Honestly, I’m too perplexed to make a move anytime soon, since I don’t fully understand what is going on.
Despite their whole crushing success in misleading the American people into believing that Hillary Clinton is our “ultimate salvation,” the traditional, brilliant, indispensable New York Times (and no, I’m not being ironic here by any means) and other powerful media channels had just thrown their last (or latest?) wild card, in a desperate move, by announcing on their headlines today Hillary’s apocalyptic “Last Day’s” threat: “I’m the last thing standing between you and the Apocalypse.” Why?
Come on. There’s no such thing as the “Apocalypse,” a biblical fantasy that had run its course in the coarseness of our contemporary “information society.” Or at least something immediately worse than the status quo we were left out with, thanks to political incompetence. Which would include ISIS, Syria and similar “hassles.”
We are living in hell, my friends, although at this moment, in a way, hell seems to be far away if you live in the US. I will have to confess that, especially after Robert de Niro’s latest and equally successful basement rumblings online, and the regrettable, manipulated publishing of Donald Trump’s “sexist” remarks 11 years ago, I was on the verge of accepting their frightening arguments and voting Trump out.
But this shameful and absurd apocalyptic rhetoric had just woken me up. What was I thinking?
I’ve been painfully debating with myself over the last weekend if I should stand up for or against malekind (yes, I know the term does not exist, I’d just made that up). Half or more of the males in our species conveniently distanced themselves from Trump’s crude remarks, “grab her by her pussy” or something. The other less than half had to confess that, although they might have uttered the condemnable words at some distant and hopefully forgotten point in their macho existences, they certainly haven’t done anything remotely like it recently, and don’t plan to do it ever again.
A hundred percent of dedicated husbands all over the world did their best to exhibit themselves as sensitively aloof to the outrageous invocation of feminine genitals. Except mine. A hundred percent of faithfully happy wives made a point of affirming “never my husband.” Except me.
Okay. Maybe it was very naïve of me to candidly show the world, in my about-to-be-published novel No Degrees of Separation, how my husband (of 12 years) and I succeeded in conquering each other’s heart and soul — and why not say it, and cock, and cunt — through the passionate exchange of sexual parlance on the internet. In the invasive, constantly and viciously hacked world today, imagine if we were “important” people, the kind of people who have the destiny of billions in their often dirty hands… Our dirty talk would have certainly fallen in mischievous, ill-intentioned hands and we would be toast. But the intimate dirty talk saved our lives, by propelling our lonely, regretful, sorrowful human natures into a possible, loving future.
In the beginning, after I met him in person and started to actually share a roof with him, I was frequently shocked by his masculine bluntness. Nothing much, really, just the strength of his vibration hovering in the air all over the place, his resolve, his thinking (and acting) power, something I had never felt, or witnessed before, or even expected from my previous husbands — who were, maybe not “pussies,” but certainly “boyish,” immature males with underdeveloped maleness.
My husband tells me in his very direct way that, as he was in sports during his youthful years, he had heard a lot of “locker room talk,” another expression that had just fallen in disgrace. And on my part, I heard him say the words, and write about feminine genitals a number of times.
What we truly need, in my opinion, is a complete, radical rehashing of the abandoned notions of “public” and “private.” For our own sanity’s sake.
I’m not attracted to Donald Trump as a man in any way, let me make that clear. I wouldn’t let him touch my genitals anytime, just because he is a “star,” or an unquotable billionaire, or even the potential president of the United States. These are not things I value in life, by any means, and while we’re at it, I would never use them to advance any kind of plan. And yet, I deeply appreciate the way he is pointing out, one by one, the painful hypocrisies that are truly and surely killing us, taking us straight into harm’s way, be it apocalyptic or not.
After all these years of feminist activism, women have now turned into ridiculous pussies, who call so much attention to their “often abused” genitals that nothing else about them seems to be relevant. Much of what is said and exposed is, indeed, painful and shameful. But a significant percentage of it is just… human sex as it is, man and woman in their own specie’s life-preserving intercourse. And we must not only learn, but highlight the difference. As soon as possible.
Today, after the clear exposure of the “fear agenda” that is now underway at full speed — which is, in a way, a deep relief, for now we can not only feel it, but also see it and read about it — I am very angry, and fearful indeed.
But let me be very clear: It is not the Donald Trumps of this world that I fear, but their opponents, the ones who are doing everything in their harmful reach to make us weak, dependent and sleepy.
Wake up, America. Wake up, world. And do it today, with no further delay.