Feminism

  Some males, as incredible as that sounds or should sound see feminism as a threat to their manhood. They’re not very confident or mature, I guess.

  Some equally insecure females are afraid that they will not appear to be sufficiently «feminine», as if feminine means being weak and subservient and dependent.

  The main reason for this set of thoughts is that we’re raised in a patriarchal society, with its twisted view on human relations. We are trained by its propaganda to behave in certain ways, ways far from natural. Males are encouraged to dominate and females to be dominated in such a society. That rape is seen as an entitlement in an environment like that isn't strange at all.

  Without the power of feminism we would be stuck in those age-old delusions, and women would probably have no say over their own lives at all. We would be nothing but those pretty dolls misogynists prefer us to be. Young girls should think very carefully before supporting any attack on feminism. They are used in a ploy in order to make them insignificant. Please wake up, girls, and kick those disgusting misogynists in the balls instead.

  The obvious take on this is that sex and everything, all human interaction, actually should come from mutual interest and/or respect between two or more people. Is the word «mutual» really that hard to understand?

A great use of furniture

  We have a large fireplace in our house, one very pleasant during autumn and early spring, but still a stark necessity during winter. There is no way we can afford to buy wood, so we burn furniture. Not our own, mind you, at least not if we don’t have to. We find it in all kinds of places, both at traditional garbage disposal points and in more untraditional places around town. The streets of Copenhagen, like in most modern cities are strangely abandoned during nighttime, so we can pretty much do what we want as long as we don’t do any obvious breaking and entering. We obtain furniture and we do it for free. It is great exercise, and the rewards are great, in the form of a beyond pleasant heated combined living room and bedroom. We mostly use more distant parts of the house as storage facilities and fridge during winter.

  It works!

All colors, many creeds

  I'm a Canadian Native (First Nation Mohawk), an African-Canadian, a Norwegian-Irish-Polynesian-Brazilian born in Canada, raised in Norway & living in Denmark. The world is my canvas. I'm multicultural, all colors, many creeds.

The house of the rising moon

  The moon is rising above our derelict building. Loud shouts and moans are spreading from our big bed in our bedroom and to the streets outside. I feel sweaty bodies push against mine, hot skin rubbing mine, and I feel an ecstasy that will always pleasantly surprise and overwhelm me, like a tall wave on the beach embracing me and pushing me far away.

  My friends and I live together, breathe and fuck and move together. The poignancy of it all keeps stunning me, as the years pass by.

  We live together in a collective, which is always difficult. There is bound to be quarrels and disagreements, but I would say we handle that splendidly.

  There is no jealousy, nothing even resembling it. In my opinion it is only a problem with truly fucked up people.

  People keep telling us that there should be, that there should be more unrest within our four walls, but the way I see it, that’s merely them making an effort at projecting their own bias and limitation unto us.

  It is inevitable, of course. We call ourselves witches and we are obviously something closely resembling a fertility cult. Our wild parties aren’t exactly a secret. We are doomed to be hassled by a despairing world. Most of the pressure comes from the outside, not the inside, not from us. We love who we are and the life we have chosen for ourselves.

  There is solitude when we feel we need it. We are, after all far stronger individuals than most people, in the world outside our walls. But it isn’t like we’re being pushed at the group. We seek its power and its joy almost constantly, but we are our own beings, fiercely independent humans.

  And it is that we bring to the group, to the tribe, in this, our brief home on the wave of eternity.

Quite the bad choice and event

I read a blog recently, where a writer is bragging about reading «the rulebook on storytelling» as her reason for getting published, for being accepted by an established publisher.

People like her are actually proud of being good at repeating the dull and average and mundane.

Of course she was accepted. She used the template for what every established publisher consider acceptable storytelling.

Not a very great and admirable feat, if you ask me.

I would have asked her what the point was about it all, if I had bothered, why she didn’t become an accountant or something similar. It would be just as well, since she became a copyist instead of a writer.

I would have rather written something original and refreshingly different myself, and taken the hard road and approach to writing and publishing. If I can’t do that I see no point in living out my creative urges.

This is how it should be done.

Review of «the Defenseless» by Amos Keppler

This is one of the few reviews I’ve written, one of the few I’ll ever write.

Most of my few reviews I do because they’re worth it, and this is worth it beyond my ability to describe.

It… grabs you from the very first sentence and never let go. It grabs you harder, and painfully so, as the story progresses.

It’s about growing up in today’s brutal and beyond destructive society, about alienation, the beyond powerful desire for freedom and everything in one, boiling package.

I can guarantee you one thing: you’ve never read anything even remotely similar before.

If the reader’s eyes are closed they’re forced open quite fast. If he or she has any illusions of the world, they’re quickly deprived of such.

We follow three siblings and their friends through adolescence in a typical American suburb, but it could be virtually anywhere in the modern Western world. The stench of the blood flowing from open wounds is impossible to ignore. This isn’t a book for small children. Thank the Goddess!

I had the pleasure of reading it the first time several years ago. It only gets better the second time around.

Amos is a self-publishing author, and they’re the best kind, almost the only kind in today’s inhuman world worth reading.

We get honesty from that kind of author, that kind of artist. In this story it’s pervasive beyond belief. This is the world in all its horror and «glory». Be welcome to it.

No human being calling himself or herself radical should miss this book. No one should, period. Everybody should read it, and perhaps learn something crucial about the world they live in, about themselves, and be forever changed.

It is that explosive, that powerful, so filled with substance and fire.


And the best news of all: This is just the first of 12 - twelve - novels from Amos’ hand that will be published during the next three years.

Look out, society and tremble at your rotten core.

Nights of rage and fire

Radio Baghdad broadcasting from Rostock nights:

Heiligendamm is surrounded by tall walls. Nobody, except those living there or the dogs faithful to the world’s elite can possibly get past the high fences and wire there.

So we go to Rostock, to protest against the destroyers gathering in Heiligendamm, for this version of Smoke and Mirrors, for this G8 meeting. But the storm troopers, the current version of the Gestapo attack us even there. There is no pretense, really, no attempt from the cops, the «riot police» to come off as benevolent. They are after us from the moment we arrive at Copenhagen Central Station, and when we arrive at the German border that presence is doubled many times. They harass us and attempt to intimidate us at every juncture on the journey to Rostock. When we arrive there they greet us in their warm and pleasant manner. We are roughed up and searched, and they do their utmost to make it pleasant for us…

But still thousands of people gather in Rostock, in spite of their efforts. And we see how that frustrates them, how it infuriates them. They attack the gathering almost immediately. First there are a few «exercises», limited excursions into the crowd. We know this pattern well and know what to expect.

Then… it begins. They attack us with a viciousness and brutality that quite frankly scares the shit out of me. But we have long ago decided not to let us be intimidated or scared by these people. Their beyond cruel methods and systematic terror just give us one more reason to stand up against them.

They attack us with their clubs and everything. As stated there is no pretence here, in the streets of teargas and coughing and screaming and pain. We fight back, and I’m pleased to declare that more of us fight back this time than ever before. We meet Gestapo with a force easily overwhelming theirs. This is different, different from all the times we have been easy prey. We strike back, and these soldiers of tyranny begin to fall, begin to lose. They drop in the dozens, in the hundreds. We do, too. Wails of pain and horror rise from these streets of fire, but this time we aren’t helpless victims. There are sufficient numbers of angry protesters to stem the advancing tide of tyranny’s brutal thugs. Hundreds are injured and for once they are mostly cops, and we shout in triumph. We know we haven’t really won anything, that this is at best, just another illusionary victory, but it feels good, and it might yet again be the beginning of something new and dangerous and great, a great omen for the future.

We cough again, in surroundings of teargas and steam and body fluids, and cry out in pain and rage, and it is a wonder to behold.

We walk through the streets

We walk through the streets as if we own them and we do. Not in the stupid sense that we have any legal claim on them, but because we’re dominating them. People stare at us with their lowered eyes, in their fear and shame, while we, holding our heads high, declare our pride to the world. Hundreds of us have been imprisoned and beaten by the police, by the tyrants’ bullies, and we’re still here.

We’re actually more here, now, than we used to be, than we’ve ever been. It’s remarkable, but not strange how liberating it is to stand up for ourselves, and to rise against oppression. They did their best to break us, but achieved the exact opposite result. Right now we’re not doing anything, anything overt to provoke them, except by our very presence. Justified pride has no place in today’s world. No true human emotion or humanity has.

A house is gone, but what it represents won’t go away. We carry it with us, forever. The authorities achieved nothing by brutally assaulting us, except alienating a bunch of young people. The older among us have found a lot of new friends on the radical venues throughout the city lately.

We sit there, in the smoke, in the mist, exchanging looks, men and women thrown together by coincidences and Fate. What doesn’t kill us or turn us into zombies, make us stronger. We feel it, in every single spot on our body and in our mind. They beat us up and believed they beat us, but we survived, not only with our mind and independence intact, but enhanced, with the fire inside having grown even stronger than before. We have grown and become more than we were. Thank you, Denmark. Thank you, Copenhagen.

We walk through the streets and we see fear in the police officers empty eyes.

The Good Neighbor

The neighbors stare at me. I’m a practicing witch and the neighbors know this, because I have never made any attempt at hiding it, any secret of the life I lead, but on the contrary calmly explained it every time I’ve been asked, treating my craft as a completely ordinary thing, as natural as any craft, any way of life. Which it is. At least it would have been in a society approaching sane.

I work with herbs, a healer in my own right, using the ingredients nature gives me, without resorting to poison and unnatural compounds. I light fires in the night and dance naked around the seething and scorching flames.

Rumors are abundant. I sacrifice chickens when no one is watching. The children are restless and I am to blame.

I am to blame for everything, from disease to a boring life, for all the poxes mankind has visited upon themselves.

I’m alien to them to them, a curiosity, exotic, worrisome and dangerous. My confidence in self, my ability to stand out from the crowd, to seek what is unknown and different, is a threat to the Big Lie they have created to sustain their mundane lives.

So they stare, and Hunger for what they don’t dare grab, and their hunger turns sour, turns to fear, resentment and hatred. They see a person free as a bird, see it possess what they have lost, and they want to cage it, and if they can’t cage it, destroy it. Their distorted hunger is a horrible thing. The good neighbors stare at the witch with envious eyes.

At best they want to manage and tame us. At worst they want to burn us at the stake… and they will... unless we stop them.