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1. i feel i’ve finally finished my 15-years-of-tedium Bildungsroman, The Better Maker. i’ve done 3 edits this month, and though there were still things to change in the last, and i even found two mistakes (which had passed unnoticed through a dozen or more edits), i feel it’s stabilised and become crystalline and itself. Not sure if i’ll bother self-publishing it, i might just print it out so i have a paper copy and then forget about it. While i think it’s good enough, i am under no illusions as to my worth, and so feel no need to push my writings at anyone. i’ve even enjoyed writing brief pieces for my Patreons, because of the limited audience. My ideal, i suppose, would be to write only for myself, but i am, in spite of everything, human and so require occasional interaction.
2. i’ve had bugger all work since November, but used the free time to write & edit; now i feel i must find other things to do with my time, or i’ll just drink and get fat and go to seed and then dress all in black and acquire a leather sofa on which to collapse, groaning about the Jews. There have been times where i did nothing with my free time, just drank and played computer games or watched youtube channels and grew vile & obese; after a month of writing, i’ve found myself in spirit leaner and focussed, and rather than relax i want to shift this focus elsewhere. It occurs to me that we need work and difficulty, and deadlines, external imperatives, in order to attain this mental and emotional clarity & will (c.f. Anatomy of Melancholy).
3. Varg Vikernes somewhere says that as a child he lived in the Middle East (i think his father was a diplomat or engineer) and saw the compound guards happily spend hours just lounging about doing nothing – this was their idea of Paradise, to do nothing.
Work seems somehow unnecessary for the emotional satisfaction of the sand peoples. This is, i suppose, one reason for the paucity of invention in hotter climates; and perhaps why their kind, even to the umpteenth generation, are overly represented in welfare-dependency (and crime) and do badly in school. Their ideal is to lounge around while the womenfolk labour; or even better, just collect generous government subsidies, while the Kuffar labour.
i’ve found the exceptions to be workaholics to shame even the Germans – my father, for example, though actually his whole family seem so; or my student Khan, who still wakes at 0200 to begin work in his company (which he owns) despite suffering from motor neurone disease. Curiously, although my father can barely speak English, and Khan still has a strong Punjabi accent, they both prefer Europe to their homelands, and are scathing of their folk.
4. Naudhiz is an overlooked rune. The need to work, not to perish, is essential to European soul. Perhaps it is otherwise elsewhere – i cannot say, since i have only met degenerate “European Muslims” or at least European Indians etc., who, like myself, are conflicted and must either choose a side fully (as i have; though it would be more accurate to say i was chosen by the old Northern gods) or lapse into squalor & violence & decadence.
If we assume that need is not an unfortunate feature of life before technology & socialism, but rather an essential and indeed needful component of the human psyche & human society, then we do wrong to avoid work and the strenuous and difficult:
cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life. Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field; in the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground.
the scholar may note additional runological features to this text.
5. In times of peace, the warrior makes war on himself (Nietzsche). i’ve found, oddly, that i can’t take much relaxation; after a while it becomes sloth and apathy and then i feel soft & base and hate my life. Thus i will try to blog at least once every 10 days, will probably continue to post shorter pieces (“aphorisms”) on my Patreon, as i’ve found i like it, and have also determined, provided i have enough free time:
5.1 To learn enough Old Norse to be able to read the Eddas and know why the English means what it means.
5.2 To learn enough origami to make hideous occult structures to perturb the herd.
5.3 To lose yet more of my blubber, and become hard & cruel & racist.
5.4 To go back to doing daily Tai Chi and/or Chi Kung (it requires little time but a certain amount of energy, which was mostly given over to editing in February).
5.5 To write an occult horror comedy screenplay.
That is all.
i’m in (hopefully) the last stages of my horrific Bildungsroman, and so probably won’t blog properly for a bit. However, i felt pangs of guilt for my Patreons, so will post short pieces on my page there – i thought about doing it here but for some reason i feel everything here has to be fully worked-out and edited and re-edited – perhaps because it’s totally public; whereas secrecy or restricted audience allows for different styles. The Patreon stuff is nothing special, so don’t bother subscribing just to read it – it’s really just anecdotes & observations, the kind of things i sometimes write on Facebook; but i’ll try and update it daily, or at least several times a week, as i am a good Capitalist in spite of myself, and actually i do appreciate the moneys my Patreons send – partly just the thought that someone (for whatever reason) enjoys my bohemian fascist ramblings enough to pay me, partly because i’ve been making about 1200 €/month before tax for the last 3 months, and need a bit more to survive.
Anyway, i’ll also try to blog here at least once a fortnight, but i hope daily Patreon posts will tender some semblance of compensation.
1. My terrible Bildungsroman, The Better Maker, seems finally ready. i wrote it from 2002 to 4, then spent the next 13 years editing. A version was self-published ten years ago, but it was an essentially juvenile work; i’m still not 100% sure about the latest, but i note that on each edit i alter less & less, and on the last only two minor points. i’ll see if i can self-publish it on Amazon in the next few days – after, of course, reading it again with inquisitorial intensity.
2. i’m unsure what, if anything, i will write after – i want to write a horror screenplay which popped into my head while watching one of Tarl Warwick’s videos, but the likelihood of highly limited audience saps my will. The only reason i pressed on with TBM was a self-imposed determination to self-publish it before i turn 41 (in a couple of weeks). i also want to write a novel which will be, simultaneously, an occult WW2 spy thriller and a post-apocalyptic dystopia, but again it’s hard to find the motivation when i reflect that probably no one will even want to read it, and those who do will probably give feedback on the lines of “you should make it into an action romance”.
3. What about Trump, eh? He has appointed some ex-Goldman Sachs viper called Munchkin as Treasury Secretary, and someone called Chaos as Transportation Secretary, highly amusing choices. Already he is being dismissed as “controlled opposition” by some; and yet the incensed “literally Hitler” hysteria continues – much of this is just purple-haired Starbucks revolutionaries; to quote Frank Herbert’s God Emperor of Dune:
All rebellions are ordinary and an ultimate bore. They are copied out of the same pattern, one much like another. The driving force is adrenalin addiction and the desire to gain personal power.
There is a certain natural momentum to such types; and yet the bought media continue to attack Trump as they would never have Obama or Clinton. Really, did anyone kick up a fuss about this:
– no, of course not, because the media didn’t tell them to. If you’re a fat, belly-patting Southron who has “manager” in your job title, then no doubt the state of the world seems highly satisfactory; if you have an ounce of intellectual honesty, then it is clear we are living in rather grim times, and that those who brought us here, including the media (who cheered the Iraq and Afghan wars, and the Obama/Clinton destruction of Libya, and attempted destruction of Syria) are flatulent demonic scum whose condemnation may be taken as a form of qualified praise.
4. In which case, is Trump the Messiah? All the right people hate him – those who destroyed Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, those who destroyed American blue collar labour; and yet, look at him – he’s a frigging New York liberal, a billionaire with deep ties to Goldman Sachs. So what exactly is going on; why are the bought media being directed to stir up such violent hatred against the man? It is now at the stage where i cannot believe he is “controlled opposition”, and i’d be surprised if some shrieking Leftist doesn’t take a shot at him soon, if you can find a Leftist who can handle a weapon.
My view is thus: it is a palace coup, one clique deposing another. Whatever Trump’s deep agenda, it must be profoundly displeasing to the true powers – even as i presume Goldman Sachs et al. will be enriched (as in the Dune cosmos, the Guild and CHOAM always come out ahead). He is not a Ron/Rand Paul-esque revolutionary, he is not exactly a libertarian; he is a Capitalist who i dare say will use the governmental powers created by Bush and Obama, but at heart i think he is someone who enjoys conflict and verbal punch-ups, and i have the feeling violence energises him; i think he could take a punch and it would just wake him up; and he expects the same of everyone:
Trump is often called thin-skinned, but as Tarl Warwick observed, he clearly isn’t, people have been calling him Hitler for a year and he just takes it. My reading of the God Emperor is: he likes conflict, competition, he requires opposition to feel fully alive, and is in a sense even grateful to his adversaries – i suspect that he doesn’t even bear Hillary Clinton or Ted Cruz or Bernie Sanders any ill will, and enjoys scoffing and taking and giving slights & insults. He is the opposite of the hysterical shrieking Feminists and SJW lunatics. One can project this mentality to form a draft of his political and financial worldview: one of intense dynamic movement; and small-scale and often merely theatrical violence, ultimately tending to a mutual profit.
Whether this oddly adversarial affability is an ideal quality in the POTUS is another question, my interest is – WHY are the bought media so determined to destroy Trump; one can walk the cat back to their masters, but when these masters seem to hold precisely the same financial interests as folk like Munchkin, the waters grow muddy.
My first reading, from the available information: Trump is opposed to a covert agenda, held by those with almost identical financial interests; and this agenda is the destruction of Western civilisation. He has attracted a clique, ranging from Mad Dog Mattis to Munchkin, who are either opposed to the destruction of the West, or were swayed by Trump, persuaded that their interests can be amply served without plunging the West into the hell of Islam.
5. Only time will tell. Politics is always something of a sideshow to metaphysics. i was moved, in this Joe Rogan talk:
where Rogan asks Jordan Peterson what viewers can do to support him, in his fight against the cancer of Political Correctness and Marxism; i expected Peterson to say something like “send me cash”, which is exactly what i would have said; instead, he encourages viewers to work on their selves, and become better human beings. He is absolutely correct, since such work has great influence upon the substratum of our consciousness & our world, and it is from this cellarage that our ghosts & visitations arise, beckoning.
One can criticise the German Resistance for their endless talking and debate; i think it was Von Moltke, awaiting execution, who decided that even a doomed resistance was of supreme value, as it would show the world that Germany was not an undivided lump of Nazis – he was wrong, of course, as the American globalist order worked hard to create (Missionaria Protectiva black arm of superstition) the myth of the universally evil Germans and the universally noble Jews, so even today one can dismiss anyone by likening him to Hitler or Nazis, and exalt anyone by comparing him to a WW2-era Jew.
And yet, i feel the Resistance, the integrity of men like Von Moltke, Adam von Trott zu Solz, had its effect – a necessarily obscure, oblique influence. A very small number of human beings are of significance in each generation. Trump is one such: it’s not a matter of spiritual quality, as he seems to me very ordinary in this respect; it is rather a certain force of will, without which very little is possible. None of his electoral rivals could come close to him in this regard, since machine politics has worked to exclude such individuals (as has our culture in general).
6. As each culture changes, enormous emotional energies tend to result. People want Messiahs, and Satans – or the modern Satan, which is Hitler (i have often been accused of being Hitler, for example by The Communist). This is an error: true power conceals itself, and so those actually in the thrall of demons become increasingly sociophobic and cagey; and likewise those on the other side avoid undue publicity. Such individuals rarely intervene in a direct political role – perhaps Stalin was one such, but he was famously reclusive and in the habit of killing anyone who got to know him too well.
i’m not a fan of Capitalism, or democracy for that matter, but they seem preferable to the alternative; at least, the volatile dynamism of Capitalism comes quite close to the constant transformation of form which is our metaphysical reality, and so is opposed to the static ideologies of socialism, whether Nazism or Marxism. In the West we have been cocooned in varieties of socialism for some time, and so lost a sense for the actual flux and violence of reality – but illusion can only be maintained for a while, before it implodes.
1. i’ve mostly lost interest in blogging, or even any written communication; actually, even spoken communication seems mostly pointless these days. However, i will at least provide some anecdotes and “thoughts” from my last few weeks.
2. i teach a local “evening school” class, subsidized by the government. Most of the students are 50-70-something Bavarian women, nice, conservative, jolly. There’s also a 50-something Pakistani called Khan, and a 40-something enormous fat German man who works in IT. The fat man is a typical Leftist: globalist, big government, more regulation, more State control, free speech leads to fascism, the white man is bad, Brexit etc. is “populism”, we need a small circle of wise Left-wing men to make decisions for all of Europe without democratic interference, etc. etc.
He is a certain type: fat, sedentary, high blood pressure, a bit infantile, ashamed of anything European. He has no children, says he will never have any, instead has a stuffed elephant toy he says he brings to work, and has named Elefanti. He occasionally goes red in the face and explodes in rage, as when we were discussing corruption and everyone except him was agreed that Germans are quite low on the corruption scale. His face went a hideous red and then he started shouting “I am sorry but this is ABSOLUTE BULLSHIT! Sorry! Germans are always saying they are good people and THEY ARE NOT, THEY ARE CORRUPT. Can any of you say you don’t try to cheat the Finanzamt? [tax office]”.
i would have suggested that actually most Germans, in my experience, scrupulously declare everything to the Finanzamt, and if they hide anything it is cash transactions which come to less than 100 € a year, e.g. selling old furniture; which is not to be compared to tax evasion in East and Southern Europe, where it is more of a national sport.
However, his enormous quivering bulk and red face, and throbbing eyeballs deterred everyone, and we just sat still and looked sorry and punished and wondered if he would have a stroke and fall off his chair, while he vibrated and screamed about how wicked Germans are.
i’ve met a few Leftists in Germany – luckily, most Germans seem naturally conservative, which is probably why it’s a more civilised country than the UK – and a surprising number of these Leftists are fat, sedentary, bespectacled, sit in front of computers all day, and tend to huff (from exertion) when they get angry. They are a curious sub-species of Leftist, i term them The Fat Rabbits – they are usually women or effeminate males: smug, well-paid, obese, with the complacency of those who have swum with the current for the last 2 or 3 generations. They can be, and often are, highly aggressive, but are also terrified of violence – whereas i am generally pleasant, have rarely struck anyone before they threw the first punch, but have been slapped, kicked, punched, thrown about without holding a grievance, and i seem to have a high pain tolerance, both emotionally & physically (there is probably a correlation between tolerance for differing opinions, and one’s personal pain threshold). i’m thus far less likely to strike someone than a Leftist, but also far more likely to be able to take a punch.
3. At the last class, Khan mentioned going on the Hajj to Mecca, and how a week there was more than enough for him. As the others left, i said “i think you’re the first Hajji i’ve met,” – the word the Marines use to denote all Iraqis in the superb Generation Kill (which features the God Emperor’s chosen, General Mattis). We had a brief chat about Islam, and Germany – he said he can’t understand the Fat Rabbits, that for him Germany is a good country because of German culture, and why would they want to destroy it by importing millions of 3rd World Muslims.
It was an odd moment, as Khan is Muslim enough to go on the Hajj, and fast in Ramadan, but also recognises the vast superiority of traditional European culture over that of the Muslim nations. i like him very much and am saddened that he recently developed motor neurone disease (like Biff, a local hardman i shared the Critical Care Ward with in Manchester, on my last English asthma attack in 2009); i’ve been doing periodic rune work on his behalf, no idea if it has made any difference but it doesn’t cost me anything more than time and energy, and is amusingly multiculti, an Anglo-Indian using Viking sorcery for a Pakistani Muslim who loves Germany.
4. My Albanian neighbours have a little girl, aged about 18 months now i think. i’ve helped the Albanian woman carry the pram up and down stairs a few times, just because i happened to be there. She gets on my nerves by going onto her balcony and screaming for hours in Albanian; however, in person she’s likeable enough. Her man looks like an extra from Taken and i think is probably a drug dealer, pimp, or minor enforcer for the criminal underground here in Munich (he radiates wariness and potential for selective violence). i once saw him on the street with his little girl, teaching her to walk, and it was highly amusing, and a little touching; especially given the general rage & sentimental over-indulgence English chavs tend to direct to their spawn.
The child wakes every night, crying, and if i’m in a light enough sleep it wakes me too. They often seem to ignore it for about ten minutes, maybe hoping it will go back to sleep of its own accord. Last night, i was lying on my deteriorating sofa (my “bed” for the last 5 years) listening to the wailing, and reflected that in seemingly every culture, babies cry when they are dissatisfied, in pain, or bored, or want something, and that this must be biologically innate (though the parents’ response is, i suppose, at least partly culturally-conditioned).
5. The loud expression of pain & distress to achieve even our smallest desires is a biological, not a cultural, determination. That means ostentatious self-pity, and declared grievance are likely to remain central to human society. The so-called British stiff upper lip was, i deem, one response to this. In most cultures, the adults are (to some degree) self-controlled, having learn to suborn their transient wants & aversions to their community or their own long-term plans, and so children grow to emulate adults, putting aside immediate self-pity as they leave their infantile stage.
In our culture, expressive self-pity is tolerated and even encouraged. i found and still find it curious that many of the objections to the God Emperor follow this pattern: “I’m scared! I feel TRIGGERED!!! OMG! I don’t know what to do!!! Trump threatens me! Every time I see him I feel afraid! I’m CRYING!!!” – followed by the usual Leftist violence and gloating.
For me, hysterical expressions of fear are a sign of weakness, and emotional instability, and hence cognitive dysfunction. For the new generation, to scream and wail and thrash about is, in itself, an argument.
6. My own screaming and wailing and thrashing about is here, on my blog, or in my journals; but even so i find a certain strength develops from the conscious decision not to express woe and fear; that once one realises it is possible to act well in spite of one’s difficulties and apprehensions, a reserve of spiritual power becomes manifest, and may be accessed and drawn upon.
7. i’ve been re-reading Frank Herbert’s weird Dune books, the only sci-fi i’ve really enjoyed. It is set in a universe largely without computers, where the human is more central than in 2017, and so in atmosphere is more of a Fantasy novel, or Alan Furst spy thriller (Furst remarked that he sets his novels in the past because modern espionage would mostly be to do with technological surveillance). A passage i recall from my first reading, more than 20 years ago:
The Fremen were supreme in that quality the ancients called “spannungsbogen” – which is the self-imposed delay between desire for a thing and the act of reaching out to grasp that thing.
In my teens, i didn’t realise spannungsbogen was German. The books i find interesting in part because they recognise the essential human traits of discontent, ambition, violence, loyalty, struggle. Strength comes from resistance. Spiritual strength is developed only from self-control and self-denial – denial of the lower man, of fear and self-pity and self-indulgence. The Fat Rabbits are exemplars of self-indulgence of body and mind, and in a universe of predation and force they are not apt for long-term survival.
Wrote another “short story”, probably not very interesting but at least it’s short:
It is a reasonably ornate thing, of varnished wood and brass. There were once, it seems, illustrated panels but time and the salt sea have had their way. Inevitably, over the many ages, it has been dropped, on cobbles, stone stairs, on jetties, on tile and wood and marble; it has banged against unexpectedly swinging doors, against many a doorjamb, against iron rails, against pikes, swords, staves, rifles, even at times against monoliths, statues, gargoyles and carved atrocities. Not to speak of its sea-going vessels: not for this coffin an especial boat, a dedicated craft; no no, it has come to shore on decaying barge, navy launch, cruise liner, on gunboat, fishing trawler, sloop, it has been hauled off aircraft carrier and u-boot, it has been precariously tied to rafts and lifeboats and dinghies. And the attendants – of varying number, chosen seemingly at random by whatever will, some feeble, ill, old, deranged, some barely able to stand, mostly grumbling and drunk. Naturally, they have been subject of close inquisition and speculation; they have been feted and questioned by theologians and sorcerors and scientists, all manner subtle men, and are themselves either marvelous subtle in the keeping of secrets, or there are none to be kept. An ordinary base crew for the most part, but loyal: for all they will spit, leer, and disappear into the worst slums as a rat into its chosen sewer, they are always back at the coffin when needed; they do not desert.
The coffin’s visitations are too infrequent and irregular to constitute a tradition; yet it is never wholly unexpected. A vessel arrives from ocean or sea or river. The usual hailing and announcements, ropes cast and secured, the customs men swagger over, grab the manifest, or a seaman murmurs in an ear, and then the ritual begins – word comes to the innermost places of power, and orders are given, to bring the long-awaited guest into the city.
In some, the whole area is emptied; and then filled with spy, informant, agent, so even the vile beggars hobbling and screeching for coppers are, in fact, employees and watchers of the state.
In some, the general stand close, becoming aware of a novelty – gawping and pointing and spitting, hurling their clods of dung and rotten turnip, as is their fashion.
In some, the faithful cluster about the boat or ship, offering whatever adorations they favour – bowing, kneeling, wailing, singing, or silent.
– Barbarossa! they cry, or any of a thousand other names. Sometimes they fear an old evil lies within, and clutch relics and talismans, mutter invocations to their gods; or avert their eyes and hurry hence; or stand staring, licking their cracked lips as the coffin is lifted from the boat. It holds a god or a devil, a hero, a sacrifice, an alien; it holds the enormous weight of all the dead, of every ancestor; it holds the race’s earliest mother, she who walked the shore and learnt speech in imitation of the sea; it holds a vagrant nemesis or fool, wandering the world for demonic purpose, or none at all; he or she comes to judge the city; to bless and forgive; to annihilate the wicked, or everyone; to appoint a new lord; to announce some forgotten secret; to remove the entire population to another continent, or planet.
It is all one to the attendants, as they bear the coffin away into a large official residence or place of obscure business. They are often well-received and clad in fine garments, fed and powdered and called Milord and Your Honour; but just as often they are cuffed about the head and given servants’ quarters and warned not to steal so much as an orange pip; or occasionally detained in very clean white rooms and questioned by special constables.
It is of no importance. When the coffin is ready, they return to bear it to whichever vessel has been chosen, and so depart the city.
Attempts have naturally been made to retain or examine the coffin, but it is no more possible to impede its course than it would be to destroy the attendants. Those who interrogate the coffin’s men see not so much craft and cunning as insolence and indifference; threatened with torture, an attendant merely grins: a coarse, unpleasant grin, as to say, – Do so.
The coffin has a long history. Its appearance and safe departure – amidst wars, revolution, vast conflagration and plague; amidst totalitarian military states, socialist utopias of mass human sacrifice, cannibal theocracies – suggest it is not subject to ordinary interdiction.
The authorities are naturally unsure of themselves. If the coffin contains some new energy source, or famous embalmed corpse, or alien lifeform, well that is very interesting and could be of use, for the economy, for war, for propaganda, but could also cause immense difficulties for the Ministry. If the coffin contains some long-dead hero, returned to life to save a rotten civilisation, well again, that could be rather problematic, it must be delicately handled. If the coffin contains the ancestors, going back not merely to the dawn of human history but indeed back to the first creature one could call human, all compressed into one ordinary-sized wooden box, presumably non-corporeal, or very thinly so, and all presumably co-existing in these confines, the question then is, What do they want? What could they demand? Would they judge us? And if so, how? Would they merely look over the rim of the coffin, nod approvingly, and then sink back into their dark little box? And if not, could they be persuaded to do so?
In some cities, the coffin is borne into the palace, and the robed and crowned monarch greets this rather shabby-looking artefact (reeking of the sea from whence it came), and there is much talk of honour and esteem and mutual hopes, some nervous glances, and then the lid is carefully removed by the freshly-shaved attendants. In some cities, the coffin is surrounded by elected politicians, in suits, usually wearing glasses, smiling horribly, clutching hastily-written speeches, and they clear their throats, and talk of international cooperation, of initiatives, or core values, of humanitarian projects, of repressive measures, of zero tolerance, of re-education centres, of special detention, of a just and equal society, and then the lid is removed by the freshly-shaved attendants. In some cities, the priests and sorcerors receive the coffin in a grand temple; mysteriously-hatted figures wiggle their heavily-ringed fingers and cast incantations and incense and fire and light about the coffin, and then the lid is removed by the freshly-shaved attendants. In some cities, the coffin is received by carefully unremarkable men with names like Mr Johnson and titles like Third Undersecretary for Commerce, and they say very little, merely nod and purse their lips as the lid is removed by the freshly-shaved attendants.
The coffin often departs as it came, in pomp or quiet unfuss; sometimes the city is burning, the rivers red with what is probably human blood, sometimes there are thousands of impromptu gibbets as if the people conceived a sudden desire for hanging, but just as often a once bloody city is now still, and the survivors look wonderingly about.
Calendars could be set at the moment the coffin is opened and the earthly powers see what lies within.
Sometimes, a king peers into the coffin, and then quietly abdicates and is gone from human sight; sometimes a priest or politician, before that open coffin, proclaims himself to be god. New cults and pantheons have been born; and some have faded away, suddenly incredible and ridiculous; and some old religions have risen once more (as from the coffin itself), become once more a solace and hope for a folk long given to fury and despair. In some cities, the coffin is opened and from that moment the women choose to be barren, and all despise their ancestry and home, and in a generation they are gone from the land, replaced by a fecund, savage people. And sometimes, the opposite: a rebirth, a new sight and will.
There have been many religions and philosophies of the coffin, thousands of books on its likely contents, its provenance and purpose: why does it reek so of the sea? of what wood is it? who made it? how is the vessel chosen? who were the attendants before this work, and can they retire? is there a pattern to the visitations? is it a judgement? is it instruction? is it merely a meaningless phenomenon? who lies within? why do no monarchs, politicians, priests, policemen, report of the contents? why is there no intelligence of the actual opening and viewing of the coffin’s interior, no matter where or when? how old is this coffin? can it be destroyed? has anyone tried? what would happen, if it were destroyed? what exactly transpires, when the lid is opened?
The truth is that the coffin is empty. The attendants remove the lid and inside there is varnished wood, cracked here and there, and a worn velvet lining, and none within. It is unclear if the coffin ever held a body, nor are the attendants much help. There is nothing remarkable about the interior, save the smell (which after all is what one might expect from an artefact kept mostly at sea). There is no awful glow, no aura. And so there are many who merely sniff, – Well then, shut the thing up again.
Sometimes the landsmen babble at the attendants, – But it is empty! Nothing within! We had long waited and it is but an empty box!
And the indifferent attendants shrug, – We did not say otherwise. Nor do we take responsibility for the matter, or what you may think or not think. We have only the duty to carry and set down, open and close, to be here when we must, and go likewise. Make what judgements you will. For us, we thank God this thing be empty, for thus it is lightly borne and no great burden to us.
January 25 2017
1. In Dune, the Bene Gesserit order plant seeds of mythology across the universe through the so-called Missionaria Protectiva, “the black arm of superstition”. These mythic shapes can then be exploited by the Sisterhood for political gain, or for survival in distress.
There is an approximately gnostic view of things widespread in our culture; one could delineate it thus: there is something wrong with the world; we are often alienated from either our true selves and/or from true knowledge of the world; there is a group of enemies behind this unhappy state; there is some way to arrive at power or knowledge. The Matrix, Christianity; Buddhism to some degree.
i don’t see this in Norse paganism, but then all we really have are tales and occasional maxims (the frost giants aren’t really evil, indeed there seems no notion of evil as such); and i don’t know enough about Islam or Judaism to say.
i realise increasingly how little my own “paganism” would make sense to one of the real pagans back in the day, being as it is of a somewhat Christian tinge – that particular strange blend (as i see it) of Greek philosophy and Judaism. The old pagans i guess were really more like Varg Vikernes, who seems to me really unadulterated by either Greek abstraction or Judaic tendencies; in a sense, he could seem to be not really all that “religious”, because we now see religion in inherently Christian terms.
2. Personally, i feel that the gnostic myth i describe above is actually true; that there are malevolent non-physical forces who wish to destroy any human capacity for spiritual enlightenment, and for goodness, and decency, and that there are earthly groups who more or less embody this malevolence.
And i think a sizeable minority of people share this basic supposition, because it is true, whether they are shrieking Feminists, or Alex Jones, or me.
Right now, many politicians are instinctively tapping into this passionate suspicion/paranoia. i doubt they even realise what they are doing; the Left (currently very odd bedfellows such as cultural Marxists, old-school Communists, and financial neo-cons/neo-liberals like the Clintons – mostly scum) have been engaged in a deliberate conspiracy against the West for over a century, and they have been winning for exactly that long; and so perhaps they naturally dream of an all-powerful Putin putting the puppet Trump on the throne, because conspiracy is what they do, and as Vox Day would say, Social Justice Warriors always project.
As the mainstream media and the political/financial elites go for Trump and anyone not fully indoctrinated into the Left, they appeal to the general gnostic paranoia – vague but vehement accusations of “fake news” and of backstage political machinations and hacking: almost the mirror image of the Clinton campaign, they only needed to accuse Trump of assassinating anyone who gets in his way, and of being surrounded by paedophiles and seedy occultists to complete the projection.
But by attacking Trump so vehemently, they also reinforce the suspicions of people such as myself. It doesn’t take much to see the lies of the media – you don’t even need to study the world as it is, the representation contains so many internal contradictions that sooner or later a reader should realise something is amiss. You would need to maintain “Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia” levels of self-deception not to notice. Saddam had WMDs, let’s destroy Iraq. Oh, he doesn’t have any. Syria has WMDs, that’s why we didn’t find them in Iraq – Saddam sold them to Assad. And so on. It could make for an eternal justification, in the year 2217 the Americans would be bombing South Korea to shit because “that’s why we didn’t find Saddam’s WMDs in Syria, because Assad sold them to Iran, and we didn’t find them in Iran after we bombed it to shit, because they had already sold them to Finland, and after bombing Finland we couldn’t find them because those tricky Finns had sold them to Varg Vikernes, what are you, a racist???” etc etc.
And so, for those on the Right the more the mainstream media attack Trump, the more credibility he gains – this preposterously-haired figure has in the last year gone from being an amusing celebrity businessman to something of a bizarre hero, because of those who attack him. For if you suppose the mainstream media to be owned by those who are either demonic or aligned with demonic intent (viz., to destroy all that is good in our civilisation and, more importantly, in our culture and genetic stock), then however bewildering the “wilderness of mirrors” (an Eliot line often quoted by James Jesus Angleton) you can penetrate the lies and insinuations and half-truths and caveats by simply observing who the mainstream media hate, who they wish to destroy.
3. Here’s a good video on Obama and Trump by Razörfist:
As far as i can observe, the main reason people hate Trump isn’t because he’s done anything worse than Obama or Hillary – though that may be because making sexist remarks in private or failing to share his tax records doesn’t seem to me comparable to ordering drone strikes on civilians, supporting Black Lives Matter, or using the IRS to attack political opposition, or destroying Libya and thus opening Europe to mass invasion, but hey, i didn’t get a degree in Gender Studies so what do i know. To me, it seems that people hate Trump because he doesn’t simper and cry and demonstrate manipulative servility by using all the approved Politically Correct terms. When you compare him with Lyndon Johnson – who apparently liked to slap his huge Texan schlong down on the table to intimidate dissenters; or Nixon – who called Bohemian Grove “the most faggy goddamned thing you could ever imagine”, Trump seems indeed really rather restrained.
Since i don’t actually care, and so haven’t spent hours researching the matter, it’s possible that Trump has done things worse than Obama and Hillary, but if so i wonder why all i hear is vague talk of him being “divisive” and “racist” and “sexist” and “Hitler” – most of these terms have also been applied to me, so i just shrug and think, Ja, und?
4. Trump and Varg Vikernes share a quality – neither seem to have the usual pre-emptive cringe of the modern man; they lack what one could call “the foreign installation” of self-censoring fear and the desire to conform. In the past, such men were more common, now very hard to find in the public sphere. Hence, a certain shock when confronted with a Trump – who seems to speak more or less extempore – after the crocodile tears of Obama, the truly hollow man.
5. i find that almost all my students fear and hate Trump, and when i ask for specific complaints, all they can say is “he is showing so ugly aus or? He is sounding angry. Obama war attraktiv and he speak so good or?”. Well, well.
Trump strikes me as a showman but not an actor; his show is his self, his brand is Trump. Personally, i don’t like the brand or the self; but i like the sense that the man on stage is always Donald Trump, that if he is playing a part, it is the part of Donald Trump and no one else.
By contrast, Obama is a consummate actor, a hypocrite whose only redeeming qualities are charisma and sloth. But then, i find it hard to feel much about Obama – there is even something half-likeable about this utterly empty and glib actor, compared to Hillary.
6. Many years ago, i read Hunter S Thompson’s gonzo interview with Bill Clinton. At the time i dismissed this, thinking “typical HST” – Thompson presented him with a saxophone reed, and:
Clinton stared balefully at the reed for what seemed like a very long time, like a Chimp peering into his first Mirror … There was a sense of puzzlement on his face as he silently pondered the thing.
It was an awkward moment, Bubba. Very awkward. Nobody knew how to handle it. He seemed unhappy, almost angry as he fondled the reed distractedly, saying nothing … Then he rolled his eyes back in his head and uttered a wild quavering cry that made my blood run cold.
The others tried to pretend that it wasn’t happening. We were, after all, in the South—and in some tangled way we were also the governor’s guests. Or maybe he was ours. Who knows? But there was no doubt at all that somebody was drifting over the line into unacceptable rudeness, and I didn’t think it was me. Greider was sobbing quietly, and P.J. sagged limply in his chair. Jann began jabbering frantically about “the Generation Gap.” A pall of helpless craziness came over the table, a sense of unknowable Doom . . .
Then the governor dropped the Reed on the table like it was just another half-eaten Potato scrap, brushing it blankly aside and suddenly smiling warmly at all of us, as if he had just emerged from a Pod and was happy to be among friends. “No more music,” he said firmly. “Let’s have some food, I’m hungry.” Then he grasped the wicker basket of French Fries with both hands and buried his face in it, making soft snorting sounds as he rooted around in the basket trying vainly to finish it off.
As ever with Thompson it’s difficult to judge because he felt no obligation to factual reporting, and weird things genuinely happened around him so often that sometimes his wilder rantings turn out to be, well, factual reporting. Thompson clearly was disturbed by Bill Clinton, and i suspect what actually happened is this: Clinton imitated a saxophone but it came off as a demonic howl, he was amused by the horror on everyone’s faces, and decided to demonstrate his dominance by eating like a pig. And that there was something so weird about the whole performance that Thompson decided to write it up as an episode of demonic possession.
7. One should not expect too much of Trump – he is surprising even to me; and yet he is exactly the Messiah one should expect: calculating, brusque, unspiritual, egotistical, intelligent, ordinary.
From my first real encounter with the demonic influence – in 1998 when i read my first Literary Theory nonsense (so ludicrous i initially thought it a hoax), through to my growing conservatism as i observed chav and Muslim at first hand in Leeds in 2004, i felt my vision clouded by the prevailing miasma of ignorance and delusion. When i attempted to pierce the fog of our times, i saw only the past, as it were a faint light from before my birth.
This fog parted in autumn 2015, when the globalists openly strove to destroy Europe by importing millions of Muslim rapists. Their own impatience (or perhaps calculated gamble, knowing the economic collapse was due) served for clarity. i became aware of Trump in 2016, and felt very quickly, – This is the chap.
Probably no one else could have achieved this. The few decent politicians in America lack Trump’s money and cunning and swagger; or had too much to gain or lose.
The powers that be have long been of demonic purpose and intent. The George Soroses, the Clintons, the socialists and shrieking menstrual Feminists and scimitar-waving Muslims, have been gloating over the wreckage of the West, delighted by every rape, every sexual assault, every murder, every incidence of chavvery and knavedom and horror. As they have allied themselves with demons, so they will be consumed.
They have enacted the ritual of desecration, and will be destroyed thereby.
1. i foolishly abstained from gin on Wednesday – actually from all booze – but gin, i now realise, was the only thing keeping me robust amidst coughing sneezing Germands, for i have been ill since Thursday, mostly just sleeping and thinking. i had several fiction ideas in this time, but didn’t bother writing them down, because i’ve now grown so dispirited about my oddly sporadic stop-start imagination – i have notebooks full of what i think are good premises for tales, which i am unable to develop; that is, when i try they quickly become formulaic, merely repeating tropes from extant works. It could be that my imagination only works in spotlit moments, and utterly fails when i try to join the dots. It’s not that the results, if i wasted hundreds of hours writing them up, would be terrible; rather, mediocre, passable:
i hope my projected next novel – which i haven’t even begun – will be its own beast, but am not optimistic. In one sense, i am a product of my age: an exhausted civilisation (the culture being by now long extinct) which can only mimic or denigrate the achievements of the past.
2. The decline of our arts is, for me, clearest in cinema, and the Star Wars franchise in particular. The Viking saw Rogue One recently, and wrote glowingly of the visuals, the special effects, but had nothing good to say of the characters and dialogue. The vile prequels are notoriously dreadful in every single aspect, to the point where they seem to have been written and directed by a 5-year-old. The Force Awakens is okay, a passable film indeed, with good special effects and visuals, not really much good about the dialogue or characters – and i dare say the sequel will be more of the same.
It’s by now to be expected, that big budget films like Rogue One will have great special effects and a lousy script. Avatar, for example, cost 237 million dollars, and was for me deeply tedious: again, it seemed that a 5-year-old child had written the script, for example the precious mineral the bad guys could only obtain on this furry blue planet was called Unobtainium.
Is it really so hard to get a decent writer, with the money Hollywood can throw around? Seemingly so. Or perhaps the studios and directors think the writing is irrelevant, that all you need to do is throw a lot of exploding robots and jiggling tits on the screen, and it’s a film.
3. The Force Awakens looked great, physical and kinetic:
– but for me, the only interesting character was Han Solo, the others being too much the standard Hollywood tropes: the tough Feminist girl who can do everything men can do but better, with perfect skin and lips despite living in a desert; the wise-cracking negro who bumbles comically about; the angsty emo etc. i didn’t really care that the heroes were all Diversity Quota Selections, nor did i care that Daisy Ridley’s character proved able to beat enemies down (she seems to have grown up alone on a desert planet, so would either be raped & murdered by Sand Peoples or learn to fight), or could use the Force so easily (for me, it seemed that the psychic altercation with Kylo Ren provoked her own innate talents, that the hostile symmetry of his powers inadvertently awoke her own). But i found the characters fairly dull; vaguely likeable, and forgettable.
Some of the dialogue was good; there were some good moments. The whole was however riddled with major plot holes, some so glaring i wondered if an explanatory bridge had been edited out. i wasn’t too bothered that it was a pastiche of the first Star Wars film, since that could be done with wit and depth (it wasn’t); but i found the plot holes gratingly frequent & coarse – best expressed in this review:
3. i’m willing to ignore the odd plot hole, but The Force Awakens was more hole than plot, to the point of meaninglessness. Meaningful character, motive, causality, were clearly of no importance to JJ Abrams. That absence of meaning is now the norm in modern cinema (as indeed, in our dead-end civilisation) – we are presented with things which make no sense, with flat, lazy characterisation, with characters who do things for seemingly no reason but to advance to the next special effect. Typically, modern films are full of meaningless spectacle. All the money and creativity goes into marketing and special effects; there are truly skilled cinematographers and technicians creating stunning moments – but moments without meaning.
This is, i would guess, why modern films can be so easily made into trailers – for a trailer is usually nothing more than a meaningless spectacle. Even modern fan-tributes of older films – up to the 80s or thereabouts – are usually lacklustre compared to trailers for worthless dazzle like The Matrix 2 or Man of Steel. There seems, indeed, often an inverse correlation between spectacle and meaning, so for example Butch Cassidy & the Sunshine Kid, or Jaws largely eschew the former. There are, of course, good films where spectacle is at the service of meaning: The Empire Strikes Back, From Russia with Love, Lethal Weapon, and some modern films like Christopher Nolan’s Batman trilogy, and Inception.
i find it telling that even Nolan – who creates interesting characters, with good dialogue, seems content with glaring plot holes, e.g. the Joker apparently planned to get caught when nothing in the film supports this rather extravagant explanation. That even an artist like Nolan wouldn’t, i suppose, see anything wrong with these plot holes is suggestive of the widespread rot, the insensitivity to meaning. When i say “meaning” i’m not talking about any kind of religious or spiritual factor – just some basic continuity from moment to moment, the kind of continuity we find in our waking reality and not in our dreams. i find this indifference to meaning also in politics, which has descended to Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia levels of nonsense: so Trump (i think guessing from his own polls that he would win the Rust Belt) says that if he loses the election it will be because it’s rigged; Obama tells him to “stop whining”; the so-called Intelligence communities say it’s impossible to rig the US elections; Trump wins; the Democrats and so-called Intelligence communities claim the election was rigged, and if you deny it then you’re deplorable because the elections have always been riggable, and we have always been at war with Russia. The evidence? Well, it’s complicated, you wouldn’t understand it, like you wouldn’t understand where Saddam hid his WMDs, or why we had to destroy Libya, or why the billions of dollars spent on the so-called Intelligence communities seem billions largely wasted. But trust us, there’s evidence.
The collapse of meaning, into spectacle, into politicians crying on camera, merely moderate political parties labelled “far Right”, Islam as “the religion of peace”, is so far advanced that i’m not sure it can be reversed; most likely not.
1. i’ve been splurging on genre fiction of late, having lost most interest in Serious Literature: i’m making my way through Daniel Silva’s Zionist spy thrillers, CS Lewis’s Cosmic Trilogy, and just finished Frank Herbert’s Dune. Silva’s Gabriel Allon series is quite good, well-written, just rather formulaic (every woman he meets falls in love with him; Allon is routinely captured, tortured, then escapes; at the end of each book he tracks down and kills the bad guy); if i were to criticise, i would say the Weltanschauung is uninteresting, conventional, unchallenging: he suggests at corruption in high places, never presses further; there is always a happy ending, the Powers That Be are always benign, the Chosen People always superior to the bigoted greedy Europeans. It’s a peculiar reading experience because, for me, the best spy thrillers share a gnostic intimation that the Powers That Be are, in fact, demonic; or, at best, merely aumildary, limited in their knowing and will; and because i’m not one of the Chosen People, and so don’t respond positively to the repeated motif of greedy evil Europeans and beautiful talented superhuman virtuous selfless Jews who are infinitely entitled against the rest of the world, because of the Holocaust etc.
i don’t have a problem with Silva, who i presume is a Jew, regarding his own genetic group as superior to all others, it’s just that for one thing it’s lazily swimming with the mainstream (i dare say he had absolutely no difficulty getting published), for another it’s at times rather too black and white for my tastes. A Huddersfield Supremacy series would be even more questionable but would at least have the virtue of swimming against the current.
2. i’m on book 3 of Lewis’ trilogy, very much enjoying it. Normally i am bored by sci-fi, and normally loathe CS Lewis. However, Out of the Silent Planet, Perelandra, and That Hideous Strength lack the belly-patting “are we all sitting comfortably?” smugness of the Narnia books or most of his Christianity for Dummies “theology”. In the first two books, the hero (a philologist called Elwin Ransom) accidentally and then deliberately voyages to Mars and Venus. In Out of the Silent Planet, Rommel meets a kind of non-physical intelligence, called Eldila, on Mars benign, on our Earth more properly demonic. Perelandra is even more interesting, a retelling of Paradise Lost if you like, with some interesting allusions to Dante (especially the Terrestrial Paradise of Purgatorio); there are some monumental and surreal landscapes and seascapes, and one of the greatest Satans i’ve come across in literature – actually, the most convincingly evil, with a persuasive and recognisable “voice”. At times, Perelandra reads like part of the Cthulhu mythos, a work of cosmic horror, albeit one written by Saint Augustine with Erwin Rommel as the main character. Here’s a picture of a young Lewis, smoking crack, by God:
A highly disturbing but good book; i found touches of the same Satanic voice in much of the news in 2016: the globalists’ latest initiative to teach pre-school children about pornography, and encourage little boys to volunteer for chemical castration, the smiling dismissal of Muslim gang rape as a minor intercultural misunderstanding, the haughty condemnation of the native European population for failing to commit cultural & genetic suicide. Every time Obama or Angela Merkel open their mouths, hark, that Satanic note.
3. Our time is only comprehensible under the aspect of spiritual warfare. There are non-physical sentient forces, Eldila if you like, and they can “possess” a physically-alive human being, though in my experience the benign Eldila do not possess; they rather present images, words, ideas, at certain points, in such a way that the man may dismiss them if he will.
Possession – which i guess would always be malign – happens from time to time. As far as i judge, child abuse, extreme trauma, drugs, insanity, can open a crack in the psyche, through which malign forces may periodically enter. This is, i would surmise, one reason why so-called black magic, the elite, and child sexual abuse often go together – the demonic forces desire new hosts, and use those corrupted by worldly power to perpetuate their ends. Hence, one should not be overly surprised that the intended POTUS, Frau Clinton, surrounded herself with a mixture of incompetents, paedophiles, and those into rather shabby low-grade magic. For me, it’s clear that the very rich & powerful are likely to be tempted, since their position puts them above the law, and they are liable to feel unsatisfied by ordinary human pleasures, since many suppose fame/power/wealth must bring about extraordinary pleasures.
4. i recently had an experience which suggests one of the principle vectors of Europe’s sufferings is attended by powerful non-physical forces. Let’s call him The Vulture. In his case, i suspect he was sexually abused as a child in the late 30s or early 40s, caught up in the maelstrom of evil sloshing around Europe at the time, and at some point gave himself to not merely the earthly agents of that evil, but to the evil itself. Certain malevolent forces took up permanent residence in his psyche, and directed him to immense worldly success, and to others of his kind. The Vulture now has a peculiar deadness to him, as if something vital died off long ago in his spirit; Dante would have rightly judged him as fit for Ptolomea; and indeed, it seems The Vulture’s initiation involved treachery to his own kind. One could see him as a link between the evil of old, and the evil of today – he speaks a different language now, and is hideously aged, but i think the same essential malevolent spirit is in him, a spirit of ruin and betrayal and pain.
5. The third volume in Lewis’ trilogy is interesting – i’m only about a third through, but so far it appears that the cosmic evil is taking earthly form in post-war England through a vast, progressive bureaucracy that has more or less taken over the State, and under exceedingly vague talk of science and humanity and progress is at work to first suborn and then annihilate the human race and all its beauties and nobility. The setting may as well be my Alma Mater, as Lewis even notes in his introduction.
It seems typical of the demonic, that when it would operate on a broad scale it attempts to co-opt idealism and so will robe itself in talk of Progress and Humanity and so on; while those who are truly good, or at least fighting the good fight, generally eschew such grand terms. It has long puzzled me, why this should be; perhaps it is because the true virtues, to use Wittgenstein’s terms, can be shown but not said; you can embody and enact them in your daily life, but any talk is necessarily second-rate, of facile & dubious value – this is why, i deem, Shakespeare gave the line “to thine own self be true” to Polonius of all people.
6. Discussing Trump with The Wolf, he said “but it is still not clear what he really wants“. i myself find Trump a puzzle: he is sometimes bizarre and mildly repulsive with his huge Cro-Magnon skull and orange hair, sometimes highly amusing and likeable with messages like this:
If i were in his shoes, that is exactly the kind of message i would have issued. The media’s continued, hysterical attacks on Trump confirm my initial sense that he is not part of the globalist plan. i feel sorry for anyone whose news comes mostly from CNN, the New York Times, Washington Post, overheard conversations in Starbucks and the university canteen etc. – for one thing, a rudimentary Google would reveal that most of the attacks on Trump are somewhere between outright falsehoods and gross distortions, e.g. “Trump says all Mexicans are rapists”, in reality Trump points out that a lot of those who enter the US illegally are “not the best” of Mexico, and some are rapists (and many merely come through Mexico from shitholes like Colombia and Honduras); or another classic “Trump says women are pigs”, in reality Trump said Rosie O’Donnell is a pig; and so on. Or a recent CNN classic:
During the campaign, he repeatedly downplayed violent outbursts his supporters displayed at times toward protesters and insisted that paid activists were instead responsible for inciting violence at his rallies.
“You people were vicious, violent, screaming, ‘Where’s the wall? We want the wall!’ Screaming, ‘Prison! Prison! Lock her up!’ I mean you are going crazy. I mean, you were nasty and mean and vicious and you wanted to win, right?” Trump said Friday. “But now, you’re mellow and you’re cool and you’re not nearly as vicious or violent, right? Because we won, right?”
This clumsily-written “story” was run in the usual places, to the effect that Trump apparently admitted his fans are wild crazed animals. They even presented a carefully-edited video which anyone with an ounce of irony would realise was Trump saying “this is how the media see you” not “this is how you are”. The full speech, incidentally, is here. But then how many of the New York and California hipsters would bother with the truth, when they know it in their hearts and their feeeeelings? Even after DNC leaks showed Hillary’s staff organising violence at Trump rallies, the media still push the “Trump fans are all psychopathic KKK straight white men who rape women because they are fascists literally like Hitler only worse!” line.
That the bought media and the elites so unrelentingly hate Trump is, in a sense, reassuring. One can judge somewhat of the elite’s views & intent from the mainstream press; that Trump is not part of their plan, that Hillary was more or less guaranteed the presidency by the elites, that (cold or hot) war with Russia was planned for the near future. At present it looks like Obama is either hoping to start a war with Russia in the next 3 weeks, or to at least sour relations for Trump – but Putin for all his faults is no dummy, and is probably smiling coldly to himself as he eats caviar off some 17-year-old girl’s buttocks, waiting for Obama to fuck off to his mansions and the 100,000 dollar/hour speech circuit.
i expected that Trump would become at least half-bought, and the media attacks would subside, that only the fringe of hipsters and lesbians would continue to shriek Hitler, but it seems he is still his own man, whatever that is; and while i don’t expect him to achieve all that much, he seems to be deranging & disordering the fabrication of the elites:
As they walk, Ariadne notices more and more of the projections staring at her.
ARIADNE Why are they all looking at me?
COBB Because my subconscious feels that someone else is creating the world. The more you change things, the quicker the projections start to converge on you.
COBB They sense the foreign nature of the dreamer, and they attack like white blood cells fighting an infection.
ARIADNE They’re going to attack us?
COBB No. Just you.
7. And so onto Dune. In an earlier age it would have been an esoteric fragment recovered from a cave somewhere in the Middle East; in ours, it has become a sci-fi classic, not to mention a strangely compelling and highly flawed David Lynch film with Sting prancing around in leather pants and Patrick Stewart snarling murderously.
Unlike other space battle/lasers/alien works, it places the human at the centre. Due to a refusal to use computers – Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind – the human has become central (whereas in our world, the human is as it were shunted to one side, in favour of the machine). In our world, there is simultaneously much study, and much gross misunderstanding, of the human; our attempts to form human nature are risibly deluded, or rather demonic – to create the perfect consumer, a nervous credulous gobbler-up of whatever lies are served up by the elites. Real strength is violently discouraged, and education has produced two generations of ignorant, weak-willed neurotics.
In Dune, the Bene Gesserit order breed certain bloodlines, to produce a human being capable of extraordinary feats. In a certain sense, i agree – genetics does influence character, though in a highly complex engagement with environment; however i agree rather in the sense that people can at the lowest be just animals with the ability to produce words and operate machines:
“A duke’s son must know about poisons,” she said. “It’s the way of our times, eh? Musky, to be poisoned in your drink. Aumas, to be poisoned in your food. The quick ones and the slow ones and the ones in between. Here’s a new one for you: the gom jabbar. It kills only animals.”
Pride overcame Paul’s fear. “You dare suggest a duke’s son is an animal?” he demanded.
“Let us say I suggest you may be human,” she said.
– and in the sense that the human may be trained, encouraged, educated (led out of the animal mind). Not that real education is easy, or even possible for most; to quote Paul Atreides: There should be a science of discontent. People need hard times to develop psychic muscles.
In our time, most people strike me as “animals” in the Dune sense; those who are at least potentially human have typically swum against the current. In one sense, our world is very dark indeed, in another this very obscuration and sickness can act as a catalyst for those who could be fully human. i feel that the last two or maybe even three generations are mostly damned, and as (Exodus) the Chosen People wandered for 40 years in the desert, before entering the Promised Land to slaughter the inhabitants, so most of those now alive and in adulthood are unredeemable, and no matter what happens they will not open their eyes. One could take Nordal Hauken as emblematic of these generations; they will i think perish in the desert of their own sickness, refusing to see because they are, spiritually speaking, insane.
If to be a human being is to exist somewhere in the very broad spectrum between the animals and something like an angel, then most today have chosen the ecstasy of the beast, to abdicate their potential and become, well, trendies:
And remember, whatever else you have taken from this: “it’s a new thing, not just being in a narcoleptic state, or being cowardly, or having a pot belly, I mean the average trendy resembles a paedophile, it’s like the style. Chicken-necked weakness is like a god now, being totally passive and being a huge jellyfish slacker who looks like a fried egg on a chair.”
1. Vienna, my fourth or fifth time i think. Whether the recent Multicultural Enrichment or my own perception/memory, it seemeth sore beset with infestation of criminal & evil-doer. In bars, pubs, restaurants, it is much like Munich; on the streets & u-bahns, German seems a minority language (20%), the rest being half Muslim-tongue, and Slav. There are, as in Munich now, roving packs of military-age Muslim, and lone predators, but unlike in Munich they seem to rule the roost here, with a cocky sneering arrogance – i guess word travels quickly, that Vienna police do nothing, and rape is fine. Not that German courts would do more, but the police are everywhere to be found in Munich, in pairs, armed, serious of mien & girth, and they will act.
i wander aghast from my hotel to Stefansdom, muttering “the sand people! the sand people!” and glad of my Uzi and pepper spray. Even the Viennese slavs look more prone to Adidas than the Munich variety.
2. It is a faintly evil & weird city. Clown graffiti:
Though i am tempted to investigate this creepy-looking cafe, just for the name:
Most of the city is banal and ugly, with too much traffic, noise, and especially in winter little colour; and yet it often has a strangeness to it; gruesomely modern and sorcerous, with a vision inimical to men:
At first disturbing, and then stimulating. It reminds me at times of Edinburgh in winter; unlike Munich, this is a city you could disappear into. Munich, for all its history, seems to me a city without magic – too clean, too orderly, too civilised; Vienna has, to my eyes, its own magic, a kind of seedy, leering, alien presence.
As ever, a lot of beggars, and many crazies – folk shambling about grinning at nothing, dressed only in, e.g. shabby pinstripe suits and slippers (no socks).
3. i meet the Viking. He has a cut on his nose, looks as if he tried & perhaps even succeeded in a Muslim-style sexual assault but the victim put up a struggle. i tactfully inquire, “did you rape someone?”. The usual response, a Hmmm, and then: “I walked into a glass door.”
We drink at Siebensternbräu, where i note many Hs cut into the walls, i put forward my own, sinister interpretation:
We go to the usual Pub Bukowski, where the Viking finds a woman in the toilet. At the time i just shrugged, thinking “that is the kind of thing that happens to him”; only later, i thought “he probably went into the women’s toilet”.
We defile many other bars etc., including Das Torberg, The Sign, in search of gin, whisky, pig flesh, and smoking facilities. We fail to have any real adventures, by which i mean the Viking doesn’t smash anything or commit any assaults, or get smooth with the ladies, or set his absinthe on fire. i play him one of my favourite Varg Vikernes videos
and he later draws this tribute while talking about how he wants to become an Augustinian and experiment on himself:
We walk the streets for miles. The Vienna strangeness continues:
i presume the shadow figure at the bottom was some intended artistic effect, but i don’t recall seeing it at the time, and so it was probably Vlad Dracul – about whom i talked at length, gleefully wondering if the Order of the Dragon is still extant.
4. i wander a bit around Vienna alone. Some strange juxtapositions:
and find myself on Argentinierstraße, looking up at Karlskirche
i wander down it, feeling memory tugging, then remember – i was here 3 or 4 years ago, looking for the so-called Palais Wittgenstein.
5. i go to Bratislava to meet the Viking and his Intended. It is hideous:
We walk down a horrible road, then get a horrible Slavic bus down a horrible dual carriageway, to an incongruously excellent restaurant in the middle of nowhere. Superb menus:
Soup is base! The Viking scowls, “I will take this home and edit it for free.” And i: “That’s blasphemy, you would ruin the whole thing.” And he: “Hmmm.”
Sated by duck and cabbage and blueberry pancakes, we stagger into the old town, which is small but very pleasant:
The city is full of Slavs. i am the only darkie to be seen, and there are Adidas-Slavs a-plenty, and scrofulous-looking scum slouching about looking like crippled orcs waiting to pounce on a hobbit, but on the whole it seems safe enough. The cops are fat and look vaguely embarrassed and cold, lacking gloves in the winter chill.
It’s a genuinely Muslim-free zone and in my heart i know that i will end up fleeing here and will live with the Viking and his Intended, teaching their 20 blonde children good Odinic values and the Way of the Uzi.
6. The Viking springs one of his Surprises and introduces me to Patrik Slažanský, a local pipe-maker. Patrik arrives with an orange suitcase full of his creations:
The Viking generously purchases a pipe for me, i opt for what is probably the most expensive, “Dark Beauty”, a real wonder of the art:
i’ve smoked it twice now and find it finely balanced in the hand and mouth, with a cool, clear smoke. It sits happily in the hand, with something of a battleship’s stately poise, and a living lightness. As Patrik said (in Slovak), his pipes are made from his love of the art, and he hopes they carry that value and intensity with them, to their eventual owner.
7. The train home, i get a carriage to myself from Salzburg to Munich, and luxuriate, re-reading Dune and drinking:
i admire the pipe, noting how its coloration changes easily in sunlight, a good sign:
And now i am back in Munich.
1. Am off to Vienna tomorrow, will likely have no internet access for a few days, so will try to write something now. Not much time or energy of late, on top of 12-hour days i’ve been slaving at my hideous Bildungsroman the last few months, actually the last 14 years, and am now reasonably content but still of course unsatisfied, on each edit finding yet more gross imperfection & lewdness. My only consolation is that each version is slightly better than the one before, this latest noticeably more than the one i published on Lulu in 2008. It’s been hard work because i had no idea how to write a novel when i began in 2002, and so one can see it like renovating a house built on bad foundations, unable to just rip the whole thing down but instead preserving the essential structure and bit by bit figuring out how it should have been to begin with. The 50 or so rewrites are not testament to the novel’s excellence, but rather its (and my) original inadequacy; much as the Japanese swordsmiths folded the steel umpteen times because their iron was low grade, and this folding served to even out the carbon content.
2. My life has been a long process of painful refinement, because, presumably, the original ore was so low-grade. And yet, i find myself partially conscious, unlike many – not intelligent exactly, but able to simultaneously live, think, and observe my own thought processes & emotion. Most people, it seems, are not. Last week i realised why i am so panicked by complaints, by surly-looking students; i noted that every time i have a great group or class, and think “i like my job!” i almost immediately have a shitty class as if to say, “hey, you bastard, you should die.” i believe such recurrent patterns are (for me, at least) intended to instruct, and so i dwelt upon the matter, and after 7 years of fairly frequent complaints, 7 years of fearing i will be fired and die in a ditch, in Bradford, 7 years of nonetheless surviving all, it became clear that the particular shape and urgency of this fear is what one could call a past life residual stress. Being outcast and despised, and destroyed, is part of my essential nature, but in this context, particular and explicable.
3. i am presently going through a kind of convergence of times and selves, manifesting partly in odd coincidences, and some kind of “telepathy” – with the latter, i find myself knowing what people will say, before they say it, and while some of it is probably easily explicable since i know my students, their core vocab, and can thus occasionally anticipate almost exactly their next few words, there have been enough weird moments where, realistically, no one could have imagined what would follow, and i was sitting there nodding & smiling encouragingly, thinking the words which my student then uttered.
4. i attended the McLingua Christmas Party, getting a plate of disgusting Indian food (actually quite nice), a glass of red wine, and locking myself in a classroom to enjoy the party without distractions. i then read some of a Daniel Silva Gabriel Allon novel (well-written if sometimes predictable spy thrillers about a Mossad agent; more or less okay though i notice that Germans are always described as stupid bigots and, well, it’s no surprise the author’s wife works for CNN) till California Jesus and Doug the Greaser came in, stared at me, and said, “What the fuck, are you READING?”
Later, i met a fellow pagan more or less by chance, as we say in Middle Earth. Curiously, i am far more radical than he – he’s my age, Welsh, an archaeologist, but a soft polytheist, whereas i am very much one of the heardingas (runic pun). For me, there is no point pursuing this if one is merely adoring and beseeching figures in one’s own head – perhaps it works for some; for me not.
5. Age now 40, i feel i have outlived my self and rather pleasantly exist in a volatized space where it makes no real difference if i physically live or die. Almost all my human contacts are in class, and i have to read English for hours every day to maintain some connection to the language. My students are of course just my students, i am friendly, cordial, encouraging, but there is necessarily no real connection; i rarely socialise, having learnt to avoid and distrust my colleagues; the last time i met anyone i trusted was the last time i saw Juniper in Kassel, a month ago; but tomorrow i will cavort with the terrible Viking in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, sacrificing Christians and quaffing
mead gin in the name of the old gods.