“The Reeling Wheel of the Seasons”

Human nature makes history cyclical. Technological progress is linear though, and so it would seem that technological advances should override history’s persistent retrograde patterns in favor of linear progress. However, the technological arms race is driven by men and we are subject to our nature, and that makes technology’s entanglement with human affairs a cyclical function as well. This is why Detroit’s production of flying cars is behind schedule.

There are now more cars but less smog in Los Angeles than thirty years ago. The nuclear bomb eliminated conventional wars between large states. Governments today have better technical means of killing their own people than they did 80 years ago, yet due to mass media’s ability to disseminate awful images, you can’t have Cheka committees butchering the European countryside anymore. Instead, civilian pacifications have become Stone Age again, with Somalian visitors groping girls in Stockholm while a caveman’s weapon — a baseball bat and the will to swing it — disperses them.

There are satellites and drones, but drone operators have families in unguarded houses. The state used the television to brainwash its citizens but later citizens used the internet to knock down that totem.

The decadence-drift of the elites: a generation or more after a faction seizes power and secures the collaboration of its mercenary classes, its successors lose faith in their original mission and turn to short-term opportunism. The ruled populations, concurrently, lose faith in the founding mythology that legitimizes the elites’ rule. Martin Trayvon King wut? Today’s liberal voter now clings to that last plank of the Civil Rights revolution, pervs in bathrooms.


In his 1981 – 82 series of Harvard lectures that he published under the title The Witness of Poetry, Czesław Miłosz shares his own reflections on history. His 1980 poem “Bypassing Rue Descartes” appears in that volume, and I include it at the end of this post. He provides autobiographical context for the poem:

In my youth [c. 1930], apprentices of poetry, if they came from the blank spots on the map, had to undergo a short or longer period of training in Paris. That was the case with me […] Arriving in Paris as a young man, I later had many opportunities to wonder at the contrast between the radical changes occurring in myself and in my geographic zone to the east of Germany, on the one hand, and the perfect stability and the continuity in the life of la ville lumière on the other. Half a century later I wrote a poem on that subject, which better explains what I just said than does my prose.

He also ties “Bypassing Rue Descartes” to the current events at the time of writing this:

Though universal ideal long ago lost their appeal for those of us from [Vilnius], Warsaw, or Budapest, this does not mean that they lost their appeal everywhere. The young cannibals who, in the name of inflexible principles, butchered the population of Cambodia had graduated from the Sorbonne and were simply trying to implement the philosophic ideas they had learned. As for ourselves, since we had seen firsthand what one achieves by violating, in the name of doctrine, local mores (that is everything which grows slowly, organically, for centuries), we could only think with horror about the absurdities haunting the human mind, indifferent as it is to the repetitive character of blunders.

A water snake appears at the end of the poem that follows. As Miłosz’s explains in The Witness of Poetry, the water snake was considered holy in his native Lithuania, a pagan belief that persisted in Europe’s last nation to become Christianized. The poem:


“Bypassing Rue Descartes” by Czesław Miłosz

I descended toward the Seine, shy, a traveler,
A young barbarian just come to the capital of the world.

We were many, from Jassy and Koloshvar, Wilno and Bucharest, Saigon and Marrakesh,
Ashamed to remember the customs of our homes,
About which nobody here should ever be told:
The clapping for servants, barefooted girls hurry in,
Dividing food with incantations,
Choral prayers recited by master and household together.

I had left the cloudy provinces behind,
I entered the universal, dazzled and desiring.

Soon enough, many from Jassy and Koloshvar, or Saigon or Marrakesh
Would be killed because they wanted to abolish the customs of their homes.

Soon enough, their peers were seizing power
In order to kill in the name of the universal, beautiful ideas.

Meanwhile the city behaved in accordance with its nature,
Rustling with throaty laughter in the dark,
Baking long breads and pouring wine into clay pitchers,
Buying fish, lemons, and garlic at street markets,
Indifferent as it was to honor and shame and greatness and glory,
Because that had been done already and had transformed itself
Into monuments representing nobody knows whom,
Into arias hardly audible and into turns of speech.

Again I lean on the rough granite of the embankment,
As if I had returned from travels through the underworlds
And suddenly saw in the light the reeling wheel of the seasons
Where empires have fallen and those once living are now dead.

There is no capital of the world, neither here nor anywhere else,
And the abolished customs are restored to their small fame
And now I know that the time of human generations is not like the time of the earth.

As to my heavy sins, I remember one most vividly:
How, one day, walking on a forest path along a stream,
I pushed a rock down onto a water snake coiled in the grass.

And what I have met with in life was the just punishment
Which reaches, sooner of later, the breaker of a taboo.

(translated by Renata Gorczynski and Robert Hass)

Working Class Heroes

David writes:

[T]he world has always treated the mindless quite poorly. This is why it pays to be of the Remnant, and not of the Masses. The Masses are doomed to play their canon-fodder role in human affairs, while members of the Remnant at least have a fighting chance to navigate a better course. At least, that’s how I see it. […]

“What about the poor,” Phil Donahue asked Ayn Rand in his characteristic, bleeding-heart voice. “Don’t be one of them,” she replied simply.

So I dropped my car off at a shop and killed the hour they gave me by walking along an access road that divided the residential homes from the ass-ends of service businesses. The area looks like it did thirty years ago, though now the down-market Chinese carryouts have replaced the video rental stores and the pool hall is long gone.

I had taken the day off from work. Walking along the road, I looked at the activity behind the auto repair garages and fast food restaurants along my way. The back area of a tire shop had a cluster of Hispanic employees standing over a colleague who was wrestling with the tanker bar to pop a truck tire off its rim. Then I walked past the back of a franchise donut shop, where two middle-aged natives of Ganges jabbered in their high-pitched voices.

Then finally, I got my country back! it was the mid-day lunch rush and the convenience store I stopped at to buy a sandwich had fleets of work utility vehicles parked in the front. One had a big Trump sticker on its back window. I walked inside, into the bustle of patrons with Celtic temper on their faces, T-shirts with logos of trades subcontractors, blue overalls with sewn-on nametags. Some of the patrons were clustered by the deli counter, others lined up at the cash register.

These are the guys whose dads tinkered with their Camaro engines under a shade tree while I ran track at a high school several zip codes away. They talk with the local accent that radio D.J.s still rib on. Turn it back oewn, wiyya hon? says the chubby woman to her mousy, almost cute coworker as she hands me my sub.

Thinking about David’s comment, I wondered: who are the Remnants and who are Masses, and do we owe anything to each other? Here are two men of my most recent acquaintance:

The Battery Shop Man: We talked about alternator loads as he ran the diagnostics. The electric wire brush scraped his thumb as he cleaned the corrosion off my battery cable connectors; he didn’t care. Blue eyes, face rough beyond his youth. We shook hands at parting and I felt no compulsion afterwards to wash the soot off mine.

The Stockings Man: The wobbling hulk wore compression stockings to help his straining heart squeeze the distal blood upwards. Tent-sized shorts, Ravens football jersey. Extrapolation from familiarity with the type: his television is always on; his son is on Call of Duty and his preschool-aged daughter is out with the black kids outside. I don’t see nothin’ wrong with that, he’d shrug.


So you’re not choking on corn syrup and your children have aspirations. But before you congratulate yourself on passing history’s latest test as others are cut down, be aware of this: no Battery Shop Man, no future. The people of the White working class that’s under siege are carrying you. If they fall, you fall with them because the European head can’t be grafted onto a brown body and still be what it is. A tire garage or a donuts franchise full of brown immigrants will reject the transplant.

Ayn Rand can skim off the cream of other nations, that but that’s never been something we’re built for. We are not a merchant caravan; we require our own roots in the ground. The globalists know this, which is why they have burned and demoralized the White working classes after embracing a new proletariat fifty years ago. They’ve left the educated people mostly alone. The globalists aren’t going for the head — they’re hitting our race in the gut because the White body can always grow a new head, but kill our body, and the head falls too.

“No man is an island,  entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less […];  any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
— John Donne, from Meditation 17 (1624)

Last week Heartiste wrote a landmark post about noblesse oblige. It indicates a three-step approach for a regenerate elite, led by President Donald J. Trump, to lift up our Masses: provide guidance, offer assistance, and extend appreciation.

Trump is just one man, and he’s 70 years old. We can’t hang all of our hopes on Mighty Eagle — the task of saving our hatchlings falls squarely on the shoulders of Red. Even if we — those of us who are woke and are passing the tests — are the Remnants, we’re still navigating the same course as the Masses. We owe them our own noblesse oblige, if for no reason than because we can’t untether from them. I think the Remnants’ work begins with helping make it possible for Stockings Man to guide his kids to be more like the Battery Shop Man.

Idle Thoughts on Popular Songs: Synesthesia Outros

What’s the point of starting something if you don’t finish it strong? These songs don’t just tell a story, they bring it on home with senses-scrambling virtuosity:

Morrissey. The title track on his 2014 album “World Peace is None of Your Business” makes him the Edward Snowden of music. And although “I’m not a Man” curses meat and muscle, he is one of the good guys. The song builds up to a grisly outro shrieking in steely flashes of silver, then makes a bright red squirting mess. What kinds of pigs are being put to the knife?

Pink Floyd. I see the outro to “Comfortably Numb” in a rich geometry of green, to burgundy-black and back. It’s a great song, but as a commenter elsewhere put it, it’s a commercial extrapolation of their signature song “Echoes.” There’s a guitar break in “Echoes,” he continues, just before the final verse, that sounds like a sunrise or a sunburst or an explosion of light. I agree, one of David Gilmour’s best moments.

Prince.Purple Rain.” One time while listening half-asleep to its terminal falsetto cries, I saw a man’s spirit ascending over vistas of mountain ranges. The crazy diamond of Minneapolis made whatever he touched shine in violet and pink hues of the visible spectrum, not the least his cover of Radiohead’s “Creep” at Coachella.

The Beatles. Paul McCartney has been the steady Delta to John Lennon’s restless Gamma, and no story of their friendship bears it out better than “Hey Jude.” Lennon rejected his first son Julian in favor of his second son Sean because he fell for his Sean’s mother. McCartney, the stand-up guy, took Julian under his wing and wrote that song to cheer him up, changing “Julian” to “Jude” for reasons of meter. The long na, na, nana na na outro chorus is soft blue and breezy.

Pearl Jam. No, this time I will not be talking about this blog’s most favored hit “Black” and its anguished why why, whyyyy! howl of a dispossessed generation. Rather, I am looking at Vedder’s story of feral motherhood, the song “Alive.” A USO band once visited our outpost in the Far East. A young Lieutenant from our company jumped on stage and a band member handed him an electric guitar. We watched in awe as he and the band’s rhythm guitarist dueled-out a fifteen-minute freestyle version of that song’s outro.

Eric Clapton. It is also this blog’s position that the Baby Boomer sense of identity not be stroked with approving references to the icons of their youth. But the fact is that until we topped them in 1991, their musical achievements were unsurpassed and “Layla” stood among their best. There is a downshift around the 3:00 point, sepia colors of summer nostalgia, seagulls, sand, water and sky.

The Eagles. Don Henley liked to call out the American hubris, most pointedly in the epic ballad “The Last Resort.” And there was a time for that — but that time has passed. We purged the cuckservatives, our last necessary act of inward-aimed aggression. From here on, it’s as star commenter Greg Eliot puts it:

In short, time to close ranks and get on board… the days of “loyal opposition” are gone, and ANY opposition in the quest for a future for White children is not to be cavalierly or treasonously rationalized as independent thought.

There is no more new frontier, we have got to make it here. The steady rhythm of the song’s outro paints broad streaks of orange, the hazy sun sinking in the sea. We know what to do.



Cynicism generally aims in the direction of truth, but it lacks the range to reach it. Cynicism’s overcorrection, the Pollyanna placebo, demoralizes. So instead, we push through the lazily mechanistic and the anodyne cowardly thoughts, to face the sun.

Nothing stops me from turning my back on everything and henceforth surfing lively comment threads while drinking myself to death. It’s comforting, knowing that I can leave it all behind. But that would be an anxious, irremediable slide.

I met a man whose wife contradicts everything he says. It is clear that he had never told her, in private: you need to shut your mouth. The imprisoned modern men forgot that they don’t have to live like this.

The immortals on Olympus were superior to us by every measure, yet they envied mankind for the one thing we have, that they wanted — our capacity to feel. For men and women, it all hangs on a thin string. That makes the dark more terrifying to us, and the cold glass of water more quenching.

I faced the sun over the three-day poolside weekend. The tendrils of joy will live in their hearts for the next eighty years. This didn’t just happen by itself. I don’t have the luxury of letting my attention float away like a balloon.

What do you think about life?


How to Choose a Wife in a Feminist Society

Why marry? To have children. There is no other reason, but optimally the added value of being married includes doubling the size of your family and expanding your social circle, career-friendly optics, psychological ballast as you age, and sometimes you might even gosh-darned like the chick you know inside-out who’s curled up next to you. But does a marriageable girl even exist in a feminist society? A commenter at Alpha Game says “Yes” and he describes her:

1. She has few (or no “real”) girlfriends.
2. She’s never in the middle of girl-drama.
3. She never induces white-knighting urges.
4. She clearly prefers the company of men-as-friends.
5. She sticks with one romantic interest and doesn’t flirt with other men.
6. (guessing on this one) She desires a traditional life: Lifetime husband, kids, house, white picket fence, dog, etc., and structures her life to that goal.

That is a perceptive list, except for 1 and 4 — those are bright, lurid, pulsating warning beacons. A woman with no female friends becomes that way because she repels people who aren’t interested in her pussy; i.e., other women. She also actively avoids friendship with women because unlike fawning male “friends,” fellow-femmes demand a modicum of pleasant personality and semblance of a giving character in a girlfriend.

OK, sometimes you can find an unconventional, in many such cases a highly intelligent woman, who can’t relate to other women. Still beware — atypical female personality comes with unfeminine deal-breakers. Do you want to be the one running around the house with the vacuum cleaner?

The reader at Alpha Game continues:

It helps if she was an ugly duckling (or geographically isolated from the social milieu, e.g. with a chronic illness) during her post-adolescent years (13-17), thus avoiding the mind-warping influence of being orbited by a retinue of young men.

“Ugly ducking” should mean that she was a late-bloomer, not literally ugly. Avoid ugly and obese women, and not just for the tautological reasons. (One would think I needn’t tell men to avoid unattractive women, and yet the couples I see because of so much thirst that’s out there…). Go for the girl who is over your attractiveness threshold but with the best character possible.

The face mirrors the character. A frumpy physiognomy is shaped by a frumpy attitude toward life. As cruel as it may sound, stay clear of women with chronic illness, unless you want an expensive and very limiting life with her, along with bad genes to pass to your children. Same with obese women — she’s fat because she is a slob with poor self-control. Young man, a piggy doesn’t deserve and won’t appreciate your love.

A girl like this is “available” for a very brief time before someone locks her down for the long term.

Witness. Something I noticed immediately after my senior year of high school, while I was getting blowjobs from drunk girls at parties, is that the cute wallflower classmate of mine was off marrying the quiet twenty-something dude she took to the prom several months earlier.

She is the unusual: a woman with the capacity to reason, and (generally) zero interest in running (or ruining) other’s lives.

That reader I’m quoting describes a woman without an overflowing abundance of ebullient femaleness. The nice girl is something mature men appreciate in concept, but as downside those girls do not signal sexually and a young man (for whom this post is written) wants a sexpot. He overlooks the potentially ideal wife in favor of the hormonal, gilded fertility-goddess he wants to bang. The thing is, everyone else wants to bang the hottie too. Go for it and wife her up, Mr. Tight Game, but first glance up at the title of this post. Can you handle the liabilities that come with such a babe? Paul McCartney couldn’t even handle a one-legged model.

Is this a post about unicorns? Are the decent wives and mothers “still on the other side of bloody revolution,” as a reader here once asked? A commenter at Alpha Game posted a similar question last year, to which Vox replied that women conform to their peer groups, so in order to find good wife material, look not for a girl that is traditional in an absolute sense (she is rare), but in the relative sense. In other words, go for the most traditional girl relative to her peer group.

My earlier “Marriage Advice to a Millennial” offers an unconventional but effective formula for beating the odds of getting divorced once you are married.

What Does the Alt-Right Think of this Video?

The term “Alt-Right” has been getting so much pixel time since Hillary Clinton’s speech last week that I am avoiding its use to keep it from devolving into a blank pair of glottal syllables. Yet the term has been around since 2010, if not earlier. I’ve used it prior to hearing of Richard Spencer’s coinage.

A number of writers — friendly, hostile, and confused — have attempted to define this movement and Vox Day hits the bulls-eye with his sixteen-point “What The AltRight Is.” While he describes our movement as an essentially pro-Western, pro-White assertion of right to an identity and a future, he also extrapolates Alt-Right’s broader belief in the right of all nations to exist and where circumstances force them, to resist imperial aggression. Points five and six specifically:

5. The Alt Right is openly and avowedly nationalist. It supports all nationalisms and the right of all nations to exist, homogeneous and unadulterated by foreign invasion and immigration.

6. The Alt Right is anti-globalist. It opposes all groups who work for globalist ideals or globalist objectives.

With that in mind, what do you think of this Iranian video?

Inspiring. That is how I would describe it, in spite of the story’s cheesy inshallah deliverance. As to the dark-skinned kid: I don’t know anything about that country’s AryānāmAbid relations but the primacy they give him ironically Americanizes the message. All that aside, a nationalist understands that a human being is at home among those who love him and whom he can trust, and what those people have in common is that they come together when wolves circle.

The extent of my personal familiarity with Iran begins and ends with having worked with two Persian colleagues for a stretch of years and I’ve found them both to be decent and gentle men, to a fault. That said, individuals form collectives and sympathy for people in their own country doesn’t scale into good will for them as invader-diaspora.

As an American in spirit and witness to the current invasion my adoptive country, as well as a veteran of the United States Army who never saw honor in the trampling over another’s homeland, I approve of that video.


An unrelated addendum to the above: this next video (h/t Camlost) was recorded and later uploaded by a female SJW while riding as a passenger in a Lyft car. She harangues and threatens the driver with exposure on Gawker unless he takes the Hawaiian bobblehead doll off his dashboard. The driver was patient, he never took her rhetorical bait, and he eventually dumped her off on the side of the road. Nevertheless as described in a follow-on story, he lost his job. The story ends happily though: he was rehired and the public’s wrath landed on her.

One of the common motifs in literature about Communism in its terror phase, from the accounts of the Bolshevik revolution to the Khmer Rouge camps, is the fanatical zeal of young female cadres. They are described as sadistic and devoid of guilt, doubt, or conscience in ways that even the most evil men aren’t capable of being.

I also think that Pepe is ready for a girlfriend.