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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.
1. After 5 years in Munich, i find i have almost nothing in common with my colleagues. Those i befriended in 2011/2, like Toddball, now seem juvenile and thuggish to me, feckless and criminal and untrustworthy; which makes me wonder if i was also so, in 2011, or if i merely found them amusing then and have now lost my taste for the criminal American element.
i bumped into a young British English teacher by chance as he was explaining cricket in the teacher room to a German teacher; we struck up a conversation and then met for a drink. His name is Gamgee and he teaches Physics at an international school, also does McLingua to supplement his income. He admitted “I just don’t like Americans, there’s always something wrong with them” – an sentiment i have come to share, though it is partly generational, for among my colleagues the older Americans, or the gays, tend to be okay, funny, interesting; but those my age or below are:
i) Female: bland, nondescript, impervious to irony, ambitious, grinning, Left-wing, aggressive;
ii) Male: clad in gangster rap t-shirts, boast of their criminality (drug dealing, theft, assault), shady, duplicitous, sneering, superficial, full of “yo homey, whassup my man?”, uneducated, wilfully ignorant, Left-wing, don’t even try to learn German.
2. i wouldn’t ordinarily have much contact with the Americans, but that when i teach the Arbeitsamt classes we have a designated derelict building in a shithole ghetto, and a teacher room, and since i don’t want to spend my break talking to my students i usually retreat to the so-called teacher room. There, the Americans dominate. California Jesus is one of the main Arbeitsamt teachers, because he can’t do anything else – most company groups stare in amazement at this baseball-hat-wearing “yo whassup homey” surfer dude bro, and then ask for a real teacher, but Arbeitsamt are just happy to be entertained.
Every single altercation i’ve had with colleagues has been in this one teacher room, in the Arbeitsamt ghetto. Typically, i’m talking to a colleague like Toddball or one of the okay Americans (i.e. over 50) and then a Female or California Jesus, eavesdropping, rebukes me, e.g.:
Toddball: El-bow, what you bin doin, nigga?
Elberry: Nothing much. Had this cool student at X, he –
California Jesus: Oh man! What you always be talking sheeit about them companies, man, no one wants to hear that punk ass shit!
Older American: Yeah, man, so like fucking last week I had this fucking hot student, early 30s, it’s a fucking group but only she fucking turned up, and she was fucking talking about her fucking boyfriend, heh heh heh, she was fucking undoing her top fucking button cos it was so fucking hot in those meeting rooms, heh heh heh.
Elberry: Oh yeah? Was the door closed?
California Jesus [sitting on his usual seat on the windowsill]: What the fuck, “was the door closed”, what kind of creepy-ass shit is that, man? Fuck, nigga!
This is a man who has slept with several of his students, i think some post-dating his girlfriend getting pregnant with their first child (second on the way), but an interesting hostility is developing between us, i think because he is a pure ignoramus, proud even of his ignorance, and although i never talk about anything fancy (books, politics, history, etc.) with my colleagues, they sense that i’m not of their kind, and they despise me therefore. i try to say as little as possible – even laughing at jokes has earned me rebukes, weird though it sounds. i gather that if i am to be allowed in the teacher room i must sit silently in the corner and not talk until talked to, and then only with Yessir and Nossir and Sorry sir.
i encountered a similar hostility in office work, where left-school-at-14 types would snarl “think you’re better than us?” if i so much as yawned. i never talked about my background but, alas, my face and voice and speech betray my ancestry and place. In our modern egalitarian days, this will excite hostility; i am reminded of a scene from Alan Furst’s The Polish Officer, where De Milja, a Polish aristocrat and intelligent officer, has to survive in the world of NKVD and Gestapo:
A uniformed NKVD guard looked through his documents, reading with a slow index finger on each word, then handed them back silently. He got out of Rovno on a dawn train to Brzesc, near the east bank of the river that formed the dividing line between German and Russian occupation forces. On this train, two men in overcoats; one of them stared at him, and foolishly, he stared back. Then realised what he’d done and looked away. At the very last instant. He could see from the posture of the man – his age, his build – that he was somebody, likely civilian NKVD, and was about to make a point of it.
De Milja’s heart hammered in his chest, he felt prickly sweat break out under his arms, he did not even dare a glance to see if the man had accepted his ‘surrender’: breaking off eye contact. Could not put a hand on the VIS, just tried to shrink down into the seat without a single sign of bravado. He was strong. And unafraid. And the way he carried himself, people knew that, and it would bury him in a hurry if he didn’t learn some other way to be in public.
The two men got off the train one station before Brzesc. From the platform, his enemy squinted at him through the window. De Milja stared at his shoes, a proud man subdued. The Russian didn’t buy it; with a certain casual violence he turned to get back on the train and, de Milja was sure, haul him off. But his partner stopped him and grabbed the shoulder of his coat, pulling him, with a joke and a laugh, along the platform – they had more important things to do. From the corner of his eye, de Milja could see the Russian as he glanced back one last time. He was red in the face. The man, de Milja knew beyond a doubt, had intended to kill him.
i have once or twice snapped back at the Americans but there’s no point – nothing to gain, they would only the more viciously despise me, and since i am now in the Arbeitsamt centre twice a week, it’s better to just keep my mouth shut and at best voice platitudes about the weather. Out of curiosity, i mentally logged the topics California Jesus deems acceptable, and they are as follows:
iii) Going to beer gardens
iv) Going to the Isar
vii) Things he’s stolen
viii) Bitches he’s fucked
ix) Horror and action films
This assertive mediocrity is typical of modernity – an anti-egalitarian, anti-intellectual impulse, the resentment of the slime and sludge as the first amphibians crawl onto land and taste the air.
3. Last week i taught an editor of some big-ass German newspaper, was surprised to find him (i think) younger than me, but then i’m now 40 and so most successful people are young enough to be my children, and regard me with pity. He was nice and intelligent, though oddly (given his section) ignorant of the Alt-Right, so i educated him on Hillary’s denunciation. An amusing moment:
Elberry: i’m from a shithole called Huddersfield, about 30 miles from Manchester.
Journalist: Do you know Bradford?
Elberry: Unfortunately, yes, i went to school there for 8 years. [i then named the school].
Journalist: I taught German there!
Turns out he was in Bradford, doing some kind of course at the so-called university, and worked as a teaching assistant at my school, 15 or so years ago. We even know some of the same teachers, which is kind of bizarre.
4. i was brooding on the parallels between my Elberry life and the early 20th C life to which i am closest (there are apparently two others, more or less overlapping, which i don’t remember and feel little for, even as i can see the similarities). He was, and became increasingly, a traditionalist. As Elberry, i perceive that my Elberry life was designed to insulate me as much as possible from modernity, and allow an umbilical cord to Western tradition – i remained inert until i was 20, bored rigid by school, and largely ignored/despised by my family; thus, when i began to read age 20, i was almost a tabula rasa, and then i awoke.
My school was an old grammar, from the 16th C i think, a huge stone building full of deranged paedophiles and sadists (the teachers); and Hitler Youth rugger buggers, Muslims, rapists, and sadists (the boys). i was always stupid and bottom of my class, a reaction to the boredom and structure and also my own physical exhaustion & malnutrition, as i had to spend about 4 – 5 hours a day getting there & back by public transport, and usually subsisted on a chocolate bar for lunch, no breakfast, because my mother told me we were too poor to afford lunch tickets (at the same time, my father had 6 cars); i guess i was eating about 600-800 calories a day for most of my teenage years. i quite enjoyed some of the classes till we got to age 13 and they began on the GCSE curriculum – at that point, every class became tedious, the teachers uninterested, each lesson geared towards the exams. i was also bottom of my class at A-Level, my brain only waking up a few months before the final exams – fortuitously, since it meant i suddenly went from getting Cs and Ds, to straight As, and even that “awakening” was just a faint stirring, enough to master the trivia of school.
Although, in the 80s, corporal punishment was illegal, many of the magnificent old chaps still ruled by violent means, and brooked no insubordination. i was pushed around and got a clipped ear once or twice, nothing serious, and the best thing was the atmosphere – in many ways, it was the school of To Serve Them All My Days. There was a subterranean lineage and tradition, so even if i learnt virtually nothing, i was at least not contaminated by modernity.
After escaping, i first studied a science degree at a grim Northern shithole, but dropped out and pursued my real interest – English Lit, at Durham. It’s only now that i appreciate how protected Durham was against the barbarism of the Left, of Feminism and egalitarianism, for actually no one took Literary Theory seriously, even those who taught it. i lived for 2 years in a 18th C building just under the millenia-old Cathedral, had (some) tutors who read virtually nothing later than TS Eliot, and could read and speak Latin as they would English. i really had no idea how degenerate and debased the modern world had become, and when i left i was essentially a late 19th Century man; and hence, unemployable.
5. Naturally, i have continued in this vein. In the eyes of the world, a rampant failure; in the eyes of my colleagues, a freak and book-reading, like, fucking punk-ass Brit, man. All well and good. There is however a secret lineage, surviving across lives because it has no earthly descent and reckoning: it is without fruit, but nonetheless propagates, and flourishes. Those in this descent will most likely not attend school, or learn nothing there – Varg Vikernes says it best:
1. i’ve survived summer, the most perilous time of year for an elberry. Spring and autumn are always the seasons of change for me, after the hard stasis of summer & winter. At the moment i feel like the last rat on a sinking ship, as the whole of Western Europe will collapse into Balkans-style civil war in the next ten years or so; and a surprising number of my colleagues are quitting:
1.1 The Cop: he was knocked off his bike, and then got a complaint from a hotel where he’d taught a McLingua crash course for a large engineering company. His version runs that everything was disorganised, no one knew where equipment was, and in true Cop fashion he let them know this was unacceptable. i dare say he got in people’s faces, and i can’t imagine him going beyond the limits of standard venomous German grumbling, but he has an aura of violence which amplifies matters somewhat; in this, similar to Morgana who could say things which, on paper, would sound merely aggressive and nasty, but with her evil goblin/Borderline look, talking with her was somewhat akin to being stuffed in a bag with a dozen rabid raccoons, and then being thrown into the sea, and eaten by a shark.
The Cop had always nurtured the illusion that, because he can be a good teacher (i.e. when students cooperate fully), and is reliable, McLingua valued and respected him. After his bike accident none of the management or sales team even asked if he was okay (he had “bone bruising” and could hardly walk, but continued working for McLingua). And then they chided him for getting in the face of the incompetent hotel staff. He had, apparently, garnered a reputation as a Nazi, amusing given he is a Zionist and i’m far more to the so-called Right, but then i don’t look the part.
The Cop has a rich wife and doesn’t need money, so quit. It’s quite a shock, strange as it sounds, for he was a decade-long-staple of the McLingua teachers, one of the few who persisted while young pampered millennials came & went. It’s like David Bowie dying all over again.
1.2 Big Ben – an American, think i wrote about him earlier but can’t find the post (perhaps deleted). He’s probably mid-30s, well over 6 foot, fat, alcoholic, from some rich man town outside Detroit, left his family when he was a teen and worked construction, went to university and studied History, speaks now a faintly-American English accent, vaguely 19th Century to my ears; he said he spent some time in his late teens locked in a room watching Anthony Hopkins films, and absorbed the voice. A deeply strange individual, he speaks excellent German, doesn’t read but speaks literate English (unlike most of my colleagues), is a fan of shows like True Detective and The Thick of It. i always found him fascinating to talk to, but at the same time couldn’t trust or get a sense for whoever he really was – perhaps much as the lesser man has always responded to me, which suggests Big Ben is actually the Übermensch, by god.
A month ago he told me he had to give up alcohol after a hernia, and also feels generally weakened by “German meat” – he said he visited his family in America and “after eating American chicken, I felt power in my body again”. He does, at times, radiate a slightly serial killer vibe. And now he will move back to America, to eat meat, after a decade of McLingua.
Curiously, he is a very good teacher; between classes he groans lugubriously about the job – much the same problems i have – but his students universally admired him, and i walked in on one of his classes and was faced with a totally different persona. As he said, when last we met, – I never applied myself to this job. I couldn’t accept this as a career, so I never learnt anything about how to teach languages, or teach anything. This was always temporary. But then it went on too long to be temporary.
– What are you going to do back in America? i asked.
– Anything except this. I have to get my car fixed up, then I want to drive around. There are wastelands, like Mad Max territory but without the cannibals and warlords, there’s just nothing there. I’d like to drive around these places, eating meat and feeling strong again. Germany took my balls away. I have to regrow them.
1.3 Hillary – a hipster from, of all places, Texas, probably early 30s, utterly deracinated (as California Jesus noted “she don’t be speaking or dressing like no American”), a weird hybrid accent, weird lesbian haircut, lived a few years in Helsinki without learning any Finnish (“only the whores go to Helsinki”), has worked mostly in IT & Marketing. She worked at McLingua for about two months before getting a real job in Marketing. Our first conversation as follows, about a week after Brexit:
Hillary: Oh yeah, you’re, like, a Brit, that’s fantastic. So will Brexit affect you here?
elberry: Probably, but i voted for it so i can hardly complain.
Hillary: What? Like, you voted in Brexit, or you voted to leave?
elberry: i voted to Leave, by god.
Hillary: Oh. And you regret it now?
elberry: What? No, i’m absolutely delighted.
After this, all our interactions were marked by a sneering hostility on her part, and shrugs on mine. Like many women she is a natural scold and know-it-all who enjoys policing others, witness the following conversation in the teacher room:
elberry: That Bundeswehr class was pretty cool.
Toddball: A lot of beards.
elberry: But real beards, not hipster beards.
Toddball: Yeah, them niggaz weren’t hipsters.
elberry: You should only be allowed a beard if you’ve been trained to kill. It makes me sick to see hipsters with beards, when they’re just vegan Che Guevara-loving losers who couldn’t kill a squirrel with an Uzi pen.
Hillary [listening the whole time with a tense female look]: Whoah! There’s a lot of stereotyping going on here!
elberry: Yeah, there is. [elberry leaves without another word]
i was puzzled by her “do you regret it” question, then realised she’d been reading BBC and Guardian articles claiming that people voted to Leave as if on a whim and then immediately regretted it, before anything had actually happened (these articles came out within a few days, and so far nothing at all has happened politically). She probably also believes the stories that Britain is suddenly suffering a Brexit-earthquake-driven tsunami of racist massacres, and the only solution is to reverse the referendum and restrict future voting rights to Guardian-reading millennials who live in London, because they know best.
Nasty piece of work, really.
1.4 Two other teachers are leaving soon, both nice, neither remarkable or blogworthy. They will probably die in a ditch.
2. i’ve now been in Germany just over 7 years. Astonishing – that i speak still virtually no German (by my standards), can’t read anything serious without intense effort. i thought about relocating to Eastern Europe, as Germany will soonish collapse into civil war. i can predict that one of the safest places on the planet will be Slovakia, for the simple reason that the Viking lives there, and while he often says things like “God has plans for me, He does not want me gallivanting about having fun” he also has an odd habit of always living in the safest places on the planet, which are also the only places someone like him could survive. If he ever leaves Slovakia, you can be sure the Major Shit is going to go down there within the next few years.
But i feel rooted here, especially in Bavaria. There seems, as best i can discern, a kind of presence here, protecting the natural human culture – it could be that the culture has always been a bit different to “Germany”, so it resists in some sense the crass tide of modernity. i note many Leftist assholes come here for work, and live in quiet villages and towns, and then decry the CSU for trying to protect the state from millions of 3rd World rapists. The Leftists appreciate the safety and order, and don’t understand these exist because of the Catholicism, the conservatism, the traditions they hate and would destroy. Sorry, pal, but that’s the way it is – if you want to live in a cool hipster city where the police don’t do anything, and you’re surrounded by sand peoples, that’s fine, but you’ve also got to accept you’re going to get raped on average four times a week, and your dog will be stolen and made into a kebab, and your daughter will eat it, before she gets raped by a 42-year-old Algerian who will escape prison because he says he’s a 12-year-old Syrian called Mohammed, all praise the prophet.
3. i have wanted to leave this job for the last 4 years but there’s nothing else i could do, save cleaning and bar work, neither of which appeal. And an office job would drive me crazy now. So i try to make the best of it; i enjoy most of my classes, it is merely that i feel how little of my mind and knowledge is engaged – so today, i managed to talk about metallurgy with a steel Sales Engineer, and as is my wont talked about WW2 in terms of raw material supplies, and then with some regret turned back to the shitty McLingua books, with a heartfelt, – Well, i suppose we’d better get started on this chapter.
As Europe – thanks to people like Hillary – is now inexorably plunging into the great Race War, this all seems rather besides the point, but i take a certain pleasure in the fact that the Sales Engineer was a very genteel North African in his 50s, and the other student a kind of dim but sweet Turkish woman, and i hope that they survive the coming slaughter, that if the Titanic is going down, there are enough lifeboats for the good eggs. Not likely, of course, but if anything human survives the coming War i’ll count that a victory.
1. i’m mainly teaching Arbeitsamt these days, as the whole of Bavaria (including my usual company groups) go to Lake Garda from June to September, to wish they could be Italian, and to complain about the Italians. Only the unemployed are compelled, by iron bonds of bureaucracy; only they abide in wretched durance, under my rule. There’s a big-titted blonde MILF in one class, Karen by name, nice, but desperate for cock and attention. She apparently told a mid-60s black American colleague of mine, Maya, that the whole group were worried that i was depressed and might kill myself.
me: eh? What? Is she going to complain to McLingua about that?
Maya: Well, uhh, no she was just, she said she was just, uhh, worried about you. She said you are seriously depressed and uhh stuff like that.
me: i’m actually quite cheerful.
Maya: Well I think she just wants to cause trouble and talk, and she probably, uhh, doesn’t understand your sense of humour. I told her that’s just elberry.
i realised that my life – teaching, hours of unpaid travel, and then home to drink and read and watch TV shows like True Detective, would strike most Germands as depressing and even horrific. Karen has repeatedly said that i need to marry a rich German woman, and seemed taken aback by my Burzum-esque laughter.
Odd, that a life of reading and gin could seem marks of depression, when in fact i generally enjoy my existence, as long as i don’t expect “recognition” for my writings, or money, or success, or any sense of being useful. But then Germands are a peculiar lot, generally quite bright (compared to the average Muslim) but almost totally ignorant of any culture outside the pap of German TV, dubbed American blockbusters, and – for the few who read – crime thrillers and sappy romances. On the rare occasions i have a student who enjoys reading poetry or real novels, it’s almost always a Russian or East European. For Germands, as for the English, reading is mere entertainment; you would never read a novel twice, because the whole point is to kill time, and the prose, the characterisation, the technical proficiency, are irrelevant – and so, like the Viking – who watched Boorman’s classic Excalibur and then grumbled into his beard, – It was impossible to enjoy because I already knew the story – the Germands are incapable of enjoying Rilke or Thomas Mann or Kafka.
2. It does sometimes strike me odd, that i am 40 and considerably more in debt than when i came to the Reich 7 years ago (almost to this day), and have failed to really learn any German since my job forbids any tongue save English, and after teaching i have little heart for social interactions with anyone, and those few tend to be base colleagues.
And yet i have my pleasures.
i’ve started drinking more gin, though perhaps when the colder weather comes i will take again to whisky. It’s a fairly cheap and uncomplicated pleasure – i will die of liver failure but given the whole of Western Europe will be under Sharia law in the next generation, this is a trivial consideration. My two childered colleagues, California Jesus and Toddball, seem to hate their lives, and spend all their free time placating their angry German wives and their angry German children. A bottle of decent gin, by contrast, is a simple and fortifying pleasure, and by the grace of God cheaper than a bottle of decent whisky, thus winning the war on both fronts.
3. Reading remains a great pleasure in these pre-Shariac days (don’t expect much in the way of libraries after the Muslims become more than 25% of the population). Here are some excerpts, of the last few weeks:
3.1 Evelyn Waugh’s Sword of Honour trilogy. Very English, leading on to Larkin – depressed, satirical, mostly hopeless. i’ve yet to finish the third but so far almost all the characters are somewhere between selfish trivial fools and monstrous psychopaths. i wonder, at times, what life was like Evelyn Waugh if he really saw his fellow men so; i expect he drank rather a lot of gin. Here’s a splendid account of the father of the protagonist (Guy Crouchback):
He was an innocent, affable old man who had somehow preserved his good humour – much more than that, a mysterious and tranquil joy – throughout a life which to all outward observation had been overloaded with misfortune. He had like many another been born in full sunlight and lived to see night fall. England was full of such Jobs who had been disappointed in their prospects. Mr Crouchback had lost his home. Partly in his father’s hands, partly in his own, without extravagance or speculation, his inheritance had melted away. He had rather early lost his beloved wife and been left to a long widowhood. He had an ancient name which was now little regarded and threatened with extinction. Only God and Guy knew the massive and singular quality of Mr Crouchback’s family pride. He kept it to himself. That passion, which is often so thorny a growth, bore nothing save roses for Mr Crouchback. He was quite without class consciousness because he saw the whole intricate social structure of his country divided neatly into two unequal and unmistakable parts. On one side stood the Crouchbacks and certain inconspicuous, anciently allied families; on the other side stood the rest of mankind, Box-Bender, the butcher, the Duke of Omnium (whose onetime wealth derived from monastic spoils), Lloyd George, Neville Chamberlain – all of a piece together. Mr Crouchback acknowledged no monarch since James II. It was not an entirely sane conspectus but it engendered in his gentle breast two rare qualities, tolerance and humility. For nothing much, he assumed, could reasonably be expected from the commonality; it was remarkable how well some of them did behave on occasions; while, for himself, any virtue he had came from afar without his deserving, and every small fault was grossly culpable in a man of his tradition.
Akin to Proust’s Baron de Charlus, but finer and without Proust’s ubiquitous perversions. There is also an excellent Victorian slaughterer, Ben Ritchie-Hook, who somehow survives the 19th C to slay Germans, which all self-respecting Leftists would encourage:
“I’ve had fun in Africa too,” said Ritchie-Hook. “After one of my periodical disagreements with the powers that be, I got seconded to the African Rifles. Good fellows if you keep at them with a stick but devilish scared of rhinos.”
3.2 Andrei Znamenski’s Red Shambhala, where i learn of an apposite ancient legend regarding our Muslim guests, a final battle between the so-called Mlecca and the (Buddhist) faithful:
Besides the millions of wild and mad elephants and thousands of warriors and horses that Rudra Chakrin would gather for his final battle, the legend mentioned the variety of weapons to be used against the “people of Mecca.” There were not only chariots, spears and other conventional hardware of ancient combat, but also sophisticated wheel-shaped machines of mass destruction. There would also be a special flying wind machine for use against mountain forts. According to the Shambhala prophecy, this prototype of a modern-day napalm bomber would spill burning oil on the enemies. Moreover, the protectors of the faith would use a harpoon machine, an analogy of a modern-day machine gun, designed to simultaneously shoot many arrows that would easily pierce the bodies of armoured elephants.
4. i’ve been watching the youtube channel Thulean Perspective for a while with joy; ’tis the work of a Norwegian in France, by the name of Varg Vikernes; i have been long fortified by his unrelentingly pagan and European beard, and delighted by his soft, lullaby voice.
It was clear that this is a man you could trust as your babysitter, a man who could record audiobooks for children’s bedtime stories. A kind of Werner Herzog figure, with hints of extreme manliness but basically a big Germanic teddy bear. He talks in one video of his experience in Norwegian prison, and i assumed it was perhaps 6 months for so-called hate speech, or just for being white or perhaps shoplifting or some hysterical Feminist accused him of rape because he held a door open for her.
Then i Googled him.
He’s motherfucking Burzum.
He stabbed Mayhem guitarist Øystein Aarseth to death, burnt several churches down, and got 21 years in prison.
By God, i would still let him babysit my non-existent children, and if he were not to be available, i would play his audiobooks of The Wind in the Willows and Winnie the Pooh, to lull my non-existent brood to sleep, and dreams of Narnia.
1. In Journey to Ixtlan, Don Juan advises Castaneda to become inaccessible, to cease to be available to his old friends. Being a misanthrope and an Anglo-Indian fascist to boot, i have never had to work hard at solitude. Don Juan argues that we are drawn into a common narrative by our acquaintances & friends, their tale of us, and to change we need to free ourselves of their limiting vision. In my case, i began to change sometime last year, when i learnt how to switch off my “internal dialogue”after re-reading Castaneda. The internal dialogue, as much as our social circles, constantly reaffirms our personal narrative – our story of ourselves, and of the world – and blocks out what one could call divine or sorcerous realities.
i occasionally have prescient dreams or visions or what have you – always of trivial things, e.g. a dream that i’m walking to the s-bahn and a woman trips over and drops her phone, and then exactly this happens the next morning – in the same place, the same woman, dressed exactly as in the dream, me in the same position watching. These were always quite rare occurrences but have become more frequent of late. These coincide with my growing alienation from all my colleagues.
2. i now teach about 5 hours a week at McLingua’s Arbeitsamt (Job Centre) building, a piss-stained dump in an industrial suburb. Unfortunately, i am more or less forced to interact with my colleagues, a depressing bunch of mediocrities. i like one of them – a benign Mexican-American called Doug the Greaser, one of these 1950s throwbacks who never swears, seems permanently cheerful and has, as far as i can tell, not a single malicious bone in his jolly Mexican body. The rest are largely harmless but regard me with evident distaste and suspicion, e.g.:
Andy (a Brit): I had like this really weird student, a doctor.
me: Oh, you mean Gunther? Tuesday evening?
Andy: Yeah, he’s like really weird. He’s so like arrogant.
me: I liked him. He’s interesting.
Everyone stares at me.
Andy: He’s like a hunter. I’m not a vegetarian but that’s like really weird. I mean, a hunter. Come on. That’s just weird.
me [gathering my papers and about to leave the teacher room]: Well, i’m not a hunter but i can understand hunting. It’s as old as Man. Haven’t you ever felt the urge to kill?
An uncomfortable silence as i leave. Or:
California Jesus: Man, I had this fucked up Jap, I hate Jap students. They all lame.
me: I had this Japanese radiologist in 2011, his only hobbies were sleeping and eating.
California Jesus: Oh man, that douchebag, yeah I remember him. He be fucked up and lame.
me: What was his name…Akira Kubokai?
CJ: How the fuck do you remember that? I only remember because he was my first student in Munich. What are you, fucking autistic or something? [everyone stares at me with open contempt].
These are my colleagues – exemplars of the lesser man. In some ways it is like being back in school, where the slightest difference arouses derision and hostility, the only admissible skills being beer-drinking-capacity and sports. Having an unusually good memory or a book is grounds for a stoning. Most of them are thieves (bicycles most of all, but they will steal anything they can, and boast of it later), and they all vote for Bernie Sanders and despise any kind of traditionalism, except of course Oktoberfest.
3. i never had much in common with my fellow “teachers”, only occasionally socialising with Toddball and The Cop. Toddball has somehow regressed and become increasingly juvenile since his first child was born in 2013, and when i realised his back-stabbing malicious gossip had come to include me i ceased to tell him anything i wouldn’t want repeated (with his own twist) before people like California Jesus. But since switching off the internal dialogue the coldness between me and the others has become at times open hostility – on their side; i merely regard them as typical human beings. i haven’t changed my demeanour, but i think they sense the other realities at work, somehow – with their acute sense for difference, for abstention from the common reality (beer, sport, drugs, socialism, stealing). i take their hostility as a mark of Cain, in Hesse’s sense, a badge of achievement. A symbolic anecdote – i was walking down Kaufingerstraße in Munich, taking in the crowds (lots of military-age Muslim migrants prowling around in gangs) when someone tried to punch me in the chest, my right arm arched up and his hand bounced off the back of my wrist, and i somehow connected with his upper arm, apparently with some force for i then found myself wheeling to face Toddball. He was rubbing his arm and looking somewhat startled to find his punch-elberry-hard-in-the-chest jape had failed. i apologised, saying i hadn’t seen him, and i made a joke about Muslim rapists etc., and we parted.
Later, i realised i had used the opening move of the yang cheng-fu style to repel his attack. i was totally relaxed, my breathing didn’t even change, and my arm was almost floppy as it sprang up to parry the fist. It is typical Toddball – he is the kind of beery man’s man American who likes to get people in headlocks, punch friends hard and claim it’s a joke, to assert his playground superiority. i’ve never spontaneously used ycf before, though i’ve heard of others – people who learnt some tai chi form for health alone – spontaneously using part of the form in self-defence. i wouldn’t want to bet “health tai chi” would work against a trained boxer or skilled street fighter or gang of Muslims (which is why i also carry a tactical pen and pepper spray and a knife), but against belligerent Homer Simpsons, it seems to do well enough – not bad, since i never really trained tai chi seriously, and haven’t done it daily in a decade. In this case, i feel that my state at the time (with my internal dialogue switched off) enabled an adequate response.
Naturally, a week later i was in the teacher room and Toddball had to tell the others his version: “I was walking down the street, saw Elberry and waved to say hi and he screamed ‘hai!!!’ and attacked me like some fucking ninja, screaming about Muslims. He’s fucking paranoid.” i just shrugged, but later told this to The Cop, who snorted: “You should have broken his nose.”
4. There are many ways of frame your own personal narrative, for my colleagues it is generally “I am a beer-drinking American, I vote for Bernie Sanders because I am on the side of the good guys, I steal anything I can find, I’m cool and haven’t read a book in my life”. For my students it seems to be “I am hard-working and will leave lots of money for my one child when I finally die in the middle of a powerpoint presentation.” For me, everything is suborned to power – one could call it magical power but even that is incidental. There isn’t much to obviously distinguish the higher from the lesser man, it is more an instinct, a taste. Even politics is, i would say, of little significance, though i haven’t yet encountered a Leftist who was other than a mediocrity, a champagne socialist, an embittered freak, or just a fat loser.
5. i had to buy a wristwatch – well, wanted to – since i was sick of digging my fob watch out, and feel a reluctance to rely on mobile phones for the time. i bought a Seiko 5 after watching a great video on the Urban Gentry channel.
It’s the first wristwatch i’ve bought in my life, and the first i’ve worn in over 20 years. i like it and have been wondering, why i prefer it to my old Nokia phone – the latter is so small it’s easy enough to use for time. It is a matter of taste; but then taste is of more importance than ideology or belief. Time is absolutely central to human existence & consciousness, but since it is not tangible like space, it exercises a subtler, and if you like magical influence. Just as inches don’t really exist – not in the way a table or a hand exist – so seconds and minutes are not exactly real, but are a convenience that has become a determining condition. i thought about surviving with my Cold War Molnija pocket watch, which sometimes just stops running until given a good shake, but since i travel so much i really need to know the time to the minute. What, then, is the problem with my old Nokia? – nothing, except that i don’t like time to be electronically-delivered. A matter of taste, again. With the centrally human affairs, such as time, old-fash(ist) is best. i could learn to repair my Seiko, but i wouldn’t have a chance if the Nokia broke – thus, i am at the mercy of the latter, it is not truly part of a human life, anymore than is this computer i use now.
No need for ideology – taste is guide enough, reasoning and theory can come later. i can, in my spirit, reach into the Molnija or the Seiko, and hence they are tools, partaking of my mind & life, and i of their construction. i have never felt the slightest affection or partnership with a computer or mobile phone, and indeed generally find them recalcitrant and perverse, and their fans comparably cartoonish and absurd.
6. i haven’t voted in my life, but am nonetheless regarded as a right-wing nutjob because i wouldn’t support someone like Bernie Sanders. Partly, because he just looks like a choleric old Communist who would happily send millions to the gulag (whereas Trump looks like a choleric male Thatcherite Capitalist who etc.), but mostly because i feel the welfare system is wrong for people like me, and is actually poisonous to everyone, and the “tax the rich and give free stuff to the ghetto troglodytes” approach is not merely economically suicidal, but spiritually ruinous. Money is akin to time – albeit vastly less significant – of consequence to the human spirit, and if you take money for nothing, i.e. welfare, you have lost something of value in yourself.
i speak from experience, having been on the dole for 3 years after graduating; grim as my office jobs were, i never for a moment contemplated going back on the dole as a reasonable alternative, because even then i felt that there is some minimal power in working for the means of survival; but to accept money for nothing is to become a supplicant to the State, that is to an impersonal bureaucracy with which you can have no vital human connection. It is one thing to accept payment for work done, or help from friends or family – here, there is a human relationship, a duality and a reason for the exchange; living on welfare is to become impotent, as i understand it. But just as most people would see no sense in handwriting, or using a typewriter, or having a watch instead of a mobile phone, so it seems most people think society can function if “the rich” are punitively taxed for the sin of success, and their money given to vast government bureaucracies, who then administer what little passes through their capacious absorbent gut, to the ghetto spawn who never expect to work, because they have lost all sense of personal power (which begins with minimal self-respect). i feel that power, as i perceive it, is in fact the law of the universe and hence of society and individuals, and a society which works to annul the capacity of its citizens will naturally collapse, and that seems due soon.
7. As i survey the state of dreariness and mediocrity, the triumph of the lesser man, i feel a grim optimism and curiosity. i would say, with Dante:
però giri Fortuna la sua rota
come le piace, e ‘l villan la sua marra
Turn Fortune her wheel then as she list – and the clown his mattock!
1. Yesterday was 20 April – a very special person’s birthday! Joel Zuckerberg? Sid James? Steve Job? Obano? “Pope” Francis? Hugo Chavez? Russell Brand?
That’s right, Führertag!
In many ways, our culture is both a reversal and continuation of Nazi Germany. Continuation: the idea that an all-embracing, all-seeing Government can and indeed should regulate everything, with regular wars and persecution of pre-selected groups (Jews and Commies and Christians and conservatives then, whites and heterosexuals and Christians and conservatives now). Reversal: Nazi ideology, such as it was, is a Nietzschean/Darwinian melange, survival of the most brutal – weakness taken as sign of inferiority (odd, given the physical and mental ailments of the Nazi leadership). The Nazis liked to present Germans as hard-done-by, more sinned against than sinning, but victimhood itself was a sign of inferiority – as Hitler allegedly said in his last days, if the Russians could defeat the Wehrmacht, then the German people had no right to exist.
2. In our culture, victimhood is a mark of pride, to be held high and flourished, forsooth. i suspect this is the first time in human history that people are proud to be victims, and in which a victim economy encourages the falsification of grievance. Such fancies could only come to pass in a soft, late civilisation; they would be impossible in a warrior culture, or any culture with an awareness of the essentially savage and merciless nature of things, over which civilisation is a difficult and fragile facade. In “nature”, an animal which rolls onto its back, whining, feigning terrible injuries in order to excite pity, would be promptly gobbled up by the nearest predator.
i find the adoration of strength and the warrior tedious after a while, if that’s all a culture has (5th C BC Athens would have been a far more interesting place than Sparta). The adoration of weakness and the (often professional) victim is, however, a truly disgusting spectacle. The black disabled “identifies as a unicorn” tranny rolling on its back whimpering about white privilege, while secretly licking its fangs, is only possible in a society that coddles and positively encourages the weak, the deviant, the mentally disturbed. i see it, as with much of the Left, as a perversion of Christianity – in this case, a caricature of Christian pity, which Nietzsche presciently lambasted.
This will go the way of all such decadence – destroyed by the dreary warrior culture of Islam, invited into Europe by the professional victims and the Social Justice priesthood. In this, the Left reveal that they have no interest in equality, fair treatment of gays and women, since Muslims are not renowned for their tolerance of sexual minorities, other religions, or their respect for women. The Left is, rather, a cancer in the West, set on the destruction of civilisation, and they see the Muslims as useful tools. But then, they seem to imagine that after the Muslims have burnt down every church, murdered every white man, they will then suddenly break out the tandoori tapas, llamas, sombreros, yoga, tantric sex, and saris and start singing and dancing en masse in the socialist paradise where no one works and everyone lives in a mansion:
The lyrics would run something like:
oh beautiful feminist!
oh wise tranny!
oh magnificent gay/lesbian/bisexual!
oh socialist oh communist oh Marxist!
you are so wonderful!
you invited us to dance for you!
we dance for you, we dance for you, we dance for you!
the white man is dead
the Jew is dead
the Christian and the Sikh and the Buddhist and Confucian are dead
we killed them all!
for you for you for you!
now we are so happy
happy forever forever forever!
3. Curiously, i don’t think about the past that much, don’t feel in any way implicated in the actions of my ancestors, or even in the actions i undertook before this life. Perhaps this shrugging disavowal is necessary (for me at least) to remember anything, since i would otherwise be burdened with judgements on my finished lives.
The Left seem to look on the past purely as a source of guilt and blame, perhaps because the protected “minorities” haven’t generally accomplished much they can point to with pride (relative to white males). i suppose i could try to feel proud that my father’s forebears were Brahmin, and so genetically übermensch, and my mother’s were Anglo-Saxon, and so genetically above the global average, but actually i don’t care, nor would i accept blame because people vaguely related to my white mother colonised India, nor would i accept preferential treatment because my father is Indian, hence oppressed and colonised, though it would be amusing to try and feel both simultaneously, and Harvey Two-Face style constantly accuse and apologise to myself.
For the Left, every past civilisation is an abomination, and perhaps only tribal illiterate societies escape censure – ignoring the warfare and slavery practiced by the Africans against each other long before the White Devil arrived. Actually, there is one civilisation the Left favour – the Soviet Union, the workers’ paradise which sadly only failed due to Jews, fascists, and Capitalist saboteurs, but nonetheless a glorious experiment that we simply must repeat – this time with more gulags, more secret police, better indoctrination, more surveillance, more laws and harsher punishments.
4. Yesterday, i told my Arbeitsamt (Job Centre) group: “It’s Hitler’s birthday today.” This came as news to them, though one of them redeemed their collective ignorance by saying, “Congratulations. Happy birthday”, inciting much mirth. Later, in the teacher room one of my colleagues was talking about a 80-something teacher who worked in a school Hitler had praised: “and, my God, she brags about this!” Everyone looked horrified, except me. “That’s awesome!” i enthused. “i would brag about that!” “Don’t get him started,” California Jesus moaned, for i have fully embraced the Left-wing ideology of self-identification and “racism”, and have now self-identified as a black disabled Palestinian Muslim trannie and since racism is prejudice plus power, and as a black disabled Palestinian Muslim trannie i have no power, i can basically say and even do what i want, and no one can say shit. For example, i started offering phrenological notes to colleagues on the dimensions of their skulls and their ranking in my personal racial scale of value, and i accused an Irish alcoholic ex-colleague of being “a traitor to the white race” after she cheated on her German boyfriend and had sex with a Muslim security guard at a migrant camp where she works in Berlin. As you would expect, my colleagues gave me a “but…you’re blek” look, and indeed i am blek, i am in fact a disabled black Palestinian trannie unicorn, and so have no power, and hence cannot be racist, and so now indulge in frankly rather baroque racial theories and phrenological observations. i’m planning to start talking about the secret Nazi base in the Arctic next week.
5. As a freak of nature (don’t like football, don’t drink beer, don’t even drink alcohol now, plus i like to read) i have little stake in any society, and am resigned to the destruction of the West. My objection to the Left and their whining victim culture is more a matter of sorcerous principle. Castaneda is right to liken the sorcerer to a warrior, for in a time of war any self-indulgence, weakness, distraction, sloth, is a fatal error. War, as i found in my last life, can compress and focus a loose, incoherent character. War gives purpose, and it is only with this directed will that one can attain to power and knowledge. Some passages i read this week in Castaneda:
i) The hardest thing in the world is to assume the mood of a warrior. It is of no use to be sad and complain and feel justified in doing so; believing that someone is always doing something to us.
Nobody is doing anything to anybody, much less to a warrior.
ii) Self-importance is man’s greatest enemy. What weakens him is feeling offended by the deeds and misdeeds of his fellow men. Self-importance requires that one spend most of one’s life offended by something or someone.
For the vitki, life is war – he is at war against his own ignorance, his sloth, his self-indulgence, his self-pity. He must become taut and directed, ruthless to himself and others. If he is a victim he does not ask for preferential treatment, he simply strives to escape his conditions through his own work; or if this is not possible, he strives to develop internal resistance to his troubles. The last thing he does is to expect others to help, and he would rather be destroyed than to roll on his back and whimper.