Joe Putnam, the man who asked us to rethink our propositions, is back with a new tract, and this time, he’s pulling fewer punches. While he never presumes as much, I see his new book as nothing less than an introduction to the Kinist worldview, minus the stuffy Reformed dogmatics. And we’ve long needed a basic introduction to Kinism.
True, he only mentions the word once the entire book (in regard to the idea of “kin rule”). Nevertheless, he offers a polished look at the world from a perspective that’s universally accepted among Kinists, and unfortunately, is universally rejected by everyone else. The path to the Kingdom is truly narrow. Don’t expect to win friends and influence people with what Joe provides.
But, like all agrarian-minded white boys, we’ll side with Sawyer Brown:
“I’ll take the dirt road. It’s all I know. I’ve been walking it for years, it’s gone where I need to go. It ain’t easy. It ain’t supposed to be. So I’ll take my time. And life wont pass me by. ‘Cause it’s right there to fiiiiIIiiiiinnnd…on the dirt road…”
Turns out, flight from the countryside is one of the main problems with modern America according to Joe. We’ve lost our rootedness and few Americans retain the basic intuitions common to all agrarians. Especially relevant are the commonsense ideas of race, difference, and lack of equality – ideas readily apparent to anyone on a farm, but which seem beyond the grasp of moderns.
Joe may succeed here where some Kinists tend to fail. He openly recognizes the religious nature of the conflict. And religion is more than a few, mere, theological doctrines. I liken it to a bear attack:
Imagine you’re walking in the wilderness and a bear rushes in for the kill. You don’t stop to debate PETA intellectuals about the abstract ethics of killing animals in general (and bears in particular). Whatever the divine rules there, let them lay as they are, for the time being, we’re being attacked by a bear! I’ve often seen race mixing in the same light. While many Kinists love engaging in debates about meta-ethics and race-mixing in the abstract, we are, right in the good ol’ here and now, being severely attacked, through propaganda and a hundred other petty avenues. So whatever the morality of the hypothetical white man stuck on a desert island with the non-white, Christian, island girl…race mixing is being used to destroy our people right now. We’re being collectively raped and pillaged. And *that* is wrong, no matter how big Moses’ wife’s lips may have been…
Nevertheless, and despite my own cynicism, Joe answers the titular question of his book with a resounding “no”…this is not the end of our people. There is hope.
…and that’s something we all need to hear right about now…
I beg your pardon, readers. I’ve been delving into UFO literature for about two weeks now. I know that’s not the usual fare for SBS, but please bear with me. I recently reviewed Bob Lazar’s account of his time at Area 51 and concluded it was hokum, with a little truth mixed in. The more I’ve listened to the man’s interviews, the more I’m convinced I’m right about him. He may have worked at a secret base but I seriously doubt he was working on alien propulsion. If I had to guess, I’d bet he was working on some low-level system. Maybe he was the HVAC guy?
I also revisited Travis Walton’s famous “Fire in the Sky” abduction case. The movie traumatized me as a kid. I’d handcuff my ankle to the bed every night. Looking at through the eyes of experience, however, I’ve come to reject it, too, as complete hokum. I wont lay out the skeptical case here, although others have done so admirably and conclusively (far as I’m concerned). I’ll simply rest my case, again, as with Lazar, on intuition about human nature.
But then, something odd happened. While watching one of the newly-released UFO documentaries, they showed a clip of the Outer Banks of NC, close to where I go to have my holiest of holy prayers when I’ve got the time and am in the right mood. There, hovering near my chosen sanctuary, was a shining ball of light seemingly having arrived at the behest of a group of onlookers. They began shining lasers at it and beckoning it closer. This, the documentary says, was one of Dr. Steven Greer’s “Close Encounters of the 5th Kind”, an encounter which, unlike the other 4 category “kinds”, is unique in that it’s initiated by humans. Would-be intergalactic diplomats.
…this hovering, glowing, abomination, in *MY* home!
I began researching Dr. Greer, watching his documentaries and reading his books. I’ve just finished his book “Unacknowledged” today and thought I’d do a quick analysis. This one hits close to home because he’s a North Carolinian and has had many UFO encounters in the Tar Heel State. And the claims the guy makes stretch the bounds of credulity far beyond the norm for these sorts of sensationalists.
Unlike Lazar, Travis Walton, or any of the other run-of-the-mill celebrities in UFO literature, Dr. Greer can seemingly cause these “crafts” and sometimes even their occupants, to appear at will! Oh, he doctors it all up in new-age, pseudo-scientific-sounding phraseology, but what it amounts to is, he takes a group of people out into the woods, sits them in a circle, does some chants, says some magic words, and … wouldn’t you know it? Strange phenomena begin to manifest!
It seems this Crowley wanna-be impressed some of the right people, who promptly took him into their confidence. Witchcraft may be flashy and have some small power to deceive, but it almost always fails to deliver on any real power (if history is a guide). I doubt the CIA, despite popular rumors, has much concern with Greer’s powers. I think they’re very concerned with his ability to seep his narrative into public consciousness and begin swaying us all closer to accepting the emergence of the man of lawlessness. This guy may very well manifest all sorts of signs and wonders, but, let’s be honest, Satan has deceived almost the entirety of post Christian Europe without having to toss a single lightening bolt – does he really need aliens?
Greer’s appearance on the Joe Rogan podcast was one of the most popular Rogan has ever hosted. In it, after insulting Young Earth “fundamentalist” Christians – the bane of all left-leaning extraterrestrials – he casually admits to having had a number of CIA “mentors” who “gave him excellent guidance and help”… Rogan, as usual, was too stuck on himself to recognize Greer for the obvious disinformation propagandist he clearly is.
Given his magical ability to conjure up aliens at will, and given his status (presumably) as a CIA asset, Greer soon had meetings with the highest ranking people in the US and foreign governments. Additionally, all sorts of high-ranking military people were launching themselves out of obscurity to share their UFO-encounter stories, no matter how bizarre.
It makes me wonder, though. The American government is obviously at open war with White, European, Christians, our way of life, our culture, and our God. Maybe they have far more powerful black magicians than Greer? Maybe my joke that “they” are getting their orders from ouija boards, isn’t far off the mark?
Let them shine their lasers around and chant their chants, though… I know who holds tomorrow…
There was a time I used to pray to win the lottery. Now, I’m of a mind that if I ever do win, I’d do a Youtube video first verifying the authenticity of the ticket, then burning it in the name of Christ. This attitude is foreign to the masses today but used to be commonplace among our betters. I like to think I’m the man who can be put in a room with a few million in cash, no cameras or supervision, and have every dime of it still there next morning. A man’s word ought to mean something. And we ought not want a dime of anyone’s money, power, or secrets, unless we work hard to earn them.
With that prelude, I’ll say a brief word about Bob Lazar’s autobiography. For those not in the know, Lazar claimed to have worked at the infamous Area 51, also known as Dreamland. There, he worked in S-4 attempting to “back engineer” the anti-gravity propulsion systems of flying saucers. According to his tale, he was given classified documents claiming these vehicles were extraterrestrial in origin – a theme oft repeated throughout his interviews.
I’ve read many such book-length supposedly-true accounts of the fantastic, but they all have a prima facie implausibility. A book about the supposed voyage to planet Serpo is one such. Asinine claims are simply tossed out for consideration, often with only a hint of plausibility. I mean, we’re supposed to believe Hitler had an army of one million clones?! Really? No one in Germany would have noticed that?
Lazar’s narrative is different though. I was surprised after a cursory reading. It has the ring of truth to it. I only caught two slip-ups but in hindsight, they seem explainable. First, Lazar suggests that on his second visit to Area 51 he was escorted to a medical lab as part of his in-processing. He describes a plant on one of the desks there. Later in the narrative, he monologues about the spartan work environment. “I never saw any pictures of family on desks, never saw any plants, and not even pictures of cats dangling from limbs saying hang in there!” I’m thinking…”…sir, just a few chapters ago you spent a few lines of ink describing a plant on someone’s desk, now you’re saying you didn’t see any plants!” I’ll let this slip, though, because, ok. He may have seen one plant, but he was trying to contrast the working morale and conditions there with a normal science environment and was speaking in a broad generalization. Fine.
Second thing, in the book, Lazar teams up with investigative journalist George Knapp, who originally broke the Lazar story in the media. In the introduction, Knapp describes his attempt to verify Lazar’s background. Lazar claimed to have worked at Los Alamos National Lab, but when Knapp looked into it, Los Alamos denied it. After some digging, though, Knapp found evidence Lazar actually had worked there. He dug up an old Los Alamos phone directory and said Lazar’s full name was listed – Robert Scott Lazar. However, in a recent documentary (featuring Lazar and Knapp), a screenshot of this directory was shown, and it only had Robert Lazar listed; only a first and last name. Which was it?! Another simple error? Or are we being hoaxed by Knapp and Lazar? I tend to lean towards it being a simple error on Knapp’s part. Again, he was emphasizing how blatant the evidence was and may have gotten carried away in his description. Fair enough.
So, do I believe Lazar’s story?
As I said above, it has a ring of truth to it. However, when I watched Lazar speaking in real time it struck me that while he may have been telling some parts of the truth, he was hiding something. Seemed to me like he was ashamed or perhaps knew how ridiculous his exaggerations were.
I don’t know anything about science, and less about science fiction. I’ve never found aliens romantic or interesting. I do know a thing or two about human nature.
Let’s say Lazar’s story is, for the most part, true. That’s all the worse for Lazar, in my view, since it paints him out to be the worst sort of traitorous ingrate. As I read, I kept waiting for the chapter where he told the story about how the Area 51 security forces screwed him over somehow, prompting him to break his oaths and go on live TV with his information. I kept waiting to him say something crazy like: “…the military was using ouija boards to communicate with demonic entities as a way to keep the average American enslaved! So I just had to break my silence!”
None of that ever came. In fact, what prompted him, by his own account, to betray the trust of his employers?! They didn’t call him for a few weeks. Wait, what? That’s it? That was their big sin? They simply didn’t call him for a few weeks, so he got huffy and blew the entire security protocol?!
To be honest, if I were on the Area 51 security force, I’d have put a bullet in the man’s head myself and left him out in the desert somewhere. They could very easily have done so, especially if they’re as powerfully connected as popular lore would have it. The fact that Lazar is still breathing is a huge testimony to the restraint of the security forces.
I’m no fan of the American government but I suppose I am a patriot in my own way. Also, having served myself, and having held a secret clearance, I know how betrayed I would feel if some knock-kneed busy-body ran to the press.
The “deep state”, such that it is, is made up of a small sample of people just like us, and likely with a similar distribution of cultural and political diversity. If anything, they probably lean conservative and likely have idealistic goals about protecting national interests. Some so-called UFOlogists despise this, suggesting these agencies aren’t “accountable” to the people and that the President is just a “temporary employee”. They don’t like the idea that some institutions exist beyond the pale of party politics.
From my view, as someone who detests democracy and mob-rule, these are the sort of principled institutions I find most attractive in a government – always assuming patriots are at the helm. And I don’t see any would-be Napoleons taking joy-rides in flying saucers. To see that sort of thing, we need look no further than Wall Street, where the real Satanists reside.
If there is sophisticated, advanced, technology, it’s still secret for a reason. Whatever that reason is, it’s ostensibly in the best interest of the nation. I’m not saying I trust “them” (whoever the mysterious “them” are according to any given conspiracy scenario), but I do think Lazar ought to have been a man of his word and simply waited patiently for his phone call…
All the poetic heroes of the Christian faith seem to believe in freedom of the will. At the very least, they do as C.S. Lewis and Chesterton do and suggest the paradox of God’s sovereignty and human freedom ought to be accepted as a mystery. Chesterton, in his Orthodoxy, uses this mystery in the context of talking about the lunatic. The lunatic reasons round and round in a complete, though vicious, circle. He’s not insane because he believes in what can’t be explained; he’s insane because he believes he can explain everything! “The poet may have his head in the heavens, but the logician tries to get the heavens in his head, and his head cracks for it…”
Chesterton, himself, is paradoxical to me. He seems to have one foot in old European Christendom and one foot in modernity. I was reading a book of C.S. Lewis’ literary essays today and Lewis comments that it was Belloc, that scoundrel, who influenced Chesterton in negative ways. Having read many of Belloc’s works, and owing to the great influence the blog CWNY has on my thinking, I’d come to share Lewis’ view, only I didn’t know it was Lewis’ view until yesterday. (I don’t know whether to say Lewis is vindicated by having a similar opinion to CWNY, or if CWNY is vindicated in having a similar view to Lewis, but given my admiration of CWNY, I’m seriously inclined to the first!)
I happen to know CWNY also, in line with the lights Christian Europe, holds to freedom of the will, but it would be vulgar to go to his blog looking for some systematic theology of it. The more I grow in the faith, the more I’ve come to abhor theologians and “theology”. God forbid we log in one Saturday and find a syllogism at CWNY! In one of his recent posts, he brings up the phrase: Man proposes, God disposes. Like so many of the truisms of Christian Europe, I’d never heard of it until CWNY posted it, but it had a powerful effect on me.
Seeing as how this seems to be *the* pivotal issue at the heart of the “problem of Evil”, however, I continued struggling with freedom for many years. The Calvinism which I came out of, of course, has much to say on this. From Luther to Jonathan Edwards to present day philosophical theology concerning “agency” and the like, competing models have emerged to explain away the mystery. No consensus, to date, has been reached, not among Calvinists themselves, nor broader Christianity, nor certainly the philosophical community as a whole.
…but I think, maybe, the old Christian Knights had a handle on it, and maybe the few good Christian women who’ve existed.
Let it say a mystery if we must, to stay sane. Ok. But then what?
There’s something at the heart of Christianity that few Christians actually take into account, and that is: love. A deep and abiding love for not only that man Jesus Christ, but for those close to us in life. Our friends and family. How can a Knight train himself, day in and day out, with more disciplined dedication than any Spartan warrior? The Spartan trains for honor and public status. He’s like the weight lifter in the gym who does nothing but hypertrophy training to get a physique desirable to the ladies and intimidating to other men. Can he compete with the man who works for the benefit of an infant? With a man who works for the benefit of a beautiful Christian girl at the old home place and that warm kitchen light, welcoming him home at the end of the day? I think not. Nor can some Instagram model out-compete the beauty of a simple Christian girl who cooks a meal (and even washes the dishes) out of love for her man and their family.
Many times in this blog, when struggling with deep depression, I’ve asked why I ought to get out of bed in the morning. What’s the rational reason to live? Moreover, why put oneself through the pain and discomfort of physical training and effort? Why ought we defend white Christian Europe when there’s so little of it left to defend?
For much of my life, I’ve been a child, dumped into a sand-box, who refused to do anything but sit there and cry. Maybe He wants us to play and enjoy ourselves and honor Him with what we make, and to do it with love…?
A poor farmer is approached by a lithping, limp-writhted, taxth man at the end of the growing season. The tax man informs the farmer he owes the government $20,000 in back taxes and must pay immediately:
Farmer: “…but that will ruin me! The bank will foreclose on my house and the state will take my children away to an orphanage!”
Tax Man: “…yeth, I know, but, thir! My reathoning ith impeccable, I athure you!” (we must imagine him waving his hands around in a mock caricature of pedantic bureaucrats everywhere).
Farmer: “…your reasoning? I don’t really care about that. I just care that my life is ruined. Can you please help me somehow?!”
Tax Man: “…would you like to argue about my math?”
Farmer: “…what?! No!”
Tax Man: “…because, my logic and reathoning are impeccable, I quite athure you.”
We, the suffering masses, are the farmer. The Christian apologist is the tax man. We’re arguing about the “problem of evil”. In keeping with my apologetics background, I used to refer to this as the “so-called problem of evil”, but as I’ve matured and fled from Christ-of-the-Platitudes, I’ve realized this is the one big problem of the Christian faith. It’s not a mere pseudo-problem or intellectual puzzle. I don’t think a man can be a mature, legitimate, Christian without having wrestled with it (nor do I trust any peddler-of-platitudes who doesn’t seem to have faced it).
The professional apologists – those hockers of theological wares – care only for rational consistency of theological doctrines. If the doctrines are consistent they must either be true, or at the very least, intellectually unassailable. This does little good, however, for those in pain.
The only people who care for arguing about theological consistency of Christian doctrines are the theologians and apologists who do so as a sport or intellectual game. It’s a pastime. Their opponents are the fedora-tipping atheists who are the fallen mirrors of their Yankee, Presbyterian, forefathers. All the players are Yankees in fact. Just some are arguing for the consistency of theological doctrines while others argue for their inconsistency. In either case, the poor farmer is left clutching at handfuls of dirt that no longer belong to him and wondering why God has ruined his life (or, at the very least, allowed it to be ruined).
Some apologists are intelligent enough to realize this so they divide the “problem of evil” into two types, commonly distinguished from each other as the “logical” problem and the “psychological” problem. The “logical” problem is what’s discussed and is the main focus of the apologist, while the “psychological” problem is waived off and said to be a problem for pastors, councilors, or maybe poets.
There was a point when the evils of my life became so great I had to turn away from the rational apologetics I was accustomed to and look for those Christian poets who, hopefully, had the *real* answer to the *real* problem of evil. I found the likes of C.S. Lewis, Dostoyevsky, and Shakespeare.
The problem is, I’m not the most intelligent guy and, moreover, I’m as poor in spirit as I am in the wallet, so I’ve had to approach my study of the giants-of-heart with a humble, trembling, feeling-of-the-way.
God has hurt me in subtle and devious ways I never would have imagined Him capable of. The hurt is deep and lasting; maybe even emasculating. For those of us who’ve struggled against suicide, the platitude of heartless apologists – that we must “die to self” – seems awful similar to saying we simply must die. What’s the difference? Wouldn’t we succeed in holiness of the platitude if we sped up the process? And can I really worship a God who has lead me into despair and failure so many times? Does He lead me to failure six times and still get my trust for the seventh?
What we’re really asking is: what’s the point of life?
You’re all sick of hearing about it, I know, but once, long ago, I fell madly in love. It was love “at first sight”, like in the storybooks. Cynics say that sort of thing is impossible, but I know it’s real because it happened to me. Unfortunately, the lady in question didn’t share the sentiment. Her’s was a mild toleration of me, at best. The two of us had a rocky friendship, in-the-trenches, back to back, doing fervent Christian apologetics together. It was an obsession for both of us. A few years went by before I finally wrote her a long letter, telling her how I felt and explaining that she need not reply since I knew her answer already. My heart finally broke when I sent it. Love was all in an instant for me; I fell in love at first sight, and my heart broke at last sight.
What you all may not know is that after many years of losing touch, I began searching for her again. Finally, recently, in the summer of 2019, I found her. And, you know what? Her life turned out as beautifully as we could have imagined. She married a professional race-car driver, just as she’d always talked about. She has a beautiful family and is still very attractive. When I found her and saw how she turned out, I had another “instant” experience: my heart was instantly healed. All the crass, degenerate, blasphemers who would insult her, all the Muslims who’d threaten her, all the witches who cursed her…all proven wrong. She would smile in response to their jeers and simply re-assert her apologetic positions in a sweet, girlish way, that drove them all insane. Her blessed life was a triumph over evil and when I saw how it turned out, I thanked God for it.
…but then, there’s little ol’ Shotgun, and the scarred, bitter heart God left him with. Why? Why did my one great love have the life she dreamt of, predicted, and boasted that God would give her? Why did He attend to her prayers, but utterly ignore mine?
I came across a lovely idea today in my reading. It’s slightly pagan and a little “new-agey” so I invite my readers to take it or leave it. Additionally, I’m going to present the idea in my own way, so as to fit with the theme of this post:
Suppose my love and I were “soulmates”. The idea of a soulmate is so ridiculous in today’s pop culture that it strains credulity, but just suppose for a minute…
Suppose, in Heaven, while cavorting around the clouds, she and I were together and shared a euphoric bliss in God’s presence. But then an angel came to guide us to our chutes – the ones we’d use to slide down to Earth and into our bodies. The angel wipes a tear from his eye and we ask him what’s wrong. He says it’s our time to go to Earth and that, before we went, we’d have to make a terrible decision.
Things on Earth, he explained, are not as they are here. Down there, men are evil. They’re under the punishment of God and must face death and suffering. Unfortunately, you two have a choice to make.
We hold hands as we listen.
The angel continues: you can go to Earth and meet. You’ll fall in love and have a happy few years together; however, after those few years are up, she will die (he says, while pointing at my love). She’ll die along with your newborn children. And you (he says, while pointing at me), will become so bitter and angry after the loss, that you turn away from God, then kill yourself, thus ensuring an eternal separation.
We both begin to cry at this awful vision. Is there nothing we can do? asks my love…
There is another alternative, he says. In this path, you will meet, but not fall in love. Instead, you will part, with great heartache for one of you (he says, looking at me). You (indicating my love), will go on to have a beautiful life, surrounded by love, and you’ll have many children of your own. But you (indicating me), will part from her to a life of defeat, loneliness, and bitter heartache; nevertheless, and no matter how bad things get for you, you will manage to keep the faith and eventually, make it back to paradise, even though it be through the flames.
Then he looks at me… the choice is yours. Will you make this sacrifice for your love?
…and because I am who and what I am, I made my choice. And I’d do it again and again for eternity.
I’m not saying this is the “answer” to the so-called problem of evil…but it’s probably something like this.
River Phoenix made movies that profoundly affected my childhood, most notably “Explorers”, which excited me so much I had dreams about it and played out the movie scenes with kids in the neighborhood. The idea of finding great power through brains and junkyard science was fascinating. Moreover, Phoenix starred as the young Indiana Jones in “Last Crusade”, which, for better or worse, greatly influenced an entire generation of children.
As I came of age in the 90’s, I was usually oblivious to larger cultural trends, preferring instead to stay safely tucked away in the smaller Evangelical, southern, counter-culture. Back then, social groups in government school were, believe it or not, defined by iron-clad commercial genres of music, and I was uneasily settled in the “country” clique. Although never a comfortable fit, owing to my religiosity and poetic fervor (which was a contrast to the cynical blue-collar work-a-day ethic of the redneck crowd), I, nevertheless, bluffed my way along with the country kids until high school when my eccentricities could no longer be hidden.
And in highschool, I began noticing the “preppy” kids (in some locales, known as “townies”), were all left-leaning liberals, and many of the boys had long, glistening, blonde hair. Recall the pop-group Hanson. In the broader culture, actors like Emilio Estevez, Christian Slater, Johnny Depp, and Leonardo DiCaprio, all emulated this petite, “pretty-boy” image. The type was found across the spectrum, (my sister was particularly taken with the physical boy-form taken on by Casper the Friendly Ghost at the end of the movie version). Whether this was a trend inspired by River Phoenix, or just expertly channeled by him, he was the archetype of desirable ’90’s masculinity.
Raised by radical hippy parents, he was born into an occultic “love” religion, the Children of God, which also boasts of Rose McGowen and other celebrities. Coasting on the spirit of lawlessness in the left, particularly present in California, the group promoted “free love” and the erasure of social boundaries. River’s mother is quoted as questioning male / female categories as early as the 1970’s, foreshadowing the insanity of our own day. Unfortunately, the adult / child boundary was also questioned and as early as four-years of age, River was engaging in sexual relations.
Some who speculate about shifty “MK-Ultra” narratives note that the best candidates for “programming” are second-generation child-abuse victims. While I have no opinion on this conspiracy (other than to shy away from it as being an unnecessary device to explain away evils in the “elite” that need no explanation other than sheer Satanic savagery)…it seems relevant to River, at least, in that, his having been abused at such an early age seemed to have affected his life in such a way that he would become, later in life, vulnerable to the evil spirits haunting Hollywood.
While all that happened to him in that regard seems squarely the fault of his parents rather than some occultic / jewish gaggle of super-elite conspirators, the origins of the “Children of God” cult and the social environment that enabled it bear further research. Moreover, as I theorize (albeit tentatively), such groups can easily be imagined as providing conduits and back-room access to other, sick, Satanic, dealers in innocents. While the author of Viper Room fails to speculate, there may be a tie between the rise of child-sex rituals in Hollywood (and other centers of “elite” occult-like culture), and the economic machinations of the 1980’s, coupled with the general rise of the spirit of lawlessness-unfettered in the 60’s. More needs to be done.
Viper Room is well written, informative, and at times, deeply moving. At no point did I ever identify with the troubled protagonist. His life, outlook, and attitudes were too foreign for me. Nevertheless, by all accounts, he had a pure heart (if, as we Christians would maintain, it was twisted by radical left ideology). We’re treated to a narrative about a boy who is taken in by Hollywood, chewed up, spit out, and ultimately destroyed. And yet, there’s a glint of fallen heroism in it all as, despite his untimely death, Hollywood never seems to have destroyed his soul.
…that was destroyed by his parents long before his first acting gig.
River died of a drug overdose on an LA sidewalk, outside a club owned by actor Johnny Depp. He died with his brother, the now-famous Joaquin Phoenix, close by his side, whose 911 call is as touching as it is tragic. His death, along with the death of another flowing-blond celebrity, Kurt Cobain, seemed almost ritualistic in scope; the devil’s way to put the final nail in the coffin of legitimate white cultural expression.
We’ve not had any genuine, organic, cultural expression since…
I’ve never written about this at SBS, but when I was a child, I, and everyone I knew, found ourselves in a nationally-infamous child sex scandal, complete with Barbara Walters, other minor celebrities, and accusations of Satanic ritual abuse. I, and the other children involved, endured many hours of psychoanalysis as well as prompting for this or that side of the legal battle (Prosecution and Defense both had an army of psychologists on call). The defendants were found guilty and sentenced to consecutive life terms. During appeal, they won their freedom as well as national sympathy, shifting untold levels of anger onto the denizens of the small hick town, who, in their Christian zealotry and backwoods superstition, supposedly ruined the lives of respectable citizens. It remains a terrible scar on the history of my hometown. The daycare at the center of the tragedy was attended by the children of prominent citizens, all of whom either retired from the affair in disgrace or appealed to its ambiguity as a way to quietly maintain their dignity.
…the rest of the world, however? My town and its overly-imaginative citizens, remain damned in public opinion as the erstwhile defendants and accused child-abusers make the rounds, speaking at universities, and giving first-hand accounts of modern day “witch-hunts.”
There is a lot to be said about the entire affair; much I personally need to say to gain closure. But, to cut to the chase, in case any of my readers are wondering: yes, I was accused (by many of the other children) of having been one of the abuse victims. And to the best of my memory, those accusations are completely false. I’ve been told time and again (by psychologists) that, perhaps, owing to the trauma of the experience, I managed to “block out” the memories. I’ve spent many long, quiet, hours in deep meditation, walking systematically through my memory. I’ve read up on tips and tricks and distant-recollection techniques. I’ve managed to clearly remember incidents all the way back to my first few years of life. There was even one profound moment when, for a brief instant, I recalled being in the womb (unless anyone balks at this, it wasn’t a clearly defined memory, rather, it was more an instant wave of emotion – a feeling of comfort and vulnerability and the presence of my sister, who was there with me. As soon as I experienced this flash, I knew it was one of the oldest memories I own. Despite multiple efforts, I’ve never been able to reproduce it but I remember what it felt like and know it was a real memory). But I simply do not remember any of the supposed abuse. Nor, I should mention, do I remember any of the other children ever being abused in any way. Moreover, I clearly remember the fanfare of the event, and in the excitement, remember clearly telling untruths as a way to please the adults who were expecting to hear shock and awe. I imagine the same was true of all the other kids.
…so am I willing to side with the majority against my hometown then? No. I’m not. I’m not convinced the defendants are as innocent as the nation has come to believe. Nevertheless, even if they are innocent, they are victims along with my entire town. Victims of a deeper, more sinister, spirit. After all, it’s not for nothing small-town parents in the 1980’s were terrified of Satanic, ritual, child-abuse.
I put the entire affair behind me, as children do, and moved on with my life – until a few years ago when the entire “pizza-gate” scandal broke. It seemed like just another zany conspiracy theory until I began hearing more and more about it. Things I heard in the pizza-gate context, tickled distant memories and I began to feel uncomfortable. I began to think more seriously about possible connections.
I’ve decided to spend time researching this to gain clarity, if for no other reason than for my own peace of mind.
My view of American history is largely “spiritual” in nature, where by “spiritual” I have definite and clear notions in mind. Moreover, much of the perceived “rot” in this country spread from New York’s so-called “burned-over district”, where many occult phenomena were said to have occurred, and which spawned many branches of spiritual “lawlessness.” In a recent review of a book about Edmund Burke, I highlighted this “spirit of lawlessness” – and yes, I do mean that in the Biblical sense. The modern one-sided battle being waged against Christianity in America today is a battle of the spirit of lawlessness against the last, lingering, vestiges of Christ…and there’s nothing the spirit of lawlessness loves more than pedophilia.
I’ll be opening up a new category tag in the side column, devoted to this issue. Additionally, I’ve just finished reading a biography of River Phoenix (the actor) which bears on this topic, and will post it soon as the first in my series of investigative posts.
Please bear with me as, from time to time, I make posts on this unsavory and disturbing topic. I’m not one for lingering on the deep things of Satan anymore than I’d enjoy crawling into a crack in the wall to kill roaches, but I feel lead to make an effort, given my personal history and my intellectual interests.
May God damn any who put their sick hands on our women or our children…
Reese Witherspoon has been a popular actress for many years, starring in roles like “Legally Blonde”, “Walk the Line”, and “Sweet Home Alabama”. She excels at playing classy southern characters, although it wasn’t until reading her book I realized just how seriously she takes her region. Part memoir, part defense of Southern culture, Witherspoon makes an admirable attempt at honoring provincialism.
I have mixed feelings about it, of course. It makes me recall something that happened early one Sunday morning in Virginia Beach. I was stationed at the local air-base and had to report in full dress-blues for an early morning watch. On my way to the base, I stopped at a light and a carload of attractive, young, girls, still in full-throttle from their Saturday night revelries, pulled up next to me. Seeing my uniform, they started cheering and saluting. One went so far as to pull down the top of her dress and give me my first (and only) “flashing”.
Now, my response may be controversial. At the time, I was freshly mired in staunch, Calvinist, prudishness. I stuck my hand out the window and did a “meh, so-so” gesture. A look of hurt and humiliation immediately crossed her face. She turned away, re-adjusting her straps. For my part, I immediately felt likewise. While it’s crude and certainly not ideal, she was a rare breed – a conservative girl, willing to bring some small ray of hope and encouragement to the life of a serviceman…only to have that stick-in-the-mud return her gift in the most low-brow way possible.
I’ve thought about that incident many times and always feel shame at my response. Call it misguided chivalry if you will, but I’ve always recoiled from hurting women – be it physically or, especially, emotionally (…notwithstanding some of the positions I’ve defended here at Shotgun Barrel Straight concerning the discipline of unruly women).
In short: I believe she had a good spirit and good will, but owing to our acid-bath of a culture, she had entirely wrong-headed ways about how to display it. Certainly some measure of forgiveness is warranted, and yet, I was too young and unwise to extend it. I’ll try not to make the same mistake with Reese, who, despite obvious drawbacks, tries to make a valiant defense of the south – and one that’s much needed from contemporary celebrities. Nevertheless, she’s as misguided as the young Virginia girl who flashed me.
Reese’s idea of the south is a mix of every Hollywood cliche’, peppered with a few real hints of southern culture. Dolly Parton – that silicon mistress of bloat and fakery – is her icon, and she litters her memoir with allusions to the civil-rights movement and the glories of feminism. We’re treated to a “We southern women are strong and independent!” next to a “I just love sitting on front porches with mint juleps!” And of course, one of her favorite books is “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Of course, of course.
Nevertheless, a few genuine hints of southernness make it through, most notably: her discussion of dogs. “We let our dogs run freely throughout the neighborhood”…this is truly a quintessential southern “thing”, where the roaming creatures foster community as much as the roving children do. Everyone’s at everyone’s house, making for a provincial unit, where as modernity would have us all strangers, living on top of one another. No room for leashes in the south – amen to that, Reese.
Despite my growth, and despite my willingness to forgive, however, it’s exceedingly difficult for me to look on this sort of amalgamated southern female with anything other than contempt for the ones who’ve made her this way. Especially since I want a southern belle for a wife. None are left. All we get are the reconstructed “new-south” belles, who love empty forms and bluster and recoil in horror from real southern men.
So, I say it’s an admirable attempt on her part; admirable, but depressing.
As a side note, I used to love Dolly Parton’s music as well, and told my grandmother about it once. We were about to take a roadtrip somewhere and she asked me for music suggestions. Now, my grandmother was one of the last of the true southern women, and when I mentioned Dolly, she scoffed and said Dolly was fake and her voice “sounds so childish.” I’ve never been able to listen to a Dolly Parton song since without hearing a baby whining. It’s especially unnerving since, despite her homespun aesthetic, many of her songs glorify “making love” out of wedlock (her jaunty little duet “Pretty Flowers” with Steve Martin is a case in point).
I’ll forgive Reese (and maybe even Dolly), as long as they don’t have power to define Southern identity, but I’ll not accept either as the Queen of Dixie. I’m left having to daydream about the existence of some unreconstructed Southern belle, although, at this point, even I, the hopeless-romantic extraordinaire, despair of ever finding her.
My granddad always said the Yankees didn’t end slavery. They just increased the size of the plantation. The older I get, the more I’m convinced he was right. The old southern apologists for slavery argued in a similar way, suggesting the north’s “free-labor” system was far more brutal and barbaric than anything in the south (Henry Hughes called the south’s system “warrantist” labor, since every position in society was established by, and warranted by, the level above and below it, with natural bonds of honor and expectation tying them together).
I think I’m the last man in Christendom willing to defend the old south’s position on this. Not even the “pro-southern” layabout intellectuals are willing to accept it. But it’s extremely difficult for ivory-tower do-littles to know anything about the life of a modern slave, since the academic environment insulates them from harsh realities. The majority of baby-boomers, as well, managed to slip into financially comfortable situations on our giant plantation, coasting on the holdover blessings of Christendom, and find it incredibly difficult to understand why their children are unhappy.
Emily Guendelsberger’s book “On the Clock” is an interesting bit of investigative journalism which may answer this for the perplexed. She explores the day-to-day reality of the new sort of job all of us can look forward to. Having been laid off from her journalist position (owing to cutbacks), she decided to go “undercover” in three different, notoriously bad, minimum-wage jobs. Anyone who doesn’t understand the abject horror of a “free-labor” system, ought to read Emily’s accounts – read and shudder…
She first gets a job at an Amazon warehouse. These massive facilities have gotten a lot of bad press for allegedly treating their workers like dirt, having medical emergencies, pain-pill-vending-machines, long hours, and low pay. She’s assigned the duty of fishing out items from the stock and pushing them in a cart back to be packaged and shipped. This required long walks – upwards of 20-mile hikes every day. Amazon assigns each worker a scan-gun which keeps track, down to the second, of their every move. They cannot even go to the bathroom without Amazon knowing and judging. Their rest breaks are few and God help anyone who is late (even by a few seconds).
This acts as the blueprint of typical sort of “wage-slave” job, increasingly the only sort of work any American can get. Time is strictly regulated by computers, cutting out all possibility of workplace chatter, loligagging, and time-wasting. Emily discusses the history and development of this workplace attitude. It’s the story of a victory of scientific machines over the human spirit.
Not being able to keep to the physical rigors of the Amazon warehouse, she quits and moves on to a call center job in NC. There, while not as physically rigorous, her experience was even worse, as her time was even more strictly managed. She was called on to multitask like a computer, while also staying sane enough to somehow help the person on the other end of the line; this, all, while trying to make hopeless sales to earn enough to move out of her car and into an actual apartment. Another element to these wage-slave jobs – they never pay enough to allow for an actual home. No matter how much you manage to save, if you’re in a job like this, you will be living in some barracks-like situation – in a small room in someone’s house, or in an apartment with multiple roommates. The idea of having a large-family with multiple children in a two-story house? Forget it.
She soon leaves the call-center and goes to work at the notorious “McDonalds”, where, similarly to the other two jobs, her every move, down to the second, was tracked by computers, and she was expected to perform constantly, under pressure, and under speed.
Her adventures during these trials are interesting and she’s a great writer. Important to note, she had a constant mantra running through her head: “she could leave”. Because she was married and fairly well off financially, she had the luxury of being able to leave those jobs any time. She wasn’t stuck there like so many of her co-workers. Unfortunately, fewer and fewer of us “can leave” these slave-like job conditions.
She doesn’t say much about how to solve the situation, preferring a few brief words in the last chapter that may hint towards some Bernie-Sanders-style socialism. I can’t say much to it other than to point out how modernist views of “socialism” seem to only swap masters from private “capitalists” to public “bureaucrats”…one master will be just as horrible as the other.
It seems Christ was right, in the end: the poor we’ll always have with us. Far better, in my view, to go with the labor-system of the old-south, then, where Christians privately own their labor and handle them judiciously, according to strict social mores and under threat of social shame (should they mismanage their workers).
God help any white man caught up in this modern slavery.
Study it; learn it; figure out how to avoid it at all costs – because it’s what they want for us and our children and our children’s children…