Whose America?

The ever pertinent question: who owns America. One view, is that the USA is the rightful patrimony of descendants of colonists from the British Isles. Spirit of 1776, her legacy of liberty. Everyone else is a guest if White, or a segregated semi-autonomous relic-race if legacy American Indian or black slave. That’s a view I give credence to. It has a strong mythical force, it feels fair. It offers a sense of destiny, with Liberty at its fullest flowering. The land of the free and the home of the brave that took man to the moon.

The opposite view is that America is the land of opportunity for all of the world. If you’re smart, industrious, a born risk-taker, you’ve got a place here. Most such mythology is propagated in bad faith, but not all of it. There is a grain of truth to this. The flaw with that model though, is that it is fundamentally a parasitic vision. It’s resource-consumption where resources are painfully and manifestly finite. The Frontier closed over a century ago and there aren’t enough Nice White People, who create and maintain comfort, to go around. That, and as soon as the diversity of cultures becomes brown, it becomes depressingly ugly. And when that happens, the Nice White People either culturally collapse (People of Walmart, opioid epidemic) or they begin to Hate.

A third view of America is also driven by a sense of destiny: America is Nova Europa. An aspirational forging of a new nation from a properly measured commingling of European blood and customs. The sights of Italian heritage in urban New England are not ugly. Neither are Slavic folkways in small town Pennsylvania and Ohio. Those and other European backgrounds merged with the Anglo-Germanic folk from coast to coast and united in the English language, the Founding mythology, and Christianity.

The other pertinent question: how long will it hold together.

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A Ghey Story: Helsinki Hotel

The first of two ghey encounters from my past that make a good story, which I will relate here. No doubt you have yours.

This was about twenty years ago. I was traveling alone and had a 24-hour layover in Helsinki, which involved an overnight stay in a hotel. Though my time in that country was limited to a single day, I made the most of it. Landed in Helsinki in the morning, checked into the hotel, and right away I took a bus to the city’s center, where I walked around until evening. I wasn’t disappointed with the day. I’ve looked forward to that visit because Finland has always fascinated me, and it still does. In my preconception, I was visiting the realm of High Elves.

In a way, that’s the impression the people there made on me. Not that everyone was necessarily gracile or of noble features, but every Finn I interacted with — the hotel shuttle bus driver with whom I had a good chat, the store clerks, regular people in the streets — was young, spoke excellent English, and came across as intelligent.

I didn’t have an agenda or a list of must-see places. I just walked around, bought small stuff at convenience stores just to interact with the cashier, watched the bustling crowds of people, admired the northern architecture and the northern cast of sky. I didn’t think about that kind of stuff two decades ago, but I did make a note of the fact that everyone there was White, presumably Finnish or Swedish, as those were the only languages I heard all day in Helsinki. I don’t speak a word of either language but I can identify them by sound.

So I returned to the hotel late in the evening. I was not in the least bit tired. Instead, a thousand women danced in my fantasy. I took a shower, changed into shorts and a t-shirt, grabbed a towel and went to the hotel’s sauna. Those places are supposed to be coed in Scandinavia and I wanted to fuck a naked elf woman. Or any woman. But the sauna was cold, dark, empty. The travel caught up with me. It’s that feeling when the world suddenly feels very big.

I went back to my room, put on my street clothes, and went down to the hotel’s all-night restaurant. The place was empty, save for me and a man several tables away. I ordered a drink and lit a cigarette. Leaned back and admired the nine-story atrium. Finland really is an interesting place and you see this in every detail around you there.

After some time, the man sitting several tables away stood up and walked up to my table. A very normal-looking guy in his forties, about fifteen years older than me. Of slight built, lean face, thinning blond hair. He asked something in Swedish, gesturing toward a chair. I said OK, and he sat down. He started talking to me in Swedish, so I interrupted him and told him in English that I don’t speak that language. He paused, looked at me confused for a moment, and then resumed his effort at a conversation in the incomprehensible language.

Now feeling a bit annoyed, I asked sharply: “Do you speak English?” He shrugged that off, so I asked “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” hoping that we could at least communicate in German. Nothing. He’s still droning on in Swedish. Buzzing on my drink, equal parts irritated with this interruption of my solitude and open to a conversation after being alone all day, I took a few shots in the dark: Gavorit po russki? Czy mówi Pan po polsku? Habla usted Español? My knowledge of French is close to zero, but I even tried that: Parlez-vous Français?

Nothing. He now looks frustrated by our inability to communicate, but he’s still talking, still trying to ask me questions in Swedish. It crossed my mind to ask the waiter to interpret, but at this point I just wanted the guy gone. I told him something to that effect in English, with matching tone of voice and gesture. My food came and he went back to his own table.

The whole time, I was trying to get a read on this guy. Right away, I determined that he is not a gay. There was none of the mannerism, none of the excited glimmer in his eyes that pings the gaydar. He was definitely not drunk or high. I didn’t pick up on anything that would clue me in to why he’d persist in talking to me in a language that I clearly did not understand. I still have no idea what that was about.

The second ghey story is about lezzie lassies on a train.

Tested when not expecting it

In the news clip that Camlost forwarded, three friends on a spring break trip are (ineptly) held up by two armed blacks:

Two of them fight off the attackers. The third one freezes up during the scuffle, keeping his hands up the entire time. Can’t freeze up like that when your friends need your help. “He’ll have to live w/ that now. For, oh, the rest of his life.” — Suburban_elk

He was tested when he least expected it. He failed. But he’s young and he can use that experience as a wake-up call. Two qualities of character — situational awareness and indifference to one’s own life in clutch moments — will be valuable in the Fiery Twenties. He will live this video down when one day he protects his family.

Physical Bravery and Young Age analyzes the conditions under which a civilization’s young men are ready for war, and conditions under which they are not.

Some men are soft because they never got into a fight in their formative age, thus they never stood up to their fear. Maybe his two friends, the ones who attacked the gunmen and won, had their share of fights. I was once at that crossroads, described here. It was schooldays stuff, but I gave a punch and took a punch to the face. It was a rite of passage.

Nightsong (2 of 2)

Question: why did God create intelligent man? A guess: He wants someone around who’s capable of appreciating His Creation.

An evening hymn. Written by Romantic poet Franciszek Karpiński (1741 – 1825). Here it is performed by the legendary bass-baritone Bernard Ładysz, who is backed by what sounds like a church choir. A really nice performance. Feels like you’re there. My translation is true to the original meter.

(The second couplet of each verse repeats once.)

Wszystkie nasze dzienne sprawy / All of Our Daily Matters

Wszystkie nasze dzienne sprawy / All of our daily matters
przyjm litośnie Boże prawy / Keep with mercy, righteous Father
A gdy będziem zasypiali / And when sleep time comes upon us
niech Cię nawet sen nasz chwali / In our dreams we’ll glorify You

Twoje oczy obrócone / Your eyes turned and ever watchful
dzień i noc patrzą w tę stronę / Day and night in our direction
Gdzie niedołężność człowieka / Where the frailty of mankind
Twojego ratunku czeka / Stands awaiting Your salvation

Odwracaj nocne przygody / Turn away the nightly perils
Od wszelakiej broń nas szkody / And protect us from all evils
Miej nas zawsze w swojej pieczy / Have us always in Your safeguard
Stróżu i Sędzio człowieczy / Guardian, Judge to all of mankind

A gdy już niebo osiędziem / And when we ascend to Heaven
Tobie wspólnie śpiewać będziem / We shall sing to You together
Boże w Trójcy niepojęty / God in Trinity unfathomed
Święty, na wiek wieków Święty / Forever and ever Holy

Two Nightsongs (1 of 2)

Back in my Facebook-using days, I reconnected with a girl from high school. To be honest, I wasn’t surprised to see that after 20 years, the pixie became an SJW. A razor-lipped patrician though, not a bluehair plebeian. I unfriended her after seeing one too many of her anti-racist posts, but one thing she wrote stayed with me: “Lesbian families are the least likely to abuse their children.” That’s a tautological lie at the very least. Depriving the child of a father is abuse.

Among the the most toxic households are those of single or divorced mothers and their rotating roster of boyfriends. The child is always safest with his or her biological father.

The lullaby. Composed and performed by Przemysław Gintrowski for the 1995 movie Tato (Dad). IMDB plot summary: “A father, who is in the middle of a brutal custody battle with his mentally ill wife, fights relentlessly for the right to take care of his 7-year-old daughter.” From the soundtrack, a bedtime song:

Tylko Kołysanka / Just a Lullaby

Tylko śpij i aż śpij / Now close your eyes and sleep
A mnie prowadź tam / And let me go with you
Tam gdzie jesteś / Wherever you are
Chcę być tam gdzie ty / I want to be there with you

W niebie, czemu nie / In heaven, why not
W piekle aż na dnie / In hell, even at its very bottom
Będę wszędzie, wszędzie będę / I’ll be everywhere, everywhere
Czy to ważne gdzie to będzie / Does it matter where that may be

Więc przytul się i śpij / So cuddle up and sleep
Tylko czas nie chodzi spać / Only time doesn’t go to bed
Bo ma czas, jest twardy / Because he has time, he is tough
O tak jak głaz / Oh, like a stone

Jutro zbudzisz dzień / Tomorrow you’ll wake up the day
Jutro ja twój cień / Tomorrow I’m your shade
Będę wszędzie, wszędzie będę / I’ll be everywhere, everywhere
Nawet, gdy mnie już nie będzie / Even after I’m gone

Tylko śpij i aż śpij / Now close your eyes and sleep
Wniebowzięty chór / A heavenly choir
Wszystkich świętych / Of all the saints
Patrzy na nas w dół / Is looking down upon us

A to tylko ty / And here it’s only you
A to tylko ja / And here it’s only me
Ty maleństwo niepojęte / You, amazing little one
Boże życie bywa piękne / God, life can be beautiful

Już przytul się i śpij / Now cuddle up and sleep
Czekolady pełna noc / A night like chocolate
Gwiazdy jak cukierki / Stars like candy
Ech czas je zdjąć / Eh, time to turn them off

Jutro obudź dzień / Tomorrow, tell the day to rise
Jutro ja twój cień / Tomorrow, I’m your shade
Będę wszędzie, wszędzie będę / I’ll be everywhere, everywhere
Nawet, gdy mnie już… / Even after I’m…

Two Fine Things

“Well there’s only two things in life that make it worth livin’ / It’s a good nationalist video and hair braided on women.” — not Waylon Jennings

Serbs making rap not-suck. With its aspirational scene of nationalists and policemen embracing one another, the video raises two questions: will Trump drain the swamp; will the French military side with the Gilets Jaunes. The English-subtitled lyrics make a good anthem:

These work to make you lose your identity
to make you an obedient, rotting mediocrity

But you kept quiet, believed, hoped, voted
Now you can’t believe where you’ve ended up
That’s why you need to pull away
When you’re hurting say it out loud
You’re not bound to the bank, but to your children!

Examples of undercover pro-White signalling: a while back there was talk of wearing something white every 14th day of the month. And there is the OK hand gesture but that might get you SWAT’ed at 3 in the morning, so be careful. As to women’s patriotic style, TexasVet posts the photo below and comments:

Pro white trad women need to start braiding their hair so that we can recognize them in public. It will let us know to be protective of you. It will also let us know that you are the type of woman we would want to get to know. Think of how many pro white couples we could create if our women all started doing this.

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The Numbers

“Lies, damned lies, and statistics.”

“Numbers don’t lie.”

Which of the two quips is true of Ann Coulter’s March 13th column, Trump by the Numbers?

I haven’t written off this administration. Four reasons for that. One: his appearance on the primaries scene in 2015 that humiliated the ruling class and their cuckservative collaborators. Two: his astounding, and some would say providential, 2016 election victory that inspired the world. With the perspective of time, those two things alone will be understood as revolutionary. Three: I don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes, which is where the real action’s at. It’s impossible to tell whether Trump is beaten or selling out, or dismantling the enemy’s infrastructure, or playing possum, or buying off the adversary. Opinions are abundant but those are just opinions. Four: his first term isn’t over yet. The overthrowing of predatory globalism isn’t over yet. The 21st century has barely begun.

On the other hand, morale is low. See Ann Coulter’s numbers. A normal person cannot listen to his leader call for more legal immigration and not lose some of his faith in the future. The United States is observably becoming more, not less, invaded. It’s a testament to the malaise, that the only event over the past year to disspell Western man’s despair over his destiny, to alleviate his feeling of political impotence, to pump a shot of testosterone into his veins, was the past weekend’s operation on the opposite side of the world.