Stormfront Recollections


I missed this year’s Stormfront conference because I didn’t want to spend the money to drive out to TN, even though lots of my good friends were going and I knew I ought to have gone.  Plus another good friend of mine was getting married in TN that same weekend.  I know I could have worked out a way to both attend the wedding and the conference.  But I decided not to go.

Providence had other ideas, though, as usual.  Remember all that NPI drama I’ve blogged about?  That happened the same weekend as the Stormfront conference.  I drove up to DC at the last minute then ended up on a road trip with Heimbach over to Ohio.  To get back home, I swung down through TN.  I had so much on my mind, I completely forgot about Stormfront and the wedding.  I was so close…now I’m so frustrated.

Ok, the Stormfront guys may not be as flashy or high brow as the NPI pseudo-elite, but damned if I don’t have a much better time with them.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for dressing up in suits and ties for the right occasion.  I’ve perfected an aristocratic laugh and can sip chardonnay with the best of them.  But there’s something about being in Knoxville that always lifts my spirits.  There’s something more genuine about the friendships at Stormfront.  There’s far less mechanistic networking by business hipsters, and far more genuine, laid back fellowship.

I remember my first Stormfront conference.

I was out on the porch playing the banjo for a group of heathen; we were singing Irish pub songs and my friend Tom P. was telling jokes comparing Jesus to Odin.  Sam Dickson came out to enjoy the revelry.  There wasn’t anywhere to sit so he slumped down onto the butt of a porch column.  Unfortunately for him it was covered with slugs.  “Hey Mr. Dickson…” I said.  “…um, sir, I hate to say it, but you just sat in a mess of slugs.”  With typical Southern flourish he said “Oh my…” got up and wiped them all off.  It was hilarious.

I met David Duke for the first time that year.  Yeah…I’ll leave that alone for now.

Later, after the conference was over, we all went to a nearby restaurant.  I was eating with Steve Smith, a former skinhead turned racialist politician in Pennsylvania.  He and his friend Ryan, both PA guys, were great company.  I joked that someone needed to give a toast.  Well, before I could stop him, Ryan reaches over and taps his fork on my glass.  The entire room goes quiet; everyone – David Duke, Don Black, … everyone! was looking at me.

So, dear readers, I did the only thing I could do… I got up and tried to deliver a toast.  I know I thanked Don Black and the speakers for their wonderful conference and I’m pretty sure I tried to quote Shakespeare.  In short: it was a train wreck.  Sam Dickson, God bless him, stepped in and saved my bacon.  “I’d like to also add…”

A few years later, I asked him about his saving me during that toast and he said he had no memory of it.  Well played sir.

The moral of this post is that if you ever get the chance to attend a Stormfront conference, you ought to do it.  The memories, friendship, and scenery, are well worth it.

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The Sandman Cometh


In my last post, I distinguished myself from the cultish Christians who pledge allegiance to doctrines and schemes rather than to the man Christ.  Lately, and coinciding with my study of the development of Germany before the first world war, I’ve been thinking of an even broader way of slicing the pie.  Might we consider these cultish Christians as children of the enlightenment – rationalists in their own right?

My study of Germany requires me to face hard questions about the relationship of romanticism and nationalism and the role they’ve played in responding to Enlightenment rationalism.  The “enlightened” leaders like Frederick the Great or Napoleon, look at nations like machines.  These “rational” men survey raw material left over from the backwards superstition of the middle ages and build slick, well-oiled machines out of it; machines designed for conquest and wealth generation.  There are different strands of these rationalists though.  Some want to build different machines; but they all want to build machines.

The Romantics, on the other hand, saw nations as thriving, living, organisms.  Unfortunately, the Romantics were, themselves, children of the Enlightenment, even if unruly and disobedient ones.  It’s only the Christian Romantics who are positioned to do battle with the Enlightenment rationalism of a Napoleon.

While working through a German history course from UC Berkeley, the professor suggested E.T.A. Hoffmann’s short story “the Sandman” as an excellent example of German romanticism.  The story has been debated and reviewed by everyone from Sir. Walter Scott to Freud.  I read the Sandman last night and agree that Hoffmann is a typical Romantic, but like Sir. Walter Scott, whose criticisms are infamous, I get the feeling Hoffmann ought to have laid off his opium before writing.

The story is so ambiguous I might be charged with reading into it my own inclinations, but it seems to me Hoffmann was, in his own morbid way, trying to show how harmful unfettered rationalizing can be.  If you haven’t read it, the main character was obsessed with childhood stories he heard about the Sandman (who gobbles up children) and one evening catches his father performing some alchemy experiments.  He equates his father’s alchemy accomplice with the monster.  Years later, while studying to be a scientist, he sees the accomplice again which sets off a series of events which ends in madness.  There’s a stark contrast throughout between the main character’s gloomy flights of metaphysics and his love interest Clara, a woman who loves life and is firmly rooted in it.

Clara had the vivid fancy of a cheerful, unembarrassed child; a deep, tender, feminine disposition; an acute, clever understanding. Misty dreamers had not a chance with her; since, though she did not talk – talking would have been altogether repugnant to her silent nature – her bright glance and her firm ironical smile would say to them: ‘Good friends, how can you imagine that I shall take your fleeting shadowy images for real shapes imbued with life and motion ?’

I gather the Romantics had something like a pantheistic view of the world, where one’s connection with nature is intimate and internal.  We are all gods if only we might recognize our oneness with the nature we inhabit.  Clara, here, is closer to nature and manages to tame (at least for awhile) the grotesque speculations of her lover.  But will this form of Romanticism save us?

The rationalist Sandman and all his cultish, hyper rational, minions, be they Napoleons, Evangelical Christians, White Nationalist intellects, or whatever – they’re creaking up the stairs and heading for our bedrooms.  The Romantics will tie themselves closer and closer to nature, degrading the image of God in their attempt to blend in and hide from the minions.  There’s no help there.

It’s only the Christian Romantic who’ll be left standing against the Sandman.  He doesn’t rest in an impersonal nature.  He rests in the hand of God.

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In the Name of the Father…


Remember the days when uttering God’s name was a sacred act, not to be taken lightly and only to be done in serious moments of sobriety?  Taking His name in vain was a capital offense in Leviticus and taboo until our own day.

Unfortunately that sort of fear is out of favor.

If I’ve learned anything in my journey through cultic-Christianity it’s to watch out for those who haphazardly drop the name of Christ into every conversation and treat holy scripture like so much mud in a flinging contest.

They’re not afraid of Him because they most likely don’t know Him.  When they exhort their victims to “put Christ first”, they really mean we ought to put our love and emotional attachment to abstraction above our love and attachment to concrete people and things.  And when they piously cite some passage or other, they’re doing it with a holy zeal for a doctrinal scheme rather than a person.

I know because I used to do the same thing.

There’s only one way to deal with them: the trusty ad baculum appeal.

One of these cultists traveled out west in Owen Wister’s “The Virginian.”  The Virginian was a hero of the heart and knew how to deal with his  fire-n-brimstone friend.  In one of my favorite moments from the novel, the Virginian, after sitting through a ridiculous sermon, keeps the zealous pastor up all night wailing with terror; Hell was so immanent, and salvation so fleeting, the poor cowboy couldn’t sleep.  He made sure the pastor couldn’t either.  That’s how you put a humorous damper on a fire-n-brimstone zealot.

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Poor Shotgun is Attacked by a Cultist


I have a new word I’d like to start using:  cultist.

I use it pejoratively but in most cases with a loving (if slightly annoyed) intent.  I used to be a cultist, after all and can’t think unkindly of those still trapped in cultish ways.

When I became aware enough of the phenomenon to give it a name, I referred to the guilty as “rationalists”.  That was too kind; they were so pernicious I had to start calling them “mouth-foaming zealots”.  That seemed a little harsh and too long-winded so I changed again and opted for the simpler: “dogmatist.”  But while they are stubbornly dogmatic, another word was needed – one that casts a wider net and sliced the pie more accurately.  I’m settling on “cultist”.

Mr. Cambria describes them well:

“In every century of the Christian era of Europe there were blasphemers who championed the forms of the faith against the substance of the faith. Walter Scott depicts such a “Christian” in his novel Old Mortality. John Balfour, a fanatical Scottish Covenanter, violates the law of chivalry, which was written in the hearts of all Christian Europeans, by killing, in the name of his mind-forged Christless faith, a Christian soldier of the royalist party who came to Balfour bearing a flag of truce.

“A free pardon to all,” continued the young officer, still addressing the body of the insurgents—“to all but—“

“Then the Lord grant grace to thy soul. Amen!” said Burley.

With these words he fired, and Cornet Richard Grahame dropped from his horse. The shot was mortal. The unfortunate young gentleman had only strength to turn himself on the ground and mutter forth, “My poor mother!” when life forsook him in the effort. His startled horse fled back to the regiment at the gallop, as did his scarce less affrighted attendant.

“What have you done?” said one of Balfour’s brother officers.

“My duty,” said Balfour firmly. “Is it not written, ‘Thou shalt be zealous even to slaying’? Let those who dare NOW venture to speak of truce or pardon!”

They champion the forms of the Faith against the substance of the Faith.  Yes.

A few years ago when I was optimistic enough to sit through a college class, my Western Civ. professor told us Christianity was a cult.  “I’m sorry if you don’t like to hear it, but it’s true…” he said, with typical smugness.  I wasn’t going to die on that hill so I stayed quiet.  I remember thinking we’d have to delve into semantics and figure out what was meant by “cult”.  The insulting thrust of the word didn’t bother me.  If someone defined it in such a way that it applied to Christianity, then so be it; I’d simply be a supporter of cults.

I’ve since refined my view and were I in the class now, I’d strongly object (see footnote 1).

In short, a cult is a congregation of individuals who identify themselves by their mutual allegiance to and shared passion for a set of doctrines.  These doctrines are usually taught or exemplified by an individual who, in addition to having tapped the secret vein of knowledge, is usually a charismatic speaker and able to win people to his views.  In turn the foot-soldier “apologists” for the cult become experts in defending these doctrines against the doctrines of other cults.  This description only applies to Christianity if we conceive of Christianity as a set of doctrinal dogmas and talking-points, expertly taught by some guru or other (be he Jesus, Paul, or Fred Phelps).

Tragically, I think my Western Civ. professor would be right to call Christianity a cult…today.  There are almost no manifestations of the Faith today that aren’t cultish in nature, and almost no apologists who aren’t ideological foot soldiers for their particular denomination of the cult.

O who hath causèd this?
O who can answer at the throne of God?
The Kings and Nobles of the Land have done it!
Hear it not, Heaven, thy Ministers have done it!

This isn’t a post about how Christendom imploded.  I’ll only say, along with Blake, that our ministers and our nobles hath done it.  The Enlightenment convinced westerners that man and man’s intellect were the measure of all things.  Once that was believed, Christianity nose dived into cultural irrelevancy.  Modernism is a direct result of the Enlightenment and today most Christians are modernists because they  believe their own rationalizing will get them to God.  Christianity becomes a matter of doctrines and dogmas – a cult.  The “isms” and the “ists” are multiplied because the game is an intellectual game.

I’ll stop my commentary there and note that, once again, I’ve been attacked by one of these cultists.   This Todd Lewis guy reminds me of myself when I was 19 and zealous for my cult doctrines.  Last year, if I recall, he tried posting on my blog but due to his lack of respect and civility, quickly earned himself the boot.  Cultists know honor and chivalry like little girls know lions and tigers: academically, or through picture books.  But they don’t know what it’s like to be honorable and chivalrous in the wild and if they meet honorable and chivalrous men in the wild, well, they quickly realize their academic concepts and the reality are frighteningly different.

I think Todd’s upset with me for two reasons: I try to work with non-Christians and I’m a “judaizer.”

I’m a “judaizer” because I’m a theonomist, apparently.  His critique of the theonomic thesis is passe’ and uninteresting (his sorts of criticisms have been answered by theonomists for years; there’s no reason to re-hash them), but I do think it’s ironic that he claims I’m a judaizer when *HE’S* the one forcing extra-Biblical standards onto me.  Who’s the real “judaizer”?

Imagine we go to the beach and someone points at a girl and says “her bathing suit is too immodest!”  Well, what’s the standard there?  Where do we turn?  On the theonomic view, it’s up to the community to interpret God’s law and set those sorts of fashion precedents…but that makes us “judaizers.”

Where would Todd turn?  Being a cultist Todd naively thinks he can turn to Scripture and magically discern these sorts of moral standards, not just for a particular community at a particular time, but for all communities at all times…worse, he thinks he can do this without appealing to the explicit law statements of the OT!

In our case, he thinks he can define exactly how close a person is to be with a non-Christian.  On his view, Parrott, Heimbach, and I have violated this clear standard of Scripture; which is to say, we’ve violated the moral standard he’s magically extrapolated from Scripture.  Todd, however, hasn’t violated it.  His living and working around non-Christians is different than Trad Youth’s living and working around non-Christians, somehow?  Unless Todd wants to claim he lives in a bunker with no access to the outside American world.

The Pharisees, like Todd, were cultists.  They extrapolated hundreds of extra-Biblical law standards from Scripture (using the same cult magic Todd has access to), then brutally and inhumanely oppressed their fellows with these magical extrapolations – as Todd would certainly do if he ever had authority in some situation.

They champion the form not the substance.

I hope Todd finds his way out of cultic Christianity and into the arms of the real, flesh and blood Jesus.  I hope he does it in a more direct route than the one I took; who knows how many people I annoyed and how many times I caused someone to question their Faith before finally discovering my zeal for doctrines was misplaced?

I think Todd’s mosquito-like criticisms of Trad Youth are a sign that he’s interested in our work and wants to take part.  He’s certainly intelligent enough for it and his added energy would be much appreciated.

If Parrott were smart, he wouldn’t debate Todd on some podcast or other.  He’d give him a job to do.



1. This professor was only slightly older than me and I suspect, not as well read, although I readily admit he had me beat in history.  He would get frustrated and intimidated if I asked my questions in the wrong tone. Once, in response to one of my queries, he angrily declared to the entire class “I’m a HISTORIAN! And I DON’T appreciate it when someone insults my profession!”  I replied…”Well, I’m a Christian, and I don’t appreciate it when someone insults my Faith!”.  We worked out our differences in his office after class and our relationship was cordial from that point on – at least until I had to write an essay defending liberalism, which I refused to do, choosing to defend monarchy instead.  I cited the so-called “Dark Enlightenment” as a contemporary monarchist movement and apparently he didn’t like what he discovered when he Googled the Alternative Right.

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Edwards’ Journey is Our Journey

I was having a bad day by all accounts.

North Carolina extorts money from me periodically in the form of speeding fines so I drove three hours to a court house in the middle of nowhere to pay up.  While there, I blew a hole in the radiator of my truck.  I patched it with gum and poured in what little water I had.  In this way I was able to coast to an auto parts store.  My plan was to purchase some sealant to patch the hole long enough to get home.  It took a few hours to dry and as I needed to pay my fines before the clerks went home, I hiked the remaining three miles to my destination.  Southerners know the downtown area of any given southern town is akin to a third-world African ghetto, so I took my pistol with me and prayed there wouldn’t be any trouble.

I made it to the extortionists in time and on the way out, noticed an absolutely beautiful park a few blocks off.  Maybe the only aesthetically pleasing area the town could boast of, the park was in a valley carved out by the Tar river which flowed merrily through the scene and vanished under a distant highway bridge.  It was wild and barely kept; the fall leaves carpeted the ground, late afternoon sunbeams peaked through the limbs, and squirrels raced through the underbrush.  I sauntered in and commandeered a picnic table near the river.

The weather was perfect and despite my troubles, I pulled out a cigar and decided to spend an hour or so there, in the peaceful solitude.  In times like that, I can’t help but mix in prayers with my daydreams and I asked forgiveness for my willingness to get caught up in the bad of life while forgetting the good.  About that time, I received a text from a friend alerting me to an article written by James Edwards and published by Faith and Heritage.

I take that as a proof that God’s with James Edwards’ work.  It seems like he always pops up in my life when I’m in need of encouragement; this was a perfect example.  In light of the NPI fiasco (which I’ve blogged about recently), I was feeling down about the pro-white endeavor.  Edwards’ post showed me clearly that our people aren’t as doomed as I sometimes suspect.

When my time is over I hope it will be remembered that I was an advocate for our race who wasn’t ashamed to publicly proclaim the name of Jesus Christ. In our very darkest of hours, we must also remember the words spoken so long ago at the empty tomb. “He is not here, He is risen.” It only takes one. It can happen, because it did happen. And He promised that we would do even greater things than He, because He would be working through us.

Please go read it if you haven’t.  I read it while sitting there in the park, looking out over that beautiful scene.  If not for my unexpected adversity, I’d have never visited the park at all.  I suspect God is raking our people through our current trials for the same reason – trials and troubles bring us to new and greater wonders.

I’ve often said that the best sunsets are the ones with a few clouds in them.  Remember that while reading James’ article.

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White Veteran Heroes

I’d like to kick off this Veterans Day post by asking my readers to pause for a brief moment of prayer in remembrance of those who have died defending the innocent…


As you all are painfully aware, my humble little blog is again the focus of national attention, this time because the SPLC picked up a few brief comments of mine concerning the recent NPI conference.  It seems the drama is dying down, but my blog got thousands of hits from all over the world and was linked to in half a dozen white nationalist forums and comment threads.  The vast majority of commenters were Yankees, atheists, have little to no concern for old Europe, and choose to romanticize the short lived fascist regimes of the 1900s.  I’ve publicly described my disgust with them and their squabbling.

Let me put my cards on the table:

On my best days, the days I feel closest to God in terms of sentiment, I love white people, even the contentious white nationalists who think they’ve got the world figured out after reading half of Evola or part of Mein Kampf.  I even love the mouth-breathing government school whites who uncritically soak up propaganda and regurgitate it against anyone who tries to halt white extinction.  I mean, how can any of us be a white advocate if we don’t love white people – their facial expressions, their turns of phrase, their dance moves, and their laughter?  Regardless of how far they’ve fallen, they were once the Christ bearers and when they’re not actively suppressing it, small bits of His glory shine out.

But readers, there are days when the devil takes over and I just want to strangle the lot of them and damn myself to an isolated seat on the edge of oblivion.

Usually I’m at some middle point between these two poles; so while I’ve publicly declared that I’m no longer a white nationalist, I mean to say that I’m no longer to be affiliated with or defined by my friendship with those suit-n-tie-wearing Yankee fascists who scoff at the idea of religion and care more about “respectability” than friendship.  This isn’t to say, however, (as some have mistakenly supposed) that I no longer intend to be an advocate for white people.  I’ve publicly declared that, in my opinion, there are no white nationalist leaders who are not anti-Christian modernists, yes; but that doesn’t mean there aren’t pro-white leaders who’ve encouraged me and who set the bar high for white heroism.  I’d like to briefly name a few:

The Orthodox Nationalist

raph johnson

I’m not Orthodox, but I readily acknowledge the important role Fr. Raph Johnson’s “Voice of Reason” podcast played in re-igniting the Orthodox Faith in white nationalist society.  Along with the re-igniting of Orthodoxy came a re-evaluation and reluctant acceptance of Christianity.  Fr. Johnson is almost single-handedly responsible for this resurgence (in my opinion).  But he’s offered so much more.

I was introduced to the argument for Monarchy through his material, which, in addition to being interesting, always meets a high standard of scholarship – something white nationalists could learn from.  He also caused me to re-evaluate Heidegger, a philosopher I wrote off as uninteresting.  Additionally, his analysis of Dostoevsky’s novels allowed me to finally delve into that great author and reap the benefits.  Fr. Johnson has set the bar high for white people who want to have a podcast.

Trad Youth


I suppose I’m the North Carolina chairman of Trad Youth, but I’m a lousy one because I’ve only organized one event and we didn’t have a great turn out.  My heart isn’t in the sort of activism Trad Youth engages in.  Nevertheless, I consider Parrott and Heimbach some of my closest friends and even though they’re wrong on a lot of issues…er…I mean to say, even though we disagree on a lot of issues (I consider them part of the “White Nationalist” society, for example, where as I’ve publicly left that movement)…I know that if anyone has their heart in the right place it’s those two.  Plus they’re friendly to Christianity and White Nationalists need all of that they can get.  They have a “nose-to-the-grindstone” attitude and are miraculously able (usually) to avoid all the petty infighting that goes on in nationalist circles.



I owe so much to my friends in the Kinist community, especially the Faith and Heritage guys: Nate-the-Great, D-Op, Fancy Bread (my name for Nil Desperandum), the Canadian Cowboy, and all the others.  If not for their friendship and support, especially during all the CPAC craze, I don’t know how I’d have survived.  But there’s also Laurel Loflund (who doesn’t blog near as often as she ought) and the godfather of Kinism, H. Seabrook.  And let’s not forget the honorable John Marshall of “” who, in my humble opinion, is far more valuable to Kinism than many realize.

These men and women are Reformed in their religion, conservative in their sentiments, and unlike the pagan white nationalists, they all love old Europe as only white and nerdy people can.  The work they’re doing is invaluable to Christendom; they’re heroes and ought to be thought of as such.

Michael Hill and the League of the South


The League is the only real activist organization in the South that has maintained some semblance of the old Southern honor and for that, I greatly respect them.  Unlike Donald Livingston and the Abbeville Institute, Michael Hill and the League haven’t sold out to modernism.  Don’t get me wrong, I get a lot of benefit from Abbeville, but they’ve sold out to the Yankees on all the important issues and are left with little more than a Southern aesthetic, a few agrarian talking-points, and a steady praise for Thomas Jefferson.  Yuck.  Michael Hill, on the other hand, has managed to walk a fine line on racial issues, staying respectable about them without backing down.  That takes a real leader.

James Edwards and the Political Cesspool


James Edward’s radio show has meant so much to me and has been a constant “voice-from-afar” companion that it’s difficult to sum up my feelings about it.  Edwards recently held a conference and it was one of the most enjoyable and encouraging times I’ve ever had.  His blend of southern, Christian, and political advocacy for plain white folks avoids the lunacy of most WN’s as well as the snobbish aloofness of some of the other intellectuals.  Whatever James Edwards does in the future, I want to be there supporting it and him.  From Harry Seabrook:

“The value of the show is deeper than merely charisma, information, and controversy. It goes beyond independence from the sycophantic mainstream media. James and his co-hosts have balanced issues of race, ethnonationalism, history, politics, and culture with Christian faith, which makes all the world come into focus. There is no conservatism without order, no order without structure, and no structure unless flesh and spirit are viewed as complementary of the human soul. Today, we hear too many preachers say that faith is all that matters, we hear too many nationalists say that race is all that matters, and the vast majority of young people today have been trained to believe that neither matters. James is in the vanguard of those who seek to restore balance, and in doing so, he is in lockstep with our noble forefathers, who gave us all that we have as our inheritance.”

I’ll add further that those of us with media experience look up to Edwards as a beacon of what we might one day accomplish.  I think of those young black kids in liberal propaganda movies who look up to the first black baseball player or the first black politician – only in our case, Edwards is a real hero.  No matter how bad things get for us in America or how much the deck is stacked against us, we can look up and say, “…well… James Edwards found a way.”

Cambria Will Not Yield


As you all know, this blog has influenced and affected me so much that it’s hard for me to know where it ends and my original thoughts (if I have any) begin.  Sometimes I think I have an original thought but then I read through CWNY archives and see the topic was covered years ago.  (Example:  I visited the Creation Museum in Kentucky and found Bill Cooper’s “After the Flood” and thought I had made a huge discovery – turns out CWNY was citing the book all the way back in 07).

One day, I hope to do proper homage to Cambria Will Not Yield, but for now, I’ll say that if not for his writing, I’d never have figured out who I was or have even an inkling of who I’m supposed to be.   The day he linked to “Shotgun Barrel Straight” was, in my opinion, one of my greatest days as a blogger.  The man is a living oracle, offering us a condensed voice of all the greatest of Europe’s poets, and giving it on a weekly basis.  We couldn’t do better if we paid some voodoo negro to conjure up Dickens for us.

In this era, at this hour, to have someone of his caliber writing the things he does, is a miracle.

I thank God for him every day.

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Last Word on the NPI: I’ve Been Rejected by the Austisticrats

I love old Europe.  The Europe of Austen, Dickens, and Sir. Walter Scott.  For my purposes here, I’ll call it “pre-modern” Europe although there was a long transition from the pre-modern to the modern so if you look up the dates you wont get precisely what I mean.   Pre-modern Europe was governed by a Christian folk wisdom and code of chivalry; modern Europe is not.  The transition seems to have finalized in the early 1900’s.

I never realized it before (or thought of it in this way), but white nationalists are modernists.  They’re not pagans, although a small number of them naively call themselves “neo-pagans” and promote the old aesthetic and religious practices of the druids and other pre-Christian peoples.  They can prance around in robes and Norse garb all they’d like – they’re still modernists, to a man.  They believe in Darwinism, reject spirituality, despise old Europe, and have characteristic attitudes, fostered in them by the government schools.

Other white nationalists, the majority I’d say, give up religious trappings all together and fully embrace modernism.  Richard Spencer is a good example of this.  In fact, I can’t think of a leading voice, blogger, conference organizer, or intellectual in the so-called “Alternative Right” who isn’t a card-carrying modernist.  Not a single one (See Footnote).

The majority of white nationalists don’t love old Europe like I love old Europe.  Instead, they’re infatuated with national socialist Germany and a few other obscure fascist regimes from that time period.  That’s their ideal time and when you speak with them, they’ll talk for hours about it and how to apply the worldview of these fascists to modern international affairs.  Their metaphysics are metaphysics that are compatible with 20th century fascism and their economics are economics compatible with fascist regimes.  Their religion, if they allow for religion at all, is a religion compatible with their ideal state – a state, which, in final analysis, is a thoroughly modern state.  Like the French Jacobins, these white nationalists believe, and believe thoroughly, in man’s ability to perfect a system of government and by doing so, bring about utopia.  By reasoning our way to utopia, we can control our own evolutionary path and eventually create a Heaven on Earth and ourselves as the gods to rule it.

Talk with a group of them for hours and you’ll get hours of political theory and international politics.  You’ll come away from the conversation without knowing anything about the humanity of the persons involved, whether they have children, the name of their sweetheart, what their parents do, their favorite place to smoke, the name of their favorite dog, and so on.  But you will know all about their view of Syria and the China-Russia relationship.  That’s why I call them “autisticrats”.  They’re stuck in a cloud of abstractions and want to rule the world in the name of Darwin, Reason, and Hitler (amen).

So I suppose I shouldn’t be too upset that this community of people has rejected me.  They intuitively knew I didn’t belong with them, even before I realized it myself.   Here’s roughly what happened:

My friend Heimbach called me up and told me Richard Spencer had rejected him from the NPI conference because of his views on homosexuality.  So I blogged about it.  That blog was picked up by the SPLC and subsequently, a half dozen white nationalist forums and threads exploded with gossip, lively conversation, and general buzzing activity about it.  Richard Spencer, apparently aware of the buzz (surprising to me because I thought he stayed aloof of what the ground troops were doing) wrote a response on RADIX, offering a half-cocked explanation for why Heimbach was disinvited.

A homosexual faction is actively claiming I’m a liar and that Spencer didn’t give Heimbach the boot because of Heimbach’s views on homosexuality.  None of them will say that about me in my presence of course – they’re homosexuals and know nothing about honor.  At any rate, I’m satisfied that they’re trying to re-write the narrative.  It really *is* abhorrent to know someone was disinvited from a white nationalist conference because of his views on homosexuality, right?  I’d want to re-write that narrative as well.

Anyway; after reading hundreds of posts on the issue, I’ve decided that I’m no “white nationalist” and that I don’t belong with that crowd.  Let them have Spencer and the homosexuals.

…I’ll keep old Europe, even if I’m there alone with nothing but ghosts.



This comment is more cynical than it needs to be.  Later on this afternoon, when I have time, I hope to write a post highlighting some of my heroes in the “movement”, although if they can be properly called “white nationalists” is debatable.  White advocates might be better, or, as I prefer:  white heroes.  Stay tuned.

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NPI 2015: Revenge of the Autistillectuals

This is the man who classified the bits
Of his friends’ hells into a pigeonhole–
He hung each disparate anguish on the spits
Parboiled and roasted in his own withering soul. ~ Allen Tate “To Intellectual Detachment”

If you’re wondering, that word in the title is a mash up of “Autistic” and “Intellectual.”

I was speaking with Matt Parrott this evening and he described some white nationalists as “autistic”.  He wasn’t being literal, of course.  He can’t diagnose mental disorders.  He was being ironic and using a tongue in cheek metaphor:  White Nationalists, by and large, are metaphorically autistic, their head in the clouds, fascinated with abstraction.  Sort of a hyper-intellectualism.  An autistillectual!

That’s what the NPI conference really celebrates, in my opinion; the triumph of a new set of ideals, a new set of doctrines.  Ok, I’ll say it.  I know it’ll be unpopular, but I’ll say it:  a new… “religion.”

I don’t have time to describe all that happened, like Heimbach’s being “uninvited” to NPI, the ANTIFA attack, our surreal brunch with Fr. Raph Johnson (the former “Orthodox Nationalist” podcast host)…oh, and let’s not forget us getting booted from an Irish pub because Heimbach ruined an effeminate Hipster’s day, our trolling of a live news report, or the authentic Polish gulash…all this and more, coming soon.

I’m making a huge round-trip, from Carolina to DC to Cincinnati, and now, I’m hauling my travel-blasted brain through Kentucky and looking for a parking lot to crash in for the evening.  Maybe when I’m better rested, I’ll write up my impressions of the 2015 NPI Conference and my revelation that, despite what it may seem, I’m no “white nationalist” after all.

I’m no autistillectual.

…I’m a man.

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Fasting Problems: Heimbach and the NPI – Plus, Shotgun Almost Fights a Black Guy

I understand why our Lord went into the desert to fast.  It’s impossible to find the solitude and peace required if you keep a foot in every day life.  And it’s difficult to avoid walking by a television; you’d be surprised how often there are commercials for a delicious looking food playing.  You can’t even watch a movie because at some point the actors will eat something and it’ll look like the best food you’ve ever seen.  Not that you ought to be watching movies or moving around while fasting.  It’s a time of healing and prayer – another reason for the desert.

But I’ve tried keeping my foot in every day life and here’s some issues I’ve encountered:

My parents bought a new house recently.  There are always little surprises discovered about the property after one’s moved in and in this case, they discovered that a seven foot tall negro with a history of mental health problems is in the habit of lounging around under some trees near the road in our front yard.  As luck would have it, he’d never be there when I was present.  My mom even got a call from a friend once, concerned that someone was walking around our house and looking in the windows.   What really angered me was when my sister came to visit.  I was told this negro was out by those trees in the front yard, staring at her and my mom.  Well, to put my reaction in negro slang:  “Oh, Hell naw!”

By day five of my water fast I was predictably feeling nauseous and weak.  The detox had begun in earnest.  That morning I was taking a shower at my parent’s house.  I heard my mom go out the door, apparently heading into town.  I toweled off and on the way back to my room, I noticed, through a window, my mom was in her car, window half rolled up, and exchanging words with an adamant and agitated looking, seven foot tall negro.  I might have been weak, but dear readers, (to use a cliche’): I exploded with rage.  I was almost like Adam West’s Batman, only instead of sliding down a poll and emerging fully clad, I ran into the closet and instantly popped out with all my clothes on.  I put on the first thing I could grab which, appropriately, was my “I heart Haters” t-shirt (instead of the word “heart” it has an actual heart).  I walked the thirty yards towards the scene with my fists clinched, my muscles primed, and my jaw aching from the bursts of adrenaline.

I must have presented a sight because his attitude changed when he saw me, and after a few sharp words, (I told him I’m like a dog; when people enter my territory, I get angry and unpredictable), he sauntered off.  I’m still worried about him though.  I don’t trust him any farther than I could throw him.   About an hour later, when the adrenaline wore off and I was able to relax again, I felt thoroughly spent.  That little episode had taken more out of me than I realized and I suspect, had the encounter come to blows, well, … well, I’d probably still have beaten him but it’d have been a lot closer of a contest. :)


Then there’s the whole matter of Heimbach and the NPI.

He called me up earlier in the week and told me that Richard Spencer of the National Policy Institute (an organization founded, in part, by the great Sam Francis), kicked him out of the conference on account of his anti-homosexual views and his acceptance of violence.

Now, to be fair to Spencer, I don’t know what the exact charges were, but it seems a few years back, after my CPAC shenanigans, Heimbach and I did a podcast for Counter Currents where, maybe during some of my attempted humor, I said something about executing homosexuals.  Of course, I really do think they ought to be executed, but only after a fair trial.  We wouldn’t want to execute a poet or playwright just because a bunch of blue collar guys have their masculinity threatened.  The Bible says two or more witnesses are required for a hanging.

At any rate, it seems that podcast and subsequent differences of opinion have earned Heimbach the boot.  Indomitable guy that he is, he’s heading to DC anyway and wants to hang out with all the Christians there who might no longer be comfortable with NPI’s anti-Christian, pro-homosexual stance.

I figure the least I can do is go support him this weekend.  I feel partially responsible for his situation.  Plus, it’ll be nice to celebrate All Hallow’s Eve with a group of friends who appreciate the holy day for what it is and respect the old European, Christian, aesthetic.  I can’t emphasize enough how refreshing it is to be around like-minded people in real life situations (especially when alcohol is involved).  It’s a balm to the soul, and I need as much of it as I can get right now.

…only problem is, it’ll be extremely hard to maintain my water fast.

Please forgive me, dear readers, if I don’t make it.  A seven day water fast isn’t as great as a 30 day one, health wise, but it’s still pretty good, right?  I hope?

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30-Day Fast: Day 3 – Curing My Lunacy

I was asked what sort of health benefits are expected from a 30 day water-fast.

Depending on who you talk to, long fasts cure everything from cancer and HPV to diabetes and depression.  I didn’t jump into the craze for miracles, though:

I got into intermittent fasting in the mid 2000s through Ori Hofmekler’s “The Warrior Diet” which presented the most intellectual account of muscle building I had heard anywhere.   Strategic eating (a feast / fast model) is popular even today; the popular “Engineering the Alpha” program, for example, utilizes intermittent fasting.  The practitioner of the program eats all he wants (from an authorized list of healthy, whole foods), but must do so within an 8-hour feeding window; the rest of the day, he has to fast.  In this way, the studies show, a man might naturally boost his testosterone and human growth hormone production.  Of course, I’m not saying that’s *the* way to eat or that it ought to be a life-style choice, but if someone’s interested in training or preparing for some physical event, it’s a good plan.

So that opened me up to the idea of fasting.

Later on, though, I got into holistic health and naturopathic healing.  With the discovery of organic produce and its health benefits, I became aware of organic agriculture and slowly developed a dream of small-town farm life with a sweet finesse – living holistically, sustainable, and as independent as possible.  What fascinates me about the agrarian life especially is the important use of animals on a sustainable farm.  Everything from cows, ducks, chickens, and rabbits, to dogs, owls, and fish, can add tremendous benefit to the farm, but one step crazier:  I realized that even the tiniest of creatures like insects, worms, and even bacteria can be managed and play a profoundly important role in a sustainable life.  I realized these microbes not only help in the making of compost and the maintaining of healthy plant growth, but that actually, there’s a very large population of them living inside our own bodies.

I became fascinated with probiotics and the managing of the human “micro-biome.”  I began growing my own Kombucha and, well, I’m still trying to develop a taste for sauerkraut.  These foods are packed with healthy microbes that enter the digestive tract and help establish a “balanced” gut.

It may sound crazy to my readers, but the full moon affects me in strange ways.  It’s *not* just a placebo effect, I assure you.  I get really aggressive and outgoing when the moon waxes and I stay that way until it wanes.  It’s almost like a manic high, but unlike a bipolar person, I never really experience manic lows, and these mood shifts only occur during the full moons.  I can wake up in the morning and know the moon is full.  I began doing a layman study to try and figure out why this might be happening and while reading up on gut microbes, I suspect I stumbled over a possible solution.

Those who talk about probiotics are adamant that gut health has major psychological ramifications, affecting mood, thought process, and so on.  I discovered that certain gut microbes react to the moon cycles.  Imagine that!  My theory is that I have a gut-bacteria imbalance (thanks to all those youthful years of vaccinations, sugary cereals, and the American diet) and that, during the full moon, these gut germs are in hyperdrive, thus affecting my mood.

There are candida type cleanses and probiotic programs I could do, but after my research, I’m convinced the best, most powerful way to balance the gut micro-biome, is by doing a long water fast (20 days or more).

That’s my biggest goal (physically) with all this.

Spiritually, well, that’s for another post.

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