Feminism Eroticises Women.

Feminism eroticises women, in the sense of the female body (for what is more immanent and empirical a definition of a “woman”?) more so than any other ideology I can think of. In ordinary society, in the professions of models, in bar scenes et cetera, the woman is a free agent. Her equality is a humane de facto one. She is not pre-sumed theoretically equal; she is just treated with human sympathy. The feminist narrative is what eroticises a woman in a way that lends her a great deal of power but that all so creates the incentive for men to exercise power over her in a sado-masochistic game.

Prompted by a YouTube comment that mis-used the word “Fascist” and by a long-standing concern, I began to write part of a film narrative that I had been developing hitherto for some time. This peculiar scene is one of my prides and joy, and for that reason I will spare the details in order that I may maintain my professionalism. What I love about film is that it uses so often criminals as heroes, reminding us, as Kierkegaard and Kohlberg did, that moral development does not stop at the word of the law.

One of the anti-heroes (or anti-villains) I have portrayed attempts to poison his lover with a date-rape drug, purely for her protection, in order to stop her from entering a base. He is practically unable to stop her verbally, by virtue of a plot device that I have yet to reveal, (go see the film!) with out risk to her life.

A person who has read literature and loved a good story since child hood would be affronted by any claim that drugging a person covertly is Universally bad; only conventionally so. My entire life, I have done what Camus said it was the job of the philosopher to do: To all ways be on the opposite side of the executioners. And I did not even self-identify, most of this time, as philosophical! It was a matter of basic dignity, as reader and writer, to employ IMAGINATION in the contemplation of socially deviant behaviour. I could rarely if ever be the ignorant preacher in the novel or the play that only saw the crime and projected the sin, not only ignorant of the intent but disrespect full of it. Proto-Fascists disgust me. They have the nerve to pre-sume that, in the absence of evidence to prove innocence of intent, the accused is guilty. One may never have access to the intent of a social deviant. So be it. One does not simply then de-fault to judgement. One does not simply walk into Mordor. It is one think to be ignorant of the intent of an other; it is an other thing to be arrogant of it. It is one thing to be ignorant of the intent of an other; it is an other thing to be ignorant of the fact this such ignorance is in-evitable. To put it plainly, it would not be the job of my anti-hero, before a hypothetical tribunal, to declare his actions justified. Only a blatantly cruel and genuinely evil person would demand that kind of information, knowing fully well in the back of one’s mind that were the CLEARLY innocent person to divulge such knowledge, he would betray the cause of his companions and even his enemies, neither of whom he genuinely wishes to harm. Such a tragedy would not be worth one’s own self-justification, but where self-justification is necessary to the survival of the agent and the survival of the agent is necessary to the survival of the Cause, the legal double-bind put forth by the Inquisitor is all ready the most ingeniously depraving torture.

If asked, I would say that this kind of thing became a matter of common sense to me around the age of ten. Since then it has been my de-fault, growing more and more un-conscious as I became more and more well-adjusted.

But enough about that. Let’s talk about women.

Having written the micro-treatment for that peculiar scene I re-visited some of my favourite erotic images from my Google Image Search. I was pretty much shocked to find the women of those images transformed as objects (for one has no access to them as any thing other than the object of the piece) in to some thing more grounded and humane. Here were women whom I would not affront if I met one of them at a bar. They were not romanticised; they were human and real and power full. Their equality was a de facto one. They were not equals on a line graph. They were three-dimensional beings captured in two-dimensional space, but abiding implicitly in four dimensional space. Our only equality was that we shared this space between us; really we were Universes a part. I was home.

This has of course been strictly phenomenological. The explanations come secondarily. It seems inferable how ever that feminism, by preaching legal values and threatening punishment, such as for drugging a woman covertly, creates a kind of Foucaultian power structure that can best be represented, as Foucault his self would have done, in a Bondage and Sodomy relationship. The field of immanence that is eroticism and attraction is intruded up on by this power structure, and so sexual desire is filtered through power. This is the origin of Romanticism. The mind desperately and manically looks for its fantasies to exist first with in the structure and then out side of it, dividing the real of fantasy from the legal to the illegal, and creating a schizophrenic schism that runs deep and fundamentally tarnishes one’s views of women.

How ever simple the thesis, it seems adequate as evidence. But only an exceptionally cruel person would demand more evidence of that, as I have alluded. The claim can only be available to those willing to study the same trends in their selves. That does not how ever dissuade me from Universalising, for limits placed on “arbitrary” generalizations are their selves arbitrary “Universals”.

Dm.A.A.