Fat Lady, singing. Give her to me.
Brain dump flavoured with antikosher Maine salt and insane ranting. Pre-winter edition.
Short Story: Golem
Can Agent Rick stop King Charles III in time to save the weather? Probably not. What hijinks ensue? Who cares? Keep calm and hate ZOG!
The Art of Embarrassment
National Embarrassment? More like rational pastime.
Green Ensign
Nothing but a quick little ditty on a flag that's but forgot.
Why Not Jörðadis?
A reflection inspired by the Solstice. Musings on Fae and Vættir, Seiðr and Sidhe, Odin and Jörð. How these funnel into workable living traditions. And why I think Earth is a highly underrated and much needed Goddess today.
ᚦᛁᚾᛣᛁᛝ᛫ᛁᚾ᛫ᚻᛠᚦᛖᚾ᛫ᛖᛝᛚᛁᛋᚻ
:ᚹᚻᛟ᛫ᛞᚪᚱᛖᛋ᛫ᛏᛟ᛫ᛞᚱᛠᛗ᛫ᛚᛁᚹᛖᛋ:
Short Story: Wagon
My first attempt in a very long while at writing Asatru fiction. I wrote this as a tributary during the week of Winterfinding, or Mason. I have worked some rationale into the narrative, but I suspect some of my regular readers will see at once the converging influences I have used as inspiration. Feel free to question or comment if you're moved to. No spoilers, you'll have to read. Or not. Boats and dinghies.
Myth and Culture
To quote what’s left of Arnold: “Old but not obsolete. ” My views on ethnonationalism have gained nuance with regards to the question of pan, but I stand by my confession otherwise. We cannot understand Folksoul without treating ourselves as timeless organisms. There is no one hand point of evolution. The Anglo was the Englishman who was the Germanic Tribe which was the inheritor of Palæolithic Europe, that was something older than even this. The same root applies to all current European rootstocks who at some point converge on Yggdrasil, despite the unignorable differences of today. Anyways. Happy Sunday.
Much ado is made of the Ancestors, and with due course, of course. We are here because they were there. A common quandary among Nationalists is the case of where we lie in their wake. It is commonly regarded that we are a shadow of our Ancestral glory. It is said the Ancestors are laughing at us from their graves, et cetera, und so weiter. I have found myself pushing back against this logic with my compatriots, for the utility of the claim is lacking. Even if, in what I perceive to be the two most fundamental ways it may be true. So I shall betray myself and outline the ways in which I find the claim agreeable, and further extrapolate what I perceive needs be the solution.
First of all things, there is one way in which we remain the same that causes us to stand in their shadow…
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Magic
An oldie but a goodie.
Let me tell you something. Man was meant to dream. There is something sinister about the cultural cynicism and scepticism which has been sublimated and absorbed by the peoples of the world, pointedly, by the People of the West.
More than that, there is something dreadfully wrong with the calm acceptance with which cynicism, being the death of innocence, is endured. There is the idea that dreams are the purview of children. They are, and as surely as Baldur brought joy to the Elder Gods, so too does every man contain the memories of youth. What, pray tell, is wrong with this?
A marked difference between the men of yesteryear who men in my camp admire and those less than sterling role models is that our ancient men were sustained ideologically by the dreams they had. For a long time there was no vast system which robbed them of dreams…
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ᚦᛁᚾᛣᛁᛝ᛫ᛁᚾ᛫ᚻᛠᚦᛖᚾ᛫ᛖᛝᛚᛁᛋᚻ
:ᛁ᛫ᛞᛟ᛫ᚾᛟᛏ᛫ᚦᛁᚾᛣ᛫ᚪ᛫ᛗᚪᚾ᛫ᚳᚪᚾ᛫ᛒᛖ᛫ᚪ᛫ᚷᛟᛟᛞ᛫ᚻᚢᛋᛒᚪᚾᛞ᛫ᚹᛁᚦᛟᚢᛏ᛫ᚹᚪᛚᛣᛁᛝ᛫ᚹᛁᚦ᛫ᛒᛟᚦ᛫ᚹᛟᛞᛖᚾ᛫ᚪᚾᛞ᛫ᚦᚢᚾᛟᚱ:
:ᛁ᛫ᚪᛚᛋᛟ᛫ᚦᛁᚾᛣ᛫ᛁᛏ᛫ᛈᚪᛄᛋ᛫ᛏᛟ᛫ᛚᛟᛟᛣ᛫ᚪᛏ᛫ᛡᚱᛗᚢᚾᚷᚪᚾᛞ᛫ᚾᛟᛏ᛫ᚪᛋ᛫ᛋᛟᛗᛖ᛫ᚻᛠᚹᛖᚾᛚᚣ᛫ᛖᚹᛁᛚ᛫ᛒᚢᛏ᛫ᚪᛋ᛫ᚦᛖ᛫ᚷᛟᛞ᛫ᛟᚠ᛫ᛋᚾᚪᛣᛖᛋ+ᚪᛋ᛫ᚹᛟᛞᛖᚾ᛫ᛒᛖᚳᛟᛗᛖᛋ᛫ᚪ᛫ᛋᚾᚪᛣᛖ᛫ᛏᛟ᛫ᛋᛖᛖᛣ᛫ᚦᛖ᛫ᚷᛟᛞᛞᛖᛋᛋ + σοφία ᛫ᛁᚾ᛫ᚦᛖ᛫ᛠᚱᚦ:
The Serpent's Loft 