Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Consider The Beast...

The Army is ordering its hardened combat veterans to wear fake breasts and empathy bellies so they can better understand how pregnant soldiers feel during physical training.

This is the Empire -the beast.

This is the beast which storms across the planet enforcing democracy with long range bombers and tanks.

This is the beast which enforces abortion, gay marriages and multiculturalism on all nations through the threat of economic sanctions.

This is the beast which denounces racism even as it openly celebrates declining White populations.

This is the beast which brings a culture of decadence to its conquered enemies to morally degrade them into submission.

And it goes about the world roaring like a lion, demanding all people bow to the image of itself and the trinity it represents -Democracy, Equality and Progress.


The Sin That Wasn't There...

From Mangan's

Pat Buchanan's difficulties didn't emerge because of anything he wrote that could possibly be considered racist in the sense that the word is used by most people. But a newer definition has come to the fore: one is not supposed to so much as mention the ongoing project of white replacement in America. The groups that campaigned against Buchanan, namely the ADL, Media Matters, and Color of Change - the first and third of which, incidentally, openly advocate for their respective ethnic groups, the very thing they've charged Buchanan with doing - have decided that mentioning the continuing slide in the white fraction of the population constitutes racism.

Mangan is right, essentially.

But the real problem which he trips over is the very problem which Buchanan himself becomes a part of when he denies the racism charge.

Namely this,

"racism" is neither a crime nor a sin.

What men like Buchanan should have the courage to say publicly is that it is GOOD to discriminate. It is healthy to be prejudice in favor of your own over others.

It is good to love your own wife and kids over other families. It is good to love your own race over other races. And it is good, healthy and necessary to discriminate against those others in favor of your own.

The charge of racism was put in to the modern vernacular by Leon Trotsky -a radical Marxist who helped found the Soviet Union and the subsequent murder of tens of millions of "racists" ie, people opposed to a world ruled by Marxists.

And that is what a racist is. A racist is someone who opposes Marxism. A racists is someone who opposes the destruction of nations and peoples in the name of progress.

A racist is someone who speaks truth. And for that, he is an enemy of the state -a heretic.

And there is no real argument to the contrary in regards to the charge of racism, as it is a Marxist term used by them for the benefit of their cause.

So if you choose, for convenience sake, to play by their rules in their game, don't be surprised when the goal posts are constantly moved.


Monday, February 13, 2012

Into Ruins...

The place falls to ruin,
shattered into mounds of stone,
where once a man, joyous and goldbright-
gleaming in his armor,
gazed upon the treasure of his heart
his civilization -his people, his blood-
set upon the broad kingdom
of this middle-earth.

-The Ruin


The Seafarer...

May I for my own self song's truth reckon,
Journey's jargon, how I in harsh days
Hardship endured oft.
Bitter breast-cares have I abided,
Known on my keel many a care's hold,
And dire sea-surge, and there I oft spent
Narrow nightwatch nigh the ship's head
While she tossed close to cliffs. Coldly afflicted,
My feet were by frost benumbed.
Chill its chains are; chafing sighs
Hew my heart round and hunger begot
Mere-weary mood. Lest man know not
That he on dry land loveliest liveth,
List how I, care-wretched, on ice-cold sea,
Weathered the winter, wretched outcast
Deprived of my kinsmen;
Hung with hard ice-flakes, where hail-scur flew,
There I heard naught save the harsh sea
And ice-cold wave, at whiles the swan cries,
Did for my games the gannet's clamour,
Sea-fowls, loudness was for me laughter,
The mews' singing all my mead-drink.
Storms, on the stone-cliffs beaten, fell on the stern
In icy feathers; full oft the eagle screamed
With spray on his pinion.
Not any protector
May make merry man faring needy.
This he little believes, who aye in winsome life
Abides 'mid burghers some heavy business,
Wealthy and wine-flushed, how I weary oft
Must bide above brine.
Neareth nightshade, snoweth from north,
Frost froze the land, hail fell on earth then
Corn of the coldest. Nathless there knocketh now
The heart's thought that I on high streams
The salt-wavy tumult traverse alone.
Moaneth alway my mind's lust
That I fare forth, that I afar hence
Seek out a foreign fastness.
For this there's no mood-lofty man over earth's midst,
Not though he be given his good, but will have in his youth greed;
Nor his deed to the daring, nor his king to the faithful
But shall have his sorrow for sea-fare
Whatever his lord will.
He hath not heart for harping, nor in ring-having
Nor winsomeness to wife, nor world's delight
Nor any whit else save the wave's slash,
Yet longing comes upon him to fare forth on the water.
Bosque taketh blossom, cometh beauty of berries,
Fields to fairness, land fares brisker,
All this admonisheth man eager of mood,
The heart turns to travel so that he then thinks
On flood-ways to be far departing.
Cuckoo calleth with gloomy crying,
He singeth summerward, bodeth sorrow,
The bitter heart's blood. Burgher knows not —
He the prosperous man — what some perform
Where wandering them widest draweth.
So that but now my heart burst from my breast-lock,
My mood 'mid the mere-flood,
Over the whale's acre, would wander wide.
On earth's shelter cometh oft to me,
Eager and ready, the crying lone-flyer,
Whets for the whale-path the heart irresistibly,
O'er tracks of ocean; seeing that anyhow
My lord deems to me this dead life
On loan and on land, I believe not
That any earth-weal eternal standeth
Save there be somewhat calamitous
That, ere a man's tide go, turn it to twain.
Disease or oldness or sword-hate
Beats out the breath from doom-gripped body.
And for this, every earl whatever, for those speaking after —
Laud of the living, boasteth some last word,
That he will work ere he pass onward,
Frame on the fair earth 'gainst foes his malice,
Daring ado, ...
So that all men shall honour him after
And his laud beyond them remain 'mid the English,
Aye, for ever, a lasting life's-blast,
Delight mid the doughty.
Days little durable,
And all arrogance of earthen riches,
There come now no kings nor C├Žsars
Nor gold-giving lords like those gone.
Howe'er in mirth most magnified,
Whoe'er lived in life most lordliest,
Drear all this excellence, delights undurable!
Waneth the watch, but the world holdeth.
Tomb hideth trouble. The blade is layed low.
Earthly glory ageth and seareth.
No man at all going the earth's gait,
But age fares against him, his face paleth,
Grey-haired he groaneth, knows gone companions,
Lordly men are to earth o'ergiven,
Nor may he then the flesh-cover, whose life ceaseth,
Nor eat the sweet nor feel the sorry,
Nor stir hand nor think in mid heart,
And though he strew the grave with gold,
His born brothers, their buried bodies
Be an unlikely treasure hoard.

-translated by Ezra Pound


Wednesday, February 1, 2012

In Remembrance Of God, 0-2012...

2012 is, of course, the latest "final date" in popular culture.

What's interesting about prophecies and the expectation of Finality is that they are important to believers and people of faith because they promise signs that will (hypothetically) -future tense-provide evidence for their beliefs.

That is because the present offers no proof of anything beyond the material world.

Hope is also future-tense. It is a magical expectation of something not currently had.

Hope exists because faith desperately needs evidence and can find none in the present.