«Howling at a Slutwalk Moon» Finally released!

slutwalk splashscreen

Boy, howdy, hugglebutt: my bastard lovechild of a book is finally released for mass consumption by the general public. And what a journey it was, compiling and editing it. A labour of love, for sure. Though, what would love be without some smidgeon of animosity?

The book – or rather books, as I had to split it into two volumes due to the length of it – consist of a collection of blogposts from all the way in the beginning of the blog. Which, all things considered, is not that long ago. Even if it feels like it was a very long time ago.

It does not include all the blogposts, as the editing and compiling of the bastard lovechild went on at the same time as writing and updating the blog. Further collections will be released, in other words.

It is available for Amazon Kindle, as well as a paperback – both with and without illustration. The illustrated edition is very expensive, and so I do not expect many sales on it. It can’t hurt to put it out there, though – just in case someone is either insane enough, or kind enough, or both, to buy it.

I will take some time off next week, to rest on my laurels and recharge my batteries. So there will be no new blogposts or videos next week. Even self-confessed pseudo-hermit rebels with a penchant for self-deprecating humour need their rest. Or deserve their rest, for that matter.

Please buy my book, should you wish to support the blog and the channel.

Until next time.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 06.07.2019

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon:

Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X

Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR

Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184

Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL

Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094

Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

___________________________________________________________________________________________

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On Violent Censorship and Quaint Duets: A postmodern tragedy in four parts:

howl lowres

Illustration: «Howl», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

To be frank and perfectly honest: I really can’t stay. The censorious bull-dickery has been nibbling at the base of my skull far too much lately.

It’s been far too much for quite some time. But who cares about that, right? There is quite a lot of wonderment and very little worry in someone having their opinions and speech censored. It is a price I am willing to pay, as long as the filthy fascists get their comeuppance. Preferably with a bike-lock through the skull whilst being subjected to the discipline of the acidic milkshake shower. Just as long as you don’t deem my speech and conduct to be hateful, it’s all quite alright you marvellous miracle-worker of do-goody nonsense, you; you fantastic YouTube and mass-engulfing-media you!

All these calls for censorship… so astonishingly weird and confusing. It wouldn’t be that bad were it just calls for censorship. We’ve had to deal with arseholes of that nature for as long as we have held different opinions and have had culture that have pushed some boundary or other.

Eek! Won’t somebody please think of the children!”

…And so forth and so on…

For something to offend someone’s delicate sensibilities to be censored and stowed away is far more important than the freedom of other people to enjoy something that offends some hysterical screeching cat-lady with all the sense and magical reasoning of a bat-shit insane speck of dust.

I don’t think the calls for censorship is the issue. The implementation of censorship, on the other hand, most definitely is. That someone wielding some kind of power is stupid enough or brainwashed enough or pussy-whipped enough or frightened of the mob enough to stoop to censoring opinions, speech or culture because someone is offended is frightening. Or – as is more likely – because someone pretends to be offended just to get their fix of dopamine, righteous indignation and egotistical power-trip of the day.

It is even more frightening that it is opinions going against the grain and holy dogma of society as it stands today that is getting censored and deemed verboten. Freedom of expression and speech is there to protect the rights of those who do not conform to whatever social standards we are handed, given or forced into to express their opinions, however contrarian they may be. When given the illusion that everyone holds the same opinion within a society, the immediate thought is of course that people are forced to hold the same opinion for fear of punishment if they do not.

Sterile, whitewashed walls… padded cells… no room for worry here… we are all the same… of one mind… one body… engulfed by the fever and sermon… the cult of the great leader… All because someone is offended… And then it depends on who is offended. Because offence is A-OK. As long as the offence given is trudging along with the dominance of the party-line.

This censorship of speech and opinion is tyranny disguised as protection; the powers-that-be deciding that the poor huddled masses are just to frail and stupid to handle dissenting opinions and edgy teen-humour from mouldy basements; that they are too weak of mind and of will to comprehend that someone can enjoy art and culture which they themselves do not enjoy.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

It is getting very cold inside as well.

Now it’s all just days spent waiting for the cops or the Stasi or the Gestapo or the KGB or whatever to knock my door down for daring to not only consume the wrong kind of media, humour, art, culture, opinion and entertainment but also for producing it.

Once, I laughed at a joke about Islam, and am now terrified for my life. I did the same about Catholicism Once or twice or thrice, but that doesn’t worry me as much for some strange reason. Imagine that.

I’ve got to get away! But getting away is easier said than done. I’m absolutely certain they are hiding in the bushes and in the poppies outside, waiting for the moment I escape from this fortified compound I call my apartment to shoot me down like a dog. No offence meant to dog-lovers. I am one. A dog-lover, that is. Not a dog. Though I wish I were. But that is besides the point.

…All this frenzied censorship and culling of the non-politically correct, of anyone labelled extremely right-wing for being slightly to the right of an amalgamation of Mao, Lenin, Marx, Pol Pot and sacred Dworkin no matter what they themselves have to say on the matter has got me reduced to a babbling mass of paranoid nerves and tendons swishing the air and screaming incoherently about the technocratic elite being out to get me! And the feminists, of course.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

We are witnessing the ruination of liberal values which our societies have held dear and fought for and paid for even more dearly over the course of centuries. And it is bothering me something awful. As well it fucking should. Anyone not bothered, to some extent or other, by this must have their head up their arse and their eyes firmly fixed on their navel. From within their digestive system. This evening has been… its been dreadful.

See, I can write about it in an over-the-top, obnoxious and paranoid manner, channelling all the Hunter Thompson the world could ever want or need. At the end of the day however, it is the grim and realistic spectre of George Orwell that is floating in front of my vision; a peculiar ghost; visions and warnings of tyrannies past, present and future with an elegant moustache, whispering in a kind-of half-mocking, half-disappointed voice: “I warned you, didn’t I? I warned you several times, yet you did not listen.”

And it is grim and it is serious, and we make a toast with Italian red wine, before I tell him:

I’ve been hoping that you’d drop in”.

So very nice.

I’ve been looking for someone to talk to for a long time about this, but no-one is willing to listen to me, George. They call me mad, George, Mad! Then they insist that if I have nothing to hide, I have nothing to fear. Or to lose. And I’m just sitting here, wondering who in all the glory of Stalin’s moustache decides what is needed to be hidden and what is not? And are they really that vain and selfish and egotistical that they don’t realize that they are not safe from the tyranny of censorship which they wish to impose upon others?

…And the ghost of George Orwell will laugh sardonically and repeat what he said, albeit slightly more soothing. Then he will say that he is very happy to be dead, thank you very much. And we mucked it up ourselves despite his warnings so we’ll damned well have to fix it for ourselves! And then he tells me:

I’ll hold your hands, they’re just like ice.” before telling me to stay out of Burma, invest in gold, don’t take any gruff from these swine and so forth and so on before fading into dust, leaving me stranded in my living-room, feeling maybe slightly more uppity and a hell of a lot more paranoid than before his ghost graced me with its presence.

***

You know; I recall, years ago in my early teens, when I first started getting into extreme metal – a poorly defined sub-genre of music I still very much enjoy – buying all kinds of early Scandinavian black metal records as well as a mixed bag of aggressive death and gloomy doom metal; all manners of filth and fury, thinking that soon, my mother will start to worry. As is the natural order of things; a sort-of, kind-of rebellion against the values of the parental generation through shock and horror that was lacking in anything even resembling subtlety. This was back in the hey-days of Marilyn Manson and at the tail-end of the satanic panic.

Man-oh-man: remember when Marilyn Manson was threatening? What a time to be alive! Now it’s all ballads and cute and quaint duets from way back in the early 20th century we are supposed to find threatening and consider worthy of censorship, in a weird backwards role-reversal of parent-child relationship. With all the snivelling teachers pets and tattle-tales we all despised in our forgotten classrooms filling the role of concerned mother for the generation of their parents and their grandparents, as well as civilization at large! People in their late twenties or early-to-mid thirties deciding that all is offence and nothing is anything but what they decide that it is. God forbid someone actually enjoy something without analysing it to death and beyond and promptly denouncing it!

As most people probably are aware of: subtlety is not the first thing on ones mind when one is in the hormonally induced drunken rampage of horrid puberty. Quite the contrary. Just about everything is up front and centre, and the more overt the rebellion, the better. As it very well should be.

Then it blows over and it settles and one is rounded, more secure in oneself and gaining traction on the path towards adulthood, having blown off quite a bit of steam in the process.

If one allows oneself to grow up and become an adult human being, capable of accepting that someone else has the right to voice their opinion, however much it differs from ones own, or even offends, that is.

As this happens, and one starts talking to oneself and thinking for oneself, acting for oneself and being oneself, there is a striking realization that it is all so beautiful, so beautiful. So what’s your hurry? What’s your hurry, indeed? Why hurry towards some ever-changing goalpost, some newfangled outrage that is always eluding your limited grasp? It is simply not worth the fucking bother unless it very directly – through laws, regulations and infringements impacts oneself. Such as state-sanctioned, mass-media frenzied infringements upon freedom of speech, freedom of expression and freedom of association. Which is slowly, yet surely, happening throughout the western world. Call me paranoid as much as you wish: it is happening. And no labels of paranoid schizophrenia and assorted clinical insanity will change that.

There’s no need to worry too much about what other people think or do or find funny or enjoy. It is just annoying to everyone. Including you yourself. Why should this bother you? How does someone laughing at a joke you find offensive in any way, shape or form hurt you? You are not the parent or guardian of the entirety of western civilization. As such, western civilization does not need to bow down and succumb to your will for censorship of anything you consider unfit for human consumption, be those differing opinions or culture or art or music or whatever. As this might have eluded your finite cognitive functions, allow me to dumb it down for you: you are not a worrying mother for a civilization that is a dumb and rebellious teenager needing to have its curfew in place and its consumption of culture curtailed to that which you deem appropriate.

There are more than enough overbearing mothers around. Everyone and their mums would do well to loosen their reigns and let other people be as other people are. Western civilization do not need an overbearing, smothering mother bearing down on them with all the protection and nurturing of a broken bottle of opiate-laced Jack Daniels; telling us that if we are not in our beds at this hour, if we do not turn of that devil music, if we don’t cut our hair, then Father will be pacing the floor with worry and Mother won’t be sleeping either, and you have ruined the stability of the family and will be the downfall of us all.

Expecting only opinions you agree with to be allowed in the public sphere – and YouTube as well as other social media juggernauts are public spheres, no matter what you say – whilst at the same time pretending to hold liberal values is hypocritical, unthinking nonsense born from an egotistical notion that the world would be far better if only everyone agreed with you and buckled down and did as you do, speak as you speak, think as you think, believe as you believe, and so forth and so on. A multitude of differing ideas, opinions and thoughts will always fare better than a forced, overarching and governing idea proposed by ideology and enforced with an iron fist.

A tyrannical notion of inclusivity and equality where all are equal under the sun, despite the sun being eclipsed by the moon and the nonsense trembling in your verruca warts travelling all the way to your flimsy attack-womb to give birth to the Antichrist who says that in order for all to be free and to be equal, some must be unfree to speak and considered unequal in opinion so that others shall feel safe from some imagined ill conjured forth in the elitist brains of piss-drunk arm-chair politicians with a graduate degree in gender studies and another graduate degree in guerilla warfare and propaganda of the Bolshevik revolution! Because words, as opposed to actual political violence from the likes of god-damned Antifa, are violence, for some strange and peculiar reason. If the ones committing violence of the spoken word does not tow the party-line of the fair and fragile few, that is.

And now, for this fractured notion of equality and inclusion which is defiling and assaulting our liberties – and that is liberties to offend as well as to be offended – I have to sit here and rant and rave and ramble endlessly about this nonsense instead of settling down some place and listen to the fireplace roar.

There are lots of other things that interest me, you see.

I don’t have to write about this treachery.

There are lots of things that I would enjoy writing about that is not infringements – or attempted infringements – upon my freedom to express myself. This seems to me to be the most pressing, however – the most important topic of discussion in our day and age, where we will either stumble into a censorious dark-age of technocratic tyranny and globalist nonsense, or through fantastic perseverance and grit fight our way into a new renaissance where we value and welcome all manners of speech, expression, art and culture and let them die or succeed on their merit instead of being so scared and timid of disagreements that we much prefer to censor that which is not in line with the current cultural zeitgeist so that we don’t need to see it co-exist with our brave new world.

Out of sight, out of mind.

If we do not see it, it does not exist.

If we redefine a word, it changes everything. Imagine the fantastic utopia; a world in which homelessness and poverty and violence does not exist because the words do not exist, or the words are redefined and everything is swept under the rug so that we do not see it. And when we do not see it, it can not be there, now, can it? There are no suicides in this utopia, in this frantically sterile world. Death by self inflicted gunshot wounds are deemed a curious accident; overdose on pills are just the same. A curious accident. For our utopia is so fantastic and so glorious and so equal and so inclusive that one can not possibly wish to kill oneself! Etc. etc.

We can’t have nice things like free expression of ideas and art and culture, because some raging and demented and ragingly demented social justice warrior or frazzled soccer-mom with feminist platitudes tattooed on the inside of her eyelids who does not think and does not speak for being too busy screeching, snivelling and roaring at the top of their lungs, will want to remove everything not fitting in with their narrow view of how things should be.

And everyone is all up in arms at the horrors these people have to witness; someone actually not agreeing, wearing symbols they do not like, listening to music they do not enjoy, saying something that offends them, laughing at jokes they do not laugh at… For some weird reason, people listen to this abhorrent censorious madness and lunacy. The lunatics have taken over the asylum, and the voices on the wind repeat the mantra and the slogan of the offended and insane: Ban it.

Ban it.

Condemn it all to the deepest and dankest pits of hell! Can’t have anything disrupting whatever remains of balance and calm in these choke-point minds of theirs, now, can we?

And so, really, I’d better scurry.

I had better get out of here before it gets even worse. But where should I run to, and how? There is no place to run. The walls are closing in. No room to roam no more. There’s nothing to do but to fortify this apartment even more; write some more nonsense that I get displeased with, only to hear my wife say that it is beautiful, please don’t hurry – or despair!

And so I will try and relax and I’ll have maybe just half a drink more, and I’ll ask my wife to put some records on while I pour so that we, at the very least, can have a good time as the world burns around us; so that maybe we can sit down and laugh at this atrocious absurdity unfolding before our very eyes instead of having to worry about what the neighbours might think, because, baby, it’s bad out there and it is getting worse and it is getting even more bad and I’m absolutely certain that the neighbours are spying on us, prepared at any moment to report us to the Stasi or whatever it is that keeps a track on us nowadays, and they’ll bust down our door, noses wrinkled in disgust, proclaiming loudly: “Say, what’s in this drink?”, then proceed to pour enough LSD in it to kill an elephant in order to frame me for something so that they can remove me from the premises for something that is not merely protesting the status quo and the frail and frantic feminist take-over of the government and the minds of the younger generation as well as our steady decline into petty tyranny and tin-box dictatorship.

Honk.

Fucking, god-damned Honk.

At the very least, they’ll give me a free car-ride as there are no cabs to be had out there any more since all the roads got paved with nails in order to force us to walk instead of drive and I wish I knew how to end this absurdity without slipping into complete and utter madness, but I don’t know how and – oh my – your eyes are like starlight now – it must be the LSD the Stasi slipped into my drink previously – and it is so terrorizing that in order to break this spell I will count the ways you wronged me and then I’ll take your hat, Mrs. Stasi madam – my, your hair looks swell…

***

We attempted to interview the subject, a Mr. Moiret Allegiere, on the morning of July 3, 2019. He appeared to be under the influence of some psychoactive drug or other, though that was hard to say with any level of certainty.

Later examination uncovered that he had been drinking wine laced with LSD; a rather powerful psychedelic drug.

As per regulations in situations such as these, we offered him Koolaid in an attempt to sober him up so that he would be capable of answering our inquires as to his activities since November of 2018. This had little effect, as he threw every glass we offered him at the wall, mumbling under his breath that “I ought to say no, no, no”. When asked why he did not accept this generous offer of Koolaid, he attempted to stare us down with his beard. He then proceeded to manspread like a true patriarchal oppressor, with little regard to the emotional well-being of anyone present.

This resulted in us having to bring in a new inquisitor, as <name redacted> broke down in fits of crying and literal shaking at this strange display of male dominance. We changed tactics and went for the tried and true approach of unlimited kindness and inclusivity. Not an easy tactic, of course, given the severity of the subject and his mansplained manspreading.

Mind if I move in closer?”

Inquisitor C inquired, in an effort to end the subjects obviously militant strategy of manspreaded beard-staring. The subject did not reply.

At this point, we were all at our wits end, I will have to admit, and we left the interrogation room to discuss our strategies further. As none of us inquisitors would like to admit to failure. In particular when faced with a fiend such as this.

Poor sinner; he does not know any better,” Inquisitor A stated, “at least I’m gonna say that I tried – after all, what’s the sense in hurting my pride?”

After letting the subject stew in our kindness-and-inclusivity-cell for a few hours, all inquisitors present, with the approval of the grand inquisitor, felt that the time was right to carry on with our interrogation.

Upon opening the door, however, the first thing that met us was the bare naked form of the subject – a sight, I will have to admit – that made me go temporarily blind. Of course, the temperature in the cell was slightly higher than average – somewhere in the vicinity of 50 decrees centigrade – we conceded, however, that this should not pose too many problems.

As an obvious result of this, his nudity was considered to be highly offensive.

This resulted in us charging him with sexual assault and battery.

I really can’t stay”, the subject said, in a hoarse whisper. He then proceeded to ask for water. Which inquisitor B was reluctant to deliver, fearing some kind of water-based assault. When told of our reluctance to deliver water, the subject simply stated “Baby, don’t hold out.” And asked, yet again, to be let out. As the subject seemed incapable of acknowledging the true nature of his crimes – that is intent to disrupt the peace, disrupting the peace, intent to spread misinformation, spreading misinformation, crimes upon good taste and decency, using the word “C**t” more than once, assault upon art, manspreading, beard-staring, mansplaining, manterrupting, manslamming, non-feminist activities, as well as crimes of thought, holding controversial opinions, sexual assault and battery as well as general crimes of a testicular nature and counter-revolutionary activities – we were understandably very reluctant to unleash him upon the general public, well aware of the heinous acts he has been carrying out for almost a year.

Despite it being summer, we felt that the best approach was to convince the subject that it was in fact winter, which, all things of course being subjective and objective fact no longer existing as anything but a remnant of patriarchal and white supremacist power-structures, really can not be considered lies, fibs or anything of that nature.

Said inquisitor A: “Ah, but it’s cold outside.”

Said the subject: “I’ve got to get home! My wife must be worried sick!”

Said inquisitor C: “Oh, baby, you’ll freeze out there.”

Said the subject: “Say, lend me your coat – that should help me with the cold.”

Said Inquisitor A: “It’s up to your knees out there – it’s all to do with climate change, you see.”

Said the subject: “You know, you’ve really been grand. And I thrill when you touch my hand!”

The touching of the hand was a result of inquisitor B attempting friendliness and comfort during the obvious inner turmoil of the subject in question. A tactic that was well planned out, had it not been for us not factoring in the subject proceeding to manbite the hand that comforted him, before manslamming his way to the door which none of us inquisitors had thought to close or lock, considering the passive nature of the subject after being left to calm down and relax in the kindness-and-inclusivity-cell. A tactic which have always worked before.

Upon which biting, Inquisitor B let out a scream, and in a strong and powerful and independent whimper stated: “Why don’t you see… that we are in the right? How can you do this thing to me? That really hurt!” In inclusion to the aforementioned charges, the subject is now also charged with general assault and battery of a patriarchal nature.

After manhandling his way to the door, the subject paused for a brief moment, his horrible mannaked manform outlined against the bright light of the hall outside, his manpenis swinging gently below his filthy manbeard like an improvised manclub. He gazed at us with his terrifying male gaze and said in his manvoice these words:

There’s bound to be talk tomorrow! Think of my life long sorrow; I have to deal with bastards like you all the time! At least there will be plenty implied if you caught pneumonia and died, you wretched puritans. But now, I am afraid to say – I really can’t stay. You should get over that hold out, you imbecilic purveyors of nonsense.”

The subject then manshook his manbeard in our general direction, turned around and promptly bolted out the nearest window. As one would expect, we were all frozen in pure terror and fright at this horrible display of toxic masculinity, and as such were completely unable to calm down the situation and restore order.

The subject is now on the loose, considered armed and dangerous. He must be approached with caution. Wanted dead or alive.

***

Ah, but it’s cold outside. A nuclear winter is looming on the horizon. A dreaded future in which all is sterile and complacent and apathetic. A future in which opinions and even facts that go against the dominant narrative is verboten, unfit for mass consumption for the perceived threat it poses against the delicate sensibilities of those who consider subjective feeling more important than fact; who consider facts and truth, reason and logic to be lies and slander or discriminatory statements despite being none of these.

We are going down the drain, flushed down and forgotten or trampled underfoot by the furious forces of basement-dwelling nincompoops pushing for a violent chaos for reasons they can not properly explain.

A generation lacking in empathy for anyone who does not share their limited and – to be honest – extreme point of view. For lack of reason, for lack of arguments, for lack of thought and conduct and empathy, they chose to beat up, beat down, rough up and pound anyone who disagrees to within an inch of their lives. Politically motivated violence from people to frail and weak and fragile and cowardly to consider the point of view of someone else. High on their own power; their own force in numbers, they become a mob – a buzzing, glaring, stupid mad, insane, rage-fuelled hive of violence and contempt claiming violence of words to justify their violent actions.

And in their minds, it makes perfect sense. In reaching the conclusion – dumb as it very well is – that words are violence, violence is then justified in order to stop violence. In considering words that they themselves have deemed to be hate-speech to be an act of violence, they have every right in the world to face violence with violence. To their fragile minds, caught in the intersection of indoctrination, brainwashing and cult-ish thinking, they are partaking in self-defence. Even when not directly attacked. And even when, by all metrics, being in the wrong, Antifa and their ilk truly believe that they are in the right.

These people are lost within a role-playing game; LARP-ing as revolutionaries; believing that they are bringing down the establishment, that they are fighting the rising tide of fascism… by implementing tactics used by fascists; the strong will survive, the weak will suffer. And the strong is the mass, the mob, the pack, the collective hiding the individual behind a mutually assured strength in black-walled numbers horrifying in their madness and violence against those whom they consider to be the truly violent ones.

These people are lost in their own demented belief in their moral superiority.

I would be inclined to pity them profusely, were it not for the fact that they hurt people immensely and with impunity; were it not for the fact that they seem immune to anything not covered by their hug-box echo-chambers, their backwards nonsense, their bored and pointless lives in which they seek so desperately some meaning, something to do, something to break the monotony and drudgery of their easy existence that they rave and roar and rampage and ridicule; that they bash and beat and break bones and skulls to gain some semblance of action, of meaning, of being part of something bigger than their pathetic weasel existence.

As it stands, I can not pity them. Nor can I hate them. I consider them a poignant tragedy; a symbol of a society sliding into pointless decadence and hedonism, into overabundant debauchery and degeneracy. A society in which living is remarkably easy, a society in which they have it so good that they feel sorry for themselves. And feel guilty for others not having it as good as they do. Lost within a society in which there is nothing to strive for, nothing to conquer, nothing to occupy the days with, nothing that gives any sense of meaning or belonging, prompting the bored beast within to go on a rampage, to complain and to bitch and to moan about non-issues just to break the pale and grey and dull monotony of every day slipping into the next day with no meaning, no point, no search, no quest, no nothing. There is no unifying idea, tradition or ideal. Just the endless fight. Preposterous petulant prepubescent post-graduate children hidden in the bodies of adults, bored senseless and prone to believing anything as long as there is some action, some feeling, something, whatever.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside.

And it will keep getting colder as long as this tide is not halted. As long as this tide is allowed to run free, backed by mass-media pundits just as pampered and decadent and dull and bored and meaningless as they themselves are. As long as this nonsensical violent beast is given free reign, is given protection and explanation and all manner of mental gymnastics to justify their abhorrent behaviour; their killing of opposing views, their culling of inquisitive minds who do not swallow their dogma hook, line and stinker, we will see more violence, more chaos, a steady escalation of beat-downs and debauchery until someone is killed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Prompting even more escalation.

And these people preach tolerance. It sickens me.

Tolerance.

Tolerance.

Tolerance.

How that word has lost all meaning. How that word has eluded the grasp of mental midgets, incapable of considering views from anything but their own coke-addled minds and echo-chambers. How that word – tolerance – has escaped the dictionary and floated into the midst of bullies, using it as nothing but an excuse for violence against those considered to not be tolerated or tolerant; using it as the sword or bike-lock or bludgeon of righteousness, when they are incapable of understanding that tolerance is a two-way street. In preaching tolerance, one must also be tolerant. And being tolerant is tolerating that other people hold views different from ones own. And that this is quite OK in a society that is not in the grip of some totalitarian tyranny.

Violently assaulting people for holding different opinions is not tolerant. It is quite the opposite. It is the hallmark of tyrants; the banner of obscene and horrible tyranny.

Which we are sliding into, gently, to mass applause.

Which we are drifting into, lovingly, to cheers and celebrations.

Which we embrace as though the worst crime in existence is someone having their feelings hurt and being offended for seeing or hearing that someone disagrees; for believing lack of tolerance in other people whom they beat to a bloody pulp for their lack of tolerance of opposing views spoken or written.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

The freedom of the west is dying.

Long live the freedom of the west.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 06.07.2019

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Links:

«Howling at a Slutwalk Moon» is finally out. Get it here. Expect another blogpost on it quite soon:

Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X

Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR

Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184

Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL

Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094

Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Amazon author site: amazon.com/author/moiretallegiere

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Howling at a Slutwalk Moon: Book launching soon.

Howling at a slutwalk moon vol 1 u-illustrert

 

Through the magic and splendour of DIY-or-die, as well as good help and support from Tom Golden of http://www.menaregood.com and my wife, I am both happy and proud to announce that I am releasing a book in a couple of weeks.

Well, two books, really. Due to the length of this bastard lovechild, I had to split it up into two volumes.

Titled «Howling at a Slutwalk Moon: Contrarian Ramblings in the Age of Conformity» (A title, I will most humbly admit, I am very pleased with in a snarky sort of way), it collects most of my ramblings and prose, driven, of course, by caffeine, cheap wine and sleep-deprivation in round-and-about equal measures.

Editing this bastard has been more time-consuming and more exhausting than I ever thought it would be. Of course, there is not much needed to exhaust me, frail and weak sickling that I clearly am (albeit with a fantastic ability to poke fun at myself). Due to this exhaustion, there has been little new art and a reduction in uploads since editing began.

Post-release, I aim to take a week away from the wonders of the internet in order to recharge my batteries and/or dance naked in my livingroom to the soothing blastbeats and fiercely reverbarating guitars found in Extreme Metal of the meanest, blackest and most evil sort, guzzling several litres of wine and laughing like a god-damned maniac at the pissing rain outside where summer should have been.

That is, unless I get un-personed and deemed a clinical insane provocateur by the technocracy looming above the remnants of our civilization and as such forced  – with good reason, one assumes – into re-education. One never knows.

Originally, I intended it to be fully illustrated with my drawings. This turned out to make it absurdly expensive as a paperback, so there will be two paperback versions available. One with, and one without, illustrations.

For those willing to pay extra for the illustrated version: my fedora goes off to you and my neckbeard will literally shake with barely concealed glee.

Of course, I don’t expect many sales of the illustrated version. It will, however, be available to those who would want it. There will also be a Kindle-version available, as one would expect. This will not be illustrated, as black and white does not mix well with my tendencies towards a psychedelic use of colours.

Expect magnificent amounts of plugging, pushing and prodding in regards to this bastard lovechild of a book over the course of the next few weeks or months.

Catch you next time.

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– Moiret Allegiere, 26.06.2019

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The Child Within

Limited exposure lowres

Illustration: «Limited Exposure», Moiret Allegiere, 2019

 

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

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

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

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

This, I would dare say, is being childish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No matter.

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

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 08.06.2019

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The cultivation of fear. A ramble on forced fragility and manufactured frailty:

Make your own damn culture lowres

Illustration: «Make your own damn culture», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere.

 

Preface: I have a redbubble shop where some of my art can be bought, should you wish to show everyone your impeccable tastes and don the regal t-shirt-print of inscrutable style and elegance, as well as throwing some money my way for the continued glory of my ramblings: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop

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In some strange past I struggled with severe anxiety. It seems centuries ago now, looking at it with the beautiful lenses of hindsight. Understanding this type of anxiety is not easy. It should be experienced in order to understand it. Imagine being in a constant state of fight-or-flight, a body and a mind constantly tense; clockwork all wound up ready to spring into action – or retreat from action, sensing danger around every corner and in every shadow.

It should go without saying that this permanent stress, this level of heightened awareness in regards to ones surroundings, this constant over-thinking and over-analysing of situations in order to weed out any threats takes its toll on body and mind.

It is not pretty.

The results of this chronic stress, these sudden surges of adrenaline through the body, uncalled for, unwanted and unnecessary does not lend itself to good health, be that health physical or psychological. In the end, isolation seems to be the best and wisest choice to make. It seems to be the only option available; a survival tactic so as not to suffer the horrors of sudden panic, dread and despair. This just feeds the beast, as constant exposure to whatever triggers the anxiety is the only way to overcome the anxiety. Not isolation, but exposure. Isolation breeds further insanity – if you will allow me some self-deprecating humour.

The reason I am bringing this up is simple. It is the fostering and nurturing of fear, anxiety and dubious trepidation; the culture of fear crafted by feminism when gazing at the dynamics between men and women. The notion, disgusting as it is, that men and masculinity is something that women need to fear – that all men everywhere have nothing else on their mind but to assault and oppress women. It is a culture of fear, a bacterial culture handcrafted by the might and influence of an ideology whose very survival hinges on painting men as perpetrators and women as victims, forever and ever. Nurturing this fear and keeping women constantly on their toes for fear of men is not healthy. Not for women, not for men, not for society at large.

The rhetoric and false and cherry-picked statistics of feminism and their cohorts gave birth to a constant fear and mistrust between men and women. With the prime notion being that women need to fear men, and men in turn have nothing to fear from women. As the old saying goes, old as time itself: women good, men bad.

This is not, under any circumstances, a view of the genders as equal. Viewing the genders equally would be understanding – as stated time and again – that men and women both have the capacity for bad and for good. One is not worse or better than the other. Claiming that one is worse than the other, that one is better than the other, is quite the contrary of viewing and treating the genders equally. This is seen, time and again, in politics as well as the justice system, as women are given leniency in sentencing, whereas men are not. Harsher sentences for men for the same crimes as women. For women are wonderful. And men are not.

Female perpetrators of whatever crime are given excuses for their actions, more often than not. They need to be understood. Often they are painted as the real victim, because she must have been abused at some point in time. Probably by a man. Men who have been abused prior in their life, are not given leniency or understanding of the trauma. Men who do bad are simply monsters. Women who do bad are simply victims. Very peculiar.

In viewing men in this light, and women in the other light, there is no wonder that men are painted as monsters and, in being monsters, also being something that women need to fear. When men do bad – it is because they are, at heart, bad. And when one man is, at heart, bad, there is a possibility that all men are – that this is something that exist in the very nature of men. Men do bad because they are bad. Women do bad because they have been hurt by someone doing bad. And this is not equal treatment. All manner of mental gymnastics and round-about excuses do not detract from this simple fact.

When I struggled with this severe anxiety of mine – and it was severe, there is no doubt about that – it blew the fucking lid of the scales, and prompted my psychiatrist at the time to tell me that the best solution for me was isolation. Now, this is of course some terrible and horrible advice to give to someone when they are supposed to overcome some trembling and futile ailment of the psyche.

It is obvious to me now, when looking at it through a mind not muddied and clouded with medications, that he had completely given up on me – that he saw no future hope for me getting better and overcoming this nonsensical fear and trepidation of mine. It also went completely contrary to what I had read and heard about overcoming anxiety.

It is something that must be overcome through exposure, gradual at first and then – feet first into the murky and cold waters of society at large, to understand that my anxiety was driven by delusions crafted by prior experiences with people who did not – to put it lightly – wish me well or treat me well. Wallowing in these delusions did nothing but paint a picture in my mind of everyone being my enemy in some way, shape or form. When the reality is something else entirely. Most people are completely neutral towards me and my existence. Most people have more than enough with themselves.

That is the simple fact of the matter.

And so, what I did to conquer this anxiety of mine was some deep and thorough soul-searching combined with the aforementioned exposure. I had not then, nor do I have now, any interest in living a life of anxiety, fear and trepidation. And I should not wish this on anyone. Of course, I dropped any and all connection to psychiatry. To me, at any rate, they did far more harm than good.

The root cause of my issues was not examined at all. Merely a superficial fixing of the symptoms through medications and a call for isolation. Out of sight, out of mind. And me, then, through medications and maltreatment, even more out of my mind. But at the very least out of the sight of society at large. No exploration of my anxiety. No treatment either. No therapeutic path to walk, no deep dive into my psyche. Drugged into oblivion and washed away.

I can not help but think that my treatment would be far different and more empathetic had I been a woman and not a man. The emotional pain of men is something society does not wish to see. This goes for professionals as well. The emotional pain of women, however, is something society must band together to fix.

I remember reading an article, this was several years ago now. I could not dig it up if I tried. It was written by a man. The title was something along the lines of “Last night, I became a rapist”.

He did not become a rapist.

In fact, there was no sexual encounter at all.

What had happened was this: he was walking home, and was walking behind a woman who was scared of him, constantly looking over her shoulder and fearing this horrible man walking behind her. He solved this anxiety of hers by crossing the road and taking a detour on his way home so that she should not feel the discomfort of having to walk on the same pavement as a man.

Obviously, from having the same paranoid sensations myself whenever I was out walking by myself, I recognized her anxiety. And I remember thinking that he should not have to inconvenience himself due to her neurosis. He is not responsible for some random stranger and her anxiety. Had he just kept walking behind her, she could perhaps have learned something from the experience. She could have learned that not every single man out there is out to get her. She might have overcome some of the anxiety.

He ended the article, simpering and stupid as it was, by telling all men that if they walked behind a woman on their way home, they should cross the road and take a different route to get home so she should not feel this discomfort. How fucking ridiculous!

No-one ever did this for me when I was in the throes of some stupid delusional anxious fever-dream. That would be doing me a disservice. And it was doing her a disservice. And it is doing every man everywhere a disservice.

Go out of your way, men, to make the burden of walking home easier on women, lessening her neurosis for about two seconds. So she can go home and say that she was followed by some stranger on her way home, giving further credence to the feminist fear-mongering. Heh. I am saying this only partly in jest.

You have to make it harder on yourself, of course, as you have to take a detour. Then despair for being born a man and thusly the object of scorn and fear from women, who of course happen to be your superiors in every way, shape and form. What horrible objectification of men this is, viewing us as nothing but objects of terror and violence and primal sexual urges. Gaze upon the privilege granted us by being born men! The righteous privilege of being feared and shunned and scorned and ridiculed and demanded to sacrifice so that someone whom we have no ill intent towards shall feel safe based on her own neurotic delusions born from paranoid dementia in feminist rhetoric.

It is even more strange when considering the simple fact that men are far more likely to be the victims of violent assault from strangers than women are. This does not matter, of course, as we have been spoon-fed this silly lie that women are victims of violent men far more than men are. That men have nothing to fear, whereas women have all to fear. When a man attacks a woman, it is because he hates women. This is taking into consideration whether or not he has assaulted more men previously. As is very likely.

Men who experience violence is par for the course, commonplace, and something that is expected. Most every man will, at some point in their lives, experience violence. Usually from other men, this is true. I fail to see why this should matter, though. It only matters when one views the genders as being at war with one another. When men and women are on opposing teams, any violence done towards a woman by a man is an act of war, done because she is a woman and not for any other reason. In painting masculinity as toxic, any violence done upon a man by another man is further proof of the degeneracy of the opposing side. The language of feminism is the language of war-rhetoric. This side is degenerate scum, that side is pure and clean and just.

Women need not change the way they think. They need not become braver. They are free to wallow in their misery, their anxiety and their dread and mistrust of all men. Men must change the way they behave, even when it is a tiny minority of men doing bad, all men must rethink their lives and take collective responsibility for the actions of a few bad men. I fail to see how this is any different than claiming that the Jews have poisoned the well.

Women, whether as a group or as individuals, need not change a thing about themselves. The messengers of feminism have ridden into the town-square and read aloud a statement from the queen, proclaiming all women everywhere to be perfect just the way they are. No faults, no flaws, no nothing. And everything they feel is true, no matter if it is true or not. No matter if it is factual or not. There is no objective fact. All is based on subjective feeling. If you happen to be a woman. The experiences of men need not apply. Nor do the facts of the matter.

Fostering powerless women is the bread and butter of feminism, and so is forcing men to submit to the delusions of neurotic women instead of having these women face up to, understand and overcome this neuroticism of theirs. This neuroticism, this tactical usage of frailty and weakness and anxious trepidation is nothing but emotional manipulation. When you see women in positions of leadership – politicians – pretending to shake in their boots and in their knickers for some passing joke made by some passing man several months ago, it begs the question as to why anyone so frail and weak should be in that position to begin with.

One should think that anyone in a position of leadership, be they male or female, ought to be strong enough to withstand the storm. Of course not. Not when they happen to be a woman, whose frailty and weakness and fear and anxiety is nothing but a bargaining chip, a methodical manipulation of our emotions to feel pity for her and as a result of this barge in to her defence, preferably with votes or through her gofundme-account.

I should not think it too harsh a trespass on reason to actually want the leaders of a nation to be strong enough to handle a passing joke or comment without breaking down emotionally, without crying crocodile-tears and telling everyone around them how pitiful they are and how much we must pity them for having to deal with the brutish nature of these horrid men. The strength of these women are their facade of weakness. Being powerless, or rather – portraying herself as being powerless, means men barge in to protect and to provide, to save her from the horrors of being a woman in a male-dominated field. Whatever the hell that means. It is this stupidity, this nonsense, once again. This ridiculous fuckwittery of the genders being at war instead of in a state of co-operation. It bothers me, more than it probably should. Or, as my wife is wont to say, it should probably bother me way more than it does.

Alas, no – having strong and powerful leaders – that is not the beat of the funeral drum to which we march. We march beneath the banner of forced female fragility, to the tranquil rhythm of weaponized fear. The fear of men manufactured through decades of social engineering felt by all women everywhere, whose feelings are fact and not some hand-crafted frail fear and anxiety designed to gather our sympathies and our empathies and place them at their feet, to bow down before their emotional distress and say, singingly, soothingly, lovingly: “Sorry mother dear, we will behave”.

Being a man struggling with anxiety is not easy. See, there is no empathy nor understanding there from the concrete-jungles of society. Merely a push into the bubbling cauldron, boiling away at my sanity. The interesting part of it is that, of course, there must be this push, there must be this poke-and-prod to get out there and actually do something about it instead of isolation. Which is frantically fascinating to me. It is as though the behaviours were switched between the mental health professional who treated me and those around me, be they professional acquaintances or friends and family, with my psyche-docs telling me to hide away and the ones who did not understand the thing pushing and prodding, in short telling me to “man up”.

Now, this pushing and prodding did not come from a place of empathy – that much was certain, as there was no understanding of the anxiety nor any attempt to understand why I suffered this anxiety. Nothing but disbelief. And of course, the usual sentiment that I was making it up. For what gain, I never understood.

Grown men should not act like that, and so the only thing left to do was to dive into shallow waters, head first, and break my neck on impact. Then one is just left with confusion, with constantly changing messages, trite trash and a complete lack of understanding and empathy.

Men must talk about their emotions more. Even when men need not talk about their emotions. In particular not when in emotional distress or suffering emotional weakness. There is no-one there to listen. Men in emotional distress breed disgust. Particularly in the minds of those who claim to fight for equality. Telling men to open up about their emotions, and then poo-poo it as being nothing when they do creates confusion and inner turmoil.

What the old “men need to be more emotional” actually mean is for men to listen more to the emotions of women, and speak of their own emotions only in a manner deemed suitable by feminism. Which translates to admitting to their male privilege and toxic masculinity; that all the emotional distress a man may feel is born from him being a man, and nothing more. Seeing how society treat women in emotional distress in comparison to how society treat men in emotional distress is disconcerting, to say the least. Experiencing it first-hand upon ones mind and body is something else entirely, and teaches one nothing but the simple fact that one is all alone. No-one is looking out for you, even when they claim to be looking out for everyone equally.

Nurturing and fostering delusional anxiety and fear in women the way feminism does is damaging. Creating this mirage, casting this holographic picture over all of society that what any woman may feel is real, no matter the facts and the reality of the situation is severely damaging. It is also incredibly dangerous. To all but feminism, who thrive on female victimhood and see no qualms in manufacturing this fear, these delusional anxieties and holding them up, waving in the wind, as some sort of strength in women instead of it being a weakness, as some manner of fact instead of delusion.

Trembling in anxiety from someone telling a joke is not being strong. It is being severely weak. As well as lacking in humour and understanding of humour. Of course, they paint it as strength by the woman withstanding the horrors of man-joking, man-spreading, man-splaining, man-slamming, man-terrupting, man-existing or whatever. Then she gathers empathy and understanding by the bucket-load, further creating a wall between them and any criticism they may encounter by painting any-and-all criticism as an attack on all women everywhere and playing on the gynocentric nature of us all in order to build human-shields around themselves so they are free to say and to do and to spew whatever abject hatred they wish without facing any repercussions for their actions.

Kill all men.

Men are trash.

And so forth and so on.

All this while trembling in forced fear and fragility; whilst screaming strength and powerful resistance to misogyny and the patriarchy, demanding protection and pampering from the patriarchy by the forces of patriarchal evil. For they are so strong, so powerful, so fantastic in their strength and endurance that they are too frail and weak to handle criticism without yelling and screaming about male chauvinism and a society that absolutely hates women, despite treating men like second-class citizens, ordered to go out of their way to better the existence of women and women only. So incredibly oppressed by the man that all of society only listen to feminism and women on issues having to do with sex and with gender. So oppressed by the evils that men do that they are in complete control of all our institutions. So oppressed, in fact, that merely a trembling finger in the direction of a conference on men’s issues is enough to shut it down for the controversy of the thing.

Strange, that.

In this society in which men have all the power and all the privilege, whereas women and feminism hold no power and no privilege, the mere trembled mutter from the quivering lips of a feminist is enough to close down conferences on issues affecting men due to controversy – or fear of controversy. How many hoops does one have to jump through in order to pretend that men are the privileged ones, when discussion of men’s issues not seen through the wrinkled binocular lenses of feminism are deemed controversial? One should think that it would be the other way around, were the rhetoric of feminism based on truth and not lies.

Feminism have told women that they must fear all men. Creating a hostile world for men is not a problem what-so-ever. Because that would be equality, that is the pinnacle of feminism, the perplexing wonder of its beacon, its shining light, its lonely kitten-wail into the night beneath the twinkling stars of ill intent. To create, to manufacture, to nurture and make bloom a constant fear and distrust of men in the hearts and minds of women, telling them that they are children in need of constant supervision, that the state need to step in and remove responsibilities from their shoulders and place ever more on the shoulders of men. And supervise constantly all doings, all goings, all lives, be they private or public. The personal must be political. The political must be personal. Such a frightening thing to see happen. Weaponized female fragility to allow the state to meddle even more in our lives and affairs. As long as women are kept safe.

As long as men don’t matter.

And we cope with it. And we accept it. And we bite the bullet, time and again. And we put up with it and we lay our lives and our mental health on the line. Over and over again. For the safety, the benefit, the protection of women. All the while these same women shout at us to do more, that we are dangerous, that we are a material manifestation of the wickedness of the world. That we need to disregard our own safety and our own needs so that the safety of women and the needs of women be met. By our hands, the world shall be saved from us. We do not need to talk about our issues. Because we have no issues, we have no problems, we have no societal ills eating at us, picking at us, devouring us bit by bit by bit, day by day. For all their impotent raving about toxic masculinity, the forces of feminism are sure as all hell good at telling men to man up.

If you give them an inch, they will take a mile. And then they complain that they never receive anything. And they twist and they turn and they spin on the truth until truth means nothing and facts are nowhere to be found and all is a confusing mess; a neurotic network of twisted cables and forced anxiety, a culture of fear handcrafted by ideologues whose collapsing sanity and frail weakness is painted as sanity, is painted as strength and as truth and as beauty.

Look at this weak-willed woman – how strong she is!

Look at this weak-willed man, how pathetic he is!

On and on it goes. The circle has no end and no beginning. It just goes on and on for ever. Unless it is broken. And it can only be broken by not playing this game, not partaking in this ridiculous clown-world reality of ours, where weakness is strength, up is down, down is up, strength is weakness, masculinity is toxic, even when masculinity is called forth to save the poor women who can never be toxic, unless influenced by some man more powerful than she is. Weak as she is, weak at the knees.

Let us all fall down on our knees and weep and tremble in fragile fear together.

The future of our societies is one in which anxiety, fear, trepidation and delusion is celebrated and shown to be strength. Where standing in the storm, surviving the trials of life by trudging ever forwards and not giving up, not giving in, but being strong in adversity is made out to be toxic behaviour.

Oh, mama, the path towards the future is paved with the frantic waving of anxiety; the celebration – not overcoming – of mental illness, a wallowing in fear and fever, in despair and weakness. Used to be we had to learn how to cope. Now we have to learn how not to cope. For if we cope, if we learn to cope and if we teach other people how to cope, the powerful will lose their power. For the powerful do thrive and grow on fear and fanaticism. There is much strength in female weakness. The sight of a woman in distress sends any man into protect-mode, running on overtime, and he will do whatever he can to save her from whatever imagined ill she is labouring beneath.

And the feminist hive-mind know this, even when they paint men as the enemy. They know that men will do whatever they can in order to ease the suffering of a woman. And they play and they prey upon this exact thing, upon this drive in men.

Too bad that so many of us are beginning to see this for what it is.

Too bad that more and more are waking up to this fact.

Even if it is slow-going.

Even if it takes forever.

Even if it will take an entire generation to undo the societal damage done by feminism, whose roar and screech and weaponized fear and weakness created a generation of perpetual victims incapable of looking at themselves, incapable of thinking inwards, incapable of doing anything but perpetuate the constant war, keeping the narrative going of men as the forces of evil and women as the forces of good.

We have always been at war with Eurasia.

War is peace.

Freedom is slavery.

Ignorance is strength.

The stability of feminism and their stranglehold on everything rely on keeping the status quo up and running; the view of men as eternal victimizers, strong and able and powerful, and women as perpetual victims, frail and weak and powerless.

There has to be a war between the genders. Otherwise, what is the point of feminism? Where should they then get their money, their power, their might, their influence? Where should they get their manipulative kicks and desires, if everyone woke up to this scam of theirs?

Just keep painting women as wonderful victims, then, and claim this to be strength.

Just keep painting men as horrible perpetrators, then, and claim this to be reasonable.

Just keep pushing for women to be treated better than men, then, claiming this to be equality.

Just keep telling the same old story; demonizing men and masculinity, sanctifying women and femininity, labelling it equal treatment.

Then wait.

Then look.

Then see what happens when your paper-castles crumble, your straw-men all fall down, and your gargantuan global industry comes crashing down around you to the sound of cheers and applause from those who finally woke up from their state-induced coma, driven, in no small way, by your propaganda.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 25.05.2019

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Zero-sum Empathy

nightwatch lowres

Ill: «Nightwatch», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

«The torture never stops», Frank Zappa sang, way back in 1976. He weren`t wrong. In this synthetically manufactured drugaddled world we inhabit, empathy has become a zero-sum game to the cultural conversation; a societal good that must only ever benefit women. More often than not at the expense of men. It is as though empathy is a natural resource, limited in its bounty and as such not available in plentiful supply. I find this difficult to comprehend, but there you have it.

Somewhere in a Polish mine, male workers dig and carry empathy out of the ground on their bent backs, burdened by the weight of it crushing down on them. It is then doled out in limited quantities to those most deserving of it. Not women, not men, but the ones which feminism deem deserving of empathy: the ones who work for the cause of feminism according to their ability are given according to their needs. A maddeningly twisting and turning road criss-crossing the whitewashed castles where empathy is accumulated in great stores and delivered in small quantities to those in dire need of this natural resource.

Not everyone can receive empathy. Responses are dead-panned ridiculous. «What, you want empathy? Well, suck on your thumb and go lick a lemon, this empathy is for the whamens!» The weird fractioning of our societies is born from the tainted shivering skeletons of destructive class warfare. Pitting women against men and men against women in a continually escalating war, born from the stinging sensation that men are oppressors by nature. And as such, men are not deserving of empathy, love, care or consideration by their very nature.

The apex-fallacy back at it in full fucking swing. I`ve got them ol` cosmic blues again, mama, my back is bent and troubled and I ain`t got no home and I ain`t got no job and my children are missing in the crossfires of mad divorce, but it don`t matter because I am privileged here I lie in the gutters sucking on a bottle of dubious homebrew in an attempt to keep warm. Can I please receive some empathy?

Nope. You are a patriarchal oppressor. Sorry, brah. Now check your privilege.

Empathy is a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. It is reserved for the plight of womanhood. What? Did you honestly believe that you would garner some empathy and understanding for your troubles? No need to make yourself out to be so pitiful. Are you unaware that somewhere out there are people who actually believe that women should not get statefunded abortions brought to their bedside and delivered by caring hands by the hundreds? How can a privileged male expect empathy and understanding when this atrocity of opinion is unfolding before our very eyes and quivering lips? Get rid of that fedora. Go shave your neckbeard, shitlord.

Expecting society to show empathy for troubled men and boys is misogyny by the bucketload; shit and filth dug up from the trenches of gender warfare. Bullets flying by at ridiculous speeds. Coarse screams of pain. Vivid visions of dismemberment. Death and destruction. Pure filth.

Raising concern for men and boys take away from the concerns raised about women and girls. You have to know this. Empathy is a zero-sum game. And the mining of empathy must stop at some point, the stocks must leave the crippled hands of the Polish mineworkers, all grey of skin and bent of back from the laborious process of extracting empathy from the miraculous beating heart of Gaia herself; the essence of all empathy. To consider both men and women would be a task impossible in scope. There simply is not enough empathy to go around. Please leave your empathy at the door. The door just so happen to open up into a orphanage for girls. Or a battered women`s shelter. That`s where it belongs: with the women and with the girls. Boys and men can go fuck themselves in the gutters and be raped by angry needles. Or was that angry beavers, screaming and drooling madly into their faces as they raise concerns over this unequal doling out of empathy?

I`m talking, fuckface.

Shut the fuck up.

Ok then, you venomous harpy. I`ll shut up. Now, please show me the loving, caring and empathetic nature of womanhood you scream so loudly and passionately about, with spittle flying from your plasticine eyes and insane unblinking contempt vibrating in harmony with your shattered chakras. Ohm Mani Padme Harumph. Bah, humbug.

No?

Did not think so. Denying half of the human race empathy is par for the course when looking for the fabled land of equality, all mad frowns and guttermouth trolls. Sun rise, sun shine, but it shines only for thee, whereas the bells do toll for me. And the trolls don`t turn to stone in the sun. It merely solidifies their scorn and contempt.

See, I have tried and tried again to comprehend how talking about issues disproportionately affecting boys and men somehow detracts from talking about the issues affecting women. And I have failed to reach any level of comprehension in regards to this mad intoxicated whiplash-logic. In particular when feminism claims to work for the wellbeing of boys and men as well as the wellbeing of girls and women. Equality between the sexes. That is what feminism is all about. That is their doctrine. Too bad equality does not mean equality. Equality equals women. It is a one way street in a one horse town with one street.

How exactly does feminism help men and boys? Point me in the right direction, please. Is it by telling them that they are scum for wanting to sit in an audience listening to someone talk about the mental health of boys and men, in order to comprehend the suicide of a near and dear friend? Or by telling them that their nature is pathologic? Is it by being a «nasty woman»?

Fucking authoritarian hypocrites.

It`s like watching a mother who smokes five packs a day berate her son for smoking. The habit is picked up somewhere. If feminism do not want to be attacked as an ideology, perhaps they should not attack men and boys as a gender. See; here`s the major difference: feminism is an ideology. A set of ideas to be followed dogmatically and blindly. No idea is above scrutiny and no idea is above criticism. One choses to wear the labelled blindfold of feminism. In chosing this dubiously transparent label in order to work towards what one perceives as equality, one has chosen to think as the hive thinks. One has chosen the path of least resort, the path that grants the benefit of being able to attack with impunity and immunity all those who oppose. Because, after all, it is only about equality, as the manipulation of discourse dictate.

By being born male, one does not chose to be born male. Men are not an ideology to be attacked and picked apart, even if the feminist gobblesmack-theory theorizes that this is the case. No. Asserts. They assert that this is the case. Women are not under attack when feminism is attacked, even if the feminist douchebaggery deem it so. Feminism is under attack. Feminism may own the discourse and they may own the establishment. However: feminism do not own women and they do not own men, and more and more men and women are waking up to the nonsensical screech that is the choir of the feminist illuminati; the establishment pretending to fight the establishment, all jargon, false statistics and gibberish.

Oh, but feminism is not a monolith! Yeah yeah – fuck that bullshit right up the ear and infected sinus. What a great excuse to ignore and falsely push away the damage done. You know what is not a monolith? Men are not a monolith. And yet, men are treated as such by virtue of birth. The future is female. Men must be reduced to about ten percent of the population. Or placed in concentration camps. That`s how it goes. Welcome to obscurity; picking out, picking apart, hiding the shadow under the light and covering the light in nights of bloodstained satin.

Poisonous fumes are rising from the toxic wasteland following the devastating impact of the estrogen-bomb; talking about mens issues detract from the issues of women. OK, then. Is that a admission from feminists that talking about female issues detracts from male issues? Or are the rules – such as they are – designed in just such a way as to only work one way? The mindnumbing arrogance of it all, the maddening double standards. It is astonishing in its cruelty and belligerent abuse. Dialogues are not designed to be monologues. Feminists would do well to learn this. And if, as feminists loudly proclaim, men have no idea what it is like to be a woman… well, then women have no idea what it is like to be a man. Feminists least of all.

Feminists should not be the ones to speak on issues affecting men. They claim to do so. They claim to be the only ones who should do so. They do not. And they are not. Then they shut down our conferences and shut down screenings of the Red Pill movie, simultaneously claiming that they do not and that the opposite is fact. Even when proveably not so.

The mask is failing. They are in their deathtrows, fighting for dear life. The lies are becoming obvious and the hatred brought to light by their best and brightest shine through the dewy mist of equal mornings, bringing with it droplets of reason and empathy for all trickling slowly down onto the fresh grass of non-feminist discourse in a deafening roar of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning.

Strange how this transparent hatred and contempt have managed to keep its place in the heads and minds and thoughts and feelings of our cultures as the true battle for equality. Absolutely incredible how the doublespeak and doublestandards are not picked apart at a grander scale than it is. How the claim that womens issues are not properly adressed is taken as fact, when it clearly is not fact. It is the issues of men and boys that are not taken seriously. Look to the suicides. Look to the homeless. Look to the funding for shelters for victims of domestic abuse. Look to the statistics on domestic violence to see through the broken prism of feminist doctrine.

Whenever these issues affecting men and boys are raised, the feminists come careening in, screeching and hollering on prime-time television how these men are nothing but a conglomerate of misogynists and foul patriarchs firing cannons of vile abuse at women. Sure, sure, men kill themselves more than women. But women attempt suicide more. So, really, we should be talking about how this affects women. Sure, sure, it is mostly men who are victims of assault and violence. But it is men doing the violence. So, really, we should be talking about how this affects women. If, failing that and being unable to show women suffering more, the conversations twists even more. Then the egalitarian foglights come on, and the feminists say that this is not a gendered issue. That we should show concern for both genders, so why are we only focusing on men. Herp-derp, twist, turn, manipulate and carry on.

I absolutely believe that issues affecting both men and women should be taken seriously; that both men and women should be shown the same levels of empathy, understanding and funding. It should, however, mirror reality. Not ideology. The levels of empathy, understanding, funding, what-have-yous are doled out by ideologues sheltered from the reality of the world inside a hugbox handcrafted from diamonds, not by reason or sanity or truth. And any attempt at addressing issues affecting boys and men with state-funded grants of care and compassion are shouted down, disrupted and ripped to shreds by feminists; the choir invincible. Because «What about the whamens?!?», showing their true nature and showing that they believe mens conferences take away from women because they themselves aim to take away from men with their actions and with their calls to action. Psychological projections aimed straight at the cinematic canvas of public discourse. «We do this. Therefore they must do this.» They show themselves time and again completely incapable of comprehending that other people do not think and act like they do. Their mask comes of, showcasing with religious fervor their inability to think outside of group identity. Time and again, this happens, and time and again we are told that it is only a few feminists, that they care about the genders equally.

Well, the lies are rising to the top of the stagnant pool and the masquerade is ending, showcasing the egotistical beast underneath – the spoiled child that never grew up, never reached emotional maturity – the child that enjoyed tormenting others at school, and then ran crying to the teachers that they were attacked when the tormented victim finally struck back; the spoiled child that was believed by the teachers contrary to the evidence at hand, leaving a innocent boy behind, distressed, chewed out by the teacher and crying eternally internally for the obvious lack of empathy which he must now carry with him for the rest of his life, showcased by a society which proves to him over and over again that it does not have the slightest bit of empathy stashed away somewhere for him.

– Moiret Allegiere, 26.01.2019

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Lashing out, lashing in, let me begin:

transcendence 2 a3 lowres

Ill: «Transcendence #2», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

This is going to be a relatively long one. Grab a drink, buckle yourself in and get comfortable.

Last night, (14.01.2019) I woke at five in the morning with the horrible sensation of not being able to breathe properly. A reasonable person would probably have taken this as a sign of some difficulties with the heart; a cause for great concern and an immediate evacuation to the halls of healing provided by our health services. Not me, though. I engaged in deep breathing until it passed, and then I fell asleep again, and woke with the mindshattering sound of my alarmclock going of three hours later. A reasonable person would probably consider my actioan in this instance to be of some concern; a sign that I am not taking my health seriously. The truth of the matter is that I am used to waking up like this. There is a lingering subconscious panic and dread somewhere in the dark recesses of my unconscious psyche still; a vague voice whispering that I am not yet, for lack of a better word, fulfilled.

Of course, these nocturnal bouts of panic and doom has lessened immensely over the course of the past two years. Prior to this, it happened every night and was far more severe. Every night for two years, I woke with what can only be described as night-terrors, and could not get back to sleep no matter how much I tried. The confusion and pure panic in those moments made me fear and avoid sleep as much as I could; sometimes not going to bed at all, but clincing to being awake as though my life depended on it. And maybe it did. At the very least, I belive my sanity – or what little was left of it in those fabled days of yore – depended upon it.

Sitting like that, alone at night with nothing for comfort but youtube and my own random, racing thoughts gave me a lot of room to think. Probably too much room to think. It also granted me the ability, over time, to control my thoughts and fracturing mind. Not as good as I would wish, but better than it ever had or has been. Some good came of it, even if I spent three years, give or take, in a state of constant agitation and panic. It put me on a path I desperately needed to be put upon, though I did not know it at the time.

For a multitude of years, I had been going to therapy. And their way of helping me was to put me on drugs, drugs and more drugs. I was given drugs to counteract the sideeffects of the other drugs I was on, and new drugs to combat the effects of those drugs which were meant to combat the effects of the other drugs. An entire, multicoloured galaxy of uppers, downers, screamers and streamers to keep me sane. That is: to keep me numb and burnt out. To keep my mind from being my mind. Due to the amount of drugs, and the relatively young age at which I was given these, they halted my emotional development and put my life dead in its tracks for several years. Nothing happened. I was sitting in stasis – gaining weight and gaining pessimism and gaining an everexpanding sense of frustration in regards to my life – or lack of life. This frustration was very much subconscious, but manifested in several severely selfdestructive ways. Which, of course, made the psychiatrists give me more drugs. The circle was complete. And the damage was done. And the damage still lingers.

At the time, of course, I believed that the fault for my life going absolutely nowhere was that of my own and my mind, fractured and ruined as I had been told that it was, from seeing shrink after shrink since I was fifteen years old and my teenage temperament, all gloomy depression and confused anxiety, was treated as a severe mental illness. Thus, being told half my life that there was something wrong with me meant that there had to be something wrong with me.

In essence, I was brought up into illness by the hum-diddle school of psychology. This is, of course, not to say that I am not responsible for the poor choices I have made. Because of course I am. My actions and choices were and are my own. There are contributing factors, however. And a lot of those contributing factors stemmed from the psychiatric dissolution of my self through drugs supposed to help me along the way, but who at their core halted my core from growing and developing roots which would gain sustenance from myself. Instead of aiding my growth, they halted my growth. Instead of making me better, they made me worse.

Diagnosis after diagnosis was thrown at me, and nothing seemed to stick. No diagnosis was correct, and yet I was given medications to treat the diagnosis which I did not have, time and again. Faulty diagnosis – medication – faulty diagnosis – medication. And then, of course – medication to combat the effects of other medications. Whenever a certain diagnosis was shown to be wrong, they did not halt the drugs given for that diagnosis. They conjured forth a new diagnosis and gave me drugs for that as well. My medical journal is a confusing mess. As was my life at the time; mirroring it perfectly, all jumbled and confused and frustrating. I could go on about this, but I won`t. I think I have gone on for long enough. I plan to expand on this, and my experience in quitting medication and psychology, at some later point. Maybe as a book, maybe as a series of blogposts. Probably both. Suffice it to say; I learned a lot from this experience through clawing my way through hell.

Now, the reason I am bringing all this up is very simple: it has to do with the mental health – or lack thereof – of boys and men. Or, more to the point – the lack of proper mental health services for men and boys. In particular since traditional masculinity – that is to say, masculinity at all – is now considered both pathological and as an ideology, whatever the fuck that means, by the powers that be. How, then, can a man trust to a mental health service when it deems masculinity itself to be at the root of all issues a man face?

What men are told, then, when seeking counseling, is that he is ill for the simple reason that he is a man. That if he only stopped being masculine, as nature has made him, he would be better. I can not conceive of how that would help him in any way, shape or form. Picture this scenario:

Therapist: So, what`s bothering you?

Patient: Well, I am feeling suicidal. My life is going nowhere. I can`t find employment and I can`t find any field of study to enter.

Therapist: Why do you think that is?

Patient: Well, they have these gender qoutas that is favouring women in my chosen field. And due to this, I can not find employment or somewhere to study despite being qualified and having tons of experience.

Therapist: Do you think this is a bad thing?

Patient: well, yes. I think the ones that are the most qualified should get the job.

Therapist: Do you not think women are qualified to work in your field?

Patient: Not when I am more qualified than they are, no.

Therapist: That, I think, is your male privilege speaking. You are so used to getting the world handed to you on a platter due to being a man, and now you are struggling to comprehend this loss of privilege.

Patient: what? No – I don`t think that is…

Therapist: Why are you so scared of gender equality?

Now, of course, this is probably a case of hyperbole on my part. But it drives the point home. Imagine seeking help due to self-loathing and suicidal tendencies, and then being told that your very nature is the cause of your issues. And then being told that it is not even your nature, but a social construct – a supposed ideology of masculinity – that has sown the seeds of your discontent. Now imagine being a young man. Or a boy. Seeking counsel and guidance for the same, impressionable as all hell and confused from the raging tide of hormones which only puberty can bring. This therapy and poor counsel can only breed more confusion. You are not you, they seem to say. Your nature is not in your nature. Moreover – that which is not your nature and which is not you, but which you still cling to and which still defines you – is toxic and destructive at its core and need to change. And this change, it seems, is not to help you grow, but to help the rest of the world grow.

Through counselling you are beat into servitude, one phony concerned sentence at a time, smooth as a serpents hiss, all forked tongue and whispered promises of betterment; if only you would understand your inherent toxicity and privilege, all would be well. Considering that men are the group most at risk for suicide, this does not bode well for the future of men.

This is not science. This is ideology parading around town masquerading as science. It is beautifully crafted; vile hatred of men and masculinity clothed as great concern for boys and men. I can not even begin to fathom how telling a young man who is struggling with suicidal urges – or a grown man, for that matter – that the fundamental reason for his suicidality is, in essence, his fundamental being, his very core. Couple this with the constant reminder – through massmedia, through social media, through schools and education, politics and parliament, through jobs and through parents, siblings, friends and family – that men are inherently bad, that there is something wrong with men, that men need to change for the betterment of all… You`ve got a recipe for disaster. Either individually, personal and private, or socially, public and societal.

Not only is a man told that he needs to change, he is told that he needs to change for the good of all, not for the good of himself. That his own emotional wellbeing takes the backseat to the emotional wellbeing of the world. And that his hurt hurts the world more than it hurts himself. He does not matter. Even when it is his wellbeing that he pays with blood and sweat and tears to be guided towards. What he is supposed to say is quite simple: «Serviam».

I will serve.

At the expense of myself, I will serve.

Which is, honestly and funnily enough, the traditional expectations levvied at men all the way from the beginning of time. What was that about the ideology of masculinity; the toxicity of traditional masculinity? Hah! It seems we have gone full fruitless circle once again. Now, imagine a girl or young woman going into therapeutic sessions and being told this; that her very nature is what is wrong with her. Can you imagine what levels of foaming-at-the-mouth-and-crotch outrage we would have seen then? And, I would like to add – rightly and justly so.

My school of thought is that everyone should be treated equally, regardless of gender or sexuality or colour of skin or what-have-you. This, it would seem, is not the school of thought which these self-proclaimed fighters for equality and justice for all is following.

This is, of course, not to say that people should not strive to be the best they can be. Bettering oneself and growing as a human being is of incredible importance, and gazing ever inwards deeply and labouriously is a important tool in doing just that. Know thy self, as the saying goes. When we have a cultural zeitgeist telling men – and only men – that they are flawed and need to change, however, we are at a loss of balance. Selfimprovement is not gendered. Nor is faults and flaws. Every individual, regardless of gender, has faults and flaws and room for improvement. Letting the faults of the world rest solely on the shoulders of one group is disingenuous at best and pure viscious malice at worst.

The outrage at claiming there is something wrong with the very nature of women would be immense. Of this, I think, there is little doubt. Claiming that there is something wrong with the very nature of men, however, is equality and justice made manifest; a social justice feverdream conjured forth from a mass-brainwashed collective psychosis, enginereed and finely crafted over decades. The genders should be treated equally. And so, we must teach men that there is something wrong with men – we must teach our societies that there is something wrong with men and nothing wrong with women. In the name of equal treatment. Summed up thusly: Men bad, Women good. For equality, for justice, for truth and mad pathology. One for one and all for one.

***

Now picture a young man. Confused by the hormones coursing through his body at the peak of puberty. Confused by a troubled upbringing, perhaps, or the loss of a loved one, or a lack of direction. Maybe only confused by life itself, and in need of some guidance and some help to overcome some obstacle or other. And so he seeks counselling. He seeks therapy. If only to gain some perspective, or to vent his frustrations to someone who`s job it is to understand and lend an empathetic and helpful ear. Someone who gets paid to help someone overcome difficult obstacles. And he vents. He opens up. He tells all. And is told that the reasons he feels like this is that he is conditioned to not feel – that he has been cast in the mold of oppressor and tyrant by a society which, apparently, only has his best interests in mind. That he should cast aside his notions of who he is and replace it with who his therapist thinks he should be. And who his therapist thinks he should be is far detached from the reality of who he, by nature, is. And who his therapist thinks he is – tyrant and oppressor, privileged and pampered – is far detached from the reality of who he, by nature, is.

Now, would not this cause more confusion? Would not this fester in his mind like a tumour; growing and growing more and more the more he is told that he is at fault for his own issues by virtue of his birth? Mix the condemnation levvied at men and masculinity by the educational system which he is forced through into the mix, toss the misandry imposed upon him through the news which he absorbs and the girls in his class into the cauldron, stoke the fires with politicians telling him that he is evil incarnate and that he has no real issues to worry about and that he should bend the knee to help girls and to help women overcome the obstacles which he is directly or indirectly responsible for by privilege inherent from birth. And now, bring it to a boil with a family which tells him the same.

Burnout.

Washout.

Done and dusted.

Cleared, cleaned, clinically insane.

And this is what our culture celebrates – a constant demonizing of men for the perceived benefit of not the men in question, but the world around them. And we dare paint this travesty as being of benefit to boys and men. We dare paint it as a major benefit, which sees boys and young men dropping out and burning out, not participating nor launching, but washing up on the dust-and-cobwebbed-bedecked shores of our cultural wasteland.

Any voices raised – by the boys and men in question, or by others concerned – in opposition to the proposition that boys and men need to be socially enginereed into useful objects, helpful to all but themselves, is shouted down and held forth as a shining example of exactly why we need this misandric turn of page and phrase, this hatred disguised disgustingly as concern. It is a lose-lose situation. For boys and men.

What the claim is is of course: oh, no, it`s not all men. (Excepting, of course, when the same voices shine through the fog with a beacon saying #yesallmen) It`s just the bullies and the rapists, the harassers and the violent carriers of toxicity, of the virus of masculinity. If you should feel offended by the message, it means you are one of them and so you prove the point of the message. Clever. Very clever. It`s that worldwide emotional manipulation poking its bedazzled head out of the sand again, turning the victim into the victimizer. Agree with the message, and you are a good man and it is your job to stop other men behaving toxically. Object to the message, and you are one of the bad men and proof that the message need be told. One man is responsible for the actions of all men, which is to say that all men are responsible for the actions of one man. When that action is bad, that is. Flip the script, and you will learn that one woman is not responsible for the actions of all women and that all women are not responsible for the actions of one women. If they are bad. If they are good, it is a cause for celebration of all women. Women good, men bad. The bad done by one man is proof of the wickedness of all men. The good done by one woman is proof of the kindness of all women. Nuance is dead. Both men and women have the same capacity for both good and evil. This is forgotten in the gender-wars and the propaganda of the language therein.

A man can not win either way. Either we need to change, or we need to make other men change. To serve and to please, to serve and to protect. Or to kill ourselves in the process; to fail at life and withdraw into the nothing, into the ether. To be drugged unconscious and met with naught but disdain in the public and the private sphere, and being met with naught but distrust and blame-and-shame when we seek therapy and understanding from medical professionals who`s very job is to help and aid. And then to be forcefed a multitude of drugs to suppress our nature, quite literally being turned into mindless inactive zombies incapable of participating in any way, shape or form.

The result is a generation of boys and men turned away at the gates of life; denied the respect and compassion, understanding and empathy which they deserve. An entire generation of boys and men being taught from birth that there is something genuinely wrong with who they are at their very core. This, one would assume, is not proper behaviour towards any group of people. And one would be right in assuming this. Such as it is, our societies need their sacrificial goat – their idol to be shouted at and despised and blamed for the ills of the fracturing world we see before us, and simulatenously being told to fix it: both God and Devil. It is a mass communal unleashing of frustration and the Jungian shadow of humanity itself. The evil and vindictive force within us all. Men are the only group in society upon which this vindictiveness, this hatred, this frustration and this perplexing shadow of our souls and psyches may be unleashed with impunity. And they dare label it as compassion and concern for boys and men!

Don`t believe it? Try throwing the same vile abuse and everchanging demands for change at any other group in our splintering culture, and see how far that gets you. Try telling women as a group that they need to change. Or blacks. Or muslims. Or jews. Or homosexuals. Pick and chose, and see how far you get before the armies come marching at you from the virtuous anthill of the chronically concerned and offended.

This hatred and abuse get internalized by the boys and young men in question. Creating ever more need for therapy and psychiatric assessments of their being and of their ruptured psyche. Yet another of those viscious and vacuous circles manufactured by our daycare-societies. And being met with drugs, disbelief and disillusioning tales of their inherent privilege and propensity for oppression and toxicity in therapeutic sessions from beyond the wide-eyed wonder of the massmanufactured concern-trolling of this noxious fume of feminist indoctrination, they come to believe in the evil of their being. And the mood changes, the mood spirals ever downwards and, in lew of understanding, they are given more drugs. Causing the mood to descend further into the abyss. And the abyss opens wide to engulf them and swallow them whole. Perpetually lost boys floating aimlessly in a continuing vacuum; emotionally flatlined by neurotoxins and with a growing rage and resentment for which there is no release, no understanding and no help.

And as men are drawn towards action in times of personal crisis, they reach a breaking point and lash either outwards or inwards. Drawing from the core of their being; the masculine call to action which has been supressed and denied and labelled as inherently toxic. They snap. As one does, who has stared into the abyss for far too long. Manifested most often in selfharm and selfdestruction – or – more visibly destructive to society as a whole, it manifests as them taking others down with them in a blaze of fire and fury. This is where you get your mass-shooters and mass-murderers, your posterboys for toxicity and hatred.

And then, refining and re-engineering the circle once again, this is a call for the media to write articles on what is wrong with masculinity, holding these individuals forth as definite proof of the fact that there is something fundamentally wrong and defective with boys and men; not showing the least bit of concern for the tragedy which happened and having no qualms in using it as a tool to push ever more anti-male sentiments, stoking the fires already burning under the feet of the young boys and men which are doomed to failure and bound to lose in a society who`s blatant hatred of them is veiled as concern for their wellbeing!

Imagine for a moment what would have happened if these young men were shown compassion, understanding and empathy instead of ridicule and scorn. Instead of being labelled as incels or virgin-losers by feminisms doctrine when they voiced their opposition, or being marked by birth with the sign of the devil; a swinging cock and balls eternally flagellating the poor oppressed under their naturally oppressive nature.

Ave, Ave, Feministas.

This doctrine creates men there is something wrong with. Men ruined and broken by a society which claims to care equally for all, but which shows time and again that it cares nothing at all for men and for boys; a society in which men and boys are told to man up in order to help women and to attack their brothers for perceived trespasses on the virtue of women. Men, you need to help women. Women, you need to help other women. Noone needs to help men; they can help themselves by bending the knee and helping women and only women. That is to say, as stated time and again: by helping feminism and only feminism. Not only that; they are also told that manning up is proof of toxic masculinity; the suppression of feelings inherent in the toxicity. So man up and help and don`t man up and help by not manning up. Only express your feelings in a way suitable to feminisms gold standard. Meaning: express our feelings about men and masculinity, and share our emotions.

I have stared into the abyss of selfloathing myself. For years upon years; indoctrinated into the eternal victimcult, being reminded over and over that it is me and only me that is at fault. That my being is wrong, defective, destructive and hateful. I have been told that we live in a society in which women are oppressed, and I have seen time and again how this is not the case. Yet; I could not see through the veil across my eyes nor break away from the chokechain around my neck. I considered qoutas and affirmative action a necessity; proof of womens oppression when it is, in fact, proof of quite the opposite. Preferential treatment is not proof of oppression. One being treated better than the other – at the expense of the other, I might add – is not proof of the other oppressing the one. It is proof of the one being treated far better than the other by the other, which is claimed to treat the one worse. And, yes, the words «One» and «Other» are used with a purpose in mind. We are othering boys and men, turning them into second-class citizens to be treated with mistrust, and if not mistrust, then downright fear and loathing. And we are turning women into the One, a saving force and perpetual grace; an aristocracy which we must never contradict, never oppose, under pain of social death.

As with most boys and men, I lashed inwards as the abyss stared back into me. And as a result of lashing inwards, I was drugged into oblivion, balancing on a razorblade and tiptoeing through existence with no goals, no mind, no motives, no nothing. Psychopharmaceuticals scorched my neural pathways and burnt a hole into my mind who`s damage still lingers with me, running through my mind and my body in white scorching lines manifesting as chronic pain and chronic fatigue. Still burnt out; four years after ending my days as a drug-mule for the pharmaceutical bliss of our un-empathetic psychiatrists offices. And I am pissed off. Rightfully so.

My days of lashing inwards is drawing to an end. I employ the pen and what little energy I still have left to explore ideas and to lash outwards in a more cerebral manner; employing what explosive energy might linger in the core of my being in an attempt to change minds and inspire others to do the same; to partake in the battle of ideas we are caught up in.

We need to show that we deserve respect and understanding, compassion and empathy. And we must stand still and strong in this storm. And in standing still we move ever forwards on our path to make our societies understand that boys and men need to be met with empathy and understanding, not ridiculed, shunned, feared and blamed when opening up. We need to turn this tide and we need to stand together to do so. What differences we may have in our core values – traditional or non-traditional, conservative or liberal, etcetera, etcetera, need to be forgotten and put aside for the moment so that we can focus our energies towards a greater good; showing that masculinity is inherently good and that men are inherently good. Cooperation across the board is what we need.

There is a mass-awakening to be done. Imagine if boys and men were met with empathetic ears and, through action, shown that it is in fact our current cultural zeitgeist that is flawed at it`s core, not them. We would see far less mass-shootings. Far less men snapping. Far less men committing suicide. Feminst doctrine have created a self-fulfilling prophecy in their toxic masculinity narrative. And, I suspect, they are intensely pleased with themselves about this fact. Men and boys need to support other men and boys. And we need to stop internalizing the constant feedback-loop of hostility and negativity we are met with. Make the feminists live by their own rules by stating, quite simply: «If you belive that the genders should be treated equally, then you ought to start treating the genders equally». Or do not engage at all; there is no use in debating someone who has no interest in listening; who`s only concern is to speak and to have their voices heard at the expense of the voices of others.

If something is OK to be said about men in general, then it is OK to be said about women in general. If it is not suitable to be said about women in general, then it is not suitable to be said about men in general. Use their rulebook against them. Do not internalize hatred. Be strong. Be proud. Be yourself. And never let anyone condition you into believing that your masculinity is toxic. Stand still, holding a candle of self-respect to your heart and whisper to yourself: «Non serviam».

I will not serve.

For the sake of myself, I will not serve.

– Moiret Allegiere, 19.01.2019

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