Conform, submit, or die. It is the age of lackademia. Question nothing, lest you be deemed a heretic, lest you be exiled, lest you be cast from society: blasphemer, blasphemer, blasphemer!

It is these cynical tactics that are the most bothering. The appeals to affect, not to reason. Emotions become truth, and therefore the shaming, the blaming, the fully charged ad hominem arguments are considered righteous arguments. Claims to hold the moral highground is enough to turn the world against a predetermined enemy of predetermined lesser moral standing. Twisting and turning words. Twisting and turning meaning. Objective facts hurts subjective feelings, and are as such deemed untrue. Burn the witch. She turned me into a newt. Everyone is a fascist. And you have to point them all out, drive them away to the fanfare of drums and weird vocal ullulations. Get thee away, scapegoat. Away from me, Satan; tempt me not! Punch a nazi. Easy said, easy done, when everyone is named a nazi.

Here`s the scary part: appeals to emotions work. Claiming ones enemy to be of lesser moral standing is more than enough to justify whatever tactics needed to silence ones enemy. «All white people are racist» justifies racism against white people. «All men are mysogynistic» justifies misandry extreme. And so forth, and so on. Because it feels so fucking good to be in the right, that one does not need to stop and think and consider if one even is in the right. It feels so good, so good that – oh god – oh god – I wish this dopamine surge would never stop, so justified in anger, so justified in violence, so justified in complete and utter mindless fucking hatred. Let it keep coming, let it keep coming, flowing through the nervous system like a current of electricity straight into the brainpan, zap, zap, nervous energy accumulating, all that anger, all that rage, all that hatred, calling out from the bottom of the feet all the way to the top of the head, hairs rising on arms and body shaking, trembling, pulsating with justified glee and weird, peculiar sensations of JUSTICE untainted and profound and deeper than the deepest fucking deep. Oh, it should never stop, oh GOD, it should never stop, onwards to the next fight, the next victim, the next subsection of humanity to label and taint with shame for circumstances beyond their control. For mere random chance. Oh, the dividing, oh the oppressors, oh the poor oppressed. Find a new cause, find something else, find someway else to grab power, to grab the moral highground. Quick now, quick, before the dopaminesurge ends, before this incredible feeling of being holier than thou ends! Is it not wonderful, to have someone to hate? Is it not fantastic to have ones hate justified every step of the way by the strange strange strange notion that they, not you, are the hateful ones? DARVO, motherfuckers, DARVO! Remember: justice is subject to emotion, not justice. Subsections of subsections, labels upon labels, it beckons, it beckons, it is so simple, so pure, so radiant, so good, so good, so goddamned good that it can never stop, never stop, and then, and then, and then we turn it on ourselves, and then we turn on eachother instead. Cells eating cells. Clicks eating clicks. There must always be an enemy, always be something to fight. War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Click-clack, tick-tock, here we go, towards our daily hour of hate.

It is the rhetoric of war: They will hurt our women. They will hurt our children. They will oppress us. They will divide and conquer us. Their men are degenerates, lacking in the moral department. Stand together. Band together. Group together and leave your individual selves at the door. We are a mob now, a rampaging mob, the eternal monstrosity of the collective, the us vs them, the true and the truth alike, all found here in the mob of non-divisive divisiveness. The barbarians are right outside our walls, and they will ravage our daughters and torture our sons and burn our morals to the ground. They will not divide us. We can not let them. They must be stopped, by any means necessary. Our men must take them out. Gear up. Protect your women and your children. You are the good men. They are not. Kill them. Kill them all, before they kill us. Do you not love your women and children?

Shamed into compliance.

We have forgotten how to breathe.

And so, civil discourse dies choking on its own blood in some godforsaken ditch. The notion of debate and discussion and – as a result – cooperation falls prey to the machines of war. Meeting in the middle, both sides reaching a mutually beneficient compromise, becomes a thesis so abstract that the world will soon forget it. There is only one side. And that side is always in the right. Morally justified and pure as the driven snow. Because it feels right. Everyone and everything else is at fault. Feelings trumps facts. Ad hominems trumps reasoned debate. Bursts of anger instead of calm debate. Nonsense spat in our faces as we die. You uncultured swine. Our decay has begun. Paradise lost. Paradise regained. A boot stomping on a human face forever.