“Wish You Were Here”

Is that the all-time greatest Rock song? Some will say that’s it’s too low-key for the pantheon. Those would be popular epic ballads such as “Light My Fire,” “Stairway to Heaven,” “Comfortably Numb,” “Tuesday’s Gone,” “Plainsong,” and “November Rain.” And maybe “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights.”

But you’re all familiar with Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” and chances are that you respond to something in that song. Maybe it’s the clear notes of the intro solo that join the low-fidelity plucks and strums. Or when the percussion kicks in with the G chord:

Do you think you can tell
And did they get you to trade

Or it could be the build-up toward “How I wish, how I wish you were here.”

The lyrics allow for free-association. They are elegiac and YouTube commenters testify to the song’s powerful tug at their feelings of loss of a loved one. Somehow, I connect that aspect of the song with one of my other favorite songs; specifically, with the bridge and the climactic final verse of Mother Love Bone’s “Stargazer,” with its own slightly bizarre lyrics:

[spoken, just past 3:15] “Tell you what…”

And then, the bridge:

Stargazer you cry in blue
Anything I’ve ever seen
It ain’t as good as you, child

Then the D chord sleight of hand, easy for a beginner guitarist: D Dsus4 D Dsus2 D. If you watch a cover performance that shows this, you’ll see how it’s done. It’s pinkie action. And then the chords go to Am and G:

I’m not trying to push your feelings
But I know you hold me
Like putty in your hands

And then the wild outro verse with its soaring backup chorus. I call myself an advanced-beginner and can bang out “Stargazer” pretty well on my acoustic guitar with the original playing along. As to “Wish You Were Here,” there are many worthwhile versions:

Avenged Sevenfold. Pure White Energy video with scenes from their arena concert and band members’ sons rocking along. It will make your Friday evening.

David Gilmour performs it unplugged. Also look up the Pulse Live or the 2006 Gdansk concert version for a performance in full power.

Guns N Roses smashed it last year in Minneapolis. There is an extended “Wish You Were Here” outro solo featuring Slash and Richard Fortus taking turns on lead guitar, followed by the band’s outro to “Layla” and a full rendition of “November Rain” with Axl Rose on piano and vocals.

You don’t need to be a musician to be curious about the anatomy of a song. I learned to play the tone-bending intro solo to “Wish You Were Here” from Justin.

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Male Fun, Male Commitment

I spent a bit of my twenties in the South and hung out with a group of guys down here. One of them, “Travis,” was a big dude with a grin that never quit. He told us two stories (mature audiences only), each illustrating the difference between treating one chick like a plaything and committing to another. He was an alpha.

By The Lake

DEMETRIUS:
I will not stay thy questions; let me go:
Or, if thou follow me, do not believe
But I shall do thee mischief in the wood.

HELENA:
Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field,
You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius!
Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex:
We cannot fight for love, as men may do;
We should be wood and were not made to woo.

W. Shakespeare, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”

This was a story from Travis’s past. One summer day, he and his friends piled into his truck and drove to the lake. She had a thing for him. The attraction was unrequited but she pestered him while he, gently at first, shoo’d her away.

Over by the lake, she upped the ante by offering to blow him. Would you pass on that? Travis didn’t. They walked to where the truck is parked and he sat on the tailgate. She went to work. All was good, until the beers in his digestive tract became gas and he felt a fart coming on. A big one. “Hey babe, take your mouth off for a sec, I got a ripper coming” nobody said ever. He didn’t either. And I wish you could have been there to hear him tell the story, as by this point we were all laughing our assess off, as every one of his words was a punchline. As he tells it, he figured that he can sneak it past her in little tiny bits.

So he cracks the door open juuuust a bit. All’s good. She’s enthusiastically bobbing, didn’t hear anything. Encouraged, he lets another little bit out. Nothing. And a little more. Oops, she pauses. Her face scrunches. She breathes in, looks up and sees his guilty expression.

“Youuu… ASSHOLE” she smacks the saluting soldier and storms off down the road. Travis hops off the truck bed, pulls up his pants and gets back to the lake. “Where did she go?” someone asks. They eventually get back on the road and see her walking. As Travis told the tale, he pulls over and she runs toward the truck. So he steps on the gas and leaves her there, to everyone’s laughter.

In The Parking Lot

PROSPERO:
Thou most lying slave,
Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have used thee,
Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodged thee
In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate
The honour of my child.

CALIBAN:
O ho, O ho! would’t had been done!
Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else
This isle with Calibans.

W. Shakespare, “The Tempest”

This happened not long before the story was told. Maybe two nights earlier. The anger in Travis’s voice was still fresh.

His girlfriend was a cute little thing. She worked the evening shift at a local grocery store and eventually told Travis about a black guy who stalked her, usually by loitering at her cash register. The manager banned him from the store until one day he approached her in the parking lot before midnight as she walked to her car after her shift. She was terrified by the encounter and that’s when she told Travis.

Travis lost his shit. He told her that he’s gonna wait in the parking lot to catch him. So the following night, she leaves the store and walks across the dark lot. The black fellow shows up and intercepts her. Travis gets out of his truck. I am going by his words and he was a vivid storyteller. Though I don’t remember his exact narration, the reel of the events in my mind is as fresh now as it was then.

Travis asks her: “Is that him?” She say “Yes.” He grabs the offender by his shirt, slams him onto the hood of a car, brings his face within french-kissing distance of the terrified nig-nog whose eyes are bulging in terror, and dispenses a few clipped words of warning. Travis then underscores the gravity of his threat by bringing his face even closer to his frozen quarry’s and enunciating, very slowly: “And I will do it. Because I am a man. And you are a nigger.”

Call This Era “The Tempest”?

A historic cataclysm gets its lasting name after the fact, as detached perspective allows for a consensus. For example, the European war of 1914 to 1918 was first called The Great War, owing to the unprecedented mobilization of the belligerent states’ civilian populations. It was then called World War I after 1945, for obvious reasons. Similarly, the US-led action over Kuwait is now called by its Pentagon name “Desert Storm” or Gulf War I, but as I recall the talking heads’ TV chatter at the time, forgettable proposals were made such as “World War III” on account of the breadth of global coalition involved.

An exchange between Prospero and Caliban in William Shakespeare’s The Tempest caught my attention. If you are unacquainted with the play, Prospero is a Great White Patriarch ruling over an island. Caliban is a creature whom he sought to humanize only to have the thing try to rape his daughter.

The events were set in motion with Western Europe’s post-war forfeiture of her colonies in tandem with America’s desegregation of her schools. Things culminated with Obama’s second term and Merkel’s invasion of Europe. Will this era be called “The Tempest”?

PROSPERO:
Thou most lying slave,
Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have used thee,
Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodged thee
In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate
The honour of my child.

CALIBAN:
O ho, O ho! would’t had been done!
Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else
This isle with Calibans.

eur1

The Mudshark’s Rue

“The Saddest Story Ever Told” is a poem by Olivier Allstrom (1878 – 1963). I wonder if it doesn’t, in places, project male sentiments onto a female who made an irreversible mistake. Mudsharks strike me as too degraded to have these higher feelings. But I could be wrong.

Women who mix sentence themselves to internal exile. I heard of a European girl who married darkly in America and once visited her native country with her kids. A man smirked and told her, “Your parents must be very proud.” Henceforth, she traveled alone.

The poem:

“The Saddest Story Ever Told”

When a white girl marries a negro, her sun of life goes down.
And glaring spots of sin appear on her white wedding gown.
And white and black men stand aghast, while viewing this strange role;
And mutter, “they will wreck themselves, and damn each other’s soul.”

We know a carnivorous bug has crept into her brain
And gnawed away her self-respect, which left her half insane.
Now all her racial pride has flown beyond redemption’s fold
And she begin’s life’s saddest tale that ever yet was told.

Three days and nights she felt black lips press smug against her own,
And on the fourth, her troubled soul, let out a frightful groan.
And so the weeks and months flew by, and then a baby came;
She looked at it with tear filled eyes, and hung her head with shame.

And then she dreamed of other days, sweet, girlhood days gone by,
And of the white friends left behind, and so we hear her cry;
“O, could I turn life’s pendulum backwards a few short years
I would not bear this cross today, nor shed these bitter tears.”

“My baby would be white as snow, and sleep upon my breast
Like a fledgling robin that slumbers in its nest.
While now, O God, my mongrel child just whimpers through the night
Till in my sleepless dreams I scream, not white, O God, not white!”

And so I stagger through my days far from God’s love and grace,
Till now, I know, no black man lives, can take a white man’s place.
My offsprings shall be mongrel bred, their hue-skin shall remain,
For even God with all His power, cannot remove the stain.

I sold my birthright for a mess, I mixed my white-born blood
With black blood, so I languish here like one bogged down in mud.
Though God may grant a pardon, I never can retrace
My footsteps down life’s narrow road, back to the white man’s race.

So now I groan, “It might have been,” had racial pride been mine.
Today I’d hug a pure white child, and call him half divine,
I’d lift him up before the world, and praise his father’s name,
While now, my baby’s mongrel face, reminds me of my shame.

All other crimes may be forgiven when prayer its power fulfills;
The scheming crook may find new hope, and even the man that kills,
But all my prayers can never clear my baby’s mongrel skin,
Nor make him white as driven snow, nor cleanse my soul of sin.

I was my father’s future hope, my mother’s joy and pride,
But I got lost on life’s dark road, and there my spirit died.
I smeared my all-white heritage and left the white man’s track,
Now my descendants for all time shall be forever black.

I try to hide from all the stars, the moon and setting sun;
For all mankind of my white race, condemn what I have done;
I tremble and my teardrops flow, I pray, but pray in vain;
For nevermore shall I be one with my white race again.

And so dark clouds above me roll, deep waters crash below,
I sink, and reap what I have sown, and drink my cup of woe.
My mother sleeps deep in her grave, my dad lies at her side,
For both were crushed when I became a negro’s common bride.

Now, should I decide to leave him, where could I choose to go?
My misspent life will follow me like footprints in the snow.
Before me lie dark jungles where paramours seek a prey;
Behind me death keeps whispering, “I am the only way.”

This black and white, prenuptial mess, this racial suicide;
Must be forbidden by the law, men must find racial pride!
Then, never again, forever, shall tales like mine unfold.
With all its shame and sadness, that ever yet was told.

poem

Just Some Ideas

Plumpjack writes a comment at Chateau Heartiste. Read and think it over, it’s worth your time:

It doesn’t matter because ultimately “white nationalism” is not a narrative that will sell. It is a reactionary, defensive, identity-based movement which makes it easy for the culture mongers to put it in the same category as the other snowflake reactionary movements.

When you have millions and millions and millions of white-skinned people who are beyond saving and/or who are openly eager to show that they can fit the shotgun barrel deeper into their mouths than the white person standing next to them it won’t work to put yourself in the same category as them simply because they have the same color skin. Dumb.

Further, the ACTUAL resistance could care less about the label. Only the media cares. It could be called woke nationalism. Chad nationalism. Biodiversity nationalism. Expose the JQ nationalism. Deport them all nationalism. Renaissance nationalism. Truth nationalism. The name could change every week, and it wouldn’t matter. Because ultimately WN is NOT the new narrative. It’s a reactionary movement that so far hasn’t distinguished itself very well from other reactionary movements except for being extra retarded. If the media can kill it in its crib then it wasn’t a viable thing anyway.

I don’t know what the new narrative is, but if it’s not based on winning (ACTUAL winning, not “heh heh I got white skin so I’m extra special”) then it won’t last. IOW, there’s nothing special about whiteness if it doesn’t take things to a new level.

There’s no white utopia to go back to. There’s no going back to Germania. We have to formulate a new thing. Bigger. Better. Stronger. Faster. Winning. Offense, not defense. If we’re better than everyone else then we actually have to BE BETTER. And better means knocking it out of the park.

Personally I don’t think an identity movement of any kind is useful. If anything, we should identify ourselves with truth, life, humor, creativity, and beauty, and leave it at that. Refuse to be categorized as anything that the media can sink its teeth into. That WILL sell far better than nerds in brownshirts wanting to go back to some nonexistent white Utopia.

And, yes, you can be truthful, beautiful and deadly all at the same time. They are not exclusive of one another.

***

There were many responses. I’ll only post a few. Jay in DC agrees: 

Poetry. This should be COTW. I -hate- the term WN. I feel fucking dirty just saying it much less anyone trying to bring it anywhere near me or my ideologies.

Yes I share some common goals, but beyond that, we couldn’t be anymore different. It is a failed movement of non-action losers who have, at best, a very dim understanding of human socio-dynamics. It also tends to attract the dimmest bulbs and the nazi larpers and all the other detritus that fucking drag us down.

No WN for me, thanks very much. Take that dumb shit back to the Mein Kampf Book Club Reading. Not it…

***

Cortesar disagrees with the original comment. After some back and forth with Plumpjack, he writes: 

So let me further examine your fear of a “reactionary” movement. Reaction is a natural reaction of a healthy organism to the action which in this case amounts to at least 60 years of poisoning. In terms of political movements it represents a political force that want to reverse a decline and go to the last sane society that existed before the corruption.

You know, it is like when you do your crappy windows update which fucks your comp and you restore it to the previous state. It is called a Reactionary Windows Update. Reactionary movement as a political force first came into being after the French Revolution and 2 men that defined it most were Edmund Burke and Joseph de Maistre.

You say that you want to live in accordance with truth and beauty but you must be aware that you live in the ugliest and most deceitful society that ever existed. Do you want to go back where the beauty still ruled supreme and where human honesty and straightforwardness counted for something. Are you a latent reactionary?

***

Plumpjack replies:

I agree that “reacting” is the first step. If the reactors’ only goal and vision is to “go to the last sane society that existed before the corruption” then we’re patently fucked because the problems that came before set the stage for the problems we face today.

It was a “white nationalist” society (by default) that passed Civil Rights, legalized abortion, enacted women’s suffrage, sent millions of their best and brightest off to go kill each other etc., etc.. Is going BACK to that somehow going to mean we’ve solved the manifold divisions in white society that got us here in the first place? That’s beyond fantasy. It’s delusional.

Reacting is not enough. It’s innovate or perish. That is my point.

***

Now me, PA: this is World War III, except that instead of tanks and troops, global mass migration in tandem with the police state is the enemy’s weapon of force, CultMarx is his weapon of deception. Eyes on victory day: waking up and taking a step out your door and into the sunlight, just like its always been.

Here are some of my posts on the big questions:

Good Morning From Hungary!

The European Capital of Culture is a city designated by the EU for one year, during which it organizes a series of cultural events with a pan-European dimension. The Hungarian city of Székesfehérvár submitted their video clip as its entry for 2023 and the jury rejected it as “a propaganda film for a White and Christian Europe.” The video was criticized for the absence of poor people [third world parasites – PA] and migrants [third world parasites]. Its featuring of the town’s crosses and churches was deemed excessive.

Frankly, they’d be doing it wrong if they got it approved.

In 1919, Hungary saw Europe’s first implementation of CultMarx in Bela Kun’s (b. Kuhn) Soviet Republic, an abortive run for what we have today. Hungarians overthrew it four months later. In 1956 they stood up to the Soviet Union, killing 722 and wounding 1,540 enemy combatants.

It’s a propaganda film for White and Christian Europe. Everybody is White, happy, and dancing in the street.

Of course! When you own your streets, that’s where you dance. The pan-European dimension is that you can make your own city like Székesfehérvár. Enjoy!

Kangs Pyramid

This graphic is how the Left says “The only good YT is a dead YT” because nobody can possibly be so masochistic as to clear this pyramid’s thou-shalt-nots. Right?

PyramidofWhiteSupremacy

Top of the Pyramid. These offenses are either serious crimes or they are subject to extreme public censure. I’ve never committed any of the felonies listed under “Calls for Violence” and in the higher tiers. Three caveats: I appreciate cross-burning as a non-violent way of claiming dominion over one’s public space, I like the Confederate flag, and I say the “N-word” freely in appropriate contexts. The other things listed there are not applicable: I’ve never been in law enforcement and I am not a Southerner.

Middle of the Pyramid. This is the “Discrimination” and “Veiled Racism” headers. Unlike the top-third of the pyramid, these are more or less legal and for the most part socially acceptable and commonly practiced, but disapproved of by the Left because as a whole, they comprise effective passive resistance to the various tentacles of White Genocide. The “Bootstrap Theory,” to the extent that it assumes the possibility of freely achieved equal outcomes, is a cuckservative dodge and I don’t subscribe to it. I’ll stop “Culturally Appropriating” when they stop appropriating my land and my civilization. Deal?

Bottom of the Pyramid. The infractions listed under “Minimization” and “Indifference” represent the attitudes and behaviors of people who actively try avoid being seen as racist, even in their own eyes. So why are those things also categorized as White Supremacy? Because a number of them are done by people who are clinging to their last scrap of dignity. But as the graphic shows, conditional capitulation still damns you: We noticed, comrade, that your prostration is insufficiently enthusiastic.

I don’t bother doing the anti-racist half-measures and accommodations at the bottom of the pyramid because when it comes to the evasions listed there (“Not all White people”), most aren’t true and I don’t seek any compromise with the Left beyond tactical avoidance. That’s because I know that they are not looking for a compromise. No, Mr. Bond, we expect you to die!

So yeah, I never say “Why can’t we all just get along?” — I say “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for White children.” With the Left, you gain no mercy if you cut back on some of the 14 Words, should the enemy be in a position from which they can dispense mercy and its opposite. To so much as say one word is racist. They want you silenced, bigot.

No-win choice scenarios are scary when enforceable. This goofball Kangs Pyramid is some moron’s PowerPoint slide, a punchline. But Social Justice is a mutation of Communism, which in its Bolshevik form is an expression of Jewish totalitarianism and which isn’t known for its lighter side when it has the muscle.

In accordance with the 1940 NKVD decree in Vilnius, having a stamp collection got you and your family sent to the Gulag. In practice, people were simply rounded up. This typically involved a months-long ride in windowless, unheated, standing-room only cattle cars with one toilet bucket. Instances of derangement, frostbite, starvation, infanticide, and even cannibalism occurred. (Norman Davies, God’s Playground Vol. II, 1982 ed. pp. 447-449).

This is rightie-to-rightie talk. Don’t bother telling libs about the diabolism of Communism because they will enjoy the vicarious feeling of power. The national fissure is deep. I used to think that they are misguided (one gives those he knows latitude) but many are evil. That’s not a banal word. They have corrupt souls and one of the instances in which the evil exposes itself is when they viciously they leap at a weaker person who happens to be less liberal.

In some cases with Millennials, you can blame teenage drug use for cracking their spiritual integrity and allowing in something unclean.