The Red Guards Are In A Hurry

Lucius Somesuch puts things in context:

We have to make peace with the fact that we’ve been living under perpetual Red Guard siege since the historical Red Guards. Perhaps only now is it reaching the fever-pitch of a true totalitarianism (harmless and non-threatening videos questioning the Florida narrative removed from youtube for ‘bullying and harassment’; the little Antichrist “David Hogg” openly mocking “conspiracy theorists” in that “nah that’s cool yo” way), with full Gramsci Project control of media and academe – “Tell us how diversity has made your life better”. Endless struggle-sessions, endorsed by “capitalist” corporations. A landslide-elected President forced essentially to govern under occupation by a parallel, unconstitutional and seditious “government” doing its own thing, instantly freezing his every initiative, regardless of his complete and unambiguous constitutional prerogatives.

But from the time America’s kids started smoking grass and “dropping” “acid” (horrible thing), we certainly have been spiraling toward collective insanity. And earlier, when the childish specious nonsense “I haff uh draim!” was treated as an actual argument for something.

In Godard’s “La Chinoise” the heroine complains that college exams are “racist” because they “privilege” full time students at the expense of part-time students. That was 1967. Alas, we still need much more than the midterms to turn this boat around!

Finding out that little mischling kike shit crisis faggot David Thorn Hogg and exposing After School Shooting Theatre would be a good start. “Q Anon” be damned–America MUST HAVE the total epistemic crisis of faith in institutions and “reality” demanded by the fact we’ve been Satanically Matrixed into this madhouse. 9-11 was a Jewish job! The Holocaust didn’t happen! Sandy Hook didn’t happen! The moon landing– who knows yet? Let TRUTH rain down, and the Judeo-nog alliance fall.

And yes, make our sons’ penises great again. Outlaw circumcision!

***

Back to me (PA). The Red Guards are in a hurry. It’s do-or-die for them. The Beast howls for censorship:

HCL2

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What Else Have We Learned?

What have we learned? Suburban_elk reflects:

***

There’s a great promo line. Reminds of the scene from the all time cop buddy movie, before Mel got red pilled and was in it to win it with apeface Glover, and the blond creep baddie South African [but of course] was asked nicely by his boss, to step back onto the tarp to have his head shot out.

The [AltRight] tells the story of how we got jewed. We were jewed full throttle in the 80s — and didn’t even know it.

We were jewed but with a coherent culture. It was mostly movies and television.

We didn’t know what it really meant, to be jewed. We thought it merely meant to get shorted on a deal.

There was a discount movie theatre that had a two-dollar Tuesday jew night where they would play the big shows on their second run. I can’t recall the theatre’s name but it was a relic from the 50s. Now it is a walmart and or starbucks.

We used to call it jew night. Around town it was referred to as such. More innocent times. The 80s.

It is interesting to draw the distinction that the 80s were not necessarily more innocent across the world, and that it is an easy mistake to make, confusing the arc of one’s own life and generation with the larger world.

However, making making that connection (between those two arcs) is in fact something. What is the connection, between one’s own times (and life) and history?

We were jewed. And now every bit of cultural transmission that doesn’t include that aspect is irrelevant or more accurately, another vector of it.

Remember that show Northern Exposure. More recently i found out it was created by none other than David Chase and so thought maybe to watch it. Well the pilot makes clear the central theme. It’s the jew among the goyim. It is not even implicit. That theme is set out explicitly in the first few beats of the pilot. The jew doctor has to establish himself among the scary white-skinned goy bears in the woods. And he makes good and with the sweet juicy short hair pilot bitch from Michigan, who come to think of it is a stand in for Diane Keaton and Woody Allen.

That was the biggest hit of its day early 90s whenever, and that was it’s primary character arc theme. And which theme passed without comment.

We were supposed to identify with Dr Fleischman.

David Chase certainly did.

***

Aprt1

From “Lethal Weapon 2”

“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.

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, so 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.

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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: