The manager of the Vermont Folk Troth made a point in a comment on my last entry that stuck with me. To the effect: using the mind to visit the morale of the past, or contemplate the future is necessary to survive in this world. To ask a man to face the daily world, unabated and with no reprieve is asking for a gradual descent into madness. Escapism is expected if not sometimes necessary sometimes to resist the evils of Midgard. Forgive the inadequacy of my paraphrasis. What stuck in me was not the truth or the wrongness of the thought, but more the level of tension around it that’s come about in the political arena. I have made the argument countless times before that (especially in America) life is pendular. Ideas swing to extremes, burn out, and fly the other way. The momentum prevents the overpowering majority of the citizenry from entering anything resembling a middleground where sanity can breathe. I inhabit the sphere of Identity Politick, with all the frustrations and exhaustion therefrom that come from extended exposure to an often uncritical arena. (I have been a Nationalist for a decade, and the song rarely changes, people rarely learn – NPCs are not relegated to the Clown World front, we have them too.) In my circles, the kneejerk reaction is strong. If you ever need cheap entertainment, bring up a controversial topic, if only to see grown men have the emotional reaction equivalent to Doktor Mangler whacking a Ritalin addled toddler in the kneecap with a rubber mallet.
Escapism is vilified in Nationalism. A lot of things are. Sometimes we’re right, sometimes we’re wrong. More often than not, careless and quick to judge. Ironically by people who might not have touched a pillow with a sober skull in years. Men whose lungs are coated with tar. Men who surround themselves with clouds of vapour whose scents all sound like they were named by the Queer Eye. Wonderful. Men with obvious deflective agendas. All of this, I reckon, is still escapism. You just don’t go as far with a butt or a vape as you do with a television and a wire. Or, perhaps you do. I’ve never been high. Does this mean these men are bad? No. Am I arguing escapism is good? No. I could quote that irritating passage about finding planks in your eyeball. But I won’t. I will note that I find a hint of irony in men with obvious addictions who criticise others for failure to give up ‘Normie’ media, or whatever. In all things, moderation – even, as Catholic scholars have noted, moderation. I am arguing that hypocrisy is bad, and there is a problem with that in society. However, as the problem so often goes, uncritically analysed, the problem changes faces and persists. Our little movement has not escaped hypocrisy.
But alas! I have fallen into my own descending rabbithole. In fact, I have come here to discuss escapism. Which I shall, but really, I wanted an excuse to play a term. Skin-Walker. It’s a common motif, with many names, in mythology. As Nietzsche perhaps wisely noted, ‘the newspapers of today shall be as myths tomorrow.’ Fun fact, today, we don’t have to wait. The news is already a myth – in whatever ways you define mythology, it shall likely be true. News is fabricated, it is presented and framed. It has little meaning. Today a myth is considered a falsity, when yesterday, it was a metaphor. And that logic still follows. The news is a metaphor, and it is often fake. But unlike in Nietzsche’s optimistic gloom, tomorrow, today’s papers shall just be gospel. (Remember the 6 Gorillion, and don’t ask questions.)
Skin-Walker. That’s my metaphor. Doppelganger. Evil Twin. Other. These things all describe a common fear that seems to permeate our ancient cultures. And not just the myths of the European, but this is common at least to vast swaths of Asia, too. I forget the name of the creature, but I believe it was in one of the Koreas where there was a daemon that was believed to impersonate your children who died in your sleep and would then murder you. In Europe, the concept of the Doppelganger was one where a man or woman would take on another’s shape and sound, commit deeds in their name for good or ill, and thus rob them of their vital essence which is gained through operating under the umbrage of your own destiny.
Today, the term Doppelganger is considered quaint, like so many other aspects of our dwindling racial conscience that modernity wishes to relegate in order to better facilitate our consumption of product. Why? Because the issue is salient and prescient. Doppelgänger never went away. And they aren’t a mere ‘myth’ in the modern sense. Remember, all myth was allegory and metaphor, if not straight metaphysical assertion. Myth was never an insult until modernity inserted a colossal thumb into its rectum and refused to take it out.
Life is myth. Why is life myth, you ask? Well, reader, I argue that life is myth because fact is often depressing, and not compelling. Humanity prefers life to be couched in meaning. The alternative is a bland, nihilistic armature full of dread and longing. That sort of thing doesn’t test well in consumer reports or beta studies. We like to think everything we do has a purpose, and that at the end of it all, there’s some sort of benefit from what’s been said and done. We always want more.
So. Life is myth. Entertainment, which has always served to allow us to escape, but more hopefully transcend, whatever ails us in the eternal now, has always therefore been grandiose. “Myth,” as separate from life, has been grandiose. And in depicting life, life in art becomes myth, always somehow larger. One show claims to depict life as modernity has made it; Seinfeld, an eternal hellish cycle of men who awake, eat, banter, and go back to sleep – apparently, never asking if there is anything more. Paradoxically, Seinfeld gained cult significance and became larger than life. I confess, I have never invested time in the show, but my parents have.
Somewhere along the line, Christianity happened. It absorbed or otherwise deposed the rightful heritage of Europe and became the new heritage of Europe. (A Doppelganger, Skin-Walker.) It transmogrified Pagan truth and called it a myth, a lie, or a trick. And it developed new canon. Somewhere along the line, “Rationalism” happened. It absorbed the morality of Christendom and called it etiquette. (A Skin-Walker of another kind.) There was gradual cannibalism in exceptional detail between this, but the point is this: Nothing ever disappeared.
At the heart of everything “new” is something old. And at the heart of everything “old,” is something ancient. The one is subsumed by the next for credibility and content. On and on it goes, further and back until you reach a point of delightfully frustrating known unknown. A realm of study where you know unlimited substance exists, but you yourself are too far removed to access it. Now, this is gained from a long game perspective. I analyse things archetypically, because that is what things are. I consider myself lucky, because as I age I conclude, sadly, that many people lack this apparent gift. Nevertheless, in crude short, here is the metaphor.
Some of you, all five people who might read this, will remember depictions of a serial killer, Ed Gein. The movie I’m thinking of was called Leatherface, which I maintain was a proxy film to increase interest in selling kosher lampshades. Leatherface enjoyed the company of pretty women so much that he skun broads and wore their faces as masques. I think this might have been one of Nicholas Cage’s uncredited performances, in that those skin masques had all of his charm. Or perhaps it was John Travolta. At any rate, these women with their purdy mouthses would have never wanted to give themselves to old Leatherface, so he took what he wanted for souvenirs. Maybe he was self-conscious about his weight and wanted to look pretty, so he cargo culted them. I don’t know. Honestly, my sister had me watch the film when I was ten and I didn’t like it. But I remembered it.
In a sense, this is how society has operated sense presumably long before Rome who did it best and longest. A cultural trend is skun and flayed alive, hot steaming guts are poured out over the sand, but the skin is saved and worn by the skinny, petulant successor to the throne. Why? Because society will not always accept the new thing, so it has to parade about in drag, wearing the face of the old. At least, until nature takes its course. Eventually, the skin masques grow rotten, and the smell attracts predators. The predators all know that the thing they’re hunting is old and was powerful, so a new skin-suit is bloodied up for the next pretender. With the new face to hide rotting insides, the civilisation escapes the wolves for a time. It’s all very tedious, if you think about it.
Today, the pace is very vast, very fast. People are forgetful now in a way perhaps they weren’t before. It used to take thousands of years for civilisations to successfully graft the skin of the conquered onto grotesque, Frankenstein frames. But now it happens in the blink of an eye, thanks to the electronic age of the internet where fake news travels faster than a fart in church. Now we live in an era of infinite reboots. The operations have happened so fast that there isn’t much viscera left to keep the husk on track, and civilisation is fraying at the seams. For context, I was in high school in the early 2000s. 9/11 was still kinda a big deal. They had just started coming out with superhero flicks. Now, I’d always been somewhat of a nerd. More for history than sequential art, but I wasn’t a stranger to it. My mother always liked comic books, and would occasionally buy them for me. I always liked DC’s Batman and Marvel’s Venom. Sometimes, I still do. There you go. Anyway. I think it was the Incredible Hulk which kicked off the slew of superhero movies that would become an absolute onslaught of eventual fatigue. Now. An array of superhero movies might not seem that bad, on a superficial level bereft of deeper identity politics, but here is where that context I told you about kicks in. There have been two titular remakes of the Hulk. One, two, three… four, five… and now six reboots of Spiderman. And Batman? The anorexic Keaton Batman’s happened I think before I was born and into the 90s. Then there was George Rubber Nipples Clooney, Val Kiln-Face. Am I missing anything? Yes. The guy that beats his wife up became the new, broodier Batman. Then the guy from Dogma found the power of D-Bol and intra-testicular steroidal shots and became the newer, broodier, yet comically relieved Batman. (I actually liked Roidrage Crossfit Batman. Much more than George leather tights Clooney.) They tell me some other dude I’ve not heard of is going to become the newer, somehow improved Batman. Math is not my strong suit, so when counting out all the Batman remakes, I may need to borrow your fingers. For my skinsuit. So I can perpetrate society. Go ahead, give them here. I’ll lend you my garden sheers, fisher of men.
Anyway, the point is that infinity reboot is real. I’m not making it up, and unlike with my controversial political viewpoints, nobody thinks I’m making it up. Now there’s a vast network of YouTube video… people… who evidently make money by talking about not much. Within this vast network of YouTube film… people… is a vast array of nerds who comment on their favourite films, games, and comics. And vape, I guess. (Smells like Rainbow Creampie, faygolahz.) Anyway. To start to wrap it up, I have been listening to the YouTube Nerd community (I suppose they prefer Fandom) dissect the Star Wars franchise as it has been steadily reduced to a burning pile of heavily charred, surgically removed faces awaiting their transformation into lampshades that the Skin-Walkers have all but discarded.
I was a Star Wars buff in my pre-teens. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had been subconsciously introduced to a variety of archetypes as they would later be revealed. I have fond memories of sneaking out of my bed in the late first grade and watching my parents watch Star Wars. I remember my mother quip, “I haven’t seen this in years!” To which my dad said… nothing. Anyway. As I recall, quite clearly, it was around the end of Luke’s tenure at Dagobah when Yoda counselled Luke to stay and finish his training. Luke did not, so Darth Vader did what any loving father would do and chopped off his hand before throwing it down what appeared to be a monumental space toilet. Anyway, the point was, the old Star Wars had substance. As an adult, I know why; George Lucas and his team delicately removed the visage of the hero’s journey, and sewed it onto Mark Hamill’s only mildly disfigured skull. Echoes of the past rang clearly in between musical notes and visual cues.
Then in the early 2000s, the largely irrelevant prequel sagas happened. They were entertaining, but unsubstantial compared to the ground-breaking originals. It was no secret that this franchise survived because of nostalgia for the lovingly crafted originals. Fast forward. Now I’m a grown, grumpy and jaded man, married to a woman who refuses to see it coming. I have saved up some shekel to take her to a nice movie film in a classic theatre which lacked the insufferable trappings of modernity and used many classical theatre arrangements. A bellboy had to pull the red velvet curtain back from the screen, there was an usher to make sure greasy teenagers and insufferable adults didn’t flash their ghetto cell phones around like honorary orang-utans. I thought, this was a very eloquent setting to see a movie from a franchise we both enjoyed.
At the end of the movie, even my wife intoned a healthy…
I don’t feel the need to recap what we saw. You have YouTube commentators for that. What I will say is this. The entire entertainment industry has ostensibly washed up. We reached a creative zenith somewhere between the 1970s and wee 2000s. Debate when the peak of the zenith was. I don’t care. The point is that it feels as though things went downhill after 2000. CGI became awesome and shattering, but as a result, the impetus to physically “wow” the audience came at an overhead cost. Writing suffered. Nostalgia increased, stories and substance will always be more viable than flashes in the pan. This is something executives refuse to admit, because they have an agenda, of course.
Movies became a vehicle for awkward social commentaries that could never stand on their own. Yet, we have come to an era where there are no credible myths left to skin because their corpses have turned to sulphur. So much gut has been discarded and wasted that the replacements could barely shamble far enough to satisfy the next feeders. So we resort to skinning the modern myths that largely replaced them. Each succession of cultural cannibalism yields less and less results because less and less attention is being paid to what you eat. And you are what you eat. Ergo, we are vapid and inattentive. Easily entertained, and disappointed infinitely easier. Star Wars was gutted, its skin was filled with a bunch of cringe feminists and washed up has-beens. Why? Because that’s what floats down the streets like thrown out garbage, directionless and, frankly, equally unwanted. But see, nobody really wants the new truth of feminism, blacktivism, LTBBQ, transectional body positivity, this nonsense with the thirteen new gender cases that absolutely nobody cares to recall… or anything, really. People want to get away from the modern world and developments, so modernity and it’s fickle messages skin the modern classics and follow you home, where you invite them in thinking they were an old friend. A shame your eyesight was too poor to see the staples on the skin masque. The same has been done with Star Trek, where subsequent remakes engage the absolute filth of modernity’s fetish for everything “dark” and “dystopian.” The online dweeb outlets make a salient point: Star Trek is not supposed to be dark, or dystopic, it is supposed to present an insufferably optimistic vision of the future that everyone knows won’t work. That subconscious knowledge is why the new Trek is grim, they impose the impossibility of a truly diverse and integrated society (because these things CANNOT coexist) upon an utter fantasy where it is the order of the day. It’s a sad commentary that modernists have been so undernourished mythologically that dystopia is all they know. But it remains, the reasoning is obvious.
These new, conflicting messages of “darkness” and “dystopia” and diversity and “equality” are thrown into a blender to simulate a hyper realistic simulacrum of a Borzoi Boscovich essay. But they cannot be presented as is, nobody wants them. Why would they? What sane man or woman wants to subject themselves to the barrage of insulting, unimaginative, increasingly vulgar insinuations that seem to pockmark all modern creations? So they cram them into the carcasses of things people do want, their product. Here we are. Fed a steady diet of recycled garbage pretending to be something enticing. Bait and switch, etc.
The tremendous irony is that these cheap fillers are just that because of a simple truth. Society has become unsubstantial. It has become unsubstantial because over a hundred years or so, the admittedly recycled concepts of the eternal hero were degraded in future incarnations. Like cancer that replicates deficient cells with increasing efficiency until the host wakes up one day and realises there is nothing left of him but tumours. Good and viable tissue has been replaced by leprosy and disease, and then he dies. Except now we have life support, and can beat the dead horse forever with increasingly disjointed metaphors in a Chinese meatshop that make less sense as the story moves on beyond four walls and gives you the goddamn Flu-Tang Clap.
Yet, there is as Dali called it, the persistence of memory. And, like a Dali painting, this memory is sometimes full of shit. I have fond memories of the media I consume as a child, and I hold onto the artefacts of it which compelled me with artful representations of ancient things. However, we have reached an impasse. Without a vital reintroduction of the elements that made these dead genres viable, the decay will continue. The mechanism is simple, the average Normie is held in thrall by the promise of the sanctity of childhood happiness and continually abused by his media handlers. I will distance myself from the majority of my people by saying that entertainment does not need to equivocate subversion, it does because people settled for less. The entertainment behemoth could not have grown so vastly overpowered had people not been drawn in. They could not have been drawn in had there not been an element of truth, or something needful. The reminder is apt, in the Renegade Broadcasting crowd they always used to say: “rat poison is 99% nutritious,” except dogs have poisoned themselves on significantly poorer ratios.
Science Fiction is an easy riddle. Yes, it’s a tremendous vehicle for socialist and globalist expansion. Sure. It is an absolute shill for other (((corporate))) interests, in a less obvious way. But why is that? What is the most common form of science fiction? Space travel. Or giant robots, if you live in a dorm in Japan and sleep with one of those sex pillows an urbanite friend told me about. Science Fiction is almost inseparable from a sense of exploration. The European Race was arguably built on exploration. Of the Races, we have fared farthest and subdued most. We have set foot on every continent independent of global economics… because we could. Science Fiction hones in on and vicariously satisfies the component of wanderlust previously extant in European entertainment. Greek Myth and Norse Legend had a tremendous emphasis on island hopping, the discovery of new and forgotten lands. These were trendsetting Races who shattered the expectations of the Romans. See now, Romans defined the ends of the Earth so that the Celt and Nord could cross them. Science Fiction is an extension of that Folk Soul’s function in that it dares to defy the grim naysayer of modern science, whose hubris apparently defines the ends of the universe if asked nicely. Or not at all. This is another thing Science Fiction channels, the Gnostic impulse. A theme of Science Fiction is shattering expectations and gleaning knowledge long thought forbidden. In this way it continues the work of the heretic and madman, the wizard and the rogue who went poking down rabbitholes that saw him seen as Varg et Veum.
Comic book heroes, in addition, are described as modern gods. I agree with this sentiment. Inasmuch as despite what TDS and Mark Brahmin tell you, these things channel European heroic archetypes. ENOCH: in the impossible event you are reading this, I regret to inform you that your assessment that Aryan Gods never wore masques is incorrect; all European Gods made disguises for themselves. Odin never appeared to Midgard the same way twice, Zeus often chose to hide his blood and thunder and walk as a beggar. Mark Brahmin, if you ever read this, I respectfully disagree with your assessment that this behaviour is Jewish. The point of these depictions is the ultimate shit-test. Forgive my language. If you are a higher being, charged with dictating morals, and you felt compelled to visit your creation… there is an element of what I would consider simple psychology. If you appear as a God, fear will compel your worship. If however you appear as mortal man, as a stranger of no import, people will act according to their true nature. Yes. This behaviour of “hiding your power level” appears in both Aryan Myth and the Old Testament, but I am not unconvinced that the assertion of many Christians in saying there is an Aryan element is correct. It remains, anonymity gives you power to judge because it creates an unbiased control environment. An unknown God knows man, but a man who knows God is tainted by that knowledge and does not affect his true nature, but rather appeals to cowardice. Thus, one who treats the lowest of strangers with respect does so out of genuine chivalry. It can be argued, true, that this creates a nexus in which fear of unpredictable divine intervention elicits the same response. This is true, but contrast this to today’s world where the Fear of Gods is barely there and tell me there was no benefit at all. Your crime statistics will thank you.
I digress. Comic book heroes channel the ancient deities, fantastic stories of cosmic significance superimpose themselves into frames a mortal can comprehend. In the early days, the shtick was simple, good guys lived, bad guys died. Good overcame evil. Can comic books be subversive? Yes. But not simply because Jews. If a merely Jewish story was presented, non-Jews from Goyim and Shvartzas alike would have never bought into it. The comic book mythos perpetuates elements of Aryan and other mythology which are timeless. Now, as we see it, the elements have been swapped and the substance has been drained whilst leaving the grim contents of modern opinion. Skin-Walkers have taken rehashed concepts and dried them out.
The same goes with movies, and videogames. The entire Genre of the Western RPG, which would go on to inform the general Fantasy and Adventure genres is culled almost directly from European mythology. These things play off of LOTR, and Tolkien freely admitted that his purpose was to resurrect ancient European mythology for the mythologically retarded modern Brit of his day. Tolkien skinned the Volsungs, the Scildungs and all manner of Nordic, Celtic, Slavic elements to create his Middle Earth – an obvious representation of Midgard… which means Middle Earth. Ignorant audiences ate it up, and many LOTR fans are stupendously unaware of the fact that it is European mythology by another name that they have loved. So it goes. Tolkien took from our ancestry, and future fans sought to represent their cravings by taking from Tolkien to create D&D, and TES and all the others.
They became popular, and future crowds tried to recycle them. But you get the Hobbit films, full of random Darkies that compensated for betraying the original plot with extra explosions and special effects, of increasingly diverse, fake and gay fantasy games that look more like comic-con than the Folk Soul they’re aping. You get expert car thief Heimdall in MCU Thor films. (As any good critic will tell you, Heimdall is called the Whitest God in the native Norse Mythology, lest you attempt to call it all an innocent casting accident to showcase generic black actor’s talent.) I’m told there’s a black King Arthur. Movies have to prop up the insufferable idea of Girl Power, and critics of this are simply labelled reactionary. Fuck off, thousands of years of evolution, Rosy the Riveter just flexed her bicep at you and intelligently designed a future where gender differences have no meaning. Thank you, Transvestite Story hour, for setting me straight. I’m sorry, straight is a hate word. For setting me right. I’m sorry. Right is a hate word. For setting me proper. I’m sorry. Proper suggests that someone was wrong.
You know what? Screw all that noise. Instead of group panty-wetting over the ‘unbelievable’ antics of ‘woke’ politics, feigning surprise and indignation… pick up a book on mythology. Pick up a book of real substance. Read LOTR, don’t just watch it. Look to the past for the things the present stole. Life will make more sense, I promise. Don’t like your own preconception of mythology? The fantastic doesn’t do it for you? Read history. Ever read a biographic of an explorer, or a first-hand account? Incredible. There are scientist’s journals. So much. There are literally thousands of years’ worth of catalogued substance that we could invest in, rather than complain that the (((present day))) media has betrayed us.
Only by race, and tribe, and clan, and family can we recover substance and meaning, and only by doing it down to the last man can we hope to reverse the tide of insipid, dull stupidity that has become the order of the day.
So. Vermont Folk Troth man is absolutely correct, escapism is necessary, but do escape to a place that sees you return fitter and wiser than when you left reality behind, if only for a moment.