Why Do They Come?

parthenon“Why do they come? What do they seek?
Who build but never read their Greek?”

On my way home from AMREN (a review to come), I stopped in Nashville and walked to their Parthenon. I had a little book of Fugitive poems with me and while lounging under the massive columns I read Donald Davidson’s “On a Replica of the Parthenon”.

I saw the pool he referenced and parked under the willow trees. From that vantage, I felt one in spirit with Davidson.  Eventually I went closer.  Weekend filth littered the plaza. And as I sat there reading, I observed dozens of moderns, including a group of Asian immigrants, strutting by, smug in their position as honored invaders.

I think I’ve finally succeeded in understanding a poem.

Posted in Defending Dixie | Leave a comment

Of Course of Course

gentlemanwithhorseEnglishSchoolThe “Daily Stormer” posted a video clip featuring a bunch of spring break harpies and it has caused an uproar.  In response, I’ve decided the next time I hear a white nationalist complain about a lack of women (or complain about being unable to win the affections of a good one), I’m recommending he learn to ride a horse.

Why that of all things?

First, it takes money. If a man can manage to earn enough to spend his leisure time learning to ride horses, he’s already ahead of the bulk of his WN compatriots.

Secondly, it will force him into regular contact with women.  Most riding teachers are women.  And not just any women, but cultured ones. On top of that, he’ll have to deal with little girls as well. He’ll learn to canter alongside 8 year olds on ponies. This will temper the rough edges of his personality and teach him meekness.

Thirdly, it will get him out of his mom’s basement and into semi-regular exercise.

I’m sure there are more reasons, for instance, learning the equestrian arts requires study of history and an awareness of white culture that one doesn’t normally find on Stormfront.

…but these are enough to support my contention.

Posted in General | 6 Comments

Bonfire of the Southern Vanities


The radical leftists shown above are university students in Florida.  Self identifying as Marxists, they held this rally on the 150th anniversary of Lee’s surrender at Appomattox and happily burned the Confederate Battle flag.

…an apt illustration, I think, of how Dixie is metaphorically burning.

Her guardians – I mean, those aristocrats charged in the old days with care of subordinates in accordance with the “great chain of being” – are missing in action.  As infuriating as the above image is, I lay the blame more on the managerial deserters than on the colored savages and white satanists who’ve been allowed to roam the streets.

So where are they?  Where are our aristocrats?  They’re boozing it up in the old town districts of Charleston.

I’ve recently read Tom Wolfe’s “Bonfire of the Vanities”.  The book was a masterpiece of conservative literature, certainly.  I just wouldn’t want my mother to find it on my shelf.  Full of profanity and lewd scenes, its “realism” was so filthy I wondered if Wolfe might have done better to simply state outright, in a few brief sentences, what his message was and save us from having to live through the sewers of New York to find it.

Nevertheless, Wolfe gives us, through the mouth of a famous British poet at an upscale dinner party, his view of modern aristocrats.  During an after-dinner speech, the old poet comments on how America needs a great epic poem, and preferably one with rhymes like those Poe has given us.  This moves him into a discussion of Poe’s “Mask of the Red Death”, and how it was applicable to the present company:

Now, the exquisite part of the story is that somehow the guests have known all along what was with them in this room, and yet they are drawn irresistibly toward it, because the excitement is so intense and the pleasure is so unbridled and the gowns and the food and the drink and the flesh are so sumptuous — and that is all they have.

Families, homes, children, the great chain of being, the eternal tide of chromosomes mean nothing to them any longer.  They are bound together, and they whirl about one another, endlessly, particles in a doomed atom — and what else could the Red Death be but some sort of final stimulation, the ne plus ultra?  So Poe was kind enough to write the ending for us more than a hundred years ago.  Knowing that, who can possibly write all the sunnier passages that should come before?

The emphasis is mine.  These aristocrats are stuck in a downward spiral of hedonism.  Here’s my thesis:

Since the Yankee invasion and fall of old Dixie (which amounted to the last stand of Christendom against the forces of darkness), the aristocrats have had all formal acknowledgement of their stations ripped away leaving them as shrewd capitalists, forced to wring out a living by giving up their chivalry and honor.  The market was their new master.

The sole mark of aristocracy now is one’s net worth and this bottom line must be maintained at all cost, damn the moral consequences.  And once attained (usually by dishonorable means) it’s maintained with a savage ruthlessness.  Gone are the days of kindly, Christ-like paternalism…it’s every man for himself.  Such is the free market “liberal” utopia forced upon us by canon fire.

There is hope, however.  Many Southern aristocrats lost their fortune in the War and had to live with drastically reduced means.  They kept their genetic stock and their dignity, but lost their social rank.  My own family is an example of this.  My last name peppers the Virginia countryside on historical plaques and has its home on many a black person’s mailbox.

This “fallen” aristocratic dignity infected the blue-collar work ethic of the average Southerners and a growing middle class emerged with a frightening amount of fortitude and a smouldering wrath…of which, as you all know, I’ve inherited a fair share.

Nevertheless, the vanity of a few rich southerners lives on at the center of the bonfire; they feel the heat but have the liberty to ignore the flames, at least for now.

…they just have to remember which neighborhoods to avoid walking through.

Posted in Defending Dixie | Tagged , , , , | 3 Comments

Where the White Wimminz Is?

Albert Samuel Anker - Young Girl Pealing Potatoes

In the early 2000’s, when I was young, in the Navy, and too stupid not to follow the crowd, I followed them frequently to house parties and other debaucherous events.  It was a running joke that when the token blacks arrived (all white cliques had to include a little color) they’d burst into the room and shout “where the white wimminz is?”

Knowing the temperament of white party girls, and knowing how infuriating it would be to white ghosts (as well as the girls’ fathers), these blacks made no bones about their lust for pillage.  Unfortunately, the white girls complied, indulging the pleasures of their pet tokens, even though few had the stomach to follow through with their flirting.

I see white pagans in the same light.  Having given up the Faith of their ancestors, and having been reared in a horrible culture, they’ve taken on the mannerisms of the blacks – mannerisms which are lauded as virtues in our egalitarian utopia.  Even while preaching a crass “racism”, they’re following the be-bopping pied pipers down the road to licentiousness.  And like their black role models (though not as overt), they burst into white events, conferences, or gatherings, with one question on their minds:  where the white wimminz is?

More sophisticated white advocates ask the same question but for different reasons.  Where *are* the white women?  Our events, even tame ones like the American Renaissance Conference, are dominated by males, most of them elderly, and few, if any, ladies.  Certainly not young ones, of marriageable age.  Why is that?

The pagans over at Daily Stormer have (in my opinion) the typical view of women, made worse by their reading of the “manosphere” material.  Thankfully, Matt Parrott of the Traditionalist Youth Network has responded with a great article, trying to bring Christian sense to a pagan cesspool.

While I respect what he’s doing in the article (providing a reply to movement types with whom I rarely associate), I wonder what a capitalist might say to it?

A capitalist might say Americans are far less ideological when it comes to hiring than some suspect. That is to say, having taboo political ideals may not be as huge a barrier to gaining wealth and stability as is sometimes suggested.

While true, times is hard for a cracker, I, at least, aint willing to let that stop me (and I’m not even a capitalist!)

Can’t I achieve wealth and respect from a small southern society? Can’t I wear white suit coats to fancy dinners (but *not* after Labor Day), despite my taboo views? Can’t I arrive with a stunning belle on my arm after convincing her to read Burke instead of Burlesque?

Challenge accepted!

Ok, ok, readers…I know what you’re thinking.

I’m not especially concerned for eating crumbs from the devil’s table.  And if you stay tuned for my next post, you’ll see my opinion of America’s aristocrats.  But why shouldn’t I have the good life?  And most especially, why should I be denied a wife?

They say celibacy is a virtue and even Parrott harps on it in his article, but if I know anything about myself, I know I don’t have that “gift”.  I suspect God’s forced me to be a bachelor for 32 years to wake me up from the mores I was born with, true, but more importantly, to do with me as He did for Adam.   He made him wait, even teasing him by parading all the Earth’s animals in front of him.  Only then did He give humanity the second greatest gift (next to Christ Himself) ever given…that is, of course, woman.  Adam had to learn what he was missing.

I’m man enough to know what I’m missing.  Without a woman, am I really even a man?  I mean, one fully? At least, I know how stronger I could be if I had one.

Listen up pagans and urban hipsters:

They may not be popular in the urban centers (and certainly not in the rough hewn white nationalist enclaves), but there are quite a few women in the hinterlands enamored with the simple life and animated in their support of traditionalism (most are Evangelicals of a Baptist persuasion).

True, most are soft (at best) on racial issues, but they’re of a temper (…and I say this anecdotally…) to quickly see reason, especially when it’s shown in a practical light. They’re the ones being jeered at lustfully by hoards of “youths” after all.

You find them at homeschooling events or Civil War reenactments. You find them at book club meetings, renaissance fairs, and political tea socials. They frequent farmer’s markets and are attracted to organic produce and sustainable agriculture.

They may not shout white pride slogans, offer national socialist salutes, or froth at the mouth about jews, and they may require a man to do more than spout rhetoric, but they’ve been raised by fathers who know the score.  And like good daughters, they retain a feminine passion for the outlook they’ve read about in Jane Austen novels.

On second thought, that isn’t the type of woman the pagans are looking for anyway.

Posted in General | Tagged , , , , | 14 Comments

Daydreaming About Old Dixie


“She sure is pretty.  A fella that gets her is gonna have to do some prancing.  He can’t sit around and look glum all the time.” ~ Judge Priest

Old Dixie isn’t strictly the antebellum period.

It refers to a time when Southern culture was the controlling force in the region.  It refers to the infrastructure, the establishments, and the social propriety of a time now forgotten by all but the oldest of us.  For my generation, we know it only through stories and a few customs that survived, though the stories are almost forgotten and the mores, well they’re a’ change in’.

I’ll give a sad example of how the mores are changing:

It’s not uncommon for blue collar Southern women to claim the title “Southern Belle” while at the same time, spitting, carousing, and using the worst sort of profanity.  Cries of “We’re country ya’ll” are heard drawling across Dixie’s nightlife where decades ago similar voices were the pride of their fathers and the jewels of dinner parties.  These “belles” have replaced Mary Chesnut with Gretchen Wilson!

I’m picking on the ladies, but it’s just as bad with the men.  Their martial virtues are applauded in Dixie on two occasions only: when they’re applied in defense of democracy and Yankee propaganda, or when they’re displayed by Southern women.   The new Southern gent is in touch with his feminine side, is submissive (and teaches others to be), and laughs off his domineering wife with a shrug and a “whaddaya gunna do?”

Needless to say, the south has been terraformed.

There are a lot of us who resist the ongoing pillage though.  I don’t know how others do it, but I keep from getting discouraged by daydreaming about old Dixie.  These daydreams were key to my survival of a negro-dominated elementary school and provided further encouragement later in life, as I traveled the world.

They helped because I always believed that somewhere, maybe through a patch of old woods or around a country bend, I’d find old Dixie again.  Maybe I’d find a leftover fragment of civilization where people still live as they did in my daydreams?

Somewhere, there’s a white kid in overalls with a red scarf in his back pocket, balancing himself on a railroad track as he and his dog amble down to the pond to go fishing.  Somewhere, there’s a diner filled with Southern patrons, chatting about the weather and that crazy rooster that got loose in town.  Somewhere, there’s a tractor pulling a trailer full of hay, with white boys walking tall and working hard, all young and ready to assemble against any threat to their community.


Until I find that place, I try to content myself with movies and books, the most recent of which was a movie called “Judge Priest” starring Will Rogers and directed by John Ford.

I can’t say how good it was without sounding pretentious, but if anyone’s reading this post and loves the old South and feels the need to reconnect, I can’t recommend it enough.  To the modern Southern gent, it’ll be repulsive; the modern southern “belle” will scoff and ridicule it.

…I loved every minute.

Posted in Defending Dixie | Tagged , , | 4 Comments

Weekend Adventures

My parents have purchased a nice vacation home in the NC mountains. I’m visiting this week, helping fix it up. The back “yard” is more like the base of a hill. It stretches up and up for a few hundred yards ending at a sheer rock face, about 15 to 25 feet high.

I traveled up through the woods, braving my way along the rocks, and when I got to this sheer face, I wormed my way up it like a real mountain climber (I found a stair, then a tunnel, then a giant spider, but I made it through).

…seriously though, I climbed it.

On the other side, the hill kept going up and up only now I had to forge my way through dense underbrush. But I wasn’t turning back! I was determined to reach the top.

Finally, at long last, I stumbled out onto level ground at the hill’s crest.  There, I found an old 4-wheeler path. I followed it down into a valley where eventually, the path and the river merged. For about 30 feet, the river *was* the path…

While working through it, I discovered something. There, in the middle of the path, where a small stream trickled into the river, were a TON of glittering flakes.

Yes, dear friends… in the middle of the Appalachian back lands, miles away from real civilization, I think I may have found a small gold deposit!

Or maybe I’m a fool?

I thought I was versed enough in Gold lore to tell the difference between it and pyrite, but maybe not? Tomorrow though, I’m going back, and I’ll be armed…just in case my find turns into a Louis Lamour novel.  (Chatter from local deputies have us suspecting there’s a marijuana crop hidden in the “holler” near our property – the last thing I need is to tussle with neer-do-wells over gold).

Stay tuned…


It’s Saturday and I finally have net access again.  I climbed back up the hill and down into the valley behind it.  I had better “panning” equipment with me this time.

I did find a small amount of gold, but it wasn’t enough to bother with.  The dirt contained mostly pyrite (guess I’m a fool after all).

I killed a brown snake of some sort during my climb, but there was no human danger to speak of.

I kind of wish there had of been.

Posted in General | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Midnight Musings VI

On existential jitters…

I’ve been cynical lately about prayer, despite all my friends telling me I ought not be.  Despair or not though, I’m of the school that will love God even though He slay me…so, I’d pray on, not caring anymore if He answered or not.  He will or He wont, what’s that to me?

I remember a parable where Jesus told about a woman who brought her case before a judge, but the judge kept ignoring her.  Night after night, she’d pester the judge until finally, he relented out of pity.  That’s my strategy, if strategy it is.

But recently I went on a trip to Charlotte and as usual, before setting out, I prayed for safety; safety from accidents, criminals, and highway tyrants.  A little over an hour later, I was stopped by a highway tyrant and treated like a common criminal.  Not only was I accused of the heinous moral crime of “speeding” (which means, I was driving along, minding my own business), but my vehicle was illegally searched by a half-insane brigand with a loaded weapon.

Many of my readers are sheep who have no problem forking over funds to the highway tyrants.  “You got what you deserve, Shotgun, if you really were speeding!  Speeding tickets are such common occurrences in America, after all, no need to question your Faith about it, or get all upset.  Why don’t you just slow down?!”

Well, I don’t question my Faith, other than the fact that I prayed for protection and didn’t receive it (and like I said above, I’m no longer surprised or daunted by that).  But I was (and am) FURIOUS about the rampant highway tyranny in America.  No!  It’s NOT a little thing, to shrug off or bear with, and here’s why:

Of all the tyrannies we have to suffer, this is the worst, because it makes the biggest demand of us.  It asks us to change internally – to change our hearts away from freedom and towards tyranny.

To “speed” is such a tiny thing, a mere flexing of the muscles and some pressure of the foot.  To avoid the highway extortionists-with-badges, one must so utterly submit oneself to the state, so thoroughly accept the tyranny, that the smallest muscle contractions are now controlled by sheep-like reflexes.  The state controls our muscles and wills them to oppression!  A free man doesn’t have those reflexes!  And all you saints who would condemn me for saying this … you know that fear you get in the pit of your stomach when a trooper pulls behind you on the highway.  You know it but you’re too proud to admit it, even to yourselves.  We’re all sitting ducks!  We’re all targets!  Any of us, at any time, can be next.

When I see the ill-fated blue lights in my rear-view, I reflexively think about how I am not a citizen of this nation – a nation ruled by homosexuals and limp wristed bureaucrats.  What do they know about how fast I ought to drive at a certain time on a certain stretch of road?  When I see those blue lights, I feel suffocated.  I feel there are no real wildernesses anymore, no untamed highways.  When I see those blue lights, I feel sick to my stomach with discouragement, not just for myself and all the money I’m about to have stolen from me, but for the fate of Americans, who descend from a proud and free folk, but who now wallow in a pot of boiling water they refuse to jump from.

I was so angry about this tyranny and my unlawful search, I decided to go buy a suit, dust off my old brief-case, and defend myself in court.  But not even this right is respected anymore.  Not only must I be a sheep on the highway, to be socially acceptable, I’ve got to waive my right to defense in court, plead guilty, and grovel before the extortionists.

Just once, I’d love that snot-nosed highway tyrant to have to work to prove his case.  Can he prove it beyond a reasonable doubt?!  Well can he?  Think about it.  It was pitch black, his front headlight was out…how certain is he that he clocked me and not someone else?  And for that matter, if he can’t keep his headlights fixed that makes me wonder if he can keep his radar tuned.

But no…no, no… defending myself in traffic court (so my parents, and other sheep advise me) is only something low-class people, like negros do, to tie up the system and make things hard on the precious legal system.

THIS LEGAL SYSTEM ALLOWS THE SLAUGHTER OF INFANTS!!!!!  They have ZERO moral authority!  I’ll be damned if I tip toe around making things easy on them!

Still – regardless of what I do with my present case, another thought always pops into my mind when I see those tyrant lights in my rear view.

Could I be a lawyer?  Could I learn to formally defend myself and others?  Such a thing would be interesting, certainly.  I started daydreaming about having so many cases in NC traffic court and tying them up so much, that they’d be forced to throw out the majority of these frivolous speeding charges.  I might even march on Raleigh and convince them to change all the speeding signs from white to yellow – the yellow meaning they’re mere suggestions.  We could have a highway system similar to that in Germany.  An excellent plan!  We might even do away with state-troopers all together and give tax breaks to local Sheriffs who can control speeding in their districts as they feel necessary (and if they get too picky about it, well, the citizens wont vote for them again).

My military career bought me some time to think about what I’d like to do with the rest of my life, but that time’s running out, and I’m getting seriously frustrated with this indecision about the future.

Posted in General | 9 Comments

“That’s Queens…”

Queens University is located in the middle of Charlotte North Carolina’s most ritzy neighborhood; surrounded by sprawling oak trees, arched entries, and European-styled architecture, she gives life to an otherwise retired 401K neighborhood.  Ladies with sweaters draped over their shoulders, walking their dogs along the well-manicured sidewalks, see a peaceful campus where all is right in the world.

To me, it looked like a hell-hole.

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate beautiful architecture.  It wasn’t this charade of historical precedence that offended me; it was the knowledge that this was a slaughterhouse that takes beautiful young ladies (more of them than men attend) and twists their minds, destroying any accidental whiteness leftover from their grandmothers and scouring the last sense of lady-like propriety from their consciences.

The college has a man whose sole job is to ensure the most extreme Jacobin worldview is rammed into young minds.  This “director of diversity and inclusion” had invited that huckster Tim Wise to the campus to speak…and as my readers know, I was there to oppose him.

Signs out, we took our place by the lecture hall and laid into every lofty pretense that set itself up against the knowledge of God.  A fierce battle of wills raged around us as a crowd of students gathered to see and argue with the mystical racists who had emerged from the pages of their “diversity” textbooks.  Ecstacy upon ecstacy!  They finally had their chance to be Atticus Finch!  And like a flock of Finches, they descended.

At least, I saw it in my head as a raging battle…

In reality, and I have to admit, the Queens students were perfectly well-behaved, and even charming in some respects.  Open to hearing us out and weighing what we said, they patiently listened to arguments, never interrupted, and never insulted.  Maybe the fact that we weren’t insulted, is insulting?!  For so many indoctrinated folk to accept us into their midst without so much as an enthusiastic “Nazi Scum”… well, it was plain weird.  I told a pair of young blondes they were being too nice and it was making me uncomfortable.

“That’s Queens” said the girl, splaying her hands about her.

The facade of Southern charm must remain at the school, like a beautiful, homemade quilt used to cover a butcher’s table.

After the protest, we went inside to hear Tim Wise give the same speech he always gives.  He only adds new material as new race-baiting opportunities present themselves.  His schtick is to take all facts and data (what little he decides to cite) and interpret them through a Marxist lens, and always to the detriment of black people.  If a black man sneezes on a bus, to Wise, all those whites who didn’t say “God bless you” are guilty of racism.

I can’t multiply examples of this, but if I’m to give a meaningful critique, I’ll have to offer at least one, so:

According to Wise’s lecture at Queens, black people have all the reason in the world not to trust police officers.  He alluded to the O.J. Simpson trial as a case in point.  The Simpson trial – the trial to discover if O.J. Simpson was guilty of murder – seemed to hinge on a perjury charge against the lead investigator, and that charge hinged on whether or not the man had used the word “nigger” at some point in the past 10 years.

Yes, the only felony conviction to have come from the O.J. trial was the perjury conviction of lead investigator Mark Fuhrman who, when asked if he had used the “n-word” in the last ten years, said no, but was proven to have said it about nine-and-a-half years prior.  The man is a felon for the sake of six months, and according to Wise, we’re “crazy” for not realizing that cases like this are proof that blacks have a right to feel frightened of a racist police bureaucracy.

Wise doesn’t tell us that Fuhrman’s alleged use of the “n-word” (that proved he was a racist, and therefore, likely to have planted evidence against the sainted O.J.) was said while Fuhrman was reading the script for a screenplay (a common occurrence in LA) where he was to play a racist character.  Further, Wise didn’t tell us (or didn’t know) that virtually all of Fuhrman’s black co-workers gave him rave reviews.  They were outraged that anyone could charge him with “racism”.  For one example, Fuhrman was part of an early morning basketball league, composed mostly of black officers, one of whom remarked “If you really hate African Americans, why would you get up at 5:40 to play basketball with me?!”1

But Wise hates old Europe and wants to see the last vestiges of our way of life crumble before the might of his rabid egalitarianism – the facts be hung!

He allowed for questions, so I was the first to the mic.

Earlier in his lecture, he ranted about all the “atrocities” against blacks committed in the name of Christianity, so I reminded him of all the atrocities committed in the name of Communism; a point he conceded, though in defeated tones.  Wise isn’t free yet to sanction violence in the name of communism (though I’m sure in his heart of hearts he wishes he could).  I ended my question by suggesting that next time he might not swear so much in a room full of ladies.

My statement elicited an immediate uproar from the neo-feminist zombies in the crowd, the loudest objections coming from the black girls.  “Uhh uhhh.. no he didnnn…”

“We like your swearing!” one of them shouted to Wise.  Another, a little blonde harpy, approached the mic later, and made a point of swearing, while gesturing towards me that she didn’t care what I thought.

…and so go the daughters of Eve who don’t have a strong Adam to guide them.

Matthew Heimbach was up after me and presented a model of policing which would reflect the racial demographics of the community.  White communities would have mostly white police officers, and black communities (to avoid all the imaginary institutional racism), would have mostly black officers… problem solved.

Wise hemmed and hawed, but to our amazement, presented a plan that was similar to Heimbach’s…differing only enough to avoid the embarrassing charge of being in agreement with Heimbach.  He admitted that not everyone wants to be a policeman and maybe the black community would have problems getting enough people interested to be properly represented.  So, says Wise, we need a long probationary period, where non black recruits go around unarmed for a period of time while getting to know the local population and getting comfortable with its culture, after which, if they’re accepted, they’ll be allowed a weapon.

When the event was over and as we were walking out, a young white man, with an eccentric look in his eye, said he thought ours were the most interesting and intelligent questions of the evening.

Later, I asked one of the black policemen who had been monitoring the event how he felt about being accused of being a racist and oppressive tyrant.  “Well…” he said, in a black southern drawl … “Everybody’s got they opinion…”

That officer’s answer was the highlight of the evening for me.

Heimbach stayed to meet Wise at the book signing, at which point, Wise exchanged an autographed copy of his book “White Like Me” for one of our protest signs.  They got their picture taken together, holding the book and the sign, with Wise striking a feigned “confused” posture, and Heimbach throwing a big thumbs-up.

I understand Heimbach’s sentiments … he’s a diplomat and always looking to make inroads for the Trad Youth organization.  But maybe I have too much of the primal blood in me, because I wouldn’t be able to touch Wise’s hand without violence.  It’s all I can do to sit in one place while the man openly spreads his dank spell over an audience.

But what is Sparta without Athens?

Stand with us next time, ladies and gentlemen.  We’re coming to an event near you!

(Thanks to all the people who came to support us, both the visible and invisible.  Thanks especially to Daxter, whom sat alone on the Queens steps for who knows how long, waiting for us to show up…it was an honor serving with you, sir!)

1. This sentence is taken from Ann Coulter’s book “Mugged”. Her chapters on the O.J. Trial are excellent, even if her overall commentary is short-sighted. The facts about Fuhrman’s alleged “racism” as well as the above cited material are from pg. 132.

Posted in General | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

Activists: Activate! (Stop Your Dreaming)

What’s this?

Another “Shotgunian” contradiction?

Or maybe I’m just a hypocrite? Let me explain:

When I wrote my post “Why I’m Not an Activist“, I was writing from the heart.  I meant what I said there; I don’t want to “win” (whatever that might entail) by taking up the tactics and attitudes of the enemy.  They’re alchemists, the lot of them, trying to break men out of their Godly contexts and transcend the very material they’re made from.  They’re not content with doing it to themselves, they want to rip us all out of our skins and place us in cold, mechanical “bodies” that never age, have no sex or race, and are free from pesky humanity.  And they’re doing it now with their ideologies, hoping the demi-god “science” will catch up to their sick fetishes in the near future.  I want none of their fantasies.

But a few days after writing that post, I saw my friends in the Traditionalist Youth Network confront the vile race-baiter Tim Wise in Indiana.  I’ve participated in their protesting of the man before, but opted out this time due to pessimism and logistical restraints.  Still, when I saw the video of their recent event and saw how it was, all told, yet another victory for them, I was inspired.

Inspired so much, I promptly decided to visit Tim Wise as well.  I saw his next stop was here in North Carolina and posted on Facebook that I was thinking of strolling down to Charlotte and questioning the man during his QnA at the University.  To my surprise, people got excited and wanted to go with me.  The excitement rose and before long, almost on its own, a protest was being formed, and I was the event organizer.

I contacted my Trad Youth buddies and was sworn in as their NC chairman.  Within a matter of hours, and despite my post, I had become an activist.

Likely I wouldn’t have let my meager trek evolve into a full-on protest, except that Cambria Will Not Yield has, in his past two posts, seemed to support “activism” (of a sort).  The man’s writing has a frightening power in my life – I’ve often admitted that I might not be his biggest fan, but if he ever put out a hit on someone, I’d be the one pulling the trigger.

And why not?

When I read CWNY, I feel like I’m reading an Anthony Hope adventure novel, only one written by someone with a lot more intelligence and foresight than Anthony Hope, and with words directed at our current situation.  Not only that, but it seems like Cambria is the last of the European writers.  A bard of old Europe; a voice from the past.  What would Sir Walter Scott say about our world were he alive?  Read CWNY and see.

But even more:  his is the last echo of a dying order.  I know, because I’ve searched the blogging world and contemporary literature, and I can’t find anyone writing from his  perspective.  Everyone has their own twist or ideal or object in the past and they harp on it – but his is the only purified wellspring of old Europe.  I hope to God there are others that maybe I’ve missed; maybe, in the distant (far distant) future, I might be able to do something similar…but that time is far off and for now, his is an invaluable source of inspiration.  And I’m not worthy of it.

I’m a farm boy from NC, not an intellectual or a great thinker, artist, or poet.  I’m not an aristocrat.  I’m Sam Wise…content to serve Mr. Frodo and the other great lords, and content to marvel at the beauty of their order from the safety of my comfortable little farm in the Carolina countryside (if ever I get one).

But there’s this…we few are the last of old Europe.  All the lofty gothic architecture, the marble monuments, the fields of war, the great documents of statecraft and the literature of our people – we’re the last wielders.  The great Europeans have passed away, and the Kingdom, with all its great works, has passed to us, worthy or not.

So, like Sam Wise, I’m driven to pick up the Light of Earendil, a talisman too great for the likes of me, but to whom it’s come nevertheless, because there’s no one left to hold it. And like Sam Wise, I’ll become a de-facto ambassador of the glory of Europe…full of wrath:

Sam did not wait to wonder what was to be done, or whether he was brave, or loyal, or filled with rage.  He sprang forward with a yell, and seized his master’s sword in his left hand.  Then he charged.  No onslaught more fierce was ever seen in the savage world of beasts…

The great things of old have passed to we few, worthy or not, and it’s our job now to carry them against the enemy…and we have this promise:  That the walls of Hell will NOT triumph against us…

…and lo, He’ll be with us until the end.

Posted in General | 6 Comments

Midnight Musings V

The Song Remembers When…

I’m finding it hard to put into words what’s on my mind tonight.  I wish I could describe how it feels to think back to wet, but happy summers in rural Carolina; the heavy smell of dogwoods mingled with freshly cut grass, and the breeze!  The breeze carried in the scent of the river and we were surrounded by it always.

Now add to this memories of a lost love, a time of brightness, friends long past, adventures (such as they were) now forgotten…

It takes a sound, a smell, sometimes the viewing of a particularly vivid color, to put me in this trance (I guess is the best word for it).  But when it comes, it comes strong and I never want it to end…though end it does, eventually.  I’m snapped back to the cold and hopeless future, where Satan (or, at least, bureaucrats acting in his name) rule the world.  And Satan is the god of the void; a void of eternal, existential bliss.

It’s this void the “dance club” tries to create – deafening and nonsensical pop-music, bass beats reverberating through your entire body, and everywhere a spirit of licentiousness.  Women, clad like whores, gyrate themselves against anyone and anything, while the entire crowd gulps down alcohol, dances, and sees only a vague future (of a few hours hence) when the promise of a sexual encounter looms large in their thoughts.  Besides this brief consideration, the future is forgotten, the world is bliss, and time all but stops.

The entire world is turning into a dance club.

But sometimes a song or a poem or some bit of art, transports me back to Europe.  Maybe this is how we can fight back?  Maybe the Prince of the Power of the Air – Satan’s old title – refers to the mytho-poetic narrative of the culture at large, and its a narrative that can shift and change – and has been forcefully changed?

It will take a mighty poet to bend the air…a mighty work of art.

And, that sort of thing is beyond me…unless…

…unless that work is a team effort.  A choir.  A medley of voices.  To that, I might add some small effort.

Posted in General | Leave a comment