Intersections: A Minor Conundrum


Intersectionality poses somewhat of a conundrum to me. On one hand, I am allied with the individuals whose experience of oppression is highlighted by intersectionality, though it remains to be the wider oppression, that which is perpetuated through the prevailing socioeconomic reduction of humanity to mere capital for exploitation and manipulation, that I find more urgently in need of slaying. I see no one who is excluded from this wider oppression, which intersections are inherent within. This is why inclusion within feminism appeals so much to me. You may ask, where’s the conundrum? The conundrum is that intersections attract more prominence; with medias seemingly concentrating on and fetishising these nuances, rather than actively trying to promote the all encompassing tyranny posed by the intersections’ wider global transposition.

I admit this blog post is, as ever, subjective for me and may be severely lacking; call me out if you wish. I appear for most intent and purpose a comparatively privileged white (cis?) male, and as much as I empathise, sympathise, and ally myself with those whose oppression is far more overt and impacting than my own, I know I can never truly appreciate the gravity of the situation experienced by more oppressed individuals. This is maybe why I am seemingly more concentrated on the apparent kyriarchal source of all subjugation, and rather less on the relative refinements of intersectionality. It is a fight personally relevant to me. The fight most affecting.

Nevertheless, feminism is the antidote for all oppression. It is the unifying fight. The big precedent. Conquer the systemic oppression of half of our specie’s population and all other oppression will be comparative gravy in its wake. Apart from the inherent cruelty and injustice of the prejudice, from a humanistic point of view it is essential that we all be free and equal to flourish our specie’s social, technological and psychological evolution. I know this “wider oppression” sounds conceited, and maybe sterile, though it is why I will always stand side-by-side with, and be lead by, those whose intersectional fights against oppression and injustice are most urgent and able to utilise me.

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The Beauty in the Unaccustomed Voice

I generally think I have become a rather depressed and broken shadow since the woman I love decided she no longer wanted me. My esteem for myself is mostly on the floor with the chewing gum, cigarette butts and dust.

When I think about the times I spend outside the humanistic altruisms and ideals of my mind, I’m not so bad. I am often compelled to tell the people out there how beautiful they are. The strangers. I only do this to those whose eyes meet mine and reciprocate a smile. This isn’t so much a caveat for being regarded as beautiful by my humble and subjective self, but maybe a clumsily conceived signal that’s it’s okay to approach someone to disclose those poetries. I wish I could tell more. There are those who I really really feel could do with hearing the words from another’s lips, however I don’t want to insult through presumption or freak someone out by breaking their inattention.

I could be regarded as somewhat of a chickenshit though, I never hang about beyond the thank you and the light. I am desperately lonely, yet I don’t want my exclamation to be perceived as a come on. I only want to be seen as someone who thinks you are beautiful. The stranger who surprisingly broke the convention of social anonymity to tell you how beautiful you are. A wisp. An urge towards a positive narrative. Maybe one day I’ll be chased down the aisles or streets to be easily convinced towards a drink, though I really have no expectation of that ever happening. I just want to tell you that you are beautiful.

It’s hard sometimes, but I think I am beautiful. I would love to hear that unaccustomed voice tell me so. To fall in love with a wisp. To love a wisp forever.

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The Privilege of My Genderlessness

A couple of days ago I was taken down a corridor of thinking that brought me to consider my privilege, my silence, and the benignity of a personal ethic. It started from my reading of a blog article by an anarchist feminist regarding a LSE discussion on anarchism and sexuality. Her common sense polemic against capitalism’s exploitative nature dogmatically perpetuating a conservative view of sex work as being inherently exploitative was particularly reassuring of my own view. In conjunction with this highlighting of the erroneous conflation of the concept of work with capitalism’s systemic exploitative doctrine, the traditional narrative of the gender binary made an appearance. The general direction of travel within the piece echoed my view of the gender binary as a naturalised authoritarian tool to indoctrinate, by way of precedent, a psychological control of division, and a susceptivity to marketing and objectification.

Anyway, it was an almost throw away comment regarding the fundamental efficacies of anarchism that came as bolt out of the blue. That comment went “… as Anarchists we believe struggles should be led by those most affected… ” This bolt wasn’t so much that it was something that I was unaware, but more of something that I had lost track of. After my rather undignified exit from the fantasy of requited love, I had been looking to reengage with my activism and rage. An acknowledging of all the injustices that promised to remind me of the rock I once felt destined to push. This was no bad initiation, but it did result in me neglecting to identify the ‘fight most affecting’. It’s true that the actualisation of capitalism’s inherent injustice and exploitation, and the promise of anarchism’s equalisation and liberty, are my main compulsions towards Humanism. But the bespoke fight that is uniquely mine has been neglected, despite its essentiality.

I’m not exactly sure where I am made to measure within the great fight, though I realise that I must find those niches to substantiate. I decided, based on the locality of the anarchism and sexuality discussion to my thought stream, to start by unacademically analysing my gender and sexuality. You might think that that is an undignified story better saved or left untold, but I will nevertheless stick it here. After all, this is the essential disclosure; one of the affecting fights that I do measure up to. A few kicks to the balls of a few hierarchical exploitations and an attempt to reclaim traditionally usurped traditions. But before I start, let me say that I will call out bigotry whenever and wherever I encounter it; and despite the suggested tunnelling that I will outline as “my fight” within this blog post, I will continue to support the positive discrimination of the LGBTQIA to even the balance and break down those conventional fictions to which ‘the pop’ publicly subscribes.

It’s considered by many, and you will hear no denials or apologetics or soreheadedness from me, that I am a privileged white male, naive to many kinds of nuanced discrimination. I do endeavour to understand, though I am limited to the known unknown known because of this privilege. There are aspects of my privilege, distinct from the blindness and checking, in which I revel. I covered one aspect regarding race in a blog post a while back; whilst the aspect in this case regards gender. It is only until relatively recently that I even thought about assessing my place in the spectrum of gender fluidity. This lax assessment is perhaps also a consequence of my being conceived throughout my life, by the public onlooker and standard inquisitor, as a white heterosexual male. But now, as I seek to ally myself and proactively participate in the move towards those egalitarian ideals, that I come to recognise my apparent genderlessness.

I feel privileged, content, and happy not to feel gendered. It wasn’t much of a consideration. Physically I am a male, and I could annoy some allies with my apparent cis-sexuality and perceived usurpation of a community label; but I must fight my corner, and mentally I just feel like me, an absurd genderless entity. When it comes to those validating labels, I like genderqueer. It is confrontational, provocative, and descriptive of my non-subscription to the gender binary; a hostility to stereotype. The term non-binary appeals to my scientific and intellectual leanings, however I can’t really imagine using that beyond these bloggings. All I know for sure is that when I am compelled to say “I am a man.” I feel the division; like a knife violently separating me from half the human population. I don’t like that feeling.

Romantically and sexually, I am attracted to those who identify themselves as women. To avoid any ambiguity, this encompasses both cisgendered and transgender women. Consequently, I identify as a heterosexual. This run of the mill disclosure is still a relevant fight to have though. Despite the prevalence and privilege associated with hetero-normativity it still feels important to maintain a heterosexual identity. It seems apparent to me, that in order to prevent heterosexuality being usurped and propagandised by bigots and reactionaries it is necessary to be the overt progressive. I intend to be the heterosexual who dissipates the misleading prescription of its indoctrinated normativity. Just to clarify, this overtness is only a tactic to counter prejudiced and indoctrinated views of the predominantly heterosexual persuasion. Oh well! There you have the cruxes. I will continue to try to find those offensive niches to shore up.

Anyway, just in case you were somehow inquisitive for more, I will disclose the branches in the breeze and other possible sub-fights, though I’m finding it hard to think of scenarios where those that follow could encounter overt prejudices. Nevertheless, here they are in all their thin glossings over. I am moderately kinky in a masochistic and adventurous manner. A repentant fetishist to the degree that I still feel compelled to check the paraphilias and objectifications, self and otherwise. that I indulge in. Whilst the kink is wonderful, the fetishisms can be hypocritical and requiring of ethical reconciliation. The fight involving fetish could be a tangible one, mainly because I recognise the fetishistic transcendences, in sexual partners and myself, that result in hierarchical reductions.

This reduction seems to be an injustice worthy of sadness. Whilst the adventure of the kinky is fine, it seems the conflation with those fetishisms can not only damage sexual freedoms, but also a fundamental conception of humanity. This results in my wondering whether this is some responsive psychosexual manifestation of childhood modelling and capitalist doctrine. That’s a scientific study beyond me; a question for someone more capable I think. When all’s said and done, I suppose the check and balance is respect. Without respect nothing can be built or nurtured.

It only remains to mention something about my monogamous inclination. Despite seeming to be my only adherence to a traditional convention, monogamy appears to have no associated fight at this moment in time. Like the necessary respect of the individual regarding fetishism, it is only a case of respectful agreement between those within a relationship. Just for the hell of defending my monogamous position against the invisible threat, or just satisfying some titillating completion of self disclosure, when I personally commit myself, I am wholly committed. I don’t think I could ever have the emotional capacity or physical energy to share, double, or whatever, my love and dedication beyond the singular.

This could all be regarded as pretty irrelevant really, as I am a reluctantly lonesome wanker. That is perhaps the best example of my singular-ness; an autonomy’s ironic slight to monogamistic want. Though that lonesome wankering is maybe a niche in need of shoring up, as I don’t see it being propounded very vociferously, I’m pretty sure I do not want to fight for its perpetuity. Despite the transient enjoyment, the long term seems to be a patchwork of convenient bodges rather than any ambitious overhaul. This appears to look more like a self abuse. Oh! Just in case you think that “abuse” sounds like I’m an ally of those masturbation obsessed theists; I’m not. After all, this blog is mind wank.

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An Altruistic Purge Born Of Enigmatic Apathy

Two Free Tickets To Be Won

Click the image to favourite my tweet and get your name in the hat.

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The Pop Revolt

It is not very easy to envision a scenario for my pop revolt. I feel compelled to try to envision a future for it because I am afraid of cynicism. The pop I refer to is the popular as it is popularly believed to be known. The consensus of pop. I am aware that this pop is a bespoke creation of my own, and the consensus a fantasy, mainly due to the inclusion of such luminaries as Neil Degrasse Tyson and Brian Cox, who are probably restricted to a less popular pop to that of Ed Sheeran and the Kardashians. Nevertheless, they all inhabit my pop and are recipients of my revolt.

The revolt I speak of is not the choke and puke kind, but the retaliatory breed. I see a meme with something profound and insightful that I totally agree with, from a Professor whom I admire, but I don’t spend any time to revel in its regard. The share is enough to repulse me. I hear a musician and lyricist, whose ability I rate highly, yet the 4/4 timing and the cheesy hook and chant consign any prolonged consideration beyond 3 seconds a rarity. The same goes for the fantasy royalty feuds and sex fests, dragons, living dead brain bashing, ad nauseum newscasting, and Christmas. It’s the pop.

Perhaps it’s part of this transitory metaphysic I’m currently experiencing. A combination of a concerted effort to counter capitalist and fascistic narratives with an affront caused by the reduction of the absurdity to cohesive exploitations. Before anyone gets on my case, I know the scientific is not absurd, though my revolt relates to its communication, which is absurd. I wonder which way the metaphysic will go. Today I am feeling down and self pitying, which fools me into a belief that I will become cynical and unpleasured; however, I am an inherently progressive thinking fella, and so I can only have a faith in my absurdity, and consequently, that I will be okay.

In the meantime, my life is seeming to become ever more barren of the expected external stimulations whose importance has been indoctrinated into me from the day I was born. No adverts, no soaps, no serials, no billboard charts, no Facebook, no Twitter, no news, no papers, no Starbucks, no “this is so important”, no old white men, no social contract, no relationship, no age, no intimacy, no children, no capital. It appears my worth is negated to almost nil when judged by the standards of pop’s society. Every pop renders me a poor option. I know I’m a good man. I know I can respect. I know I can appreciate. I know I can love. Yet, I am worthless. A scrub who doesn’t brush up.

Like the leper who rang their bell to disclose their infection, I am doing so too. I ring my bell in the hope of an empathetic revolt at what I am consigned to. I am even spurning the Anon. I want to be identified. I don’t want to be a pop creation. I want to be my absurdity. I want to be the leper. Who wants to be a leper? Sucking up the bacteria of capitalist expectation and trying to avoid the gangrene of pop’s condemnation? Poor analogy, I know. But like those poor folk, I am being debilitated physically and mentally by the pop.

I don’t know how different I am from you. All I know is that my dissimilarity makes me noticeable by my irrelevance to the conversations. And rather than capitulate, conform, and become complicit, I am revolting and reaping the whirlwind. I know I have my place in this world and hope that my increasing anti-pop will find me companion/s. The irony being that I dream of a popular anti-pop. Get your melon round that one! I suppose it could be an equivalent to the permanent revolution, though I’m not prepared to whack that one out yet. I’m also not prepared to declare myself a contrarian yet…

I think I’ll end this one here. That vision for the future is a real conundrum, which I’m no nearer to. I just hope it’s not the cynic.

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The Comfort & The Lie

I am having a moment of down. I must know it will be ephemeral. I am tempted to use the word burnt out, but I fear my melancholy is causing me to be hyperbolic. As I strive to remain in the here and now to shore myself up and invigorate my resilience, I am plagued by the thought that my here and now is as empty as my future, and also my past. Everything seems to be gauged by relationship. I have no relationships. I am surrounded by predictable strangers who only provoke coma and revolt against tiresome parody. My biological fitness is screaming “FAILURE!

The thought that things may change for the better is illusory; in fact, all thought is illusory. The fact that the Sun comes out from behind a cloud and shines on a face may remove the homogeny, but its contemplation also causes the contrast. With intense light comes intense shadow. With contrast comes comparison. If there’s one thing to be said for the clouds it’s that they so well blend a horizon of remoteness and thirst with an ocean of remoteness and thirst.

The absurdity that has been such a comfort for over a week now is still holding true. However, the cloud of euphoria from empowerment has dissipated for the time being, and I am left with a chiaroscuro of laughter and tears. Right now, I am feeling lonely and unwanted. Absurd reaction to my isolation has produced a non-ness. The laugh has forced down the tears. I am left with an even flow where nothing changes except the level of desperation. I want to be with someone; anyone. I want intimacy. I want to see a smile. I want to hear a laugh. I want to feel the warmth. I want some of the comfort that comes from the lie. I want to remove the paradox. I want my face in the Sun again.

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God Save Mickey Mouse… He’s Next On My List

It seems a little facile to me at the moment to discuss the monarchy, but I’ve noticed that a post I wrote a while back about the monarchy seems to be getting quite a bit of traffic from the US. I know the reason for this probably has more to do with the title ‘… Republican Monarchy? Monarchist Republic?’, which could be misinterpreted as a headline for some kind of political threat from tyrannical conservative ambition; rather than the comparatively colloquial concern with, and consideration of, a British monarch. Nevertheless, I’ve reread that post and have discovered that my position has changed to the point where much of it no longer represents my view.

When I originally composed that inoffensive swim in nostalgia, I was coming from a long held and indoctrinated vision of fuzzy benignity for our good ol’ Queen, and a capitulation to the absurdity of her status. Though I do still see her position as absurd, it’s only by proxy of seeing mine and everyone else’s self perceived and publicly conceived positions as absurd also. Even when just thinking of being widely considered as Dave, it becomes quite an interesting occurrence of absurdity; whilst the expansion of that idea to getting 10 people calling me Grand Croaknut Defacto Wannabit is also interestingly very, very humorous (to me at least). I digress. Despite these ludicrous pronouns and titles, the Queen is not benign.

During the Million Mask March 2014 in London, I questioned a number of the Metropolitan Police on their thoughts about making an oath to the monarch rather than to the people; who, after all, are the consent givers that allow the police to police. The responses were not very varied, with most declining to acknowledge my existence beyond being too close in proximity to their batons. Those police who chose to vocalise an opinion mainly came down on the side of “… she’s good for tourism and the economy…” That said, one policeman actually engaged in pushing forth his belief in a Nietzschean philosophy, specifically regarding the benefit of an individual’s strength and the hierarchies resulting from that display of strength. That copper of Nietzsche was pretty unrepentant, and had obviously found his vocation with regards the vicarious power of authority and hierarchy.

I posited the idea of ‘policing by consent’ as being a concept that had been usurped by the State, aka ‘the Government’. I suggested that the State, contrary to being representative of the people, were in actual fact following a specific political doctrine that concertedly prevented the people from countering their political narrative and propaganda by means of protest and peaceful demonstration. Almost all the police I spoke to agreed with me, but admitted capitulation with a generic “It’s just a job.” I did try, with some who were more readily engaged, with these follow-up questions: At what point does it stop being just a job? When the tear gas comes out? The water cannons? The rubber bullets? The live rounds? The arrests for protest? The convictions for political dissidence? The gaoling for opposing views? At what point would you decline the overtime? Not one of them decided to entertain those nuggets. Though their silence spoke volumes, I can only hope I inspired some food for thought.

It is quite comical, in a perverse way, that we have this borderline (in the UK) paramilitary force essentially committed by oath to Mickey Mouse, assured by the fact that the legislative and executive branches of government are allegiant to Mickey Mouse, the judiciary is allegiant to Mickey Mouse, and the armed forces are allegiant to Mickey Mouse. Needless to say, corporations and Disney love Mickey Mouse… Oh! Just in case you missed it, I’m using Mickey Mouse as a satirical simile. Mickey could quite have easily been Ronald McDonald. Anyway, the Queen is Mickey Mouse; which could make David Icke’s reptilians seem a little less of an imaginative stretch, though only if our absurdities are coming from the same place, which I can’t be sure of… Besides, I don’t think reptiles have as much appeal as Mickey Mouse when it comes to selling to the pop.

Regardless of the brand marketing, it seemed to be a common delusion amongst the masked numbers of my demonstrating comrades that the police were policing in the name of the people. When the police barricaded, and prevented with violence and the threat of arrest, a piece of grass, with the now seemingly farcical name Parliament Square, they were doing so in the name of the Queen with consent from the State. I suppose it’s worth noting that the police’s defence of Parliament Square was under the premise of it being private property, which is… err… owned by the publicly funded Greater London Authority. Try explaining that little irony to the police. “It’s just a job!” And just to attract the Godwin’s law mob; how many innocent lives were destroyed by Nazis just doing their jobs? I know, those damn Nazis ruined it for all aspiring fascists, diddums!

Although our looming fascism isn’t quite as overt as the 30’s and 40’s German imperialist variety, it is interesting to see the good ol’ Queen facilitating a whole system of social violence and exploitation using economic and political subterfuge. I’ve alluded to it in a past post also, but the Monarch takes an oath to the legislative, and executive; not directly to the people. Basically, if the government decides it wants to underhandedly negate and nullify democratic power and transfer public services, public funds and public infrastructure into the realms of private/corporate determinacy and ownership, then so be it. The Queen facilitates the facade; and then garners a protection from complicity by the masses conflating her with a vicarious pride and national identity.

This post has maybe been a little disjointed and ranty, but I hope you can appreciate the argument that what the Monarch represents isn’t just some fuzzy benign money-maker off the backs of foreign visitors; more a tangible weapon being used directly against the justices and freedoms of a worldwide population of people numbering in the hundreds of millions. Perhaps this population could increase to billions if you consider the tactical precedent and strategic example it sets to other exploitative global power bases. I have to admit I have no answers as how to combat this sleight. If the monarchy goes, within the parameters of the current neoliberalism, it will only be replaced by a politicised equivalent. Maybe once the convenient ambiguity regarding consent and the Queen is removed all the resultant oaths would become more of a direct moral problem for those who take them, rather than just an abstract ethical problem. At its heart, this is why I want to see the dear ol’ Queen deprivileged; not because I dislike her personally, but because I want to cause the make-up to run for those in power. Remove the disguise and see the wolf.

Before you start thinking me a conspiracy theorist or a one solution radical, I am actually quite a conscientious and moderate fella. I would prefer gradual evolution and reform. I have high ideals of a Humanistic global society. The permanent revolution and responsible autonomies of anarchism promise to maintain an engaged, informed, and liberated people evolution towards that Humanistic global society. The Queen is just a cog in the current hierarchy tailored towards power and authority through exploitation and lies. If my ideal happens, I’ll gladly go get the Queen’s groceries, toil to keep her safe, even continue calling her Queen. She’s an old lady now, and I like to be courteous and to help. However, in her role as a cog, she’s a right royal pain in the arse.

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