Richard Spencer, President?

“You, are not allowed in my ethnostate!”

I’ve been a long-time defender of Richard Spencer. Frankly, I’ve never understood the vitriolic criticism of the guy. He’s the obvious choice for defacto “leader” of the Alt. Right, and I’ve been very pleased with his ideological “shifts” over the past year or two.

For example, a few years ago at an AMREN conference, he suggested we needed to present ourselves as “white Gandhi” or white MLKjrs. But in a few 2019 podcasts, he’s suggested, instead, we ought to present ourselves as “badasses”, “edgy”, and tough. He suggests that “nice guys never get the girl” (implying the overall winning strategy of self-conscious bravado). Much better than white Gandhi, at least. It seems his run ins with the “authorities” and their thug-zombie-foot-soldiers, have caused him to give up a pollyanna view of “optics” for a more gritty, realistic tone.

Additionally, he was (virtually) the lone voice advocating for white “supremacy” in a movement full of people crying for some sort of “separate-but-equal” ethnic nationalism. To the contrary, says Spencer, we, as whites, must accept the so-called “white man’s burden” and take our place as leaders of the world. We must, in some sense, dominate. Hear, hear, to that, says I.

My support, of course, is not uncritical. He wants us to “dominate” the world (or, at least, the European world) with some sort of European Union type political machine. An “Empire of Iron” imposed from the top down. Additionally, he is, at best, neutral towards Christianity, and is strongly informed by that degenerate Nietzsche. He sees very little of value in Evangelical Christianity, especially, and openly admits to having little to no sense of connection with white, blue-collar, southerners.

I’ll take ostensible agreement, even if we arrive at our conclusions as a result of very different worldviews and motivations. With that in mind, I plan to support his run for president. That’s right. The rumors are confirmed. Richard Spencer will be teaming up with radio host James Edwards for a presidential run.

Edwards has gotten flak from his, largely, evangelical base. How can he team up with an anti-Christian like Spencer? But I think Edwards is a great choice. He has experience running for political office, after all, and he has the potential to mobilize the blue-collar, Christian, southerners that are, otherwise, put off by Spencer. That seems to be the job of vice presidential picks, anyway.

I support this run for one big reason:

Spencer is right to say that the largest problem the “Alt. Right” faces moving forward, is censorship. Virtually all major websites and Alt. Right venues have been shut down, de-platformed, or had their payment processing ability closed. “We need to carve out a legitimate space for ourselves in the public discourse” says Spencer…and there’s no better (at least, no quicker) way to do so than by a moderately successful third-party political run – at least, that’s the hope.

“Success” of this campaign, at least in my view, is not to be measured by the percentage of votes. Certainly it’s not to be measured by an actual win – something that wont occur unless by divine intervention. The success of the Spencer / Edwards campaign must be measured by how big of a “space” they’re able to “carve out” at the table of political discourse. They need only cause enough media attention and popular fervor so as to make it difficult to justify mass censorship. Silencing a few “racist crazies” after all, is far easier than openly silencing a political party. There may be enough sham-democracy left to make the latter difficult.

I do think Spencer is going into his campaign full of naivete, however. He actually thinks “ideas” matter. He thinks he can win the “Bernie Bro” vote by pushing for universal basic income, and other outright socialist policies. As if these rabid anti-white zombies will give up their worship of dildolech and accept a notorious “racist” candidate, just because they have student loan debt. No. The promise of socialism looms nigh for them in the democrat party, and that, without them having to team up with a “racist.”

Every major voice in the Alt. Right naively believes that ideas motivate movements, when, in reality, it’s the other way around: movements motivate ideas. Until the heart changes, until it reawakens, the mind will always spew-out justifying rationalizations for corpse philosophy.

I’ll be supporting the Spencer / Edwards campaign. I hope and pray they have “success”, but even if a miracle happens and they end up winning the presidency, it’ll only ever be a rear-guard action.

Democracy, friends, will never save us.

~ Sigh ~

Thirteen years ago today I fell in love with a blond-haired, blue-eyed, all-American girl, who, as fate would have it, married another man; and thirteen years later, I’m still not over her.

We use the “broken-heart” metaphor too frequently in our culture to understand its depth of tragedy. I’ve been worthless ever since and will likely remain so the rest of my meaningless existence.

If that’s not “black-pilling” enough, consider: I know of at least five girls who’ve gotten engaged, broken off the engagement, and gotten married, all within the span of a year. How can that be? How can they claim to love someone enough to marry them, break it off, then “fall in love” again a few months later? Maybe some of the manosphere types are right about the shallowness of the female heart? I’m going on 13 years and still not over my twisted love. 

Maybe, like a Walter Scott character, my folk only love once?

~edit~

I know the time, to the day, because it really was love at first sight, like something out of a storybook. I know such a thing is real because I experienced it first hand. Pray for me dear readers, if you have an ounce of pity for your humble commentator.

Make Some White Noise

~ For the strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack. ~ Kipling

My friend Tony Martel has written a book called “Awesomely White” and, as the title suggests, it is awesome to be white. He’s got that much right, at least, even if it can only be admitted with a hint of tragic irony. Oddly enough, few commentators, even in the pro-white community, wax eloquent about our wonderful pigment – an oversight Martel seeks to correct:

I haven’t felt alienation since discovering my whiteness. It has connected me to aspects of who I am that society worked overtime to deny. It has given me the tools to build up who I truly am. It has given me a context about who I am in the universe. ~ pg. 72

Our skin color is, says Martel, akin to a uniform – an overt and in-your-face declaration of the team to which we belong. It’s a team that has a myriad of accomplishments, gauged (of course) by the measure of modern technocracy: we’ve built many cool machines and structures. This awes moderns to no end and is (exclusively?) the measure by which we judge greatness. Included here are political machines, those pesky machinations that have brought “joy” to countless.

I’ve always hated this view, but then again, I’m an outcast in pro-white circles. A pernicious gadfly, maverick, and accused misanthrope. I wouldn’t live up to those charges if I meekly accepted them, but whatever the outcome of my trial, I refuse to give up loyalty to the man Christ (and my subsequent commentary) in favor of soulless technobabblry. The glory of our skin color has little to do, in my opinion, with the things we’ve made or the people we’ve conquered; rather, it has to do with the purity and love we exemplify as the only race to have taken Christ into our hearts and collectively expressed His glory to the world.

There is nothing like the miracle of the European hearth. No socialist machine, no work of wood or stone, can equal it. It is the divine channel of grace. We bring ourselves closer to God as we warm ourselves by white hearth fires. This is our place, as white men: the poetic leaders of our cancerous and anesthetized race. Should we, by providence, awaken from the techno-haze of modernity, our job is to become aristocrats of the soul. To crawl, feelingly and with trembling fingers, back to that white hearth.

It’s here Martel’s work shines whitest. Some would-be sophists in our circles may look down on it for its simplicity, yet that’s what I found most charming. He foregoes outlining the achievements of whites, preferring instead to document his own challenging rise from the ashes; and, it’s an epic rise, worthy of a poem. Few can boast of having been deeper in thralldom to Satan. Martel began life as a thoroughly indoctrinated, raceless, and (perhaps?) soul-dead white. Surrounded by multiculturalism and its accompanying drivel about “equality”, he managed to “awaken” to racial self-consciousness through a series of accidental brushes with reality. The devil’s lies, after all, are self-refuting, and a white boy who tries to reconcile them will, eventually, jettison them all together.

After a harrowing account of his fateful day at the university, when he stood in class and delivered an outcry about the inconsistency of his training, he seeks out alternative views. He finds the likes of Jared Taylor and, perhaps most importantly, James Edwards and the Political Cesspool. God bless Edwards for his continuing dedication and (sometimes) thankless crusade.

From there, we’re treated with an account of Martel’s journey, onward and upwards into whiteness. Especially interesting are his anecdotes about traveling through Europe and his battle with being white in modern America. Yes, our poor author found himself homeless and surrounded by ideological foes – adrift in the corpse of a once-great civilization.

And yet he bravely soldiers on, armed with the knowledge of his place by the white hearth. His journey is not only fascinating, it’s inspirational. Any young white man struggling with the same issues would do well to look to the heroes Martel references in his book; but they’d also do well to look to Martel. He, like his namesake the great Charles Martel, has earned a place in the pantheon of white heroes.

I hope I can be half the man.

(Purchase his book from Amazon as soon as it becomes available. It’s worth it. I’ll provide links as soon as they’re available.)

Return of the Flame

Oh Come all ye faithful, 
joyful and triumphant,
Oh come ye, oh come ye, to Bethlehem. 

Long has it been since we’ve heard an official word on “Kinism”, and yet, recently, John Marshall, former intellect-extraordinaire of the Reformed racialist world, emerged onto the Rebel Yell podcast to discuss the recalcitrant “movement.” He didn’t say anything particularly new for the Rebel Yell audience (other than a few reading suggestions). The ideas ostensibly promoted by Kinism are similar to what’s being said by many factions of the Alternative Right. Podcasts aren’t a good venue for Kinism since it’s hard to dive into the philosophical nuances lying behind the ideals. Nevertheless, one segment riled me up: Marshall admitted to a recent lag in Kinist enthusiasm and offered a “call to arms”. “Rise up! Attack the institutions!”.

Yes, I’m no longer convinced that in-depth philosophizing is the cure for our people. Yes, I feel I’ve been treated unfairly by some “kinists”. And yet, Marshall’s words brought chills to my arms when I heard them. I recalled the days I used to passionately attack the “Christian” satanists and call them to account before our holy God. I remembered the purpose I used to see for my life and, miracle of Christmas miracles, I felt the winds of battle. Metaphorical winds, of course. Almost no one is advocating actual violence (my advocacy for decentralized use of force got me kicked from the “Identity Dixie” fellowship – their loss).

Satan is very powerful right now. His reach extends even to our very souls and he pulls at the deepest, dearest, parts of our faith. And yet, right at the moment, just before the final piece of it is ripped away, a powerful force of love re-asserts itself. “You shall *NOT* have my faith, Devil! I am loyal to Him and will die for Him and worse, I will live for Him!”

In one of the countless “calls for unity”, written by a government-schooled materialist, I posted that we ought to return to Christ and our racial home if we want to survive. This was, I thought, a relatively benign view among pro-white advocates, and yet, I received a monstrous push-back. “God doesn’t exist” I was told. I’m “stupid” for thinking it. Stupid for relying on Him. Stupid to think He will save us.

No. There’s only one way to “unite” white people. It’s not through the epistemically-flaccid materialism of Johnson’s Counter Currents, nor is it through the foul grand-standing of TRS, DS, or any of the other bathroom-stall-tier websites blackening our culture.

The Christian God does exist. We know Him through our hearth and home. The warm, fire-side channels of grace that melt the anestheized techno-haze around the hearts of moderns. Come, let us adore Him! Let us grasp hands with our friends and family and feel the regenerating spirit of power that comes through being reunited with our racial home!

He exists and He’s called us to be His standard-bearing people; not through pontification and incessant theorizing, but through the helpless cry of an infant, surrounded by shepherds and an assembly of the meek.

We can’t save the world, but we can remind it that it’s already been saved.

For His sake, and so long as our blood endures…

---

(P.S…my friend Faust has decided to begin blogging again! A long-time comrade in arms. Seeing his post along with hearing John Marshall’s call – and, of course, along with the ever faithful and ever-steady voice from Cambria Will Not Yield – I’ve decided to renew my own efforts against the devil. I’ve flagged lately. We all need breaks, I suppose; I’m just sorry mine was so long. It’s over now and here comes the Christian soldier…)

 

Battle Hymn of the South?

To be honest, I’m not in the mood for singing hymns. In fact, it’s become difficult to write at all. A deep hatred of Satania clouds my voice and I’m increasingly without words. There’s nothing to say really. Words matter less and less, with fewer and fewer to hear. What remains is either silence in face of tragedy or a deep, guttural yell. A passionate expulsion of rage and love and terror…a rebel yell.

Maybe that ought to be the battle hymn of the South?

In Which Shotgun Brings Holiday Cheer to a Mormon…

Even us champions of old Europe must slog away on Satan’s plantation, especially during the holidays. Accordingly, I was obliged to drive to Mississippi a few days before Thanksgiving for a bit of work-related training. I was first to arrive but soon after, a straight-backed white lad came strolling in. He poured me a cup of coffee and handed it to me, indicating his willingness to start a conversation. So we began to chat…

Let’s call him Bobby: he had a bright-eyed optimism I found odd. No government-school kid was this. He didn’t seem beaten down by the world; instead, he had the naive-openness of a homeschooler. He said he was from Tyler Texas. I chuckled a little and asked if he knew Gary North.

(For my readers not in the know, I have an unfortunate ideological pedigree – I “came of intellectual age” in the midst of the rabidly-Reformed, Christian Reconstructionist crowd, of whom Gary North was a major figure. His writings on theology, economics, and strict adherence to God’s law, were formative for me before I was able to heal from them – a process I’m still undergoing.)

He laughed. Yes! He had heard of North. “He organized a confederate flag rally in Tyler once, and I got to be a part of it!” (I wonder what Joel – worship the minority and hate the white man – McDurmon would think of that?)

At any-rate, this was something I could work with! I already liked the guy – I’m attracted to eccentrics, always hoping to find a fellow traveler. We began discussing the confederacy. He found out I was a Navy vet and began spitting out knowledge of past battles and famous gun-ships. We got on marvelously the entire week.

The kid was different – outgoing and boisterous when us government-schoolers were taciturn and hesitant for fear of ridicule. Everyone had their machismo shields up. Not so my new friend. When called on to re-enact a scene in front of the class, he hopped up and performed with all the emotional gusto of a stage actor. He shouted and hemmed and hawed as the role required. There were nervous chuckles from the rest of us. “Get a load of this guy…”

Later in the week, and after having earned some small respect from the boss, I was given the keys to the van and tasked with chauffeur duties. This guy had to go here, that guy had to go there, and so on. Soon, all had been ferried to their destination but a burly old black guy and my friend. Both were due at the bus station for an early-morning departure.

After a long conversation, the guy casually mentioned having traveled to California as a “Christian missionary.” The meaning of this didn’t hit me directly and I said if anywhere in America needed Christian missionaries, it was California. He then clarified that he was part of the Latter Day Saints church. That did it for me. Everything clicked into place; his odd demeanor, his eccentricity, all of it.

And once we were alone in the van, the two of us and the black guy, his unusual faith played another hand:

“Ya know what I really like about Mississippi?” he asked…though, obviously directing the question to the black guy in the back. “All the beautiful black women!” He said this with enthusiasm. “I’m really glad I met my wife before coming here, or I’d go crazy! So many beautiful sisters!” He kept going on and on about it. Anyone affiliated with the “Alternative Right” would recognize this as a clumsy attempt at virtue signaling. He was desperately trying to communicate his “open-minded” and progressive views to the black guy in the back.

I looked back at the black guy and he looked at me and we both just grinned and shook our heads. “Get a load of this guy…”

“MmmmMmmm…I love me some sisters. They’re so beautiful here!”

I dropped the black guy off with well-wishes then my Mormon friend and I left to his bus-station. On the way, his wife rang up and I was privy to their phone conversation.

Now, please forgive me for what follows dear readers; maybe it’s because I was far from home during the Thanksgiving holiday, or maybe it was my annoyance with the guy’s well-meaning but disastrous religion, or maybe it’s a good amount of the devil in me, but…

…I leaned over close, while he was on the phone with his wife, and said, in my best negress voice: “Bobby…who dat is? Who you talkin’ to? Dat a woman? You say I was the only one fo’ you! Bobby???”

Unknown to me, this was a sore-spot for his wife, who erupted on the other end. I could hear her screams! “Who the [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] is that?!?!” she shouted. For the next ten minutes, he desperately engaged in damage control, pleading with her to believe him that there were no women in Mississippi she had to compete with. He was adamant that she was his only love. And just when she had calmed, I hit him again…

“Bobby…who dat is?!”

I wished him well at the bus terminal and asked if he needed anything before I left. I got a “no” and a frosty goodbye.

~ mmmmhmmm…snap, snap, head bob ~

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.

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.”

 

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…

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”