Perfect Possession

Father Malachi Martin (1921 – 1999), a Roman Catholic priest and exorcist born in Ireland and later a resident of New York City, gave a series of interviews during the 1990s about what he calls the “perfect possession” and how common it is among the upper and elite classes. Below, I transcribed the entire five-minute video that’s featured at the end of this post.

FATHER MALACHI MARTIN: What has some to light… it is not so surprising to a lot of people, that there are covens amongst the very educated class. Architects, doctors, lawyers, priests, brokers and the leisure class. And they lead perfectly normal lives. They’re jewel merchants, they travel, they’re prominent in their own way, but they do have this indulgence. It is not very easy to understand except when you talk with them. When they let their hair down and peel the grapes as they say and when they’re on their way to being cured of what they — or healed, is the proper world — you find that there is an exhilaration and a satisfaction which is both sensual and sexual, and mental, when they really indulge in Luciferian worship. There is a peculiar exhilaration…

INTERVIEWER: Like a drug, then?

FR. MARTIN: Yes. It’s a peculiar exhilaration. The godly instincts in us all, the angelic in us all, because we all have something angelic and something godly besides a lot of negative things, that is quenched. And you find in them a horror, a horror, of anything we call sacred, and holy, or sacrosanct. The idea of the sacred, of the awesome… [end of that audio]

FR. MARTIN: Perfect possession is consequent on a very conscious step, a consciously taken step. It’s not something that’s implicit. The perfectly possessed, through a certain graduation, it’s a gradual thing, it’s not suddenly overnight… the devil does not appear with a scroll in the morning that says “sign this and your fifty years of happiness and then you come to Hell with me.” The Faustian picture, you know, Mephistopheles.

INTERVIEWER: Yes, Hollywood is really…

FR. MARTIN: That’s right. And Goethe’s play, and Faust… it’s not that. It’s a gradual thing where the person slowly but surely cedes… concedes, surrenders their will. Every fiber of their will and of their being. And acquiesce closely in it and are rewarded by their master — and utterly conscious! There is nothing implicit about it. It isn’t slid by them. But the total surrender and acceptance of Luciferian beings, that’s what takes place in the perfectly possessed. That is something that cannot be done implicitly or overnight, or by accident. Or be slipped into your life without you knowing it, oh no.

INTERVIEWER: Are there cases in which a possession is not obvious?

FR. MARTIN: That’s right. You know, the typical thing of somebody throwing themselves at the ground and cursing and spitting, and protesting, defecating and urinating and all sorts of — what they’re doing is protesting, saying “help me, help me.” But really, the perfectly possessed, you’ll recall, are those that are completely at peace. And I’ve known several of the perfectly possessed and I avoid them like the pest. And you know them only by almost accidental means. Sometimes… they’re perfectly normal, by the way. They have great business property, they’re married, they have children and wives, they put down responsible jobs. There is nothing wrong there. Now and again, just now and again, it’s as it were, a veil is drawn aside. And you see somebody you don’t know at all. You just don’t know this person, this man, this woman. And there is a completely alien look, a completely alien attitude and they breathe alienation. And you know them if you have a nose for it, you know then that they’re perfectly possessed so there is nothing that can be done about them.

INTERVIEWER: In other words their pact, their deal, they are at peace with and comfortable with their deal.

FR. MARTIN: That’s right. They have passed through the usual Satanist rituals too. The three Satanist rituals — the power of inflicting pain, the power of hating, and the power of burning. Fire is part of the Satanist and the Luciferian development. They’ve passed through those with flying colors.

INTERVIEWER: Father Martin talked of persons perfectly possessed by the devil. You can ignore this question, Father, if you wish. In the opinion of Father Martin, is Bill Clinton perfectly possessed?

FR. MARTIN: [brief silence] No comment.

Does Satan Always Win?

I put it this way: Satan wins and wins… and then he’s denied his kill-shot.

That’s the inspiration behind the saying “it’s always darkest before dawn.”

It’s a tempting impulse to let it all out and say “fuck the useless fat orange boomer”… yet I’m always glad to have resisted this urge to vent my frustration in that way. We all wish that he had General MacArthur reporting to him and US soldiers from the Battle of Okinawa to eradicate all communists and their orc-minions from this land. But that’s not what Trump has. So the course of this war must roll along a different terrain.

In the course of the war, the communists have gotten their opportunity to flex. We just saw this, we may see more of that to come. They aired their intentions clearly: exterminate all Whites worldwide. That no place on this planet can be sanctuary to even a remnant of us. No village in the birch forests of southeastern Poland, no fortress high in the frozen Swiss Alps, no remote hamlet in northern Alaska. The three-parentheses crowed and crowed, their twitter is a horror-display of their not-so-secret wishes for us.

They want all of us killed, or driven to suicide by way of this illusion of hopelessness that they have conjured, or to have our immediate descendants mix with something else. They are so close, they are so sure.

I don’t ask for eternal peace on Earth; that’s not possible, plus too much peace is effeminate. I only ask for an opportunity to do my part, for there to be an army I can join or if unable to joint it, to support. It’s the specter of a passive-snuffout that fills our people with despair, not the view of the battlefield in whatever form. It seems to me that this story continues because an Angel may already have tapped Satan’s gun with his wing as the attempted kill-shot was executed.

An ugly game

My Gab post yesterday:

Trump’s passive response to antifa/blm: let the fire burn out on its own. Trap avoided: Trump did not play the Reactionary Loser foil to the Peoples Juggernaut.

Current score: Tie Game.

This morning, lib authorities clean up the CHAZ monkeyhop shitshow soviet. My new Gab post:

The score is now Trump 1, Globopedo 0

It’s an ugly game and Trump is not a pretty sight.

The face mask

The corona has become another sorting-event. No one would have thought, six months ago, that one’s attitude on a face mask would be a delineation between the Slave and the Free. A casual browse of acquaintances’ social media, a casual observation of people outdoors, points to this sharp divide. The Slave is terrified of death. He yearns to obey authority figures. The Free man loathes the face mask, tries to push back thoughts about it being a muzzle-like humiliation ritual, to have to put one on at a store. I keep a scintilla of my humanity by folding a bandana into a triangle and tying it behind my head rather than having one of those face-cupping masks, which resemble the front part of men’s briefs.

The Slave fears death because he is an atheist. The Free man is nonchalant on the concept of death, especially when he’s not entirely convinced that the health-risk is real, because knows that there is a life beyond. So he sees no reason to cling to physical security past the point where personal dignity comes into play.

As the people I used to be fond of race headlong toward leftist singularity and I not just lose respect for them, I in fact find them repellent, I wonder: is all of this the nation-wreckers’ subversion to break up families and friendships, or is the Almighty giving us an opportunity to separate the wheat from the chaff. After all, the quality of my friendship with right-minded people has become even better under globohomo pressure.

Spilled blood and last year’s snow

My translation below is dedicated to stateless American patriots who were doxed, beaten, pelted with eggs, disemployed, who lost their friends and family, were driven to suicide, incarcerated, murdered, ruined over their loyalty to Donald Trump.

This is a continuation of the theme of the recent blog post: historical parallels, futility and hope. The song below is about Polish volunteers in Napoleon Bonaparte’s army who fought with him, to heavy loss of life on the Russian front, in exchange for his help in creating a free Polish state. The Emperor held up his end of the deal with the establishment of the independent Duchy of Warsaw in 1807, which lasted as long as his fortunes did.

The song’s lyrics call out his loss at the Battle of Leipzig in October 1813, and the shattered hopes in the wake of that defeat. The song’s title figure, Prince Józef Poniatowski, was one of the senior commanders under Napoleon. Present events are very much on topic.


“Prince Józef Poniatowski”

The last bridge was just blown up
To hell with it! We’ll ford the river!
We chose this fate freely
And will not wave white flags

We crossed the Vistula, we crossed the Warta,
So maybe now we’re finally Poles
[allusion to the national anthem]
The autumn’s glow dispersed the morning mist
As black eagles circle above us
[foreign coats of arms]

So few of us are left, oh well
So many brave lads among us not that long ago
But the Emperor is now losing his battles
We, as usual, cover the retreat

Once more, thanks to us they reached the other riverbank
But foreign memory is short, after all
Spilled blood and last year’s snow
Are equally valued in this world

Lift up your eyes, there is no time for lamentation
We have to find a spot to cross the water
How many more years must we do this
And add red hue to rivers’ currents?

On the walls of Leipzig the battle dust has settled
Out in the countryside an old melody plays
That he who yesterday was a Jacobin
Tomorrow will serve as the Tsar’s governor

But for us boys, the game is far from over
Because fate is inscrutable
He who endures to the very end, can win
While he who opts to genuflect today, in the end will lose

Though madmen would they call us
What we went through, no one can take away from us
He who was free even for a short time
Doesn’t afterwards regret his river-funeral in Elster!

Lyrics: Jan Czech; music: Przemyslaw Gintrowski; c.1980

Trust the plan

All that follows in this blog entry was written by Lucius Somesuch:


Tsarist Normie Middlebrow writes:

Almost forgot to check in on the Tsar’s Tashkent rally till it was too late. Hurried to click over and caught the Tsar bragging about how his strike took out Suleimain, the Ottoman Empire’s no. 2 who had been planning attacks on our brave troops in Finland where they don’t belong. BOOM! I had to check out, it was too much winning. May try to watch the whole thing later, in case he spent some time on topics that only interest kulaks. Might change my positive appraisal of his job performance if he did, but we’ll see.

Right now too many people are trying to distract the Tsar from his no. 1 job, which is stopping the Central Powers, by flipping out about the Bolsheviks rioting in Petrograd and Moscow. Sure, some Catherine the Great statues got toppled, but she’s not a real Romanov so I’m not too concerned. Also Peter the Great, but he was kind of a dick. And Alexander I, but if you think about it was stopping Napoleon from conquering Russia really the right kind of progress for Russia going forward? They’re even going after Pushkin monuments, can you believe! And he was uh, was uh, uh uh uh uh uh not a real racist.

But once you step outside the capitals, and Novgorod and Smolensk and Kiev and Kharkov and Volgograd and Gorky and Talinn and Saratov and Maikop and Grozny and also the Tsar’s supporters trying to get in at Tashkent, you’ll find that most Russians still love the Tsar. They’re just trying to get along with their daily lives, hoping their sons get back from the front and their daughters don’t get turned out on a sleighride back from dinner with their single mom’s middleaged boyfriend.

Oh and did you see that pic the Tsar tweeted last month from his library? Was that THE POSSESSED fifth volume from the right on the next-to-bottom shelf? HE (((KNOWS!!!)))

Yes, the Czarina may have too much influence. And Rasputin is a real concern. But the Tsar understands optics (that’s why he lives in the Winter Palace, which is also impregnable). He’s also read Clauswitz, or he has people around him who have. The important thing is this: the Bolsheviks WANT him to crack down hard on them. If he let them goad him into doing so, then they’d become wildly popular, because he would look weak, because people will follow a strong horse. Remember, Stalin has already been sent to prison seven times. This Tsar knows how to get things done. He’s not just gonna let people steamroll over him and his supporters. Once the Central Powers have finally been defeated, Poland has been reoccupied, and given to the Jews, then–and only then!– it will be time to send Stalin to jail for an eighth time.

Anyway, the cities are just bad anyway, we should cede them to the nihilists. Lots of wonderful land in the Ukraine and Georgia where you can settle down, keep safe, raise your kids in peace. Hell, there’s always beyond the Urals if you’re too worried–no state authority will ever reach you there!

Russia’s best days are still ahead, I just know it. Our 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s are going to be awesome. Definitely some kind of winning in there of some sort, though at what price or to whose benefit who can really guess? Russia’s got greatness left to burn through. Interesting times. Watch out for Russia, world!

Of course, even if the Tsar takes a regrettable turn toward esoteric kulaky concerns I’ll still be “pulling the lever” for him in October. Better than whatever Swiss cheese brain and mystery meat combo’s coming on the secret train, right?

Anyway, what do I know. Wait till October. In the meantime the Bolshoi’s brought Swan Lake here to Irkutsk with the Siberian Philharmonic Orchestra in tow.

They’re quite good–despite their rather bourgeois repertoire.

ARMENIAN LIVES MATTER

[post mic drop addendum]

This is venting. There may be a window after which, no matter how Carter ’80 or Bush-92 this may get, that is unhelpful. But if there is still time to help, it needs to be done.

The Suhlhemainye viewing anecdote is real. I knew vaguely before the drone strike who he was but, famously, Steve Sailer did not. I think that’s a pretty healthy indication just how irrelevant that data point is to reelecting the President. HW won a sand blitzkrieg for cryin’ out loud.

Also, while none of these toppled statues are, as far as I know, Canovas, what exactly will they be replaced by even if we get to replace them? We don’t exactly have as many middling qualified sculptors as before. I meant to include a crack about a Tsarist version of Soviet Realism. Something to the effect of “MAGA Obelisks”, perhaps in the shape of whatever sex toy Jared and Ivanka prefer to share.

Supposedly a couple thousand of the British rioters of several years back were quietly tracked by social media and facial recognition and received jail time after the fact. Okay, maybe better than nothing [except also Orwellian, when their acts in execution were worth stopping and right there for the authorites to see]. But how much further chaos did that prevent? Why should rioters be prosecuted quietly and well after the fact of their mayhem? People prefer a winning horse. The Tsar put Stalin in prison seven times. That wasn’t winning.

Historical parallels

Our online forums are exile-cafes of sanity. Books, and by that I mean older books about any given historical subject, are neglected in the daily whirl of ubiquitous-present. This occurred to me as I put down my copy of Norman Davies’ God’s Playground: a History of Poland. My two-volume edition was published in 1982 with Preface dated 1979. The time of a book’s writing imposes the partialities of its day on even the most objective writer and that’s to be appreciated as an orientation marker along the arcs of history.

God’s Playground is a Welsh scholar’s account of the thousand years of Poland’s history. It is a subject that is of interest to me, but not so much to nearly everyone in the world who is of another nationality. But to switch places, would I find it worth my while to read something about the history of some other country? Let’s say, it would be a Western country for the sake of easier drawing of parallels between its sagas and that of my own country, be it Poland or White America. The answer is Yes. Paradoxically, even more so if the unfamiliar to me history at first glance appeared to have no parallel with present concerns.

Below is an excerpt from Davies’ book, which I typed into this post. My only change is the paragraph break, added for ease of reading on a screen. I selected this passage because a particular point about it struck me as fascinating: Davies’ conclusion of how a stateless people won their longed-for independence after more than one hundred years of foreign imperial rule that included campaigns of cultural eradication. The passage I’m citing is the closing words to the book’s several chapters devoted to the 1772 – 1918 Partitions.

Invoking his authority as historian, Davies culminates his study of that era, as distinct from later ones, with a Tragic view that patriots’ sacrifices were a waste. Yet Davies also suggests that hope is not in vain. This is of interest to us, stateless Westerners today.

Final paragraph of Ch. 18 “Feniks: The Rebirth of the Polish State (1914-1918),” God’s Playground, Vol. II, page 392:


“In subsequent years, many Polish historians have assumed that the rebirth of the Polish state was the natural conclusion of the nation’s struggles during its period of Partitions. In their view, it formed the only proper, not to say the inevitable, destination of ‘the Road to Independence’. Certainly, the recent publication of popular memoirs from the First World War, such as that of a Polish soldier fighting in the ranks of the German army, reveals the extent to which ordinary Polish people were fervently yearning for the restoration of their long-lost homeland. Yet one cannot assume that the wish was necessarily the father of the deed. In actual fact, Poles were given very little opportunity to fight for their independence. All the enterprises which they undertook in this direction, including the Legions, were defeated. All the plans which were laid for the creation of a Polish state in conjunction with the Central Powers, with Russia, or with the Western allies, came to nothing. 

“The outcome of the War in the Polish lands was exactly foreseen by nobody, and in the event involved virtually no fighting. If the historian is to distinguish the achievement of national independence in November 1918 from the subsequent campaigns fought to preserve and defend that independence, he can only conclude that the wishes and actions of the Polish population were, to the very last moment, largely irrelevant. To at least one sceptical commentator, the creation of an independent Poland in 1918 was the result of ‘a fluke’. To people of a religious turn of mind, it looked like a miracle.” — Norman Davies


Present events are very much on topic.

To build

European soul. A family builds a house using mostly traditional hand-tools:

The House has been built based on the western part of Latvia – Kurland/Kurzeme (German influence) historical wooden architecture typical technique – Timber Frame construction with sliding log walls between the posts. House is two carpentry technique union – Timber Frame (that is typical in France, Germany, Great Britain, North America and other countries) and traditional Latvian log building technique, between the logs using moss from the local swamp.

Good music. Contemporary American folk, plus Latvian music in similar genre. The song that begins at 12:00 min. is in a Baltic style that has “rising harmony”, or “major notes” or whatever the term is. It’s on a northeastern European melody-substrate that’s different from that in Atlantic strains of popular music. Elements of Scandinavian, Slavic and German.

The enormity of building something is inadequately appreciated by someone who had never attempted even a small project. Measure-ten-times, cut-once is the rule for the novice. The inexperienced builder has no idea how important it is for things to be plumb and level, how an unchecked error progresses, how easy it is to ruin the whole thing in its final phase, and how important it is to slow down and not rush.

What you see at 16:35, the wreath on a cross on the roof, is the topping out ceremony. If you never heard of such a tradition, you are cut off from your roots. You can find them again because they are still there, and will be there long after you’re gone.

Fantasies of freedom

Who hadn’t, in his youth, dreamed of dropping out of the grind? Ride a motorcycle out west, something like that. In my visions there was an ill-defined little house on the Pacific coast, a hut really, drowning in broad-leaf flora. A beat-up car, and sometimes drinks at a bar with good ole boys. “Tequila Sunrise” plays somewhere in the background. There was no explanation, in that fantasy, of where money would come from. There would also be a vivacious, lithe local brunette for a girlfriend, perky tits, no bra under her tank-top.

There was this moment in my mid-twenties, I was in the US Army, stateside at that point. I got a several-days’ pass, which is merit-based freebie time-off that doesn’t count against your formal Leave balance. So I made plans with an old high school friend, who was not in the military and who had moved to central Florida, for us to meet in Pensacola to relax for a couple of days and catch up. See something new, I had never been to the Gulf Coast before.

I drove there from my Mid-Western military base, a long drive. Got there in the evening, several hours ahead of my friend, so I parked on some outskirts residential street and walked around to feast on a new landscape, hear and smell a very different world.

This area where I parked may have been close to a college or something, because there were lots of young people hanging out on their porches, having fun, music playing out of houses. Everyone was White, it was mid-1990s. I didn’t consciously keep track of that back then, but my recollection sez they all were.

The neighborhood was old houses on small lots, wooden one-story little homes with porches. Vegetation everywhere, also those tall pines you see in the Deep South. When you visit the South from a northern state, especially if you aren’t originally from the South and hadn’t spent much time there, you strongly feel the smell of whatever regional vegetation and such. Warm air, a different vibe, very pleasant.

I was tired after my long drive. It was getting dark, everyone around was partying with their neighbors. I had my own cigarettes and lighter but I was tempted to walk up to any group of those guys with girls among them and ask for a smoke or a light just to speak with someone and naturally, to be invited to hang out. Being a stranger, you sometimes get this lonely feeling out of the blue. A traveler’s mood when he’s a long way from home. Like Grendel looking into the bright distant light of Heorot and longing for fellowship. This simile came up earlier, there was disagreement on whether it’s a good or a bad one.

So as to dropping out of the grind, a thought crossed my mind that moment in Pensacola that it would be great just to quit everything and live here, in one of those cheap little houses that drown in lush subtropical flora, cicadas making a thunderous noise in the night… no work, no worries, just passing your days.

It’s not a common impulse for me, I’ve always been an energetic worker. Just a fact. Yet sometimes you dream of dropping out, or at least of there being a possibility of doing that. That feeling, which I sometimes had in my twenties, came up in circumstances when I was approaching burnout from overwork. It’s also a symptom of losing sight of the point of whatever it is you’re doing.

“It just seems so useless to have to work so hard / And nothin’ ever really seem to come from it,” go Tom Petty’s lyrics. The song’s counterpoint is his girl, who says: “We’re gonna last forever.” It’s tough to keep going as a workhorse when you don’t have a vision of forever and no vivacious, lithe local brunette.

Being a child of emigration is not entirely different from being a child of divorce. Parents sever the ties, children pay the price. That said, had I not been resettled to the New World, I’d not have been able to have those realistic fantasies of freedom.

That’s what the rainbow flag is about

A Russian PSA against homosexual adoption. There are no subtitles but they are not needed. The action: a female worker at an orphanage excitedly tells a boy that he has gotten an adoptive family. The boy is introduced to someone who says that he is his new father. The boy asks, “where is my mom?” The adult male points to his homosexual partner.

The ad is a punch in the gut.