If you don’t notice by now

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Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes

Sometimes I don’t even bother commenting on the most striking and obvious events that are occurring.

That is a little bit due to heartbroken writer syndrome–stronger voices than mine have already expressed the daily outrage and I don’t want to try to outdo them or distract from their better-articulated and broadcasted messages.

But mostly it’s because I am immediately fatigued and nauseated by the need to point out the obvious to people.

Do I really have to explain why mass symbolic rape by Arab men in European cities is noticeable, and how it fits in to the wider discussion?

If I do have to explain it–especially if I have to overcome any sort of argument or counter-signaling–was that audience member ever going to be persuaded? Could they ever be intellectually honest and societally useful?

I’ve been observing these patterns of hypocrisy and denial in earnest for about 10 years now and it still boggles my mind no less than it did when I began.

If you don’t notice by now

Becoming the life of the Party

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A party desperate to be crashed. Credit: Saucer Lord at mpcdot.com

Two thoughts to get out of the way before proceeding to the meat of this post.

  1. Voice transcription is the simplest, most direct way to initially get your thoughts into writing. You can even do it while driving. Obviously you have to perform a bit of cleanup later to correct mistaken transcription and add punctuation, but at a minimum you end up with a rough sketch, a skeleton on which to hang the rest of your blog post later.
  2. It’s hard being a pseudonymous writer, with a manhood so strong and an intelligence so pitiless that it’s dangerous to reveal my true identity and power level to the world. It would be too much for people to handle. Women would be too aroused and attracted. Men would bow down to me in awe, and I’d quickly have to arrange a new government in order for the world the function through my authority. Otherwise the people, paralyzed in fear and wonder, would do nothing. Instead I have to keep a pseudonym so that no one recognizes me for the true-born emperor king that I am.

On to a daily derp reflection.

A friend of mine worried to me recently that the fraternal organization to which he belongs is irredeemably egalitarian. It sounded like he had lost faith and may be considering leaving it.

I’d say the accusation of mindless egalitarianism probably is true of most groups, at least in their stated premises. Yet obviously all of them turn out to be hierarchically organized, regardless of their seemingly open, leveling philosophies.

But this still leaves the problem of what to do about groups, parties, and institutions that plainly are hypocritical and menacing in relation to our people and civilization.

I remember reading dusty literary journals from the 1920s during an Old Right research phase about ten years ago. Typically the pieces were attempts to identify and describe the force or forces that were letting the air out of high civilization, and to explain what to do about them or which ideological/philosophical alternative to adopt instead.

One piece that always stands out in my memory, and that seemed to be somewhat of a classic in the genre, was different from the rest. I can’t recall the author and don’t have the piece itself handy, but as I remember it, it specifically was not aimed at saying directly what was wrong or presenting a comprehensive solution.

Instead its author urged everyone, regardless of their identity, their religious affiliation, or their group membership, to push and press for reaction within whichever structure to which they happened to belong.

The intended effect is something like a scene in Finding Nemo in which Nemo and company rally hundreds of netted fish to save themselves by collectively swimming down, and overwhelming the force of the fishing boat. (How’s that for an invocation of classic alternative right cinema?) The visual analogy isn’t perfect, but the point is clear: regardless of where you’re situated, stop trying to philosophize your way out of it and just push.

Clearly that’s just a thought, not a complete answer, and the debate remains about whether particular institutions are hopelessly rotted and ruined, or were that way from the beginning. However, I’m not prepared to make that characterization about groups about which I know little. It’s just that my innate bias favors remaining connected and involved.

Over the summer I have the opportunity to work with an older gentleman who is a bit of Russophile–knows the language, studied Russia for a long time, and made many worthwhile contacts with refugees from Communist Russia who had positions and status in the old regime.

He had several good anecdotes to share, one about a Russian who survived the Communist terrors and later visited the United States to observe its right-wing political movements.

The Russian witnessed American radicals talking in absolutist, eliminationist terms about their resistance against the encroaching Leftism and Communism of the American government.

The Russian was amused. He thought this was the incorrect approach. His experience told him that the way to overcome menacing social and political forces such as Communism or American Leftism was to join the party, remain involved, and outlast the lunatics. Once the lunatics all had spun themselves out, discredited themselves, or died, the sane people would be the ones left standing.


Becoming the life of the Party

Bonding with the barber

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Women have intense deep, emotional needs that sometimes are a challenge to meet. When the burden gets to be too much, it’s time for some male bonding.

Good timing, because today I’m going to meet another fashy goy with whom I was connected by a mutual acquaintance.

This goy is engaged in a trade that supports what happens to be a classic setting for male bonding, one that was discussed on a recent Daily Shoah and that comes up often and masculinity discourse across the races.

Of course I’m talking about the barbershop.

I’m on my way to my friends home barbershop right now.

He tells me he keeps it in his garage and actually warned me that it would be rigidly cold. Works for me.

To reach him I drove up over the mountains I mentioned yesterday, closer to the area where my grandparents and great grandparents lived.

The neighborhood still is predominately white, but, as I suspected based on some brief social media research, I had been a little too optimistic about its stable, traditional character.

A significant number of the women in this rural mountain county appear to have taken Negro husbands and boyfriends, and the area overall is plagued by the heroin epidemic, the effects of which are apparent across the country.

My goy friend told me that his home was broken into recently and that break-ins up and down the valley are almost routine.

One could suggest that this is the state of a white America that has lost its national moral and religious core–a civic fabric and organic safety net that academics like Charles Murray and Robert Putnam have depicted as eroded and sometimes wholly disappeared.

Instead we have demoralization, drugs and degeneracy

But, amid the blight and decay, a seedling of hope: our humble meeting, which consisted of my haircut, a beer, and idle chatter about our wives, our lives, the arc of our little alternative political subculture, and the state of our people. One small step towards restoration of ordinary masculine culture, so that eventually fewer of us will be bowling–and lifting, poasting, and shitlording –alone.

Bonding with the barber

Tuesday morning reflections

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Drive past the prison on the way to work.

There was a riot there years ago. Inmates set fires. State police retook the grounds with horses, teargas, and shotguns. An elderly neighbor of mine still keeps the police radio scanner on all day in the background while he tinkers in his basement.

Merging into traffic. Waiting for the oil temperature in my car to rise so I can turn on the heater.

I have unpaid legal research to do today. At this stage I pay them for the opportunity–to go to school, and hopefully to demonstrate to prospective employers that I am worth hiring.

It’s fortunate that courts of law fascinate me, even as influenced as they can be these days by fashionable notions of social justice. I’m a nerd enough to enjoy researching and appreciating the law and its jargon for themselves.

Sometimes I think we shitlords exaggerate the current degree of the conflict.

I put myself in a quiet rage against social justice warriors and their hypocrisy–against the forced imposition of ungrateful, underperforming, chronically-complaining minority students and coworkers. But for the most part my daily interactions are cordial, peaceful, and pleasant.

On the other hand cute conflicts and decisions prepare themselves over long periods of time and then come to ahead quickly and suddenly.

I look up in the mountains where my ancestors worked in the mines and where white people still live.

And where we will go when it becomes unsafe.

Tuesday morning reflections