Shotgun and the Leprechaun


If you’re wondering what happened to my response to Ehud’s F&H slam article, I’ve unpublished it. I decided to take the high road; be the bigger man, as it were. So come, my minions. Critique me; psychoanalyze me; make judgements about me based on little more than a phone conversation we had years ago. I welcome it. Really. I’ll enter your criticisms in the footnotes of my ten-chapter-long memoir (which I’m sure F&H will publish).

…but if you’re new to my blog (visiting thanks to the publicity my friends decided, out of the blue, to offer me), then be mindful that I’ve been publishing my struggles with the Christian Faith. You’ll be interested to know that after a particularly dark bout of providence and a resulting spate of angry prayers, I challenged God to discipline me. He did, in at least two instances, both of which, oddly (though humorously) had an Irish twist. The first was a few weeks ago and is recorded in my last post (Luck of the Irate). Here’s how the second happened:

Suffice it to say, I was having a case of the Mondays. Two hours from home, my car had broken down in coon-town. My radiator was bone dry and I was in a vacant lot surrounded by be-bopping jacobins. Was this God punishing me again?! “Well…” I reminded myself, “…I asked for it.” Asked for it indeed, with a healthy side of profanity. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure God disciplines us whether we ask for it or not. Best not to ask for it.

Luckily (and the irony of that word doesn’t escape me), there was an auto parts store about half a mile away. Believe it or not, it was an Irish-themed establishment with, you guessed it, a large shamrock as part of their logo. I put my pistol in my back pocket and set out to a gas station to get water. I was able to fill the reservoir enough so the car would start, then managed to drive it out of the lot and down to the O’Reilly’s. I had a busted seal in my thermostat housing; the water blew out so fast the radiator was dry again by the time I arrived. I thought I could purchase sealant and plug it enough to get home.

…turned out, that was wishful thinking. There was no way the sealant could plug the entire leak. At that point, I called my dad, who had to stop what he was doing and drive two hours with tools so we could perform a minor operation right there in the parking lot; we’d have to replace the entire thermostat. In the mean time, I needed more water (to re-fill the radiator), and asked the clerk if I could get some. “In the back,” he said.

I’ve had radiator issues before and I knew about the large sinks in auto stores. They use them to fill mop buckets but they’re also ideal for milk jugs. Sad to say, when I got to the back, theirs had an “out of order” sign on it. I swore. All the frustration of my recent religious struggles hit me full force. “Why God!?!? Again?! You just can’t give me any good luck, can you?!”

If you’ve arrived at my blog from F&H you might be used to judging your fellows harshly. I implore you not to in my case. There are times we all lose our cool and the pressures of life, even the relatively small ones, act as proverbial “feathers” to break a peeved-off camel’s back; or my back, as the case may be. Broke down in coon town, surrounded by vagrants and thugs. Even the O’Reilly’s employees were shady looking. It just wasn’t my lucky day. Until…

“Hey man…maybe I can help?” a voice said.

I turned around and…you’ll never believe it… there was a midget. A friendly lil’ feller, who, despite his stature, had the trustworthy features of an honorable, normal sized white man. He was holding a water key.

“Yeah…” he explained, “…this one’s broke so we’ve been having to use the outside spigot. You have to have this key though. Come on, I’ll help you out.” And help he did.

A kind word and friendly hand at the right moment, dear readers, mean all the world to a Christian down on his luck.

…although, maybe I wasn’t down on luck after all?

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Luck of the Irate


Here’s a pro tip guys: if you give a girl flowers and she’s disappointed because they’re not edible or otherwise useful around the farm, marry her.

Here’s another pro tip: no matter how angry you get at God, never challenge Him to discipline you. “Come on! Do it! We both know you wont! We both know I’m out of the covenant and praying to a God who doesn’t answer prayers! You only discipline those you love anyway; I’d prefer that to silence. So come on! Have at it!”

If, hypothetically, you ever pray such a prayer, consider the following two stories about what happened to me after doing so. Interestingly enough, both anecdotes have an Irish twist. The symbolism escapes me but in hindsight, adds an hilarious irony I can’t write off as coincidence. No, what I’m about to relate are real interactions between God and man. My awe (and frustration) aside, if I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned they might still be celebrating St. Patrick’s Day in Heaven…

The first happened a few weeks ago. I was angry because God seems capricious, “…you’re no better than a weathervain, Lord.” He blesses one minute, curses the next. This makes God more of an impersonal force than a divine person. We may as well be praying to the wind. Although that’s not quite true either (so I reasoned). No, the wind, at least, changes directions from time to time. With God it’s a never-ending stream of bad luck. “Why can’t you be more like the wind, God?! Change it up a little! Give me some good luck for a change!”

The next morning I got out ye olde power washer, put on my headphones, and began a long day of labor. Hours went by. I washed everything, high and low; destroyed wasps, spiders, pollen, and mold. I had to re-fill the gas tank five times. As the day was wearing down, the machine inexplicably shut off. I checked the gas – it had plenty. I checked the water – it was on full blast. The engine started but I wasn’t getting any pressure.

After messing with it and performing all the troubleshooting I could, I decided my water pump had gone bad. It’s a fairly common problem with pressure washers. Unfortunately, a new pump costs almost as much as the whole machine. I’d have to scrap it. “See, God?! This is exactly what I’m talking about! Where’s my luck?! Why can’t I have good luck for a change?!”

As I began coiling the hose and preparing for a disappointing end to the day, it occurred to me there was one thing left I might try. I hadn’t checked the water hose’s connection to the washer. Maybe, somehow or other, something had gotten lodged in there? So I squatted down, hunkered over the connector, and released it. As soon as I did, residual pressure exploded out of the nozzle, blowing… (and you’ll never believe this)…clovers all in my face. Shamrocks! Not just a few, ladies and gents; an entire face full of stereotypical good luck charms. They were clogging the hose and blocking the water. It took me awhile to clean them all out, there were so many.

Now you tell me, you science-minded denizens of modernity…you tell me how that many clovers got into my water hose. You tell me how they made it through miles of county pipe to arrive, at the most ironic of times, plastered all over my face.

Fun Fact: St. Patrick, it’s sometimes said, thought of the Shamrock as a symbol of the Holy Trinity.

In the interest of keeping these posts a manageable size, I’ll post the second story tomorrow. It may involve a leprechaun!

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Am I Racist Against Whites?!


“Well the orders came down, we’ll attack tonight at nightfall. If we can stop them right here, we’ll win this war once and for all. You know, I killed a Union boy last week, bet he wasn’t fourteen. He looked just like our son…God, what have I done, Josephine?!”


At one of the recent dust ups in Berkeley, the above specimen was caught on camera, being punched in the face by a well-dressed white man. The Alternative Right, while mostly applauding the man’s action, has produced some commentary in favor of the girl. “We ought not support physical violence towards women,” they say. Others suggest we avoid fighting whites all together. After all, they’re our people and we need to somehow convince them to join our cause.

But I direct you all, again, to the above picture. In it we see a beautiful young girl before she went to be indoctrinated; and we see a picture of her after her indoctrination. While Ms. Moldylocks from Berkeley is a recent example, the above type of meme has been circulating through far right circles for a weeks.

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Unless anyone thinks this is a uniquely female problem, the liberal “mind virus” is just as destructive to men, although in less outward ways. True, men infected with the mind-virus can “signal” their degeneracy to the world – they’ll cover themselves in tattoos, wear skinny jeans, dye their hair weird colors, or participate in melodramatic shows of public outrage – nevertheless, the majority of pain they suffer isn’t manifested on the outside. I say this anecdotally, as a man, without backup from the lab-coat-wearing pagans; take it or leave it.

I’d like to pose a question to those in the Alt. Right who’ve offered commentary in defense of Moldylocks – or to all those pro-white advocates who suggest we reach out to these people because they’re of our same race.

…are they? Really?

I’ve taken heat here at Shotgun Barrel Straight for writing in defense of women. I’ve argued that if we’re in a relationship with a feminist (say: our sisters, daughters, or someone we otherwise wouldn’t feel comfortable jettisoning from our lives), we ought to fight for them. I’ve suggested strategies we might use to ply them away from their indoctrination or to influence them back to sanity.

But I’m afraid there are many who are generations deep into liberalism and, after having graduated all levels of their training, are beyond rescue. I’d like to go a step further and say that, for these people, they’ve (essentially) crossed from one ethnic group into another ethnic group.

What we have here is an epidemic of forced trans-culturalization. Young white women (especially) are being taken, infected with a virus, and transformed into a different ethnicity; a new people who worship Satan without realizing it.

If you don’t feel hatred towards those perpetuating the disease, you need to look to your salvation.

…more importantly, once they’re gone – once they’re transculturated completely – it’s very difficult for them to ever return. As we’ve seen above, this virus causes outward, physical transformation and if allowed to perpetuate itself over generations, the ethnic divide between the “red-state” and “blue-state” people will no longer be hypothetical, pedagogical, or a mere sociological note. It will begin actually taking on the physical characteristics of a distinct ethnicity – just as a savvy anthropologist can tell the difference between an Irishman and an Englishman by looking (or Japanese recognize Koreans by sight).

Even more importantly, once a person “jumps” to a different ethnicity (by enculturating himself or herself into the new community and striving to conform to all its mores, norms, and habits), they’re officially no longer going to be included in the “us” part of the “us vs. them” formula as far as ethno-centric whites are concerned.

While this is a tragedy, my instinct is to play up this division. We need to stop treating these “Anti-fa”, these feminists, and these liberals, as if they’re still “us”. We need to start treating them like “them”. They’re no longer part of our ethnicity; no longer part of our tribe. (John Wayne knew what to do with a woman forcefully transculturated by Indians – if she refused to be rescued).

Despite my instinct in the matter, I think I can understand what it must have been like for my Southern ancestors who fought and killed the Yankees.

What a horrible burden God has placed on man.

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Farewell to Arms?


“Yet I know that good is coming to me – that good is always coming; though few have at all times the simplicity and the courage to believe it.” ~ George MacDonald

I deleted my entire social media presence and came very close to deleting this blog. But as my finger hovered over the metaphorical “delete” key, I discovered I loved my little production more than its recent neglect indicates. A lot more. More so than my massive social network of pseudo friends whom (with a few notable exceptions), I was able to drop without thought at all.

As to that, here’s the unfortunate lay of the land:

I was seeking acceptance and social standing in the “Kinist” community. I wasn’t able to find either there; not really. There’s a schizophrenia in Kinism. A puritan trapped in the same body with a radical Alternative Rightist. I’m not either and wasn’t comfortable trapped between the two; and, given how many clashes, dust ups, and arguments I’ve had with that crowd, they weren’t comfortable with me either.

One half of Kinism, the puritan half, likes to lounge behind protected walls, resting on laurels it barely earned in the first place, while lobbing cynical barbs at all who dare threaten its tranquility. The other half, the half which actually engages the outside world, is so enamored with the degenerate “Alternative Right” culture that it’s become indistinguishable in all but a few esoteric theological issues. The swearing, filthy sexual talk, and musical tastes are all there. And no matter what I did – be it driving to different time zones to try and incite negro riots, be it putting my name on the line to defend Kinism in public contexts, be it long travels to harass anti-Kinist personalities, or be it countless nights arguing and debating in online venues – it availethededed me nothing with them. Whether that’s my fault, theirs, or both, I left.

I thought, maybe, I could find a different online community with the so-called “Alternative Right”, but as I indicated above, there’s so much profanity, filth, and staunch materialism there, I’d never feel at home. Certainly my ideas and contributions could never be taken seriously. Here’s a brief analysis of the Alt. Right: the Alternative Right is to Liberalism, what Protestantism was to Catholicism. This comparison has drawn ire from Alt. Rightists, all of whom claim to staunchly oppose liberalism, but consider this: liberalism rests on three pillars: equality, rationalism, and science.

The Alt. Right attacks “equality” with a passion. They do very well at it. But they steadfastly hold to the other two. Until those other two pillars are attacked with equal passion, nothing will change about modernity.

So I left social media all together.

There were other “real life” considerations that caused me to leave, such as I’m moving into a career where I’ll be particularly vulnerable to “doxxing”. But the main fact is, I need community. Real friendships. I want the quality, not the quasi!

Without those other avenues of expression, expect this blog to pick up.

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The Braggart


Men who brag about wanting to meet Jesus have something seriously wrong with them. You all don’t have to share this opinion. Our judgements of others are influenced by life’s little anecdotes as well as individual temperaments, so I don’t offer this as a universal truth. You can take it or leave it. But I reiterate: there’s something wrong with a man who so boasts. Don’t trust him.

There’s too much of the pharisee in modern Christians. Their holiness consists in outward shows of piety, while on the inside, they’re petty, cruel, and tyrannical. Ohhhh…by their own admission (they’ll have you know), they’re on excellent terms with Christ. Their every word is Scripture and if you disagree with them, you’re “disagreeing with the Bible!” Is it naivete? Stupidity? Or down right sorriness? Yes and yes. It’s that petty, streak of meanness that runs through the hearts of both the cultist and the revolutionary alike – the two are the same creature, after all.

I’m absolutely terrified of meeting Jesus. He’ll see right to the black heart of me; all my weaknesses instantly revealed. The shame of it will be unbearable. And yes, yes, my pharisee, cult friends are right. He’s forgiven us. That’s what Easter is all about. But friends, there’s a reason the men in the Bible fell to their faces and weren’t able to speak in the presence of the Lord.

I thought about all this yesterday morning as I drove to my special place of prayer to watch the sunrise. On Sundays or on holy days, I like to devote my prayers specifically to thanksgiving, worship, praises (and the like). Too often my regular prayers turn into strategy sessions where I hash out what I’ve already decided while God watches from the sidelines. Sometimes those prayers drift into daydreams or drag up new worries. But on holy days, I allow none of that.

Only, yesterday, not for the first or last time, I was speechless before the throne. What do you say to a perfect and holy God? What can you really do other than fall (even if only metaphorically) to the ground and beg for mercy? But then we hear that wonderful voice that touches us lightly and says:

“…be not afraid. Stand!”

Beware the man who takes that voice lightly.

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Armadillo by Morning…


“…everything that I’ve got,
is just what I’ve got on.
I aint got a dime, but what I got is mine.
I aint rich, but Lord knows I’m free…”

I’m uncool in Alternative Right circles because I don’t believe in machine building, revolutions, or democracy. (Also, because I don’t cuss and I don’t chew and I don’t go with the girls that do). What’s that? How could anyone consider *me* uncool? Believe it or not, it happens. Ironically so in light of the anti-democratic, anti-enlightenment posturing among Alt. Right denizens. But deeds and professions are two different things, eh readers?

“We hate democracy!” and yet there’s non-stop political commentary, support for politics, and praise for Donald Trump. Why all the fan-fare for a man, however praiseworthy, who operates squarely within the democratic machine? (As if we can flip, crank, and lever our way out of modernity). But now we have wailing and gnashing of teeth in the Alt. Right because of Trump’s seeming abandonment of his base. He ousted Steve Bannon from the National Security Council and a day later, bombed Syria. (Hopefully I’m too old to be drafted).

I’ve officially had enough “winning”, thank you.

What’s the Alt. Right’s strategy now? A small few are suggesting we focus on winning hearts and minds or other such culturally stimulating evangelistic campaigns. The majority are wanting to double-down on democracy. “We memed Trump into the White House, we can meme him back out!”

I’ve been saying all along we need to shift focus from machine building, democracy, and state politics, towards family, localism, and personal development. We need to take care of ourselves for a change instead of worrying about the political makeup of the giant plantation we’re living on. We ought to snuggle in, hide our assets, and get close to whatever women are crazy enough to tolerate us.

I’m calling this the armadillo strategy.

Why bother with creating a vast political machine when we can “secede” here an now? Secede in our minds by turning off the television and rescuing our children from government school? Secede from the banks by practicing alternative banking strategies (more on that in future posts). Secede from the hive-mind by getting out of those things called “churches” and getting in touch with our real God. And never forget – we need to secede from the average American diet, for the sake of all that’s holy.

Do armadillos eat kale?

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Shotgun vs. Hipstergrass


Modern bluegrass needs its own category: “Hipstergrass.”

The Dixie Chicks and Nickel Creek, back in the 90’s, started the slide, and now every two-bit suspender-wearing degenerate is strumming a banjo, claiming to sing old time music, and wearing the thickest framed glasses he (or she) can find.

Their music is about how bad blacks were treated, or about the “fusion” of urban culture with the surrounding rural landscape. Sara Watkins, the girl from Nickel Creek, has joined up with Sarah Jarosz and formed a group called: “I’m With Her”, for example, an obvious nod towards Hillary. Other groups (like “The Dead South”) are explicit in their views and feature prominent diversity. In all, there’s a new melody resounding around Appalachia (whenever these clowns see fit to visit): Dear white boy…your culture no longer belongs to you.

If I were two ounces more musically inclined, I’d go to war with these people.

I have a cousin who is in the thick of all this. He’s a prominent blues musician and having been indoctrinated at the nearby college, he now tries to educate us backward whites on the history and importance of his chosen genre. Specifically, the blues (according to one of his presentations I attended), were developed as a way for blacks to secretly voice the frustration they felt, living under the unbearable yoke of white domination. It was a way for them to make sly jokes without being lynched by the Klan, which, apparently, was hiding just around every corner.

He’s often encouraged me to check out the “Carolina Chocolate Drops”, a rare band of negro “old time” musicians. My cousin’s entourage approves and have often suggested other “bluegrass” for me to check out. It’s always the same story. Always the same hipstergrass.

There’s a larger point to be made:

Many of these people are really good musicians. Unfortunately, they’ve become acolytes of the new religion. The very people who, in a Christian world, would be making the most beautiful music, are obsessed with praising the devil.

While the situation is bad, there might be hope.

See, these hipstergrass musicians are trying to be the poetic voice of their people, but it’s a major doctrine of their religion to give up any notion of having a “people”. As a result, their songs are nonsensical (in many cases), formulaic, and without spirit. They latch on to jews or blacks (who still have a people) or they sing about vacuous nothings. This can’t last forever. They’ll eventually lose interest whenever a new fad comes around and those with one foot still in that ol’ time religion, will have the field to themselves.

When that happens, we may no longer hear banjos on the radio, but front porches across the South will, once again, sound forth the music of Dixie.

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A Rose From the Ruins


“What would you do, Captain Quantrill, were yours the power and the opportunity?” inquired the secretary.

“Do, Mr. Secretary? I would wage such a war as to make surrender forever impossible. I would break up foreign enlistments by indiscriminate massacre. I would win the independence of my people or I would find them graves.” ~ The Autobiography of Cole Younger

The secretary turned down Captain Quantrill’s request for generalship, presumably because of the above sentiment. The Confederates were determined to be gentleman. In hindsight – and this is a new feeling for me – I’m not sure Quantrill was wrong. If any of the Confederates were alive today and could see our modern savagery, they might, along with us, wish Quantrill had been given free reign. Cole Younger was right when, earlier in the book, he says “Gray heads suffer because younger ones had not been noosed”.

As it is, there’s not enough rope for all the lynching needed today.

My readers might guess it’s the recent London terror attack that has me riled. You’re all half right. I am not surprised Muslims are killing people. This one is far from the first (or last) of such crimes. No, what I’m angry about is the way Satanic lunatics are attempting to justify this one.

The Islamic mayor of London (!?) says these sorts of attacks are to be expected in large cities. The “social justice warriors” chime in with the same talking points. “There is no crime wave. There is no rape epidemic” they say. “The normal amount of crimes and rapes are taking place but the bias of the government and news media – those evil bastions of right wing propaganda – report the Muslim ones more often. They’re trying to scare whites into racial aggression.” Their recommendation? Open our arms wider. Be more welcoming. Double-down on our anti-racism.

Can such be reasoned with? Given my Presbyterian rationalism (which I’m now cured of, I hope), I used to try. I never realized how ridiculous I looked. I saw that foolishness on display in a recent podcast where a panel of young commentators from different ends of the political spectrum discussed their differences. There was an “anarcho-syndacalist” (a radical left-wing Marxist), an “anarcho-capitalist” (who sounded homosexual), a left-leaning moderate (admitted he was confused and would probably listen more than contribute), the host (a self-styled Christian traditionalist), a “manosphere-type” (with generic Alt. Right leanings but who was mostly interested in discussing feminism), and a self-professed Alt. Right fascist.

Their discussion quickly turned into a debate when the Alt. Right guy suggested there was a muslim rape epidemic in Sweden. The Marxist quickly chimed in with the talking point I’ve outlined above. The anarcho-capitalist agreed with the Marxist and suggested the Alt. Right guy had no real stats or data to support his ludicrous claim. After all, said the Marxist, most rapes are committed by someone the victim knows and it’s ridiculous to think there are gangs of muslims, roaming the streets looking for white women to violate. The two Alt. Right guys attempted to argue until the one got so disgusted, he said “I don’t care! I don’t care what the statistics are! I want them all out of Sweden!”

He should have led with that.

The Marxist understood the religious nature of the debate from the outset. His was a religious passion. He openly suggested violence is necessary to bring in his utopian scheme (although, he quickly added he wouldn’t personally be open to practicing it because of his Buddhism – he couldn’t speak for his fellow anarchists, however).

None of the other panelists had the religious passion to match the Marxist’s. They had a secularized version of my old Presbyterian rationalism.

So what, then, Shotgun?

I’ll tell you what. At least, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do: I’m going to find the prettiest, kind-hearted, woman I can, and marry her. And I’m going to begin creating a small piece of the old Europe that used to exist – build it on top of the ruins.

And that, ladies and gents, is a far better use of my time than attempting to rhetorically force a Satanist into conceding some minor ideological point.

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Real Estate in Old Europe

The vernerable Messers. Sam Dickson and Jared Taylor have produced a video where they attempt to answer why white people are, essentially, committing suicide.

Dickson presented what we might call a materialistic “reduction” of the problem to a psychological disposition. White people, he claims, are prone to abstractions and are, as a result, able to act in ways counter to their self interest. Taylor, opposing Dickson, suggested, rather, it has something to do with the social and political climate of the modern west, noting healthy racial attitudes remain in the Eastern European countries, corresponding to the Iron Curtain divide. Both men were in agreement with a broader sentiment in the so-called Alternative Right: that our people vitally need an “ethno-state.”

In fact, every conference I attend, and every online social venue, hosts this opinion, seemingly without opposition. Who could oppose the idea that the salvation of our people lies in us re-uniting geographically, under a unified political banner? Debate is always about the method of attaining the ethno-state or what its nature will be, rather than any discussion of if we ought to have one at all.

Well, I disagree.

Of course, I’m not the typical alternative righter. I don’t feel at home with any of the factions. There’s so much swearing, evolutionary materialism, and revolutionary machine building, that someone like me, who just wants the old Christendom he’s read about in novels and heard about from his grandfather, doesn’t fit in. You can’t love an old world just by reading statistics and data about it. You wont learn about Europe from a chart. And when I try living out old European mores and ethical norms, I’m accused of “LARPing”, of being overly romantic, quixotic, or even melodramatic. They’re modernists the lot of them, and they don’t even realize it. (I’m not alone, thankfully. Vanishing American has expressed a similar feeling; as have others). Even professed Southern nationalists scoff at antebellum habits.

Well, I want the Europe of Austen, Dickens, and Walter Scott; and I’m not sorry for it. I want Christ to be at the center of our people’s culture and in their hearts again. I’m not sorry for saying so. Without this, all commentary on our mass suicide has no teeth.

So, with respect to Dickson and Taylor, it’s not psychological reductionism or socio-political ills; contrary to the pagan white nationalists, it’s not the jews or the globalist bankers. And contrary to literally everyone in the entire pro-white spectrum, it’s not an ethno-state that will save us. No, the white cancer struck when we had ethno-states. Our cancer struck, even before jews were a viable threat.

I don’t want to sound overly optimistic in what follows, because there are very real, and very difficult hurdles to surmount in attaining it, but I believe our people’s salvation lies in the same place it always has: the arms of our loving savior. And we’re promised that where two or more of us are gathered together in His name, there He will be also.

…and that will be a good acre of old European soil regained from modernity.

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Fasting: To be Continued…

– Bad luck strikes again. Or maybe it’s God’s providence? For reasons beyond my control life has stepped in requiring me to break my fast earlier than I had planned. Still, I made it five days, so I suppose that’s something, right?

– It’s difficult to fast anyway but doing so when in your everyday environment, with the everyday cares spiraling around you, is extra challenging. All the more reason to “go into the desert”, even if only a metaphorical one.

– I was doing really well this time and I’m disappointed, even a little discouraged I’m unable to go longer at the moment. Nevertheless, doing an extended fast (30 days or longer) is a goal of mine I refuse to give up on.

– Basically – a job opportunity surfaced and I’m not in a situation where I can afford to turn it down because of a water fast. Nevertheless, 2017 is my year and I’m determined to do a long one before December. I have enemies reading my blogs so I wont say too much about the job, only that it’ll be largely sedentary and with planning, I ought to be able to work while fasting. That’s not ideal, I know, but it should be doable.

– Despite the shortness of the fast, I feel my insulin is balanced, my gut is slightly better off, and I’m no longer addicted to nicotine. I’ll abstain from smoke and sugar for the foreseeable future. I want to be in shape again! New job, new body…who knows, maybe I can have a new life too?

Thanks for all the prayers and encouragement and I humbly apologize if I’ve let anyone down.

I’ve said it before and I’ll reiterate now: I hope to morph this blog into more of a personal, lifestyle type blog. I’m even thinking of changing the name. Something like: “The Alt. Life” or some such? Or…and this is crazy… I’m kicking around the idea of a video “vlog”…a weekly (bi-weekly?) youtube presentation. Not many of those in the Alt. Right at the moment and certainly none devoted to the type of lifestyle / fitness / motivation / book reviews / philosophy / wildlife / martial arts / vocational / etc. etc. stuff I could bring to the table. Still, do I want to trivialize my image and “de-personalize” myself by being a youtube celebrity? (Assuming anyone would even watch)?

Stay tuned…

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