The Wellsprings

I haven’t regularly attended church in eleven years, mainly to avoid being fussed at by dogmatists.  So all I could think of last night, as I was being chided up one side and down the other, was the irony of my situation.

An antique-European Christian who doesn’t attend church is in one of those “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” predicaments.  The only way out is a path between the Charybdis of church discipline or, as in my case particularly, Scylla (who claims access to esoteric knowledge and takes every opportunity to enlighten poor souls trapped in the prison built by Calvin, Wesley, the Pope and every other demon in Hell — but Calvin especially)!  This Scylla can breathe fire from all heads at once — six-barrels of damnation for Shotgun because of bad church attendance!

We fear the Charybdis of church discipline because no church today is really a Christian church — even if we grudgingly admit a few Christians (white-grazers) frequent the establishments.  They go in ignorance, not realizing they’re attending an institution that long ago pledged fealty to Satan.   We antique-Europeans don’t have the option of remaining silent in face of devil-worship.

It might take months, but eventually there will be blood and the antique-European will get dismissed from fellowship faster than old-hymns from a contemporary song-book.  Best to avoid all that.

There’s the choice of not attending, but then we face Scylla, who, being zealously enraged, pulls out her Bible and smacks us repeatedly (leather bound King James’ are soft on impact, but if evenly applied, ensure one gets the  joy, joy, joy, down in the hind-parts.)

Ms. Scylla, who assured me that she was well-versed in contemporary theological debate, lectured me on the state of Christendom.

“There are far more than just Roman Catholics and Calvinists” she said.  “There are many shades and positions in between!  Take me, for example.  I’m not a Calvinist, nor am I a Catholic.  I’m simply a Christian and I stand on the Bible alone!”

She repeated that last point to exhaustion.  She (and only she, apparently) stood on the Bible.  The real meaning of it all was pretty simple, says Scylla, so why I couldn’t understand was beyond her.

I avoid Charybdis because I don’t want to be fussed at.  But I get fussed at by Scylla anyway!

Good grief!

I wanted to tell Ms. Scylla that there really aren’t different denominations of Christianity.

In the modern age, churches wouldn’t dream of segregating themselves based on something as trivial as race or skin color.  Heavens no!  But they will segregate (and segregate in a heartbeat) over differences of opinion about this or that rational minutiae.  Should infants be included in the covenant with Christ, or should they not?  Answer:  none is ever conclusively offered.  Instead, the factions divide into separate congregations.

Rationalists discriminate among themselves based on allegiance to this or that rational-scheme.  And once they’ve chosen a rational-scheme, they hold to it dogmatically (and God help you if you hold to a different one).  Drive down any road in America and you’ll see this clearly.  There’s a church on every corner and sometimes, two per-corner, all divided up by conceptual-scheme.

Ms. Scylla believes herself free from conceptual schemes;  she arbitrarily dismisses the more thorough ones (with respectable pedigrees) and makes up her own, based on naive and uneducated exegesis.  She’ll hold to her conceptual-scheme with the same dogmatic fervor as any Calvinist.

There is a real distinction though, and it’s not one between differing shades of rationality.

It’s the distinction between those antique-Europeans who believed in the Christ-myth fairy-tale (as Lewis and Tolkien understood myth and fairy-tale) so thoroughly that they mixed their blood with His blood and those who have succumbed to Satan’s game of rationalistic magic-words so thoroughly, they forgot about holy passion for anything other than conceptual-schemes.

These are the two factions at war within Christendom.

I admit that not having fellowship of like-minded Christian folk is pretty demoralizing.

Call me naive, but Christ ordered His followers to partake of holy-communion and I’ve always feared missing it, as if there’s some sort of magic inherent in the sacrament.  I’ve missed it now for eleven years and my fears have yet to go numb on this score.

I need communion with Him and with other saints.

So what do I do?

I dip in the wellsprings of old-Europe.

On Sundays, I sit quietly on the front-porch (weather permitting) or in my library, reading an old novel.  I’m reading “Quentin Durward” by Sir. Walter Scott at the moment, but there are hundreds available.   I walk through old Europe and live with the farmers, learn chivalry from the knights and learn heroics from white soldiers.

Of course, I pray and read Scripture as well, but without seeing prayer and Scripture through the eyes of my ancestors, they’re meaningless.

How does one “love thy neighbor” if not by following the knightly zeal of Reepicheep?  What is long-suffering if it’s not the patience of the Surgeon’s Daughter?  What is loyalty if it’s not the friendly-machinations of Don Pedro?  And what is martyrdom if it’s not the actions of Hamlet?

I wouldn’t know.

Writing Well

I have a friend who may read this and if so, I hope he forgives me for making an object out of him.

My friend and I shoot a lot of pool.  We’re getting on well enough that we confidently enter pool halls knowing, in all likely-hood, we’ll be the best players there.  Of course, our confidence varies depending on the establishment (there are degrees of sophistication among American pool halls).

Something about my friend’s style irks me.  He never reflects on his errors.  He will shoot over and over, doing the same thing be it wrong or right.  His consistency amazes me, and I envy him that, but why is there never a moment of self-conscious reflection?!

I’m a hypocrite because I do the same thing in my writing.

How can I get any better if I don’t try?

So, dear readers (all two or three of you, including the unfortunate surfer who stumbled here by accident) indulge me in a quick evaluation of my progress as a writer.

I have no formal learning.  Government school was a joke.  I’m lucky to have escaped with my fingers, let alone the knowledge of how to pen my thoughts.  But providence saved me from a voiceless fate.  On a whim, I purchased William Zinsser’s book “On Writing Well” and it has benefited me in the absence of formal training.

His logic rings true, but unfortunately, is exceedingly dry.  I can only pick up the book during odd moments of inspiration.  This is God’s fault for creating boring, yet necessary subjects and Zinsser does a great job with his.

“Writing is hard work!” says Zinsser!

Breaking habits is also hard work, (according to Shotgun’s experience).

So:

50 push-ups Shot, for every one of these, “…” (arbitrary ellipses).

Also, the following words are to be stricken from your vocabulary until further notice:

“furthermore”

“thus”

“additionally”

“subsequently”

“perhaps”

and also the word “such” when used in the following ways:

“Shotgun’s writing is such that it grates on the average nerve.”

or

“Shotgun had never seen such lazy flamingos.”

You have over-used them and must learn to do without.

While engaging in this manner, split infinitives and dangling participles will be hard to really give up while also eating shoots and leaves quickly.

That is to say, I’ll try to work on my grammar as well, though I can’t make promises.

So, I task you all to keep me on track.

I’ll make it even more interesting by committing to 50 push-ups for every misspelling as well as for every use of “…” excepting the two used so far, of course (they were examples).

I managed to curb my profanity this way while serving in an F-14 squadron and I hope to likewise abolish bad writing habits.

Keep me on my toes and if any of you have further suggestions, critiques, or comments…please share.

Oh heck!  Guess that’s my first 50 push-ups?

An Incantation to the Spirit in the Field

I’m having a strong wave of nationalist feeling this evening and I’m thinking of all the arguments I’ve had with pagan white-nationalists.  When it comes down to it, they are future-oriented.  They hate old Christian Europe just as much as the race-mixing Satanists.  They despise its spirit.

Both look forward to a thriving future utopia.  One wants it organized along racial lines, the other, along ideological.  I don’t have much use for either and so I sit at my computer with a bottle of whiskey, thinking about a world I’ve never known but in stories.  It’s a ghost — a spirit cast out of its rightful place next to our nation’s hearth-fire and sentenced to the dark-edges of the forest, and the forest is chaos where nothing is remembered.  It’s passing away…fading into the woods.

What we need is a symbol.  A public and symbolic act or illustration that is unmistakable in its sympathies and powerful enough to call the spirit away from the the woods and into our house again.

“Do you know what day it is?” I answered that it was the fourth of May. She shook her head as she said again: “Oh, yes! I know that, I know that! but do you know what day it is?” On my saying that I did not understand, she went on: “It is the eve of St. George’s Day. Do you not know that tonight, when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have full sway?” ~ Dracula

A full moon hides behind a wisp of cloud,
And trees filled with dew hang over the ground.
A drenched Earth bares mists that seep
through tangled briars where dead men sleep.

Creeping and creeping along the field,
reaching a circle of children.

Gathered close on the fourth of May,
they grasp hands, bow heads and make ready to pray.
To whom they speak is best not told
For the poet’s heart must be consoled.

Creeping and sweeping along the field
children cries begin their spell.

“For Him to whom all mornings break
And songs from evening lips He takes,
By His hands are all men fed,
With somber wrath and sleepless dead.”

Weeping and crying, they call to Him
Till a spirit appears at the edge of the field.

Quiet!  He approaches.
And wrath follows.

The Adventures of Quentin Durward

Part the First -

Part the Second -

Part the Third -

Part the Fourth -

Part the Fifth -

Part the Sixth -

Part the Seventh -

Part the Eighth -

To My Inebriated Valentine

Dear Valentine:

I’ll spare you nonsense about the color of roses
And tripe about violets that the poet composes.
As you lounge on the couch with your bottle of wine,
I’ll tell you a poem that evokes the sublime!

Nothing short of angels for one so refined
who  fights, spits and swears whenever so inclined!
And just now you’ve finished that whole bottle of wine!
My love is sober , but you woman, are my inebriated Valentine!

So think of this less as a poem about love.
It’s more like accolade for freedom unheard of!
And should you ever begin feeling guilty
Just read this again and carry on sweetly:

Your eyes glisten from all the glitter and spice
that all your friends say make you look nice.
And your lips glow with a pale, muted red
To hide all the swear words you’ve said!

If a thief sneaks onto your property
I can’t save you; you’re more violent than me!
You’ll bite him and kick him then knee his groin,
and gladly return to finish hearing my poem.

Such elegance. Such grace.
Such humility is beyond commonplace!
You’re a lady of the times (and I’m either sarcastic or blind)
A true cosmopolitan; my inebriated valentine!

And if anyone doubts your skill with a drink
You’ll pull out a pint-glass and hop to your feet!
“Cheers” we’ll all cry, as you go shot for shot
With any man around!  You’ll drink till he drops!

But at the end of the day, when all drinks are gone,
and what’s left of your thoughts turn towards home,
Never fail to think fondly of me
Your one true love, at least — I hope that’s me (one can never tell.)

A Friday Playlist

It’s Friday!  If you’ve made it to this point in life then you’re to be commended — and even more so for spending your precious minutes reading my blog.

I want to impress upon my readers that country-folk (especially Southerners) have a unique philosophical outlook that’s represented in some very good writings by men calling themselves “agrarians.”  When you listen to country music on the radio — when you drive around in a big truck, wear camo, go hunting, respect elders, and sit on front-porches — when you take part in rural-American culture in any way, you’re carrying on a proud tradition.

There are people out there who write about this tradition and defend it to the best of their capabilities.  I hope to be one of them some day (I’ve got a long way to go.)

I can’t (in one blog) relay all the concerns and positions of the Southern Agrarians.  What I can do is make an object lesson out of helping you enjoy your Friday by posting some music videos.

One of the first things you’ll notice about these videos is that they’re of popular songs, but performed by normal people.  I love these “covers” and prefer them, in most cases, to the song performed by the artist.  As the music industry becomes more and more commercialized, there’s a lack of “heart.”

Not so for the covers.  These are real people and the songs they sing affect them on a deep, personal level (unlike the artist who performs the same song day after day, thousands of times.)  People who sing these “covers” are concerned with good recording and quality.  They’re honest and a true expressions of our culture.  I love watching what other people do and one day I might post some of my own.

So, pull up my blog, plug in your headphones, hit “play” (minimize it so no one at work sees you goofing off), listen, and enjoy.

I will be:

Where Corn Don’t Grow, originally by Waylon Jennings (and was covered later by Travis Tritt) this is a great cover by Josh Porter.

Fly Away, originally by Sugar Land, this is one of my favorite covers.  The girl in the video does a great job.  I love her down-home voice and how this particular song really resonates with her.  I watch this video all the time.

The Dirt Road, originally by one of my favorite Country bands, Sawyer Brown.

Working Man’s PhD, originally by Aaron Tippin, another one of my favorite artists.  This video is hilariously ironic, he sings about working hard, but his house is a wreck.  I love the country accent and real-tree get-up.

Song of the South, by Alabama.

Maybe it was Memphis, originally by Pam Tillis.  This is an exceptionally well-done cover by a girl that’s sure to be a star one day.

Strawberry Wine, originally by Deana Carter.

Living on Love by Alan Jackson.

Like the Rain originally by Clint Black.

Rodeo, by Garth Brooks

I could post these all day.  I encourage you to look up the covers of your favorite songs on youtube.  People work hard to put them up there and it’s worth watching them.

Enjoy your Friday…and may the end of the work-day come soon!

Nationalists Attack Ron Paul

There’s been a flurry of blogs and articles in the Alternative Right blogosphere condemning Ron Paul for one reason or another.  (The “alternative-right”, for those of you who don’t know, is a political community of racially-aware dissidents who are characterized by a general trend of intellectualism, conservatism and well-informed opinions.)

The complaint is that Paul is, either knowingly or unknowingly, duping poor whites — taking our money with no intent to repay in form of beneficial laws once in the White House.  (In some cases, Alt.Right bloggers claim Paul is a scoundrel for spreading libertarian principles instead of white-nationalist ones…but if that’s true then my mother is also a scoundrel!  Best to avoid that slippery slope.)

Now, barring a coordinated machiavellian offensive on the part of the Alt.Right bloggers (where they actually support Paul but are criticizing him to try and convince the media that “racists” aren’t Paul supporters) there are at least three general mistakes that I see in all this anti-Paul rhetoric.

The first is the mistake of thinking Paul intelligent enough to pull off a mass-conspiracy against racially-aware white people.  It’s been my experience that very few Americans are epistemologically self-conscious.  I mean:  very few Americans are self-conscious of their underlying world and life view and how it informs their beliefs in any given subject-area.

I know this is true of Paul.  He is (at least) confused on how his Christianity influences his political and ideological life.  I’m not sure how this is possible, though.  With writers like Gary North out there, how could Paul miss this sort of thing?  Gary North is a Christian theonomist / reconstructionist and prominent intellectual within the libertarian community, posting regularly at Lew Rockwell.  He even worked for Ron Paul’s campaign in the past and lectures frequently for the Von Mises institute.  Paul must be — at least partially — aware of North’s work.  Nevertheless, Paul repeatedly demonstrates that his worldview is not systematic, but rather piecemeal.

Since Paul’s view is not systematic, but piecemeal, it’s reasonable to assume that he’s not thinking within the same paradigm as disgruntled white-nationalists and Alt.Right bloggers.  Paul, I believe, simply doesn’t realize the implications of his economic positions for a white populace — he doesn’t think in those terms.  He’s thinking like his ideological mentors, Mises and Rothbard and they see the world through green lenses — wealth and it’s distribution throughout society, forms the basis of Austrian class-theory.

This leads me to the second mistake.  It’s often asserted that Austrian economic theory is bad for whites and bad for white-nationalism as an enterprise, but I’ve yet to read an in-depth analysis of Austrian theory from any of these bloggers.

For example, don’t just say that “free-trade” is evil — demonstrate it economically!  Present a metaphysical view in which “value” has a consistent and objective meaning, then show why Austrian economic theory necessarily violates that objective good and promotes an ever-increasing scarcity of value.

It’s harder to approach economic-theory this way, though.  It takes a lot of work, research and accurate reporting.

If it’s true that various economic policies based on an Austrian economic paradigm would increase the standard-of-living for whites and increase their ability to freely-associate and control their economic destiny, then the fact that Ron Paul promotes these policies without realizing that they’re conducive to white-nationalist’s political ambitions shouldn’t be controversial or objectionable.  If Paul’s (possible) policies are not conducive to a white nationalist political goal, then prove it.  Show how, exactly.

This naturally leads to a third mistake: Gary North often reminds us that “Ya can’t beat something with nothing.”

Until a gifted white-nationalist economic-theorist comes along and provides us all with a coherent and agreeable economic system, we’re going to have to continue relying on the work of non-nationalist economists, including the Austrians, of whom Ron Paul is a disciple.

I do wish the cavalier rhetoric against Ron Paul and against Austrian economics (in general) was offered from a well-laid foundation of nationalist (or at least, racialist) economic ideology.

Unfortunately, the criticisms of the Alt.Right seem more like pot-shots from disgruntled ideologues.

I’m supporting Ron Paul for various reasons and while I’m moving away from the Austrian school of economics (and away from purely ‘rationalist’ schools all together) I remain convinced that there is much of value to be had in the writings of Mises, Rothbard and all the others.

My Response to the Marinov and his Article on Family

The Marinov’s article:  http://americanvision.org/5555/relationship-vs-purpose-how-the-church-destroys-the-christian-family/

My humble reply:

Mr. Marinov, you overlook the most significant diagnosis of your friend’s condition, preferring to treat his minor scratches instead of the arrow sticking out of his heart!

It’s hard for me to imagine a sermon on the family that doesn’t mention “purpose,” at least in passing.  It wouldn’t make sense if it didn’t.  The very words “brother” “mother” and “father” imply a purpose.  “Purpose” is an unavoidable theme, even if not always explicit.  Maybe you’re overplaying your friend’s position to make your point?

But, in doing so, you’ve managed to upset poets and passionate wordsmiths of all sort!

Is it really true that “men obsessed with relationships and emotions” are not really masculine?  Not according to Shakespeare who, speaking through Hamlet, asks: “…for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil?”  Hamlet’s “purpose” drove him to suicide.  It was his passion and his feelings that saved him from it.  Was Hamlet not masculine?

No.  The abandonment of familial-strongholds in contemporary Christendom cannot be laid at the feet of passionate missionaries, poets or domineering women (who want church services to reflect their feminine tastes.)

The reason the family is disappearing — the reason there is an arrow through the heart of your missionary friend — is because people like you, Mr. Marinov, have contracted a serious disease from the Satanists who orchestrated ideological revolutions like the so-called “Enlightenment” and Renaissance — movements which culminated in a horrible spectacle: the French Revolution (where “family” was systematically deconstructed by the likes of Rousseau.)

You’re both afflicted with an egalitarian cancer and in your case, it castrates your ideal family after the first generation.

That’s right folks, Mr. Marinov will condemn emotional allegiance to (and shared “purpose” with) extended kin as a disgusting and vile heresy, unfit for Christendom.  He’s personally condemned me to Hell for holding the very views this article (if followed consistently) promotes!  (How he expects a single-tier family to “…fill the Earth and subdue it,” he never says.)

Drinking the confused theological elixir (that results from syncretist attempts to merge Politically-Correct Modernism with Christian Theism) always results in the slow death of the family.

But despite rabid egalitarian dogmatists (like you, Mr. Marinov) there are those of us antique-Europeans who haven’t forgotten our roots and who are still loyal to our God and our kith and our kin.  And like Hamlet, we will not slip quietly out of the world to avoid the enormous task ahead.  Instead, we’ll grab up our swords and cry:

“..From this time forth, our thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth!”

“Pick-Up Artists” Need to Pick-Up Plows Instead of Women

Today is the 200th birthday of Charles John Huffam Dickens, author of great novels like David Copperfield, A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations and A Christmas Carol.  I wanted to write a special homage to the man but honestly, I’m not as familiar with him as I should be.  I read “Great Expectations” in high school because I was forced into it; I didn’t enjoy the experience.  Later, I read “A Christmas Carol” because it was a famous Christmas classic, but still, I wasn’t conscious of a distinctly white (British) literary tradition and didn’t appreciate it.  (I even tried reading part of “Old Curiosity Shop” but couldn’t make it through.)

Years later, after realizing the war taking place against my people and culture, I realized how special Dickens was as a writer.  I realized his genius.  This past Christmas I think I read Dickens for the first time — as Dickens — in a way that recognized the importance of his work.  “The Battle of Life: A Love Story” was one of the most beautiful short-stories I’ve ever read.

But there is so much I don’t know about Dickens: the society he lived in, his concerns, his political views, and his life.  I know he’s influenced political discourse.  The phrase “Pickwician Liberal” is applied to some British politicians thanks to Dickens.  Wanna know what it means?  So would I.

In addition to my ignorance, there’s another reason I am not writing a homage to Dickens.  I’ve got something else on my mind.

While browsing Alternative Right today, I found a blog written by Peter Bradley called “The Dark Side of Game.”  It’s all about the male pick-up artist and how, in learning to manipulate the sexual desires of women, he gains valuable insights into the feminist movement.  The term “game” when used like this, implies a sort of charisma or charm that a male strategically employs in the presence of a young lady in the hopes of persuading her to have sex with him.   Best I can tell, the usage of the word in this way originated among the negros.  The more success a man has with women, the more “game” he is said to have.

Of course, the pagan white-nationalists aren’t so vulgar with their zeal.  They attach noble sentiments to the enterprise and make intellectual-sounding observations about it all.   In this way, the “pick-up artist” has shown up (as a theme) in many white-nationalists blogs and online writings.  He’s even shown up at Kinism’s own Faith & Heritage in an article written by Generation 5.  They’re all trying to say that some good might come from the “pick-up artist” (in one way or the other.) **EDIT** Just to be clear, the F&H, Gen.5 article is an excellent analysis of the Pick-up Artist phenomenon.  He expounds on many of the themes I cover in this blog.  I mention it here to demonstrate the wide-range of conversation about this topic in the WN community.

I don’t want to do a point-by-point rebuttal of Bradley’s article.  I doubt it would do any good.  But, while thinking about these things and fondly remembering Dickens at the same time, I had an insight:

One of my first jobs was picking produce in a field.  There were about ten of us white kids out there, picking tomatoes, squash, cucumbers and all the rest.  We’d pick them in the morning and haul them in to be sorted, washed and boxed in the afternoon.  It was hard work, but it was fun.  The farm was run by an old farmer of the old blue-collar stock.  He would tell us stories about “the niggers” and we’d laugh all afternoon.  His wife was a kind woman; the stereotypical farm wife.  But she had a pastime of meddling in the social affairs of the help.

That’s how I found myself picking tomatoes across from a beautiful young blond who recited to me, in a perfect Southern accent, the joke about the truck full of bowling-balls — you know the one?  Where the trucker, hauling a load of bowling balls stops to pick up some black hitch-hikers?  A little later, he’s stopped by a policeman who radios in an emergency:  “I need backup!  I just stopped a load of nigger-eggs and two of them have already hatched!” I’ve heard the joke dozens of times since then, but it was never as sweet as that first time.

Of course, I was too young to know what to do with the girl but you can’t blame a farm wife for trying.  (I’ll tell you this much:  I wont miss an opportunity like that again!)

Can you imagine if some pompous, flamboyantly-dressed, scumbag, strolled out into the middle of the field, flashed some dollar-bills, swayed his hips, and offered his “pick-up” routine to the girl?

I’d have knocked the guy out!  He’d have to “pick-up” his teeth out of the dirt.

But, that’s the issue, isn’t it?  They’re not strolling out into fields.  They’re not walking up into traditionally white settings and plying their trade.  They’re going to urban centers.  Cities, night clubs, cafe’s and bistros.  Decontextualized-living in these environments makes the “pick-up” game possible.  With so many atomized individuals, women are looking for someone with substance, who displays archetypical male traits.

By “archetypical male” I mean a male who conforms to a Godly image:  a strong, domineering man who has the power to take dominion over himself and his surroundings to the glory of God — for the purpose of ringing in order, fighting back chaos and establishing a firm foundation for his wife and future children.

The “pick-up artist” scum-bag has learned to successfully project this image (for a short period of time).

Far better for a man to go out into the fields and work hard — to actually *be* an archetypical man instead of simply pretending to be one.

This is how a very likeable couple in Dickens’ story “The Battle of Love” came together.   They worked with each other every day!   A sweet, though awkward, housekeeper named Clemency Newcome fell in love with the character Benjamin Britain (they both worked for a rich country Doctor).  You wouldn’t have expected those two to fall in love but in Dickens’ story, they did.

“I’m not sure,” said Mr. Britain, “that it’s what would be considered good philosophy.  I’ve my doubts about that; but it wears well, and saves a quantity of snarling, which the genuine article don’t always.”

“See how you used to go on once, yourself, you know! said Clemency.  “Ah!” said Mr. Britain.  “But the most extraordinary thing Clemmy, is that I should live to be brought round, through you.  That’s the strange part of it.  Through you!  Why, I suppose you haven’t so much as half an idea in your head.”

Clemency, without taking the least offense, shook it, and laughed, and hugged herself, and said, “No, she didn’t suppose she had.”  “I’m pretty sure of it,” said Mr. Britain.  “Oh!  I dare say you’re right,” said Clemency.  “I don’t pretend to none.  I don’t want any.”

Benjamin took his pipe from his lips and laughed till the tears ran down his face.  “What a natural you are, Clemmy!” he said, shaking his head, with an infinite relish of the joke, and wiping his eyes.  Clemency, without the smallest inclination to dispute it, did the like, and laughed as heartily as he.

“I can’t help liking you,” said Mr. Britain; “you’re a regular good creature in your way, so shake hands, Clem.  Whatever happens, I’ll always take notice of you, and be a friend to you.  “Will you?” returned Clemency.  “Well! that’s very good of you.”

Then, later on after they were married, Dickens describes how well of a match they turned out to be:

“Though the host of the Nutmeg-Grater had a lively regard for his good-wife, it was of the old patronising kind, and she amused him mightily.  Nothing would have astonished him so much, as to have known for certain from any third party, that it was she who managed the whole house, and made him, by her plain straight-forward thrift, good-humour, honesty, and industry, a thriving man.”

Like a Prayer

I’m sure you’ve heard that Madonna performed a half-time show for the Super Bowl.  I think she was the perfect choice.

She’s like a prophetess for the new American religion.  She ended the performance with her most serious (and religious) song: “Like a Prayer” to furious applause.  The music-video for “Like a Prayer” showcases the final end of modernity, though in a falsely glamorized state.   (Modern reality is more of a nightmare.)

By “showcases the end of modernity” I don’t mean that her song showcases the actual *end* of Modernity.  I mean to say that it showcases the ends to which Modernity has lead the West.

One of my favorite thinkers, Richard Weaver, says this:

“When democracy is taken from its proper place and is allowed to fill the entire horizon, it produces an envious hatred not only of all distinction but even of all difference.”

then a little further on, he adds:

“So democracy, a valuable but limited political concept, has been elevated by some into a creed as comprehensive as a religion or a philosophy, already at the cost of widespread subversion.” ~ Visions of Order, pg. 15

Madonna is the priestess of this democratic religion which comes complete with its own rituals and rites.  Her music video is too vulgar to post so I’ll provide a brief overview and a few comments.  (Look it up on Youtube if you have a strong stomach.)

A gang of evil whites (representing us all) attack a hooker.  They beat her senseless then stab her to death.  During the struggle, a brave and noble negro (is there any other sort?) interferes on her behalf.  Of course, the white boys run off in time for the police to show up and blame the negro for the death of the woman.  Luckily though, Madonna was singing and dancing in the bushes and saw the whole thing.

The bulk of the video follows Madonna as she decides how to deal with what she’s seen.

She wanders into a church and has a religious experience with negro-Jesus and presumably decides that the only way to cleanse the sins of the white-race is to have sexual intercourse with the negro, while worshiping him (literally.)  I’ll repeat, the scenes are disgusting so watch with care (if at all.)

(A brief note:  Those of you who read “Cambria Will Not Yield“ will note that he repeatedly discusses the new-found negro-worship among Westerners.  When I first started reading his blog, I thought he was using poetic license or being metaphorical somehow.  But, sadly, I’ve become convinced that he is right in a very literal way, as Madonna’s video clearly demonstrates.)

Devotees to Madonna’s religion want to destroy all natural distinctions — all natural “boundaries” among men.  These (God-created) distinctions among men introduce inequalities and segregate certain people from others.  This is blasphemy to the modernist.   The only distinctions and segregations that can be allowed in this new religion, are those artificially imposed on man by the state.  In other words, man controls who can and cannot associate with each other.  Man sets the boundary markers!  Man will be sovereign over his own context!

When I speak of “context” I’m making an analogy.  To put it simply, I’m saying that a man is like a word in a sentence.  If you remove a word from a sentence, it becomes meaningless.  Take the word “dog” for instance.  In its decontextualized state, it has no meaning.

“Dog” could refer to a particular, likeable and furry animal.  (Though which likeable furry animal is being referred to, we have no clue.)

“Dog” could refer to the class of all fuzzy, likeable animals.

“Dog” could be someone’s nickname.

“Dog” could be a nonsense word used to carry the beat in a song: (dog it’a dog, a dang a dang dang).

Really, when the word “dog” is abstracted from its proper context, it becomes meaningless.

The same is true of a man.  When you remove him from his particular time, place and environment, he loses all traces of person-hood.  His environment isn’t just the trees, grass and rivers where he grew up — it includes things like: his genetics, his family-history, his intelligence, etc.  All of these natural distinctive-traits, define a man.  When liberals speak of him in an abstracted way (the most famous example of which is that whore-monger MLKjr speaking about the ‘content of a man’s character’) they are literally destroying him.

They hope to become their own gods by modeling themselves after a fallen and grotesque caricature of Christ and become sovereign over their own “context.”

Richard Weaver puts it this way:

“Enough has been said to show that our culture today is faced with very serious threats in the form of rationalistic drives to prohibit, in the name of equality, cultural segregation.  The effect of this would be to break up the natural cultural cohesion and to try to replace it with artificial politically dictated integration.”

Notice Weaver specifically claims that the politically-directed integration is artificial!  It is not a natural integration, but an artificial one imposed on us all by trickery and force.

Such “integration” would of course be a failure because where deep inner impulse is lacking cohesiveness for any length of time is impossible.  This crisis has been brought to our attention most spectacularly in the attempt to “integrate” culturally distinct elements by court action.  It is, however, only the most publicized of the moves; others are taking place in areas not in the spotlight, but all originate in ignorance, if not in a suicidal determination to write an end to the heritage of Western culture.

The more power these religious zealots gather, the more unstable Western culture will become until finally the house crashes down — as Christ has told us:

Every city or house divided against itself, shall not stand.

Of course, I know how the average Super-Bowl attendee will respond:

“It sure is a catchy tune though…”