“Maybe In One Hundred Years”

This 1982 ballad by the band Budka Suflera is considered to be the greatest Polish rock song. Its title “Jolka, Jolka” (Julie, Julie) recalls the speaker’s youthful affair and is based on real events. The themes in the song:

  • The wildness of youth, the fading of feeling with age
  • The bottle
  • Austerity
  • The downside of petit-bourgeois aspirations
  • A foreshadowing of Merkel’s 2015 migrant invasion (sort of)
  • The scale of centuries, glimpsed during a solar eclipse

My English translation is line-by-line with the original so you can sing along. It’s easy, the pronunciation is mostly phonetic.

***

Jolka, Jolka, pamiętasz lato ze snu / Julie, Julie, do you remember that dream-summer
Gdy pisałaś: “tak mi źle  / When you used to write: “I’m miserable
Urwij się choćby zaraz, coś ze mną zrób / Come now, do something with me
Nie zostawiaj tu samej, o nie”  / Don’t leave me here alone, oh no.”

Żebrząc wciąż o benzynę, gnałem przez noc  / Begging for gas money, I raced through the night
Silnik rzęził ostatkiem sił  / The engine groaned with its last bit of strength
Aby być znowu w Tobie, śmiać się i kląć  / To be in you again, to laugh and to swear
Wszystko było tak proste w te dni  / Everything was so simple those days

Dziecko spało za ścianą, czujne jak ptak / The child slept in the other room, alert like a bird
Niechaj Bóg wyprostuje mu sny!  / May God sweeten his dreams!
Powiedziałaś, że nigdy, że nigdy aż tak  / You told me that never, ever since
słodkie były, jak krew Twoje łzy  / Were your tears so sweet like blood

REFRAIN:
Emigrowałem z objęć Twych nad ranem  / I emigrated from your arms by dawn

Dzień mnie wyganiał, nocą znów wracałem  / The day drove me out, by night I came back
Dane nam było, słońca zaćmienie  / Destiny gave us the eclipse of the sun
Następne będzie, może za sto lat  / The next one will happen, maybe in one hundred years

Plażą szły zakonnice, a słońce w dół  / On the beach walked the nuns, the sun going down
Wciąż spadało nie mogąc spaść  / It kept falling, unable to fall
Mąż tam w świecie za funtem, odkładał funt  / Your husband abroad saved every last Pound
Na Toyotę przepiękną, aż strach  / For a Toyota so beautiful, it hurts

Mąż Twój wielbił porządek i pełne szkło  / Your husband loved order and a full glass
Narzeczoną miał kiedyś, jak sen  / He once had a fiancée like a dream
Z autobusem Arabów zdradziła go  / With a bus full of Arabs she betrayed him
Nigdy nie był już sobą, o nie  / He was never himself again, oh no

[Refrain]

W wielkiej żyliśmy wannie i rzadko tak  / We lived in a big tub and so rarely
Wypełzaliśmy na suchy ląd  / Did we crawl onto dry land
Czarodziejka gorzałka tańczyła w nas  / The witch from the bottle danced in us
Meta była o dwa kroki stąd  / The finish-line was two steps away

Nie wiem ciągle dlaczego zaczęło się tak  / I still don’t know why it started that way
Czemu zgasło – też nie wie nikt  / Why it faded – no one knows either
Są wciąż różne koło mnie, nie budzę się sam  / There are many with me, I don’t wake up alone
Ale nic nie jest proste w te dni  / But nothing is simple these days

[Outtro]

Lyrics: Marek Dutkiewicz; music: Romuald Lipko

Open thread.

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Human Suffering And God

The unthinkable recently happened to a high school teammate of mine. You also may have read about the three-year-old Afrikaner girl who was crucified to a kitchen table and raped by blacks. The old question, if God is all-powerful and all-good, how does one account for human suffering? Over at Chateau Heartiste, Greg Eliot explains:

Satan, and then Adam and Eve, basically told God “We don’t need you, we can figure out things for ourselves, and rule ourselves… so don’t tell us what to do!”

Sound familiar.

God says, within reason, “Okay, you asked for it and you got it… good and hard. See how far you get with Satan’s advice.” (Hint: the book of Job is a good microcosm, which you may dismiss as a cruel thing for God to do on a “gentleman’s bet”, but when you are accused of not being able to have your own Creation love you of their own free will, and before the entire assembly of angels and demons, that’s a challenge that can’t go unanswered… remember, Satan already swayed one-third of the angels to go his way.)

So Mankind and Satan’s challenge has and will go on for whatever time is needed to convince all and sundry that God is indeed needed and worthy of the love and devotion of His Creation. But free will, as true free will, does put (for lack of a better word) constraints on what would be considered a fair trial and true justice.

So any cruel indifference (in Man’s eyes) is that of his own doing… like telling a parent to “fuck off!” and then whining afterward about “why didn’t you protect me!”

As in Job, God is going to make-up for all the suffering Satan has administered, and in a big way, so that these earthly travails over the past thousands of years will be like a distant memory of some childhood illness, grievous at the time, but as an adult barely remembered.

Now one may rightfully ask “When, Oh Lord?”, but He has His timeline and His reasons, which we may not always understand or even accept. But when the Judgment comes, it has to be so that no man nor demon nor angel can rightfully say that they didn’t get a square chance to prove they could rule themselves.

Accept this synopsis, which deserves much discussion and further elaboration, or dismiss it… namely, choose this day whom you will serve.

***

The song below was originally recorded in 1985. It all hangs on a thin string, which is why gratitude is the only proper way to relate to life, regardless of your lot. It helps to repeat that.

That’s a woman’s song. The pathos is female. For a man, there is silence in the abyss of his thoughts, and then acting toward redemption. My translation:

Zamiast / Instead of… – Edyta Geppert

Ty, Panie tyle czasu masz / Thou, Lord, you have so much time
mieszkanie w chmurach i błękicie / Up in your home in the clouds and azure
A ja na głowie mnóstwo spraw / While I have so much on my mind
I na to wszystko jedno życie. / And just one life to deal with all of it.

A skoro wszystko lepiej wiesz / But since you know everything better
Bo patrzysz na nas z lotu ptaka / Because you see us from above
To powiedz czemu tak mi jest, / Tell me why
Że czasem tylko siąść i płakać / Sometimes I just want to sit and cry

Ja się nie skarżę na swój los / I don’t complain of my lot
Potulna jestem jak baranek / I am meek like a lamb
I tylko mam nadzieję, że… / And I just hope that…
że chyba wiesz, co robisz, Panie. / That you know what are you doing, Lord.

Ile mam grzechów? któż to wie… / How many sins do I have? who knows …
A do liczenia nie mam głowy / I’m bad at counting
Wszystkie darujesz mi i tak / All of them you will forgive me anyway
Nie jesteś przecież drobiazgowy / Because you are not petty

Lecz czemu mnie do raju bram / But why, to heaven’s gates
Prowadzisz drogą taką krętą / Do you lead me up such a winding road
I czemu wciąż doświadczasz tak / And why do you keep on
Jak gdybyś chciał uczynić świętą. / As though you wanted to make me a saint.

Nie chcę się skarżyć na swój los / I don’t complain of my lot
Nie proszę więcej, niż dać możesz / I do not ask for more than you can give me
I ciągle mam nadzieję, że… / And I still hope that…
Że chyba wiesz, co robisz, Boże. / That you know what you are doing, God.

To życie minie jak zły sen / This life will pass like a bad dream
Jak tragifarsa, komediodramat / Like a tragicomedy, farce and drama
A gdy się zbudzę, westchnę – cóż / And when I awake, I will sigh – well
To wszystko było chyba… zamiast / Perhaps all of it was… instead of

Lecz póki co w zamęcie trwam / But for now I remain in turmoil
Liczę na palcach lata szare / I count the gray years on my fingers
I tylko czasem przemknie myśl / And at moments a thought passes
Przecież nie jestem tu za karę. / That after all, I’m not being punished.

Dziś czuję się, jak mrówka gdy / Today I feel like an ant when
Czyjś but tratuje jej mrowisko / Someone’s boot tramples her anthill.
Czemu mi dałeś wiarę w cud / Why did you give me faith in miracles
A potem odebrałeś wszystko. / And then took everything away.

Nie chcę się skarżyć na swój los / I don’t complain of my lot
Choć wiem, jak będzie jutro rano / Though I can’t vouch for tomorrow morning
Tyle powiedzieć chciałam ci / That’s all I wanted to tell you
Zamiast… pacierza na dobranoc / Instead of… a bedtime prayer

(Lyrics: Magdalena Czapińska. Music: Włodzimierz Korcz.)

Idle Thoughts On A Pop Ballad

This will be a bit free-form. The thirty-year-old artist Anna Jantar was survived by her baby daughter who also went on to became a pop singer. From Infogalactic, on the March 14, 1980 airplane crash:

On its final flight, the aircraft was piloted by Captain Paweł Lipowczan and First Officer Tadeusz Łochocki. Flight 007 … from [New York] Kennedy International Airport … was approaching [Warsaw] Okęcie Airport at 11:13 local time. During their final approach, about one minute before the landing, the crew reported to Okęcie Air Traffic Control that the landing gear indicator light was not operating, and that they would go-around and allow the flight engineer to check if it was caused by a burnt-out fuse or light bulb, or if there was actually some problem with the gears deploying…

Nine seconds later, the aircraft suddenly entered a steep dive. At 11:14:35, after 26 seconds of uncontrolled descent, the aircraft clipped a tree with its right wing and impacted the ice-covered moat of a 19th-century military fortress with the speed of about 380 km/h (238 mph) at a 20-degree down angle, 950 meters away from the runway threshold and 100 meters from a residential area.

At the last moment Captain Paweł Lipowczan, using nothing but the plane’s ailerons, managed to avoid hitting a correctional facility for teenagers…

I’m familiar with that correctional facility from childhood visits. I looked it up now, and it looks the same, it’s still a center for teens with drug addiction and criminal problems.

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Continuing with the Infogalactic article about the airplane crash:

Among the 87 fatalities were Polish singer Anna Jantar, American ethnomusicologist Alan P. Merriam, six Polish students returning home from an AIESEC conference in New York and a contingent of the U.S. amateur boxing team. According to the doctors who arrived at the scene, many of the passengers were apparently asleep when the plane hit the ground, but some of them – including many of the boxers – were supposedly aware that they were about to crash, as they held to their seats so strongly that on impact, the muscles and tendons in their arms became severed. Some reports suggested that some of the boxers actually survived the crash and drowned in the moat, but no evidence for this was presented.

On March 14th of this year, the correctional center hosted a memorial service on the anniversary of the 1980 air disaster:

niel5***

Living in Boston in 1999, I occasionally made a Saturday drive to a Polish store in New Britain, Connecticut, where I bought records. I formulated a rule of thumb: buy the CDs that show a plain-looking female artist on the cover — after all, if it’s not the looks that got her the record deal, it must have been the voice.

(That’s not how I rediscovered Anna Jantar, though. What happened, is that I visited Warsaw a few weeks earlier and riding in a taxi to a friend’s apartment, this burst of sunshine from 1974 played on the car’s radio and I asked the driver, “What song is that?”)

In 1977, ABBA gave a concert in Poland. A famous Western band’s appearance behind the Iron Curtain was a big deal. Here is their little-known song “Move On,” with footage from that leg of their tour. The song itself grows on you, and the video even more so when you catch the nuances of Boomers in bloom. Suburban_elk asks:

So they [Boomers] went on canoe trips in the Wilderness and tried to make sense of it, and all they found was hunger. (In their case, that was really all they found. There was not much of a resolution, except that wehn you get hungry enough you will eat just about anything, up to and including, well nevermind.)

The mindspace i am trying to suggest is the Boomers’. Is that still topical or not?

In a way it’s no longer topical. All those concerns that they had — which concerns were Aesthetics — are not the concerns that we have now.

But on the other hand, they are still there and unresolved.

You wonder, should Boomers have remained children — should they all have died before they turned thirty? They were beautiful and unprepared for what hit their world in middle age. For example, Björn Ulvaeus’ son was robbed not too long ago, and that spurred the ABBA veteran to advocate… a cash-free economy. Take Boomers for what they were: they gave us ABBA, the greatest pop music band in history.

And in Sweden… those schoolkids’ future has to be secured but who looks out for them? Sometimes their own parents least of all. Things to see in the “Move On” video linked two paragraphs above:

  • Agnetha Fältskog is a vision. Like just about every young woman, she has those little imperfections that modesty makes irresistible. (0:54)
  • Show time! The fatigue of travel and the stage-fright are forgotten; game-face on. (1:55)
  • Anni-Frid “Frida” Lyngstad accepts flowers from a fan and chats for a moment in the middle of a song. (2:09)
  • Rock stars once tended to their own luggage. (3:00)

I can’t get enough of that “Move On” video. Young Swedes will take their country back once they decide that they’re better-off doing something than nothing. Our brothers across the Baltic Sea are intelligent people with a talent for cooperative action.

On my drive back to Boston, as I played the newly-bought Anna Jantar Greatest Hits double-CD in the car, the next song struck me as one that approaches the ideal form of a female pop ballad. Is it the perfect ballad? I dunno, the French classics are untouchable but no fair, they’re French. This one isn’t in French but its lyrics banish talk, praise the flawed man, are endearingly candid in their grasping for the right words to offer the truth about women, and in all this, she has no idea what she wants.

Nie wierz mi, nie ufaj mi / Don’t believe me, don’t trust me
(Anna Jantar)

Nim coś powiesz, zmilcz / Before you say something, don’t talk
Nim coś powiesz, zważ / Before you say something, reconsider
Bo mówiąc przegrałbyś / Because speaking frankly, you’d lose
A zmilczeć możesz jak poeta / And silent, you’re a poet

Tyle zalet masz / I see so much in you
Tyle zalet masz / I see so much in you
I tyle pięknych wad / And so many beautiful flaws
Cudownych tyle wad / So many wonderful flaws
A jednak / And yet…

Refrain: 
Nie wierz mi, nie ufaj mi / Don’t believe me, don’t trust me
Bo z rąk ci się wywinę / Because I’ll slip out of your hands
Nie jest tak, że w kilka dni / It doesn’t work that way, that in just a few days
Zdobywa się dziewczynę / You win the girl
Nie, nie jest tak / No, that’s not how it goes

Poprowadzisz mnie / You will lead me
Przeprowadzisz mnie / You will guide me
Przez zaufania próg / Over the threshold of trust
Gdzie już byś mieć / Where you can have me
mnie mógł za swoją / As yours

A ja umknę ci / But I will slip away from you
A ja wymknę się / I will sneak away
I ty nie będziesz mógł / And you won’t be able
I ty nie będziesz mógł / And you won’t be able
Mnie pojąć / To know me

[Refrain x2]

Nie wierz mi… / Don’t believe me… [spoken]

(The song was recorded in 1978. Lyrics: Andrzej Bianusz. Music: Antoni Kopff)

That thing I said earlier about modest attire amplifying a cute girl’s attractiveness… this live cover is pretty. Not just because of the song or the teenage girl performing it, but also because of the ethnic integrity of the spectators, without whom there would be no song:

The Five Best Geopolitical Events Of My Lifetime

This covers the 1970s decade through today. Interesting times.

As to the most fortuitous events, I’ll leave the election of Karol Wojtyła as Pope off the Top 5 as “unknown” because I don’t know what his influence was on post-Cold War developments. Nevertheless, I remember his 1978 election like it was last week. The telephone in our Warsaw apartment rang, mom picked it up and moments later shouted: “A Pole was elected Pope last night. Go to the kiosk and buy a newspaper!” I ran, but they were sold out. Not a word on the state-owned TV or radio about the event.

I don’t know the Vatican or its inner workings post-Vatican II. Whatever their secrets, Pope John Paul II was a holy man. Of the volumes of his appeals to the faithful, this one stands out:

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If this were a Top 10 list, I’d have included the Oklahoma and Norway operations because historians, decades from now and with their feelings detached from the horror of innocent lives taken (some of them were innocent), will validate Thomas Jefferson’s words:

“The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.”

Thoughts of gratitude, which the writing this post has inspired, snowball with recollections of one after another good, significant geopolitical development that took place in my lifetime. Another one that would make the Top 10: Wikileaks. A private citizen disseminating information about corporations and governments to the public, Zuckerberg in reverse.

Technology is a force-multiplier, nothing more, nothing less, and I consider its progress inevitable as long as the northern races live. The effects of its advancement have a way of getting neutralized by subsequent developments or adaptations. For that reason, I’ll rank the technological advances of my lifetime neither as good nor bad. For better and worse, we now have the internet and smartphones.

I’ll also leave the Fall of the Soviet Union off the Top 5 list as “unknown” because we will never know the alternate history. Still, I give thanks for the miracle of an empire’s collapse that occurred for the most part bloodlessly. We may have dodged a thermonuclear war. But for all of the high hopes, the end of the Cold War was also a geopolitical tragedy that ushered in three decades of neoliberalism.

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And finally, on to the five most fortuitous geopolitical events in my lifetime:

5. The Law and Justice Party Triumphs in Poland

The Top 5 countdown begins here. In October 2015, right wing party Law and Justice (PiS) won Polish national elections, displacing the governing liberal party. Among its first acts, the victorious PiS affirmed the rightful place of the crucifix in Poland’s senate chamber and reneged on its predecessor’s agreement to admit migrants to Poland. Two kinds of memes were all over Polish Facebook feeds prior to that election:

  • An image of attractive young people with the caption EXPORT and third world savages with the caption IMPORT
  • “Repatriation, not immigration” slogans condemning the liberal government’s restrictive stance toward Russian-speaking descendants of Poles who had been deported to Siberia, contrasted with the party’s openness to Muslim migrants.

Beyond Poland’s borders, the significance of this victory is the moral and material support the PiS government gave to Hungary, who up to that point was alone in defying the EU on its immigration mandates. As Hungary’s prime minister Viktor Orbán said in his address to 500,000 rally-goers in Budapest last week:

Hungarians were alone in 2010 when we stood up, revolted, and started fighting in Brussels and in other centres of the empire…later Poles, Slovaks, and Czechs joined in support of the Hungarian government’s efforts.

Poland’s stature among Eastern European countries gave Hungary peer support. Without the solidarity expressed by Poland’s newly elected government, Hungary risked becoming an isolated “rogue state” and everybody knows what the bloodthirsty Pentagon does best.

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4. The Rise of the AltRight

It began with Whites asking questions. “What’s up with women?” “Why am I betrayed by the people I voted for?” “Why can’t I be left in peace?” The search for answers to those simple questions tore down the Frankfurt School’s curtain of lies that had been deforming our perception of every aspect of reality.

The AltRight is a synthesis of Pat Buchanan’s moral nationalism and Camille Paglia’s amoral sex realism. It reconnected us with Christian fundamentals and our Greco-Roman heritage, waking Whites up to to the planned destruction of the European race.

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3. Viktor Orbán’s Government

“Hungarians won’t live according to the commands of foreign powers.”
– Viktor Orbán, 2012

Hungary is the savior of Europe. Viktor Orbán was the first European head of state to speak out against the flooding of Europe with a replacement population — and win. The wall he built on his country’s southern border blocked the inflow of “refugees” who were advancing on Germany and England. Without Hungary, the brown deluge would have swallowed Europe.

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2. The Election of President Donald Trump

Globalists had a 16-year plan to destroy Whites. Obama’s two terms were the set-up, the Hillary Clinton administration was supposed to deliver the kill-shot. But they never saw Trump coming. Without his victory, the United States would have:

  • UK-style criminalization of speech
  • A government gun-grab
  • All black crime against Whites effectively decriminalized and all White self-defense drawing felony charges
  • Nationalization of local police departments
  • The rate of immigration doubled or tripled
  • Aggressive race-integration on neighborhood level
  • Pushed pxxxphilia
  • Started a war with Russia.

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1. The Reinvigoration of Russia

The 1990s were a bad time for Russians. Well-connected domestic and foreign Jews looted the country. Russia impotently watched NATO bomb her closest ally, Serbia. The nation’s lowest point was the Kursk submarine accident but I saw that Vladimir Putin is a serious man when he initially declined help from British and Norwegian navies. The world took him seriously when he sacrificed some of the Moscow Theater hostages to kill all of the hostage-takers.

European patriots are in the position of Józef Piłsudski at outbreak of WWI, who understood that his national aspirations for independence are best served when neither the Kaiser nor the Tsar prevail over the other, but that the two empires grind each other down until the captive nations locked under them can rise up.

In the brightest scenario, a resurgent Christian Russia fulfills the Fatima Prophecy. At worst, it’s an imperial oligarchy like America but even under that scenario, it’s good that there is an alternative to the unipolar Jewish world of the past thirty years. So either way:

Slava Rossyii. Urrah.

“A Letter To Che”

I don’t get many of the allusions, but it’s fair to say that the song is about people who blindly follow fashion and revolutionary ideologies. It came out around the time of George W. Bush’s invasion of Iraq, so there is that as well. “A Letter to Che” (orig. List Do Che) by the band Strachy Na Lachy is musically in the style of tango.

***

Celują mi prosto w serce / They’re aiming straight at my heart
Dziś kupców jest dyktatura / Today’s dictatorship of merchants
Oni mierzą do mnie jak do szczura / They aim at me like at a rat 
Tych złotych Czterdzieści i Cztery / Those golden Forty Four
Kod z kresek na parabelce / A code of notches on the pistol
Zwymiotowało moje serce / My heart vomited
Taka dziwna przebija je gwiazda [x2] / Such a strange star pierces it

Refrain:
Hej ty i cała twoja wiara / Hey you and your comrades
Zastyga krew na transparentach / The blood on the banners dries
Ja pamiętam cię tylko ze zdjęcia / I remember you only from a photo
Komendancie Che Guevara / Commandant Che Guevara

Mijałem targ na sygnale / I passed the market on lights and siren
Twarz twoją widziałem wspaniale / Saw your face clearly
Tam gdzie kurwy grzyby i krasnale / Among whores mushrooms and dwarves
Na szklankach i na firankach / And on knick-knacks

Aż tu pewnego poranka / Until one morning
SMS z okolic piekła: / A text message from hell:
“Czerń dzisiaj głodna i wściekła” / “Hungry and vicious is darkness today”
Tak napisała Zetkin Clara / So wrote Clara Zetkin

[Refrain x2]

Roll call of Cuban political prisoners c. 2003:
Raúl Oliverio Castañeda
Alejandro González Raga
Margarito Broche Espinosa
Fabio Prieto Llorente
Osvaldo Acosta

Zawalił się kapitalizm / Capitalism collapsed
Światu but na nodze już się zapalił / The world’s feet are on fire
W Gawroszewie robią bomby w barach / They make bombs in bars
I palą hawańskie cygara / And smoke Havana cigars

[Shabadabada]

Znów modna jest broda Jezusa / The Jesus beard is back in style
Na widokówkach z Nablusa / On postcards from Nablus
I znów odbiera wojsk paradę / And the military parade
Osama Bin Checko-Laden / Is reviewed by Osama Bin Chekho-Laden

A ja gdy z mego snu się zbudzę / And when I awake
Zaraz wam zdradzę to hasło: / I’ll reveal the slogan:
“Nie pozostanę wredną wszą / “I won’t be a wretched louse
W brodzie Fidela Castro” [verse x2] / In Fidel Castro’s beard”

[Latin music]

Ile ty chcesz za te szklankę [x4] / How much do you want for this glass

[Refrain x2]

Ile ty chcesz za te szklankę / How much do you want for this glass

“I shake like a spleen ripped out of an eel”

An older friend once explicated the llyrics of this 1981 anti-Communist song for me, connecting each verse with a historic circumstance. I wish I remembered more of his commentary. The only one I recall is that the “jug-ears of naïve confidants” refers to secret police.

The subject of “Witkacy’s Self-Portrait” (Autoportret Witkacego) is Stanisław Ignacy Witkiewicz (1885 – 1939), commonly known as Witkacy, a prolific artist and writer best known for his expressionistic paintings and eccentric persona. A biographical note about Witkacy, referring to his period of service as an officer in Russian imperial army:

Witkiewicz witnessed the Russian Revolution while stationing in St Petersburg. He claimed that he worked out his philosophical principles during an artillery barrage, and that when the Revolution broke out he was elected political commissar of his regiment. His later works would show his fear of social revolution and foreign invasion, often couched in absurdist language. — Infogalactic

Living in Poland in the 1930s, he fled toward the country’s eastern frontier when Germany invaded in 1939 and committed suicide seventeen days later when Soviet Union attacked from the east.

Translating songs or poems involves a tradeoff between three things: original intended meaning (word choice), meter, and rhyme. I always focus on the first. With meter, I aim to make it as close as possible to the original in terms of the syllable-count and scansion but I keep a soft touch there. A matching rhyme scheme between unrelated languages is too unlikely, and not worth doing at the cost of compromising the other two priorities.

The song taps into Witkacy’s style of absurdism. With a leap of faith, it is relevant now. The regular stanzas in the original have an AABA rhyme scheme. Roger Waters should perform my English translation:

***

Witkacy’s Self-Portrait

By habit I watch the world
So it’s not from narcotics
That my eyes are red
Like laboratory rabbits’

I just got up from the table
So it’s not from deprivation
That I have the clenched lips
Of hungry Mongols

I listen to sounds not words
So it’s not for fecund thought
That I have the jug-ears
Of naïve confidants

I sniff out the cutthroats
So it’s not for the sake of folklore
That my nose casts the shadow
Of aggrieved Semites

I see the shape of things in their essential form
And that makes me great and unrepeatable

Unlike you – ladies and gentlemen if you’ll forgive me –
Who are an idiot’s rhyme copied on a duplicator [line x 2]

My neck’s rather stiff
But I’m still alive
Because politics to me
Is dishwater in a crystal glass

My mind is hard like an elbow
So don’t kick me
Because the revolution to me
Is red fingernails

I’m as sensitive as a membrane
So by evening and morning
I shake like a spleen
Ripped out of an eel

I’m terrified of the apocalypse
So to calm my mood
I scream like a child
That’s locked in a dark room

I more than any of you choke and gag!
I more than any of you wish to stop living but can’t!

[The first person-singular pronoun above allows a primal scream in both languages: “aaaaaaaaiiii” in English and “yaaaaaaaah” in Polish. — PA]

But I won’t let anyone touch me and therefore
When necessary I’ll be the one
Who deprives the world of Witkacy

***

Lyrics: Jacek Kaczmarski. Music: Przemysław Gintrowski

An American Nationalist Visits Warsaw

Occidental Observer contributor Adam Komiaga attends this past November’s Independence Day rally in Warsaw and describes his experience.

The 60,000-strong march, known for its participants’ aggressively patriotic posture and its umbrella slogan “We Want God” was attended by nationalists from all over Europe. The author of the article stayed in an apartment with Swedes who, like him, flew to Warsaw to join the march. He makes a number of street-level observations, starting with an encounter with a belligerent Pole:

But we’re almost forehead to forehead now. I lock eyes, my deep-blue squared against his ice-blue. It gets tense.

Our group keeps moving around him though, and like white water flowing around a jutting stone in the river we slide around him on both sides. As I side-step him, I lower my eyes because eye-contact that lasts a millisecond too long usually leads to a fight. Anglos and other Western Europeans rarely experience this sort of thing. Growing up in the comfortable and loving leafy embrace of Suburbia makes you soft. But spend some time in Eastern Europe and you learn the rules about eye-contact etiquette quick enough.

The guy is a good writer. That description of the anatomy of eye contact was well done. You can relate to this in the United States. With our diversity and police-secured general order, most of our public space outside of non-White enclaves is no-man’s-land. When I pass a homie or a cholo, my posture and eyes communicate a message. I look at him, sort of through him. A blank fearless face. Mastery, not aggression. “No disrespect but it’ll cost you if you try something.” They always drop their eyes. Fights can result in organ damage or death (yours or his) so the point is neither to bait nor to submit, the latter serving to embolden them tomorrow, but to claim absolute dominion over your personal space and leave the question of public space ownership, at minimum, open for the time being.

The American visitor comments on various fights he saw break out:

… we participated in the massive, 60 thousand strong nationalist march through Warsaw. Just like the night before, there were sporadic fights breaking out all along the route among rival football clubs and rival nationalist organizations.

Poles against Poles. Whites against Whites.

There are different levels of identity. Right wing factions and football fans brawling, ethnic and national rivalry, on up to our ideal of racial solidarity against the mudworld. There is racial solidarity. It happens in emergencies, such as at the Superdome in 2005 when local Whites and stranded European tourists created a security perimeter in an arena full of blacks. Or Vienna in 1683. There are also long-standing friendships, such as between Poland and Hungary. The mere fact of Polish national holiday celebrants welcoming fellow-European nationalists and chanting Christian, pro-White and anti-Islamic slogans means a great deal. There is your racial solidarity.

(A long aside: Europeans are a war-race. But we temper our violence with Christian honor, which we extend to and expect of our fellow-Whites and which is why unlike savages, we develop codes such as the Geneva Convention, mercy with submission, distinction between combatant and civilian, and recognizing the enemy’s individual gallantry. Raping girls is not something we brag about. Waffen SS was the world’s most fearsome military corps but the reason naahzees have a radioactive reputation isn’t just post-war Jewish propaganda, though that is a big part of it. German Ostplan campaigns in WWII broke with civilized norms through their brutal behavior in Eastern Europe. Oskar Dirlewanger’s counterinsurgency units, as one example, are responsible for murdering up to 120,000 civilians in 200 villages throughout Belarus alone, his favorite method being to herd people into a barn, then setting the barn on fire.

Likewise, Allies’ barbarity toward German civilians in 1945 is a stain on our honor. My grandfather was a brilliant, severe-faced man of aristocratic Kresy tradition. He served as a lieutenant with First Polish Army under Soviet command and told me about his infantry unit entering a village in Pomerania. He saw a Russian soldier grappling with a German girl and ordered him to let her go. There were discipline problems on the front, with Russian soldiers disobeying Polish officers. My grandfather put a gun to the Russian’s head and the girl ran away. End aside.)

Men are small-group tribal. We’re supposed to be territorial and ready to fight. That’s freedom. That’s what keeps us sharp. It teaches us to be polite. It keeps women loyal. How many of us had spent our youth in middle class comfort, never having a redneck square up to us at a mall? Or if you’re a redneck, a locking of horns with a cocky frat dude or a loudmouth off-duty soldier from the local Army base. Racial solidarity entails collective effort in an emergency. “No more brother wars” doesn’t mean kumbaya.

Someone once commented ruefully that Europeans have culturally blended into an undifferentiated pop monoculture, so national distinctions are anachronistic. I disagree with that, countering with my own observation that if I’m talking with a Norwegian, it’s just two guys having a conversation. But if it’s five Norwegians and me, or five of my countrymen and him, the odd-man-out quickly notices that one is not like the others. If you are American but not a Southerner or a Mormon, get together with them and discover that culture is real.

An illustration of European diversity comes when the author got separated his from his Swedish companions and joined up with a Dutch group, observing a change in vibe:

I lost track of the Swedish Nationalists I had come with and ended up marching with the Dutch Identitarians instead. To be honest, it was a welcome change of pace. All of a sudden, I was around a different kind of European. They could crack jokes, include me in the conversation and seemed to actually want to practice some of that pan-European solidarity I had heard so much about.

Turning his attention to the landscape: Warsaw is an ugly city, he reports. Indeed, anybody who is not from there will enthusiastically agree with that sentiment. Not me, though. I’m a true Warszawiak, it seems, as either because of childhood nostalgia or for some other reason, I find the city to be quite lovely. My indelible feeling of home is Warsaw in any given December, where it’s dark at 4:00 PM and snow is falling, the smell of bus exhaust in the icy air bringing back memories. Perhaps Warsaw is meant to be grim, a reminder of history’s bloody relapses. That’s her burden still, as Europe heads into a war.

Yet, that’s the city where globalism is considered dead, the only city in the world where Christendom’s nationalists are free to march. That’s Warsaw’s terrible beauty:

The sky was overcast and it got dark quick, but the harsh red glare from the flares lit up everyone and everything with a kind of sepulchral glow. The smell of the burning chemicals washed over me and I breathed it all in, like the mystical smoke from some pagan witch ceremony or something. The flares seemed to have a powerful, almost reverent effect on everybody in the march.

The article segues to its most interesting part, a meditation on a new generation of Europeans. A seventeen-year-old Polish skinhead joins his group. He’s part of a disciplined paramilitary unit:

I saw them at the march the other day. They came in like a war-machine, ranked up in a Roman-style Testudo formation, with their banners wrapped all the way around the group like a shield wall. Black suns and Celtic crosses were flying proudly behind the first ranks — these guys were the real deal. Protecting the flanks of the column were black-clad young men with their faces totally covered in black ski masks. Turns out our young friend was one of them.

Older Poles would run up, yell out abuse and some even tried to start fights. But the Black Bloc just kept marching in perfect discipline. Even the soccer hooligans didn’t dare touch them.

As the American visitor learns, the teenager lives in Sweden where he goes to school as the sole White kid in his class, having been previously expelled from a majority-White private school. In the young man’s words:

“You know, before I was even a nationalist, I had problems at the private school. The Swedes are worse than the Arabs and Blacks. They would complain about me and report me all the time. Always behind my back, never to my face. Poles are naturally too nationalistic for them, I guess. I like it better in my new school.”

Turns out that the Arabs and Blacks respect him ever since he became a Neo-Nazi.

“Every time I do this…” he throws up the roman salute, “they fear me.”

The author gets to Nazi iconography, dispensing with dead history. Again, he has a way with graphic description:

Nazi imagery may not be good at convincing shy huWhytes to join the Identitarian cause, but its ability to strike fear into the hearts of non-Whites is second to none. To them, we’re all just a blend of Crusader-Nazi-White Devils who’ve gone soft. They stiffen with fear when they see that black spider on a field of red and white and see the gangs of young White hooligans that fly it.

As the age-heavy racial demographics shift in parts of Europe with the passing of Boomers (good riddance, anti-racist dead weight), it’s the White teenagers and kids who are inheriting their countries in their infested condition and who will have to reconquer Europe to have a chance to live in peace — to extend Western Civilization’s life, if you want to use such lofty words. Maybe they’ll wait for winter and cut off invaders’ heat. If they are merciful, they’ll let them go back to their ancestral shitholes but either way, nurseries will be reclaimed.

But [the young skinhead] is a good enough kid. Normal, sane and if I’m honest, he’s probably the future of the Post-First World. Generation “Zyklon” isn’t a meme. These kids are pissed. They are the first to feel what it is like to be in the White minority… and many of them don’t like it.

They will also have brothers and sisters, as White births are rebounding.

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