“I shake like a spleen ripped out of an eel”

An older friend once explicated the llyrics of this 1981 anti-Communist song for me, connecting each verse with a historic circumstance. I wish I remembered more of his commentary. The only one I recall is that the “jug-ears of naïve confidants” refers to secret police.

The subject of “Witkacy’s Self-Portrait” (Autoportret Witkacego) is Stanisław Ignacy Witkiewicz (1885 – 1939), commonly known as Witkacy, a prolific artist and writer best known for his expressionistic paintings and eccentric persona. A biographical note about Witkacy, referring to his period of service as an officer in Russian imperial army:

Witkiewicz witnessed the Russian Revolution while stationing in St Petersburg. He claimed that he worked out his philosophical principles during an artillery barrage, and that when the Revolution broke out he was elected political commissar of his regiment. His later works would show his fear of social revolution and foreign invasion, often couched in absurdist language. — Infogalactic

Living in Poland in the 1930s, he fled toward the country’s eastern frontier when Germany invaded in 1939 and committed suicide seventeen days later when Soviet Union attacked from the east.

Translating songs or poems involves a tradeoff between three things: original intended meaning (word choice), meter, and rhyme. I always focus on the first. With meter, I aim to make it as close as possible to the original in terms of the syllable-count and scansion but I keep a soft touch there. A matching rhyme scheme between unrelated languages is too unlikely, and not worth doing at the cost of compromising the other two priorities.

The song taps into Witkacy’s style of absurdism. With a leap of faith, it is relevant now. The regular stanzas in the original have an AABA rhyme scheme. Roger Waters should perform my English translation:


Witkacy’s Self-Portrait

By habit I watch the world
So it’s not from narcotics
That my eyes are red
Like laboratory rabbits’

I just got up from the table
So it’s not from deprivation
That I have the clenched lips
Of hungry Mongols

I listen to sounds not words
So it’s not for fecund thought
That I have the jug-ears
Of naïve confidants

I sniff out the cutthroats
So it’s not for the sake of folklore
That my nose casts the shadow
Of aggrieved Semites

I see the shape of things in their essential form
And that makes me great and unrepeatable

Unlike you – ladies and gentlemen if you’ll forgive me –
Who are an idiot’s rhyme copied on a duplicator [line x 2]

My neck’s rather stiff
But I’m still alive
Because politics to me
Is dishwater in a crystal glass

My mind is hard like an elbow
So don’t kick me
Because the revolution to me
Is red fingernails

I’m as sensitive as a membrane
So by evening and morning
I shake like a spleen
Ripped out of an eel

I’m terrified of the apocalypse
So to calm my mood
I scream like a child
That’s locked in a dark room

I more than any of you choke and gag!
I more than any of you wish to stop living but can’t!

[The first person-singular pronoun above allows a primal scream in both languages: “aaaaaaaaiiii” in English and “yaaaaaaaah” in Polish. — PA]

But I won’t let anyone touch me and therefore
When necessary I’ll be the one
Who deprives the world of Witkacy


Lyrics: Jacek Kaczmarski. Music: Przemysław Gintrowski

Idle Thoughts On Music In The Public Space

Pop music is not high art. It is not Classical virtuosos, eclectic palettes for refined tastes, or subculture signaling. Popular music is mass-market recordings that have broad appeal, speak to the emotions of young people, and are occasionally sublime. They amplify a mood and — this being pop music’s tautologically defining quality — they are played in the public space.

Every year is The Current Year

In the current year, you ask yourself: am I too old to get contemporary pop music? After some thought, my answer is: irrelevant question, if you aren’t locked in solipsism.

Every era has its cultural artifacts, as well as its classics. Let’s use 1983 as an example. I was watching MTV and Quiet Riot’s “Come On Feel The Noise” came on. Anyone remember that song? My parents didn’t like it: “Where is the vocal talent, good lyrics and melody?” I learned later that as members of the Silent generation, they didn’t care much for the Rolling Stones back in their day either, but liked Elvis, Paul Anka and Dean Martin. However, also in ’83, we were doing a jigsaw puzzle together as my Pyromania tape played in the background. “Foolin” was playing and mom said: “That’s a really good song.”

She recognized a classic, and she was right. If you are perceptive, you’ll feel in its verses a dream-realm wonder similar to that in “Für Elise.” The point is, that Quiet Riot was an artifact of its time and as such, not only was it empty noise to older people, but it has also since been forgotten by its contemporary audience — early-teens like I was then. Yet every era also has its timeless songs. So, are there any recently released greats? Honest question.

Amplifying the mood

I experienced two contrasting musical scenes at different venues. In the morning, we went with friends to a chic breakfast place where the songs were either soft rock originals or excellent but unfamiliar to me covers. I heard “Nothing Compares 2 U” (cover), “I Wanna Know What Love Is” (original), “Against All Odds” (cover) and similar. It was one of those days when you’re grateful to be alive.

Later that day, we went to an outdoor ice skating rink where the music was current Billboard Top 40, I guess. Same crap that’s played at the gym. The vocalists sounded black but can you even reliably tell that’s the case, if you’re unable to identify Justin Timberlake’s voice? The music lacked the aggressiveness of Hip-Hop or the caterwaul of R&B, but one song after another sounded alike: pussy-begging in a flat high-register voice, modulated with Auto-Tune.

As the atmosphere at the ice rink went, everyone was having fun but the music was like a nearby buzzing electrical transformer: nobody paid attention to it. Hey, as a point of comparison — in 1983 when the right song at the roller-skate center came on, the girls squealed and jostled out onto the floor. No girls were squealing at the 2018 ice rink.

Light up the White Energy, it occurred to me. Diversity was minimal, the ice rink was bright with the faces of healthy teenagers. The girleens would have come alive to Avril Lavigne’s I’m With You. (Love that “yeah-yeah-yeah? yeah-yeah?” thingy she does). I swear, I’d use a more current example if I knew of one.

“Keep it tasteful for now.”

A word on black music. For reasons that are too esoteric to get into, I once passed through a town in northwestern Tennessee, humming Dwight Yoakam’s “Thousand Miles From Nowhere” as I drove. This was midnight, 1995. With a cigarette in my hand I searched for radio stations, hoping to get lucky and catch Bob Seger’s “Turn the Page” but instead, found a vintage Blues song. I left it on because the ghost of Nathan Bedford Forrest, who still watches over his folk in that little town, listened with me and because that recording, which lasted as long as the night, was a different kind of Clair de lune.

Blacks created enjoyable songs when appropriating European forms: Scots-Irish ballads became reinterpreted as Blues, marching bands inspired Jazz, church hymns were Africanized into Gospel. They had to be told to perform to White tastes, though. Indubitably, a dawn-of-rock-‘n-roll recording studio (((boss))) would tell his wild troubadours: “This ain’t a bonobo orgy, boys. Keep it tasteful for now. We’ll let you grind in a couple of decades.”

I like some black pop songs. For example, and let’s skip Michael Jackson as he’s complicated, I enjoy their Disco era stuff. Even if you don’t dance, you’ll move to Boney M’s Daddy Cool when the keyboard kicks in. The video for Kool & The Gang’s Cherish shows blacks at their best and the song is nice. Prince’s “Purple Rain” is a great song.

A life’s arc or cycles?

There are two ways of thinking about popular music. One, is that its golden age went from roughly 1975 to 1995, birthed in the Dionysian supernova of the Seventies, then through the Apollonian glam of Eighties’ pop and heavy metal, terminating with the Dionysian swan song of early 1990s’ Use Your Illusion and Grunge.

Or, popular music goes through an endless cycle of yin and yang, with each generation expressing its collective pathos in its own way. As U2’s Bono put it a couple of weeks ago:

I think music has gotten very girly. And there are some good things about that, but hip-hop is the only place for young male anger at the moment – and that’s not good. When I was 16, I had a lot of anger in me. You need to find a place for it and for guitars, whether it is with a drum machine – I don’t care. The moment something becomes preserved, it is fucking over. You might as well put it in formaldehyde. In the end, what is rock & roll? Rage is at the heart of it. Some great rock & roll tends to have that, which is why The Who were such a great band. Or Pearl Jam. Eddie has that rage… It will return.

Pearl Jam’s 1992 performance of “Black” at the PinkPop festival, specifically the song’s heart-ripping outro, is the howl of our generation. Millennials listened to Insane Clown Posse and Eminem in their formative years. Generation Zyklon will speak for itself.

White Energy

A Word About The Black Pill

I think that the main reason for despair among some in the Anglosphere comes from the fact that, with a few exceptions such as the U.S. South, the English and Americans are simply unaccustomed to losing.

And now you find yourself a second-class citizen to brown sludge.

It’s a different perspective elsewhere. I have immediate relatives (had – they passed on of old age within the past two decades) on my and my in-laws’ side who survived atrocities in which they lost family members to a German mass execution and a Ukrainian massacre.

My formative history lessons were always about how everything is lost until a miracle and heroism deliver the victory… and victory always meant that things just go back to how they were, it was never about beating your inferiors far from home.

Wake Up, Germany!

Saw this on Gab. A German journalist asks his eastern neighbors: “when will Poland join the humanitarian world and take in migrants?” The quoted reply:


Yes, we got murdered in millions. Yet we never obeyed. You are ashamed of what you have become. As the place of your birth, your city, your country turn slowly into something disgusting, something you hate and at the same time — fear.

Deep inside you know there is nothing you can do about it. You read about it on internet boards or foreign news sites, as it is forbidden topic in your country. Nobody dares to say what everybody thinks. And if somebody does, they are ridiculed or prosecuted.

If you would be asked how you see future of your country in 20, 30 or 50 years, it is not hope and pride coming to your mind first. You’d be disoriented, unclear and even unwilling to clearly think about it. You would prefer to lie to yourself than admit things are going to get worse. A lot worse. But you will still keep deceiving yourself — we’ll find a way, we’ll fix it.

Yet you realize there is no hope for your people in the long term. You are watching your country dying. It’s like knowing your child has incurable cancer. You may smile and have fun as she plays and laughs, but there’s endless sadness inside you. You’re dying with her and see how she suffers more every day. Every day. And you can’t do anything.

Also have you noticed you’re taking pride not in what you personally achieved or became? Because you do not really have anything to be proud of. You can’t obviously, your apathy watching your country dying, having no future paralyses you.

You start things, but never finish them. You think of ambitious undertakings, but never actually do anything really significant. It’s hard to push yourself to the limits when you know that ultimately, in 2-3 or 5 generations all your legacy will be erased and forgotten.

This is the state of Germany now. This is why you hate those who have the future so much.

I would say we pity you, but we don’t. We just do not want you to infect us with your disease. We want our children safe. They have a future. Yours don’t.


My (PA) comment: unlike with the terminal cancer analogy, the nation is not dead as long as its people live. That’s a Pole’s word of encouragement, from the first line of our national anthem.

I don’t know the origin of that long quote but real or fake, that’s how you say “get thee behind me, Satan!” when asked to open your borders. The black pill of that reply serves as a wake-up kick in the balls for those who aren’t hopelessly brain-dead.

What can Germans do? Ausländer raus and traitors against the wall. It will be done but you have to help. Thought, courage, faith.

Wake up, Germany. Not only do I not want your leaders and your dickless journalists pressuring my people, I also don’t want my ancestral land to border Kebab. We’ve had our differences over the centuries but just as when we came together at Vienna, this emergency makes us Europeans.


President Trump’s “Shithole Countries” Comment

In the sequel to Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal Lecter bumps into his hapless would-be contract killer, who keeps walking and collapses later without realizing that his femoral artery got cleanly cut. Trump’s “shithole countries” comment, whether he actually said it or not, is a delayed-effect “only Rosie O’Donnell” moment on race. The Global South got called out on its incompatibility with Europeans and this mental image of muds=shit is not going away because it is rooted in truth.

Ultimately our incompatability with them is not about eye-queue, or anyone’s propensity for violence, or “they won’t assimilate” (Stop and think for a moment. Whose daughter’s uterus-lining are you volunteering to assimilate those uprooted aboriginals?). The objection is more fundamental and you can’t talk your way out if it, if pressed, any more than you can talk your way out of revulsion with feces.

Consider the Global North’s impulse to separate human waste from all of the other facets of human existence. Watch this ten-minute video, which illustrates how sewage is treated:

  1. Gravity lines. Wastewater flows downhill from homes in underground lines. Once the lines get too deep, pump stations push the dirty water up, and the process continues until water reaches a treatment plant.
  2. Headworks. The first stage of water treatment at the plant: the removal of inorganic solid matter, which is compacted and sent to a landfill. First, screens remove trash and debris. Then, the heavier grit settles to the bottom of the channel and is raked up.
  3. Primary treatment. Its purpose is to physically separate water from organic solids, which includes excrement. Water flows down narrow channels where rotating mesh screens catch solid matter. Captured biosolids go through their own treatment process.
  4. Primary clarification. Those are the round pools that you see from the airplane, where water is allowed to sit for a few hours, during which time settled particles are raked up from the bottom and suspended solids are also collected. Oil and grease is skimmed off the surface. Those things also travel to the biosolids treatment center.
  5. Secondary clarification. This process removes nutrients from the water, which otherwise would cause algae growth in rivers. Air is pumped into the water, which stimulates beneficial bacteria to feed on those nutrients.
  6. Advanced purification. Water is then forced through membranes that catch microorganisms. Then, remaining microbes are killed with chlorine or ultraviolet light.
  7. Water is returned to nature.

Meanwhile, recovered solids go through their own process. They are pressed for dewatering, disinfected via composting, and recycled for use in agriculture or as fuel. Now consider, how complicated the system is. And then once in place, who will operate it, maintain the equipment, regulate the biochemistry? Now you understand why the Third World, where Western “charity” lets it to breed to infinity, is so filthy.

In preindustrial times, Europeans built urban canals and rural outhouses. In Africa… ask an honest former Peace Corps volunteer what Africans do with their newly-dug latrines.

Analogously in culture, you might remember the early 1990s. Suddenly blacks became just like us and more than that, they became the face of commercial culture. Then came mass immigration. If you believe in a Brownian motion model of history, then happy mocha is our future. But that’s not how it works. Instead, the browner things get, the more regular people — with intelligent people at vanguard — start feeling righteous hate in their hearts until everything snaps back to its natural order because only we are capable of separating shit from everything else.

Polarity flips. One day diversity means mocha, the next day it’s shitskins. Trump tapped into an archetype, and then CNN helpfully spread the word that Diversity is a race to the sewer:


The look on the left-most ingrate’s face… does he not appreciate his nice toilet? along with the above-described sanitation process that he gets for free? I think all that talk of shit hits too close to home for him.

Look around, see someone who doesn’t belong in your country. Think freely, don’t be afraid of your feelings. Yeah, his face is a contaminant. And that’s not me telling you what to think about invaders, it’s me with my knack for seeing ahead of the curve, telling you how it’s going to be. Look forward to a polarity flip in Scandinavia, where the world’s least-shitty people live. Sweden, after this episode passes: “Eeew, your mom sat next to a Paki in school? it’s right there on social media archives!” In fact, Europe appears to be losing its enthusiasm for people from shitholes:

As politicians in America and across the globe lined up last week to condemn President Trump’s reported remarks calling certain African nations “s—hole countries,” there was a somewhat muted response in Europe — a sign of how the political winds of immigration are blowing.

Europe is a continent filled with leaders happy to speak out in condemnation of the U.S. president, but the silence last week was noticeable — with the New York Times describing a “ringing silence across broad parts of the European Union, especially in the east, and certainly no chorus of condemnation.”

Drive through a black area sometime. This ain’t Despacito:


A Poem About Leftism (Reprise)

“I ceased not in my efforts to level mankind” — leftism, from a 1983 poem by Zbigniew Herbert. Read along with the musical interpretation below. I posted this a long time ago but this one is worth a revisit from a larger audience and with my improved translation. Theseus was AltRight.


   Moje ruchome imperium między Atenami i Megarą
My movable empire between Athens and Megara
   władałem puszczą wąwozem przepaścią sam
I ruled over wilderness canyon abyss alone
   bez rady starców głupich insygniów z prostą maczugą w dłoni
with no advice from stupid old men or insignias but with a primitive club
   odziany tylko w cień wilka i grozę budzący dźwięk słowa Damastes
clad only in the shadow of the wolf and the horrific sound of the word Damastes

   brak mi było poddanych to znaczy miałem ich na krótko
I lacked subjects that is to say I had each one for a short time
   nie dożywali świtu jest jednak oszczerstwem nazwanie mnie zbójcą
they did not live to dawn however it’s slander to call me a murderer
   jak głoszą fałszerze historii
as cry the falsifiers of history

   w istocie byłem uczonym reformatorem społecznym
in essence I was learned social reformer
   moją prawdziwą pasją była antropometria
my true passion was anthropometry

   wymyśliłem łoże na miarę doskonałego człowieka
I devised a crucible for the perfect man
   przyrównywałem złapanych podróżnych do owego łoża
I fit the captured travelers to that bed
   trudno było uniknąć – przyznaję – rozciągania członków obcinania kończyn
it was difficult to avoid – I admit – stretching members cutting limbs

   pacjenci umierali ale im więcej ginęło
patients kept dying but the more perished
   tym bardziej byłem pewny że badania moje są słuszne
the more I was sure that my studies are just
   cel był wzniosły postęp wymaga ofiar
the goal was sublime progress requires sacrifices

   pragnąłem znieść różnicę między tym co wysokie a niskie
I longed to abolish the difference between what is high and what is low
   ludzkości obrzydliwie różnorodnej pragnąłem dać jeden kształt
to humanity disgustingly diverse I longed to give one shape
   nie ustawałem w wysiłkach aby zrównać ludzi
I ceased not in my efforts to level mankind

   pozbawił mnie życia Tezeusz morderca niewinnego Minotaura
Theseus took my life that slayer of the innocent Minotaur
   ten który zgłębiał labirynt z babskim kłębkiem włóczki
he who plumbed the labyrinth with a girl’s bundle of yarn
   pełen forteli oszust bez zasad i wizji przyszłości
so full of trickery without principles or vision of the future
   mam niepłonną nadzieję że inni podejmą mój trud
I have an inextinguishable hope that others will take up my toil
   i dzieło tak śmiało zaczęte doprowadzą do końca
and the task I started so boldly they’ll lead to its end


An American Nationalist Visits Warsaw

Occidental Observer contributor Adam Komiaga attends this past November’s Independence Day rally in Warsaw and describes his experience.

The 60,000-strong march, known for its participants’ aggressively patriotic posture and its umbrella slogan “We Want God” was attended by nationalists from all over Europe. The author of the article stayed in an apartment with Swedes who, like him, flew to Warsaw to join the march. He makes a number of street-level observations, starting with an encounter with a belligerent Pole:

But we’re almost forehead to forehead now. I lock eyes, my deep-blue squared against his ice-blue. It gets tense.

Our group keeps moving around him though, and like white water flowing around a jutting stone in the river we slide around him on both sides. As I side-step him, I lower my eyes because eye-contact that lasts a millisecond too long usually leads to a fight. Anglos and other Western Europeans rarely experience this sort of thing. Growing up in the comfortable and loving leafy embrace of Suburbia makes you soft. But spend some time in Eastern Europe and you learn the rules about eye-contact etiquette quick enough.

The guy is a good writer. That description of the anatomy of eye contact was well done. You can relate to this in the United States. With our diversity and police-secured general order, most of our public space outside of non-White enclaves is no-man’s-land. When I pass a homie or a cholo, my posture and eyes communicate a message. I look at him, sort of through him. A blank fearless face. Mastery, not aggression. “No disrespect but it’ll cost you if you try something.” They always drop their eyes. Fights can result in organ damage or death (yours or his) so the point is neither to bait nor to submit, the latter serving to embolden them tomorrow, but to claim absolute dominion over your personal space and leave the question of public space ownership, at minimum, open for the time being.

The American visitor comments on various fights he saw break out:

… we participated in the massive, 60 thousand strong nationalist march through Warsaw. Just like the night before, there were sporadic fights breaking out all along the route among rival football clubs and rival nationalist organizations.

Poles against Poles. Whites against Whites.

There are different levels of identity. Right wing factions and football fans brawling, ethnic and national rivalry, on up to our ideal of racial solidarity against the mudworld. There is racial solidarity. It happens in emergencies, such as at the Superdome in 2005 when local Whites and stranded European tourists created a security perimeter in an arena full of blacks. Or Vienna in 1683. There are also long-standing friendships, such as between Poland and Hungary. The mere fact of Polish national holiday celebrants welcoming fellow-European nationalists and chanting Christian, pro-White and anti-Islamic slogans means a great deal. There is your racial solidarity.

(A long aside: Europeans are a war-race. But we temper our violence with Christian honor, which we extend to and expect of our fellow-Whites and which is why unlike savages, we develop codes such as the Geneva Convention, mercy with submission, distinction between combatant and civilian, and recognizing the enemy’s individual gallantry. Raping girls is not something we brag about. Waffen SS was the world’s most fearsome military corps but the reason naahzees have a radioactive reputation isn’t just post-war Jewish propaganda, though that is a big part of it. German Ostplan campaigns in WWII broke with civilized norms through their brutal behavior in Eastern Europe. Oskar Dirlewanger’s counterinsurgency units, as one example, are responsible for murdering up to 120,000 civilians in 200 villages throughout Belarus alone, his favorite method being to herd people into a barn, then setting the barn on fire.

Likewise, Allies’ barbarity toward German civilians in 1945 is a stain on our honor. My grandfather was a brilliant, severe-faced man of aristocratic Kresy tradition. He served as a lieutenant with First Polish Army under Soviet command and told me about his infantry unit entering a village in Pomerania. He saw a Russian soldier grappling with a German girl and ordered him to let her go. There were discipline problems on the front, with Russian soldiers disobeying Polish officers. My grandfather put a gun to the Russian’s head and the girl ran away. End aside.)

Men are small-group tribal. We’re supposed to be territorial and ready to fight. That’s freedom. That’s what keeps us sharp. It teaches us to be polite. It keeps women loyal. How many of us had spent our youth in middle class comfort, never having a redneck square up to us at a mall? Or if you’re a redneck, a locking of horns with a cocky frat dude or a loudmouth off-duty soldier from the local Army base. Racial solidarity entails collective effort in an emergency. “No more brother wars” doesn’t mean kumbaya.

Someone once commented ruefully that Europeans have culturally blended into an undifferentiated pop monoculture, so national distinctions are anachronistic. I disagree with that, countering with my own observation that if I’m talking with a Norwegian, it’s just two guys having a conversation. But if it’s five Norwegians and me, or five of my countrymen and him, the odd-man-out quickly notices that one is not like the others. If you are American but not a Southerner or a Mormon, get together with them and discover that culture is real.

An illustration of European diversity comes when the author got separated his from his Swedish companions and joined up with a Dutch group, observing a change in vibe:

I lost track of the Swedish Nationalists I had come with and ended up marching with the Dutch Identitarians instead. To be honest, it was a welcome change of pace. All of a sudden, I was around a different kind of European. They could crack jokes, include me in the conversation and seemed to actually want to practice some of that pan-European solidarity I had heard so much about.

Turning his attention to the landscape: Warsaw is an ugly city, he reports. Indeed, anybody who is not from there will enthusiastically agree with that sentiment. Not me, though. I’m a true Warszawiak, it seems, as either because of childhood nostalgia or for some other reason, I find the city to be quite lovely. My indelible feeling of home is Warsaw in any given December, where it’s dark at 4:00 PM and snow is falling, the smell of bus exhaust in the icy air bringing back memories. Perhaps Warsaw is meant to be grim, a reminder of history’s bloody relapses. That’s her burden still, as Europe heads into a war.

Yet, that’s the city where globalism is considered dead, the only city in the world where Christendom’s nationalists are free to march. That’s Warsaw’s terrible beauty:

The sky was overcast and it got dark quick, but the harsh red glare from the flares lit up everyone and everything with a kind of sepulchral glow. The smell of the burning chemicals washed over me and I breathed it all in, like the mystical smoke from some pagan witch ceremony or something. The flares seemed to have a powerful, almost reverent effect on everybody in the march.

The article segues to its most interesting part, a meditation on a new generation of Europeans. A seventeen-year-old Polish skinhead joins his group. He’s part of a disciplined paramilitary unit:

I saw them at the march the other day. They came in like a war-machine, ranked up in a Roman-style Testudo formation, with their banners wrapped all the way around the group like a shield wall. Black suns and Celtic crosses were flying proudly behind the first ranks — these guys were the real deal. Protecting the flanks of the column were black-clad young men with their faces totally covered in black ski masks. Turns out our young friend was one of them.

Older Poles would run up, yell out abuse and some even tried to start fights. But the Black Bloc just kept marching in perfect discipline. Even the soccer hooligans didn’t dare touch them.

As the American visitor learns, the teenager lives in Sweden where he goes to school as the sole White kid in his class, having been previously expelled from a majority-White private school. In the young man’s words:

“You know, before I was even a nationalist, I had problems at the private school. The Swedes are worse than the Arabs and Blacks. They would complain about me and report me all the time. Always behind my back, never to my face. Poles are naturally too nationalistic for them, I guess. I like it better in my new school.”

Turns out that the Arabs and Blacks respect him ever since he became a Neo-Nazi.

“Every time I do this…” he throws up the roman salute, “they fear me.”

The author gets to Nazi iconography, dispensing with dead history. Again, he has a way with graphic description:

Nazi imagery may not be good at convincing shy huWhytes to join the Identitarian cause, but its ability to strike fear into the hearts of non-Whites is second to none. To them, we’re all just a blend of Crusader-Nazi-White Devils who’ve gone soft. They stiffen with fear when they see that black spider on a field of red and white and see the gangs of young White hooligans that fly it.

As the age-heavy racial demographics shift in parts of Europe with the passing of Boomers (good riddance, anti-racist dead weight), it’s the White teenagers and kids who are inheriting their countries in their infested condition and who will have to reconquer Europe to have a chance to live in peace — to extend Western Civilization’s life, if you want to use such lofty words. Maybe they’ll wait for winter and cut off invaders’ heat. If they are merciful, they’ll let them go back to their ancestral shitholes but either way, nurseries will be reclaimed.

But [the young skinhead] is a good enough kid. Normal, sane and if I’m honest, he’s probably the future of the Post-First World. Generation “Zyklon” isn’t a meme. These kids are pissed. They are the first to feel what it is like to be in the White minority… and many of them don’t like it.

They will also have brothers and sisters, as White births are rebounding.


“Perfection is real, and can be seen”

Josh1476 writes:

I’m thankful for Thordaddy’s dialectic. I’m [new] to WN, just about 6 months now, but I can sense my understanding of Our Cause much better with my mulling over wS. TD is most definitely hard to understand, but does that have to be his fault? Perhaps his IQ is so high that it is difficult for him to come down here to our level? And he still sometimes does explain his seemingly autistic expressions, even if poorly, it is always in good faith.

There is another commenter in the sphere who usilizes his own dialect and style of prose, gunslingergregi. He is a Salt-of-the-Earth Hero around these parts. I have a lot of respect for men like William Shakespeare who help Create the language rather than just follow everyone elses rules, whereby those people are also creating the language and it’s rules, but rather by authority instead of Divine Creativity.

Thordaddy has been around for years, most people are familiar with his enigmatic commentary. You never really know who is who behind his screen name, so you take him on face value. Prophet? Troll? I went into the WordPress dashboard yesterday and pulled up all of his comments on this blog in spreadsheet format… all 2,668 of them and skimmed through them. It was like when you pull away from a bunch of pixels to see a coherent picture, and in that body of Thordaddy’s commentary, I saw a man with something to say.

He and I have butted heads, which I suspect is something he’s used to. But I’ve also invariably expressed my respect for him. In part because of glimpses into his life he’s provided, such as this one:

PA… I was recruited as a quarterback… Then went to FS [free safety -ed.]. The drill was old-school one-on-one, ball carrier and tackler amongst our defense. The ordering was random and so I would, as a FORMER red-shirt freshman QB turned FS, frequently tandem with a DL and execute the very scenario I outlined. I ran the ball to hurt people rather than juke them. But I also wanted to get on the field as a “preferred walk-on” and smashing people was the most obviously NATURAL manner in which to do that.

And this one:

I was a preferred walk-on QB for what was at the time a lowly DIV I university.

I ONLY PLAYED FOUR GAMES at QB my senior year. New coach. New offense. “We” were a 1-9 DIV I highschool team.

And I was the best raw athlete of the 5-6 QBs we had when I was a redshirt freshman on paper and the field. But I was not cerebral about the game at all. And certainly apolitical about the whole affair.

I went to FS the next season.

I could dunk in one step with two hands… Easily.

I bulldozed 275lb-315lb d-lineman in the basic old school line-n-up… I ALWAYS TOLD THEM FIRST WHICH DIRECTION I WAS RUNNING… They knew a train was coming and exactly where we’d meet.

And it was there that a “black” senior who did a little stint in the NFL said, “Watch out for this one…”

He glimpsed wS in me before I glimpsed wS in me. Thanks Jason.

Ryu comments:

You will learn a certain admiration for TD in time […] One MUST be thick-headed to be a WN and take on ZOG. The recognition is coming that the white race was at its best under Christianity. Jesus is the perfect, sinless man TD is talking about. Perfection is real, and can be seen.

Ryu also links to the video below. It seems that when Thordaddy talks about Perfection, this depiction of Jesus illustrates his point:

300th Post

After the euphoria of the 2016 election year and the rocky road that followed, it took work on everyone’s part to keep spirits high. We discovered that we’re in a long game, winning the election was just a step — albeit one of do-or-die significance.

October and November 2017 saw my all-time highest visitor and page-view stats. As always, I sincerely appreciate your reading, commenting, and linking. In return, I never make you read stuff you’ve already read elsewhere. Here are the ten posts of the most recent 100 to revisit, starting with the trilogy that reckons across generations:

We inhabitants of Diversityland will be regarded with the awe that historians reserve for survivors of civilization’s great dramas. Dispossession, Youth, Anger, Future:

Welcome to your exciting future, White teenager. No sarcasm: a corollary to valuing something you’ve lost is the fact that the depths of evil make the heights of good shine that much more brightly.

I don’t know anything about music but it’s my favorite blogging subject. Warszawskie Dzieci is about the nightmare of children in armed combat. I link to a contemporary performance of a beloved marching song and Laibach’s mind-blowing tribute. The post offers a few words on the relationship between an original song and its cover:

There are original forms and derivative tributes. The former are often simple, self-contained, and perfect. A creative tribute drinks the waters of the original. Classic forms inspire mannerist interpretations, and as such the cover-form offers tantalizing possibilities that can succeed spectacularly, revealing the compressed wealth of the simple original. At other times, the creative tribute misses the point or runs away with the artist’s ego, and fails.

Be A Lighthouse: a tribute to Ryan Landry, framed in heavier thoughts about our individual responsibilities.

Observations In New York City:

[A] woman is born with three choices: to be a wife, a nun, or a prostitute. The flaw of modernity is the fact that they try to be all three, to farcical effect.

Have you noticed a pattern in professional photos that show a man and woman in love? See if you know what I’m talking about in this example: Photos of Couples In Love

God Bless The USA: thoughts about my adoptive homeland one year after Donald Trump’s victory.

Europe, Rise From Your Knees!”:

As long as these Western people, in the privacy of their minds where there is no excuse for being a slave, consider their governments lawful and legitimate, they are kneeling… Getting off your knees would mean, first of all, that you open your eyes and see the evil that is staining your land.

What would be the next step in rising off your knees?

I don’t tell people to do anything I am not doing. But keep reading.

And No. 11, a word on love.

Open thread.


Morning Songs

An aubade is a composition about or evocative of sunrise. As popular songs go, Cat Stevens’ “Morning Has Broken” is among the prettiest. Beck’s euphonic Morning is a keeper:

Can we start it all over again this morning?
I let down my defenses this morning
It was just you and me this morning
I fought all my guesses this morning
Won’t you show me the way it could’ve been?

I’ll relate an experience that might sound like nothing much but it continues to have an effect on me a year-and-a-half later. Make of it what you will. At dawn, my father-in-law and I were passing through a little town in eastern part of Poland, he drove. It’s countryside with birch forests and tall, flower-adorned crucifixes at every crossroad.

Driving slowly through the wioska, we turn a corner and a burst of early morning’s sunlight floods everything. How to describe this. My perception opened for a moment. This lasted for a microsecond. What I saw, when we turned that corner, was a young woman pushing an infant stroller and a little boy walking with her.

They were real people, actually walking on the sidewalk and like I said, the vision was a flash but during it their silhouettes against the golden sunlight made an effect of the light being the sole reality. People who describe their near-death experience talk about an overwhelming sense of being embraced by love and for that moment, without a prelude and ending at that same instant, that is exactly what I felt.

That morning is when I stopped worrying.

“When the Morning Lights Arise” (orig. “Kiedy ranne wstają zorze”) is Franciszek Karpiński’s aubade, written c. 1800. My translation:

When the morning lights arise
To You the earth, to You the sea,
To You the elements sing:
Be praised, mighty God.

And man, without measure
Showered with Your gifts,
Whom You created and saved,
How can he not praise You?

Still rubbing my waking eyes
I at once call to my Lord,
To my Lord in Heaven
And I seek Him by me.

Some into the sleep of death have fallen
After lying down last night…
We still woke up
To praise You, God.