Fifteen Dollars of Faith

~ Alone he stands and sore downcast
Who loves with pious warmth the past. ~ Novalis

An embarrassing fact about me, readers: I’ve got fifteen dollars left to my name, a quarter tank of gas, and enough food to last a few more days. I’ve sworn off taking financial aid from family or friends and I don’t have it in me to appeal to the state. As a millennial, I don’t have any real skills to offer the plantation and, also as a millennial, I can’t see myself flipping burgers or pumping gas for a living. [insert baby-boomer wrath at my ungratefulness here].

Actually, that’s not quite true: I’m not shy about manual labor, I’ve got a machining degree, and I was a photographer in the military for a decade. None of that seems to matter though. When it comes to prostrating oneself at the alter of a potential employer, I’ve got a severe disability. On numerous occasions, I’ve thought this indicated an entrepreneurial streak, but all my business ideas require me grovelling to hundreds of masters instead of one. To top it off, I’ve been raised to feel a deep guilt about my hatred of the plantation. I’ve got to keep that way in the deep-down and never let it surface around my family – who, in a sane world, would be the people I talk to most about my inner life. As it is, I blurt out my deepest feelings to you all – well-meaning, but complete strangers. Ahhh, at least I have the joy of blogging left to me.

I suppose I could coast on fumes until I got a job pumping gas or flipping burgers, but would that really solve my problems? Those jobs only pay enough to keep an individual alive; God forbid a car breaking down or finding a new living situation. And forget about savings, women, or a family. No, those jobs are firm as the shackles on a slave’s ankle. There’s no escaping them.

I’ve prayed about my situation, of course, but despite all those promising verses in Scripture (the one’s preachers appeal to for inspiration on Sunday mornings), whatever God’s up to these days, feeding His people isn’t on the agenda. Well, wait. Let me back up…

I’ve got fifteen dollars left of faith. That has to be at least a mustard seed’s worth. I’m open to pretty much anything God offers at this point, even if it requires flipping burgers. If that’s what he thinks of me, so be it.  My hatred of the plantation makes me think of criminal activity. Any moral inhibitions I have were thrown out a long time ago. When a man’s hungry, morality gets blurry. The populace is pretty much working to destroy itself anyway; why shouldn’t they finance me instead? Some organizations are outright hostile to Christ and the white world; surely they can afford a little robbing? But God needs to provide the opening. He may. Or, fifteen dollars is enough for a few lottery tickets I guess. That can’t be worse than being an outlaw.

The only problem with crime is the high risk isn’t worth the small reward, certainly not doing it for a living. So I guess, even on that option, I’d still be in roughly the same boat. The problem is, life, for me at least, is meaningless. Anyone who disagrees has to answer Solomon who, with the authority of God behind him, tells us outright life is meaningless. And without money, you can’t even enjoy the “little things”, like sunsets or watching the stars.

Don’t judge me too harshly unless you’ve been hungry and unable to feed yourself. It’s bad for women and children, but for a grown man, it’s humiliating. There’s a way to end it; you all know so I wont name it. But I’ve got fifteen dollars to go before putting it on the list of options.

…stay tuned to see what God does.

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Rapid Thoughts…

“I admire machinery as much as any man, and am as thankful to it as any man can be for what it does for us.  But, it will never be a substitute for the face of a man, with his soul in it, encouraging another man to be brave and true.  Never try it for that.  It will break down like a straw.” ~ Dickens

-Some old codger attacked me, out of the blue, on Twitter. Something about my friend the Swiss Kinist’s religious expression and my criticisms of the Alternative Right? Goes to show the weakness of Twitter as a communications platform. Great for contacting celebrities and staying up to date with news, but terrible for meaningful discussion. I liked the guy too; I thought we had a lot in common. He blocked me so, oh well.

-The codger, along with an insulting reader (who ought to have known better) suggested the course of my blog posts indicate I might be on the verge of rash action. Maybe on the verge of rash action, fair enough, but not the “going postal” variety. There aren’t enough bullets to solve this world’s problems. Chesterton, commenting on suicide, said the man who commits suicide doesn’t hate himself; he hates the world and wants to kill everyone with a single shot. Well, maybe not so rash as that, but leaving the country for an isolated locale seems to me a similar, though more admirable, way to solve all the world’s problems. Hard to care about social ills when you’re in a desert.

– About a decade ago, now, I was told I had to go to Afghanistan. In preparation, I read Gary Bernsten’s book “Jawbreaker” about the CIA’s war against Al Qaeda. I soaked up Bernsten’s narrative, learned the different Afghan tribes, and got a handle on the situation, etc., but what I remember most is his description of how he realized, one day, that his life to that point was wasted. There’s so much out there to do, so he decided to start doing it…now he’s a CIA hero and instrumental in American counter-terrorism. Remember that old saying: “There’s two types of people in the world – thinkers, and doers.” In many books on espionage, the authors stress the nature of those involved in covert ops. Like Bernsten, they’re all “doers.” On that note: most white people, including myself for many years, have been fooled by our culture into being “thinkers” instead of doers. Meaning: playing “Pokemon Go” and watching zombie movies, while America burns.

-The codger asked me where all my “online” friends are now? Apparently he read a few of my blog posts and saw I’m currently out of a job. He’s got me there – online associates are bad company in times of trouble. At the same time, thanks to online networking, I’ve discovered a market for otters. A few viral youtube clips of them as pets are making the rounds and I’ve found a number of people who might be willing to pay well for them. That’s lead me on numerous treks through the local wetlands in search of riches – not pelts, but pets. Yes, yes, I know it’s illegal. Who cares? Nothing’s likely to come of it anyway – I can’t find a single nest. I’ll keep looking.

– How can people who take the Lord’s name in vain, interspersed with the worst sort of profanity, and who have no concept of our European legacy (hint: reading about tigers isn’t the same as being in the cage with one), be looked to as heroes in the “war”? If a guy is “awake” on the racial question, that’s great, but if he hates Christianity, he’s still got to be dealt with. If not now, in the future after we’ve won? Isn’t the fallen, secular state the enemy that destroyed everything good in the world to start with? Ugh. I don’t care anymore. I really don’t. If you don’t want my help and don’t care for my insights, don’t read my blog. Go do your government-schooled best to topple the regime with profanity, Hollywood machismo, and whatever other tools you’ve got in your arsenal.

-If I only care for old Europe, does that mean I care for abstractions and fairy tales more than living white people? Of course not, but I don’t see how to separate the two. Can you still love someone dying of cancer, without loving the cancer? If you think this is impossible, comment and set me straight.


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I Can Feel It…


“As to what I dare, I’m a old bird now, as has dared all manner of traps since first he was fledged, and I’m not afeerd to perch upon a scarecrow. If there’s Death hid inside of it, there is, and let him come out, and I’ll face him, and then I’ll believe in him and not afore.” ~ Great Expectations

A scenario was proposed: what if Putin’s Russia invaded the United States? Would we take up arms against the invaders or greet them as liberators? A sharp rift developed in response; two factions emerged. One vowed to fight. Who knows if the Russians would have good intentions or bad towards us? Further, we wouldn’t want to give up what our ancestors took by force. The other side argued that the US is the epitome of Satan and Putin’s Russia is the modern stand-in for Christendom. Why not greet them as liberators?

I couldn’t make up my mind so I chose the third option: go to the hills and protect my family as best I can until it all blows over. That I don’t really have a family is neither here nor there for the scenario. Without one I’d be better off anyway. What did our Lord say about the end times? How dreadful it will be for pregnant women and nursing mothers…

Well, most of my friends believe that was a reference to the Roman sacking of Jerusalem in 70 AD and while that’s probably true, I think the point of it applies to any people on the brink of collapse. Makes you think about what really matters in life.

Maybe it’s because I’m in a bad spot in life, or maybe it’s the full moon, but last night I couldn’t sleep. Heavier matters than outlandish hypotheticals weighed on my mind and I ended up outside, staring at the moon and stars. I thought about the absurd barriers we build around our hearts, used as convenient excuses to keep out the full brunt of life’s emotion. My best friend, for example, just felt his baby move in his wife’s womb – the two of us grew up together and he’s having this timeless experience, and I can’t be there for him. My sister just had a baby and I’ve only seen it once, briefly. My uncle is about to go into open heart surgery and we don’t know what might happen…

…life, ladies and gentlemen. Life is far grander than we realize amid the monotony of it and sometimes a full moon and a sleepless night shake us out of our reverie. This, the passing of life from one human to the other is one of the highest aesthetic goods – and that good is personal. And He is loved and worshiped by those who hear His voice.

That’s more important than arguments over political science and revolutionary tactics. So what of our scenario? I’d have to look at the terms of it closer and decide which end would benefit my loved ones more. So, while a Russian, Chinese, Korean, Iranian alliance victory over the western powers might be a win for nationalist ideology, it would be a terrible loss for my people.

…maybe, as I’m struggling to figure out what to do with my life, I’ve come full circle, back to wanting to defend my homeland (as best I can)? Far less naive and far more cynical now than I was when I enlisted, and skeptical about my ability to contribute, but I have nothing to offer those around me other than sacrifice – sacrifice of myself so they can live. I can feel that. It feels right.

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An Empire of the Heart vs. An Empire of Iron


Every traveler has a home of his own, and he learns to appreciate it the more from his wandering. ~ Charles Dickens

I had the opportunity to participate in a discussion with Richard Spencer on a recent episode of the Rebel Yell podcast. Spencer, always a controversial figure in the Alternative Right, has once again riled tempers by taking an unpopular position on the recent BREXIT. Most in the Alternative Right, and most in the Southern Nationalist faction particularly, enthusiastically support England’s breaking away from the European Union. Any break up of centralized authority is seen as a net benefit for secessionist and decentralization efforts world wide. Spencer, on the other hand, staying consistent with his past statements, suggested the separation might not be in the English people’s best interest. On another recent podcast he said he’d remain open-minded about possible benefits and would take a pragmatic approach toward the entire ordeal. He’s well known for supporting a broad “pan-European unity” effort, where all the warring factions within the white world ban together under a centralized bureaucratic government of some sort. The Rebel Yell hosts disagreed.

My caricature of his position is admittedly broad because even after listening to numerous podcasts, I only have a vague notion about its particulars. When confronting knee-jerk reactions against it, I’ve often suggested that what he might have in mind is a world where the E.U. acts as a secularized version of the old Holy Roman Empire.

It’s often readily admitted, after all, that a strong cohesive force of some kind is needed to weld together the competing interests of the white world. Race, it’s generally conceded, is simply not enough. One need only glance at the history of the pro-white movement in America, especially since the 1970’s, to see a horrible amount of infighting, backstabbing, and all manner of different aims, ideas, and game plans. Didn’t even the great Constantine, on some secular accounts, inaugurate Christianity as the official religion of Rome solely to take advantage of its cohesive power?

I raised this idea to Spencer in the podcast, who replied that while Christianity could be a great cohesive force, it’s also proven very destructive. I didn’t counter the point then, but on my view, the wars of religion in Europe were a precise outcome of the breakdown of religious unity, not a result of it.

At any rate, this tussle leads immediately to a perennial problem in all nationalist movements, especially the Alternative Right. It’s generally supposed that we need political power, be it democratic or military, and that only comes by combining all the small pro-white factions together – unifying everyone into a large interest group which can effectively compete in whatever political climate it encounters. But how to merge all the groups together without glossing over vitally important sub-group identities?

This, says Spencer, is where we need the strong arm of the state. The so-called “Empire of Iron”; a powerful force that can impose its will on all the factions, with wise philosopher bureaucrats at the helm. This might seem more like the pagan Roman Empire than the Christian Catholic one that followed it. I argued instead for the so-called “Empire of the Heart” where all the competing factions maintained their sovereignty while still being able to work for their interests as a unit by virtue of a shared ethical / religious outlook – preferably Christianity.

Despite the rise in technology, which makes it easier for centralized states to control and / or oppress their subjects, the old political axiom still seems to apply: no one rules without the consent of the governed. There are always more of the governed than the governors so by sheer numbers alone, the whim of the populace has to be taken into account by law-makers. So I don’t see how the Empire of Iron can ever prevail. To prevail at all, there must already be an Empire of the Heart – a shared set of common values.

To attack from another angle: Empires of Iron may seem more “humane” in the abstract. Modernist government school kids are prone to scoff at the “petty” battles of the medieval “war lords”. They prefer large bureaucratic empires that impose federalized “democracy” allowing, in principle, the differing factions to resolve their issues nonviolently. It’s [the current year] after all, and as-we-now-know, and science, etc. Right?

This is a common fallacy of democrats and I’ll stomp it out here: the “evil” dark age violence, far from being eliminated by Pan-National democracy, is merely decentralized and spread out among the most innocent of the populace. Instead of a battle hardened warrior class absorbing the violence, democratic police officers impose ideals of the winning political faction on old ladies, children, defenseless families, and the like. Moreover, this isn’t a single battle, it’s a daily, ongoing act of violence.

Most of us know a free market where violence is allowed as a check on power and various non-government institutions have competing legitimacy is a much better way of organizing a society than bureaucratic democracies. But this sort of “anarchy” (a label I use for the feudalism of the middle ages) can *only* take place in a society of shared universal religious sentiment. Where knights are virtuous in victory and honorable in defeat (ie: instead of killing their Christian cousins, merely ransoming them). The modern may cringe, but this sort of honorable martial society is forthright, honest, and when repressed by artificial social contracts, leads to a seething cauldron of abuse, the brunt of which falls on the most innocent.

No – there can be no Empire of Iron without first having an Empire of the Heart, but if we already have an Empire of the Heart, there’s no need the one of Iron. It’s superfluous and only those flattered by their own rationalized ideals and alchemist intentions for their fellow man, find it the least bit plausible. Probably why it’s also rumored that Richard Spencer is a “transhumanist”. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but it wouldn’t surprise me.

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When Good ol’ Rebels Rumble

southern duel

Yet again, as some of you may have heard, I’ve had to call for a duel of fists on account of a lady’s offended honor. Why, oh Lord, is it always me? Always, always, always. It’s always me who has to cause controversy and discord among otherwise harmonious groups. It’s not like I enjoy it. I wish I could be an uncontroversial man, but I’m stuck with myself. Whomever is at fault in the end, I’m stuck with myself. And while I can’t easily afford being cast out of the fellowship of like-minded, I’m also unable – I mean, it’s not within my wiring – to walk away from the sort of thing I witnessed without challenge.

What’s worse, this all happened in a Facebook group (which, for propriety’s sake, I wont name). My older readers may not understand the intricacies of online socializing, but for millennials, it’s become, for better or worse, the primary means of fellowship. Moreover, given the sparse nature of the like-minded, having an easy way to congregate has proven invaluable for beating off the depression and hopelessness plaguing the few remaining humans in modernity. So I ask you not to underrate the nature of it, however absurd it seems at first blush. A public offense in an online group is, sometimes, even worse (because it’s more public) than if it happened in a face to face encounter.

A group of southerners, formed for the purpose of discussing the prospects of southern nationalism and secession, and made up primarily of self-professing “Alternative Rightists” was plowing along with the usual lewd and low-brow humor so common in the Alt. Right. Now, I’m no prude. I understand, if not fully condone, their frustrated sentiments, and I can overlook a measure of it in the company of men. Cigars, swearing, and discussing the finer sex is for the back porch, after supper, when the ladies are inside having feminine conversations of their own (the content of which, we can only guess at). But in mixed company, especially around young ladies, gentlemanly language and courtesy ought to be our pride. Unfortunately, perhaps owing to the infamous “manosphere” movement, this wasn’t the case.

A picture of a half-naked woman was posted, along with lewd comments, causing one young lady to express outrage, and rightly so. She then unceremoniously left the group. The leader of the group – consequently, a friend of mine – posted another lewd image in the aftermath, declaring the men had done nothing wrong and implying the young lady was just another confused member of her sex, trying to break up the bonds of brotherhood by pitting us against each other.

I admit, I made a mistake at this point. I contacted the girl, whom I’d never previously spoken to, and, after apologizing on behalf of all Southerners, asked if she might not rejoin the group if I promised to fight the two men responsible for the pictures. Not thinking I was serious, she gladly approved. I say this was a mistake because after informing the group and laying down my challenge to the men, it essentially put *her* virtue on the line, as if she were the one causing all the ruckus. That wasn’t the case. The idea arose solely from my old-fashioned sense of propriety.

I was accused of being “quixotic” because, apparently, this young lady was a staunch Roman Catholic and wouldn’t be considering lowly protestants (like myself) for marriage. This response infuriated me because it assumed the only motivation I had in the matter was a desire to, well, “attain” the young lady’s favor (to put it in a far less crude way than was offered by the group). Yes, the girl is pretty, conservative, southern, and very Christian; how could I not be attracted to her? But romance, at least the amorous sort, is far from my mind at the moment (my readers know I’m struggling to establish myself financially and relationships with women, while always present in the mind of young men, are as far to the back of mine as possible).

Is there no other reason an old-fashioned southerner would be up in arms after seeing a woman dishonored? Is there no tradition among our people of fighting about that sort of thing? Had anyone else spoken up for her – a boyfriend, a father, a brother, or even a close friend – I, a stranger to her, wouldn’t have said a word. But none did. No one seemed to even recognize the nature of the offense. So, by the God I serve, I did it. I know these men know about Southern honor. They talk about it all the time. I know they’ve read books about it. I know they’re familiar with the social mores of our people, and yet, for all of that, they don’t recognize it when it’s staring them in the face. It’s outrageous!

I’m not frustrated for having to fight (if the two men ever get around to accepting the challenge). I do that gladly. Or, maybe I should say, I *am* frustrated I have to fight; I mean, I’m frustrated that a group of Southern men are so unfamiliar with their own identity the conflict had to reach that point.

But I’m a Southerner, with all the antebellum passions.

I don’t want no pardon, for what I was and am.
I wont be reconstructed and I do not give a damn.

Posted in Defending Dixie | 2 Comments

Does the Right Need an Alternative?


Good order is the foundation of all things. ~ Burke

The “alternative”, so my Christian friends say, can go “right” out the window. A sentiment by no means pervasive among them, but ubiquitous enough to warrant a mention. The Alternative Right has raised pious hackles by promoting sexual degeneracy, using foul language (even around ladies), and engaging in all manner of atheism, paganism, and anti-Christian rhetoric. The lewd manner of these internet ruffians is often surpassed by the few activists brave enough to climb out from anonymity and grace the world with shocking images of National Socialist symbols, crude attacks on capitalism, and cries for destroying American conservatism. It’s easy to sympathize with my offended Christian friends.

The Alternative Right itself, is spiraling every which way, enlivened by its recent fame in the national media. Ever since Hillary Clinton’s “Alt. Right” speech, in which she tried saddling Donald Trump with the racist degeneracy of the “far dark [internet] reaches”, the leaders of the Alt. Right have been scrambling to gain dominance in the movement and thereby, show the media (and thus: the world) who’s in charge. My friend Colin Liddell penned an article at Alternative Right, providing an overview of the movement. Richard Spencer has done much the same over at Radix. Jared Taylor, Andrew Anglin, Greg Johnson, and many others, have all spoken out, trying to implicitly take the reins of the Alt. Right. My good friends at the Traditional Youth Network jumped on board as well, with Matthew Heimbach scoring a mention on Hillary’s campaign website. It all goes to show that the Alternative Right is less a “movement” and more a social phenomenon – or so I’ve been arguing.

To my Christian friends, I ask you not be so hasty in your criticisms. There are, after all, good reasons to be furious with what passes for “conservatism” in America. There are equally good reasons to give Hitler, the Third Reich, and even fascism (as a political theory) a second glance (if only a brief one). And as has been pointed out on numerous occasions, shocking images and insulting banter, when used wisely, have tremendous effect. I’ve said it before, and it bears repeating: it’s difficult to damn the Alternative Right to hell after you’ve slept on their couches, had drinks with them, and seen them by your side in the trenches. Besides, as traditional Christians, we ought to know better than to think of people as a faceless mass when there are perfectly good individuals underneath.

We ought not be cultists when thinking of the Alt. Right. A cultist, especially the religious kind (I’m thinking of you Todd Lewis), can’t help but critique the Alt. Right as if it were a religious heresy. Line up the epistemological foundations, see which overlap, ascertain the doctrinal pillars, then subject them to savage rational criticisms. Only, the Alt. Right isn’t that sort of animal.

Imagine instead, if you will, an analogous sociological phenomenon. Remember in the late 90’s and early 2000’s, when “running” became such a pervasive hobby that a sub-culture of “runners” emerged onto the sidewalks and roads of every major city? It was more than a mere exercise; there were magazines specifically for runners, stores, clothing brands, and so on. To critique this fad by investigating the beliefs of all the runners and figuring out why they were running, would have been to miss the force of it. Everyone ran, no doubt, for their own reasons, but they all identified themselves with the sub-culture. The Alternative Right requires the same sort of analysis; it can’t be understood otherwise – the doctrines are too diverse.

So I’ve had my say to the Christians; what of my say to the Alternative Right?

The media, at the moment, is wholly occupied with criticism, however shallow and passe’, but what of critiques of the Alternative Right from the actual right? Are there conservatives, even racially aware ones, with anything relevant to say?

It’s unpopular to admit among my friends, but dammit, I’m a conservative. I’m not willing to give up on conservatism. I’m a conservative like Edmund Burke was a conservative. I have an image in my mind of old Europe, its folkways and social mores, and it’s that, what I call the “Ashley’s Glass” view I want to see conserved; I’ll have old Europe or nothing at all. And while I acknowledge my limitations here – a proper criticism of the Alt. Right will have to come from someone more educated and intelligent (and well spoken) than me (I’m a nobody country boy from North Carolina who often thinks more highly of his intellectual abilities than he ought) – I’ll take a shot, nevertheless, at providing a broad theme from which others might draw for a proper analysis.

In short, the Alternative Right, as a sociological phenomenon, is made up of ideological heirs of the Jacobins. The Jacobins balked at the “chains” of traditional society and sought to overturn every last one of them. In their place, they wanted to construct a viciously “rational” and inhuman form of society in the pursuit of utopia. Alt. Righters are in a similar pursuit. These machine builders only differ with the Jacobins slightly, with respect to a gear here, a screw there; but they’re all fueled by a rebellious instinct against the restrictive dogmas of their day. The Jacobins blasphemed against the Church and old Europe; the Alt. Right blasphemes against the reigning Liberal dogma. Both are intent on building their own machines.

If we can say anything about “conservatism” it’s that the conservatives are charged with maintaining that great European legacy – that bond of blood between white men and the Christian God. That’s the good order that must be maintained. Without it, the Alternative Right will pass, just like the running fad. Runners turned into bicyclists, who are now “cross fitters.”

But there are still some of us who run the good race, even without magazines and specialty shops.

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Above It All: Shotgun vs. The Larkins


I saw that everything within my view which ought to be white, had been white long ago, and had lost its luster, and was faded and yellow…I should have cried out, if I could. ~ Great Expectations

The following is a sad remembrance but it ends on a happy note. I don’t expect my readers’ forgiveness for the debaucherous parts; I wasn’t always virtuous in my youth. I only ask you make allowance for my circumstances as a young military man, subject to the ravenous pressures of that class, and raised without the defensive knowledge of Christian chivalry…

Years ago, my sister and I, along with a handful of devout college students, went to a Charlie Daniel’s concert in West Virginia. The students weren’t as enthusiastic about it as I was. They were dressed nicely, signaling to the world their aloofness to redneck culture, while I, caught up in the excitement of seeing one of my heroes in person, was dressed as a caricature of rural manliness. I recall having on a camouflage vest, bare armed (to show off adolescent strength), jeans, and to proudly top it off, a Confederate flag ball cap my grandfather bought me.

“You should have dressed better,” one of them said. On the drive to the concert he told us all about the popular 90’s music he listened to and how “alternative rock” was better than country. Joke was on him; when we arrived, I fit in with the blue collar crowd and they all stood out.

We got there late and ended up at the back of the auditorium. But as we were sitting down, I heard angelic voices from the stage. Two beautiful young blondes, The Larkins, were singing bluegrass, one playing the mandolin, the other on the violin and backup vocals. Keep in mind, readers, I grew up in a predominately negro area where the only people who knew about bluegrass were the old folks. Seeing those girls up there, proudly singing the music of our people, overwhelmed me. I was fascinated. I think I was in love…with which of them, I didn’t know or care.

I was transfixed the entire set and only snapped out of it when they traded places with Charlie Daniels, who emerged from behind the curtain to thunderous applause. A few songs into his performance the very angels themselves, Tina and Shaunna, came through the back doors and sat next to me – two empty chairs between us! I couldn’t believe it. The miracle extended further when, during the upbeat songs as the audience jumped to their feet, swaying, clapping, and dancing to the tunes, the two girls did likewise, smiling at me, the nearest one even rubbing against me in the fray. The electricity, readers!

“Hi,” she said to me, smiling sweetly, as she turned to her sister, giggling. They knew what they were doing; I was at their mercy. Sadly, it ended all too soon when the girls’ father(?) beckoned to them and, just like that, they were gone. One, I’d swear it was Shaunna, waved bye to me as they exited.

What a pleasant memory. I was still a novice in my ability with the banjo (haven’t progressed much since), but bluegrass had always been a deeply personal form of music for me, and they, those melodious sirens, were the embodiment of Appalachian spirit. At least, they were to me, and throughout the years that followed, I’d remember them that way often; mischievous, playful, and alive.

Years later, I joined the Navy and after a particularly arduous sea mission, our ship pulled into an Islamic port for supplies. Endless ocean was replaced with endless desert, the jewel of which was a small village we called “The Sandbox.” The Arab salesmen tried their best to supply us with a taste of luxury. One of their tents was set up as an electronics depot. I dropped in and rifled through a pile of CDs, tossing aside dozens of odd middle-eastern music, and suddenly, out of the mix, there was a picture of the two Appalachian angels, staring up at me. They had made an album! I purchased it immediately and throughout the rest of the deployment, played it over and over in my rack at night. So odd to find a taste of home so far away from the Blue Ridge. I was a little confused, though; their album was described as “country-pop” and had no bluegrass at all.

Months later, back in the States, I went to visit my Navy buddies down in Jacksonville, NC. We engaged heavily in alcohol, our debauchery landing us in a local country bar called the Tarheel Opry House. All manner of wild dancing was taking place on the floor, a mix of line dancing, honky-tonking, flat-footing, and who-knows-what all, combined with negro hip-hop tunes. A nasty amalgamation. We’d go every night and make nuisances of ourselves.

One night, we had to pay cover charges because some band was playing…as you all might have guessed, yet another miraculous coincidence: it was the two Larkin girls. This time, however, their family band had been replaced with hired country musicians, and instead of bluegrass, they played country-pop and rock covers. My excitement quickly turned to confusion. During a lull in their set, I yelled “Above it All!”…a song from their album, and hearing me, they laughed and one of them explained they were saving their original songs for the end of the performance.

My confusion sobered me up and by the time they were finished, I walked over to where they were sitting. I looked to the guitarist and said, “You were great, man! That one solo you did was amazing!”

“Oh yeah?” he replied sardonically, as he put out his cigarette, “What was so great about it?”

“Um…” I didn’t know what to say.

“Well ya’ll were great too!” I said, turning to the Larkins. “I was kind of hoping you’d do some bluegrass though.”

Tina, if I recall, looked at me with a blank, tired look.

“Don’t ya’ll do that anymore?” I asked, confused.

“No” she replied, with no hint of conversational grace and in a tone hinting she wanted no follow up questions.

Their eyes had lost their sparkle and no hint of mischievous grins showed on their faces. They looked worn down, cynical, and…soulless? Their manager thrust an autographed copy of their album into my hands and looked around for other fans. I took the clue and left, downcast, embarrassed by my own naivety. And so went my vision of the Appalachian spirit.

The music industry devours pretty young girls – to this day (I did some Googling before writing this), they’re still plugging along, playing small shows at bars and festivals. One of them, Tina I think, is married now. I hope, owing to their failure to rise into stardom, they’ve been able to overcome the savaging influences of pop-culture and regain a semblance of their youthful spirit. If they had become superstars they’d likely end up like Miley Cyrus or Taylor Swift, or any one of the myriad of deflowered, degenerate white girls paraded before Americans on a daily basis. So I pray, for their sake, God has mercy on the Appalachian angels and gives them a hearth, home, and children instead of fame.

Yes, that encounter put me into a disillusioned and cynical state about beautiful women who ought to belong, if not to me, at least to the culture that gave them birth – belong to it, nurture it, and encourage it in its difficult trek through modernity. Instead, they abandon it for the dark arts of negro-worship, exhibitionism, and smoke-filled bars where debauchery and licentiousness leak into the sawdust floors, and all the purity of cultural expression is lost to a cacophony of devils.

But I said this ends on a lighter note…

At the Charlie Daniels concert, I dressed like a rural American to show everyone my relation to that culture. But I discovered that the clothes don’t make the man; it’s the man’s heart that makes the man. It was a hard lesson to learn, hard because it means, as our Lord has said, the path is very narrow. Without having a heart for our people’s history and our people’s love of God, we’re not really connected to them.

What’s true of men, I’ve learned, is also true of women. Just because girls play traditional instruments and sing traditional songs, maybe even dress in traditional clothes doesn’t mean they’re really white girls. Doesn’t mean they embody the spirit of Appalachia. Unless they have a heart for their people, they’ll easily fall away when faced with the consuming fires of popular culture.

…and there are some women out there who wont fall away. There are some who love and remember.

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A Fool’s Hope


~ Gandalf put his hand on Pippin’s head. “There was never much hope” he answered. “Just a fool’s hope, as I have been told.” ~

As most of you know by now, I wasn’t able to fast thirty days. I made it seven days before I couldn’t take it anymore and came down from the mountain. I’ve tried excusing myself by suggesting St. Antony never had to cleanse from a life of toxins, antibiotics, and refined sugars, but really I think it comes down to an issue of faith. And modernity has made me weak. Or maybe I’m just not strong enough to be the Christian modernity needs?

I’m experienced enough with fasting to have reasonably made it the entire time but wrestling in prayer with a God whose all but abandoned His people in their time of need…

…but wait, that’s more of the Devil talking. That much, at least, is true about the fasting mythos; old emotions bubble to the surface and the demons begin their whispers. I’m not exaggerating there. I never heard from God last week, but I heard demons aplenty. Want to know what they said, readers? They want me to be a deist; or, at least, to believe God, however real He may be, doesn’t care for His people right now. He’s opted out of our narrative and left us to ourselves. He’s offered us up to a period of judgement and those of us who love Him most are to receive the burden of Earthly dishonor in His stead. Most importantly, so they tell me, God will not live up to His promises of providing for our basic needs; He lets the most innocent among us die without vengeance, and more pious Christians than I have died from hunger. What hope, then, is there for a nobody, uninspired millennial like me?

I’ve sought out sermons on discerning one’s calling; I went up to the mountain to put to rest my incessant “casting about” and settle into whatever it is God’s made me to do. The sermons all suggest there is such a position. We’re all made for a specific purpose. Not, it must be said, because God needs us (so the sermonizers say), He’s omnipotent and doesn’t need anything. Rather, He wants us to be joyful and delight in our service. Assuming they’re at least partly right, what happens when we “seek ye first the Kingdom” but don’t find anything? What happens when the idea of becoming a wage slave on a giant Satanic plantation turns our stomachs? That’s when the old baby boomers tell us to shut up and do something; anything! But what of the joyful delight in God’s service? Should I flip burgers for Christ? Better a quick end than that.

In the darkest hours up on the mountain I’d turn to the Psalms and it was there I came to something of a revelation. I was reading Psalm 9 and was reminded that God is the refuge for the oppressed. The next verse, however, was what I latched onto like the drowning man I am: The Lord has *never* forsaken those who seek Him. Never. My old apologist notion – the rationalist notion about Christianity as a syllogism – was washed away. True faith isn’t faith that God merely exists – even Satan has that. True faith is believing that – even though He’s quiet, and even though evil men desecrate every holy thing, demons rage, madmen march in triumph over the bones of Christendom, and the very aesthetic beauty of the land is soiled – that He loves His people and wills the best for us. And not just corporately, but for each of us as the precious, human individuals we are.

This is the fool’s hope: that God, the master craftsman, creates His clay pots to hold their form throughout the homogenizing fires of modernity – fires which threaten to strip away every vibrant quality so precious (and rare) of men and mold them into demonic automatons, with echoing clicks, whirs, and buzzes – that out of this rusty, disease filled pile of anti-Christ war machines, will arise the fresh growth of the European rose.

And I believe it, even though He’s silent about my purpose. Even though it seems He wants me to expire in destitute, lonely, humiliation…

…though He slay me, yet I will hope in Him.

The demons say it’s a fools hope.

Guess I’m a fool.

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Into the Wild


As some of you know, I had to quit my job as a prison guard. Working for the state was a strike against my honor, but doing something day in and day out I found not only distasteful, but immoral, and doing it in an environment surrounded by sick depravity, was damaging to my soul. I began losing myself to the job, thinking of myself there indefinitely, not seeing any way out. I was becoming mired in the daily routine. Enough of my honor was left, however, to deal with the inmates as I saw fit and after one such exchange (which wasn’t by the book), I was told my methods were against policy. They sided with the inmate while undermining my authority. I replied that either he left the prison or I did. So, here I am.

I realized I was damaged in more ways than one. Ever since my notorious heartbreak in 2007, my Faith dissolved into little more than a sham. All of my prayers have been angry and my writings were shallow attempts to carry on an illusion of Christian optimism. On the inside, despair and faithlessness squirmed their way into my being until I found it impossible to say anything truthfully without demoralizing those around me.

I still love God and while my dreams have all been taken from me along with my young love – I’ve been given a new, though faint, vision of fairy tale Europe. I was bitter about this for a long time; I felt God took everything tangible from me and replaced it with ghosts, daydreams, and a world I would never be a part of. Suicidal thoughts plagued me and, honestly, in the past week since leaving my job, they’ve been especially difficult.

Well, no more. I’ve decided to do something no one else I know has ever done. I’m going to do something I’ve known for a long time I’ve needed to do. Ladies and gentlemen of the internet world, dear readers, you most patient of souls…I’m going into the wilderness to fast and pray and do battle with whatever demons plague me. I’ll take up the ascetic life, like my hero St. Antony; thirty days of it, at the least.

The old tales say that when a man fasts in this way, the demons manifest themselves. For the rationalists reading this, there’s some precedence for it in Scripture, even if you reject the tales of St. Antony. I believe it, anyway. And if they destroy me while I’m in the wilderness they’ll have done me the favor of avoiding damnation by taking my own life. If I overcome them, though, I’ll emerge whole, with my torn soul mended, my relationship with God renewed and strengthened like never before; my body will be cleansed, primed for fighting. And from there, I’ll make good on my desire to train, get in the best shape of my life, then call forth America’s demonic overlord, whomever and wherever he may be…for one final act of combat.

No one else, it seems, in the entirety of this generation, is willing to do it, so maybe that’s why it’s fallen to me? Maybe that’s why God took away all my dreams, left me without a family for this long, left me without a way to survive on the plantation? I’ll take on this Molech and die an honorable death, or win.

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Last Ride of the Christian Knights


They’re not trying to kill white people, they’re trying to kill Christ and Christ was most manifested in white Christian Europe. So naturally, it’s white Christian Europe they hate with the devil’s zeal. They don’t hate white trash neo-pagans exactly; they don’t hate white hipster atheists per se; it’s not the suit and tie clad eugenicists who raise their ire. It’s what they represent. It’s Charles Dickens. It’s Rudyard Kipling. It’s Walter Scott. It’s all of the European poets and the people so carefully represented in old European literature and art. It’s the people who mixed their blood with the blood of Christ who are targeted for execution.

The pagans, eugenicists, and all the rest, including average white policemen, and the elderly woman carrying her groceries down the street, in the mind of the savages, represent white Christian Europe. These people, even the racially aware ones, aren’t going to be competent to mount any sort of resistance to the slaughter because they don’t know or love white Christian Europe.

I’ll make an exception for the old lady carrying her groceries; she, maybe, out of all the rest, remembers. I’d take an army of old ladies who love and remember over an army of skin-headed pagans who hate and despise that which our enemy also hates and despises.

I’m lonely because very few people love and remember. To love and remember requires more than reading a history book; it takes more than studying philosophy. It takes more than correctly diagnosing the economic, political, or sociological ills of the populace. None of these things can be properly studied or understood unless one first has a burning passion for the world that was lost. Instead, these neo-pagans, eugenicists, and the rest, are social mechanics, hoping to build some future machine that churns out bodies with a particular genetic makeup. Stats and figures, calculations and strategies…the machine is all in all.

I say they wont be competent because this isn’t a physical war. It’s a war of spirit and only those with a familial bond to the Holy Spirit are equipped to fight the demonic forces arrayed against us. The modernists reading this, if they’ve made it this far, will refuse to believe it, but it’s true. The Apostle Paul said so in his letter to the Ephesians so long ago.

This spiritual war will manifest itself physically – it’s already doing so – and I truly believe God is a God of small, daily miracles. The casual observer might call them beneficial coincidences, timely events, or luck. The Christian knight, old European visor down, sees it for what it is. The miracles of fairyland.

When everyone else says “no”; when everyone else says “ill advised”; when everyone else says “democracy and system building”; the Christian knight, as far as I can tell, says “One last ride for God, King, and Country!”

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