The Great Tradeoff

Eastern European commenter ‘Passerby’ validates my wistful reminiscences of having marched in two Communist May Day parades in Warsaw, one in 1978 with my elementary school class and one in ’79 with my dad and his coworkers, for whom participating was mandatory:

Communism was not supporting social liberalism and identity politics. Our communism was about the rich vs the poor. For some reason it protected EE from liberalism. In some ways, communism was traditional.

The West’s “communism” is about women vs men and minorities vs whites. With us, it was about “equality” between rich and poor. With them, it is about gender equality and racial equality.

I remember the first time i heard about “racial equality” from western media. I immediately thought, my God, these people already have communism (a different type), but they did not even know it. It is there already!

Equality was the catch word. I heard “equality” many times by communists, so i can smell the same thing happening in the West. They both have the same source, but communism was different than the left in the West now.

The communists saw liberalism and identity politics as something that weakens society. So they were against drugs, LGBT, sexualisation of society, and were natalists, trying to support higher birth rate. They also did not support immigration.

In key ways, communism was traditional. This praise necessarily glosses over a lot of villainy under communism but I’ve seen far worse in the Free World. The political atmosphere in the east varied by country and things were brutal in Poland through a decade after WWII. Stalinism was a reign of terror, but by the late ’60s the judeostalinist old guard had been purged.

There is always a tradeoff between short-term vs long-term orientation in economics. The economic repressions and counterproductive incentives of Soviet Block communism were, at least in their effect, an effort on the leaders’ part to think long-term, given the fatal attractiveness of free market economies just to the west of us. Socialism is its own bag of tradeoffs. Done in the national spirit, it serves traditional ends. Done the way we see around us now, it’s a White Pays, Mud Plays clownworld.

Free market economy devolves to a race to the bottom of short-term profit mentality. Everything’s for sale — from that patch of woods next to your neighborhood, to children’s innocence, to the very future of our people.

The West, from behind the Iron Curtain, looked like freedom from behind prison bars. But the West was being set up. Crank up the credit, channel the European creative spirit toward economic productivity… create this flower-garden and then release global vermin upon it.

May Day Parade 1975 in the video below: first you see the Communist Party leaders march, then yesteryear’s war veterans, then kids and youths and university students to inspiring effect. Man, it’s so easy to long for that world.

PS: it might seem that I’m looking back, but I’m in fact thinking about the future. To contemplate socialism today is to anticipate alternatives to metaphorical and literal cannibalism of our nations.

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The Infection

Untitled, written by Lucius Somesuch:


You turned on the latest news from
Some benighted Western land
Where they welcome Moor and Arab
Upon their fabled golden sand
And in the town where sin aspired
First to raise Reason as a God
The storied Lady’s burning
To the smiles of darkling mob.
Oh the pulse it starts a pacing
As you soak in the sorry view:
Don’t you think the time is ripe yet
To shoo the black and gag the Jew?

Old Jefferson and Brutus
Show how to die or live
But the vision from the Talmud
Tends to put you in a bib
Your ideals so Medieval
They say it’s time they burn
And the Prophet hailed from Mecca
In your shrines deserves his turn.
May you appeal to the authorities?
Macron’s just there to cruise
The next exit’s round the corner:
Shoo the blacks and gag the Jews.

You can peruse the gypsy’s globe
Searching out your fate
But Bill Kristol says the synagogue
Comes first, which ends debate
The gay shepherd who asks the questions
Your anxious answer swift retires
If you bleat about the import
Of so many recent fires.
Don’t look like you get a say, boy
And the browns will beat you blue
If you make polite demurral
So shoo the black and gag the Jew.

You’ve heard the goodly promise
That you’re dear to mighty God
And shall rise again in glory
Though today you live a sod
But every hour the wicked burden
Wears another notch in your knee
Soon your sons will crawl on all fours
Your girls lost to history
Tomorrow won’t break brighter
Long as you’re beset by the devil’s crew
Cry havoc and kick the dogs out
Shoo the black and gag the Jew.

—–

Libertà

There will be a time for war anthems but that time isn’t now. “Libertà” is a 1987 song from the second-greatest pop act of all time. Looking at the very serious faces of Al Bano and Romina Power, their performance is more fitting today’s mood than that of the 1980s. The preternaturally gorgeous Romina is just starting to show her years.

Liberty is when our land and our future are ours, and ours only. The song expresses the sadness before the hate. My imperfect translation from Italian:


Verse 1

Scende la sera sulle spalle di un uomo che se ne va
Oltre la notte, nel suo cuore un segreto si porterà.
Tra case e chiese una donna sta cercando chi non c’è più
E nel tuo nome quanta gente non tornerà.

A man walks away in the evening’s light
His heart carries the night and its secret
In homes and churches a woman searches for someone who’s gone
How many will perish in your name


Chorus:

Libertà, quanti hai fatto piangere 
Senza te quanta solitudine 
Fino a che avrà un senso vivere 
Io vivrò per avere te
Libertà, quando un coro s’alzerà 
Canterà per avere te 

Liberty, how many have cried out for you
Forsaken without you
So long as life makes sense
I shall search for you
Liberty, the rising choirs 
Will sing of having you


Verse 2

C’è “carta bianca” sul dolore e sulla pelle degli uomini.
Cresce ogni giorno il cinismo nei confronti degli umili.
Ma nasce un sole nella notte e nel cuore dei deboli
E dal silenzio un’amore rinascerà.
(Cercando te)

Into oblivion fall human lives and pain
Cynicism, not humility, grows each day.
But the sun will rise in the night and in the hearts of the weak
And in that silence love will be reborn.
(Searching for you!)

[Chorus outtro]

Articles in which I previously featured this musical duo:

Idle Thoughts: Songs About The City At Night

The city at night casts a spell over the young heart.

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Survivor,  The Search is Over. Summer of 1984. I was in my early teens. My friend Dave’s dad took me and two other boys from the neighborhood to an Orioles game. For any baseball buff readers, that was at the old Memorial Stadium. Afterwards, he took us all out for pizza. The long, exciting day turned into an evening, which turned into a late evening, so energies ebbed during our long ride back home and we didn’t talk in the car. Just listened to the radio as Dave’s dad played it loudly. A new song came on and I liked the melody. A line caught my attention:

You’ll know certain the man I really am

What could I then, in the twilight between being a boy and a man, make of those words? The first impulse was to identify with the speaker: yeah baby, that’s me! But then a thought came: what kind of a man am I anyway? It was less words, and more abstract mental images that pointed toward the existence of, but not revealing, this ideal called “manhood” and my measure relative to that ideal. As an adolescent, I had already acquitted myself well. “But what about in the future,” I asked myself on that silent ride home.

First it was a mystery, then it was a journey, and now I’m in the driver’s seat.

The video shows the hero on his journey. He leaves his woman alone in bed and wanders the city at night. He visits a pool hall, which in that day represented men’s world. A world of cynicism, but also freedom. She calls him there, he won’t take her call. He knows that to complete his journey, he needs to complete his passage through the underworld.

He continues walking alone through night, reminiscing of his past pleasures, such as when his band-mate pulled up to him with two lovely, eager groupies. Cut to present time, he’s in that same spot alone at night. Just him and the city night.

He then recalls a time with his woman, and another friend pulling up on a motorcycle. A good woman grants her man the time to find his destiny, which she knows is with her. You see that strength, tinged with a mix of pain and hope, at 2:40 as she waits for him on that overpass. That’s the face of a woman in love and that’s his home at the end of his journey.

I once met a man near the end of his journey. This was in the early 1990s at a shopping center parking lot. I was meeting a groups of friends, including this feral minx I ended up banging. An older man, parked next to me, gets out of his car as I get out of mine. He was a heavyset fellow, wearing office slacks and a partly untucked blue shirt hanging over his belt. He asks: “How old are you, young man?” I told him I’m twenty-two. He grimaces, still looking at me and says with a shaking voice: “I’m 67…” then he starts to cry and continues, “I thought that at my age I was supposed to have it all figured out but it’s not at all like that…” and he breaks down sobbing.

I said “I’m sure it’s gonna be okay, sir” and looked at him a moment longer. Then I walked away, pumped up with anticipation.

Then good luck, it finally struck
Like lighting from the blue

Everyone gets that stroke of good luck, right?

George Michael, Father Figure. The song and the video are Gothic American art like the Brooklyn Bridge. Like an Edgar Allan Poe story.

“Greet me with the eyes of a child.” “Put your tiny hand in mine.” Creepy lyrics? It’s whatever you want them to be. That’s what it’s like between a man and a woman. When a woman loves you, that’s how she is sometimes: like a little girl.

In my immature teens, the song was a wild promise and the video even more so. It invoked the hiss of a snake from a Jim Morrison poem. “Sometimes love can be mistaken for a crime” — Gothic American art.

Loverboy, This Could be the Night

I’ve been down the streets of desire
Sometimes I was so uninspired

Neonatal genital reduction assignment for boys. Born in Europe, I wasn’t marked that way at birth. The self-consciousness of being different in America ended for me after a woman moaned oh my god it feels so much better going in. It’s a personal subject with very social ramifications: sexual morality is never a matter of private choice; there is the accepted way and the deviant way.

Nightcall is a song by French electro-house artist Vincent Belorgey, stage name Kavinsky. There is the city at night in this video, but no girls. Men’s world.

There’s something inside you, it’s hard to explain
They’re talking about you boy, but you’re still the same

A getaway driver works his way through Los Angeles and melts into a sea of normies to evade police. With the tracking technology in phones and newer cars, White freedom fighters will certainly invent a bigger mouse to beat globohomo’s mouse trap. But whatever happens — and it will happen — the fundamentals never change: like in the video, it’s about decisiveness and sang-froid when in the driver’s seat.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” (M.M.)

New Murdoch Murdoch, “Face the Strange.” These are all archived at cheekyvideos.net, as YouTube will take it down soon.

This one ties together the N.Z. shooting (off-screen and not named as such) and Trump’s latest. The theme of the episode: not knowing what to think about anything anymore. Dr. Murdoch has a few helpful words for his friends about that.

In a subplot, Murdoch walks around the city and meets an eleven-year-old girl who speaks with a Swedish accent. They spend some time in a park looking at clouds in a profoundly moving scene set to Debussy’s Clair de Lune. You know who she is. Ebba Åkerlund, who was partially deaf, was murdered by the Swedish government exactly two years ago.

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Ghey Tales 2: Sapphic Slip

The previous ghey story is here. I might make a series of these, with all of my anecdotal material. No homo.

This happened several years ago on a morning commuter train ride. Human memory for detail is capricious, and in this case I remember what everyone involved was wearing. The dramatis personæ in this story are me and two women, in their mid-twenties, who were facing me in the opposite seat. Oh, they were a lesbian couple, which was obvious. I wore dress pants, a white shirt and a tie, and a long, open black wool coat. The seat next to me was empty, so I sat comfortably doing a newspaper crossword puzzle. A description of the two girls is also key to fully characterizing the three-way dynamic that was about to develop among us.

The two were a classic butch-femme couple, with a twist. The man-role partnerette wore suit-pants and a modest white blouse. Let’s call her “Ellen” on account of her resemblance to the showbiz personality, except younger and with a better face. I’ll add that there was an air of benevolent intelligence about her. She spoke with a husky voice, consistent with her butch presentation. I’m not attracted to mannish women, even less so if they are lesbian, but I found myself non-sexually liking her.

The femme wore a long, orange dress with a white floral pattern. In contrast with the crisp, in-control vibe of her girlfriend, this one was a mess. Let’s call her “Splotchy Sue.” Imagine a wreck of a young woman — needy, insecure, fidgety, with darting little passive-aggressive eyes — and that’s her. She wasn’t bad-looking as far as her potential was concerned, but her skin had an unhealthy, ruddy quality. She was thin, but with no muscle tone. Long auburn hair that hadn’t been touched by shampoo in months. I don’t think she liked me.

Technically, we didn’t communicate, as we said nothing to each other. Hadn’t even made eye contact. I was there with my newspaper, they carried a soft conversation, barely audible over the steady rattle of the train. I didn’t look at them beyond the natural, blank, disinterested glance one gives people immediately in front of him. They just as indifferently looked at me as they faced forward.

The point of this story, though, is that communication is subliminal. I was aware of their physical presence and of their conversation. They were aware of my physical presence and of the fact that I could hear them talk. Such are the signals that human beings, as social creatures, send and receive on a subolfactory level. But Splotchy Sue shifted things into second gear because she really didn’t like me. Maybe I was her platonic ideal of a privileged White Male Republican, a youngish and arrogant one at that. Or maybe I reminded her of the Chad who indubitably once made her his passing plaything and in doing so, sealed her fate as henceforth broken. That is, by they way, why some women become lesbian — the sweet formative pain that imprinted upon them the essence of man makes all other men disgusting by comparison.

Splotchy Sue was trying to get under my skin. This was evident in her shift of conversation with her partner from the mundane to the political. Left wing talking points, in case you were wondering. I don’t remember the specific subjects that she brought up, except that she delivered them like a bad actress reading her lines. Communication is subliminal, and if I were an aura-reader, I’d see a hostile, crimson glow around her, darkening. I did “see” it on the hormonal level. That sad, slovenly girl wanted to hurt me.

All of this made Ellen uncomfortable because there was absolutely no such vibe of unfriendliness between me and her. In fact, we each regarded the other as someone that would be cool to have a drink with.

Splotchy Sue piled it on. Ever so innocently, ever so cringe. Ellen shifted uncomfortably in her seat and feebly essayed to snuff out each of her partner’s new apropos-of-nothing political statements. Anything to make the Sloppy One quit embarrassing her. Even worse than Splotchy Sue’s statements, were her questions. “Don’t you agree that [social justice item X] is important?” Frankly, I don’t think I’ve ever previously or since witnessed a more blatant case of someone trying to get under another person’s skin, mine.

There was nothing for me to say, it was their conversation. But it was obvious that I knew that they knew that I knew that I am listening with detached amusement, along with a tinge of commiseration with Ellen, who was visibly feeling awkward.

Splotchy Sue was unsatisfied with the results of her efforts at poking me. So she slammed it all the way to fifth gear. The bitch meant business. She made a hard turn toward a gay-related subject. Ellen meekly, pleadingly humored her and replied with the briefest platitude possible. The subliminal communication among the three of us was now at deafening volume.

Splotchy Sue goes for the kill: “If I were straight, I could see myself being very attracted to African-American men.”

Ellen’s eyes popped out. If she were sipping on coffee, she’d have sprayed it all over our seats. She grasped for composure, stammering out syllables that didn’t form words.

Similarly blindsided, I looked up from my newspaper, for the first time getting a good look at the two girls. Splotchy Sue glowed triumphant. Ellen, whose face had turned a deep shade of red (she had lovely skin, by the way), made eye contact with me. I couldn’t help myself, and smiled. She did the same. We didn’t burst out laughing but it was a close one.