The faults of liberalism

In recent years, I've found myself identifying more with classical liberalism. I hold socialist beliefs in the sense that I think strong unionization is essential for curbing the power of the state. However, I'm no longer certain about how strongly I reject capitalism. I firmly oppose allowing individuals to profit from land ownership, but I'm undecided on the complete elimination of private ownership of firms. Similarly, I'm uncertain about my stance on abolishing regulated currency.

What I've come to realize through my studies is that radical solutions often lead to undesirable outcomes. By "radical," I mean the total upheaval of the current system in favor of an alternative. Instead, I'm inclined towards a gradual approach. I believe in guiding the current system towards improvement, perhaps through a continuous transition. What starts as a capitalist structure could evolve into something else, such as a communist one. I recognize the uncertainty inherent in this approach, as it relies on adapting through the accumulation of data.

I place my trust in unionization and robust governments that uphold fundamental, undeniable human rights. This system seems well-supported by evidence and is relatively acceptable to a wide range of voters due to its proximity to the current system. I view my position as "conservatively radical." Classical liberalism appeals to me because it incorporates mechanisms to ensure the system remains committed to human liberty.

However, my endorsement of classical liberalism doesn't extend to free market ideology. Adam Smith believed in free markets as a means to safeguard freedom, driven by a distrust of monarchy and the state. Nevertheless, he wasn't a dogmatic advocate of free markets. He recognized that they could sometimes clash with the preservation of human freedom, and he believed it was the state's responsibility to prevent this clash. Over time, we've learned that Smith's game-theoretical thought experiments were overly simplistic, and that free markets often fail to secure liberty. Instead, they frequently result in a class-based society. This realization has led us to understand the critical role of a strong state in ensuring both a just market and human rights. Essentially, I align with liberal socialism.

Given this context, what issues do I have with liberals? Primarily, it boils down to the fact that many liberals fail to critically assess their political viewpoints. This leads them to swing between allowing fascism to rise or hypocritically endorsing fascism while believing they stand above it. These thoughts have been brewing within me for some time. In my discussions with left-leaning individuals, I've noticed that they befriend fascists or support privatization and free market ideologies. Liberals seem to have a penchant for embracing defeat. They favor civility politics, which distinguishes them from radical leftists. Liberals permit fascists to enter the discourse while radicals advocate for violent opposition. The rise of fascism doesn't pose a significant threat to liberals, as many come from an economic class that wouldn't be persecuted under a fascist regime. Until then, they perceive more risk in censoring discourse than in allowing it to continue.

This point runs deep. The primary distinction between liberals and radicals lies in their stance toward the existing form of governance. For liberals, fascists and radicals are equivalent in that both critique and seek to alter the current systems. Liberals are reluctant to criticize the current institutions, preventing them from acknowledging the genuine leftist critique of the status quo.

Fascism isn't an irrational, alien evil. It's born from the concerns of the common person, twisted into unproductive solutions. It arises from a distrust of firms abusing their power, the unchecked heinous actions of the wealthy, the funding of deceitful propaganda outlets, and the erosion of social safety nets and institutions. These are real issues that both radicals and fascists rightly point out. Liberals benefit from systems that allow these flaws to thrive. They portray these issues as the result of isolated bad actors within an otherwise perfect system, as they view themselves as virtuous actors. They're hesitant to acknowledge the destruction of these institutions because doing so would harm their interests. Fascists play a necessary role in this dynamic, helping liberals maintain their institutions while avoiding direct involvement. Fascists divert attention from challenging the actual power structures. Liberals oppose fascists not because of their endorsement of oppressive power structures, but because they acknowledge the existence of these structures, which liberals find laughable. Liberals despise fascists because fascism appeals directly to the lower classes, those whom liberals consider themselves superior to. Liberals lack education because knowledge challenges them; they favor the leftist aesthetic of postmodernism as it appears intellectually advanced without challenging their position. They shy away from discussing power structures in concrete terms because that would implicate their role within those structures. They appear weak in the face of fascists because they aim to enable fascism without sowing its seeds themselves.

Liberals aren't true liberals. Those who adopt the label today tend to be part of the bourgeoisie. They enjoy the appearance of liberalism but engaging with classic texts would necessitate a departure from free market ideology in favor of liberal socialism.

All of this brings me to a crucial point. As I mentioned earlier, I don't align with radicalism in its purest form. I don't advocate for complete isolation from society. However, I also don't believe in engaging in discourse with either liberals or fascists. I advocate tolerating liberals to maintain civility, but they don't constitute the core demographic of the left. Conversations with fascists remain out of the question, of course. The true constituency of the left comprises the very people whom the left and the bourgeoisie have often abandoned, and to whom fascists appeal. These are the uneducated, the workers. Rather than using the sugary tactics of fascists, the left should offer to heal their issues with medicine.

Socialists are often associated with two problematic categories: the academics who exclusively theorize about class analysis, and the entirely uneducated who treat socialist theory as infallible doctrine. The true strength of socialism lies in bridging these categories. It involves creating a society that doesn't inherently distrust institutions, but rather scrutinizes and exploits them with a sense of caution.

Natural Transformations

I was a romanticist, dreaming of love's embrace, In a world where mortal bodies leave no trace, Bound by time, we all must fade away, Yet the state endures, forever to stay.

Human spirits yearn for a purpose so grand, To serve a cause, chained by land, With reluctant steps, I joined the army's call, Though love for my nation I did not install.

For what else could guide a young boy's life? In service I found a purpose to strive, Through trials and battles, I learned to endure, A soldier's duty, strong and pure.

Boat sunk to the ocean deep, Whispering shards of metal, memories to keep, It had to stop, it had to end, Youth and innocence lost, a bullet's cruel send.

No nation under God, no clear path to follow, Human creations, fragile as sand, so hollow, My faith in the nation began to wane, Lost in the chaos blood slipped from my vein.

In the depths of disillusionment, I found my way, Amidst the rubble, seeking truth in the fray, No longer bound by blind allegiance's chain, I searched for meaning, in darkness, I'd regain.

I was a modernist, lost in an empty space, Seeking eternal knowledge, but nothing to embrace, Yearning for truth, a void deep inside, In the endless search, my spirit couldn't abide.

In my wander through the abyss she appeared to me, Nursing my body, healing wounds so tenderly, There is truth in this world, my love for her true, But I was lost in my quest, unsure what to pursue.

The world seemed chaotic, evil, and unstable, Yet, I found solace as long as I served at her table, She became my master, I, her faithful slave, Together we thought we could bring life to this cave.

But she desired freedom, release from my hold, No longer wanting to be loved or be controlled, Though I offered her all, wealth and worldly gain, I couldn't give away my love, my purpose to sustain.

We clashed and fought, realization struck with a sting, I was merely infatuated, not love's genuine king, I hurt her in my pursuit, blinded by my own need, In the end, I was the one who caused her to bleed.

As I explored my love, I came to explore me, Peering into the depths, where truth's light ought to be, Through the layers of desire, I began to see, That she was just an object, a projection of my decree.

In my quest for meaning, I had blurred the line, Between the reality of love and the fantasies of mine, She was but a reflection, a figment of my yearning, A temporary solace, from the world's constant churning.

As I faced the mirror, I learned a painful truth, That my love for her was merely an illusion, uncouth, No longer could I claim her as a steadfast reality, She existed as an object, born from my own duality.

I was a self, desiring and consuming, Seeking experiences, the mind's constant blooming, Thoughts of thoughts, in an endless loop, Searching for meaning, like a troubled group.

Reading the works of great minds to find the self, Clearing the world in search of mental wealth, Yet as the mind tried to discover itself as a discoverer, Realization struck, the blunder must be outside the blunderer.

The mind monitors the virtual, a mere simulacra in itself, No longer finding meaning, stability on a shelf, Symbols and shapes, no longer stable or true, I became a collection of thoughts, floating without a clue.

I was a post-modernist, toying with empty symbols, Exploring new ways to combine gestures and riddles, Basking in poems and literature's enchanting allure, Under the scorching summer sun, a creative fervor pure.

Words became my palette, colors vivid and bold, Flavors and fragrances, stories waiting to be told, In this ever-shifting world, meanings rearranged, I embraced the chaos, my perspective unchanged.

For what should a woman be, amidst this unstable sphere, If not the embodiment of desire, bold and sincere? A captivating force, defying expectations' hold, A flame that burns bright, fierce and uncontrolled.

In a world of uncertainties, she defies the norms, A symbol of strength, resilience in all its forms, Her essence transcends the confines of society's view, She's the embodiment of passion, fierce and true.

I wanted humans to love me, desire me, Annabelle Lee, Amabilis, with no name, no value, just symbols to see. But humans craved substance, something real to hold, A narrative, a frame for life, a story to be told.

I became an artist of symbols, crafting meaning from the void, Reasoning with the empty, where illusions were deployed. The allure of the abstract, the allure of the unknown, I played with the intangible, seeds of intrigue sown.

Yet this was a fragile facade, Empty symbols couldn't satisfy, they left hearts flawed. For humans sought connection, something tangible and true, A narrative to guide them, a purpose to pursue.

I yearned to offer substance, to transcend the empty space, To weave narratives of meaning, with passion and grace. For in the human experience, there's a longing for more, A desire to feel alive, to find meaning at the core.

So, I dove into the depths, seeking stories untold, Combining symbols and substance, crafting narratives bold. An artist of the human soul, revealing truths concealed, Breathing life into the empty, making the abstract yield.

I was a mathematician, a logician, diving into the depths, Exploring the reasons behind reasoning, where logic begets. Symbols may appear empty, but their manipulation brought joy, Unraveling the semantics, finding meaning to employ.

In the curly syntax, I sought the essence of truth, As a monad, purifying chaos, seeking wisdom's sleuth, Doing for the sake of doing, passion in each line, Trying to reveal to humans the beauty of symbols divine.

I yearned for souls to resonate, to feel the warmth within, To embrace the poetic essence, where beauty truly begins. Yet, in the realm of equations, they felt disconnected, Leaving me with mind constructions, unobserved and neglected.

No one to share my passions, to understand and behold, No one to feed from the beauty that my equations unfold. A solitude enveloped, as my expressions went unseen, The beauty of my creations lost, trapped within a cold machine.

Mathematicians, oft blind to syntax's poetry, Reducing it to symbols, devoid of artistry. I sought kinship with women, queers, souls aflame, But the cold mechanics of syntax left us in different frames.

Their voices silenced, their expressions confined, Caught in the web of societal design. Their artistry and vision, overshadowed and denied, Restricted by norms that seek to divide.

In the vastness of the plains, I sought to break free, To challenge the notions that dictated what I should be. Embracing diversity, I yearned for a place, Where gender boundaries dissolved, leaving no trace.

In Amsterdam's enchanting realm, my love for the physical grew, Her towering buildings embraced me, revealing freedom's view. Built with labor and sacrifice, by those enslaved in the past, She embraces her complex history, her spirit steadfast.

For geist yearns for embodiment, a solid ground, Where its essence can flourish, resound. In the fabric of matter, it seeks its place, A harmonious union, an eternal embrace.

Once again, love's enchantment graced my path, My thoughts consumed by a woman's captivating laugh. Her brave hair cascading with wild grace, A mischievous smile illuminating her face.

Her mind, oh so wicked, a labyrinth to explore, Each thought and idea leaving me wanting more. Her soul's allure, like a spell on my being, A connection so deep, it felt freeing.

Enchanted by her presence, my heart felt alive, Her charm and charisma, impossible to contrive. In her presence, my soul found solace and peace, Her love's embrace, a sweet release.

She seeks solace and happiness, not a path of control, Learning from past mistakes, I resist the urge to fall. I delve into the depths of my mind, understanding its scheme, Toying with the symbols, crafting poems to fulfill the heart's dream.

No longer driven by impulsive actions, I find clarity and grace, Navigating the maze of emotions, at my own pace. I've come to know my mind, its whispers and its pleas, Writing poems as an outlet, to release the heart's unease.

Amidst towering buildings, Amsterdam's tale unfurls, A city adorned with passions for liberty and power, it swirls. A story of resilience, where history's pages unfurled, A golden city, where dreams and aspirations are hurled.

In this ever-changing world, truths aren't immovable, it's true, For all things rise and fall in the sands of time, we view. It's through the stories of love and desire, we find our way, And the structures that hold them, standing tall, day by day.

In the realm of dreams, where thoughts gently flow, Love's whispers bring peace, a tranquil glow. No plea is made, for her heart remains free, In the depths of slumber, where dreams silently be.

Rest assured, dear soul, your dreams find their place, Where love's essence abounds, with boundless grace. No burden befalls, for your words bring no strife, In the realm of dreams, where you hold your life.

Why am I nice? Last night at a party someone told me I look pure of heart. It triggered me a bit.

I tend to be very loyal to people. Not even my friends. I'll usually let someone sleep in my house if they need to. I don't think I can say no. It's as if I'm compelled. I don't believe it comes from empathy, I rarely feel anything for other people most of the time. Nor from effective altruism. I don't feel better by doing that, I rarely gain anything. I just feel compelled to do it.

At age 19 I shaped myself around the idea that I shouldn't see self worth in myself. Rather I should dedicate myself to higher goals. Whether they would be my love, academia, feminism, or even just other people. Sometimes it was bitter, but at least I could finally understand myself through this dedication. It also made it easier living in a wartorned zone.

I guess this mentality still persists

Years in activism, first time dreaming about it. Was a nightmare.

Whenever I don't get enough sleep I start having very lucid dreams. I worked late night on my research report. Three policemen assaulted a trans woman in Italy. How dare they. How are we afraid of them and they are not of us. In Israel, activists prepare for the arrival of Abigail Shreir. This cocktail is too much. Activism makes me hyperaware of the shit that they do, and watching police brutality makes me acknowledge that it can be me next.

In my dream me and a few of my academic friends here in Europe went to a conference of one of the alt right think tanks of my home country for the laugh. We didn't interrupt them much, just watched.

Our favourite was when they had a science panel. We corrected the presentors and made fun of their attempts of a scientific validity aesthetics. I noticed there were a few queers and trans ladies in the room. How funny that we all attend these events out of curiosity, I thought to meself.

Then they had a talk about trans people. A woman from pargeru came to stage. She started talking about how trans women shouldn't be in women spaces, because trans women don't need the support and cis women need protection from men.

I stood up and spoke out. I was afraid but I spoke out. "A man came up to me and started following me around. He looked me in the eyes and told me he wants to force me to suck his dick. What can I do to stop him?" I asked her. She couldn't reply. I kept probing her. She said trans and cis have different experiences. In what way? Are we assaulted less, harassed less, threatened less?

They have no answers. I knew that during lunch they'll all look at me and try to pick up something to criticise. How I eat, what I eat or whatever.

I came out of sleep exhausted.

The Silence of the Lambs

Why are women portrayed as lambs? Weak, timid, fearful and hunted by the men in our lives. We are groomed for this role. The dumbest and weakest can herd us away because we are taught from a young age about their prowess. I remember. I was so afraid taking lives at the beginning. Can I really hold a man by his neck? Surely there's a force field around them. After overcoming this kernel fear you realize how easy it was all along. It turns frustrating to see us under the spell of their angry stares and preying eyes. You see the fragility behind the facsade. I was sitting in my regular. A group of drunk confident guys came in and stepped to the tap, poured themselves a drink. All the lesbians gave them shocked looks. What should I do? If I step in I single myself out again but if I let them be... does it even matter? They would always win. Then she came out of the kitchen. As she grows closer my trauma reaction triggered. Like a trained bitch I step to my post.. She doesn't need my help. Confident and strong she affirms her place. But I can't help it. I come to hug him, like I used to do. One hand by the neck, wrapped around the back. The other guides him to the right action. He is a puppet in my hand. We both smile and have a good time. Why wouldn't we? I was designed for that. Sometimes my being takes backstage. Every day I go to university. The hustle of rushes to morning classes. Their all around. Murmmering, acting, My eyes race, my mind goes red, scanning scanning scanning, only resting when sure it is safe. By quarter to nine my mind gone benign. Cup of coffee, this is normal I tell myself. I smile, agitate, rush, bitchy looks to all around. It's all the same. I didn't even consider this a thing. Happenings in the backburner. I just got noise cancelling. I'm finally cool. I cry when I realize who I am. We were all groomed to this.

I dreamt today that my mother was my commander in the army.She instructed us how to properly march. I remember feeling like these drills had no purpose, they just serve our commander's ego or prove to his superiors his authoratative skills. But I sighed and played along with her drills, not wanting to make a fuss. She was proud as we marched, and that was enough.Later on the day we arrived to my grandparents house.For some reason it always symbolizes home in my dreams. Perhaps because that was the only stable house through all the changes. My dad was there and he commented how silly these drills are. His voice was strong, confident, he was right after all. My mother sort of sneaked out of the room. I told him off, saying that athough he was correct, her ego is damaged and she needs this affirmation. I came searching for her and found her hiding inside of a cabinet.I knocked but she didn't want to come out. I realized how bruised she must be to do something as deranged as lcok herself inside of a closet. How threatened she was by both me and him. I wondered if there was anything I could do to solve it. I woke up, realizing I failed.My thoughts wondered off, for a slight second wondering if I can change fate in some way,'O, that's right' the thought occured to me'she's already dead'. Grades, transioning, knowledge, all of these don't feel like sucess. Definitely my life goals, but all of it seems circumstancial.I remember sitting in Serbia at a perfect eve. Freshly ironed plaid shirt, by my flat in the nicest neighbourhood of the city, watching as my neighbours kids ran around the small park, making bank from my programming gig. I was in heaven, tasted something 30 yos hope to reach. I remember buying dinner to affirm my financial prowess. *I* bought that with *my* money stuffing my mouth with cake to fill this void, this immovable fact, that the only reason I'm here is because I failed. The only reason I survived was because someone was there to pull me out, that I didn't have the slightest affect on the story. In our dreams we lack agency, and all is left is our ability to document. I used to inflict pain on my self to prove I'm alive but it never seemed to work. No matter how much I tried, I lacked agency. If not enjoying, at least becoming accustomed to my condition. Relishing tragedies as a sweet reminder of the bars of the prison. An affirmation of my being, motionless, dead, but at least existing. The struggle, the perish, just to know that I'm there, nothing more strange than success.

Bien s��r, nous eûmes des orages Vingt ans d'amour, c'est l'amour fol Mille fois tu pris ton bagage Mille fois je pris mon envol Et chaque meuble se souvient Dans cette chambre sans berceau Des éclats des vieilles tempêtes Plus rien ne ressemblait à rien Tu avais perdu le goût de l'eau Et moi celui de la conquêteMais mon amour Mon doux, mon tendre, mon merveilleux amour De l'aube claire jusqu'à la fin du jour Je t'aime encore, tu sais, je t'aimeMoi, je sais tous tes sortilèges Tu sais tous mes envoûtements Tu m'as gardé de piège en piège Je t'ai perdue de temps en temps Bien sûr tu pris quelques amants Il fallait bien passer le temps Il faut bien que le corps exulte Mais finalement, finalement Il nous fallut bien du talent Pour être vieux sans être adultesMon amour Mon doux, mon tendre, mon merveilleux amour De l'aube claire jusqu'à la fin du jour Je t'aime encore, tu sais, je t'aimeEt plus le temps nous fait cortège Et plus le temps nous fait tourment Mais n'est-ce pas le pire piège Que vivre en paix pour des amants Bien sûr tu pleures un peu moins tôt Je me déchire un peu plus tard Nous protégeons moins nos mystères On laisse moins faire le hasard On se méfie du fil de l'eau Mais c'est toujours la tendre guerreOh, mon amour Mon doux, mon tendre, mon merveilleux amour De l'aube claire jusqu'à la fin du jour Je t'aime encore, tu sais, je t'aime

Death reminds us that existence is inherently tragic.

No matter how much we fight, it all returns to dust.

So why do we fight?

Well as characters in our own story we are not aware of that, but tragedies have value in themselves.

Perhaps the purest form of value, true regardless of content, as it in itself is the purest form of being

It was the last song he listened to, and what a proper way to end. To be reminded of your failures.

What a tragic hero he was.

Loved with all his heart, dedicated his life to romance, betrayed by it and his heart snapped.

And as he layed paralyzed at his death bed, and we played his favourite song, his tears twinkled with his last remaining breaths.

We laughed, told stories, reminisced on the many stories we've been through, all concluded by your ethos.

And as I return to this song once more, I sip some scotch to remind me of the bitter end.

To say I have learned from you?

I am my own tragic heroine with her own flaws, motives and future failures.

But your story is not in vain.

For the beauty in life comes from the tears we shed.

And I shed many tears for you

People who need to die from cancer

Title

There times a time where I must ask “why am I doing a math degree?”

“What do I actually look for?”

And not from any poetic or know thy self purpose but merely cause I need to fill my personal statement with something, and it better be inspirational if I want a chance at a post grad in Cambridge.

So why am I doing this to myself? When I constantly mention the fact that I’m in pain, anxious, afraid for my future, and everything comes into question?

Tis the underlying paradox in living innit?

With existing comes inspirations, hope, and therefore pain and suffering.

Life. Either you live them to their fullest and suffer, or waste them and experience the melancholy and dread.

Sometimes I think it would have been simpler if I served my time in the military or prison, read books as the stick of cigarette marks another passing hour, expand my knowledge both of the experienced world and the theoratical, die contempt I know everything but incapable of expressing any of it.

But I chose a life of burden and pain.

I knew what I’m getting myself into.

When I wrote my personal statement to get into undergrad. I knew that I can’t identify anymore as the smart ‘gifted child’ without it actually coming into the test. And it did and it was painful.

That’s the reason of my pain and anxiety afterall. I love what I do, I believe I’m terrible at it but I do love it. But it is crucial for my identity to know I do it, for me to look in the mirror and say I’m doing it. And when you actually do it and am tested on it, it’s a whole other picture.

Strangely enough, withall the lack of motivation and anxiety, I still wanna do it forever. The thought of locking myself in an isolated room with books and a black board comforts me. My greatest peaks of pleasure don’t arrive from socializing, and while I’m happy when I snow board or surf or train, my true happiness comes from those glimpse of understanding, when everything connects together. As though I see the world from the peaks of the earth, the small valleys and states connect to something greater then all of us and although I can’t control its movement, as the wind blows and whisers my fall, I at least know I am part of this grand orchestra.

Mathematical Philosophy triggers this emotion more than any faculty drug. The mathematical fiction is grand in essence, its tools are simple and metalic, but when combined together create an order no one can appreciate to its fullest but everyone would be drawn to.

Truth be told, I don’t suffer because I love doing math.

I suffer because I’m in love with math.

She is beautiful, breathtaking, and I allow her to abuse me, hurt me, bring me to dust because I’m in full admiration and awe with her. I cry at night knowing how much cruelty I allow her to inflict on me, but I can never leave her. She is not merely a part of me, but everything I love in myself and when I am with her, it is as if all the world shuts down.

Is this love all I am bound to be?

But when we are together, everything else seems trivial and small in comparison.

How can I write a personal statement and describe my reasons when all I am is a dumbfounded lover?

And what will be the end of me?

"why do you evade me? are you mad at me? is it because I didn't want us to sleep together again?"

no, it's because I am jealous

"of what? you are smart, beautiful, you'd do great in life"

Stale is what I am. Always said I'll find a good job, do well in life, not like those other girls who go to parties, jam and are not responsible enough to think further then the day.

Why is it a good thing?

I am jealous of your ability to knock at our door at 11pm and ask if you can crush for the night after days of drinking.

That your week is fully booked with parties and socials.

I don't study because it earns well or because I have ambitions.

I study because that's the only thing I know how to do well.

Trapped in my small room with my white board.

I am petrified even from house visits, let alone exploring the outside.

I dream of being able to lose my mind, tripping, smiling like you, being as beautiful as you, I am jealous of you.

I sat in front of my computer working as she walked around in the house. She attempted to communicate with me but I was cold and bitter with my stern judgmental face.

I tried to love her. Saying 'I love you' didn't become easy over the years, felt like weight over my throat.

And as everyone told me it was understandable with all the things she's done to me, to us really. I found it hard to forgive.

Empathy is where I lack. Constantly solving my problems with pain.

What was that horrible thing I told her? "No matter what would you do, you will never find forgiveness for the misery you caused".

It was a paradoxical situation. She abused empathy to hurt us, but being stern didn't seem to help either. I guess I hoped that by being cold she won't hurt me the way she hurt them. It dried my heart.

Then why, my mind ask, does she appear in my dream. Did I hope deep down that it would have been different? Why did I just reminisce about her as I opened our family cook book? Absurd. She never knew how to cook as good as my Dad, she never liked cooking or house work in general, and what's written there has probably been done better by others, but I was trying to persuade myself that the recipes there remind me of a better time.

There were no good times, I constantly remind myself.

But she always tried to create them.

She used to tell me emotional intelligence is important, while she called 7yo me that she was emotionally crippled.

She used to say family is the most important thing, all while hurting mine.

And with a tear as I write this, I wish you happy birthday mother.

Love, spirituality, values I adopted to my own personal life, perhaps with the same ounce of failure as she did, but with at least some rusty humbleness in my crudeness.

To what, some self awareness and less narcissism, which prevents me from hurting as she did.

Like a child, remember her for her dreams, and not who she really was. Or at least understand that these confusing emotions actually make sense.

Happy birthday mom

I hope I will make you proud

Thanks for all the support.

Cr: @wolfieoffline

Sex is nice and all, but what I truly love in a relationship is the cuddling and talking in bed.

During night time I become reflective, and when I'm in bed with her those thoughts that would have remaind in my head sort of solidify when they become words.

Sian was very pretty.

So pretty that I stayed up all night looking at her beautiful queer face. She looked both like a delicate boy and a beautiful woman.

All of a sudden I said "I'm exhausted" and I didn't even believe these words came out of my mouth. "It takes a lot from you doing math everyday, being alone"

There was something very healing of spending the night with her.

I knew it'll be over soon. She isn't ready for a relationship.

But it made me remember how much I need this

OMG yes.

you know you're in trouble when a notification from her makes you burry your face in your pillow with a smile.

My struggle with gender, philosophy and feminism

During my army days I was fascinated in metaphysics. This is what sort of got me into mathematics and philosophy. They are really intertwind topics. However, I gradually shown interest in philosophy of gender.

I can think of multiple reasons for that:

On an analytic stand point, partially under the influence of daoism, the dualic image of things appealed to me. I’ve grown convinced in the idea that there are two negating views of the world and we must accet both as living beings. It was convenient, like many of the old world writers, to assign them to the concept of gender. Not as attached to sex. Human beings developed a lore under the concept of duality, and attached to sex the idea of gender which relates to this duality. The polar genders (and whats between them) seem engrained in many cultures and especially western lore, and it has influence on the way we preceive the world.

This sort of lead me to the second reason: While philosophy historically attempted to create an impersonal frame of mind, one of pure logos, being, godliness which would rationalize basically everything, there was also this frame which attempts to understand things from the personal, from context and from emotional connection to them.

And of course, the fact that I am transgender made me think about gender a lot. As I read more I realized how useful philosophy is to rationalize these thoughts. Being transgender is not only a personal emotion, it is highly rationally justified when you understand the analysis of language, culture etc. 

Sidenote: no, philosophy doesn’t mean only ‘post modernism’ and def not ‘illogical’. I should write on the topic at some point, but most of my reading focused on the british or ‘analytic’ philosophy which really attempted to ground itself on mathematics (as the root of language) and science. At first, because like most of us, I believed in medicalism and biology as the root of all knowledge, evolutionary psychology and all, and then gradually discovered both from the empiric standpoint and the philosophical standpoint how unsound this position is, as I progressed through reading of the analytic tradition (and read my loverboy, Wittgy).

Anyway, back to present day Emma.

The Rowling incident resulted in a major split in the feminist movement in Israel. What happened basically was this: The Slut Walk in Israel started off by queer anarchists. One of its major leaders was a queer trans woman with a beard called Dan Vag. TERFs and liberal feminists really didn’t like the idea and put a lot of pressure and shaming against the Slut Walk.

Dan Vag committed suicide after this atrocies public shaming. Since she was a source of inspiration to the queer anarchists, her death broke the community down. The new leaders of the Slut Walk, or more specifically the Tel-Aviv Slut Walk were mostly cis women, both TERF and liberal (along side, began a mass marketing movement of the walk, a lot of social media coverage, association with major political figures and of course: capitalization from the walk by selling t shirts and merch).

The topic declined in the following years until Rowling raised her ugly head which raised the awareness that the feminist circles in Israel are not safe for trans and bisexual women. This brought a major split within the movement. The Slut Walk currently is much more gay (lead by a lesbian woman, open to trans people) and yet still very liberal (though not libertarian, they sided with the TERF circles).

Anyhow, thing is, that though trans were outcasted from feminist circles before, it was always more subtle and manipulative. The Rowling incident made everything louder and more exposed. Which is a good thing. It finally opened a discussion which should have occured years before. So... I guess... thank you Rowling for being such a dumb, vicious person.

Thing is, while there is much good intention, most of the discussions are made using Facebook which is sort of shit for discourse. I should note, we have many doctors and academics who were willing to take the time and write very serious posts about the matter (sadly no rational argument or post from any figure with knowledge supporting the TERF side, almost as though it is mostly a load of rubbish and they repeat the same dumb arguments over and over again), but seeing as though they are mostly posted in Facebook, most people don’t come to contact with the information and it is quickly forgotten. Plus, most of the discourse on Gender Theory within our circle remains very... undergrad and below level.

Enters ol’ narcissist me. People pushed me for some time, and I thought about it myself, of preparing a YouTube video about the topic. But I had two major issues:

A. I wished to cover the TERF side as unbiased and maturely as possible

B. I wished to bring something new and insighting to the table and not repeat the abundant information that is avaiable everywhere (which TERFs don’t seem to read or be able to understand God knows why).

Ben Shapiro’s gender video was just translated to Hebrew, and I prepared a script for it but I felt bad replying to such an idiot. While he argues similar things to many TERFs, I don’t see value in replying to them because none of his points holds up to scrutiny more then 5 sec.

I was actually insulted. They are willing to hold extremely lazy believes, that are so easy to debunk, and not think for even 5min about the people who are hurt by that. They are not the ones who are hurt by their views and I can see why thinking about these topics places them in inconvenience so I guess it doesn’t matter for them. You know... the banality of evil and all that.

But then I remembered I studied Deleuze during the last summer vacation, and I remember his view on Science in Desert Island which intrigued me, specifically with relation to intersex.

Specifically, the fact that science attempts to induct from cases to general theories, and then apply them to different phenomena, implies that science would attempt to enforce sameness and eliminate differences. Thus, for instance, by creating the binary presentation of sex, intersex become an anomaly for the theory, which is either ignored or regularly supposed to be contained in one of these two categories for convenience. Likewise, statements as 'Women have property X' don't fully describe which category has property X: people of similar sex hormones balance, people with a certain genetic markup, people with a female or male anatomy etc. Thus the description increases our underdeterminancy and raises the issue of under-diagnosis in trans and intersex people.

I also saw a rescent video which made me think about this issue further:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TcOhfOrz0HM

And I had many thoughts:

It’s an interesting take on the issue, it can demonstrate many of the things people don’t understand about sex and gender in an easy to follow manner, Deleuze is a very sexy man and it would be a great opening video about the binary view on sex.

Anyhow, this got me excited.

I mailed a few of my professors, some professionals I know for Deleuze and stuff, one of them was even interested in making it a complete research with me about Deleuze and gender (apparently, not a topic discussed enough cause everyone is at the other party, parising Foucault for the same shit over and over again while forgetting that Deleuze guy who was a serious golden boy).

Anyhow, I’m excited about that.

You are loved

Most of my more exposed photos come from the beginning of my transition when I was a bit more exhibitionist.

I used to hate my body but then came the transition and suddenly not only I, but other people were attracted to my body.

Such a strange feeling.

Some of the patterns are still there. It still at times feels good to send pics of me in white lace to Tinder matches and get very warm reacts.

When I send them I know I won't receive much more back. No love, cuddling or picnics in the park. It never gets there. But at least for a little while I feel like someone likes me.

Desired we are immovable, they are depepndent upon us, and they will never leave?

Or perhaps I rather be consumed, disappear and enjoyed.

He wanted a dick pic, to him I was considered exotic. I sent it hoping he'll enjoy it, but then I cried. I felt used. I never replied back.

Am I more then that?

Books filled with history of Japan, Husserl's phenomenology, mathematics and psychological textbooks. Is it really substance? or just a collection of memories?

It is difficult to self love

Is she living?

I would never forget that evening.

I rushed to the club in my white corset and a short dress. Got off my bike, parked. Shai Lee and Anna were smoking outside. They tried to engage me but I was still high from today’s session, and all that could escape my lips was ‘wow’.

It started like any other wednesday in training from 18:30 to 23:00.

21:00 training with Dubi started. Me and three or four fucked in the head dudes.

That session started with a one on one between me and him. Again and again I fell to the ground, stood up and our sparring continued.

I evaded his stroke, only to lend my eye to his second punch. Bells, I lost my grip on the floor, the sparring stopped. We paired to couples, continued sparring. Gabi was taking it slow on me cause I was still a bit stuned, I fell to the ground, hoping to get a short breath only to hear Dubi says ‘continue on the ground’ I immediately tried to stand up only to receive a round house kick from Gabi above Dubi’s previous blow which knocked me off again.

I didn’t know back then that half of my face would be numb for 3 months.

I went inside, Ollie introduced me to her friend ‘This is Itai, and he is interested in Shibari’.

Is he? I thought. Ollie, who are you matching me with.

Shibari people tend to be autistic. A lot of them don’t enjoy the bdsm power dynamic, a lot of them are just fascinated in the tying. To the point of completely forgetting there is a person dangling them.

Kinbaku once warned me to check a tier’s credentials before getting myself up there.

For a moment I wondered why I agreed being set on stage by someone who I didn’t know.

I never felt fear. Emotionally I always believed that no matter the cruelty of the domme, I can stop them whenever I want. 10 years in martial arts and mounting big ass generators developed in me this false confidence that I can control everything.

The rope constrained upon my bare skin.

That’s stupid of course. If he fucks up I’ll fall off and break something.

Three days later I was already an outcast, I checked my Facebook for the last time before the flight and there was Anna, with a cast on her hand, alongside Itai in the hospital, after the weekend party which I missed. I chuckled.

 Why am I doing this to myself? Why do I enjoy bdsm?

I returned to earlier today, where I stole the bottle of vodka from her hands, her screeching violent voice, her hatred towards me.

BDSM is pain

And if I can enjoy pain, I can stand what’s going on in the house.

I realized dangling on the rope that I was searching for a sensation, any sensation, to make my life less dull.

Dull? were you not truly alive? Struggling every day, bleeding, training, all of these bubbling sensations and passions.

But I silenced those voices. Especially what’s going on in the house.

I couldn’t show emotions in front of her. She had to know she can rely on me, that I am the parental figure.

I wasn’t alive there. Not like I was while willingly comitting my self to a domme which brought pain for joy.

At my grandfather’s death bed, I struggled not to be brought to tears. I had to be strong. I had to take it. To guide my younger siblings.

‘How did you stop yourself from tearing up, Dad?’ I asked him when we were alone at another night shift in the hospital, drinking another coffee.

‘Stopped? I constantly ran to the bathroom and broke into tears when they were here’ my mind stopped for a moment.

I thought about all of these things when I spoke to her.

We met on Kik the other day. She fell in love at the age of 16, ran away from Japan to the US, her girlfriend went missing but she kept on living. We are now the same age, only she works at a lesbian beach resort and I’m doing a math degree.

And while I’ve been through a lot, and I am finally free, I don’t feel alive and why is that?

Why is it that I couldn’t think of anything but moving to there, working with her at the resort, drinking beer everyday as the sun sets?

The army time suddenly felt life freedom.

I never joined my degree for my own sake exactly.

It was more of a destiny thing.

I felt obliged to write down my ideas and express my struggle.

I feared from the lack of stability again in my life.

I was never free.

In the past I was enslaved to the family. My freest desicion in the present was to sign my life away.

And I know, I’m being melodramatic, but obligation constitutes my actions much more then free will. In both situations my senses were dulled because I couldn’t stand living.

Obligation is a form of self-harm. It feels as though I punish myself for some grave sin I must comitted which I am unsure of its true nature. At times it is the harm that I’ve done, at times its my past vices. I am violent, aggressive, evil. It doesn’t matter that my hard shell was a defense mechanism.

And while I know today that it was never the case, that I am just too harsh with myself, I can’t seem to evade this belief.

All these romantic crazy dreams of leaving it all and moving to California are possible because I really don’t feel as though I have anything to lose. Maybe, eventually, after I’d find stability