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.