meditations on values in stasis and change
You may have noticed, if you’re female, that most men are unwilling to do their own emotional work. (If you’re male, you probably don’t know what that term means. Don’t worry, this post isn’t about you.)
The myth of male autonomy is like a buttercup. Just when you think it’s finally been uprooted, it springs up somewhere else. Remember the New Man? He sprung up right around the time of the Wonder Woman. The only wonder was that she put up with him, congratulating himself on drying the dishes, crying, and even occasionally changing a nappy! Meanwhile she did the school run, ran a business, cooked and cleaned (the house, herself and the kids) and ironed his shirts. Progress. Ain’t it wonderful?
Men tend to get very affronted when it is suggested that: A) there’s any emotional work for them to do; B) they’re expecting someone else to do it for them.
I say “men” and I know you’re already qualifying that, as I did for years, but I was wrong and so are you. It’s not a class thing, it’s not a race thing, it’s not about sexuality (don’t get me started on “gender”) it’s a sex thing and it’s just men.
The problem is that men don’t do their own and women do everyone else’s. So if (for example) their son comes out as gay, they worry they’re too domineering. Then they worry about worrying about that as it shows they’re not supportive. Then they worry about being too interfering. Then about being too distant. Finally they worry about worrying as all the books say you shouldn’t. They worry they may not have got the right books. According to Hermione Granger, women have the capacity to feel all of the above simultaneously. Being a woman is (I believe) exhausting.
“Autonomous” and “autistic” share the same Greek root αυτό (self) and the overlap of ASD and masculinity is well publicised as a failure of mentalisation and multi-tasking. The corollary, the overlap of femininity and the psychotic spectrum, is far less recognised. Perhaps because criticising the female tendency to over-mentalise and failure to mono-task wouldn’t go down well in any branch of the men-are-shit-but-we-love-them self help industry.
I’m getting to the point. Patience!
I’ve been trying to understand why it is that the overwhelming majority of bright, energetic, (otherwise) well-informed and extremely organised women, even and especially those politically left wing, have fallen so completely for pandemic propaganda. The pharmaceutical industry = the patriarchy. Apart from the arms trade, there’s just no clearer example. So why are all these women so bloody gung ho about scrupulously following its orders?
Because a woman’s place is in the wrong. If he beats her up, it’s her fault for provoking him. If he rapes her, ditto. If he’s an alcoholic, yes, she drove him to the drink. If the kids fail in school, guess who’s to blame: mum! The daughter gets pregnant, the son gets into drugs. It’s all her fault because it’s all her responsibility. Why? Because her partner (why does no one apart from gays have husbands anymore?) is too busy waxing the car to listen to her going on about all that. Men find it a challenge to consider that fixing anyone else’s life problem might be their responsibility; women find it a challenge to consider that anyone else’s life problem might be none of their business.
Therefore, if a deadly plague (according to the BBC and Nicola Sturgeon) is unleashed on planet Earth, a woman has no energy to waste in idle speculation about the same propaganda being recycled from H1N1 aka Swine Flu or about government advisors being major shareholders in the companies they manage to exempt from liability, etc. No. This is her responsibility, because everything is, and it’s her fault if everyone doesn’t ensure their own and everyone else’s safety.
So she springs into action and sews up 100 triple-ply masks on the old Singer sewing machine in the garage, out of recycled tee-shirts and knicker elastic. She bleaches the house from cellar to loft and volunteers to scrub the church/ school/ pavement/ passers by and makes sure that every member of her extended family (including all her friends and followers on social media) have downloaded Track N’ Trace and are getting tested twice weekly. When the “vaccine” comes out, she’s torn between getting it first to be a good example and thus protecting everyone she knows from said deadly plague (even though the manufacturers explicitly say it doesn’t confer any protection) and standing back so the more vulnerable can get it first.
A woman literally has no time, and even less patience, for any lazy male friend or relative (or any traitorous female) who suggests that this story isn’t true as the evidence doesn’t add up, or that government ministers and big pharma/ data executives are doing what they’re doing (or at least what they’re saying) for any but the best of reasons.
Activists (usually clicktivists nowadays) are rather unkindly calling those who have not woken up to the agenda of the 4th Industrial Revolution “sheeple”, referring to the bleating unreflective docility of the sheep in Animal Farm. But there is another animal who is just as uncritical of the new regime: the horse whose motto “I will work harder!” is his inspiration right up to the day when the pigs sell his broken-down body to the knackers to be rendered into glue.
And women have been working very hard indeed. Overwhelmingly female, the caring, sharing and communications industries have been flooding the airwaves with their goodwill since the beginning of the Oriental Year of the Rat. Putting panicked patients on mechanical ventilators (with 90% rate of failure, i.e. death), sedating the frail, confused, malnourished and isolated elderly with morphine (deadly), emotionally blackmailing everyone with breathing difficulties into wearing masks (which breed bacteria and nebulise virons), decimating the economy with the fallout from lockdown and the pingdemic — it’s all mostly thanks to the best efforts of women.
Meanwhile men, also piling on the weight ordering takeaway starch and sugar at home, have been doing their bit. Domestic violence is soaring and (for those who choose to turn their anger inwards) so is suicide.
What’s the takeaway? Am I actually blaming women for all the medical and socio-economic destruction wrought by this viral panic? No. The title and my tone is ironic. It’s very clear who is to blame for the present devastation. Cui bono? Just follow the money. Those elite few who have made much more and gained even more power are the fat cats behind this game.
My message is simple. Female social conditioning is being used, successfully, against women. Unsuspecting handmaidens of the patriarchy, by serving big pharma and big data so dutifully, when they eventually wake up to how privileged men like Gates & Schwab have used them, there’s going to be Hell to pay.
The question is: will women wake up now, when this eugenicist agenda can still be stopped, or will they wait till it’s too late?
Thanks to Ekaterina Sysoeva for releasing her image Doll into the Public Domain.
I’m rereading and rewatching the Harry Potter series of books and films, in German, and now that the first book has finally turned up (6 weeks late and reordered after a protracted argument with Brightnerd) I can do that in sequence.
Life isn’t too short to learn German. I’m the proof that anyone can learn another language, provided they learn in a way that suits them. I was crap at Spanish at school, so I thought, and so the teacher thought, but when I stopped bamboozling myself with boring verb tables and unconnected vocabulary lists, I learned that I’ve got a good ear. My Spanish got so good I was interpreting simultaneously for politicians and international NGO speakers at the conferences of the European & Mediterranean Social Forum.
I’ve known and loved that series ever since I read the first book to me wee nephew (who now towers above me). That familiarity and emotional connection makes it easier for me to understand it in other languages. We find meaning in things because our brains recognise patterns. It’s an evolutionary shortcut and it often helps. Not always. (I’ll come back to that.)
From the first words of book one, “HP and the Philosopher’s Stone” (the US “Sorcerer’s Stone” version presumes that kids can’t look up alchemical terms), the Dursleys are presented as archetypical White English suburban middle-class: snobbish, anxious, boring and living in the “Home Counties”. Mr D literally bores for a living (he runs a company that makes drills) and Mrs D spends her time fretting about their home and garden filled with status anxiety. Dudley D, even as a baby, is a brat.
The Dursleys hate anything they can’t control. Their pet hate, and secret terror, is magic. The first unforgivable social faux pas committed by Mrs D’s sister (Harry’s mum) is to have been associated with something so unfettered and unpredictable. The second is to have died.
This last needs some explanation. Surely everyone dies! How on earth could a whole demographic be against it? How illogical! Not really. There are 9 distinct sub-classes in the White English social system but let’s just focus on the three major groups: upper, middle & lower.
Firstly, why am I mentioning ethnicity? Because the dismissal of death is a peculiarly White middle-class mindset (or mental illness) as other ethnicities have not bleached it out of the fabric of their culture so scrupulously.
As for class, the upper echelons are obsessed with death. Because death means death duties and inheritance of estates and titles. At the other end of the ladder there is a pragmatic (and often religious) acceptance that everything, including life, is limited.
Not so for the middle-class for whom everything is about control. Lacking the grand narratives of those they are sandwiched between, there is simply no tidy place for human death (apart from that of the disabled, the very old, the other classes, and foreigners) and animal death is either ignored or arranged as discreetly as possible.
The White English middle class may attend church and nod along brightly to rationalist sermonising but basically it’s a social club (with just a smidgeon of welfare) and it’s not considered good form to either believe in that kind of thing or act as if one does.
In that class, death hasn’t really been in fashion since the First World War. Caught between the let’s-rub-along-together-for-tomorrow-we-die of the plebeian squaddies and the aloof incompetence of the patrician officers, the Second World War only made things worse. Apart from in prison camps. That class make very good collaborators as they easily make the self-advantageous switch from the mercantile to the mercenary – and they do love order.
AIDS was a huge crisis in middle England because death of the young became so public. And so shameful. The aristocracy has never cared who gets off with who, as long as the line of inheritance is secure, and the working class (despite stereotypes) has a culture of merciful martyrdom whereby social sinners earn their forgiveness by suffering.
The (luncheon) meat in the sandwich has neither attitude. Not ostentatiously thriving and boosting the social capital of ones progeny is a capital sin in that class. Succumbing to a disease that targets those who ignore Government Health Warnings that appear with regularity on BBC 1 is especially reprehensible. The only salvation was for affected families and affected celebrities to throw themselves into charity work. This then became a channel, if not of peace (to misquote Maggie Thatcher misquoting St Francis of Assisi), then at least of relief of the anxiety over navigating the twin perils of contagion of such social sloppiness and not being seen to be taking action.
For a while, once it was clear that White, English middle class heterosexuals would probably not be at risk from what was still considered the property (and the problem) of those gays, it was quite fashionable to champion one, or even two. Provided they could be relied on to show due gratitude for the magnanimous gesture of anyone in that class giving a damn about anyone else.
Fast forward to last year when, after several attempts, the greater portion of the population of the globe was panicked into imagining that various loosely related flu symptoms, an ever-changing (but always racist) origin story and completely arbitrary domestic surveillance, restriction of movement, speech and association, all made one coherent whole, it became apparent that, this time, death was not going to be restricted to Them. Death was coming for Us.
Because the first thing that JK Rowling tells us about the Dursleys is that they consider themselves normal. In fact, the Dursleys and their ilk consider themselves normative. There is simply no consideration that they could be “the other”. And as premature death (with above-noted exceptions) is only supposed to happen to others, when it happens to the White English middle-class, their very identity is under threat.
This is the reason why that class is so onboard with the government restrictions and surveillance. They’re angry. This should not be happening. To them. The class that glories in bureaucracy (the one above works through privilege and the one below through people) keeps to the rules simply because they’re there. Conformity and obedience mark them off from those above and below who break rules for very different reasons (transcending regulations loftily and slipping under them). Determinedly positivist, though most wouldn’t know how to explain that, they have no other ethical code.
At the moment, before the transhumanist (eugenicist) agenda behind this farce becomes abundantly clear, we’re in Book/ Film 5. The wilfully ignorant mismanaging old Fudges and the sadistic controlling social engineer in fluffy pink Umbridges are in charge. With the quick quotes quill of the mainstream and social media (now identical) feeding constant drivel to the masses. Plausible deniability are the watchwords: if the forces of fascism (if you think that’s hyperbole, you haven’t been paying attention) don’t succeed, they were only following orders; if they do, they’re well-placed for promotion.
By Film 6 (perhaps also in the book but I haven’t reread that far) Fudge has resigned and Umbridge stands beside the new Minister for Magic, openly supporting the new regime.
We haven’t got that far yet. But if the White English middle class, and their American, Canadian and Australian diaspora, don’t stop assuaging their status anxiety by this angry conformist denial of death, that’s exactly where we’re going to end up.
As the Tale of the Three Brothers illustrates graphically, death comes to all: Us as well as Them.
Thanks to Piotr Siedlecki who has released his image Death With Scythe into the Public Domain.
For an important meet up later today (as it’s now the wee hours of Tuesday morning of 20th July) I was inspired by the suffragette coloured braids, made my Twitter friends, to try to remember how to make a friendship bracelet.
First attempt, I tried to simply braid the green, white and purple wool strands without cutting them off the ball. So I tied them in a knot held by a safety pin on a cushion then spent as much time untwisting as twisting.
At this point I remembered to measure out three lengths from thumb to elbow and cut them there. After that I tied all three in another knot then rather randomly tied successive knots in each pair.
The resulting band was a couple of times too long for my wrist and the joining strand at the end longer than the one I’d braided at the beginning.
I tried again. This time I measured out two lengths not three and used little cardboard shuttles cut from cereal boxes which I soon realised should have been bigger.
I also changed the knotting technique. I’d basically used braiding before (right over middle then left over middle and keep the tension) and knotting as I went.
This time I knotted each colour from the left over the other two successively. So green left, white middle, purple right goes like this: hold white, knot green over; hold purple, knot green over. Then do the same with white then purple. Some kind of pattern emerged.
Then I braided the end, and tied that off, unknotted the beginning and rebranded that then cut the tails of the three threads equally. Not bad. I put the first one on the handlebars of my bike, and wore the second on my wrist – as I cycled off to meet wonderful women protesting on Glasgow Green against the invasion of their space and silencing of their voices.
But you know what, women won’t wheesht!!!
“Frump” is one of those Ye Olde English words with roots in Middle Dutch and Anglo-Saxon. Basically because Britain kept getting invaded. Although there may have been a religious connotation at one time (perhaps influencing the Yiddish word frum, which just means “pious”) nowadays being a frump means dressing dowdily. Like most ideas about fashion it’s incredibly sexist: wearing drab old clothes that don’t fit, don’t match and are out of fashion, while male, makes you a real man (cos otherwise you’re a metrosexual and we all know that’s a slippery slope). Dressing in the same style-free style, while female, makes you a frump.
Women and gay men have “lifestyles”. This is known. Real men don’t have these but they do have car problems (their own and those of hapless hot females) which they fix while dressed in a selection of items of said style-free clothes. Some of these items can be removed, ripped or too small to better show off their manly muscles but they have to be careful with this, cos, if it’s self-conscious, it’s basically just gay garage porn.
Lifestyle mags are currently obsessed with women (and the gays who emulate them) “getting over their Covid frump”. It’s now a female bonding experience, bewailing the state of your lockdown locks. Being a female experience, of course many men want in on the action but some of them have found their tender gender “slipping away” (if it’s constructed principally on coiffure) due to their inability to access a hairdresser for the correct swish or shade.
But being a frump isn’t just about clothes or hair. No, no, it’s a complete lifestyle! And there are 7 signs in your lifestyle that indicate that you’re a Covidfrump:
1) Your dress standards have slipped (so many audio-only Zoom sessions in PJs) and you worry you should get out more.
2) Things really bother you (like men not wearing facemasks all day and kids not constantly antibacterialising their hands) when you do venture out.
3) You find yourself snooping on the neighbours (like Mrs Dursley peering over the hedge) just to check they’re keeping to the latest restrictions.
4) You feel a warm glow of “you tell ‘em!” whenever a government minister or other Big Pharma rep says anything even vaguely logical in connection to Covid.
6) You have no desire to meet with, or even talk to, members of your family or friends who listen to conspiracy theorists like Whitney Webb or Spiro Skouras.
5) You secretly feel that lockdown is lovely and wish it could go on for ever. (The good news is, because of people like you, it may well do!)
7) You and your circle take a masochistic delight in the adverse reactions (of varying severity) that you’ve all had to the vaccine. None of you have ever admitted this.
So you’re a Covidfrump, what can you do? Embrace it! Most women and gay men are just like you because these are the most valued demographics of the pharmaceutical market. You’ve been had.
You may suspect this, but the pain of disassociating yourself from that caring sharing cooperative oh-so-female/ gay identity you’ve constructed is just too great. I mean, just by not possessing a Y-chromo (or, second best option, only admitting to Y-Y sexual attraction) you’re instantly and already wonderful. Unlike those cavemen utterly and ultimately responsible for absolutely everything wrong with everything.
Fascism only works with frumps. Yes it’s the real men who (mostly) do the strutting up and down, speechifying, killing and torturing. But behind every great fascist there’s a great frump and that’s where you can make the push for The Great Reset of humanity, the inauguration of the 4th Industrial Revolution to take (a few of us) into a glorious eco-future (for the elite) where human labour will be replaced by robots – that then will replace the humans.
Hoi polloi, the bane of fascists since Plato wrote The Republic, means “the many”. Under the coming technofascism, they will be reduced to very few. Just enough to keep the transhuman machine ticking over. And, we all know that what fascists love the most (after stomping the marginalised in the face with their jackboots) is a uniform.
Be proud and be frumpy! By being a nice person, you make collaboration with the present eugenicist agenda respectable. That will ensure its success. Because who would revolt against kindness? Enjoy being on the right side of history. Even if you won’t be allowed to see it written – by the victors of the covert war against freedom you didn’t even know you were fighting.
Thanks to Mohamed Mahmoud Hassan for releasing his image Puppet Master into the Public Domain.
alchemicalquality 