President Donald Trump and First Lady Melania departing the White House for Joint Base Andrews.
President Donald Trump and First Lady Melania departing the White House for Joint Base Andrews.
Someone asked me, is it better to be red- or blue-pilled?
You know that scene in The Matrix, in which the traitor makes a deal with the agents because he likes the taste of steak, fake though he knows it to be.
The answer is that despite the disillusionment you go through after you open your eyes, it is better to be red-pilled. Two practical reasons, aside from the value of truth for its own sake: one, blue-pill ignorance will, sooner or later, catch up with you and do material damage in your life. Two, lies are bliss until they compromise your effectiveness in important tasks, such as preparing your son or daughter for adulthood.
The blue pill, literally, also makes you eat shit:
Ice from three of the UK’s biggest coffee chains has been found to contain bacteria from faeces, according to a BBC investigation. Samples of iced drinks from Costa Coffee, Starbucks and Caffe Nero contained varying levels of the bacteria, the BBC’s Watchdog found.
LOL, good luck with that and diversity. Ask the Bengalis at your franchise breakfast chain if they wash their hands after bathroom.
Red pill is why I don’t eat at places that have visible dark-skinned staff. It’s hard to know who’s in the kitchen, so maybe we ought to collapse the dining industry until they start hiring Whites for all positions.
Red pill is just metaphor for truth. Some of us had always accepted the “racist and sexist” realities of life because we trusted our eyes and our instincts, we just lacked the conceptual framework to understand that we are not evil or crazy, and the social affirmation that we are not alone. Others, who had to arrive at clarity in steps, went through the Three Stages of the Red Pill. For them, it is a difficult process due to its stripping-off of one’s false-but-comforting beliefs.
The sunlit world outside blinds, until your eyes adjust and then you see genuine beauty everywhere.
Two Czesław Miłosz poems in translation, then a couple of compositions by Eric Satie. You will enjoy the video if you have half-an-hour to detach.
All colors come from the sun. And it does not have
Any particular color, for it contains them all.
And the whole Earth is like a poem
While the sun above represents the artist
Whoever wants to paint the variegated world
Let him never look straight at the sun
Or he will lose the memory of things he has seen.
Only burning tears will stay in his eyes.
Let him kneel down, lower his face to the grass,
And look at the light reflected on the ground.
There he will find everything we have lost:
The stars and the roses, the dusks and the dawns.
— Czesław Miłosz, 1943
To Robinson Jeffers
If you have not read the Slavic poets
so much the better. There’s nothing there
for a Scotch-Irish wanderer to seek. They lived in a childhood
prolonged from age to age. For them, the sun
was a farmer’s ruddy face, the moon peeped through a cloud
and the Milky Way gladdened them like a birch-lined road.
They longed for the Kingdom which is always near,
always right at hand. Then, under apple trees
angels in homespun linen will come parting the boughs
and at the white kolkhoz tablecloth
cordiality and affection will feast (falling to the ground at times).
And you are from surf-rattled skerries. From the heaths
where burying a warrior they broke his bones
so he could not haunt the living. From the sea night
which your forefathers pulled over themselves, without a word.
Above your head no face, neither the sun’s nor the moon’s,
only the throbbing of galaxies, the immutable
violence of new beginnings, of new destruction.
All your life listening to the ocean. Black dinosaurs
wade where a purple zone of phosphorescent weeds
rises and falls on the waves as in a dream. And Agamemnon
sails the boiling deep to the steps of the palace
to have his blood gush onto marble. Till mankind passes
and the pure and stony earth is pounded by the ocean.
Thin-lipped, blue-eyed, without grace or hope,
before God the Terrible, body of the world.
Prayers are not heard. Basalt and granite.
Above them, a bird of prey. The only beauty.
What have I to do with you? From footpaths in the orchards,
from an untaught choir and shimmers of a monstrance,
from flower beds of rue, hills by the rivers, books
in which a zealous Lithuanian announced brotherhood, I come.
Oh, consolations of mortals, futile creeds.
And yet you did not know what I know. The earth teaches
More than does the nakedness of elements. No one with impunity
gives to himself the eyes of a god. So brave, in a void,
you offered sacrifices to demons: there were Wotan and Thor,
the screech of Erinyes in the air, the terror of dogs
when Hekate with her retinue of the dead draws near.
Better to carve suns and moons on the joints of crosses
as was done in my district. To birches and firs
give feminine names. To implore protection
against the mute and treacherous might
than to proclaim, as you did, an inhuman thing.
— Czesław Miłosz (1963)
A cold landscape generates inner heat. The Earth is a big place.
Unlike during the French and the Russian revolutions, modern Communist vanguard has difficulty finding its competent cadre of butchers. The immigrants and native blacks can’t be counted on for discipline. Antifa is a joke.
But what about the feds, the police, or the armed forces, who haven’t shown themselves averse to killing civilians? Certainly, as long as their paychecks clear, I wouldn’t count on any mutinies when ordered to kick in patriots’ doors. But it heartens me that Globalists doesn’t trust them either.
Can Leftists recruit competent muscle from the White working class, specifically from its renegade anti-Trump voters? The doughy faced 66-year-old rifleman James Thomas Hodgkinson fired what may be the first shots in a civil war between the Nationalist and Globalist halves of the U.S. civilian population. A commenter at Occidental Dissent writes:
I know a lot of these type anti-Republican, pro “Working Man” democrats. They are going to be some of our most formidable enemies. […] They adopt every extreme left wing position Democrats have come to represent. […] They will never be on any Nationalist political and white racial movement side.
Maybe he has a point. There are crazy “salt of the earth” Leftists, we just haven’t seen a competent one yet. Unlike Right wing action heroes, who shine in terms of youth and skill in execution, Hodgkinson was retiree-aged and a poor marksman. If the Left finds its great White paramilitary hope, we will recognize him by a profile that includes some of these points:
1. Vintage Populism. The working class Leftist is angry with the Right as he sees it, for destroying the country’s labor class through union-busting and other Reaganite acts; he has internalized “What’s The Matter With Kansas.”
2. Class Anxiety. He embraces Social Justice either because he finds Leftist classes aspirational or to defect from the working class on whom the system is waging war.
3. High Disgust Threshold. He is tolerant of, maybe outright enjoys, the dissonance of vibrancy and the thrill of cultural degeneracy.
4. Low Intelligence. He will better relate to blacks and identify with their political agenda. (Aside: this is another example of the corrosive effects of diversity — when humble Whites relate to their White peers, they still transmit our culture; when they start living around blacks in a similar socioeconomic position, some take on the elements of black culture).
5. High Intelligence. Alternately, an above-average IQ combined with their sub-middle class station in life embitters and radicalizes them, ordinarily to the Right but sometimes in a Leftward direction.
6. Mentally Unstable. Common in Left wing terrorism. Includes types who are drawn to violence for its own sake.
7. Veteran. Of the generation that had served in Bush’s wars, a few will blame conservative society for having sent young men to die or come back damaged.
8. Single. Those with skin in the game have a lot to lose. But if you corner the risk-averse, he flips into total-war mode to protect his own. This is why nationalist movements are rising while Left wing radicalism is a single man’s game.
9. Gamma. As the Left has evolved into the anti-White, anti-male, fat-acceptance absurdity that attracts life’s most feeble specimens, and since Prog rites of passage no longer lead to status and material security, a commitment to the Left offers healthy men nothing.
10. Government Employee. Some develop institutional loyalty that leads to a hostile us-vs-them mentality toward the fellow-Whites who resent the government.
(Remember, this isn’t a post about what makes someone a liberal. It’s about a hypothetical working class White person becoming a competent Left wing militant.)
Street paramilitary — the Left:
… vs. the Right:
A timely question is asked:
PA, off topic. Have you considered weighing in the White Sharia meme?
A recent Red Ice with Lana and her guest, PhilosophiCat, is on youtube and called: PhilosophiCat – How To Talk to Normies & Agitators Posing As Alt-Right Men.
PhilosphiCat is a Midwest girl with excellent blonde hair and a very considered take on issues particularly regarding how to communicate with normies.
But she and Lana mock the White Sharia meme and those AR males who espouse it, as “betas” who can’t get with women.
Lemme think out loud on this one. Andrew Anglin wrote more about this; I believe he coined the term. Like with Hitler LARPing and driving your feminist girlfriend into hysterics by forcing her watch tentacle porn (witness!), cliterectomy jokes are shitlording to trigger. Arid north African customs are not in our nature. Under our patriarchy, male-female relationships find equilibrium on a basis of trust.
But that trust is broken.
I suppose the manosphere take on that question is Game, and perhaps that is all that needs said.
Game provides a positive incentive for women to act morally. However, by unleashing female economic independence and supplying women with non-White under-bidders, our society has dismantled the mechanisms for negative reinforcement: the stick. Antidepressants alone — the other “Pill” — are doing the lion’s share of distancing bad female behavior from its most inescapable consequence.
What would be some examples of “punitive Game” or White Sharia? We already freeze out mudsharks. If physical enforcement came into play, then it might turn a stink eye on:
White Sharia would also proactively support and protect Whites. Golden Dawn does charitable work for poor Greeks and raided immigrant markets, intimidating Afroasians into showing their legal residence cards.
I don’t care either way about the name “White Sharia,” whether it’s a joke-meme or a real movement. Vocabulary gets appropriated across cultures and the signified gets transformed into the borrower’s image.
It was a cool October afternoon thirty years ago and we were doing hill workouts. My high school varsity athletic team drove to a nearby neighborhood to sprint up its hilly terrain. It was a loop, where you pump your arms and legs up a steep incline, then walk back down where jogging would be too much like riding your brakes. Several teammates and I formed a small group and our competitiveness drove us to top performance up the hills. I was in a state of runner’s high — a hyper-oxygenated brain awash in natural endorphin — reveling in the functional perfection of my weightless body. I thought: This is an incredible workout for the mind, the body nourishing the brain…
But thoughts raced on. Is the brain the end-beneficiary of physical health? No… something whispered. The brain merely regulates everything so that the reproductive organs can do their job. My first encounter with doubt: the body’s purpose is to replicate itself, and the illusion of having a mind or a soul is a byproduct of fluids.
The next hill workout was several weeks later. It was late Sunday afternoon and I was alone, catching my breath on the grassy hill overlooking an empty vista of my school’s athletic fields. A teenager’s emotional state is volatile and his mind solipsistic, taking certain things with grave seriousness. As euphoric I was during the previous workout, the rush of oxygen was now fueling thoughts of doom. The air was cold, the western sky was on fire.
Miserable thoughts piled on: Is this the best it’s going to be? The heart pushed jets of bile through my overheated body. Would it be best to die now? What is my purpose?
This is vivid recollection, not poetic license: I looked down from the hilltop and the panorama of athletic fields glowed golden, like the Elysian fields.
Ideas that ran in conflicting directions took me, at turns over the course of my twenties, to materialism and then back to knowing of another plane. I’m becoming convinced that keeping your eyes open and thinking without fear, over the course of a long life, will lead you to the foot of the Cross.
I can’t convince you of any metaphysical reality because I don’t understand it myself. Rather, it’s a certainty to me that God is more real than the two hands I’m looking at right now. So I’ll just leave you with someone’s comment from a recent thread at Chateau Heartiste:
I always keep coming back to the martyrs of Christianity. From St. Stephen, to St. Paul, to St. Peter, to St. Ignatius of Antioch, to St. Maximilian Kolbe, to the Copts massacred just this last Palm Sunday, and all the known and unknown martyrs in between…
1. There is absolutely nothing after death. Just the big “Nothing.” Lights out for good. Eternal Oblivion. They’ll never know they were totally wrong. All of them are all the biggest fucking idiots in history, throwing away their lives […] St. Paul himself says as much in 1 Corinthians 15:14.
2. There is something more to all this.
Good and evil. If they are real, than so is God. To get a sense of evil, imagine extremes of depravity, and not necessarily involving violence — just look around you. And to contemplate an expression of good, read John 15-13:
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
Laying down your life for your friends. This next comment is not my original insight but I agree with it: A.B. Breivik volunteered to spend the rest of his life in 23-hour/day solitary confinement to deliver his countrymen from evil.
It’s not just martyrdom that the Cross inspires. There is also our sublime output. Finally acknowledging the title of this post and starting with high art, there is Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Jesu, Joy Of Man’s Desiring,” Franz Schubert’s “Ave Maria,” and Henryk Górecki’s “Symphony No. 3.” There is also this Eastern Orthodox hymn from Serbia. Speaking of Coptic martyrs, listen to this Assyrian Palm Sunday prayer in Aramaic.
Stepping away from high art, there are songs that regular people can sing. A famous example is the immortal “Stille Nacht.” It was written in 1818 by a young Austrian priest, with music composed by a schoolmaster from a nearby village.
“Pescador de hombres” was written in 1979 by a Spanish priest. Pope John Paul II famously said that “Pescador” (Polish version: “Barka,” transl. below) is his favorite song:
Lord, you have come to the lake shore
Looking for people who are ready to follow
To capture hearts with the truth of God’s word
O Lord, your eyes have looked upon me
Kindly smiling, you have spoken my name
Now my boat’s left on the shoreline behind me
By your side I will cast a new net
I don’t have many possessions
My treasure is my two ready hands
To work with you and my pure heart
Today we set out together
To capture hearts on the seas of human souls
With Your truth and the word of life
The calling of a priest is to be a holy man. Since the one true religion, by definition, applies to all of humankind (unless you go with an assumption that not all subsets of mankind have a soul), then such a man’s thinking will be catholic, lower-case. I imagine that such a priest would wish for everyone to aspire to godliness according to their nature, on their own land and among their own people, encountering others solely in friendship.
With that thought, what do you make of the scene a little after 3:45 in the Barka video linked above, showing an African man and his son crying at the Pope’s funeral?
The great bass-baritone Bernard Ładysz leads a choir in this arrangement of the traditional evening-song “All Of Our Daily Matters” (“Wszystkie nasze dzienne sprawy”). I like the spontaneous feel of the performance. It sounds like a what you would hear in a church with the parishioners singing.
All of our daily matters
Accept mercifully, righteous God
And when we fall asleep
May our dreams praise You
Your eyes turned
Day and night in our direction
Where the frailty of man
Your rescue awaits
Turn away the nightly perils
Protect us from all harm
Have us always in Your care
Guardian and Judge of man
And when we ascend to Heaven
We will sing to You together
God in Trinity unfathomed
Holy, forever and ever Holy
From 966 A.D. onward, men have sang hymns in that language in preparation for putting foreign invaders to the sword.
In the live performance below, the eye is on the ghoulish guitarist until the vocalist lets out the pathos in a lung-defying howl.
He looks tormented, maybe possessed. This isn’t a comment about the band members. I don’t know Thom Yorke. Yet even if that dramatic performance is all-artifice, the fact that it expresses the inner state of listeners points to their hunger for something.
Did we just watch an artistic interpretation of a station toward the foot of the Cross?
“The terrorist att… — er, the incident” — BBC reporterette
“This is the narrative that the liberal media give you. It’s liberalism. You are saturated with political correctness. Your brains have been eaten away by the bacteria of Cultural Marxism. What is it — I’ve told you before — it’s German Jews who told you that you have to be politically correct, that you have to take in ethnic minorities, and he who doesn’t is a nationalist, fascist, and needs to be terminated. And so now you have a Muslim mayor of London who says bromides, you have Miss Theresa May who drones on with empty phrases because she is afraid to say anything more aggressive, something that would give a measure of comfort and peace to her people.” — Max Kolonko (in translation)
Mariusz Max Kolonko is a former senior White House correspondent for TVP and now a popular New York-based political commentator on his news show. In the latest video he comments on last week’s London Bridge terror attacks.
The video below includes footage from the attack, following by his analysis, which is subtitled in English. Some points he makes:
There is more; the heart of this commentary is that the only way forward is to arm the people, let them defend themselves, and to take what’s going on seriously because it’s war.
He calls on European leadership to implement as first step, a Trump-style travel ban, declare martial law, deport anyone associated with suspected terrorists — their family, and even people they were seen talking with.
And arm Europe’s native population. Unlike this ovine approach, as tweeted by London Metropolitan Police:
“This is their advice when you see something frightening — ‘run, hide, tell’ — how about instead, Ready, Aim, Fire?” — Kolonko
“When I saw those British people with their hands up, who marched down the street like sheep to a slaughterhouse… Maybe I’m living in a different world here in the United States. But I looked at them and I felt sorry for them. I said to myself, look: this is our Western Civilization. Those are our people, our brothers and sisters who are led like a surrendering population.” — Kolonko
He concludes with words of contempt addressed directly to Theresa May and a demand that, as a key step in dealing with the terror attacks and the larger dispossession that they are a symptom of, Europeans be rearmed. So, in his words, let’s make it a real fight: when a Muslim terrorist runs up, he will fall dead before he has a chance to shout “Allah.”
This one goes out to various Western leaders.
Reading the old chronicles, poems and biographies, Mr. Cogito sometimes experiences the physical presence of long-dead persons
of all the citizens of Rome
I only loved one
Incitatus – the horse
when he entered the senate
the flawless toga of his coat
glistened immaculate among the gutless purple-hemmed cutthroats
Incitatus had many virtues
he never gave speeches
I think that at night in the stables he read the philosophers
I loved him so much that one day I decided to crucify him
but his noble anatomy opposed it
indifferently he accepted the dignity of the consul
he executed his power superlatively
what I mean is, he did not do it at all
he couldn’t be persuaded into a permanent bond of love
with my fourth wife Caesonia
so unfortunately the line of emperor-centaurs was not created
therefore Rome fell
I decided to nominate him god
but on the ninth day before February
Cherea Cornelius Sabinus and other fools obstructed these sacred intentions
he calmly accepted the news of my death
he was banished from the palace and sentenced to exile
he took that blow with dignity
he died without heirs
slaughtered by a thick-skinned butcher from the town of Anzio
on the posthumous fate of his meat
Tacitus is silent
— Zbigniew Herbert (c. 1974) from his volume of poetry “Mr. Cogito”
My translation. The original poem is under Show More in the YouTube video.