Still Go Farther…

~ As we travel through the desert,
Storms beside us by the way
But beyond the river Jordan
Lies a field of endless day ~

Others are better suited for detailing the attacks against our people over the past week.  Monuments are being torn down, flags are being lowered, and the graves of our heroes are being vandalized.  Demonic Jacobins shout with glee as one after the other of our sacred relics are removed from public life.  On top of it all, laws forcing vaccinations on school children are being passed, the Federal Reserve is diving into a new currency war with the Euro, and sexual depravity is now the law of our land.  It’s as if this Fourth of July will be a celebration of the new French Revolution – a mop-up operation to rid the world of the last vestiges of an old worldview.  The last of the Knights and Ladies will be found out and destroyed.

There is resistance though.  Some of the white grazers have dusted off their Confederate battle flags and marched on their state capitols.  It’s inspiring to see, but the cynic in me, despite my efforts to pen him up, crawls out and runs his big mouth:

“Look at those ‘heritage, not hate!’ signs!”  he says.  “That’s a rainbow Confederate saying if I’ve ever heard one.”

Cynic me is right.

I want heritage *and* hate!  Where’s the flag for that?

Without a religious hell-fire passion, the grazers will go back to grazing.  Worse: they’ll go back to their televisions and learn how wrong they were to have stirred in the first place.


That brings me to my point:

A few years ago, PBS’s “Frontline” made an interesting documentary called “Merchants of Cool” which detailed the handful of organizations that control everything we see in pop culture.  The documentary ends by asking its audience to consider if the culture influences television or if television influences the culture.

This confused me for years.  I knew the Satanists who run television were shaping culture but I couldn’t decide to what extent.  It’s true that producers dip into pop-colloquialisms and the herd-mind to make up their episodes and to run their advertisements.  Their greed vies with their will to serve Satan so they’re always balancing culture-shaping with mass appeal.

I didn’t realize it, but the question of which influences which (culture or television) was answered decades ago by Neil Postman in “Amusing Ourselves To Death”.  I’m kicking myself for not having read it until now.

While his dismissal of computers as “overplayed” seems silly today, he has some striking points about media modes and epistemology.  His model of how the typographical age was replaced by the television age plays well into Victor Hugo’s discussion of how the typographical age replaced the architectural age (in “Hunchback of Notre Dame”).

On Postman’s view, there’s no question of which influences which because our culture has been effectively “uploaded” to television.  Who we are and what we think of ourselves is no longer controlled by thousands of small, regional duchies, related by a tenuous sense of tribal, then racial (read: national) loyalties.  No.  In the television age, we’re taught what to think of ourselves by a television screen, making the kid in Alaska virtually interchangeable with the kid in rural Arkansas.  Our culture and our television are the same now.

I’ve thought of a way to help illustrate this for modern readers:

Think of Leonard Nimoy, the actor who played Spock in that horrible television show “Star Trek.”  His character in that show was so iconic that he had trouble finding other roles.  Everyone knew him and wanted to see him as Spock.  Consider another example:  In the early nineties, there was a black sitcom marketed to white families, called “Family Matters.”  It featured a black nerd character named Steve Urkel played by actor Jaleel White.  White, like Nimoy, often complained that his character was so iconic, he had difficulty getting work.  These days, actors often complain of being tied down to one sort of role and seek to diversify their work; known heroes sometimes play villains, or known comedians sometimes star in serious roles.

As white people, especially as white men, we’re “pigeonholed” by the television-culture in the same way Nimoy and White were pigeonholed.  The only problem is, the majority of whites either don’t realize it, or worse, they subconsciously play along and, over time, become what the television makes them out to be.

What we’re seeing on the national stage at the moment (the destruction of all our monuments) is a television show, essentially, with the bad guys getting our comeuppance from the generous, kind-hearted good guys (the Jacobins).

This has to end.  It’s killing our people.  We’re literally amusing ourselves to death.  Postman was hesitant to offer a solution, and when he did (in the final chapter), it was tenuous at best.

At this point my inner cynic cries victory…but not so fast!

Postman didn’t believe in miracles; at least, he didn’t care to mention them in his work.  Nor did he live to see society transition from the television age into a new age:  the internet age.  With this invention, the television is becoming more and more obsolete; the cultural mind is being re-settled provincially, all be it in digital rather than organic communities.  And while this age has its problems, it seems as if the internet, like the printing press, has the power to destroy the stranglehold of modernity and ring in a new era of prosperity for Europe.  With the internet, the poets are regaining the upper hand.

Where there are European poets, there are European Knights and Ladies.

Hope is just a little farther…a little farther on…

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Shotgun Goes to Charleston

bring it( which I troll a black power rally…)

I don’t know for sure, but I suspect Dylann Roof was groomed by the F.B.I. or some other government organization; groomed to carry out his irrational shooting spree as a means of acting as a catalyst for rubbing out the last of the pro-European sentiment inherent in the American folk mind.

Whether you believe this or whether you believe he was really a lone wolf, acting out his adolescent angst, the catalyst is the same.  The satanists are using this as a machiavellian presumption to attack all things white, southern, and Christian.  Knowing this to be the case, Matthew Heimbach of the Traditionalist Youth Network invited me to be proactive by going with him to Charleston and laying a wreath at the steps of the church where the shooting took place.  In this way, we hoped to stave off the narrative by showing that even the pro-white community rejects this sort of indiscriminate action and that we’re not to be blamed for the tragedy.

As my seasoned readers may have suspected, especially if they watch the news, our ploy didn’t work.  How could it have?  Our enemies want white blood and only white blood will satiate them.  They want no shows of solidarity or unity-in-mourning.  The politicians, the academics, the bureaucrats, all side with the vicious black panthers in demanding white blood.  Only white blood will satisfy their master.

Well, by God if they want it, we’ll make them earn it.

After placing the wreath and making the rounds through the media, we decided to stroll into the middle of the most violent (in terms of rhetoric) Black Panther rally held in years.  A BBC producer wanted to get our interaction with black nationalists and wondered if we felt safe.  It wasn’t the blacks we were worried about, of course, it was the sackless, no-good cowardly “social justice warriors” from the local college, all skinny-jean clad white boys, out to prove their value to their negro gods by causing real white men as much trouble as possible.

Still, we were on edge as we nudged our way to the front of the crowd and stared the black leaders in their eyes.  The highest ranking speaker was a vest-wearing negro who called for the death of all the white devil slave masters – meaning all whites, and he wouldn’t be satisfied until his wishes were fulfilled.  I stood tall, only yards away from him as he yelled about rape and slaughter, looking him in his dead black eyes.  The bastard wouldn’t hold my gaze.

During the next speaker, I inched my way to the side and commandeered a “black power” flag.  I took it and paraded it around behind all the speakers, hoping that national TV would get a shot of a notorious white racist, trolling a black power rally.  The national leader of the black panthers looked at me like I was crazy.  “Who dis white boy is?”  I wish I could be in the room with them when they find out.  I’m only kicking myself for not stealing the flag and burning it.

The crowd dispersed but not before Heimbach (a national celebrity) was noticed by, you guessed it, a gang of skinny-jean clad social justice warriors, whom, as expected, began shouting, waving their signs, and trying to cause us as much trouble as possible.  Heimbach, a true goth, ripped a sign away from a small-boned jewish lad and glared at him until he might have passed out, his eyes glazing over with tears.  We intellectually stomped their arguments, asking if “race” was a social construct, why anthropologists were able to determine race via bones?  They couldn’t answer and were visibly shaken by Heimbach’s arguments.

Heimbach’s passion is a wonder to see in real life.  He stuck his finger in the ring-leader’s face and asked if he was so against racism, why in the hell didn’t he show up and protest the black panthers just now.  The kid was obviously scared to death of the blacks, so Heimbach began calling him a coward.  Defeated, the team tried to slink off, but Heimbach stayed on them, shouting at them how cowardly they were and demanding they “sack up” and come with us to the church where the negros were rallying, so they might be consistent with their “anti-racist” message.  The social justice faggots retreated as fast as their skinny jeans would allow.

Our Charleston adventures prove to me all the more that our enemies cannot be reasoned with.  We have only two choices (that I can see):  we must either flee or we must fight.

I leave it to my readers to guess my choice.



In the original draft of this post, I said the BBC “paid our way”.  This wasn’t technically true.  I wasn’t aware of the nature of the relationship between the Trad Youth and the BBC and made careless assumptions in an offhand comment.  I’ve tried to correct this blunder in the present draft.  As far as I know, the BBC holds to the highest degree of journalistic integrity and hasn’t (to my knowledge) violated any ethical standards in their dealings with Trad Youth; they certainly don’t financially support our organization in any way.

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Lend Us Your Millstones for They Are Needed

~ Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh! ~

“Gay” street, aptly named, runs through the heart of Knoxville.  This Saturday, it was lined with hundreds of rainbow-clad zombies who were only there because their television and government schools taught them they ought to be there.  Cheering the parading deviants, the crowd of mostly teenaged girls, danced and gyrated their whorish bodies while waving supporting signs and memorabilia.

Our folk, about ten strong and surrounded by sympathetic and smirking police officers, held aloft our “pro-traditional marriage” signs and made ourselves heard over the crowd.  It wasn’t long before we were able to see the gay-parade approaching – like a faggoty slug that feeds on the death of nations and leaves a trail of poisonous slime in its wake…

“You ought to be ASHAMED of yourself!” I’d yell at a passerby.  “What would your mother think of you wearing women’s clothes?  What would your father think?!  You’re not manly!  You KNOW you’re wrong!  You’re going to Hell if you don’t repent!”  When surprised by this sort of rhetoric, the participants were immediately shocked, jaws dropping in devilish imitation of female expressions, then for a split second, before their moral outrage kicked in, they’d look guilty.  A man cannot descend into that level of depravity without being aware of it.

Soon, the church floats arrived, lead by a homosexual Roman Catholic priest, in full clerical garb, strutting with his negro boyfriend; upon hearing us call him a damnable heretic, he stopped the parade to “shock” us by kissing his fellow deviant.

The worst part about the parade was how many children, from infants to teenagers were either actively involved (they were marching or displayed on floats, etc.) or were present in the crowd.  Can a nation that allows its most innocent members to be so thoroughly defiled, remain a nation for long?  No.  It cannot and will not.

~ But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea. ~

When the parade was over, we walked a few blocks down to where all the deviants were gathering.  The police wouldn’t let us into the fence and preferred we stand on the opposite side of the street.  An hour-long yelling match erupted.  We were spread out thin enough so that each member of our group could carry on his own shouting / debate / argument with the corresponding deviant on the other side of the street.

To my surprise, the majority of the crowd (at least, the ones I argued with) claimed to be Christians.  It had never occurred to them that homosexuality was not Christ like.  The most oft-quoted Bible verse I heard was “Judge Not!”; I was even told at one point that “Thou Shalt Not Judge” was one of the ten commandments and was the only one we still need to obey.

Facing this sort of Biblical illiteracy was surreal, but that’s just the beginning of this crowd’s level of ignorance.  One young lesbian assured me that no one meant me any harm and that we ought to just live and let live.  “Oh?” I replied.  “What if I’m a Christian baker who doesn’t want to bake a cake for a gay wedding?”  Displaying no knowledge of contemporary events, she assured me that in no possible world would I ever be forced to do something like that.

A scrawny 15 year old, with his lips painted purple, nose pierced, and hair dyed in rainbow colors, began ranting to me about how American society ought to function.  I asked him why in the hell I should care what some uneducated fifteen year old had to say about the world… “… because…because…I have opinions man!”  He was obviously exasperated by my question, never having been checked like that before.  “Oh?  What’s the last book you read?” I asked.  He stuttered, stammered, then began cussing at me before a gaggle of his lesbian friends pulled him away.

This event was also a wonderful time to attack feminism, which we did with relish.  I heard Heimbach tell a belligerent old jewess that he rejected feminism…to the shock of all the little feminists around him.

Every block we left behind dozens of gaping jaws.

Another favorite was our yelling at the girls to put some clothes on because they looked like whores.  In another repeated incident, a man would stand by, glibly holding his girlfriend’s purse while she engaged in a yelling match with us; when he’d finally dare to speak up, we’d applaud and suggest that, in the future, he be a man and step in to keep his woman from having to argue.

They simply had never been talked to like this before.  They’d never had their views ridiculed.  They’d never been intellectually man-handled; not just by Christians, but by conservative, antique-European Christians.

I’ll describe one more encounter because I think it says something about the entire event.  One harpy, particularly upset with me because I kept telling her to turn off her television and open a book, finally pulled out her big guns and said that the things I was saying were exactly the same as those racists in the fifties were saying!  That brought a delighted hush over her group of friends.  “Why thank you, ma’am,” I replied, “I *am* a racist…” gasps throughout the crowd.  “You… you … you just lost everything,” she said… as if I had been gaining ground with her before hand and just lost all influence.

Another man accused our group of being possibly mistaken for those “Westboro” freaks if we didn’t improve our road-side demeanor.  I replied to him and the harpy in the same way… “I’d much rather be confused with them, who are wrong on a few points of activism theory, than be confused with a bunch of sick sexual deviants who poison the minds of innocent children and pollute once beautiful Southern cities with their disease-riddled slime.”

I don’t care about “reaching” that crowd.  I care about letting them know they are opposed.  I care about God’s truth being spoken out loud on the streets of Knoxville, at least one last time.  I care about the Devil looking out from his throne in New York (or wherever George Soros is hosting him) and knowing that he’s still got a few white boys to deal with.

One of the most inspiring parts of the afternoon, was how many elderly baby-boomer types, mostly women, would discreetly approach us and offer a quick thanks.  I’m also greatly inspired by the number of businesses with “closed” signs in their windows that morning.

We will not go silently into the night…


Thanks to all who showed up to support the Traditionalist Youth Network, especially the Knoxville 10-Milers who are always an inspiration and constantly remind me of the ideal group of white boys.  They retain a rugged sense of Scots-Irish chivalry and a healthy martial spirit (especially the legendary twins).  Also, thanks to the National Youth Front guys who continue to impress me with the level of man they’re able to bring to the streets.

I apologize for not recounting more of their involvement in this event, but there were so many people, usually crowded thickly around us, that we each had to fend for ourselves and were lost in our own conversations.  What I’ve recorded here is, I’m sure, characteristic of theirs.

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A Midnight Defiance…


31 For the Lord will not cast off for ever: 32 But though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion according to the multitude of his mercies.

In my last post I mentioned suicidal thoughts.  These aren’t new to me.  I’m not sure how many of my readers have considered (or are currently considering) suicide, but if you are, or maybe if you’ve stumbled here by chance after searching the web for reasons to live, then hear brutal honesty from a man who’s sick and tired of the truisms and emotionally-distant talking-points flooding our society about this topic:

Faith really is the issue.

I know how that sounds.  How can it be that simple?  I’d get mad anytime someone suggested it.  “Of COURSE I believe God exists!” I’d tell people.  How could I not?  The problem, though, is even demons believe God exists.  A suicidal man may believe God exists, he just doesn’t believe God cares.  He doesn’t believe God is willing to interfere in the world on his behalf or on behalf of justice.

So, dear reader, look deep inside and ask yourself: if you really have no hope in God then why not pull the trigger?  That’s where you’ll find your faith.  That’s where I found mine.  I discovered a mustard seed sized belief that God wasn’t done with me; that I had work left to do.  When it came down to it, I realized I still had faith that God might do something big in my life.


I read a post on Cambria Will Not Yield suggesting Shakespeare was a greater philosopher than Immanuel Kant.  At the time, I was taken with philosophy.  Reared in the Presbyterian tradition, I was characteristically devout in studying systematics and spent hours working through analytic philosophy and theology.  I made a name for myself as a Christian apologist, debating philosophy majors and uppity God-haters of all stripes.  As quaint as I thought CWNY’s commentary was, I could never admit Kant was outdone by a playwright.

That was before the “slings and arrows” of life forced me to look beyond intellectual parlor games to find my mustard seed of Faith.  Now I’d only venture to disagree with CWNY in that, in my current state of mind, I feel it’d be an insult to accuse Shakespeare of being a philosopher at all.  To tie him in with that bunch is a heavy charge.  Of course, if we’re going to compare them, Shakespeare is the greater philosopher.  He skipped all the nonsense about transcendental idealism or pure and practical reason, choosing instead to answer that timeless question: “to be or not to be?”

I’ve suffered many defeats in my life and few victories.  My people are defined by tragedy, suffering, and loss (I’m speaking of southerners).  The whole of antique-European culture is “gone with the wind”, leaving behind a legacy of descent.  If there was ever a time white boys needed to pick up their Hamlet and read, it’s now.

To be or not to be?

What was Hamlet’s answer?

“O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth!”


In light of Hamlet’s resolution and its unique applicability to my life, I’ll be taking a break from blogging for awhile.  I need time to fast and pray and focus on my spiritual health as well as plan for a future that may very well include rash acts of heroism.

Fare thee all well, for now.

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My Darkest Musing Yet…


I’ve written before about my struggle with suicidal thoughts.

The struggle began around the time I left the military in search of a new life and a clear conscience.  I’ve yet to find either.  I should have stayed in the military formally working for Satan instead of working for him on the American plantation without any honor.

Whenever life brings these thoughts back to the surface, I’m reminded of Edmund Ruffin.  He was a rich plantation owner in Virginia who killed himself rather than live in a conquered south.

Can we condemn him too harshly?  Look at what southerners have had to do to survive.  They’ve had to transform their daughters into harlots and their sons into Yankees and jews.  Scarlett O’hara is a great example of a woman with petty vices, transformed into a monster.  James’ Basil Ransom in “Bostonians” is another example of a southern man who was forced to flee to New York and transform himself into a Yankee just to make a living.   To offer a real life example, the majority of the southern agrarians ended up leaving the south to work in northern universities.  I respect Ruffin more than all these characters.

And what does God care for our material circumstances?

The archetypical Christian is the vagrant or bum. They have no property or honor and are as humbled as men can possibly be.

God doesn’t care about property or honor (at least, not our property or our honor). He gave up all of His when He came to Earth.  He humiliated Himself on our behalf then washed our feet.  So, no, He doesn’t care about the petty dignities of His people. He fed the best of them to the lions, so what can the rest of us expect?

He certainly doesn’t care for material goods, the possession of which are only a hindrance.  We have no business expecting wealth or possessions. God has no problem letting His people die of starvation, plague, or persecution; so what right have we to pray for a meal?

Yes – the archetypical Christians are vagrants and bums.  Ruffin was too proud to be a Christian.

…am I?

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That Pivotal Generation

80sI’m not particularly fond of my generation but it is an interesting one for at least two reasons:

1.  We were the last generation to know a time before the internet and social media.


2.  We were (at least in my part of North Carolina) the first generation to be truly integrated with the negros.


Civil rights organizations refer to the so-called “Massive Resistance”, a phrase describing the political resistance to school desegregation in the south.  Brown v Board was settled in ’54, but due to this evil white resistance, schools weren’t fully integrated until the early to mid 70’s.

I know little about this time period but a few anecdotes were passed down:

“We didn’t know if we were going to have to fight or what when the bell rang…” said one of my uncles.  My mother, also, recounted stories from that turbulent time.  Desegregation hit my town especially hard; I’m told we made national news for our negro riots.

Once, because of some disagreement with the school’s band director, a negro mob assembled on the lawn with molotov cocktails, threatening to burn it all down.  They had been successful before, having burned down a wing of the nearby elementary school; the high school was next on their list.  But then, as my mother recounts, my uncle Ralph – member of the young Republicans and president of the student body – grabbed up a megaphone and confronted the crowd.  What he said hasn’t remained in memory, but he managed to disperse the crowd and save the school, at least that day.  It wasn’t long though, until they were at it again…and this lead to one of the last chivalric confrontations my town will likely ever see:

I’m not sure what it was this time, but something sparked the mob again and they were heading for the historic downtown smashing windows as they went and threatening to burn everything in sight.  The town cops were too few to halt the mass and had to watch helpless.  Just when it looked as if our town was doomed, from around the corner, (and I imagine them silhouetted against the setting sun), came marching a few hundred masked Klansmen.  The force of their presence alone was enough to scatter the negros, and we’ve never had a riot since.

Now, while I’m sure the story is true, I’m not sure how much has been added over time or exaggerated.  But I do know a few old fellas (you might meet them at the country store in the mornings over coffee) who claim to have taken part…


What do you think happened to the children of those who took part in the turbulence of that time?  You guessed it.  My generation is the offspring of those people and while the entitlement mindset and rage of the negro had only grown and been coddled since the early 70’s, particularly so for the children of the rioters, all vigor and resistance had been bred out of us.  Bred out in principle.

When our parents sent us off to government school, they were sending us into a slaughter house.  They should have known better.

But they sent us anyway because desegregation, by the early 80’s, had become common place.  Ours was the first (or at least, one of the first) generations to attend government school with no pretense of racial difference or segregated interests.  We were crowded by negros from day one and were only able to segregate accidentally, if we were lucky enough to qualify for the the AP or College level courses.

I have amateur sociological and psychological observations of how this affected my generation en mass, how it destroyed white society by causing us to turn on each other to avoid being fed to the mob, how it engendered pettiness and cruelty, and how it gave rise to an anti-Christian culture…but it’s enough for now to simply say that whether orchestrated by an army of jews with Ouija boards and calculators in Washington, or whether it happened randomly, our generation was the first of the new “Americans”.

I kind of wish, looking back, uncle Ralph had let the bastards burn it all down.

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lady baltimore

Here’s a picture of the famous “Lady Baltimore”.

I’ve just finished Wister’s novel (of the same name). It was enjoyable though tinged with Yankee sentiment. The main character was from Boston (if I recall) and suggested he was neither a Northerner nor a Southerner – he was an American. As noble as that sounds, our modernist peers have rebelled against provincialism. With that and the advent of the internet, I’m not sure there will be any local flavor left.  Wister wouldn’t appreciate today’s amalgamation.

…so have the ladies in your lives bake a Lady Baltimore and while eating it, remember the gracious societies that once peppered the South. They were the last bastions of Christendom. (1)


And while we’re on the subject of Southern aristocrats and their habits, awhile back, I asked my friends why some of them seemed to think the “working class” (so called) had an inherent goodness that all the other classes lacked.  I get the feeling sometimes they’re trying to win popular support with flattering rhetoric; at other times, I feel like they actually believe America’s working class is morally superior to all those “rich” people.

The first millionaire I ever met knew my parents and I suspect they hinted to him I needed extra summer income (during my high school days).  I was working a landscaping job when he pulled up next to me in an old pickup. He motioned to the next lot over and told me he owned it and needed the ditch-bank mowed.  He said he’d pay me to do it.

I took the job but only had a small weed-eater which was barely enough. The weeds were so thick it kept getting bogged down and I went through a few spools of line.  After awhile, my hands got so blistered it hurt to hold the machine.  I had a temper back then and when the weed-eater sputtered out for the millionth time, I flung it as far as I could.

…of course he pulled up just in time to see it go flying.  He got out and I was afraid he was going to yell at me, but he didn’t.  He saw my bleeding hands and said something about how he admired my work ethic.

When I think of Southern aristocrats, I think of him and others like him (and I aspire to be like them one day).  And while I don’t believe any class is inherently more moral than any other, I do believe in the formal structuring of societies and the “great chain of being” idea.  I’m not particularly fond of our democratic emphasis on “equality” which amounts to men measuring themselves according to their pay checks instead of their deeds or family honor; this system has spawned rootless men with no relation to their communities and who purchase bad debt for re-sell to Asians without care for the destruction reaped among their countrymen.

Wister’s “Lady Baltimore” contrasts these “replacers” with the old Southern aristocracy of Charleston.  In my last post I spoke of being homesick.  I’m all the more homesick after finishing the novel.  I want to marry the heroine, shake the hero’s hand, and most of all, I want to try a piece of that cake!


(1).  Satanists hate provincialism because God reaches us through our immediate social context, especially the family; the small southern societies in Wister’s fictional “Kingsport” are archetypical examples.  This flow of divinity must be stopped by appeal to television, internet, mass media of all sorts, and an involuntary “education” process that sears young consciences.  Our enemy has no idea the power he’s taunting or the anger he’s storing up against himself.  I just pray to God I’m around when the holy dam explodes.

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Gainsborough Cottage Door Last night, I finally got around to watching Gone with the Wind.

I was disappointed.  I’ve never read Mitchell’s novel but the movie has been hyped so much, even by “conservatives” like those at the Abbeville Institute, I thought I was in for a masterpiece.  But Rhett Butler turned out to be an anti-hero whose few noble sparks failed to balance his ignoble character, and Scarlett was a caricature from an Esther Vilar essay.

I thought hard labor would bring her to a healthy frame of mind which would have made a great story.  It did the opposite, prompting her to take up Yankee vices to indulge her petulance.  And this is a masterpiece?

I’m often told it’s one of the greatest love stories on the big screen.  I’m sorry, but if it’s anything, it’s a tragedy.  They got that much right.  Southern civilization is gone with the wind.  And not just the south, but all of old Europe.

What do we call that place swept away by the Jacobin winds?

That there has been a sea change is undeniable; that we’re living in an unprecedented age of Satan worship, which inverts all things holy is painfully undeniable.

But what to call that which was replaced?

I’m going to refer to it as the “Ancient Regime”; the ancient regime is gone with the wind.  Knights, ladies, the great chain of propriety, tribal superiority, hard-bought prejudices, and most importantly, the deep-magic of Christ’s love – all gone.

I was born in 1982, well after the civil rights movement conquered the last bit of southern resistance.  I don’t know what the world was like before then.  I don’t know what it’s like to have an all-white baseball team or an all-white school.  I can only imagine it based on what I read.  And based on what I’ve read, I’ve become homesick for a world that no longer exists.  “Homesick” because I immediately realized, upon venturing into the literature, that it was my home.

“Blessed are those who believe but have not seen.”(1)

This brings me to a theological point that’s guaranteed to anger all my friends – Catholic and Protestant alike: I think Protestants are right to hold Scripture as the highest authority for a Christian.  But Catholics also seem right when they appeal to a tradition to guide our understanding of the text.  Otherwise, postmodernism slips in and words, even Holy ones, end up meaning whatever the individual interpreter wants.  Do we dunk the baby or don’t we?  Who knows?

But what tradition should we hold to?  Not Rome.  I don’t buy the arguments that a human bureaucracy (in this case, the so-called “Church”) has authority to dictate theological truths on God’s behalf.  Besides, if Catholics believe God can so-use a small body of Bishops, why can’t they say the same for an entire people?

Why can’t we appeal to the tradition of the Ancien’ Regime if we need to solve some debate or other?  That’s what I end up doing on a practical level.  I often think of Shane, the gunslinger.  Had he been obliged to speculate over tomes of ethics before firing a shot, he’d not be the hero we read about.  No, he appealed to the tradition of the Ancien’ Regime because it was ingrained in him – bred-in-the-bones.

Why put God on the autopsy table anyway?  I don’t know how important correct doctrine is in the end, but if God is anything like my own father (my father’s best traits are pale reflections), then He cares more about how much I love Him than how well I can describe the inner-connections of His liver and spleen.

Many scoff at this sort Faith.  It bypasses their pet ideological denomination and is an affront to the new regime’s Godhead: Abstract Reason.  My Faith has bloomed into a fire because of it.  Philosophical speculation left me discouraged and bowing at the trough of despair.

As it is, I’m homesick for a place I’ve never been but where, I truly believe, I can get to if I pray hard enough.


(1):  I’ve decided to bold all Scripture references from now on to set apart Holy writ from mundane citations.

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A Hasty Musing

First: I’m disappointed in you all.

None of you pointed out how many infinitives I’ve been splitting!  I go through phases in my writing where a particular error repeats itself so often, I finally notice, fix it, then pronounce myself cured.  Nose through my archives.  You’ll think it’s raining exclamation points and arbitrary commas.  Anyway, lately, I’ve really noticed all these … gah!  I mean:  “lately, I’ve noticed all these split infinitives and am trying rigorously to…” ugh.  Trying to stop…is what I mean.

~ sigh ~

Next: I had a minor insight today about conspiracy theories and women.

Yes, the fairer sex may have launched humanity into damnation, but their mischievousness and curiosity are why we love them so much.  In the end, the frustrating qualities of women may be the key to defeating the all-powerful, shadowy cabal that governs our every movement…governs our every movement, if some of my friends can be believed.

Unlike my friends, I believe events on the national stage take place the same as events on the small town stage: usually at random. The evil conspirators (if there are any) are johnny-come-latelys who try to capitalize on events as they occur. But no demon can predict the market and not even Satan, with an army of Ouija boards, can predict the fickle decisions of a woman.

Women exemplify the beautiful capriciousness of our Lord and as long as a few good ones are around, no evil plots will succeed for long.  God mocks the plans of men, after all (and women follow suite).

Which leads me to my final point:

Just because they can’t predict the market doesn’t mean they don’t try.

Sick of modern pop, I decided it was time to dip back into old Europe.  Still being in a romantic frame of mind, I opted for “Lady Baltimore” by Owen Wister.  This will be my second Wister novel, the first being “The Virginian”, which thrilled me to no end.  Lots of humor and surprising insights lurk on every other page of a Wister novel.  Consider his observation in the preface:

To be sure, he doesn’t admire over heartily the parvenus of steel or oil, whose too sudden money takes them to the divorce court; he calls them the ‘yellow rich'; do you object to that? Nor does he think that those Americans who prefer their pockets to their patriotism, are good citizens. He says of such people that ‘eternal vigilance cannot watch liberty and the ticker at the same time.’

I especially liked this line:

“…eternal vigilance cannot watch liberty and the ticker at the same time.”

Just because they can’t predict the market, doesn’t mean they don’t try.  It’s those of us who remain patriotic with respect to our real nation, the nation of Christ and His antique-European knights, who are the good citizens.

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A Hate-filled Musing

I hope you all forgive these musings.  Sometimes I feel I have something to say but can’t articulate it.  When that happens, I sit down and write, trusting to the forgiving nature of my readers and (hopefully) a blind eye from the authorities.  And so, with a deep breath:

I’ve just read “A Walk to Remember” by Nicholas Sparks.

It was really good. I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately, reading all these Sparks novels.  I got a little misty eyed towards the end.  The man’s writing brings to mind something Donald Davidson said about the South (and I paraphrase): southern literature has a thread of the tragic running through it, but beauty emerges. When the south loses its sense of tragedy, it will finally have died all together.  For now at least, as Sparks’ novels attest, the South still has a pulse.

Theologians tell us God allows suffering for a morally sufficient reason.  It’s hard for humans (as opposed to theologians who pretend to be human) to see what that might be.  Sparks’ best novels give us a glimpse into the mystery.

In this one, a rowdy teen falls for the preacher’s daughter, a girl with a heaping of religious naivete covered by dogged generosity.  Hauling her Bible around the high school made her an outcast, causing drama between her and her rowdy admirer when the latter is guilted into helping with the school play.  He doesn’t want to be seen hanging around the poor girl.  I’m sure you all know how it ends, so I wont give it away.  I’ll only say, it’s a beautiful story.


It made me think about life, and, again, I blame this on the emerging spring season, but I realize that tragedy intensifies love and also (and here’s the controversial point), hatred.  It’s often said among my friends, but it seems all the more true to me now:  A man can’t hate properly unless he can love properly.

I first heard of the tragic torture and slaughter of Channon Christian and Christopher Newsom about a year after it happened.  I was at work when I read a passionate account on the Council of Conservative Citizens website.  It disturbed me so much, I left early claiming illness and was on my knees in prayer to God as soon as I entered my apartment.  Call it melodramatic if you’d like (I’ve often been accused of it) but I’ve always felt deeply, and the story of that poor couple cut to my heart.  I dropped to my knees before God and the Heavenly host, lifted my sacred hunting knife (brought from Germany by my grandfather and given to me before his death), and sliced my arm – swearing vengeance to God and pleading with Him to grant me the honor of avenging the wronged.  And not just them, but for the hundreds of torture murders and all the slaughtering of our people.

I’ve since learned to ration my browsing of those websites.  I get burnt out too easily.  But when the anger subsides, sadness remains, and out of the sadness comes a deep appreciation for God’s plan.

Beauty among the ruins.

Dear God, be with us…

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