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Ferrari in the Desert

I’m literally surrounded by men. Their homes form a circle around mine. Sometimes my daughter will grab one of their hands and take them for a walk. I figure it would do more harm than good to her if I intervened and never let her interact with them – mostly because she needs outside social interaction and few other people are around. She needs to learn to trust her own initiative, and as long as I’m right there, its OK. She’s only using them to balance while she walks.

However, its disturbing to me that through these brief encounters, these fathers-by-proxy, she may learn to trust men. Which is exactly the purpose of the institution of fatherhood. Dad’s job is to instill in his daughter a sense of confidence in males. To prepare her to eventually be swooped up by another male. The challenge is for him to be selfless enough in this task that she is desirable to another man (meaning he does not rape her and cause her to hate men), but that he has still groomed her well enough to accept another man’s rule over her. He must play the role of the benign slave master and teach her to value her subordinate status, which works well enough so long as he doesn’t tip the balance and sneak a taste of the forbidden fruit, so to speak, for himself.

So in a sense I would rather these men not act so kindly toward her, because she is getting entirely the wrong idea about males. None of them actually give a flying fuck about her – if we got evicted, how many would let us sleep on their couch? None. They are simply relishing their moment in the limelight, collectively playing the role of the “good father,” knowing damn well it all ultimately comes at her expense. They are gleefully logging community service hours for the global mutant mafia, while I stand by helplessly wishing we lived on an iceberg in the middle of the fucking Arctic.

Now the problem with living on an iceberg in the middle of the fucking Arctic, aside from global warming and all the complications of the iceberg lifestyle that entails, is that it’s fucking lonely. My daughter and I both need social interaction outside of each other, and polar bears just won’t do (neither will pizzly bears, the result of polar bears being forced out of their normal habitat by mutant (“human” male) activity into grizzly territory. We need other female humans (humans), and unfortunately, they (we) are all infected with parasites (males, if you somehow didn’t get that by now).

This phenomenon is what a former male acquaintance described to me as “Ferraris in the desert.” As females, we’re isolated, we’re trapped, and we’re fucked. Basically. [Now you know when a male tells you that, he’s not “just angry at men because he’s been hurt in the past,” as women’s apt analyses of patriarchy are often dismissed – he’s bragging. Just because it can’t be said enough times, here it is again: THEY KNOW. They know, ok? They totally do. They know because they do it on purpose. They do it because they like it and because they want to. Ok? Ok.]

So if we want time with women and girls, we pretty much have to put up with the men and boys. This I tell you siiiiister, you can’t have her without the mis-ter. Sad, but true. I mean, am I missing something? Sure, I could find another woman or a bunch of them with only daughters (no children won’t do, in my experience childless women are never willing to make the sacrifices necessary for partnership with mothers – but that’s another blog post), who wants to move somewhere remote and not overly warm to live off of kelp popsicles and penguin roadkill and marvel at a majestic sky full of stars – until one day all of our “issues” (as installed by mutants) come out and we end up stabbing each other to death with four foot icicles. Which is roughly my understanding of the final outcome of the women’s land movement.

I do have a plan, actually, which I won’t share in too much detail here for obvious reasons, which are evidenced by the fact that I’m writing this blog anonymously as opposed to shouting it aloud on the street corner… Which I also haven’t ruled out, and which I have reason to believe could prove highly rewarding, provided circumstances were such that nobody could follow me home and kill me. I’ve actually been evangelizing about male parasitism to almost every woman I meet. Surprisingly, most of them AGREE. I’m serious – I have found very few women who will argue against female supremacy in person, especially in a one-on-one convo. One even cried because she was so happy to finally hear someone telling her the truth about men. I’m telling you, women KNOW. It’s very exciting.

Except, this knowledge somehow doesn’t in itself provide women with sufficient motivation to revolt. Haven’t figured that part out yet… It may take more time than I am willing to invest in consciousness raising, and lots of false hope I am too emotionally vulnerable to withstand, seeing as how I am very lonely and therefore hardly able to do this work without some measure of self-interest. So while it’s great to connect with women in person on this topic, it’s equally frustrating that nothing comes of it, that we can have an incredibly explosive, radical conversation, and yet, taking action is a whole nother level. I’ve never been a patient person, but there are also real external constraints on taking our damn time reaching conclusions about what needs to be done. It’s getting to the point where I’ve done nearly all I can do where I am now, and will have to move on soon to avoid backlash from certain women’s mutant captors.

With that said, I will leave you with this parting thought: you can’t burn a witch if you don’t know where she sleeps at night.

Men Find Ingenious Solution to World’s Worst Problem!!!

I just peeked into a Voluntary Human Extinction Group on Facebook, in which the phenomenon of starving children was attributed to “humans that won’t stop fucking”… of course they mean, MEN who won’t stop RAPING WOMEN. And the men’s best solution to this is… wait for it… VASECTOMY. so they can go right on FUCKING without worrying about the one particular consequence of this behavior that could potentially eat into their paycheck. Or not, apparently, since the alternative was going to be starving children, and not child support payments. So, vasectomy really solves one problem only: men’s GUILT about starving children. Wonderful. Great job, guys. Keep up the good work.

Good Men

Men are terrifying, and this is the only reason why women are sexually, physically, emotionally and spiritually attracted to them. Women’s fear is eroticized, that’s called romance. Women picking one man to fear for the rest of their lives, that’s called love. The game is, you better get one or you won’t feel safe with any. You won’t necessarily be safe with the one you marry, but at least you will feel safe from all the ones you didn’t. Men who women truly are safe around – whether his means for a moment or a lifetime the absence of belittling, raping, or beating – are still part of the reign of terror orchestrated by violent males. Their violence is invisible because their campigns of terror are fought by proxy. Women are all looking for good men to marry, the ones who they aren’t scared of. That’s what it means to be a good man – you don’t scare women. Other men scare them into marrying you.

The Good Woman

“I’m 64 years old and I’m STILL looking for a good man!” said Linda this morning, surprising me by speaking these words with no humor whatsoever. This was in response to my question, “Have you ever met one?” Which was in response to her assertion that there are, in fact, “good men.”

Continuing to look for a good man against all evidence to the contrary is evidence, to her, and to society, of HER goodness. In patriarchy, losing faith in men is the real crime. If there are no good men, it’s women’s fault for not believing in them. For not waiting long enough. For not looking hard enough. For not giving him a chance (or him, or how about him, over there! He’s a Buddhist/loves kids/loves his mother/loves cats/does volunteer work).

Irrationality and blind faith are highly prized traits in women, but also severely punished. They beat her, they rape her, they yell at her and call her names, they order her around like a servant, they treat her like a child, they treat her like a piece of property. They abuse her and lie about it to everyone, even to her face. She’s an idiot for going out with that jerk, but a bitch for giving up on him.

The focus must stay on her, always. She goes to church, prays to God, reads self-help books, sees a therapist. She quits church, gets a boob job, dyes her hair. Considers going back to church. “Yes, she says to herself, “I should definitely go back to church. That was surely where I went wrong.”

One day she marries a man she describes as “wonderful,” whose only observably wonderful characteristic is that he doesn’t beat her up. He is very selfish, a complete moron, and a total bore, but “at least he will never hit me,” she tells herself. He never does hit her, but she thinks of suicide every day for the rest of her life. She pushes away the thoughts and just focuses on being of service to him and his extended moronic family.

When she dies, her obituary praises her neverending love for her husband, father, brothers, uncles, sons, her charity work with the homeless. She lies in the casket, nails perfectly manicured, makeup flawless, the picture of goodness herself: a woman who never stopped believing in good men.

Myths of M-Otherhood

It’s been a while since I last posted, as I have been hesitant to share my experiences of parenting as a radical feminist. Basically because I don’t want to risk be categorized as a “mommy blogger.” But everything I am exploring now about radical feminism is through the eyes of a person who has been m-othered (see what I did there?), and so it’s certainly relevant. Another reason is that I have been pressed for time, being a single disabled parent and all that entails. In this post I will talk about how these issues have both deepened my analysis of patriarchy and changed my relationship to radical feminism. In this post I will also begin using hyperlinks.

So to get right into it, I was flat-out lied to about motherhood. Here’s what I’ve been learning in the last 2.5 months:

1. Bonding with your new baby happens magically at the moment of birth as you get to know each other and heal from the trauma of birthing in a hospital.

2. When you have a child, nothing else in your life seems important anymore there is time for little else.

3. Love your desire to avoid imprisonment will get you through the hard times.

To elaborate: I had been wondering endlessly whether my shitty birth experience was the cause of my not feeling instantly bonded to my baby. To summarize, I was kicked out of the house, taken forcibly to a hospital, and pestered to the point of requiring drugs, all during the course of a 30 hour labor, when what I had hoped for and attempted to execute was an outdoor solo unassisted birth. I definitely still feel traumatized from the experience, and have almost completely blamed myself for things going other than planned, although coercion, both economic and physical, was present every step of the way. Now, particularly during times when I am thinking about what an awful place the world is, bonding still does not seem to be possible. Fear interrupts the process, because the body is signaled that it isn’t safe to let go of happenings in the outside world and to just focus on the baby. I honestly don’t know to what extent this can be ameliorated, considering global male dominance and my constant awareness of it. Basically, I feel like I would have to lie to myself in order to bond with the baby, and that doesn’t feel too smart. I already feel like I have had to lie to the baby by even having welcomed her into this sick, cruel world. This pisses me the fuck off, more than almost any other violation I have experienced at the hands of men. It’s almost too much to think about, because of how disappointed I am with the whole thing, so I’ll leave it at that for now.

Only just earlier today, I read FCM’s series on intercourse, and in one of the comments it is pointed out that mother-child bonding is an experience exaggerated and twisted by males to guilt women into motherhood on men’s terms. The assumption of Mother-Child Bonding as some ultimate, supreme, essential connection sets women up to prioritize their children above all else, which evolutionarily speaking, doesn’t make sense. A child can not survive without the mother, but the reverse is not true. In the event of an emergency, affix your oxygen mask first, then the child’s. Etc. My point being, it is seen as a sign of neglect and even sociopathy when a mother does not make their child the central and sole focus of her life, because womb with legs, but I really and truly feel that reading radical feminist blogs and making lesbian separatist community is more important than reading some asinine male-authored book on childrearing (to give an example of the kind of things other people think I should be doing with my time besides, for example, writing this blog post).

Which brings me to the pressed-for-time issue. My confession is that sometimes I am reading radical feminist blogs while my child is fully awake and gurgling, when I could choose to stare and make googly eyes at her instead. And sometimes I am writing a blog, but really paying more attention to her, which is what made my last post a bit lacking in the completely-formed-original-idea-with-interesting-conclusions-drawn department. It is just more difficult to follow your thoughts to their very end, and to speculate as endlessly as is desirable, when a child is literally thought-stopping you with their cries and needs. This at first embarrassed me, although I was glad later to see that the post sparked a commenter to ask me questions which made me feel useful. I am thus coming to terms with being whatever kind of radical feminist I am best positioned to be, which is both necessary and liberating. So here I am, juggling an active presence in the psychic world of online radical feminism and a role in the physical realm as a mother. Of course, I won’t undermine men’s intention to busy and isolate women with childrearing to the extent they don’t have time or space to talk to other women about the state of Things, nor will I minimize my dislike of this manufactured scarcity of both time and space. And while being a single disabled mother isn’t really “myself,” since it is an imposed situation, but it most definitely IS. At the risk of misogynistically “putting myself in my place,” I think each of us does have a place in radical feminism, which can most accurately and succinctly be described as “just being ourselves.” I mean really, haven’t we all “worked” enough in our lives? So I’m not going to bust my ass to accomplish anything radically feminist, unless there is something I really want to do, for ME and women I actually personally care about, and it can be done playfully and in harmony with my other interests and responsibilities.

It really does feel like I am passing between two worlds, writing, reading and then tending to child. I so wish I could bring her with me to the internet, it’s so much nicer here. But we share consciousness on a plane that computers can’t capture, and by that I do not mean that it is deeper than radical feminist connection, just that she can’t type or read. I enjoy parenting while feeling connected to other radical feminists, it is how I draw my strength. But I do feel as though I am plugged into the matrix, with whoever is my internet provider sucking up my precious energy to power the machine, and it being only a matter of time before my daughter plugs in, too. That said, I am fully prepared to parent her without the refuge of the internet, not only because it might fail someday but also because she deserves my full attention, and so does my own life. So I relate to my daughter upon the foundational assumption that she is too precious for this world, at least for what it has become. And that feels both authentic and loving. It is the appropriate attitude towards a child who may comprise the last generation of humans on a planet that is being raped and murdered before our very eyes, and who will surely witness and face tremendous upsets in resource availability, but who is still capable of experiencing and sharing joy in life’s less brutal moments.

I did anticipate my emotional and temporal resources would be strained, as both a newly radicalized feminist lesbian separatist and new mother. It was less than a year ago that I woke up in my camp on the side of the railroad tracks next to a bush and realized that everything I had ever thought of as being “God’s will” in my life, had in fact been the will of men. The next morning I woke up craving pickles. Despite being strongly advised by a couple of radical feminists I spoke with to have an abortion (“for the sake of the baby” being one of the more dignified arguments), I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to do it or not. I actually went to get an abortion, and backed out of it because I felt that something inside of me wanted to live. I couldn’t tell if it was me or the baby, so I did nothing, and that’s why I’m now a mom. And I went into this knowing that the Earth’s resources are already strained by humans (males), and that mine would likely be as well, but not willing to miss out on this wonderful experience of motherhood I had heard so much about. It was very selfish of me and I probably wouldn’t have done it if I had been better educated about the politics of abortion and reassured of the possibilities I would soon find to develop friendships with women.

I had already left my abusive, tweaker boyfriend a month earlier, having told him I was now a lesbian and no longer interested in his bizarre, noir-esque tweaker melodramas. I spent the next eight months alternately devouring everything radical feminist I could find on the internet, and looking for a suitable place to carry out my elaborately primitive birth plan. I knew my time was limited, and I was racing to build real-life radical feminist community before I had the baby (and what a beautiful fantasy it was!). So, you see, all of this has happened rather quickly. And now here I am, raising a child while trying desperately to make friends, and I don’t mind admitting to desperation because I am only interested in making friends with women who are as desperate as I am to connect with other women, as women, in a world gone completely mad, or male, I guess would be more accurate. I feel pretty conflicted a lot of the time. I have never once regretted my decision to become a mother (as much as we can say that there was actually a decision for me to make), but I do sometimes resent the time and energy I have to spend on a person who can, and should, give nothing back, when what I need most is sisterhood on an equal basis, or often, sleep. And I’d be lying if I said I did every second of the day what I do as a mother out of love. There simply isn’t anyone else around to pick up the slack, so I do things for my daughter even when I don’t want to.

My dream and goal at this point is to have a radical feminist and separatist commune, where I can raise my child with other women who have female children, and with other women who we can rope in to pick up the slack. I want us to be able to see the stars at night, to hear a river flowing, breathe fresh, cool air and maybe look out and up to a mountain in the distance. I want us to write our own songs, and sing them for each other. I want us to do nothing at all, and to luxuriate in each other’s company. It is unclear to me now whether and how much the internet will play a role in assembling this community. I tend to overmanage things like this which are better left to develop organically, and alternately, undermanage projects having vaguely surrendered them “to the Goddess,” so hopefully I’ll be receiving some guidance soon as to how to effectively and gracefully participate in the creative process. Ideally, this will leave me with plenty of time to both idle away with my little one, and to socialize plenty with women, and hopefully this project will grow naturally out of these activities. In my experience, the good things in life can’t be rushed or forced, or they will be lost.

Soul-Sucking 101

Males are mutants, females are humans. Males hide this truth and seek soulfulness by projecting their soullessness onto females, thus getting women to fear and hate each other, disrupting their ability to connect with one another. It is a gross denial of women’s humanity and a reversal of male demonism.

Because it drives women into hopeless soul-seeking relationships with males, this projection is the propaganda of soul-theft itself. The woman retrieves her soul when she discovers the lie, in understanding that males only pretend to possess our souls, and she finally walks away from men without looking back.

For most of my life when i met a woman i doubted whether she was real, good, like ME at the core. What is this i wondered, the tendency i have to suspect another woman is EVIL? That even when I am with her, I am alone, and furthermore, in danger? I dont trust her. I dont see myself in her. How else can i describe this beinglessness i project onto her… then, when i give her a chance, she proves me wrong. She is human. Parts of her soul may have been sucked away by males, but she is essentially “there.”

Men are NOT “there.” They act. They pretend. They mimic. They suck.  This soulless non-existence is essentially MALE. Men project it onto women and women onto each other. But it belongs to MEN.

We, as women, evolved to be able to mistrust because of men. Mistrust is ESSENTIALLY women’s innate sensing that males are demonic mutant parasites. Meaning, in case that isn’t clear, that the experience of mistrust *exists* for the purpose of females protecting ourselves from males, it is an emotion with an essential purpose that males subvert for the purpose of confusing women about who the enemy is.