Cult of the Upturned Roots


But their memories e’er shall remain for us,
And their names, bright names, without stain for us;
The glory they won shall not wane for us,
In legend and lay 
Our heroes in Gray 
Shall forever live over again for us. ~ Fr. Ryan

“I’m an agnostic satanist with race-realist views,” says one.

“Well, I’m a Christian,” says another, who adds: “…but I don’t take the Bible literally. So what I mean to say is I’m as much a modernist as you.”

They swill their Wal-Mart beers and give a federal salute to the battle flag; palms downward, the way I was taught to do in the Navy. Neither know it, but the old confederates saluted palm outward, like the Brits. I learned that tidbit of southern history from a Shirley Temple movie and verified it later. For years, when I’d drive by a confederate monument, I’d offer a federal salute, ignorant of the unwitting insult.

Unlike our satanist friend, however, I didn’t stay ignorant. I corrected my mistake. And moreover, I get the feeling, sometimes, I’m the only unreconstructed southerner left in the world. The rest have hung out their souls on the laundry-lines of fate and let the fiery-faggotry of Satan’s modern sun bleach them with enlightenment. “Mammy Jo’s laundry bubbles’ll get yo laundry smellin’ mhmmm, mhmmm, negro fresh! Shhhyaaah.”

And I’m not angry at these neo-confederates because of any lack of zeal on their part. They’re zealous enough when it comes to it. They hate (or at least claim to hate) the modern world. Nor am I upset about lack of head knowledge – I lack plenty enough of that. No, I’m angry at the way they’ve fallen in love with a hacked-root existence: living as cast-away firewood, when the tree that gave them birth is at hand, begging them to graft back in.

Entire generations of us were severed from our roots. That’s not our fault. It was done to us, literally at bayonet point. I can forgive a man for being indoctrinated. I can never forgive him for falling in love with his indoctrination…

These neo-confederates make up what I’m calling the cult of the upturned roots. They look up old confederate names in history books and pay homage to those men, without ever feeling what those men felt; without ever believing what those men believed. “Yeah, we love our southern ancestors, but what we really need in America now is national socialism and evolution-based eugenics! Huzzah!”

When a man is rootless, he doesn’t know who he is. He doesn’t know how to act. These neo-confederates are like women who pretend to like sports because they think it’ll make their boyfriends happy. They wrap themselves in the trappings of their man’s team and shish-boom-ba with the best of them. Take the sport away from them, they wont lose sleep over it.

Take the south from a neo-confederate and he’ll lose a few clothing items or bumper stickers. Take it away from me and there’s nothing left.

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Historians Explain European Christmas…


(This post was inspired by a recent blog post at the Abbeville Institute, where the well-meaning author provides a bumbling, modernist, critique of the old-South).

On occasion, the old European children would attempt to curry favor with their overlords, referred to back then as “parents.” They would hang certain types of plants in their living spaces and, as some scholars note, would even bring entire trees inside the house.

The “parents” would reciprocate, in keeping with the delicate balance of power in their social-units, by offering gifts. These gifts were sometimes accompanied with recitation of songs and readings from their mythological text.

All labor in the community would cease for a pre-determined number of days while this ceremony took place.

It’s hard for us today to consider the mindset of these people and yet, by all accounts, they were inexplicably lead to feign happiness throughout the ritual. Those progressive individuals refusing to adequately adhere to the format, would be severely punished, sometimes by receiving coal in their socks. This coal was to symbolize the threat of being burned alive, perhaps at a stake, for daring refuse the festivities.

In all, it was a quaint, though delicate, balance of power. And while we certainly cannot accept the ludicrous mythology of these old Europeans, we might do well to remember their steadfast dedication and adherence to these rituals. We might adhere to our own rituals similarly.

Excerpt from Dr. Vonmoron, in “Modernist Academic Knownaughtery” vol III. “An Examination of the Delicate Economic Situation in Old European Christmas Rituals.”


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Review: Rethinking the Propositions


~ Shotgun Note: what follows is written under duress as the stalwart Mr. Putnam has threatened to challenge me to a duel if my review is unkind. Be forewarned. ~ 

As a good agrarian, I despise propositions of all sorts and only admit them into my life to the degree they’re necessary for cognitive arts; that is, thinking, speaking, writing, and the like. Joe Putnam, author of “Rethinking the Propositions” (and blogger at God, Kin, and Soil) never attacks the whole smelly bunch (even though he should have); instead, he admirably takes aim at a small class of the buggers, namely, those propositions traditionally alluded to by the white American every-man when pondering our “land of the free.”

“Oh beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain…”

…gimme a break, says Putnam. Our second-amendment rights may be under attack (as he outlines in one of his chapters), but his guns are fully loaded and aimed squarely at the romanticized “patriot” mythos running rampant among American “conservatives”.  Round after round, chapter after chapter, he dismantles mistaken notions and tiresome talking-points. What emerges is the personal manifesto of a man who comes across as frustrated and angry at the failings of those who ought to know better: those conservative white men who instinctively despise radical leftists and their satanic culture. Instead of fighting it, they rest lazy and content on the warm blankie that is American civic-nationalism (with all its praise of the sainted “founders” and worship of flaccid bits of paper).

Western civilization has rejected Christ and is sinking in a bog of queer-slime and afro-sheen; it will all collapse, says Joe, and we can only hope that what emerges from the muck is something like the decentralized Christian republic of old Dixie.

I disagree with much in the book and wish he’d have filled it with more anecdote and less opining. He takes strong positions on complex historical issues around which even PhD’s walk with care. What’s more, he does it with (almost) nary a footnote! Still, Putnam’s forthright stubbornness is a breath of fresh air when so many academics are terrified to assert their own names, let alone defend controversial historical nuance.

They, and their legion of metropolitan bourgeois hipsters, have abstracted themselves from their people, place, and religion. They’re empty beings; rootless, un-defined, sycophants. Prime real-estate for devils.

Not that Putnam’s book was intended for their sort, but they’d do well to rethink their own propositions. On that note, another failing of the book is that it’s unclear who, exactly, it is intended for. One minute it seems he’s aiming at right-leaning “civic nationalists”, the next minute, he’s using insider Alt. Right lingo and dog-whistling to the internet community. Or is he writing it to a younger version of himself?

I wish a younger version of myself had read Putnam’s book. It would have helped me escape my own patriot delusions. In the end, I think that’s how this little manifesto will best serve the community: set it out at gun shows and flea markets. Hand it out to “normie” conservatives.

It may be just the nudge they need to begin questioning their well-meaning but tragically impotent worldview. It may be the humble little seed that sprouts a glorious agrarian future…

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A Monastery of my Own Making…


“God help me! I am the weakest of the weak,” groaned Alleyne. “I pray that I may have more strength.”

“And to what end?” she asked sharply. “If you are, as I understand, to shut yourself forever in your cell within the four walls of an abbey, then of what use would it be were your prayer to be answered?”

“The use of my own salvation.”

She turned from him with a pretty shrug and wave. “Is that all?” she said. “Then you are no better than Father Christopher and the rest of them. Your own, your own, ever your own! My father is the king’s man, and when he rides into the press of fight he is not thinking ever of the saving of his own poor body; he recks little enough if he leave it on the field. Why then should you, who are soldiers of the Spirit, be ever moping or hiding in cell or in cave, with minds full of your own concerns, while the world, which you should be mending, is going on its way, and neither sees nor hears you? Were ye all as thoughtless of your own souls as the soldier is of his body, ye would be of more avail to the souls of others.”

“There is sooth in what you say, lady,” Alleyne answered; “and yet I scarce can see what you would have the clergy and the church to do.”

“I would have them live as others and do men’s work in the world, preaching by their lives rather than their words. I would have them come forth from their lonely places, mix with the borel folks, feel the pains and the pleasures, the cares and the rewards, the temptings and the stirrings of the common people. Let them toil and swinken, and labor, and plough the land, and take wives to themselves——”

“Alas! alas!” cried Alleyne aghast, “you have surely sucked this poison from the man Wicliffe, of whom I have heard such evil things.”

“Nay, I know him not. I have learned it by looking from my own chamber window and marking these poor monks of the priory, their weary life, their profitless round. I have asked myself if the best which can be done with virtue is to shut it within high walls as though it were some savage creature. If the good will lock themselves up, and if the wicked will still wander free, then alas for the world!”

~ “The White Company”

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Shotgun Goes to C-Ville…


By now, most people know the general narrative of this weekend’s “Unite the Right” rally. They’ve heard how a thousand or so angry white people were denied their free speech by a radically left-wing city council, only to have a federal judge rescind the city’s decision. They’ve heard how the police corralled the demonstrators in and waited for them to be surrounded by hundreds of demoniacs. And, as we all know, the liberal powers then arbitrarily closed the event by declaring a “state of emergency”. They herded the white boys out of the park, forcing them through a narrow bottleneck, where they were conveniently exposed to the violence of the surrounding mob.

I don’t like being hemmed in. I spent most of my time circling the city blocks, watching the event from all sides, and hoping to be of service someone pulled out a rifle (God forbid).

It was a bizarre scene. The League of the South and the Trad Workers were holding the line using improvised shields, helmets, and other riot gear. Bottles, smoke bombs, bricks, and all manner of debris was flying back and forth. It was hard to breathe because of all the pepper spray (from both sides). At one point, about 60 or so of the white boys who arrived late to the event, came marching in from the east, Confederate flags waving proudly. I watched as they approached; they had to somehow pass through the army of Satanists to reach the relative safety of the shield wall.

As they got closer and were noticed, throngs of the “counter-protesters” turned around and confronted them. Insults and profanities flew. Someone thew a brick. Someone else grabbed at a flag. A melee erupted. This happened virtually right in front of me, so I threw anonymity to the wind and dove in swinging. I didn’t know any of the white boys, but they were white Christian Southerners and I couldn’t let them fight alone.

It was a nasty fight. Confused. Reckless. I can still smell the stink of it. Fortunately, I had the advantage of surprise since I was approaching from the rear. I managed to do a bit of damage before I was swallowed in a pile of dread-locks and foul odor. I imagine it looked like one of those fights in the old cartoons, where all you see is a dust cloud with elbows and arms flying randomly. Someone, I don’t know from which side, fired mace into the throng. I was dusted against the side of my face. This ended the brawl and I stumbled into the crowd.

I remember thinking I hated this sort of violence. It was senseless. Maybe this is a bad trait, but even while I was fighting, I recall philosophizing about it all. I recall thinking the only reason I was in this situation, besides unwise life decisions, was because I live in a world of “democrats” – that is, a world of people who formally disavow violence and prefer solving all their disagreements in the ballot box. Just imagine: in a sane world, we could easily deal with these people. It wouldn’t take an hour. But because everyone (on both sides) believes in “democracy”, we’re stuck in this insane “limbo” where the right of one group to have their ideals heard in public is violently opposed by another group.

And look – readers – there’s a lot of nay-saying in the Alt. Right about the C-ville rally. I understand we don’t need more cynical criticism. So I’d like to say I sincerely believe a lot of good came from what we did. We got a lot of media attention. Maybe that lone white boy, enduring constant physical humiliation from the throngs of negros in his government school, saw strong white men fighting for their people, and was inspired? Maybe others will be emboldened by our actions and begin Googling “racist” websites? Maybe Jason Kessler (the event organizer) will win a lawsuit against the city and the Alt. Right will, subsequently, win a few million to help finance more pro-Southern causes.

…but the entire event was an event that was explicitly democratic. The “win votes” and “create a political block” ideal is the reigning paradigm of all Westerners. Moreover, these types of events are predicated on a “civil rights” activism mindset. Richard Spencer (for example), at an AMREN a few years back, explicitly said we need a white Gandhi. Sam Dickson followed by suggesting we need a white Martin Luther King.

The fallacy here is thinking these “civil rights” tactics are objectively useful. In reality, the civil rights tactics only worked for the negros because the establishment (church, state, university, etc.) already desired that sort of social change. When a negro was arrested, it was: “…he a good boy, really. He din’ do nuthin’.”

But rest assured, when one of us are arrested, this will *not* be the case. No, the establishment wants our blood. Those on our side clamoring for better “optics” are pathologically deluded on this point. As if wearing suits and putting away the battle flags, will win friends and influence people. No! The best “optics” for white people are grave clothes and coffins. Nothing short will impress the frothing-at-the-mouth satanists.

The cynical note about all this is that even *if* these civil rights tactics work, we’re only building some sort of new pagan Rome. Rome *was* the god of the Romans. It was a benevolent god that allowed other minor deities into the pantheon, but the Roman state was the prime deity.

We don’t need democracy and civil rights tactics. All that will get us is more useless “non-lethal” brawls in crowded streets. Or, at best, it’ll get us a new Rome. What we need is a return to the fairy-tale vision of Christian Europe.

I want that or nothing.

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Review: Our Southern Nation

oursouthernnation.jpgThe bigger southern cities can hide it, but walk through smaller villages or ramble through the hinterlands, and you’ll see it: abandoned buildings, cracked sidewalks, ancient churches.  These cities smell like our grandparents’ collective attics – a convenient metaphor since both attics and southern cities cling to a past that blew away a long time ago.  Truly a civilization “gone with the wind.”

Doubt me?  Richmond and Norfolk can hide it, but walk through Suffolk Virginia.  You’ll feel you’ve missed out on past greatness.  Or check out Roanoke – same story: the meat has gone leaving a crumbling, brick skeleton.  North Carolina has more of the same:  Plymouth, New Bern, Sanford, Kinston, all relics of a past civilization the current residents know only through a few monuments, some old houses, and unintelligible social customs.  It’s a mystery replete throughout the south.  Wherever there is chipped paint, broken windows, crumbling buildings, and a sensation of past greatness – there is the southern mystery.

Well, it’s not a mystery anymore thanks to Michael Cushman’s new book “Our Southern Nation: Its Origin and Future”.  Cushman unleashes a painstakingly thorough arsenal of citations aimed at demonstrating to those with ears to hear, that the South ought not be thought of as a cultural part of the United States.  Instead, it ought to be thought of as a unique civilization – a part of the so-called “Golden Circle”.

Why is this important?  Anyone who has attended the recent tea-party rallies can tell you how pervasive non-Southern historical analysis has become.  The “Patriotic American” dresses like a New England Yankee and carries around fake boxes of tea.  These well-meaning conservatives have bought into a hostile interpretation of America’s history – a Yankee and Midlander interpretation – but it’s not a Southern view.  In our postmodern world, the objectivity of any historical paradigm is questioned and academics favor a sort of “multi-perspectival” or “subjectivist” approach – only, when it comes to the South, its view of history is said to be evil and unacceptable.  Other scholars, perhaps those less-inclined to bow knee to postmodernism, claim objective historical analysis is possible, but reject the Southern view on trumped up and inconsistent grounds.

In either case, the world needs Michael Cushman’s book as much as the crumbling buildings in Richmond need a new coat of paint.  We’re finite creatures and will only ever have a finite handful of facts which make up the everlasting river of history.  Each of us, each region, will have its own unique way of viewing the past – its own unique handful of the river.  And, as Cushman shows in his book, the Golden Circle historical paradigm presents a unique interpretation of the American south’s cultural relation to the Caribbean and areas surrounding it.

It was a culture of planters, cavaliers, chivalry, and honor.  This was the South’s view of itself and key to developing its unique regional identity.  Without a clear view of its past, then, the South can never have a clear view of its present.  Cushman’s book gives us that clear view of the past and helpful suggestions for the present.

Maybe one of its weaknesses is that it maintains a dispassionate academic tone.  I’m sure some zealous Southerners, intent on rescuing their identity from extinction, will wish Cushman had damned the Yankees to Hell and called for a full charge on Washington.  But like Dabney pointed out in “Defense of Virginia”, maybe the Southern propensity for zeal and disregard for academic tete-a-tete, was a weakness?  For those of us who have spent time in academia, it’s refreshing to read a book like Cushman’s – it’s a tool, presenting all the intellectual ammunition a young Southern intellect could want.  I’d tell the young southerner that if he’s intent on damning the Yankees, he ought to do so fully prepped with intelligent historical analysis at his back.

…he ought to do it with Cushman’s book in his library.

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The Storm Cometh…


Walk down the main street of any post-European town and, if you’re like me, the scenery moves you to tears for the passing of a great race. The architecture is still there, if a little worn. The layout is still a blessing; but the people are all zombies and there are (usually) gangs of unruly minorities littering the green. You start to realize the beauty was in the people, not the buildings. It’s a lonely setting for a man of old-Christian sensibilities to walk through the corpse of Christendom.

So, am I angry with God for choosing to punish my cherished region? No.

I’d rather see it destroyed by flood waters than pillaged by devils.

Still, I experience a subtle thrill whenever the news begins hyperventilating about a coming disaster. Will this be the one? Will this be the one that violently snaps the white, Southern, every-man out of his Satanic trance and turns his heart back to Christ?

…one can only hope.

Stay safe out there, my friends…

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Shotgun Honors Silent Sam…


~ …the facts are, that [Confederate Soldiers’] courage and steadfastness saved the very life of the Anglo Saxon race in the South. ~  the Silent Sam dedication.

A few weeks back, a gang of rabid government-schooled degenerates snuck onto UNC Chapel Hill and toppled the “Silent Sam” confederate monument. How many hurricanes, wars, and economic disasters had Sam survived, only to be toppled by these brain-washed zealots? Ever since, the empty dais and green have hosted numerous protests and counter protests, one of which was this past Saturday.

A group calling itself the New Confederate Army showed up with their battle flags and a flaccid message of “heritage not hate.” On the other side of the police barricade, they were met by about 100 of the degenerates. I heard about the event last minute and, since I was in the area, decided to attend. What a sad spectacle, dear readers…

I arrived just as the New Confederates were winding down. I could hardly see them for the spittle-flinging crowd pressing around them. Shouting, chanting, and frothing at the mouth, these Satanists directed their ire at the Confederates and police equally. “Who do you protect?! Who do you serve?!” they cried…

After the Confederates were escorted off the green, the degenerates milled around for about five minutes until, apparently on command, they decided to attack the police. They had to vent their wrath. The police responded in kind. I wandered over to the vacant Silent Sam pedestal and said a prayer, asking God for vengeance on our enemies. I said my “amens” as the first smoke bomb erupted in the violent milieu. Arms and legs were flying, everyone was yelling; it was chaos…an apt illustration for post-Christian Dixie.

The protesters, dispersed but not dispirited, continued their chants. They became increasingly violent in their rhetoric, some even chanting about shooting police officers with AK-47s. The police looked on with masked resolve.

The crowd was mostly young girls, unfortunately, with a few beta-male “cucks” rattling pseudo-violent sabers. These little whores looked in their mid teens and many were enrolled in the university. They’re being taught…transformed…into God-hating harpies and soul-dead “undines.” A Christian father who sends his child to UNC ought to be flogged in front of his congregation.

Know this: these confused children are violently zealous for their neo-jacobin religion. They worship their homosexual Moloch with all the passion of the Devil and they hate Jesus Christ with every fiber of their being. We will *not* defeat them with off-hand democracy and intellectual arguments.

In fact, a friend of mine reported a poll declaring that 70% of North Carolinians oppose the toppling of Silent Sam. This angers me to no end. These aren’t poll numbers to feel smug about. We ought to be ashamed that so many of us allow so few to dominate our symbols and monuments. It’s indicative of an ashed-out passion; no smoldering embers to burn the witches alive…at the very moment the south needs raging wildfires in the hearts of every Southron! How *dare* we allow this?!

How dare we allow them to spit on our Sovereign?!



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Life in the Garden of Evil…


“Reconcile yourself to this wilderness.” ~ Zane Grey “Wildfire.” 

Him: “Where you frum, bruh?”

I answer ambiguously…

Him: “Oh…? Das wha’s up? Yo…you watch tha game las’ night?”

Me: …long sigh…exhales smoke…

Him (paraphrase): “That one group of negro lads really stuck it to that other group of negro lads! Tee hee!”

Me: non-committal grunt. I stare off to the distance, studying the coming day’s work.

Him: “Oh, you not into football. You know what? Imma get me that new [insert popular vehicle of the month].”

Me: “…they’ve got a good transmission, I hear.”

Him, rails about it for 10 min, after which: “yo…you see dat Georgia honey at the gas pump?!”

Me (inner thought): “In a Christian world, you’d be lynched for speaking about a white lady like that.” Out loud: “…meh, I wouldn’t marry her.”

Him: …awkward silence.

Just then, our archetypical baby-boomer boss emerges from his office intent on offering us his daily sermon. He drones on about how we ought not read the Bible. “Never read it! Don’t do it! You’re not smart enough to understand it! You need to get you a study-guide and learn from commentators first. I highly recommend a man named Rick Warren and his book ‘Purpose Driven Life.’ That man’s a genius. I have two college degrees and 20 years experience, but I still submit to everything he says.”

After his sermon, he turns us over to the grizzled old, ex-marine, foreman, who with a slight eye-roll (not enough to be disrespectful), hands out our marching orders for the day. He’s mentally segregated the bunch, the hard-working white boys from the unwieldy minorities who’re liable to get someone injured or killed.

Foreman: “You, you, and you…you’re with me today. Those of you working inside, head on in. The rest of you are on cleanup.”

At this point in the narrative, the group is broken up and I’m corralled with the white every man:

WEM1: I’m world-savvy, a gambler, with metropolitan street-smarts and many negro friends.

WEM2: I’m left-leaning, a friend to every minority, and here’s my life story and all my future plans in intimate detail…

Me: “…ya’ll talk too much.”

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Friends in Low Places…


In my quest to find a fairy-tale existence, I’ve been in search of life experiences. My search has landed me in low company. Drug addicts, prostitutes, homeless men, and recently-released ex-cons (some of whom remember me from my time as a prison guard).

I’ve become good friends with one such. He remembered how I used to show favoritism to the white inmates. Yesterday, we reached the stage in our friendship where he told me the story of his crimes and how he was apprehended (side note: *never* consent to police searches).

Among these friends in low places, I’ve found more honor and old Christian chivalry (even among the negros) than I’ve ever found among my usual upper-bourgeois peers. I’m calling it the “Cowboy Way.”

True, when one’s face is rubbed in daily contention with nature, pettiness, meanness, and cruelty rise in a man. But hard living also brings out heroism and breeds the tough stoicism of knights and cowboys.

All these Alt. Right talking-heads searching for the “Alpha” formula…it’s there for the taking, in the heroic resolve to bow knee to God and say: “It is well, with my soul.”

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