In our political climate, sense is not common. I mean this in every ‘sense’ of the word. We are… desensitised. We lack common sense, commonly. We lack sense of place. We lack sense of self. We do not lack for sense of time, but this is because time is a commodity that our vampiric system capitalises upon. We have this sense of time: we feel it dripping away, our reservoir of entropic existence leaking into a strange master’s basin. Had we more sense of place and self we would know that there exists a metaphorical ocean full of those droplets of time, the accumulated robberies we have endured, made symbolic. Yes. We have a sense of time, but not much else.
For we hear in Nationalism much about a Rootless Cosmopolitan Elite. Yet in truth, theirs is a dark mirror. They are rootless because we are. This relationship is a symbiotic one, one in which roots are dissolved like rot. Have you ever watched a root cluster rot away? It is a slow and unyielding process. Bugs, goo… rot. Yet the tendrest glimmers of hope arise in the shape of saplings, clinging to life on the body of a stump that will unlikely give them further life. Sooner or later those saps shrivel and blow away. Chaff. We have rotted away in much the same way, dead, but unaware of death. We wait like spring, begging to be allowed to rise, bloom and grow. Only it is we who stop ourselves.
Because we have no sense of place, we have no sense of self. So often the American looks to High Culture for inspiration. There is nothing wrong with this. We do only what aeons of breeding compels us to do. However we often do this at the expense of our sense of place. There is a particularly insidious aspect of globalism which leads us to forget ourselves. That is the tendency to denigrate our birth lands. We are taught from a young age to believe that a rite of passage in life is getting out of dodge. If you hail from a small town, a rural area, you are taught that cities yield opportunity. You are taught that you must go and do and see in order to be. The implication is that your life has meaning only if you experience wanderlust.
You see, it is insidious because this taps a vein of our tree of life. Wanderlust is a powerful drive. Yet, what is neglected is the return. Our epics and sagas bespoke heroes whose journeys were made sweet only by the promise of a home to return to. The idea that your childhood memory, your sacred recollections, inspired your going out. That component is sadly, pathetically, lamentably absent. This gross neglect has led to the culture of insatiable appetites we have inherited. Because we lack a sense of place in the form of nostalgia, in the form of powerful anchorage, our wanderlust is never sated.
The history of the colonisers is one of addressing a problem, and solving it. As it has been noted by other men, globalist liberalism is the Church Without Salvation. The problem is ignored; the solutions therefore cannot be fathomed. And the modern man marches on, the lemming to his cliff.
I know for myself that the sense of place was what drove my sense of self. I knew my sense of place was sorely lacking. I was lucky, in that I knew what was missing. Many do not. I grew up in a vacuum of envy, hearing about other cultures, other heroes, other everything. No credence was given to my State, my Country, and my Nation. None of that. It was assumed that our families would fill in those gaps. My parents, who had their own baggage from their formative years, never did. I was left to my own devices.
A decade and more has been the price I paid for that ignorance. Many years of study, yearning, theorising and placement. At age thirty I stand a proud New Englander, in possession of the knowledge I should have been born with. I, Seax, am the product of countless generations of men of my family. Their march began somewhere past central Europe, out of the Danish realm and into the Germanic. They settled in Britain, and dissatisfied, came to America. Even before the dawning of America, in which my family has been for many generations, my bloodline is long.
On my wall there now hangs a Family Tree that recounts the coming and going of my blood. The entries grow shorter with each generation, and they disappear some several generations before my great grandfather’s. However, there are highlights. I come from a family of landsmen and workers. One of my ancestors invented something which led to the adoption of code in this country. Another of my ancestors is marked by a curious notation which posits that he killed a wicked tyrant. My own grandfather travelled and did and thought before he had children of his own. My father has built many homes and fixed countless others. My blood makes a difference.
There alone within my own bloodline, limited only to knowledge I have from study, there is the stuff of stories. You, reader, have a bloodline, and I guarantee, reader, it has similar tales to tell. And as to my region? New England is a wild and great land. It was settled by my people, by Anglo-Saxon descendents. Our folk survived the harsh winters. We built against odds, and we stayed. We traded with, and at times repelled Red Indians. We sent explorers out and brought more in. Eventually from this nexus, all of America sprang. And Canada, I suppose. In New England there has been poetry, and there has been science and religious expressions all our own.
We have our own regional accents, our own way of doing things, our own flair. We New Englanders are really our own sub-ethnicity. As the citizen of Munich is to the citizen of Bavaria in Germany, so too is the Mainer to the Massachusettian. As the Dane is to the Swede, so is the Mainer to the New Hampshirite. This is part of our legacy. Family, tribe, race and nation. These are all things we have, and we share that are uniquely ours. And they’re worth holding onto. They’re worth saving.
“Ah, but Saxo, I can’t trace my lineage back as far as you!” Don’t worry about it. And don’t make excuses. Maybe you can’t trace more than a hundred years in a straight line back in time. It does not matter. You can start. Are your grandparents alive? Go talk to them. Talk to your parents. Learn about YOUR family. Your family is the link to the rest of your race. You can chronicle events and pass those on. If you legitimately expect to overcome the doldrums, the pitfalls and black pills of our struggle, you have to put in as well as expect to take out. You have to enrich your struggle, as opposed to waiting for it to enrich you.
Becoming a Nationalist does not automatically enrich your life. If you adopt the mantle of our beliefs without pulling your dick and daddy-bags out of your own throat you will find it becomes a lonely goddamn ride. There is NOTHING on this Gods forsaken Earth lonelier than swallowing that Red Pill and then contributing nothing to the cause. Why? Simple sociology. If you enter a cause with nothing to give it, than you can certainly expect nothing more from anyone else. If everyone else enters the fray with a lackadaisical attitude and waits for Godot, than it stagnates.
One of the chief problem with Nationalism today is that we have a lot of useless eaters. We have a lot of bad faith cells. We have a lot of people with their heads screwed on backwards. We have a lot of Prima Donnas that like to dump on everyone else’s ideas, but when you press them, they have no ideas of their own. We have a lot of people who do nothing but question and never negotiate. We have a lot of idiots that think they possess the exclusive rights to truth, and if you asked them nicely they would maybe say; “hello, my name is Iesvs Khristos and I think you’re an idiot if you disagree.”
We have an extremely thin minority of men that are wracking their brains trying to solve riddles, present paradigms and enrich thinking. Very often these men are derided by self-styled Grugs who feel belittled by the threat of opposing ideals within the umbrage of a broader ideological umbrella. More than that, the individual Brother in this struggle (for we are all of us Brothers, now) have this inherited complex that they got from Clown World and dealing with Normies that tells them their ideas are ill-placed.
If you are reading this, get over that. We need ideas. We need thinkers. We need to increase the gross IQ of White Nationalism. This is achieved by input and output balance. For every ounce of media you consume, you should make sure you contribute something in turn. It may be as simple as signing up for a sock account and commenting on somebody’s YouTube video, or hell, their WordPress Blog.
When I was younger and still wrote for the Renegade Tribune, the Alt Right happened. I never joined the Alt Right, but I know enough about it to know that there was this thing called “Meme Magic.” They tell me this got Donald Trump in office. They tell me that meme magic also got milk, the okay sign, bowlcuts and asinine one-liners consigned to the ADL’s index of random hate speech and symbolism. People need to be exposed to the kind of intellectual life we can offer. Not just memetics and edgy humour, but the sublime, the profound and the idealistic.
We are more than iconoclasts. We are iconogenitors. And yes. I just coined this word, according to my spellcheck – which was last updated in the year 2010. We are philosophers and artists, we are builders and we are healers. We have an incredible depth of material culture which is waiting with almost hilarious desperation to be assembled. Imagine, if you will, the many thousands of silent observers who pass through the annals of the internet – which is not forever – and hold onto thoughts they think are trivial. Imagine how different the internet, which let us face facts – shapes reality, if those silent Nationalists spoke their innermost mind and heart. If the earnest depths of each were revealed, rather than hiding in reactionary jokes, than our world would be changed immediately.
This blog, the Sperg Box, has accumulated around 2,000 views in the last however many months I’ve been doing this. Roughly 1,400 of these came from the United States. Roughly 150 from Denmark, and roughly 70 from Germany and the United Kingdom respectively… Australia and Canada gave me 40 apiece. From there, a handful here, a handful there. Of my articles, Amerimutt and Ode to Namantius have fared best, with roughly 120 views since their publication. I am proud to report my Why Männerbund article currently sits on 88 views, and the Männerbund proper sits on 85.
I am not conceited enough to think I have great engagement, comparatively few are interested in material with breadth. However, I would estimate that of my traffick at least twenty percent is honest traffick. The bulk of my traffick came from a friend that shills for me on twitter, and my own campaign in YouTube linking back here with my bloody sock.
There are several other interesting WordPress blogs with much better engagement than mine. You have the Lutheran Sun, you have the Vikinglifeblog, and there are others, too. How much more would this corner of the internet be saturated with our guys and our content if everyone who used their phones for PornHub decided to try a new POV and dominate unexplored comment fields? We already know where we have echo chambers. I’ve been to Gab.AI. Although that’s really more of a gas chamber. I tried to sign up for Twitter but I was insta-shoahed and I confess, I quit. But there’s plenty of unexplored and undominated territory.
I know my own blog has made the tiniest difference in things from the scant feedback I get. Some of this feedback is electronic. Some has come back to me in my life as a flesh and blood citizen of the greatest region of America. If my blog as a platform for my brand of Spergery can force just a few of our men to think, it is worth the effort. And who knows? I may inspire someone someday to dig in deep and improve themselves. Still worth it. Now. If I holed up and did the knobby-kneed weenie bit and said nobody wanted to hear what I have to say, I’d have accomplished nothing. Don’t be that guy. Suck it up and get moving.
I’ve been accused of being naïve before. I had a German friend once whose nickname for me was Pollyanna. But I am not wrong, here. And I shall tell you the further reaching consequences and practical applications for my being right, here. People do read. If a Nationalist Video or Blog has visible commentary, than people reading will deem it successful. This is part of why I always try to leave feedback when I consume other of our guys’ media. One, it is respectful – if you enjoy something someone does, you should complement them. Second, it is politically apt. If we have engagement with people who agree with us it reinforces the heir apparent success of our narratives. If someone comes to our content and sees only electronic crickets chirping he shall assume association with us will put him right back in his mother’s basement where he belongs.
On a more long-thinking note, what are you going to be handing off to your children? Is it going to be a movement full of incomplete sentences, or a movement full of men who found the courage to put their beliefs up to scrutiny? The beginning of the end of Clown World really does begin with you. You remember what you learned that you wish you knew. Do the homework and teach that to your children in advance. Do not wait til they’re born, develop a curriculum now. You claim you haven’t got time? I call bullshit. Nobody is so busy that they can’t cut out an obsolete exercise of time and fill it with a productive one. There was an episode of Metalocalypse in which the band quits jacking off and they all improve their lives immensely. Not really funny in writing. Point is, with over 2/3rds of the male population hooked on porn – do the math. The time you waste whipping up some sin pudding down cellar could be used collectively to write a book, build a house, or, you know, educate your loved ones.
If you are a lone-wolf, use that internet. Support the intellectual efforts of your faraway brothers. Leave them feedback on your projects using your OpSec endorsed sock account. Shill on their platforms for your own stuff. If you can, start an endeavour of your own. If you are a Brother in a Männerbund somewhere, wedge yourself in there and brain-rape people until the collective IQ gets ten feet higher and Donald Trump has a myocardial infarction from the ‘oy gevalt’ of it all. Don’t listen to the Grug brigade, because inside every Grug is a Nibba waiting to evolve. I’ve seen that happen too – all it takes is pressing the right Sperg button. But for the love of all the Gods, don’t hold up whatever talents you have. And don’t ever let me hear the dreaded phrase “I don’t really know how much I can offer,” because that’s a cop out. And your mother knows it. Start that two line genealogy: it won’t be a half-baked sentence forever. When your great grandchildren want to know what’s up, they’ll thank you. Start learning the epics of your people and sharing them with your children and their friends. Talk to your family, assuming they can’t doxx you, about some of what’s going on. Be clever and tell them what’s up without all the trigger words. You’ll figure it out.
No successful culture ever got and stayed that way by letting their idealists keep quiet.