A Brighter Midnight Musing (No Pelicans Were Harmed in the Writing of This Post)…

pelican sun

There was severe weather in North Carolina today.

I don’t know if you all saw it, but an adventurous cameraman caught a waterspout with his smart phone and the footage is currently “trending” on Facebook (which means, thousands of people are viewing it).

I’ll have you know, readers, that twister sprouted a few miles from where, last week, a pelican did his business on the head of a gloomy (though defiant) redneck, who was standing on the boardwalk, staring pensively into the ocean.

Yes, I’ve read my Coleridge.  I know what might happen if I exact revenge on one of the bird’s relatives.  Plus, I can’t discharge firearms on the beach.  I thought of my compound bow (I’m a fairly good shot), but gave that up as well.  I’d draw too much attention carting it over the dunes.  That left me with ye ol’ slingshot, the terror of neighborhood cats back home.  The squirrel slayer.  It’s small so I can easily hide it.  If I’m not too out of practice, I might be able to hit the danged bird.  I used to use marbles when I was serious about accuracy.  They fly truer than rocks.

But now I can avoid the curse of the albatross as well as possible arrest warrants because that bird (or one like him) may well have been sucked into the water spout!  (We can only hope so).


I’m still confused about that omen.

My friends laugh about it and rightly so – it’s hilarious.  God has a sense of humor, at least.  But some tell me it’s a sin to look for omens in the world.  Others tell me God doesn’t work that way.  “Sometimes things just happen.”


I’m sorry.  Not like that they don’t!

There I was, praying to God, asking for help, a sign, inspiration, something, anything!  And seconds later, the bird nails me?  That’s a coincidence?

I’d rather believe God sent that bird than believe He never sends any birds.

Some of my friends strike me as unwitting deists.  Deists look at the world as a big wilderness, abandoned by God.  Nothing has spiritual meaning.  All that happens is mundane and they accept it as stoically as possible.  On the other hand, I don’t want to be like some of the crazy conspiracy theorists I know.  They see signs and meanings in *everything*.  There were six clouds in the sky on the morning of June the sixth?!  It must be the end of the world!

No, I don’t want to stray too far one way or the other.  I want to be safely in the middle, right in the line of fire of whatever bird the Lord sends my way.  If He’s willing to manipulate Heaven, Earth, and every air-current in between to bring me and that pelican together, then He must really love me.

…and that’s encouraging.

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An Almost MidNight Musing…


I’m a bad Calvinist for saying this but I’ve had a run of bad luck lately.  In fact, I’m at a low point in life.  When I was in the military, there towards the end, I was making more than both my parents combined.  I lived in a large apartment overlooking the Potomac.  I had an abundant savings.  Life was good.

But I had grown with many new convictions and decided I couldn’t serve in the military with a good conscience.  So instead of renewing my enlistment, I got out and moved back to Carolina.  Since then my life has spiraled downward until almost everything has been taken from me.  (Loss of respect is worse than loss of material goods).

Go-lucky evangelicals remind me to thank God for the little He’s left me.  Their point is readily granted but I sometimes get the feeling they’re unable to empathize.  Telling a man on the ledge of a skyscraper to “cheer up, chap!  Remember what you still have!” is borderline insulting.

Hedonism is a coward’s suicide.  In my darker moments, I’ve thought of spiraling into it while hoping for a noble death.  Maybe I could jump in front of a gunman or swerve into a drunk driver to save a school bus?

I’m not at that point yet, readers.  I’ve been driven to my knees in prayer though.  At least, metaphorically.

I drove to one of my favorite locales today.  I wanted to watch the full moon rise over the Atlantic while asking God for relief.  While praying, a beautiful pelican – he must have had a four-foot wing span – emerged over the dunes and flew right at me.

“Hark! A sign!” I thought.

He flew low, directly over me, and as I stared at his belly, he unloaded his bowels all over my forehead.

God had spoken.

Luckily the beach access had a decent bath-house and I washed myself.  But I can’t wash away the feeling God has abandoned this country and its people.  We’re damned, all of us, and rightly so.

…is there any grace left for those who still look to Him for guidance?

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In Which I Stumble Into a Battle…

CSS AlbemarleI had planned a quiet afternoon, smoking my cigar by a peaceful southern river. But as I rounded the corner to the waterfront, I began hearing the patter of small arms fire. An engagement was underway (or just ending). Presently, the big guns began to boom and I knew the Confederates were hard-pressed. As I rounded the bend, I saw two encampments, but the CSS Albemarle (an ironclad ram) had won the river and the day was ours.

“Who won?” I asked a costumed passerby.

“The good guys” he said, with a wink.

As I looked out over the sea of white faces I felt a hope for the future.

Our people are still alive.

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AMREN 2015: Dawn of the Aristocrats?


I smoked my first Cuban cigar at this year’s AMREN thanks to my friend William Rome.  He, Matt Forney, and I skipped part of the conference, choosing Cuba and the beautiful spring day, over ideological dogmatism.  Besides, these conferences are about networking.  We could hear recordings of the lectures some other time.

Rome has classic WASPy features and a ready smile.  Forney is more serious, reminding me of a 1920’s gangster; one with uncharacteristic intelligence.  His anecdotes make up for the humor his face lacks.  Both men have enviable traits and I found myself (not for the last time) feeling inadequate in their company.

Forney is a big name in the “manosphere”.  I’ve criticized his work.  But despite what some desperate-to-remain-relevant baby-boomers have said about him in their profanity riddled “Daily Shoah” podcast, he’s a dignified gent, at least.  Far more imposing of a figure in real life than the rapscallion podcasters make out.  After the conference, when some of us gathered in a local TN watering hole, my friend Matthew Heimbach challenged Forney to display his “pick up artist” skills, to which Forney replied that he’d managed to make us all like him, despite the fact we all expressed disagreement with him and his material.

Well done sir.  Well done.


Antics inside the conference were a riot as well.

AMREN hosted its first ever debate although I’m still not sure what the parameters were.  Richard Spencer of NPI fame and the great Sam Dickson squared off against VDARE’s Peter Brimelow and John Derbyshire.

Spencer and Dickson argued that we can no longer “work within the system” and that we ought to find white equivalents to Gandhi and baby King Jr.  Brimelow and the Derb argued that we could work within the system, “at least, change was theoretically possible”, added the Derb.

“I’m not arguing that it will happen” he said, “…just that it CAN!”.

At which point, Spencer had a devastating reply:  “if that was the case, then anything at all could theoretically happen from within the system.”  If we’re forced to be so vacuous in our position as to argue mere possibilities, no matter how far fetched, then we’re no longer speaking to the realities of our current situation.

Spencer clearly won the debate, almost single handed, although Dickson’s exchange with the Derb exemplified a level of rhetorical prowess (on both men’s part) that we simply wont see in mainstream politics.  Two masters at work.  I think Matt Parrott is right though – if someone as brilliant as the Derb has trouble defending the idea that we ought to work within the system, then it must be a truly awful one.


Some are interested in the protesters who show up every year.  They arrived this year as well.  A gaggle of white kids holding insulting signs congregated on the front lawn attempting to shame the evil racists in the building.

Not that I feel it’s a point of pride, but there was more “diversity” among the conference attendees than among the protesters, with Taylor having invited a tall, Amazonian-looking black woman, who seemed amiable to our views and had a generally nice air about her.  There were also a few Puerto Rican nationalists in the crowd.  Good kids but I don’t fawn over minorities just because they share our views.  While I wish them the best of luck, I’m not concerned with their folk.

Lamont Jenkins, the left’s Fat Albert and organizer of the protest, waddled into the conference restaurant, flanked by a few skinny-jean clad hipsters.  There, Heimbach and some other attendees had an interesting tete-a-tete.  When I walked in, Jenkins expressed concern that he didn’t see me at this year’s CPAC.  “That’s because you leftists didn’t pay my way,” I replied.

I couldn’t take much of their dribble.  Heimbach’s always been better at that.  I decided to leave.  But I like leaving on a high note so I told Jenkins it was nice to see him again.  He asked, sarcastically, “Is it?!”

“Of course” I said.  “I always leave our encounters certain that my ideas are far superior to yours”.


In my mind, it was Richard Spencer who set the tone of this year’s conference.  He made the brief remark that even if we (he specifically included himself) were not aristocrats, we ought to start thinking like ones.  Being future oriented in our plans.  This coincides well with the general agreement that, whatever we end up doing, it’ll take a long time to get done and wont spontaneously happen from “within” the system.

See you all at next year’s conference…

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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 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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