Category Archives: Men’s Emotions

DIY or die! A ramble on doing things yourself. (And various other semi-related topics)

This is a guest post from Moiret Allegiere.  He has a great deal to say about our plight as men in today’s insane misandrist world. You can find his blog here.

There is nothing better, in the humble opinion of this sleepless cripple, than the satisfaction of finishing some project or other. This goes for most everyone, I would assume. And it applies to any project one could imagine, from the artistic to the mundane, from the impractical to the practical.

I will focus on the mundane and the practical in this ramble, I think, following on a bit from my piece on hobbies. That is to say, I will try to the best of my abilities, seeing as my current struggle with insomnia leaves me a bit unfocused and weirdly scatterbrained.

I was fairly pleased with the piece I did on hobbies. That I was pleased with it tend to mean that very few enjoyed it. One of those strange quirks of the realm of artistic illusion, I suppose. In this realm, the pleasure of the artist does not necessarily translate to the pleasure of the beholder. The opposite also hold true; when I find myself severely displeased with some artistic project, people tend to enjoy it. It is really strange. Not that it matters all that much.

In some way or other, it evens out. I think it is a fairly funny observation, though.

In the dark days, in the long-ago time, when I still inhabited Facebook I posted a picture of some wooden planters I had built from the leftovers of another project I had been building. My caption for these photos were something like: “I built this using primarily my beard.”

I very much enjoy working with plants, tending to them, watching them grow from seed to fruit and everything involved in this process. I also very much enjoy working with wood, and would do so much more than I currently am doing had I only the room. The picture of these wooden planters were very well received. Particularly by women on my friend-list. This is something I found to be very interesting. Especially so since a few of these women, one who commented in particular, presented themselves as ardent feminists. The feminist in question who happened to comment, commented something along the lines of “Your wife must love your handyman projects!” There is absolutely nothing wrong with this comment, of course.

Quite the contrary.

I found it incredibly interesting, however, that it came from the hands of a feminist, seeing as it is very much gendered stereotyping, is it not? Wife enjoys her husband fixing and building things around the home, while the husband enjoys the wife doing whatever it is a wife traditionally does.

I am given to believe that a lot of the differences in the choices men and women make, as well as the interests of men and women, are driven in no small way by us being differently wired biologically.

There is nothing wrong with this either, of course. Were we only able to accept this tender little factoid instead of assuming some manner of discrimination every single time these different choices and priorities, strengths and weaknesses present themselves as differences of outcome. That is to say: were we only to accept, cherish and nurture these differences for what they are instead of fighting against them at every turn.

This is not to say that one should accept every difference as a rule, nor is it to say that you either have to do this or you have to do that, are you a man or a woman. I am not a fan of rigidly enforced social rules, norms and regulations as a general rule. With exceptions, of course.

What I mean to say is that people should be free to do with their lives as they wish to do with their lives, be they male or female. That, whether people chose a traditional path or not, it should be accepted as the choice of that person and that person alone. Of course, in regards to relationships, it should be accepted as the choice of that couple or that family. It is not the place of anyone else to force someone to do something they do not wish to do. And it does not reflect well on any movement when a movement attempts to tell someone that their choices are the wrong choices. As feminism is known to do, should a woman chose something particularly traditional – or something that she wishes to do that falls outside the very narrow realm of accepted professions for a woman as feminism sees it.

Which brings me to my point in regards to the comment left by the feminist – whom I know to be a feminist, because she stated as much quite a few times. As feminists are also known to do. That point being: at the moment I showed some manner of practical ability, some manner of doing and making, the distaste feminism usually shows in regards to the traditionally masculine and the traditionally feminine – man provides and protects, woman receives and is protected (in excruciatingly simple terms – I am aware that this dynamic is far more complex than this) – evaporated and gave room for what I would dare say is some manner of admiration. And that is admiration for traditionally masculine traits, in essence: protect and provide. There is nothing wrong with this admiration. Nor is there anything wrong that men lean towards this, or take pride and enjoyment in the admiration gained from doing things of this nature. Or take pride in these kinds of projects as they are, for that matter.

This sort of behaviour from the feminist, this small and – on the surface – insignificant thing did actually significantly alter my way of thinking where gender and feminism is concerned. It fixed, cemented and set in stone my conviction that people refer to themselves as feminists by default because they have been spoon-fed this hideous lie that it is the only force working towards equality between the sexes, and that is all that it is. So why not label oneself a feminist? It’s only muh equality, ya know.

But, yeah, my scatterbrain scattered its seeds and took me in a different direction yet again. I’ll do my best to get back on track. It was the pleasures of doing things yourself I wanted to ramble about a bit, and that strange sensation of fulfilment and pride that comes from being able to take care of oneself and whatever family one may have through doing so. From small projects to big projects, it does not really matter – the satisfaction remains the same. It does, in no small way, make one feel a bit manly, a bit masculine. And this is a good thing. That feel-good testosterone fuelling that toxic and fragile masculinity; that horrible urge to protect and to provide and to be able to do things on ones own. Terrible. Just terrible.

I am of the humble opinion that doing things yourself is the best course of action to take for most things – provided one has the know-how to do so. Or the ability to learn how to do so. And most things, I believe, one can learn for oneself.

Granted, this DIY-ethos of mine may very well have trickled down from the first time punk-rock filled my soul and body with all its wondrous tricks and trance-inducing rage and riot against the establishment.

What better way to tell the establishment to fuck off than participate as little as possible in the well-trodden paths; that is to say: do as much as possible yourself and be self-reliant, self-sufficient and self-fulfilled, needing little help from the established powers-that-be and any authority left therein? Which, in the end, may very well be a naturally well-established path for men to take. Interesting, is it not?

For full disclosure – I am receiving disability from the government for my severe chronic illness.

So I am not self-reliant in any financial way.

Which is a bother and a burden to me and to my toxic and fragile masculine pride (trademarked). My main wish, or hope, or goal, if you will, is to somehow manage to make enough money on my art and writings to be able to make a living off it. I am absolutely certain that it will never be enough to live some high-and-mighty life of overabundance. But a modest living is within the realms of possibility. Through hard work and sacrifice. And, rest assured, this art and writing I do requires a lot of hard work and even more sacrifice. I have lost friends and family due to the topics I have chosen to write about, and this is no fun.

No fun at all.

No matter how much it hurts, it will be worth it in the long run, as the topics I chose to write about are incredibly important to write about, talk about and learn about. And speaking honestly is good for the self. My choices were to write honestly on these topics, or succumb to clinical insanity from bottling all these thoughts, speculations and knowledge within.

No good fight is fought or won without sacrifice. And the sacrifice is most often severe and most definitely personal.

And were I not entangled and entwined in all this god-damned gender-stuff, all this strange and peculiar culture-war-stuff, I would be writing far more on various DIY-projects. With home-brewing and plants being my main focus, as those two are what gives me the most pleasure and consumes most of my time where DIY-stuff is concerned. With woodworking and carpentry most likely being a close second, the moment I get enough space to really start going to town on projects of that nature. In a couple of years, we will be buying a small farmstead. There will be room enough then. Room to breathe, to move around. Not infected by the inevitable stress and insufferable horror of city-living.

Raising a plant from seed to fruit and then using this fruit in various home-brewed concoctions that will be stored and matured for a year, in order that it is ready to be enjoyed when next years batch is being made is one of the greatest of small pleasures in my life. Of course; foraging plays a part in this, and picking plants in the wild for use in home-brewing or in teas or for food or whatever is a fantastic endeavour to embark upon. There is so much growing out there in the wild ready to pick and use in whichever way one would like that it boggles the mind that so few actually do things of that nature. In nature. And it is done by oneself. By hand. Bit by bit and piece by piece; projects that require patience and knowledge.

Patience being one of those things that seem to be dwindling alongside our attention-spans as our civilization descends ever more into the void of immediate gratification, into the nether realms of instantaneous satisfaction in place of delayed gratification. Fuelled, of course, in no small way by the dopamine-addictions shot into the central nervous system by social media, the tyranny of the stopwatch and various similar maladies of the modern era.

Long-term projects, projects that are determined by, and reliant on, the seasons is a great way to train patience, to cultivate patience as a virtue, to teach oneself to delay gratification and push away the press and desire for immediate satisfaction. Which of course, in itself, is a long term project. For if one has first fallen into the trap and succumbed to the allure of social media likes, clicks, shares and various harbingers of immediate joy and happiness-boosts, the path away from it is long and easy to stray from.

Patience is absolutely one of those virtues which I find to be the most important and the most lacking in society as it stands today, both on an individual level and on a societal level with the immediate and the instantaneous taking precedence, becoming more important than long-term plans and goals.

And here I speak from experience.

For some years back, in the throes of medicinally induced psychosis, I fell into the claptrap of social media addiction myself – completely and utterly sleepless and with faulty wiring in my brain making me erratic, I sough solace in the immediate and ultimately hollow boost of happiness and comfort earned from virtual clicks and likes gathered from social media nonsense. It brought nothing but further despair, making me dig the grave for my shattered glass-sanity ever deeper and, more like than not, prolonged the psychosis and made the path toward stability and sanity, healing and functionality a longer and more winding path. There is neither rest nor solace to be found in social media. The technology itself is neither good nor bad, of course. It is as technology is – completely neutral and dependent upon those that wield the tools and how they act and behave. It is a damned shame, then, that people tend to not know how to use their tools. Or their brains. Because the brain is most definitely a tool that can be sharpened and put to good use, were people only able to let go of the external world and the perceived happiness it brings for a little while to seek solace and happiness within, through meditation and deep introspection. And solitude. People, by and large, tend to gather their happiness from the input of other people. And only that, social pack-animals that we are. We are scared of solitude. This neglects the other, far more permanent and important happiness, which is finding solace and comfort in oneself, being safe and secure in who one is and – hacky as it well may sound – knowing oneself completely.

This also includes knowing ones abilities and what one is able to do. Or not able to do. Which of course translates into various DIY-projects. Having the strength, the belief in oneself that one will be able to complete the task at hand is not necessarily something that comes easily and fluently. In particular in these days, where mockery is thrown about at all things traditionally considered masculine.

I don’t think it is too much of a stretch of the imagination to imagine that traditionally masculine tasks, tools, abilities and so forth and so on is not something young men subjected to the ridicule of all things masculine on a daily basis cultivate all that easily. It is far easier to throw the traditionally masculine aside, to neglect and forget it as some shameful relic of the past than it is to cultivate it. That is to say – far easier to do on a superficial level. On a deeper level of consciousness, however, I fear that it is not all that easy. For the urges, the drive, the longing for the – for lack of a more fitting word – divine will still be there, festering in the subconscious, gnawing and biting and burning for wanting to come out and play, to be unfolded as the natural part of himself that it truly is. And all this and all that and all of the other which he has been told and taught as the gospel according to the feminist hive-mind is wrong and is bad and is poor within him lies neglected and dying for lack of nurture and sustenance, for shame and ridicule and all the clucking of the hive-mind, the buzz and the drone.

This becomes, of course, particularly confusing when he is told one thing and then shown the other. That is: the traditional expectations is still very much alive and well where men are concerned, enforced and rigidly expected by women he may wish to date and the society which surround him. Chivalry is expected. He shall still provide and he shall still protect, even as he is shamed for doing just that. He shall not, however, expect anything in return where the traditional gender-roles are concerned. He shall be enslaved to the role which he is shamed for wanting to fulfil. And she shall be free to do whatever, lest he be labelled a foul misogynist and abuser of his partner or prospective mate.

Should you be interested in some elaboration on these ideas, I delve into it in some rambling depth in my piece: ”What makes a man suicide? Rambling on traditional expectations and Suicide.”, which you can find on my blog or on YouTube or – preferably—BitChute.

I am aware that it may seem like a bit of a stretch, going from DIY to traditional expectations and shaming of all things masculine. The way I see it, it is interconnected and intertwined, which I think the comment on Facebook which I mentioned above points to directly. For feminism claims the eradication of traditional gender-what-cha-ma-call-its whilst expecting, and in no small way celebrating, the traditionally masculine… when it benefits women, and only then. Which, of course, protect and provide does. Now, obviously, a small planter built and small plants grown is not the biggest example of protect and provide. It still is an example, though, as I showcased my ability to build something that would hold something that would provide my family with food, even if it was not much food. And even if it was used for home-brewing. Home-brewing is, at the heart of it, only a week or two of fermentation removed from a reliable source of food.

And there is the thing of it, in my mind – men are drawn to these kinds of practical projects, in no small way due to their biological drive and innate desire to protect and to provide. This is not to say that men don’t do these things solely for themselves or merely for the pure enjoyment of it. That is not at all what I am speculating.

What I am speculating is that this drive to do things for oneself is a desire firmly rooted and embedded in the biology of men, a way to show and to prove that they are prime examples of their species, much like the Bowerbird and the nests he builds to impress and attract a mate. (Which is something of the most astonishing beauty; more amazing than I believe I have ever seen before.) We are really not as far separated from animals and from nature as we believe ourselves to be. Evidently so, if one but opens ones eyes and watches the behaviour of most animals and compare that with the behaviour of humanity at large. Particularly when attracting a mate. This goes for both men and women. We showcase our strengths based on what we know, deep down on a biological, reptilian-brain level, that any potential mate would desire. And we hide our flaws and weaknesses based on the same. We accentuate strength, beauty, youth, fertility, self-reliance, etc. etc. etc. in the most primitive, the most primal manner. Whilst subduing and hiding weaknesses, various faults and flaws, etc. etc. etc.

Simply put; some of the few things that separate us from the rest of the animal-kingdom is our intellect – which, more often than not, creates three new problems for every solution – and our nebulous, vapourwave-like civilizations and societies that are, as these things go, here in a flash and gone in an instant. It is built and it falls to ruin. And we believe that we have learned something the next time we rebuild. Then the process repeats.

All the while we believe ourselves separated from and, ultimately, superior to animals and to nature, never realizing that we are of the same thing.

All the while, we take things so incredibly serious, so absurdly seriously in fact that we feel some strange and peculiar need to categorize everything, to fit everything within neatly labelled boxes of this or of that. And we have the gall, the absurd arrogance to believe that smaller and smaller subcategories will fix all our problems when it, in reality, only creates more problems. For every category, every simple label and neat little box need its own sub-categories, need its own neat little labels that need their own and need their own, and so forth and so on. And every label, every category, every nefarious little box artificially creates and inflates a problem that must be solved through more labels and subcategories within subcategories.

So men doing what men tend to do, and women doing what women tend to do in general need their own labels, their own categories. And these need their own, and those need their own. On and on and on. And that must be fixed and mended in some way, because we are just as opposed to labels and categories for the simplicity that they bring as we are drawn towards them for the simplicity that they bring.

And all this instead of accepting and cherishing things the way that they are; instead of going with the flow of nature, the stream of time, the way of things as things are. Instead of accepting and celebrating, we slice, split and divide to infinity and beyond. We overcomplicate where we should just accept. Then we fight what we have made overly complicated, then we complain that things are so complicated, failing to realize that the only reason things are so complicated is because we made them so complicated in the first place.

And the solution is simple. Let people do as people do. Let people live as people wish to live. Go with what is natural. Don’t shame masculine behaviour in men. Don’t shame feminine behaviour in women. For that is the natural flow-and-glow of things; that is the river, the wind, the Tao, if you wish. Conversely – do not shame feminine behaviour in men or masculine behaviour in women. A real man does exactly what the fuck he wants. And so does a real woman. If that is traditional or not, who the fuck has any right to meddle? Or to care? Life is far too short for these small petty grievances, far too short to let it be bogged down by fighting things that come natural, by splitting, dividing, sub-dividing and so forth and so on. For, in the end, it does nothing but create more complication, more conflict, more ridiculously unnecessary time wasted that could be spent more wisely on something more constructive than fighting what is, in essence, biology and nature.

We tend to do as we tend to do, which is to say that we tend to do what we are wired to do. The differences between the sexes are evident in all animals. And humanity is no exception. We have just grown so smart that we have allowed ourselves to become arrogant in our proclaimed cleverness to the point of complete and utter stupidity.

This is not to say that one should accept everything from everyone based solely on the argument that “it is my nature that drives me to this destructive behaviour”. Of course not. That would be absolutely ridiculous. We are responsible for our own behaviours, in the end. And that includes how we treat others – man, woman and animal alike. We have grown clever enough to not run on pure instinct. This does not, however, mean that the instincts are not there. Ultimately, the main purpose of any biological organism is to reproduce before they die. Which means that, on a deeply subconscious level, most of what we do is done to attract a mate of the opposite sex.

And needlessly complicating matters does nothing but complicate matters needlessly. If there is one thing that you can count on humanity to do, it is to complicate matters to the point of absolute ridiculousness.

Just as I have done in this ramble.

God damn it.

Moiret’s Book, 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

We Who Fell From Grace/Alphabet-soup/Being But Boys

Illustration: “D”, Moiret Allegiere, 2017

This is a guest post from Moiret Allegiere.  He has a great deal to say about our plight as men in today’s insane misandrist world. You can find his blog here.

We, who so lovingly devolved and fell from grace; who longed to be devoured by the rush and the filth and the harshly whispered words…

who so quickly succumbed to illness, to tribal despotism and despair; who saw sudden surges of revenge pondered in school-yards a-flame…

…who so slowly broke down and fell apart on streets lined with gold…

who so openly announced our departure from our selves for all to hear…

who so honestly drank slow-burning ruination from chalices offered by silver-tongued Succubi speaking soft nothings in our ears…

who so truthfully believed belittling tattle-tales and nursery-rhymes, timid and scared and frozen in the headlights…

who so freakishly, annoyingly, self-devouringly swallowed the hook and line and sinker of preposterous tongue-tied dogmatism…

who so very much longed to prove our worthiness in shaded temples overrun by smog and asbestos by the light of her countenance…

who so dramatically disowned our inner-most being for the flicker of her shanty-town eyes and trash-heap domestication…

who so simple-mindedly tore our beating hearts from our chests through our throats and shattered jaws to present as tokens of our love…

who so lonely in nights beneath concrete-breasts, betwixt asphalt-thighs slick as weapons-grade plutonium, cursed ourselves just for being…

We, who so longed for love that we became a self-mutilating spectacle burning with desires deemed demonic, satanic, beast-like…

who so longed to be loved that we fell from our heads and minds and souls into caricatures resembling anything but ourselves…

who so believed the foul things we were told in classrooms steeped in ideology that our souls, our spirits, died by slight-of-hand suicide…

who so fell for the tranquil war-cry of dogmatic serpents, ideologically blinded by pins and needles, that we waged war upon ourselves…

We, who made ourselves disposable, expendable, throw-away-able..

who made necklaces from our own teeth and presented them as gifts…

who made solemn vows to never be the ones we were…

who made promises to sacrifice and to protect and to serve…

We, who were told we were – by our mere presence – dangerous…

who were told we were – by our very nature – fiends…

who were told we were – by testosterone itself – immature…

who were told we were – by birth – untrustworthy…

We, who were made to make amends for the sins of our fathers…

who were made to take a pledge of inferiority…

who were made to mimic serfdom from infancy…

who were stoned by popular vote…

who were put in laughingstocks for speaking up…

who were hung, drawn and quartered when we drew a line in the sand…

Where are we now?

…lost in opiate-daze, body-outlines drawn in charcoal upon streets of yesteryear, heads resting on pillows of impenetrable street-trash, sleeping rough beneath lonely midnight-clouds, being spat upon by passers-by whom we, in the prime of our youth, swore we should protect?

…lost in manic labyrinthine chores and demands with vision clouded by push-and-prod-and-pulls infinite, minds ensnared by senses of righteous indignation at the here-to, here-now, come-here-boy, slaving away at the rat-race in indebted servitude to make amends for the sins of our fathers?

…lost sleepless between lead-sheets where our groins are slowly eaten away by bedbugs crawling through our shameful erections, working to do what the constant buzz and drone and hum of puerile, infantile, prepubescent publications tell us that we must do in order to be men?

…lost in fulfilling a barrage of incoherent societal demands levied at us for being us; a disastrous crack-haven voice calling for our responsibilities, our self-sacrifice, for us to do better and to be better so that women and children shall be safe and free and be safe to be free and be free to be safe?

…from us…

…lost in alleyways, brutally beaten and kicked to the curb, shot between the eyes and mugged, robbed, ripped apart by violence gratuitous and grandiose, crawling our way through broken bottles and puddles of piss to be told, at the end of the line, that we must end violence against women?

…lost between the spread legs of time, shadows floating by, unseen and unheard, unnoticed and unwanted, vague bodies crippled from stress and melting minds, double-narratives told constantly, double standards imposed upon us, heart, soul, mind, body now lost in time and space?

Where are we now?

…free-falling with arms flailing impotently into some dread future-scape, numbed by cogwheels ticking away, by machinery, by mechanical contraptions brutally burying into our skin and bones, our skulls and minds, our hearts and souls.

…free-falling with temperaments doomed to die, with judgements passed on the monstrous cock, the savage balls, the passage of time from mirrors mirroring history viewed through period-blood, menstruated heavily from high-and-mighty academes who never once tasted truth.

…free-falling into delirious neglect from a society whose whispers maniacally conjure grins and glee toxic and nauseous through perpetual lies and misrepresentations, through hit-pieces a-plenty and the everlasting tide of self-assured cock-shamed shaming of the cock.

…free-falling maddeningly into spirals of deceit where once stood truth atop the shoulders of giants, now ground into spastic broken shards of glass doubtlessly preaching dubious equality handcrafted marvellously from uncertain rustling behind the shower curtains.

…free-falling, lambasted and ridiculed for standing up where once we fell down, delving ever deeper into the solemn solitude of cathedrals erected to honour the death of potent masculinity; the culling of young minds seeing young boys led to the slaughter viciously, maliciously.

…free-falling into chemical castrations; blood and chalk on blackboards coveted by legions of pedagogues armed with orthodox new-truth, pale and pasteurized, homogenized and swollen with lies of a dogmatic nature, dominatrix school-mistress with fell venomous fangs.

We, whose wings were cut, whose fangs were pulled, whose claws were trimmed…

we, whose thoughts were silenced, whose tongues were amputated, whose throats were slit…

we, whose heroism was dubbed toxicity, whose playful banter was labelled hateful, whose sexuality was considered primitive at best…

We of the conveniently neutered generation,

of the conventionally tortured generation,

of the chronically tormented generation…

Who are we now?

…A generation of boys and young men shamed into silence, into servitude, into self-flagellating microcosm misanthropy aimed squarely at our sex and gender…

…A generation of boys and young men whipped into the deserts and the tundra to be food for the vultures and the buzzards and the demons; to feed the roar of the moving dunes, like waves…

…A generation of boys and young men lost within the manifested reality of grim-faced bespectacled poet laureates of fame and befuddled fortune in feudal-systems crafted from narrative convenience in academic stupidity…

…A generation of boys and young men ripped from the arms of their fathers and thrown into dungeons to suffer and then be crushed beneath the weight of the wickedness of the world…

…A generation of boys and young men scarred from a thousand strokes of the whip; the cat of nine tails poignantly expressing the societal dissolution of our very nature…

…A generation of boys and young men being told that they are at fault for the demons in the wilderness, the ghosts at the door, the past, present and future atrocities of humanity…

…A generation of boys and young men who never witnessed the rod being spared; who were spoilt with the tongue-lashings of a million studiously inept traumatized graduate students of brainwashed notoriety…

…A generation of boys and young men lost within the vortex of a de-constructed society, within whose arms and upon whose bosom we were never wanted, wished or welcomed…

…A generation of boys and young men who have been socialized into sacrifice, who have had their sexuality scrutinized, their essence demonized, their eyelids sewn shut with barbed wire…

…A generation of boys and young men raised into self-loathing and cold despair, losing ridiculous societal games by their mere presence considered harmful to all within line of sight…

And we were promised that our problems also mattered.

And we were promised that all should be treated equally under the sun.

And we were promised, were we only to open up, we would be saved.

And we were told the problems of boys and men were of their own making.

And we were told the problems of girls and women were also of men’s making.

…then we were told that boys and men have no problems, but that we are boys and men.

…then we were told to shut up…

…then we were told that we were the problem.

…then we became the problem…

*

Agencies devoid of reason chase us out of bed in stone-cold mornings.

Belated birthday-wishes for the dream that was the child within,

Choked out at the corner of bedlam and squalor,

Delirious and dripping with fright-night splendour,

Eternally seeking empathetic connections – salvation through society.

Fear being what they taught us in our ruptured barnyard-schools,

Gullible as only small children could be,

Hated and shamed for nothing but our crucified cocks,

Illuminated by the rudimentary petticoat-philosophy of nincompoops.

Jealousy reigned supreme in the bloodshot eyes of low-gear thinkers;

KKK-lynchings emulated in child’s play: boys are inferior.

Lying is the path towards miss-understanding,

Maddeningly hiding truth for sake of ideological convenience.

None who speak truth live long to tell the tale;

Only death await those who dare defend the masculine –

Painting perverse, obscene portraits of we who fell from grace –

Quiet, quaint, devilishly innocent political “truth-seekers”,

Raped by sourced evidence and facts to the contrary,

Silencing us as we advance ever more; crossing the borders of obscurity.

To tear the blindfold away from the inebriated waste-face of society,

Understand that society need to know more than lies and slander.

Vile assaults on men, on boys, on masculinity called us out to war.

We will win through persistence this war of nuclear attrition,

Xeroxed and force-fed to our gutless, gullible generation;

Young and old are all the same, tranquillized and mindless,

Zombiefied by rigorous academic intellectual insanity.

*

Being but boys, we lived vivid summer-evenings entranced in woodland playtime, running wild and free through trees infested with trials and tribulations for us to conquer…

…being but boys, we slew monsters and crossed paths with gods in never-ending summer days where we dazed about in frantic free-form imagination, hopelessly devoted to expressive life and love…

…being but boys, we grabbed every minute, every moment, and shook it endlessly, heedless of time passing through us, ecstatic, burning internally with wild warlock energy…

…being but boys, we stomped the ground beneath our feet until it turned to mud, conquering horrifying demons and fears and sweating like mad, hungry, powerful beasts…

…being but boys, we were shamans and warriors, magnificent playwrights of our own shared destinies, found in the holiest of holies, the inner sanctum of boyhood imagination…

…being but boys, we danced to tunes only we could hear in the soft, warm, murmuring summer air, breathlessly entangled and ensnared in lifesaving, life-affirming explosions of joy…

…being but boys, we were unhinged, burning with rebellion, with piss and vinegar, with breaking the cataclysmic chains that tied us to the daily drudgery of routines like superstition…

…being but boys, we evolved and we grew and we came to be young men, affirmed through fear-mongering parasites in burnt-out messianic lectures at school to be viciousness and lust and rage and ruin…

…being but young men, we were thrown overboard, cast adrift, to float face-down in lost mid-summer dreams where hopelessness gripped our throats as saltwater filled our lungs…

…being but young men, we succumbed to the allure of life-denial, taught haphazardly with veiled words sung from irrational gurus atop pinnacles of forced chemical castrations…

…being but young men, we saw our heads stomped by tender feet preaching liturgies of our foul wickedness through tyranny clothed in excruciating religious fanaticism…

…being but young men, we were made to rebel against our selves in days and nights of self-flagellating dishonesty, disrobing our masculinity to cleanse the palates of tin-foil-hat dictators…

…being but young men, we were made to break the supposed mould of maleness imposed upon us by our tyrannical forefathers, whose words and deeds should trickle down from history and manifest in us as shame…

…being but young men, we were shame incarnate, rebuilt, reborn from aeons of historical dust and mist and mud, disgusting swine of society dribbling with glee at every lash of the whip across our backs…

…being but young men, we fell into despair and never uttered a word in opposition to clinical insanity reigning supreme in miraculous lamplight-plays of smoke and mirrors…

…being but young men, we were castigated, ridiculed and shamed, laid in chains and iron and led towards torture-chambers to be confronted with, to admit to, our sins and seek repentance through pain…

And we saw, as men, our friends fall into catatonic states of unbridled drug-abuse, chained to the bottle and the needle as time wore on and wore them down.

And we saw, as men, the falling-out of our sanity linked to pre-programmed academes interrupting the heartbreak with lectures plentiful of shame and neglect.

And we saw, as men, broken and beaten and crushed by the weight of all our sins, God pass by in miniscule whimpers to lead some other stranger to some other far-away land.

And we saw, as men, summer floating into winter, permanently frost-bitten and trembling with hypothermia and repressed rage, our selves blow chunks of brain across living-room walls and floors.

And we saw, as men, suicidal ideation taking the place in our minds where once we used to stomp the ground to mud, where once we used to laugh to our hearts content.

And we saw, as men, our own deaths mirrored in the eyes of society shining with self-assured mockery and overambitious celebration at the death of we, of us, being nothing but men.

And we saw, as men, a world which passed us by and flew above our heads, daring us to reach out and touch its wings and tender beak, to seek its nurture and its love and compassion and fail, for it to mock and laugh…

And we saw, as men, the dawn of our demise where we were drowned in monsoon-rain, choked by moonlight, thrown from the cliffs onto the lashing, crashing, smothering waves below…

And we saw, as men, our friends and then ourselves checking out and longing for release and, after quick snack-breaks in rudimentary ghettos, finding solace in dropping out…

Where are we now?

No longer lost.

No longer losing.

No further fall from grace.

No further need for grace.

No more mindless dogmatic self-flagellation.

No more mindless pilgrimages of redemption.

No more swollen tongues from shutting up.

No more swollen chests from having to prove our worthiness.

We were mockingly proven to be unwanted, unneeded, unnecessary.

We were mockingly proven to be lecherous, treacherous, syphilitic.

We were told we were violence incarnate; anti-Christ resurgence, war, pestilence, famine and death in one neat package of toxic testosterone and vicious venomous boners.

So that now, to still the beating of your hearts; we’ll stand repeating:

There is no balm in Gilead;

and we who fell from grace

shall play this game

ah

nevermore.

Moiret’s Book:

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

Excerpt: Swallowed by a Snake, the Dagura People

This  is an excerpt from my first book, Swallowed by a Snake.  It offers a glimpse into the workings of the Dagura People in Africa and the way they heal from loss.  It was this group and many other indigenous groups  which opened my eyes many years ago about the important differences in men and women and the ways we heal.   See what you think.  (pgs 124-126)

The Dagura People

 

We now turn to another example of indigenous grief rituals, that of the Dagura people of Africa.28 When a death occurs the women of the village begin to grieve. Their grief is somewhat muted, however, until the men have ritually announced the death. This announcement cannot occur until the men have created a “sacred space” for the grief of the village to emerge, and no man is allowed to show signs of grief until after this ritual space has been created. This is done by invoking the aid of the spirits through a private ritual performed only by the men. The invoking of the spirits is partly designed to elicit enough grief from the mourners to allow the dead person to move into the world of the ancestors. The Dagura believe that the soul’s journey into the next world is dependent in some ways upon the grief expressed by the mourners. Without adequate grief, the soul is thought to be stuck on this plane of existence and unable to leave the world. They have thus connected their grief with a purpose, that being the birth of the soul of the newly dead. The creation of ritual space, a safe container for the expression of grief, is seen as essential to the birthing of the spirit of the person who died. A part of this creation of sacred space involves throwing ashes around the house of the deceased and the ritual preparation of an actual physical space for the grief ritual. The announcement states that there has been a death, the ritual space is ready, and it is now time to grieve.

 

The Dagura Grief Ritual

 

The grief ritual itself is complex and beautiful. The grieving space is divided into different sections. The body of the dead person is dressed ceremonially and seated on a stool in the section called the “shrine.” Two women elders are seated next to the body and are charged with the duty to collect the grief that is being expressed and to “load it on” to the dead person to help him or her in the journey toward the ancestors. The shrine is colorfully decorated and contains some of the important possessions of the dead person. There is a boundary around the shrine which symbolically marks the separation between the living and the dead, and outside of the two women tending to the body, no one is allowed to enter the shrine, for to do so would mean entering the realm of the dead.

 

Between the shrine and the mourners is an empty space that represents chaos. Within this space people are allowed to express any form of grief they want, as long as it is related to their feelings about the death. Crying, dancing, or any expression of emotion is accepted and expected to take place within this space. There are people who are designated as “containers.” These people are often relatives who have come from afar. Their job is to insure the safety of the space for the grievers, making sure that no harm comes to those who are actively grieving. The Dagura believe in releasing grief with all its intensity, but they have also developed a system in which the intensity does not exceed the capacity of the mourners. It is like a system of checks and balances. The containers follow the grievers as they mourn and if they stray out of the ritual space, will gently tap them on the shoulder to remind them to come back into the contained space.

 

On one side of the shrine are the men of the village and on the other side are the women. Each group consists of mourners and containers. The mourners are further divided by the “kotuosob,” a small piece of rope tied around the wrist of the griever. The rope designates a person who was particularly close to the deceased, perhaps a family member. This marking alerts all the participants that someone who is wearing the “kotuosob” is what they call a “center of the heat” person, that is, a person who is more likely to be in danger of “grieving himself to death.” The Dagura see grief as food for the psyche, necessary to maintain a healthy psychological balance. But they also see its danger—too much grief and a person will “lose their center” and, they believe, can grieve to death. Thus the Dagura designate specific containers to follow closely behind the tagged person and do exactly as they do, including dancing, jumping to the beat of the drum, or pounding the ground. Sometimes when a tagged griever is experiencing a great deal of grief, a group of containers and mourners will form a line behind him or her with each person in the line doing the same action as the primary griever. It is understood that this transmits the feeling of the primary griever into all of those down the line. This type of process is viewed as a form of silent and physical support to the person who is grieving. It is important to point out that among the Dagura the healing of grief is gender specific. That is, no woman will approach a man in trying to help him with his grief, and no man would do the same for a woman. They believe that it takes a man to help release and heal the grief of another man, and a woman to reflect the grief of a woman.