I have missed the writing of Moiret Allegiere. He has been very busy being a new father so his absence is for a great cause. This post is titled Old White Men. I hope you enjoy it. Tom.
here's a link to Moiret's 1st book “Howling at a Slutwalk Moon”: https://bit.ly/3rELpAM
Old White Men
It has recently been brought to my attention that one should not listen to old guys. Particularly not, of course, if those guys happen to be white. And straight. I suppose the importance of the sexuality of the sleazy old white guy goes without saying, what with the world being trapped in this peculiar state of complete and utter lunacy. Yet, I felt the need to mention that little tidbit. Even though gay guys have been demoted to become the straight guys of the alphabet-soup. Yes. Alphabet-soup. Because fuck you if you expect me to remember every single letter in that ever expanding soup of personality disorders and histrionic attention-seeking. I have no problems with what consenting adults chose to do with other consenting adults. The alphabet-soup, however, is something else entirely. But, I digress.
There was a strange happenstance some time back in the 2010’s. The world finally toppled and fell after teetering on the edge for a while. And we all tumbled with it, all sideways and wonky and wobbling. None of us seem all that happy about it, to be honest. Just look at the mad fury evident in the faces of all these angered, abusive and acidic activists chronically pushing for this woke nonsense, and you will quickly see that they are not happy about it either. Or happy about anything else, for that matter. Look at them. And then tell me, with a straight face, that they ever have known anything but fury, interspersed now and then with fleeting fits of frenzied ecstasy from whatever quick-fix lobotomy their hapless hedonism brought them towards that particular night. I mean – casual sex is probably all good and fun and such, but have you ever just enjoyed a simple chocolate in bed?
Lasting happiness is a product of a by-gone era; some lost fever- dream from some strange grandpa twiddling away on his last breath, furiously wishing to regain some semblance of function of society as-is. It’s all about the immediacy of the dopamine-kick now, bringing that impatient activism towards (ironically) a long and slow burn-out. Nothing really happens that would ever bring happiness to these morons nonsensically and thoughtlessly pushing for immediate action towards the immediately available target – usually an old, white and straight guy. A being that, oddly enough, is plentiful in the western world. Go figure.
Patience is forgotten in the impatience of the immediacy; the kick of the immediate and absolute now forcing neglect of the bliss and the blessing which can only come from delayed gratification – the simple beauty of knowing that the work you do today will pay you handsomely tomorrow, or the day after, or the week after, the month after, the year after, the decade after. Patience, with all its rare beauty, is a thing of the past – a thing belonging to the old guard; the pale, stale and male platoons of retired, hard working so-called “has-beens” whose backs strongly, willfully and wonderfully carried us all towards this point of immediacy… this point of impatience and of neglectful, nasty, nihilistic nothingness where nothing existed at any point in the lives of these tragic troglodytes before this one act of accursed “activism”, nor will it ever exist after that one point of roaring, raging, ravaging screech supposedly bringing the world and society at large into togetherness and harmony, into something better… yet doing nothing but making fools of themselves and enemies of everyone and everything else.
For one should not listen to old and straight white guys. At all. The arguments, the spoken words, the mere existential value of these pale old stale old white old male old straight old guys falling on deaf ears by virtue of their immutable characteristics. By virtue of their creed. By virtue of the very happenstance of their being, by the mere randomness of their genetic population, their geographical connection, their global location, they shall not be heard, their advice heeded by none.
I spoke with, and befriended, a neighbour back where we used to rent a house. That was before we bought this farm which we are now in the process of getting up and running again after it having been neglected for, quite literally, decades. It is hard work. Combine that with raising a wonderful son – a toddler, two and a half years old, and there is precious little time left after all that must be done in regards to the farm or the house or the toddler is done to do anything else. But it is also very rewarding work. This neighbour whom I spoke with – an old guy in his seventies – all white and pale and straight and stale and male – talked a lot about his life and his experiences, as most old guys will if you ever just sit down and listen to them. He grew up on the farm which he now ran all by himself. At the age of five, he told me, his father had him get out to cut the grass. With a scythe. Because that’s what they had back then, and this was a family-farm, which meant everyone pulled their load – so to speak. They were almost completely self-sufficient. Which was way more common back then than it is now. And he spoke, and I listened, and I learned a lot. Way too much to get into here. Times were harder back then, no doubt. And this creates strong men, by necessity. And now – times are getting harder again, by the work of weak and complacent men who grew fat and bored and lazy; by the work of trend-hopping, complacent and – to a degree – brainwashed women who see no issues with jumping on the bandwagon. As long as it ain’t them getting shat on, you know.
This neighbour of ours had been working with sheep since he was 14 – that became his main “chore” on the farm. And he still kept sheep. His hobby was training sheepdogs. He had participated in, and won, quite a few competitions. All impressive stuff. On and on, over several meetings, he told me about his life and his experiences. He could talk endlessly – I guess he still can – as long as someone was willing to listen. Guess he enjoyed my company, since I was very eager to listen and to learn.
Thinking back on it now, only a year and a half since last I saw him, when I went to visit him with some parting-gifts before moving to this farm… and it is really fucking weird, because it seems like a lifetime ago and it seems as though I had known him all my life. At his 70th birthday, he told me that he guessed he had at least another ten years worth of work in him, if not more. Still impressive.
I am 37 years old at the moment of writing. Not young any more, but not exactly old either. I grew up surrounded by the chimes of this weird social malaise surrounding us now. These were chimes that would later grow to be bells, to be foghorns, to be incomprehensible gibberish shouted through megaphones by berserker non-prophets lurching queerly atop grey concrete towers in grey concrete cities surrounded by a sea of grey concrete faces. The non-prophets preach. They preach and then they piss their piss-poor preachery into the mouths of us poor and plentiful plebeians; us pitiful peasants. Then they shove it down our throats and down the throats of our children. They did back when I grew up. Through schools and through the media. The message was the same back then, but it has grown worse, more brazen, more schizophrenically insane and more boldly direct:
Don’t listen to old white guys.
They fucked up everything, and so deserve nothing but scorn and ridicule.
Everything bad in the world is due to old white guys.
And yet I learned more from this old white guy than I did in school. I know it is a cliché – to say the least – but it is true, through-and- through.
Through a few conversations – most of them due to random meetings as we were going about our different tasks during the day – over the course of a year or two, I learned more that I can put to actual practical use in my life than I ever learned in school. One thing he told me, that I will never forget, is a very simple lesson: “There is much knowledge buried in the graveyards”. This was followed by him telling me that he had recently mended his socks. All the while he was mending these socks, he was thinking to himself “Why didn’t I ask my mother to teach me how to do this when she was still alive?” This, of course, could be translated into old white guys actually learning more than a few things from their mothers, meaning that neglecting their wisdom would also mean neglecting the wisdom and knowledge of women. Which, I guess, is a big no-no in the current cuntural zeitgeist, But, you know: that is somewhat inconvenient at the moment. Men have never-ever listened to women, nor have they ever learned anything from women. Despite the inaccurate historical revisionism of these wokeists telling us that women were home with the children all the time, which was a terrible prison and a burden on the women then telling us that boys only ever had their mother to teach them things… Fuck me, what do I know? I’m just a somewhat aging white straight guy – and a proper patriarch to boot. Fuck me then: don’t listen to anything I have to say.
After we bought this farm, I have still spent my time talking with –mostly listening to – old white guys. Farmers all, salt-of-the-earth types. Whenever I meet these guys. We don’t exactly live in the most densely populated area of Norway, to say the least. Something like 300 people live here. So I don’t meet them as often as I would like.
What strikes me the most is that these old guys are way beyond retirement age, and yet they still work as hard as they can all day. Running the farm, caring for the animals, whatever. Things that demand strength, and not only physical strength. It demands willpower, patience and postponing gratification. It demands, in essence, hard work and sacrifice. Which might just be those things that one would, could and should learn from old white guys: the importance of hard work, of sacrificing things in the present so that the future will be better. Patience.
Patience and more patience. And then some more patience, just to be certain.
I fear that a lot of these old white guys know, without a shadow of a doubt, that all their hard work and sacrifice have bought them nothing but this chaotic havoc of a world, in which they are told –they, upon whose backs this fragmented future was built, are told – that they should be neglected, forgotten… that their words are not worth listening to, their opinions pointless and their arguments hateful and harsh and whatever else.
That they are, in a word, obsolete.
That the world delights in telling them this; that the grey concrete non-prophets shriek from atop their grey concrete towers in their grey concrete jungles that they – they who worked the soil, who grew food and raised animals and who worked so close to the earth that you can still smell the soil from a rainy day back in 1958 under their fingernails, don’t care about the earth, don’t care about society, don’t care about nature, know nothing about society… that they are racists and misogynists and fascists, or whatever the fuck is the latest new fanciful case of stochastic terrorism used by these woke- plague-rats so that they can, with neither shame nor regret, dutifully toss aside any dissenting opinion. In the end, it’s just an old white guy. He should not be heard.
Even though it is of the utmost importance to do so. Particularly now.
What absolute hubris to state that one should not listen to old white guys.
What a bunch of absolutely ungrateful ingrates we turned out to be.
