An Old Appeal to Fence-Sitters

“Przeżyj to sam” (PZHE-zhey toh sahm). The title of the c. 1980 song by the band Lombard literally means “experience this for yourself” but translation ought to aim for the idiomatic intent, so in this case I translate it as “stand up and be counted.”

This song (and the video below) is about events that seem as distant now as the Napoleonic wars. But as noted earlier, history is wide awake and here we are in revolutionary times.

Vote Trump, arrest Merkel, work to secure a future for your nation, whatever your nation. It’s safe to sit on the sidelines but it’s more satisfying to identify a way in which you can make a difference, no matter how small (to someone somewhere, it’s sure to be big) and do it. Here is the song in my translation:

You look at life without emotion
In spite of the times, contrary to others
Wherever you are, day or night
You watch the game with a spectator’s eyes

Someone else is changing the world
Sticks out his neck, raises his voice
And you stand aside because it’s safer
So just in case, you don’t lose much

[Refrain] Stand up and be counted (x2)
Don’t let your heart become hard like a stone
While you still have a heart

You saw yesterday, in the news
The tired people, a restless crowd
And you fixed upon
The vast sea of human faces

But the speaker strained harsh words
From which your sudden anger swelled
And wrath began to grow inside you
Until you thought: enough of silence

[Refrain x7]

The Prisoner’s Dilemma and Game

The most fragile of ecosystems is the courtship matrix of a given society. In a closed system, a culture will have reached its equilibrium among its competing sexual interests, based on which the expectations of behavior among men, as well as between the sexes, are understood. There are no hard feelings when you know the rules of the game, even if those rules rest on the Prisoner’s Dilemma tension between trust and opportunism.

What follows are my evolving thoughts on various things that come up in the study of Game.

There are two stable Prisoner’s Dilemma sexual scenarios — one in which the Alphas (top 10% of men by whatever metric their society sorts those things) and Betas (middle 80% of men) keep a cease-fire agreement with each other — and one in which they don’t. First, the latter:

R-Selection / Matriarchy — the men are in a war of all against all. In its extreme form, this scenario is a sexual market free-for-all in which the comparatively few Alphas elbow out the majority of the men, or Betas, and monopolize the women. Beta males, in turn, either drop out or they resort to raping women. Rape can be literal, or it can be symbolic: leering, catcalling, assault. In doing so, the disenfranchised Betas seek to knock the higher SMV girls off their pedestals because… what have they got to lose?

All matriarchies have one thing in common: over time the women become ugly, inside and out. They become that way in part as a defense against being bombarded by endless unwanted advances. They become corrupted by their adventures with to the most vulgar expressions of masculinity. But the kicker is, part of them also loves all that attention along with the lowered expectations on their behavior, and they become complacent, having lost the incentive to bring anything to the table besides their gash.

In a matriarchy, men display and women choose. But under patriarchy, women aren’t let off the hook: they have to put in a little work and audition before the men too. Which takes us to:

K-Selection / Patriarchy — the men make a deal with each other. This is a win-win scenario in which Betas concede the first-tier women to the Alphas, who in turn leave the second-tier women untouched for the Betas. Under this arrangement’s ideal form, pure monogamy, the Alphas claim the most beautiful women while the Betas hold up their end of the bargain by not bothering the girls who are — remember that phrase? — out of their league. This scenario maximizes the quality and quantity of women for all but the Omega males and foreign interlopers, both of whom the Betas keep an eye on.

(On that last thought, I wonder — is white-knighting also an evolved Beta tribute to the Alpha, a readiness to protect the higher-value women for her present or future Alpha’s sake in exchange for the higher-ranking men leaving plenty of other women alone for the Beta, a kind of lord-vassal reciprocity?)

So under Patriarchy, girls get to relax a little. The bitch-shields are lowered because the first-tier girls aren’t pestered by presumptuous Betas’ clumsy fumbling and the second-tier girls by Alphas’ nakedly mercenary interest in them. And paradoxically, this collective self-restraint does not create a sexless or repressed environment. Quite to the contrary: Betas are charming without being creepy, while the Alphas lay on the charisma without triggering a lower-tier girl’s anti-slut defenses. And the girls can then let down their guard and actually be pleasant to everyone.

How did this dynamic play out before Western women nosedived into the gutter? I think that up to two decades ago, for example, Western Europeans’ relaxed attitude about nudity, or Eastern European girls’ femininity after the Cold War, may well have been the fruits of the successful cooperation between the Alphas and Betas in their respective Prisoner Dilemmas.

As to Game itself — under all of its carpe diem promise, was it nothing but the Betas’ usurpation of the natural order? No. Game is not the breaking of trust, it is Betas’ adaptation to their newly dispossessed state; namely, the loss of their own pool of second-tier women to obesity and to the Alpha cock carousel. If first-tier women are beauties, then second-tier ones are what used to be known as “pretty girl next door,” or normal young women who made up in personality where they lacked in exquisite sexual appeal. Female liberation and the obesity epidemic destroyed those kinds of girls, and with them, the Beta’s obligation to the old agreement.

But White men and women don’t do r-selection well or for too long, therefore sooner or later the angels and devils of our nature will once again come to a settlement.

The Three Stages of the Red Pill

Fear — Blue Feet, Red Ears. “I’m not a racist, but…” he says. He stands planted in blue-pill zone but reaches over the boundary to hear out the red-pill points. Or to put it differently, he is emotionally and intellectually at home with the establishment-approved worldview but it no longer feels like a home. He is unsettled by what he’s seen his country become but he is not ready to challenge his beliefs.

The red pill is bitter, so limit its dosage when he seeks you out because as soon as you tell him that the World Trade Center towers were taken down with controlled demo or that women shouldn’t vote, he will think you’re crazy and run back to the safety of conventional platitudes. It’s best to let him do 90% of the talking. Actively listen, ask gently-leading questions, and fire off exactly one simple, memorable maxim. He will work his way toward the red pill because nobody stays long in a place that keeps him afraid.

Anger — One Foot On Blue, One On Red. Intellectually, he accepts the non-liberal truths but emotionally he is not ready to separate from the security of old thinking. When sufficiently fired up, he can be fully on board with the even most racist dialectic. But here is the dead-giveaway of a half-footer: he talks red pill not so much to find answers but to unburden himself. He will sincerely apologize, should SJWs attack him for something he had said.

He is in transition, seeking the emotional release of hard-hate ranting, only to settle back in blue-pill calm when spent. His ideological home is unwelcoming but as much as he wants to leave, he can’t quite yet. But he will; perpetual anger is exhausting, and eventually circumstances will force him to make the leap to the next stage.

Peace — Both Feet On Red. He has made a full separation from old blue-pill illusions, which is another way of saying that he has returned to Western tradition. That naïf who once “supported the troops” or exalted over the goodness of women — that was someone else entirely. He understands that while the here-and-now is a comedy, it is not a game. Reluctantly or otherwise, he has accepted responsibility for the people and things that he claims as his own and has cut his obligation to those that aren’t.

He does not live on a rarified summit. He simply understands that he’s on firm ground while blue-pillers either noisily thrash or quietly sink in the quicksand.

“Native Realm” — Political Correctness

I’m mostly through Czesław Miłosz’s (1911 – 2004) memoir Native Realm, which he published in 1959. I will probably write additional posts about this book. No fear though, I have no desire to alienate readers with my interest in obscure literature, or even to alienate myself from the contemporary era by escapism in relics from another. Instead, my intention here is to connect this extraordinary book with the events of our time.

I first read it in 1999 while aggrandizing myself in my own mind as a history-burdened stranger in a post-historic Boston. Earnestly, given my youth, I wondered during my autumn walks along the Charles River if Miłosz thought of things, during his own walks along the Seine seventy years earlier, that were for me to keep.

On with “Native Realm.” The following is, in my judgment, the only thing remotely approaching triteness in that book. And maybe because of it, this paragraph feels like it is the most appropriate bridge between the memoir and our era:

Our knowledge does not develop at an equal pace in all areas; it progresses in some, drags its feet in others, or even retreats. The current fear of generalizing about racial and territorial groups is an honorable impulse because it protects us from falling into the service of people interested not so much in truth as in an expedient argument for a political battle. Only after the reasons for such a fear have disappeared will minds skilled in tracking down interdependencies penetrate what for wise men today is an embarrassing subject, fit only for table talk in a country tavern. They will not disappear until the appraisal of any civilization ceases to be a weapon against those human beings brought up within it — in other words, not soon.

That passage shows up at the end of one of the book’s chapters, titled “Russia,” an insightful meditation on that nation’s character. It also points me toward a habit that principled thinkers tend toward — a devotion to the purity of an idea. More specifically, their unwillingness to reconcile ideal ontological forms with the material imperfection of life.

Miłosz’s visceral disgust with (as he repeatedly mentioned this) and hatred he felt toward defensive nationalism, for example. To me, such a posture represents the mind’s disgust with the heart, which clings to our life here on Earth and not always elegantly. The untethered mind aspires to truth, and when ascending to higher altitudes it becomes drained of blood and impatient with the heart that weighs it down like wet ballast. Deeming oneself capable of reaching that high and remaining human is an acute form of pride and it had led to Western intellectuals’ share of responsibility for inhuman acts such as the engineered starvation of seven million people in Ukraine.

And the result of the mind’s hatred of the heart today: our own civilization now facing the abyss, enabled by Western peoples’ collective, uninformed, and hypocritically granted consent to reject that, which Miłosz condemned as “appraisal of any civilization [becoming] a weapon against those human beings brought up within it.”

(None of this is to be misread that Miłosz’s writing is arid. Quite to the contrary, this is one of the most engrossing and evocative books I have ever read. It required maturity on my part to appreciate it; two decades ago I was too impatient for it. “Native Realm” is a reminder that the Nobel Prize in Literature, while not entirely decoupled from politics given the timing of Miłosz’s recognition, once meant something.)

The occupational hazard of the intellectual is a fatigue with life and the sublimation of this fatigue into a wish for history to end. The solipsism of this attitude creates postures of hatred for those who are, for their part, not willing to let go of life. The illusion of history’s end is one that revisits recurrently. Certainly, fin de siècle Boston felt that way to me. But imagining yourself as the last man is hubristic nonsense. The image below, along with its caption, expresses history’s waking state:


There are people, many of them are Hungarian, who do not want to snuff out their own lives in the name of suspending judgment against human beings brought up within other civilizations. Ramzpaul captions his photo of youths in Budapest: Kids hanging out on a Friday night. No diversity. No violence. He reminds us of what we’ve lost. Not just in the claim on our public space and not just in the form of harrowing images streaming from places like Rotherham, Cologne, Nice, Malmö — but also in the injury to language itself, wartime’s casualty. How many of you hear the innately upbeat words “kids,” “teens,” or “youths” through the filter of cynicism and shit?

Nobody asks to be born in his own era. A few years ago my mother-in-law was returning to Poland after a few-months’ stay with us. I drove her to a major U.S. airport and walked with her up to the point past which non-ticketed public may not go. My then-toddler son was going to miss her. As we began saying our goodbyes, a female security agent who was posted at that location, a dark wraith in a headscarf-modified uniform ordered me, the effect of her imperious voice compounded by her grating accent, to hurry up. “Just a moment,” I told her, suppressing my irritation. We continued saying our goodbyes and cobra-face, hovering by us and clearly with nothing else to do as we were the only ones at that checkpoint, once again hissed “hurry up.” An atrocity flashed through my mind as I then understood why soldiers commit war crimes.

Had she and I instead crossed paths in an era of history’s rest between its spasms — for example, had I for some reason seen her on my hypothetical visit to the Horn of Africa — I may have even been fascinated with her coy smile and wonder-filled eyes.

It’s fall and there is nothing like a walk along Charles River this time of year. History, right here in the West seventeen years later, is wide awake.

The Cycles of Popular Music

Nikcrit, who knows a thing or two about the music industry, reflects:

[W]e came up with and take for meta-granted pop music as some ineffable combination of bass, drums, keyboard and guitars, etc.; but that is not true anymore; to some of the kids i see on a daily basis, when speaking of those modern-rock staples of sound, I might as well be talking about lyres and flutes!

No, today it’s all about post-production in distinguishing ‘your sound,’ your ‘song.’ As for the instruments, the field of interaction there has gone far beyond strings and animal-skin produced beats, with sampling allowing any ‘sampled’ noise to moderated to pitch, key and tempo. It’s very alienating to older generations; i wouldn’t know how to properly criticize such music because there’s yet to develop a critically verbal vocabulary to capture all the pop-zeitgeist production tools of the 21st-century.

My shamelessly amateur theory on mainstream music is that its prevailing styles run in cycles, pulled between these roughly analogous to each other pairs of opposite ideals:

Masculine vs. Feminine
Gruff vs. Glam
Stage vs. Studio
Contemplative vs. Danceable
Guitar vs. Synth
Warrior vs. Lover
Sincerity vs. Artifice
Raw vs. Polished

This tension between sensibilities can exist within a single period — like Led Zeppelin and Bee Gees, Rush and Michael Jackson, John Mellencamp and Madonna, Metallica and Pet Shop Boys, Guns N’ Roses and Mariah Carey, Nirvana and Backstreet Boys — or one expression of the same larger genre can displace the other overnight, such as when the new Seattle sound torpedoed the careers of glam rockers.

However, an argument can be made that this cyclical model of alternating styles is now obsolete due to the demographic and technology-driven fragmentation of today’s mass audience into fan niches. There is a point to be made there, as audience fragmentation is self-evident, but I don’t fully accept it because as long as there is any shared public space, there will by necessity be a Top 40 consensus. Such a consensus, be it organic or manufactured, is reflected in the type of music you hear wherever a broad cross-section of people goes, and where the musical offering is contemporary rather than nostalgia-driven: D.J.’d events, school dances, sports games, national chain gyms, bowling alleys, bars, and so on.

Putting aside the matter of whether or not I like today’s Top 40 sound — which skews heavily in favor of the right side of my pairings: feminine, glam, synth, etc. and aims in the direction of what Nickrit describes — my question is: will it go on forever? Is today’s studio-centric hegemony a build-up to a hairpin turn toward performance-driven, sweaty musicianship — a playing out of history’s many earlier revolutions in mainstream sound — or is Nikcrit’s snapshot, with apologies to Fukuyama, the end of music?

Here is a short argument in support of a coming change:

A teenager listens to popular music for self-idealization at the point in his life when he is wrestling with his social identity and sexual destiny, sometimes an exhilarating but more often a bewildering time. It’s not vanity; it’s a fumbling for light in the darkness. While the pop song’s rhythm and lyrics bring relief from thought when reflection is difficult, the mental image of the performer in the throes of pathos form an idol in the teen’s mind, giving shape to an avatar through which he approaches his aspirations and fears. And I contend that for this idol to bring catharsis, there has to be a visual element of physical performance tied to the song.

Now back to the brave new world of synthetic music. It offers a number of things that teenager responds to — new sound combinations, beat, clever lyrics. Girls like it. But music whose production tools are more abstract than animal lacks the credible physicality of the performance itself. And this is why contemporary popular music, though we can’t see this at the moment, strains against the bonds of the industry’s inertia to snap back to its performance-based renaissance. For all of the mass appeal of one entrenched style, hunger for its opposite grows quietly until we vomit that, on which we’ve gorged too long.


Completely out of the left field: what happens when electricity goes out?

I was once at a pub in Vilnius and there was a birthday party in a reserved room off to one side. One of the adults was playing lively songs on an acoustic guitar and singing to the cacophony of delight from the kids who were jumping and dancing in circles. The music was very catchy, like a medley of traditional children’s songs and folk ballads.

If there is no more electricity then it’s back to, and I like that synecdoche: strings and animal skins. An extended power outage would be a wonderful thing for everyday musicians. Anyone who can carry a tune, or knows some basic chords and scales and has a feel for rhythm can step forward as a poet and a bard.

Is My Critique of Anti-White America Illegitimate?

This objection to my writing is not unreasonable and I’ll respond to it:

Also, I’m getting very irritated at the idea of people coming from 99% white countries to America, which was never a monocultural country, and getting more and more radical about how non-whites have to leave America or be partitioned off.

There is a multicultural cast of foreign-born dissidents and overall political soothsayers who leave monoracial lands only to come here and make a living out of complaining about what they CHOSE to surround themselves with.

The rebuke comes from a U.S.-born reader who disagrees with my AltRight-aligned writing on race in the United States. I am of Eastern European origin, having arrived here in my early teens more than three decades ago and a U.S. citizen for over the past twenty five years.

My response to the criticism: I understand his irritation but racial liberalism isn’t America’s internal matter. I wish that were the case! If America wanted to keep her Social Justice / Black Power dictatorship to within her borders, it’d be easy enough for those of us with origins elsewhere to get out, good riddance. North Korea’s ant hive Juche is not my idea of sane politics but I don’t concern myself with it because it is quarantined to that one state.

But America is not a country defined by its borders anymore, which are inwardly porous and ideologically incontinent. America has become a global empire with 60 military bases in Europe alone, now with escalating NATO activities. Her leaders not only act with malice toward their own people, but they also drive the destruction of Western nations abroad. U.S. foreign policy is an extension of her domestic social engineering, delivering the murder of South Africa and the push for the kalergization of Western Europe.

And now closer to my ancestral home, I’m seeing daily newsfeeds of American media’s anti-Polish and anti-Hungarian propaganda, no doubt the tip of the iceberg regarding the pressure that is put on those countries to open themselves to mass immigration. I will never forget my shock of watching the 1999 U.S.-led bombing of Serbia that deliberately targeted civilians, so now I regard media narratives that aim at whipping up moral outrage with small European nations very seriously.

What I am saying is, I can’t in good conscience stay here quietly and I also can’t just leave, literally or metaphorically. If not brought back to sanity, liberal America will endeavor to destroy all of us here and she will follow me to the ends of the Earth if I run. Therefore I have no choice but to turn around and face her. And that is exactly what I am doing here, writing on this blog under our Constitutional protection of free expression and redress of grievances.

Under the identitarian definition of nationality, rather than the legal one as reflected by my U.S. passport, I am not an American. I also understand that the bonds of blood are stronger than opportunism and paperwork. But over the thirty years of my life in the United States, which includes Army service and the fact that my closest friendships are with Americans, I have developed something deeper than fondness for this country.

Dulce et decorum est, as I wrote with absolute sincerity in Shots of Wisdom, Part 3. Solzhenitsyn hated the Soviet Union but he always loved Russia. Liberal America is as dangerous to her own people as she is to our common civilization.