#antipatriarchy

[sullen-flower]

Mother Kombucha Blues (Another dishevelled figure, sitting in front of a bottle of juice, having a glass. They're holding a pen, surrounded by mountains of documents, a drawing board covered by them. There's also a telephone.) A: This can't be a dream, the audience aren't gasping for breath. Am I a doomed writer then, or one who finds salvation? Or perhaps I'll have salvation through death. Mother Kombucha, you know I love you! Lend me your strength! (They drain the glass, pour another. Begin writing.) A: The machine-men came for me and brought the process with them. We're now fairly conditioned, free to analyse from within. A castle of solid flesh with I in the very centre; observing the shrunken heart, the vulnerabilities. (Pause for a moment.) We'll destroy the monster from the inside, even at the price of my own life. Maybe I'll die after writing the final thing I'm supposed to write. We'll refrain from turning on women, smaller men, or minority groups; as other conditioned males often do. (They lower their pen, have another drink.) A: Patriarchy. An unholy process as driven by wrath. Nearly all of its heroes, if not them all, reduced to antiheroes at the very least, when we factor in the oppression of women. (The telephone rings. They rise, unplug it.) A: It were the patriarchs, after my attention again. My energy. My élan vitale. They're disagreeing with my ideas and think I should know. I used to answer but they only ever shouted, played games. Vied for control. We never had anything done. (They sit again.) A: The alleged truths of our universe are held within their mythology, explaining the cycles; mythology as written by man in bygone environments, as moderated by himself. Yet many of these cycles are in fact those of patriarchy, of conditioning; and others will take their place when we evolve beyond them. The word stands in the way and so we change it, and also the order of things. (They have a drink.) A: A doctrine pushed by armies of men all frightened of another frightened of their own fathers. Roving the countryside, taking their fear out on whoever they encounter: a town, a village, a farm, another army, passers-by... (The telephone somehow rings again. They answer, listen for a second.) A: Then why are you always masculine? Why never let up, even for a second? (They put the receiver down.) A: They somehow got through again, as they always do. They were disagreeing with the idea of them all being afraid. Yet they came in mass and brought their fathers, in flesh, and as phantom. (A has another drink, sits for a while thinking. They stand, then begin pacing back and forth.) A: The hard man is renowned by his fellow male for alleged strength and fearlessness, yet our studies on physiology show otherwise. He displays a full body of Reichian armour, a level of tension signifying extreme emotional avoidance. He squeezes the muscle with all his power to avoid fear, sadness, even love; an ongoing process from the ancient era, as passed among generations, often by household. (Another drink.)

A: Tension ongoing for so long as to be wholly removed from consciousness. He does so unwittingly, without noticing, having forgotten how it all began. He became mechanical one day, automatic. The birth of machine-man. Lumbering away from a conveyor belt, half-mad with rationalisation. (Pause for a moment in thought.) A: That or he dulls himself with alcohol, bypassing courage and the pains of growth. Or perhaps even a bit of both. Having only friends without empathy or none whatsoever worsens the process; as does an aversion to one's feminine side, being the spirit, the creative, where love comes from. Such aversion often forms a misogynist, whether consciously or otherwise.

(The phone rings again. Rings out.) A: And so they came for me, and so they come. And so we endure as always. Mother Kombucha, you know I love you! Lend me your strength! (Another drink. A long sigh. They go on.) A: Tensions throughout the body hamper soft movement; depressors on the face prevent whole-hearted smiling, often wearing away at the cheeks; the voice deepens owing to something else. Mechanical exercise only furthers the whole process, enhancing machine-like motion. Yoga and certain forms of dancing are more expressive of the whole being, freeing the necessary muscles, encouraging natural movement. (A pause, in thought.) A: Local conditioning may occur in a perpetual, all-round hostile environment: in home, neighbourhood, being in danger of male aggression. One becomes locked an inch from the fight response when reluctant or unable to fly from the emergency. Some are overcome by anger, others take refuge in evil, where the fear and pain is entirely blocked out. Before we know it we have a machine-region, mass-producing soldiers on the hour; accelerating in winter, in difficult times, when machine-man's urge to escape intensifies. As it does when hearing the words of this writer. But he's always listening anyway, frightening himself. ㅤㅤㅤ (The phone rings, going unanswered again. We remain like this for a while. The lights dim, curtains fall. It rings out.) ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ

[searchingforafeelin]

I have improved

Although my depression still hits, although my anger has won, and although my physical well-being is at its worst: I have improved in one special thing.

For so long, I fought a battle with my body. I believed in finding self-love and confidence, and that it somehow had to do with body positivity.

I’m actually so through with that bullshit that I hate to even revisit that, but I’m glad to say that I don’t give a crap about my body! I don’t care to hide it, care to show it, I don’t care what people think of it. I don’t need validation. I don’t see myself as a before in a diet progress shot. I don’t think that what I eat will affect how I look and what people will think of me.

What got me there was the idea that our bodies aren’t important. They are shells for our souls. You don’t get to decide what you look like, so why bother with it. I believe the best way to defeat insecurity is to give up focusing on it entirely. Give up the idea of beauty. Nobody needs to be beautiful. Nobody needs to care about looks. The only thing you should concern yourself with is who you are inside.

I have won the battle against confidence because I refuse to acknowledge its existence. Throw away your mirrors. Throw out your makeup. Throw out your bras. Throw out your razors. Give a big middle finger to beauty! It’s a sham, it promotes hatred, and you can focus on what truly matters when you rid yourself of the beauty ideology: your interior!

[risingphoenix87]

#Repost @letstalkbruh (@get_repost) ・・・ The Accuracy #HotepsBeLike • #LetsTalkBruh #Masculinity #BlackMen #BlackMasculinity #Brotherhood #ToxicMasculinity #HealthyMasculinity #Feminism #Womanism #Patriarchy #PatriarchyKills #AntiPatriarchy #EricAndre #ComedyCentral #AdultSwim #RedefiningMasculinity #Hotep #PodsinColor #BlackPodcasts #Podcast #Podcasting #DC #WashingtonDC #DCpodcast #Podcaster #Manhood #BeAMan (at College Park, Maryland) https://www.instagram.com/p/BwQfvcmgMvx/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=17owj328s6ebo

[radiofreealbemut]

La Journée Sans Fin De La Femme by Psyché Pelik + Valérie Bourquin + Yoshiwaku Mushotoku : Psyché Pelik + Valérie Bourquin + Yoshiwaku Musho

The Necrophile Hummingbird non profit netlabel presents La Journée Sans Fin De La Femme by Psyché Pelik + Valérie Bourquin + Yoshiwaku...

Full album in free download here https://archive.org/details/psyche-pelik-valerie-bourquin-yoshiwaku-la-journee-sans-fin-de-la-femme This is part of the 51 Hours of the netlabel day 2026

[sullen-flower]

The Carcass of Patriarchy Hung Before an Audience

(Play Idea. A Fringe show maybe. Would need me as the actor and to openly advertise on here so the fascists come. The show is performed in front of a gallows. Either traditionally, or in public. Someone plays a simple instrument throughout as accompaniment, perhaps some kind of hand drum. A recording could do.) ‎ㅤ "I'm being monitored by the oppressor. They've hacked the cameras, have men in the audience. Yet by the time the show is done we'll have them identified, brought on stage (nods at the ominous gallows). For we have men in the audience watching them, and there's men watching them, and others watching them and so on, ad infinitum. The whole audience watching itself, entirely oblivious to the play." ㅤ (We improvise the show on the assumption there are fascists in the audience; toying with them, interacting with them, attacking patriarchy, pushing matriarchy, reading poetry, performing short plays, plays within the play, and so on. Each show will obviously differ then, sometimes wildly.) (Patriarchy will be represented by the skinned carcass of a bull* hung beside the actor, like a Bacon or Rembrandt. At the end of the show we gut the thing, spilling entrails across the stage. We strip down, divine from them. Paint ourselves with the blood. Perform a live incantation with the audience.) (Perhaps we'll even be assassinated during a performance, returned to the aether onstage, punctuating the whole affair**. If we're only wounded, the shows goes on. We use the incident for advertising.) ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ (*A replica obviously.) (**Ownership of the writing, every scrap as made by these hands, goes to all feminists in the event of my death, onstage or off. To women and trusted male feminists as vouched for by known feminists. Ownership also moves to them if I disappear for over a month; or become and remain an incomprehensible psychotic for the same duration; or am institutionalised. Fascists are obviously excluded from this.)

[sullen-flower]

Journey to the End of the Road (a short play) (After dark. A creative home filled with books, paintings, musical instruments; all bathed in lamplight. A woman is sitting on the couch, playing guitar, singing. She stops as the front door is heard opening, moves the guitar aside.)

(A man stumbles in from the hallway looking dishevelled, holding a bunch of flowers. He falls onto the couch exhausted, shaken. The woman embraces him.) (A girl, a young teenager, somewhat pale, also dishevelled, slowly comes in from the hallway. She sits on the floor, watches.) M: O my love, it were dreadful. W: (Caressing him) What happened? You took so long. M: The ATM was malfunctioning, so I made for another one. And on the way there I were halted by the poor man's police force. W: Who? M: The other police as driven by the unseen. They came on foot, by motorbike, and soon had me surrounded. W: What on Earth are you on about? M: The brutes and their young, as patrol our city; as dominate everyone, everything. They had control of our bus shelter, a few bins, and as such there were nowhere for my rubbish. W: Oh I see. The bad sort of vampire. Volatile ones, highly unstable. Often watching with dreadful eyes. M: The very same. When a male seems weak they'll prey on him; or a threatening one will set them off; or if they find him attractive, even more so. I think in one way or another I set them all off. And so they came. W: Caught in the Roman games, you poor thing. How did you fare? M: At first I managed to bluff them as I was wearing the huge jacket. Then a sleeve rolled up, revealing how thin my wrists were. They were going for my wallet when all of a sudden the real police appeared from nowhere, like a supernatural force. W: The universe is watching out for you then. So what happened? M: Well the poor man's police fled through an alley, with the real ones right behind them. There was a lot of shouting and swearing, then someone went flying. W: I mean, what happened with you? M: Oh, well I moved on. Came to a second ATM, also malfunctioning. So was the other one, further up the road, as were a fourth. It was either a black screen or identical words: "Sorry our machine is out of order." There were nothing for it, so I went further afield. W: Geez. M: Then I was marooned on a traffic island, amid an ocean of concrete. Vehicles were flying by around me at high speed, revving their engines, beeping their horns. And all the drivers wore the same clothes, had the same haircut, the same eyes. I felt I were going mad. Yet the thought of you empowered me, kept me alive. W: (Caressing him) Poor baby. Were the lights malfunctioning or something? M: Not quite. I crossed nowhere near them, was paying the price. But then there were an accident so I could leave, and I did; through an expanse of black metal. There were men lying everywhere, fragments of them, their ghosts hovering nearby, all of them watching. I said hello, but there were no reply, though one followed me home. A girl. W: Then what?

M: Then I found a working machine, withdrew some cash, and began my journey back. I barely made the flower shop. W: And that were the end of it? M: No. All of a sudden gunfire erupted from either side of the road. It were the poor man's police force, devoid of hope; driven by winter for the annual reset. And wherever I went they were fighting, blocking the roads with no way around. So I began throwing mud at them, caught someone's ear. Then they were firing at me, having forgotten themselves. W: My Goddess. M: I saw terrible things then. A young man lay wounded, calling for his mother, yet they ran him over and over and soon he were jam. Then they called airstrikes onto their own positions; destroying themselves, their enemies, their allies, even passers-by. An entire section of our city, now completely gone. W: Good grief. And where were the police during all this? M: Watching from miles away, either frightened or having been bought. When the bombs fell they moved in, though there were nothing left to save. W: Then you finally came home. M: Yes, and here I am, so very exhausted. So very shaken. W: Oh my love. (They embrace for a while. The young girl leaves.) W: And you brought me flowers. M: Yes, I had them in mind the whole time, though I barely made the shop. So what were you doing in my absence? Not worrying I hope. W: I wrote a song. Would you like to hear? M: I'd love to. (She takes the guitar and plays her music. This can be any song, differ between shows, and so on.) (The song comes to an end.) M: How I love your music. And how I love you. W: And I you my flower. (They embrace again, remain so.)

M: I'm happy being home. W: And I'm happy you're here. M: Your song brought me alive. You may eat now my dear. W: Thank you. (He turns his head, baring the neck. She bites, all the while caressing him. They remain like this, in love. And so the curtains fall.) ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

[sullen-flower]

The Dying Civilization (a short play)

(A monologue set in a small, dark studio flat. There's little furniture: a lamp lights the room. A single bed, cabinet, sink. A window looks over the city, over a road. Throughout the performance, headlights from passing cars move across the rooftop. The protagonist can be played by either sex, as long as they fit the role) (The protagonist reclines on their bed.) (They rise, approaching the front of the stage.) (Standing there, about to speak, they're interrupted as a car flies by, its headlights racing across the ceiling, and beeping once beneath the window.)

(The protagonist takes a second to gather themselves.)

Protagonist: Please excuse the noise. These are the machine-men, our lower patriarchs; an immune response of the ancient system; white-blood cells having gotten excited, now trying to protect their host. It's been ongoing for a while now, you see. (The protagonist wanders over to the sink, pours a glass of water.)

Protagonist: Patriarchy... an immense organism having spread across Earth, hell-bent on devouring everything. Once an invincible fortress; now leaking smoke, bursting at the seams. As such we can see its insides, see everything it's devoured so as to grow immense: the mountain range of human skeletons, the hills of murdered infants, a ghostly ocean of souls. (Another car flies by. Beeps twice.) (The protagonist has a drink of water.)

Protagonist: Patriarchy... the ancient machine-civilization. A vast machine itself, creating men of the same nature; factory-produced men who oppress women, oppress another, who enforce its often unsaid rules, consciously or not. A civilization bleeding heavily yet refusing to die, now devouring its own young to survive. Mountains of young, the vast majority of them. Tumbling from their conveyor belts unto a great mouth. The hour has surely come then to end the giant's suffering. To lead the thing from sight then -

(The protagonist raises a hand with two fingers out as they reach the end of the sentence, in imitation of a gun. Another car goes by, revving this time, it's lights splashing over the room.)

Protagonist: Alarming, isn't it? Organised harassment they say. Men trying to install a climate of fear in our own homes, so we feel unsafe at all times; to interrupt our sleep and wear away at our minds. Their aim's to condition us as it were done to them, into what they've become. That, or send us into a chasm of suicide or madness. They're threatened by us you see. By those who speak our minds about them and know how to use a pen. But we're not going to stop.

(Another car goes by, illuminating the room. The protagonist braces himself, but no sound comes.)

Protagonist: Man should not be holding the reins. He should have the nerve to step away and work on himself. He flies and clings to control as a means of escape, which is why society beneath him is always dystopian.

(Two cars go by one after another. One revving, another letting loose with a single long beep.)

Protagonist: Everything under man is aggressive. Our streets are always patrolled by youths and men, themselves being lower patriarchs, who enforce an ancient code, and by darkness turn our homes to prisons, especially for she. Much of sex is aggressive, an immense culture having arisen from it, writhing with rape, paedophilia, and the exploitation of women. Our sports and entertainment are aggressive; the majority of our heroes wielding a weapon of some sort, or perhaps using a segment of their body as one. Advertising is aggressive, coming at us from every angle and aiming to embed itself in our very subconscious. We have an aggressive justice system devoid of empathy. Our political, economic systems - both aggressive. War itself erupts on a regular basis all across the earth, often begun by the 'developed' countries. And of course, every now and then fascism rears its head, championed by a majority of men.

(A furious sequence of cars and headlights follow; aggressive beeping and revving from a number of vehicles.) (Eventually it calms down and our protagonist continues.)

Protagonist: Man and woman are conditioned by this aggression every day, all day. As such they're not themselves, but rather desensitised, armoured forms of themselves. Women as we know her is not she, but she beneath totalitarian rule. Her oppression goes beyond that of men. He feeds on her throughout the day, empowering himself, nourishing himself; mentally or through force. Pinning her down, guzzling her lifeblood like some wretched parasite. (A car goes by, one beep.) Protagonist: Any women who rebels against the machine, who turns the thing on itself, is demonised, slandered, called a gold digger, whore, siren, vamp, she-devil, and so on. This discourages the others from rebelling, keeping them in chains. Keeping them as chattel, as meat, a source of energy, nourishment, heat. As batteries for machine-people and their ancient civilization.

(A car. One beep.) Protagonist: And the aggression isn't the end. Our society, as with man, has a limit for how much we may express our emotions; how much joy we can show before we're frowned upon; how deep we may speak of our concerns. We create games around these rules. Ask another how we are, and loath the idea of having to go on with the ruse if the answer is negative. Everyone escapes into alcohol, into some kind of drug, into some kind of habit or a sequence of them, and we're all so deeply alienated. All of this - the aggression, emptiness, lack of empathy, alienation - has funnelled down from man, from his dominion; be that of home, nation, or anywhere in between.

(A car goes by, Two faint beeps.)

Protagonist: It should follow that civilisation beneath women won't be poisoned by these qualities, but instead be full of love, of empathy, of beauty, emotion. It will carry a sense of community, be maternal, concerned with our well-being; as opposed to leaving our young to the nightmare of conditioning. Woman is far more developed than man, both in spirit and emotion. She tied to the moon and ocean, forced to endure the suffering of growth on a monthly basis. Man, conversely, makes a life of flight.

(A car goes by. Nothing.) Protagonist: In a rush to avoid his pain man has created a global system so cold, so masculine, so all-encompassing, that female politicians are either overwhelmed by its dreadful nature, or they adapt, degrading themselves, becoming like men in behaviour. These women are then used to argue why women fail as leaders, or why they're much like men; the machine again being rigged in his favour.

(A car goes by. A faint beep.)

Protagonist: Man may allege that woman is too emotional during her period for the responsibility of leadership, despite living his life an inch from the fight response. Said response may be illustrated by the endless wars and genocides throughout history during his rule - not to mention that ninety percent of murders are committed by him. He's not the better leader. He's better at seizing power by any means, alone or in numbers.

(A car goes by. Nothing again.) Protagonist: There's no space for woman to rule as herself in this equation. There never has been. She's never had the chance to create even a branch of a system imbued with her characteristics, with her love, her élan vitale, without them in some way being blocked or poisoned by man. Patriarchy has grown over every inch of the earth, choking the life from it, leaving no scraps. The nightmare is all-encompassing, seeming without end. (A car goes by softly. Nothing.) Protagonist: Yet the solution lies within reach as we said, and will do for some time: man must move from the reins and have woman rule, allowing her to reshape things without him intruding. Only through these means can we leap toward the new era. Only then will humanity grow wings. It's either this or he dooms us all to oblivion. There's no other way about it.

(A car goes by softly. Nothing.)

(The protagonist turns off the lamp, climbs into bed.)

(Another car goes by softly. Again, nothing.)

[sullen-flower]

(Alcohol and Patriarchy) The glorifying of alcoholism and bingeing is another example of the male gaslighting-switcheroo, where the meaning of something is reversed in order to have it appear strong. The man is frightened of his feelings, of other men, of the patriarchy at large; whether or not this fear is conscious or long-forgotten. He flies into alcoholism and other numbing drugs - the drugs of patriarchy - so as to avoid his fear. He describes it as manly. Makes it a competition, having it seem even more masculine. The more he drinks, the more masculine he is; the more he flies from his fear, from the pain of growth, he is somehow more masculine. The lie is contagious among men, spreading like wildfire, an ingrained element of patriarchy. It fuels male conditioning, conserves the ancient system, perpetuates the archaic emergency.