Thursday, November 08, 2018

White Women Wantonly Whiting

Via Steve Sailer, the Twitter account for feminist advocacy group "Women's March":


"White women gonna white" appears to be a theme. From the organization's website:
We are outraged. We are organized. They forgot that 5 million women lit the world on fire two years ago. On January 19, 2019, we’re going to remind them when we flood the streets of Washington, D.C., and with sister marches in cities across the globe. Save the date: The #WomensWave is coming, and we’re sweeping the world forward with us.
Fire and flood. Sweeping the world forward on a wave of menopausal discharge. You can pretend to notice nothing (not noticing things is a Current Year survival skill we have all developed--without noticing) but the imagery is unavoidable.
I'm reminded of another unintentionally sinister slogan (sorry ladies, the logo is taken):


Cover the earth grrrls.

A google search for "white women" of course turns up more of the same. White women are letting the side down, perpetually:
Twitter:


...

EXT. TYPICAL SMALL TOWN MAIN STREET, CIRCA 1962, DAY


A malt shop with a young soda jerk wearing white apron and hat out front, sweeping the sidewalk; next door a pair of old men lounge out in front of a barber shop, chewing the fat; kids race down the street on bicycles, a pet dog joyfully in pursuit; a young couple moving down the sidewalk filly back and forth flirtatiously. It is a beautiful day. The camera pulls back and pans over to a sparrow which has alighted on a nearby branch. The sudden, rude intrusion of the distinctive sound of several Harley Davidsons sends the bird to flight. Refocusing into the distance we see scores of bikers streaming into the town.

A SERIES OF QUICK CUTS THROUGH SEVERAL CLOSE SHOTS

The soda jerk looking over his shoulder at the sound;
The old timers, one lowers his pipe, the other reaches for his glasses as they turn toward the commotion;
The dog that was chasing the children, stops and looks, gives a yelp and scurries off;
The young couple turns to look, the girl drawing in close to her boyfriend.

ORIGINAL SHOT

Now a biker gang fills the street, a horde of modern day Visigoths pouring into the town center on their choppers raising a cloud of dust. The racket grows, drowning out everything in a bone rattling commotion. The bikers start to park their bikes with disciplined precision, two and three at a time pulling up to and gently backing up against the curb, each giving a defiant, noisy twist or two of the throttle before shutting down.

CLOSE SHOT, THE LEADER OF THE GANG

He is forty-something, wearing an old leather bomber’s helmet. Removing his goggles he reveals heavy, weather beaten slits for eyes. A misshapen nose bears an old scar across its bridge. He scans back and forth, with the air of someone who's about to devour a meal. He gets up from his bike and turns away, revealing his "colors", stitched across the back of his weatherbeaten cut-off denim vest, reading:
UNTETHERED

memento

Memento
June 7, 2008

Memento, n.; A hint, suggestion, token, or memorial, to awaken memory; that which reminds or recalls to memory; a souvenir.
[1913 Webster]

I thought to capture my history but was surprised to find it won't stay put; I'm not sure I recognize it. Sometimes it's a faint image, like a 3-D hologram, shimmying and wavering. I reach for it and it flickers out as my hand passes through. I don't know if it isn't just a composite of experience real and imagined, some mine, some stolen from others, some culled from the commons of humanity. There are those moments we all have, of sudden temporary displacement, wherein we do not recognize our surroundings, the life that sprung up around us, that is to say moments when we do not recognize ourselves. These leave behind the residue of doubt.

I'm having trouble neatly separating the experience from the flotsam trapped in the recesses and eddies of my mind, from the residue still building up about the edges of the endless stream of electronic illusion passing through even now. The sticky fragments of no particular relevance left behind in no sensible order. I can no longer clearly demarcate the boundary between the real and the representational. I see now I never really could. Did I live this life? Perhaps I saw it all on TV.

Nothing is stranger than to look in one's past and ask: did this happen? Am I that child, connected to the present by a series of heart beats? How in the hell can this all be? How can this world be real? All this time spent no more than a blip; inconsequential, yet everything I know.
The truth is a tear of mercury that resists containment. It cannot be seen head-on or appreciated in full. It will not be drawn in from the periphery. We are all reduced to furtive voyeurs of our own lives in the end. Your history is that light smudge in the corner of your eye, that flits away when you look in its direction.
I haven't done anything here, after all. Skirting the issue always; the story of my life, of all our lives, of humanity. All this supposed revelation just circling the periphery like a basketball "rimming out." Nothing.

The real journey I will not make.
Or maybe not. Maybe we all make that journey within, the only real journey there is, eventually. Maybe that's what death is. Going home. The incoherent babble of death's delirium is the purging, surrendering energy back into the ether, in waves of language by way of dissipating will, a chemical reaction rendering our identities inert and final. Only after it can no longer be known, only after it is lost is it made whole; only then does it lose its contingent nature and become complete.
This, this is all just stalking, lurking about outside the fortress of reality in the forest of illusion.
No: illusion is the fortress, reality the forest. As it should be.

Wednesday, November 07, 2018

The World on Wednesday

As I write a shouting mob is assembled outside of Tucker Carlson's house, the same group that chased Ted Cruz out of a restaurant, all arranged via a Twitter account that remains very much active.



Journalists haven't been entirely safe on the streets around antifa, and those of Carlson's stature have almost entirely ignored it to feign fear of Trump's jackboots and the fascist thunder-on-the-horizon that are those rally chants.

But this seems an escalation for antifa, direct, organized harassment of a journalist critic. Note, or not, what's the point, the standard left/right double standard. In ignoring this (I'm going way out on a limb in assuming Fox's competitors' coverage will be cover for the left, to the extent it will be covered at all) the media will be complicit.
It's so much a dereliction of journalistic duty it constitutes assent.

Meanwhile in Portland internecine leftist drama continues to entertain.

Self-described "copwatchers" who film the police on the street are a motley segment. There's one specific type, the pot-bellied middle-aged hippy with an ironclad zeal. They give no moral quarter to police or their defenders, and by "defenders" I mean anyone who doesn't think their local police should be disbanded and/or jailed.

They will descend on you with their camera phones if they find you suspicious--as happened to me once. I've seen the same type descend on a hapless deliveryman at City Hall, as if all taxpaying citizens are fair game--and they should be, somewhat, by the copwatchers' determination that law enforcement is murder. I mean, we're all paying for it. Copwatchers look like they don't, but I'm sure as a group they have to be similarly compromised, if less.

Another type of copwatcher is the young and unbalanced type looking for excitement. They are no less zealous, no closer to reason.

Today the Mayor praised last night's peaceful protest, a march celebrating the passage of an initiative--a positive message for once. But it wasn't entirely peaceful, when an aggressive local copwatcher (who says he's been arrested 16 times) responds to withering SJW irony with a genuinely impressive left- right-hook combination before indulging his well-earned rant against Portland, the Police and the pussies.




Source: Brandon Farley

Tomorrow the city council (cue television commercial voice-over: "now with more Diversity!" after the elections), exhausted from the serial encounters between Vancouver Washington's Proud Boys affiliated Patriot Prayer provocateurs and the always-down locals will consider limits on public protests in the city:
The Portland City Council is scheduled to have a public hearing on an ordinance at Mayor Ted Wheeler's request Thursday that would place new restrictions on protests in the city.
The proposal, dubbed the Protest Safety Ordinance by Wheeler's office, is a direct response to the many political demonstrations that have devolved into violent street clashes in the last two years, which have caused injury and property damage and drawn unfavorable attention to Portland.
If adopted, Wheeler would be allowed broad powers over when and how people may speak their minds in public. He could order demonstrators to restrict the length of a rally and order it be held at a specific place. He could limit movement within a zone of the city. And he could order public buildings be closed to curtail protesters' access to high-up vantage points, given worrying use of a public parking garage rooftop by armed protesters in August. Violators would be subject to arrest and fines.
Wheeler could order the restrictions only under certain circumstances, including if protesting groups have a history of violence, or if there is a "substantial likelihood of violence" at a planned protest, according to a draft of the ordinance.

Monday, October 29, 2018

Objectification

Self-objectification distinguishes us from our forebears. You might say we're in an era of hyper-self-objectification (someone probably has). Social media gives anyone the opportunity to package and broadcast oneself as a crafted image, to imagine themselves as a work of art.

Popular makeup and hair for women has gone from the attempt to fake youth to unmasked artifice--it doesn't matter if you notice it; you're supposed to notice it and it's supposed to convey a message--not about sexual availability entirely or even mostly but about identity, signalling aspirational class and aesthetic sensibility, philosophical, even political affiliation--blue hair.

The average woman long ago adopted open sexual objectification, what used to be reserved for the disreputable (it is said lipstick originated among ancient Egyptian prostitutes, not to recreate youthful lips but to mimic the vagina and advertising fellatio), again, as distinct from its role in enhancing sexual attractiveness.

Broadly the trend toward popular self-objectification it goes well beyond sexual signalling, is often asexual or even ironic, parodying sexuality or sexual vigor.

What remains is the vanity, the vanity of the individual indulging the experience of objectification, which is not necessarily dehumanizing, or, the fact is "dehumanization", literally interpreted, isn't necessarily unpleasant. The high-concept fashion adopted by the serious (or obsessive) self-objectifier is an attempt to transcend physicality and biology, to de-humanize.

I thought to contrast "dehumanization" with "commodification", with the latter as a negative, but it occurs to me it that people are enthusiastically commodifying themselves, and in a wold of money worship the only concern is to be too cheaply priced a commodity--which doesn't mean people aren't selling themselves cheap. Self-commodification, quite literally, is widespread. Online an attractive woman can package and sell her image to men she never has to see. She's taken the sex out of prostitution; indeed, she seems to have transferred the degradation in the sexual transaction to the John, who is legion, anonymous and sexually frustrated.

Nobody is supposed to believe the thick eyebrows presently in vogue; they're taken up like a style of dress, off the rack. Likewise sexually enticing but outlandish effects--thick eyeliner framing rather than accentuating the eyes, ridiculously long lashes; sharp-angled effects in hair and makeup mimic the mechanical, the designed object or, I like to think, the palette, which is how the individual sees himself.

The world champion objectifiers of women are of course drag performers. Naturally the trans movement, which seeks a political identity for pathological self-objectifiers, places them in the forefront. The feminists are right about one thing: men tend to objectify more than women. What they won't or can't see is that, naturally, women seek out this very objectification--and who do they go to? Gay aesthetes. Men. No one objectifies women more than fashion designers.

The enthusiastic adoption of objectification is changing the way we live. Now the humblest specimen can find someone who will objectify her--and it is far more often her. Notable however how many men seek it now too--trans men are the biggest self-objectification whores on the planet, turning the same masculine tendency toward objectification upon themselves, belying the feminist notion it's inherently degrading. It is the highest honor.

That doesn't mean it doesn't cause trouble for women. It's dangerous. To be honored in this way can be fatal. The feminists are wrong here as they are everywhere else primarily in assigning to biologically-determined human behavior a socially constructed origin. As if the guys decided to play this trick on them one day--but of course the whole silly idea of a "patriarchy" existing as a social construct or pathology has this problem of origins. Patriarchy was born of primitive necessity, a necessity we haven't really shed, despite conventional wisdom.

The way women live now contradicts feminist theory identifying the objectification of women with misogyny.

Women seek out objectification--and they aren't alone. The profusion of self-objectification through media is human nature meeting the open-ended indulgence of capitalist technology. Indulging vanity is Who We Are now.

Sanity Fair

"Antifascist" demonstration Portland, Oregon. August 17, 2019.  The two sides squared off across a field, defined by police cord...