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As any consumer of entertainment media and art in general is aware, we’ve been on a treacherous downward slope for several decades, and at this point, we are free-floating in a cultural abyss. This is due to a number of factors, primarily related to strictly-enforced, creativity-smothering political dogma, along with a general dearth of base creativity among the population. Furthermore, beauty itself is despised by a society which prizes equality.
I often speculate that all the young men who were meant to be this generation’s creative geniuses are lying on some filthy floor somewhere strung out on heroin. This system that we live in is designed to target and to crush masculine drives, and that amounts to crushing creativity, as creativity and art emerges from the male libido. The drive toward sex is sublimated into art. In fact, I would go so far as to define art as “the male sexual drive, transmuted into the manipulation of physical materials for the purpose of constructing beauty and manifesting symbolic meaning.”
Great writers, like great athletes, abstain from sex or masturbation, as the discharge of semen lowers testosterone levels. That lowered testosterone levels reduce athletic performance is self-evident, but it is also known by creatives that orgasmic expulsion of fluid reduces artistic energies. This is because testosterone is the creative force in the human body, which strengthens the movement of the spirit as well as the muscles.
You might claim that there are also female artists, but you would have a very difficult time naming any of any relevance. Those who are considered relevant are considered as such either due to industry corruption and fraud, as in the case of Georgia O’Keeffe, or due to suspicious proximity to an accomplished male artist, such as in the case of Mary Shelly, who happened to be living with Percy Shelly, her husband, when she produced Frankenstein. The music and videos of Billie Eilish were among the most creative things to come out of the cesspit of the 2010s, but we of course know that all of her work is written and directed by her older brother. Any other known female artist has simply imitated or outright copied the work of men, often through abject plagiarism.
Given all of this, we should be unsurprised that a society that hates men also hates art and creativity, and celebrates the hollow, the superficial, the mundane and the tedious. Most of what passes as art is actually little more than political and pseudo-religious indoctrination, preaching the dogma of the soulless, female-dominated Marxist system in which we exist. Audio-visual entertainment is not focused on evoking thought or emotion, but amounts to instructional material, telling the viewer what he is supposed to think and how he is supposed to behave in order to remain in line with the norms of the matriarchal establishment. Characters in comedy and drama are clearly delineated as models of good or bad behavior and the characters are their behavior, thus purely good or bad. All of it ultimately becomes a sordid, ham-fisted melodrama. There is not even room for a meaningful morality play, as the morality itself, while brutal and ubiquitous, has become utterly juvenile and facile.
Contemporary late night talk shows are more similar to the propaganda films from the United States Department of Psychological Warfare that Germans were forced to watch during the process of denazification than they are to anything resembling social commentary, lacking even the most basic observational humor. Film is focused almost entirely on comic book heroes who are simply stand-ins for various normative values of feminist, Jewish democracy. Comedies, if they are allowed to be produced in this humorless age, are sadistic celebrations of the ritualistic humiliation of the white man and the Christian civilization he built.
The bottom line is this: the current system presents every element of itself as fundamentally above reproach and unquestionable. Something which is unquestionable cannot be commented on with anything other than absolute agreement. If you combine this situation with the fact that beauty itself is considered an affront to Marxist notions of equality, you have effectively created an environment in which the creation of valuable art amounts to a type of crime against the status quo. You cannot question what is, nor can you imagine something better than what is.
I consider myself to be, first and foremost, an artist. I do believe that if history manages to continue to exist beyond this generation, I will be recorded as an artist. Surely, you have seen the price I have paid for using wit to point at the absurdity of this system and all of its strange doctrines. Throughout, this is what they have said of me: “how dare he laugh?” I may be recorded as the artist of the age, not because I was particularly talented or even interesting, but simply because I dared.
Being that my soul is that of an artist, I wish for art to exist, and so this current state of affairs, it damages me. A society without meaningful art is necessarily a society without culture and it is unclear how a society without a culture is a society at all. I find solace only in memes, podcasts and indie music, the only places where I have consistently found real creativity in this age.
I want to see a film, or pick up a novel, or boot up a video game, and feel something, or think something. I want to be reminded that that we are human beings, gifted with the ability to feel and think and to experience. So very rarely does this happen with anything modern that I spend most of my time allotted for the consumption of art looking at materials from generations past. This is a sad situation, given that while humans are humans, and art from times past can speak to us through the ages, each generation deserves to have its own art, which it can connect to directly. The right to have our experiences reflected on is being denied us. It is cruelty on a scale that the human mind could never truly comprehend.
When something comes which contains beauty, which maybe hints at something that means something, it shakes me. It is like finding a nubile yellow-haired teenager in robes with flowers in her hair in the jungles of Africa. This was the case for me when I watched the first episode of Ridley Scott’s Raised by Wolves.
There are hints within the film that it contains some forbidden meaning, symbolism, depth. As far as I am able to tell, this is an absolute bluff. A pretentious attempt to turn the viewer into Stanley Fish, projecting his own meaning onto the material, which is left purposefully vague and opaque. But I know better than to expect anything more than a hint at depth. I am content with simple beauty, and a curt nod to the idea that something could conceivably exist beyond the bounds of the utopian Marxist hell in which we currently reside.
The entire first episode is available for free on YouTube in full 1080.
I have only watched the first episode, and I cannot imagine that it gets any better in the remaining nine episodes (all of which have been released at time of writing). I may eventually watch more of these episodes, though I do fear it will pollute this first one, which means so much to me now. I know that none of the threads introduced will unravel into anything beneficial. I know it because that is impossible now. The series was made by HBO, and they would never allow it, nor do I believe that the writers would be capable of transmitting meaning even if they were allowed to do so.
Watch it. Don’t look for meaning or expect anything from it. Just enjoy that it manifests beauty, and that it hints at the forbidden beyond, in a time when neither of those actions are permitted. It has broken the rules, and that is a monumental accomplishment.
