A Kinist’s Take on the 2012 AMREN Conference

It came burning hot into my mind,
whatever he said and however he flattered,
when he got me home to his house,
he would sell me for a slave.
~ John Bunyan

Dear readers,

Have you ever felt exhilarated and discouraged at the same time?  Put a name to that emotion and that’s how I’m feeling in the aftermath of the 2012 American Renaissance conference.  I’ve heard nothing but good reviews so far (see here and here) and that’s part of the reason I feel a little discouraged.

If Jared Taylor’s organization represents a movement (and I think I’m being kind in granting that it does) then it’s not a movement that is interested in the sensibilities of a Christian Southerner like myself.  On the other hand, getting the chance to flex my intellectual muscles among like-minded folk was thrilling.  The company of compatriots was a refreshing end to the long night of isolation.  To say out loud the things I’ve only been able to write (or type) was well worth the drive to Nashville.

My journey through Nashville warrants a brief mention.  I arrived early and decided to explore.  I wanted to see the famous Vanderbilt University — the institution that birthed the Twelve Southerners who penned that famous book of essays, “I’ll Take My Stand” and helped spark a Southern renaissance.  Vanderbilt has a beautiful campus, (some of her female students match the blooming dogwoods in glamor, though, as you’re soon to learn, have nothing of the dogwood’s appeal).

I wandered around the campus and talked to some of the students.  I wanted to see if any of them were going to be the next John Crowe Ransom or Stark Young.  I struck up a conversation with a young lady ( a few years younger than myself) who, after learning about the Twelve Southerners and having gained some small insight about their thinking, assured me that nothing of that sort was taught at Vanderbilt and that she was appalled that I was so stuck in “another century” that I’d dare bring up such a politically incorrect subject.  She, erm, “politely” declined my invitation to have lunch.

And so it went (though not as dramatic) with other students.

In memory of the Twelve, I wanted to leave tire-tracks across the well-manicured campus — something in the shape of a Confederate Flag, maybe — but thought better of it.  Instead, I hung my head and whistled Dixie all the way back to my car, in long, mournful notes.  Later that evening, I raised a glass (or twelve) to my literary heroes.

But then, there was the conference.

I didn’t fully agree with any of the speakers, with the exception of perhaps James Edwards whose discussion was more pragmatic than ideological.  Some of the speakers I have very serious and profound disagreements with.  Remember earlier, I claimed that if Jared Taylor’s organization was to be considered a movement, it isn’t a movement that is kind to my sensibilities as a Christian Southerner?  Let me explain what I meant more thoroughly:

The great Sam Dickson (an archetypical Southern gentleman) did a wonderful job, as usual, in crafting together, in broad strokes, the underlying ideology that ties the American Renaissance ilk together into a recognizable movement.

“We’re empirical!” he says.  “We’re scientific!  We base our position on the facts!”

He used the old secularist buzz-phrases and, in so many words, declared that the racial-realist (and ethnic-nationalist) movements are based on secularism and scientific empiricism — the same evils that helped birth the dragon of modernism (on my view).  I recall thinking, during the presentations, that these guys adhered to the same religion as the neo-babelists, egalitarians and alienists.  The only difference between them is one of eschatology.  How ought the world play out?  To what end is man working?  They answer these questions similarly to the neo-babelist, but instead of a mixed utopia, desire a white utopia.

To further exemplify my observation, some of the AmRen speakers (and many in the crowd) advocated for eugenics.  This was especially the case with Dr. Richard Lynn.  He distinguished between “positive” and “negative” eugenics, the one being implemented through various educational endeavors aimed at improving desired genes.  The other is coerced by the strong arm of the state and aims to discourage, through sterilization and other means, the breading of non-desired genes.  Simply put, the one encourages, the other discourages.

Neither way is appealing to me as a Christian.  They both assume a bunch of pretentious, limp-wristed intellectuals, whose fingernails have never seen dirt, oil or blood, can sit around in their ivory towers and design humanity.  This is tyranny of one group of humans planners over countless millions.

Says Lewis:

“What we call Man’s power is, in reality, a power possessed by some men which they may, or may not, allow other men to profit by…And as regards contraceptives, there is a paradoxical, negative sense in which all possible future generations are the patients or subjects of a power wielded by those already alive.  By contraception simply, they are denied existence; by contraception used as a means of selective breeding, they are, without their concurring voice, made to be what one generation, for its own reasons, may choose to prefer.  From this point of view, what we call Man’s power over Nature turns out to be a power exercised by some men over other men with Nature as its instrument.” ~ Abolition of Man, pg. 55

“For its own reasons…”

That statement summarizes the bulk of my disagreement with the secular mind-set of the race-realists in attendance.  They want to arbitrarily impose their will over the rest of us.

Why do these people choose “IQ” as the standard to judge fellow humans?  Isn’t there more to a man than mere intelligence?  How high must his IQ be before we value him as a human?  My parents do not have the highest IQ in the world, should they not have been allowed to breed?  Should I not exist?  No.  There is far more to man than his IQ.  That’s why we don’t euthanize the elderly or pull the plug on coma patients.  And we certainly wouldn’t murder someone just because they happened to fall asleep!  (I don’t know what a sleeping man’s IQ is, but I’m sure he wouldn’t do well on a test).

The race-intellectuals’ dogmatic and zealous adherence to materialism and secular humanism, blinds them to the underlying dignity and spiritual importance of man.

I asked this question of one gentleman,

“Suppose there is a pill or injection that, once administered, would raise all humanity to an ideal IQ.  And, suppose further that everyone takes it.  Now the entire globe is similar in IQ.  Would we then be able to claim that our racial-group is special?”

The conversation moved on and he never directly answered the question.  (He was a marvelous conversationalist, however.  Having been in the Navy, like myself, he and I became friends.  He was also in possession of numerous fine cigars, which he handed out liberally.  Despite our minor disagreements, I found in him a compatriot and role-model.  I look forward to meeting him at other conferences).

Their IQ-topia doesn’t sound like the old Europe (or old Dixie) that I’ve come to love through literature.

I suppose this mindset has seeped into the movement from the influences of Frederick Nietzsche, though I have no idea why these folks are infatuated with him.  His philosophy, if followed consistently, would lead to complete nihilism in all things, ethics and politics included.  The idea that we need to impose our arbitrary whims on a chaotic universe always leads to tyranny.

This philosophy pops up elsewhere, especially in the realm of economics which was another hot topic among the conference participants.  I’ll have to discuss the rising ideology of social-credit theory and why it’s undesirable from a Christian point of view, in another post.

By way of general criticism, however, we Christians know that no man is omniscient, therefore, no man (or small group of men) can make decisions that will benefit all other men in a meaningful way.  The only way this is possible, is if the ruling man or group of men, make their decisions based on divine revelation, which is the only sure knowledge man can have about all of humanity, since it’s given to them by the only authority who can possibly know.

These very general comments provide the basis for a Christian theory of social-hierarchy and aristocracy, but as I said, all of that will have to be addressed in another post.

In conclusion, I think we Christians who are also racial-realists and ethnic-nationalists, should look at American Renaissance as less of a podium and more of a forum.  Jared Taylor shouldn’t be looked to as the leader of a movement, rather, he’s the facilitator of discussion among a full-spectrum of white-advocates and in that regard, is very good at his work.

When ideas collide and people interact on this level, I’m sure the truth, which by definition is God’s truth, will emerge on the field, victorious.

I met a lot of good friends (Mary! Courtney! B Oz! Mr. Jared P! Craig! And the guy who ran the Arktos books table, but I’m embarrassed because I’ve forgotten his name!) and many others.  I’m also always glad to see and speak with James Edwards, Paul Fromm, Jared Taylor and the great Sam Dickson.

I should also add a quick note of apology to Alex Kurtagic.  Due to some ill-perceived statement of his (on my part) I’ve been calling him Alex “Kurtragic”, but after meeting him in person, I’m ashamed of myself and hope to do right in the future.  He’s a very humble, poetic and passionate man whom I’m honored to have met.  (I suggested to him that he add zombies to the novel he’s presently writing, though I hope he doesn’t take me seriously.  I’d hate to see him use mundane-devices to curry pop-favor ).

I’m looking forward to a day when Kinists can have our own gathering of this sort, one where God is openly and formally honored and the spiritual nature of man can be discussed without reservation.  I’ve long daydreamed about who would speak at that sort of conference, but it doesn’t do any good thinking about that now.  For the present, I’ll take what I’ve learned from the AmRen and build on it for years to come.

Till the next breath…

Shotgun

A Stinging Faith

I was once forward-deployed (to a location I’ll not disclose).  I was sound asleep at two in the morning, when a scorpion crawled into my bed.

He stung me three times in the small of my back before I got him.

It took weeks before I was able to sleep with covers again.  I would panic if the sheet settled against my leg or if a breeze stirred my hair.  I slept curled up in the middle of the mattress, clutching my Bible in one hand and grasping my pillow with the other.

Call me childish, or call me a fool, but I believed holding the Bible would keep the scorpions away.  When you’re in that state of mind, it’s easy to believe in God and miracles.  In combat situations, men grasp the cross around their necks for similar reasons.  Holding something tangible makes the story real.  It gives flesh to an otherwise vacuous narrative.

I think that’s why Jesus came to Earth.  So we could love someone with “skin on.”  So we could grasp the hand of the Divine.

My favorite Bible story is when Peter walked on water.  He lost both his faith and his footing and tumbled into the waves.  But the Christ reached down and caught him!  Imagine that moment, when the hand of God reaches down and grasps Peter.  That one image is frozen in my mind and I think about it often.  It’s a very powerful image.

Without that connection, there is no Christianity.  Peter didn’t use science to walk on water.  He didn’t figure out the nature of molecules.  He wasn’t aware of atomic bonds or hydrogen.  He didn’t reason himself onto those waves.

And when he fell, he didn’t climb out with a syllogism.

He was touched by God.

I know, I know — my Calvinist friends are thinking about covenants and soteriology and would ask me to add all sorts of caveats about the nature and scope of the Incarnation.

But when you’re unable to sleep because you’re afraid of what might crawl into bed with you — you don’t think about systematic theology.  You hold your Bible close and pray for mercy.

Arguments Against Miscegenation (updated)

Race-mixing is all the rage and to deny it is blasphemy.  Literally. I’ve been condemned to Hell by Christians because I oppose race-mixing.  Americans have lost their natural affections and it may be naive to try reasoning them back to sanity.  Once the salt loses its saltiness, how can it get salty again?

Nevertheless, there are reasons why race-mixing is wrong.

I will present a brief survey of  various arguments, noting their strengths and weaknesses.  Keep in mind that I’m not formally making these arguments, but merely presenting them.  If you have a general criticism of why an argument should or shouldn’t be used, I welcome your suggestions.

I should also note, for the benefit of my neo-babelist readers, that all of the following presuppose the legitimacy and reality of race.  I understand you deny this presupposition vehemently and will try countering the arguments by declaring “race” an incoherent concept. But arguments for the reality of race are of a different category so I didn’t include them in this blog.  Everything can’t be done at once.

If you wish to interact with my arguments, you’ll have to grant the legitimacy of “race” at the outset.  If you don’t, then we’ll not be able to discuss them without first delving into the nature of “race” — which is a different topic all together.  So either you grant that race exists (for the sake of having an argument), or you’ll not be able to discuss these arguments (except to superficially dismiss them — and if that’s all you intend to do, why comment at all?)

With that out of the way, on with the show:

The Historical Argument

This is a broad argument, requiring a thorough knowledge of history.  Simply put:  our ancestors rejected race-mixing so we should as well!

The argument takes various forms.  For instance, it’s popular to appeal to the authority of the Puritans and Reformers to establish orthodoxy on race mixing.  “John Calvin,” it may be said “would not have stood for mixing, so we shouldn’t either!“  Also popular are appeals to America’s founding fathers, all of whom, by today’s standards, would be considered “racists” and kicked out of office.

Those using the historical argument are concerned with the not-so-subtle shift in a global worldview that has taken place over the past sixty years.   It might be best to document the rise of egalitarian thinking in the ivory towers (with specific focus on the French Revolution, Hegel, Marx and the radical Unitarians in America.)

I would caution those using the historical argument against mentioning specific people over and over, because counter examples can always be found, and different interpretations always offered.  (Even if they agree that Calvin rejected race-mixing, for example, they’ll simply reject Calvin.)  Instead, it may be better to point out how dramatically the worldview of all whites has shifted and ask why.  Was the shift good or bad?  This puts the neo-babelist (those self-consciously promoting race mixing) on the defensive.

I have also mentioned a way the historical argument could be presented that might offer better results.

The Pragmatic Argument

Of all the arguments I’m going to list, this is probably the worst.

In short, the argument says:  It is not prudent, or wise, for races to mix because those sorts of relationships have negative results.

This is the least controversial of the arguments because it presumably adds a level of plausibility to the one making the argument.  “I’m not out to defy the neo-babelist agenda, I’m just concerned for the well-being of everyone.  I’m a nice guy, see? Please don’t call me a racist!”

Of course, when it’s pointed out that something wont work, the healthy response is to fix it!  Imagine being told that Christianity is impractical.  We wouldn’t give up Christianity simply because it’s hard.  The race-mixer is, likewise, religiously devoted to his view and will not give it up because a few socially-unpopular intellectuals claim it’s impractical.

Even if the neo-babelist accepts that there are legitimate problems with race-mixing, that is all the more reason for him to destroy the old Christian order (which is the source of all his problems) and usher in a new Babylon.  “The reason race-mixing doesn’t work“, he’ll claim, “is because those redneck Southerners aren’t properly enlightened.”

For a decent representation of the pragmatic argument, (argued by a black man), see John Johnson’s book “It Ain’t All Good:  Why Black Men should not date White Women.”  Johnson discusses the negative psychological aspects of such relationships as well as the cultural draw-backs and other negative results.

The Pragmatic Argument Part II (Or, The Aesthetic Argument)

I often hear another argument that I have to class as “pragmatic,” though unlike the first, there is no intent to compromise.  It’s very popular among pagan white nationalists, especially “skinheads” who have probably done the most to circulate it among racially-aware folk. They’ve popularized it through their infamous “14/88″ slogan.  The “14″ stands for the “Fourteen Words”:

“Because the beauty of the White Aryan women must not perish from the earth.”

The argument implied by these 14 words is that white women are so beautiful we should do whatever it takes to keep them from disappearing from the Earth as a result of mixing and genocide.  The problem with pragmatic arguments though, is that the implied ethical standard is always arbitrarily chosen.

Even if a genocidal maniac concedes that the person he is about to murder is beautiful, why should he feel compelled to halt his rampage?  He’s a brute and does not yield to beauty.  The same is true for the more refined genocidal maniacs who run American media outlets.  They’re religiously devoted to their genocidal work and there’s no rational reason they should side with the skinhead on matters of taste.

Even the ones who recognize European beauty may employ an argument I’ve often heard from Austrian economists (like atheist jew, Walter Block) who argue that free-market forces can save endangered animals by domesticating them.  To preserve the beauty of white-women, they might capture them on film, in pictures, or by advances in science, transform non-whites into a European likeness.

(Don’t laugh at that last one, it’s already happening — which is another reason I dislike this argument.  The skinhead who solely relies on it is unable to object to marrying a negress.  He can’t object as long as she undergoes a process that changes her physical characteristics so that she resembles a white woman, even on the genetic level.)

As a Christian there is a lot I can disagree with about skinhead rhetoric and the “14/88″ but for our purposes here, I think it’s best to note that pragmatic arguments, in whatever form they take, are never strong since they rely on arbitrarily-chosen standards.

The Argument from Nature

Before moving on to more explicitly Christian arguments, I should mention another argument that some pagan white-nationalists use.  Many non-Christians attempt to ground moral and ethical norms in the normative working of nature.  It’s popular for these guys to point to the animal kingdom and suggest that animals don’t mix, so we shouldn’t either.  The animals that do mix are generally the ones that have been domesticated by man and thus (presumably) corrupted by unnatural influences.

A more worthwhile and sophisticated variation of the argument from nature — and one that I think more Christians should take seriously — is the idea that humans are created (either by evolution or a personal God) with a psychological predisposition towards loving and respecting other members of their racial class.  Just like, as some would argue, mothers are predisposed (psychologically) to love their children.  People who do not display a proper affinity for their racial-group, under this view, can be considered mentally-ill to some degree.

Concerning the former argument, I don’t think alluding to the animal kingdom is ever a good idea when thinking about ethics.  They poo wherever they want, roll around in their dead peers and go naked all day — none of which I’d want to imitate.  If I don’t imitate those actions, however, then I’m not justified in arbitrarily choosing to imitate their segregation.

The Exegetical Argument

Arguments from the Biblical text are the most  useless in my opinion.  I’ll qualify that statement by noting that what I have in mind is something like the trendy practice of hurling verses of Scripture at a person and hoping something sticks.

Christians may hate to admit it, but the Bible is simply not clear on many implications.  Exegesis is hard work and those involved are prone to error.  Consider the paedo vs. credo baptism debate for example.  How many years has this been raging?  Why can’t we simply open up the Bible and say:  “look…we’re supposed to baptize our babies” ? Why haven’t the textual scholars ended the debate?

It’s because men interpret the Biblical data based on their underlying presuppositions about life.  And so, when facing the slobbering disposition of the neo-babelist, can we really hope to convince him that a word means what it means, or that a passage teaches what it so clearly teaches?  Not unless we first challenge his underlying religious commitment to the new (Satanic) world order.

But despite the conceptual muddles that arise in discussions of textual criticism and hermeneutics, some of the following arguments are attempted by optimists:

- The dominion mandate and reproduction of “kind after kind” in Genesis 1 precludes race-mixing.

- The seed laws in Leviticus preclude race-mixing. (Leviticus 19:19).

- Race mixing is said to be a violation of many of the 10 commandments.

Commandment 1 and Commandment 2:  The public act of marriage outside of God-ordained boundaries effectively sets up the state and humanist man as the god of that society.  This is true for mixed marriages of any sort, including homosexual couplings, pedophilia, and (God-forbid) if any state ever allows marriage with animals.

In short:  God says no, but the state says yes — and society goes with the state.

The neo-babelist may respond by saying that this argument will not work unless it is proven that race-mixing is a violation of God-ordained boundaries.  But as I mentioned above:  we’re presupposing the legitimacy of racial boundaries at the outset.

He may accept that for the sake of argument, but then try being clever by noting that the distinction between individuals is also a God-ordained boundary.  No one would say that it’s sinful for individuals to marry.  Point taken — but it would be sinful to physically merge the two individuals together!  That violates the sanctity of the God-ordained distinction between the two.   So, the neo-babelist’s counter on this point falls short — they’re making a category-mistake.  Of course, given their ideology, I doubt they’d have a problem mixing apples and oranges.

Commandment 5:  Race-mixing is a way of dishonoring not only your parents but your entire ancestral line.  For more on this argument, see “The Fifth Commandment Versus Egalitarianism” at Faith and Heritage.

Commandment 7:  It’s often claimed that race-mixing is a form of adultery.  See “Brother or Another” at Spirit / Water / Blood for more on this.

Commandment 8:  For those who think in terms of nationalism, a woman is a vital asset to any community and when she marries outside of her race, the community is losing her as an asset.  So, taking a wife from another race (an ethnic nation) is theft.  (See a “Biblical Defense of Ethnic Nationalism”).

A father who gives his daughter away to another race is committing treason.

Commandment 10:  Most all cases of race-mixing in America today foster a sick negro sexual fantasy, fulfilling their lust for a breech of status, hence covetousness.  Lust is peddled to children and taught in churches these days.

The list could go on.  Many of these arguments are only applicable if it is first demonstrated that the Old Testament law is still a legitimate guide for modern states.  So, if the neo-babelist is not also a theonomist of sorts, these exegetical arguments will be especially hard to present.

The Covenantal Argument

The arguments from Covenant are much stronger, in my opinion, because they not only rely on the authority of past precedent, but they make theological sense.  We’re not trying to re-invent the wheel, instead, we’re attempting to consistently apply the theology of our Puritan forbears. Many Christian neo-babelists already accept these positions but don’t realize their implications.

When babies are born, they are automatically granted entrance into the visible church by virtue of their blood-relation to the parents.  The covenant, then, is obviously passed down through the blood!  Every time the neo-babelist applauds the baptism of a baby, his is affirming that the Covenant is of the blood.  So, by extension, entire nations of blood-kin are inaugurated into the covenant.  This sets a strong precedence for blood-bonds against  whole-sale race mixing.

The neo-babelist wants to claim that blood-bonds are meaningless, but the covenant institution indicates otherwise.  In fact, blood-bonds are so important that God stakes an infant’s covenant-status on them.  The idea behind covenant, when dug into, yields an entire Biblical scheme of thinking about nation and kin that is anathema to the neo-babelist and should be highlighted whenever possible.

For another aspect of the argument from Covenant, we need to consider the act of marriage.  Marriage is a profound statement.  When two people are joined in the covenant of marriage, they are making political, social and metaphysical statements.  Mixed marriages throw off the organic ties of people-hood and blatantly assert the righteousness of a cosmopolis where the state defines (by fiat,) what a family is. In other words, they are publicly rejecting God-ordained order in favor of a neo-babelist social-order where the state sanctions couplings without regard for Godly propriety.

The Teleological Argument

The teleological argument against race-mixing is probably the strongest one there is since it reduces the Neo-Babelist to absurdity.

There are a few different ways this can be presented.  The idea is to focus on human destiny.  What is mankind’s purpose, and why did God create different races?

The Neo-Babelist, of course, want all races to eventually bleed into one so that we can have some mocha-colored dream world.

In contrast, the consistent Christian sees all of humanity as specially created by God (not by evolutionary accident) and appreciates all the diversity in the world.  He wants to see this diversity carried on to the end of time, where, in Heaven, there will be many nations of people (many different races) all maintaining their racial distinctives, yet all united in Christ.

The Neo-Babelist view has many problems, and can be easily reduced to absurdity, making this, one of the strongest arguments against race-mixing there is.

To see this sort of reductio in action, see the excellent First Word blog “Adam and Eve as Mulattos.”

Conclusion:

Some of the older and wiser kinists out there have suggested that arguing against race-mixing is counter-productive.  Instead, they say, we should simply demonstrate that the Bible does not preclude forming ethnic nations — a move that I’m learning (more and more) is probably for the best.  Once we’ve established the legitimacy of ethnic-nationalism as a form of social-order, then “race-mixing” becomes akin to debates about immigration and can be dealt with accordingly.

To conclude: I admit there are many nuanced positions within the broad categories I’ve provided.  If anyone knows of any arguments I’ve failed to list, let me know and I’ll add them.

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?

Little Girl Lost

Lost in desert wild
Is your little child…

Early last year I stopped at a hole-in-the-wall gas-station on the outskirts of Washington North Carolina — a small town in the middle of the eastern part of the state.

A beautiful young blond assisted me at the register.  She must have been about sixteen, had bright blue eyes and a southern accent that melted my heart.

Hovering near at hand (with lust in their eyes) was an assortment of large negros.  One must have been six-five and weighed close to four-hundred pounds.  He was wearing an apron and I assumed he worked at the grill.  Another of the negros was dressed as if he too worked at the store.  The third I took for a lackey, hanging out with his pals.

Presiding over them was an old white woman with a raspy, ciggarette-ruined voice.  She was overweight and smelled so strong, I could distinguish her from the cloud of afro-sheen.   To add to her villany, she was flirting with the negros — touching their arms, giggling at inappropriate moments and displaying a disregard for all the propriety a white lady (in her late fifties) should observe.

My heart went out to the poor girl at the register.  I’ve mentioned her to some of my friends and they’ve accused me of having inappropriate sexual feelings for the girl (jokingly, of course — though I didn’t think very highly of the joke.)

No, my attraction isn’t depraved or sinful; I believe my concern for the girl arises from a heart that’s still pumping (even if weakly, at times.)  This poor girl has no chance in the world unless God rains down a miracle.

After repeated visits to the store, I found out that the old woman was the girl’s grandmother.  Despite her flirtation with the negros, she had shacked up with some low-class red-neck who carried on a conversation with me once, while I was pumping gas.

“The owner of this store done tryin’ ta screw us over, my girl-fren n’ me!” he declared, referring to the old woman as his girl-friend.

Apparently, honest work was below this man and he displayed an unfortunate belief in the class-theory of Marxism.  “The evil coporations were taking undue advantage of him and his girlfriend.”

I can only guess what this poor girl’s homelife is like and after talking with her grandmother’s live-in boyfriend, I was all the more convinced that I should do something — interject myself into the girl’s life somehow…

…but what to do?

I don’t live near Washington NC and so I can’t be a regular part of her life.  I don’t have enough money to hire her or create a new life for her somewhere else (and even if I did, I’m not convinced that would be healthy.  It seems a little presumptuous.)  Sharing the Gospel with her would be all but worthless since she’s likely so biased about Christianity that it would take years of teaching to help her see the true state of theology, the world and her situation in it.

So, what to do?

I decided awhile back that I’d give her a copy of Sheridan Le Fanu’s “Uncle Silas” and address it to her from an “anonymous benefactor who has a special interest in your well-being and wishes to see your life resolve itself into a happy set of circumstances, just like the heroine in this novel.”

But, over the months other things came up and I forgot about all this.  Even when I thought about it from time to time, I wasn’t convinced it would be the best course of action.

Today, I happened through Washington NC again and stopped at the store to check in on her.

The beautiful blond-haired, blue-eyed girl, had her hair up in some style that is popular among negresses.  Her lip was pierced in a gaudy and unappealing fashion and her fingernails were covered in large, brightly-colored fake-nails (also popular among the negresses.)

I talked with her a little more and heard subtle (though sinister) hints of afro-slang in her vocabulary.

The rage I have towards Satan on behalf of this girl is unspeakable.  Something has to be done.

And I feel like a helpless observer.

So, please tell me, ye educated bloggers (and even ye uneducated who, nevertheless, have beating-hearts)…

What should I do?

Yes Virginia, There is a White Man

DEAR EDITOR:

I am a 28 year old woman.
Some of my friends at the office
say there is no white man. 
Papa says, ‘If you see it on the internet, it’s so.’
Please tell me the truth; is there a white man?

Search the world over, Virginia; from the golden California coast to the cold recesses of Siberia and you’ll find many men with unique physical characteristics: white skin, hair of blond and red, and eyes of all shades.

But you know that none of these are white men. None of them satisfies your winsome curiosities. None of them have a heart that keeps time with the old Europe you’ve read about.

Are there white men like the ones on your bookshelf?

Men who will fight dragons, rescue damsels and unashamedly assert themselves in public? Men who consider their family a precious fruit to be harvested with reverence and will not yield it even in the face of five thousand ungodly demons? Men who can, with their eyes alone, fill your heart with longing and inspire you to live out your true feminine calling? Men who will love their wives like Christ loved the church?

Your little friends at the office are wrong. Despite the barren landscape afforded the modern West; yes Virginia, there is a white man.

He exists as surely as those novels on your bookshelf.

He’s hiding for the time-being, preparing himself, training, honing his abilities and ensuring his readiness for the day his Master’s battle-horn sounds and white heroes ride once more under the banner of Christendom.

And while he’s in hiding, he strives to keep his soul from being polluted by our Satanic age in hopes of maintaining a respectable place in the halls of his Christian ancestors.

Oh Virginia, no white man? Thank God he lives and lives forever! He’s watching for you, even now; he stares back at you from the pages of those books on your shelf and longs to rescue you from the dragon-jaws of modernism.

So even if it takes ten years, or ten thousand years, be vigilant! Don’t accept the latte-sipping, Hawaiian-shirt-wearing, limp-wristed, hipster who has no interest in the patriarchal family, heroism, or dragon-slaying. He’s not a white man, no matter the color of his skin. Hold out for a white man.

As long as he exists, so does hope for the West.

All Hail the Dogmatist!

I have a new word in my arsenal of labels:  “dogmatist.”

The dogmatist cares more for his rationalized conceptual scheme than he does for actual people or things.

I’ve run afoul of two different groups of dogmatists lately and was cast from among their fellowship!  (There ain’t no baby in my bathwater!)

The first was a club of Reformed Christians.  They accept into their fellowship anyone who claims historic protestantism, though it’s preferable and easier to get along if one is a follower of Calvin in some capacity.

When asked about my denominational leanings, I usually reply:  “I’m a Presbyterian but I doubt they’d claim me…” and as funny as that sounds, it’s more and more true as life unfolds — (leading me to conclude that I might not be a Presbyterian at all!)  Whatever the truth, it was enough to get me into the club.

I associated with these folks for a few weeks, during which I made a few “friends”.

Though, it wasn’t long before a witch (not only does this woman practice the Craft, you wouldn’t be off imagining her with a wart-encrusted nose and pointy hat–her attitude matching the metaphorical outfit) arrived and informed everyone that, between the two of us, my company was the less-preferable due to my “jaw-dropping” outlook on matters of race.

(We had met previously, the witch and I, an occasion that I recall happily.  Any chance I get to put a feminist pagan in her place, I take enthusiastically.  And like any woman-scorned, she remembered my offense and broadcasted a witchy caricature all around the club.)

Of course, the charge that I was a “racist” simply couldn’t be true, could it Shotgun?

I was given all of two minutes to respond to the accusation, after which my “friends” of the past two weeks proceeded to call me “moron,” “fool,” “dork,” and other, less-flattering, terms, before damning me to Hell and removing me (permanently, it seems) from their fellowship.

The witch?  She attends the club to this day and endures civil attempts at evangelism.  (I’m sure if they adequately present pagan-Christ to her, she’ll have no reservations about signing up!)  Isn’t it ironic?  Our ancestors dunked witches to get a confession, these days when a witch is dunked, it’s a baptism!

These “Reformitards” suffer all sorts of evil:  atheists, witches and democrats, but the one person they can not and will not suffer, is a “racist.”

Makes you wonder about their real passion in life.

The other group of whom I ran afoul are similar, though persuaded of a different rationalistic scheme.  They were, by and large, of the Charismatic variety.  Many believed their flamboyant pastor (who functions almost like a cult leader) can magically heal cancerous tumors with a simple flick of his limp, effeminate wrist.

Apparently though, he’s powerless to heal the fact that I’m a white, Christian male, cast in the image of old Europe.  Off that sort of man, his powers rebound with pious screeches compelling him to damn the poor creature or at least, break fellowship with it.

And, break fellowship we did.  (Though afterwards, others who had been similarly cast out, contacted me, offering friendship and condolences.  There are, at least, a small number of folks out there who aren’t heart-and-soul dogmatists, but care about actual people.)

That’s the rub!  The dogmatist is capable of evil, wickedness and cruelty, all masquerading in the guise of pious duty to his rational scheme.

I blame Mr. Cambria for all my troubles.  Mostly, because if it weren’t for him, I would still be a dogmatist myself (and Presbyterians the world over would welcome me into their fellowship, especially if I was accompanied by a negress!  Presbos need negros, you know!)

He taught me that I was a human but not just a human, an antique-European man.  And that being a human is a good thing.  It’s not something we’re to transcend.  It’s a gift and a very profound one.  God made us men, not spirit-less abstractions!

Mr. Cambria says he used to teach English (or something like that).  He’s found a student in me, if no one else (though I’m sure there’s plenty better-suited to grasp his themes than a farm-boy from North Carolina.)  He cites Walter Scott’s novel “Old Mortality” where the character John Balfour takes on the role of the dogmatist, and violates Christian chivalry:

“In every century of the Christian era of Europe there were blasphemers who championed the forms of the faith against the substance of the faith. Walter Scott depicts such a “Christian” in his novel Old Mortality. John Balfour, a fanatical Scottish Covenanter, violates the law of chivalry, which was written in the hearts of all Christian Europeans, by killing, in the name of his mind-forged Christless faith, a Christian soldier of the royalist party who came to Balfour bearing a flag of truce.

“A free pardon to all,” continued the young officer, still addressing the body of the insurgents—“to all but—“

“Then the Lord grant grace to thy soul. Amen!” said Burley.

With these words he fired, and Cornet Richard Grahame dropped from his horse. The shot was mortal. The unfortunate young gentleman had only strength to turn himself on the ground and mutter forth, “My poor mother!” when life forsook him in the effort. His startled horse fled back to the regiment at the gallop, as did his scarce less affrighted attendant.

“What have you done?” said one of Balfour’s brother officers.

“My duty,” said Balfour firmly. “Is it not written, ‘Thou shalt be zealous even to slaying’? Let those who dare NOW venture to speak of truce or pardon!”

Ironically, I used to attend a Scottish Covenanter church (when I lived in Washington D.C.)  Looking back, I could see myself turning into a Balfour.

But no matter how many Balfours shoot me (and there are many, lining up for the opportunity) I’ll soldier on.  What else can we do?  Give in to cynicism and despair?

It’s tempting.

But, no.  If Mr. Cambria’s taught us nothing else, it’s that the antique-European doesn’t give in to those things.

So, I’ll keep trying.  How else will the Balfours get their target practice?

Billy vs. The Negro

…for all ‘is dirty ‘ide , E was white, clear white inside…

In Chowan County North Carolina students in grades six through eight are bussed into the countryside and dropped off at a humble institution known as “Chowan Middle School.”  Driving by, one would note the seeming charm of a series of buildings comfortably nestled in a meadow on the outskirts of a hardwood forest.

But those familiar with government education know that sixth graders seldom find themselves behind the wheel and are less apt to appreciate the aesthetic qualities of their school.  To them, the building presented a more formidable air.  I can recall this first-hand.

New duties were thrust upon us.  We had to remember combinations to lockers and change classes when the bell rang.  This, combined with all the troubles that come from acclimating oneself to a new environment, occasioned an unusual amount of apprehension.

And so, for the first time in my life, I was searching for a friend.  I was specifically looking for someone who shared my interests, (which at the time,  were wholly consumed in the various methods and strategies of vampire slaying.)

Our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Strickland, had the class, in round-robin fashion, tell something about themselves.  It was here that I met Billy.  I don’t recall the context of the discussion but he said something about Dracula or Transylvania and from that point I had him marked out as a fellow I’d like to associate with.

I didn’t know it at the time but in those early years when we were too naive to hide our eccentricities, our peculiarities (which, in Christian societies add to the charm of individuals) are the very things that mark us out for a lurking group of monsters.  The older, wiser seventh-graders had already begun to learn this and by eighth grade the seeds of full-blown homogenization are firmly planted.  (By ninth grade there are no individuals left in the government school system.)

And yet, with this horrible observation our true story begins:

There are a rare breed of individuals hiding among average sixth-graders who have within themselves some deep, inner light and stand in it, even in the face of evil!  They stand, even when confronted with the full weight of Satania!  Yes, I was instantly drawn to Billy Held, I think now, because he had that spark.

Billy had a knack for drawing and kept a special notebook devoted to his fantastic creations.  I acquired one as well and soon we were day-dreaming about our fantasy characters (which included Robert Jordan, dragons, wizards, and for some reason…the headless horseman?)  We were both attracted to the charm of old-Europe though it would be years before I would recognize that.  We became fast friends.

In seventh grade we were some of the only hold-outs against the onslaught of social-homogenization though, even we were forced to give up the childish sketch-books (and all the dreams they held.)  But still, we would sit together at lunch, with our friends, discussing boyish things and dreaming boyish dreams, oblivious to the unstated, but very strong currents flowing around us, guiding our fellow classmates towards conformity.

It should be noted, at this point, that the negro is a major tool of homogenization.  Whether this was planned by man, Satan, or not at all…will have to be discussed elsewhere.  But, nevertheless, the negro children, and their implicit social cohesion and racial loyalties, acted as a profound catalyst for social conformity.   As I said earlier, our eccentricities marked Billy and I out as bright lights in the dark world of the negro.

In days of old, when the battle-horn was sounded, the enemy trembled and fled.  These days, at least for Billy and I, it meant that the enemy knew who and what (and worse:  WHERE) we were, even if we didn’t.  Sounding the battle-horn was the best way to ensure a lone stand against the full force of Satania.

That’s a lot to ask of a seventh-grader.

Yes, the wrath of the negro (taught to him by nature and his parents) toward the antique-European is nowhere more unadulterated than in the dispositions of their youth, who have yet to learn even the modicum of restraint shown by their parents.

In the seventh-grade, (though it started long before, even if it wasn’t fully recognized) all of the white students felt the wrath of the negro.  One of the only ways to avoid the wrath is social cohesion…going along with the flow…not sticking out…and ultimately, NOT showing any sort of respect for white culture or the people that created it.

Billy refused.  It wasn’t even a self-conscious refusal…it was a deep, bred-in-the-bones refusal…and for that, he will always be one of the heroes of my life (even though he moved away soon after the events I’m about to describe occurred.)

I refused as well, though less adamantly than Billy.  I wasn’t as strong.  I remember once in gym class, we were all standing in line to do pull-ups.  The negros were chattering and yelling loudly, as usual.  They were happy that one of their mates, (a charismatic negro named Jamal) had been able to do a pull-up and hang there for 30 seconds…a class record.  No one else was able to do even one.  Many of the white boys refused to even try and sauntered off to the back of the line…(which elicited an outburst of laughter from the negros.)  Billy didn’t get out of line.  He confidently walked through the jeers and loud taunts of the negros, climbed up on the stand, grasped the bar and knocked out 5 pull-ups to the amazement of everyone!  Even the negros stopped their noises!

That was an incredible day, though instead of being greeted as a white hero, Billy’s victory went unacknowledged by his kinsmen.  Whites, you see, weren’t allowed to think of themselves as any sort of people-group.  We were only seventh-graders, but we knew that much.

We had decided not to cave in to the forces of social reconstruction, and that ultimately put Billy and I (mostly Billy) on an inevitable path toward a battle with the negros.  And I still remember the day it happened…very clearly.

We were in a computer class, which was taught by an overweight black woman, (who, I think, appreciated the jeers and bullying of the negros…”anything to put ‘dem white honkies in dey place!“  I can’t believe that the state of North Carolina would hire a blind person, and blind she must have been to have missed it all…either blind, or apathetic.)

A negro had asked Billy if he could borrow a pencil.  Billy, not wanting to make trouble, let him borrow one “for a second.”  The next thing we knew, the negro had the pencil in his mouth…licking it and slobbering all over it.

“Yoo wawnt dis back? hehehe!“

Billy, not one to be bullied, replied something like:  “You stupid idiot! I was being nice to you, and you stole my pencil!“

“What choo cawl me white boy?.WHAT WHAT???“

He shoved Billy…and it was then that Billy committed the ultimate sin: he dared hit one of the chosen.

The taunts and rhetoric escalated, as it always does with negros.  When the bell rang, we all poured outside.

Billy walked out into the grass surrounding the computer building and dropped his book bag while the negro approached quickly from behind and, not waiting for Billy to turn around, plowed into him.

Billy fell forward, but had managed to spin at the last-minute, missing the full force of the negro’s lunge.  He struck out with a series of quick jabs, sending the negro reeling.

By this time, a sizable group of students had gathered round.  The noise was unbearable.  This was the only time I ever saw a group of students gather around a fight.

The negro (Sam was his name) swung back, catching Billy in the lip.  Billy responded with a volley of punches, sending Sam staggering backwards.  Just before he fell, Sam caught Billy by the neck.  Regaining his balance, he wrapped Billy in a head lock and to the joy of his chanting comrades, did some sort of improvised, as-seen-on-tv move, where he dropped to the ground, forcing Billy to land face-first.

Some teachers, (I don’t remember who) ended the fight at this point.  They pried the negro off of Billy, and there, in front of at least 50 children, Billy began to cry.  He wasn’t crying from the pain…no, he was crying from the humiliation.  He was crying because of the jeers and insults, not just from the negros (that was a given) but from all his fellow whites who stood around ridiculing him for daring to take a stand.   He was crying because, in that one moment, he felt so helpless and so humiliated…in that instant he saw clearly, standing against him, the full weight and strength of the monster that he had chosen to defy.  It wasn’t just the negro Sam, it wasn’t just the taunts of his cowardly white kinsmen…it was the whole social-system that was corrupt!

He continued crying, even as the teachers marched the fighters to the office.  I was in front of the procession, and  behind it, followed the leering, laughing hoard of students, both white and black.  (They followed poor Billy all the way to the office.)

I wasn’t laughing.

This has to have been the most humiliating moment in Billy’s life, though to me…by God it was a white moment of the greatest sort.  I’ll never see another like it.

This one 12 year old boy stood against the entire might of the Unitarians, the self-righteous northerners, the Social Marxists, the Civil Rights activists and every Satanist that Liberaldom has spawned over the past sixty years!  He met them, gaze for gaze…and went down swinging!

Not all the pain of Liberaldom could hide…that Billy Held was white, clear white inside.

Ode to the House Centipede

Ode to the house centipede
Who gave his life for mine…
Can such a man as I
Be no less divine?

Also known as the Scutigera Coleoptrata, the house centipede is an insectivore originating from the Mediterranean region (but has since migrated elsewhere as you’ll soon discover) consisting of a long, yellowish body with 15 pairs of legs that allow it to reach the remarkable running speed of .4 meters per second.  Its unusual speed combined with a striking appearance make the house-centipede a formidable guest in any home.

My long (and, er…tentative…) relationship with the creatures began when I moved to Washington D.C.  As mutually infuriating as our dealings were, in the end I learned that God Almighty has even the interests of the house centipede close to His heart and teaches lessons with an ironic sense of humor.

Yes, a house centipede saved my life (in a manner of speaking).

Being alone in an unwelcoming place is something the house centipede and the North Carolinian have in common at times.  Unfortunate circumstances found me living in an undesirable city.  The long-arm of depression began massaging my shoulders (though characteristically apathetic in its ministrations).  It wasn’t long before I was  questioning life and wondering if there was a rational reason to live.

My mind reached dark places where things less-valiant than house centipedes lurk.  “Why live?” I would ask the Lord.  “What’s the point?”  I didn’t see any reason to go to work, eat, drink, or even get out of bed.

I lay there one morning staring at the ceiling and crying out my usual (and depressing) mantra to the Lord.  “Why, why why?  What rational reason is there for me to get out of bed this morning?”

By this time, I had met the house centipede, though not formally.  I had no idea what it was called.  Never having seen them as I was growing up in North Carolina, they remained alien to me.  Would it bite?  Would it sting?  Does it crawl all over me at night and lay eggs in my pillows?  (Uuggghhhh)  The most disturbing observation about these animals was the way they seemed attracted to my body (presumably my body-heat.)  In my apartment, this particular bug was damned on sight.

Well…damned on sight most of the time, anyway.  While laying in bed, seeped in depression, I noticed one of my many-legged companions crawling along the wall.

“Lord, at this point why even bother keeping a clean house?  Let the thing crawl around.”

It made its way to the corner, pressed into the fold of the two walls and began running upwards.  I kept a watchful eye as it reached the ceiling, focus on my prayer vying with a sort of morbid curiosity.

Once hitting the ceiling, it paused for a moment (along with my prayers:  “Hold up for a second God…”)  Then, like lightening, it sped towards me!  “What is that fool thing doing” I thought?   It reached the point directly over my bed, and I began to panic.   My prayers forgotten, I watched helplessly.

With an alien speed, it crept over my feet, then over my knees, my chest and then my face.

It paused there, looking at me and I at him for a brief instant.

Then, of course, he dropped.

Yes, dear readers…I got out of bed that day (with a yelp!) though it cost the centipede his life.