Life is short. It gets shorter every day. Take time to breathe in the cold air, clean your lungs. Taste the spring water in the woods, fresh as you could want. Live a little, laugh, love. It’s all a waste without these things. The breadth of life, the shortness of span and the call of the last winter should speak to us all.
See the stars in your wife’s eyes, blue as seawater, take the time to run your fingers through her hair, bright as threshed wheat. She won’t look like this forever, and neither will you. Father Time never misses a bill, and we all have to pay the piper. Sit with your son, shut your eyes and let his laughter be the only thing you hear. Don’t let him grow up to be like you, a drudge in Clown World who can go months without laughing.
Every now and again, on a long straight road where no one is, drive faster than the law allows and sing a song from your youth. Scream, let it all out. Switch things up, listen to something Classical – if you haven’t, go hear Edvard Grieg’s classic “in the Hall of the Mountain King,” without compare that is my favourite Classical composition, especially when conducted chorally. Spend time in the great outdoors, every day; don’t let a day pass where the sun doesn’t kiss your brow. If you never have, work the earth, let the soil run through your fingers and watch a tree grow that you put there. Ownership over something you have grown is a marvellous feeling without compare. To be surrounded by your land, your handiwork – the sweat equity of blood and kin, is your birthrite and godsend. If you haven’t this blessing, get in good with one who does, if he is a gracious host abiding by the sacred laws of hospitality, he will gladly share.
Life gets shorter every day, nobody needs to tell me twice. But it is too easy to forget that life is lovely all the same, even if for a minute in a day you can forget about Clown World, the aches and pains of endless work and tax. Yes, life has been made ugly, and it is true what they say; it does not need to be this way. But is storm and stress all there is? No, there can and must be happiness beside. Some of us think that herein lies a sin, that we have some holy forsworn oath to be grim and dour, as if we’ll be reckoned traitors if we show up to lunch without a stick up our ass. We call that purity spiralling, before that it was called the “No Good Scotsman” fallacy in logical argumentation and philosophy.
There is strength in happiness, being a grim and gormless internet anon, or worse, a Debbie Downer and Negative Nancy in the flesh, is the only payment you shall ever get from following that foreign gospel. As for me? Things I have to do are make the time to read a good book, to hear a good song. Sing a song, take a walk, take pride in my own work and tell myself it’s all been worthwhile. Swing my hammer for myself and no one else.
Life can make a whore of anyone, if they are careless, and witless. It happens to the best of us, that we wake up one fine morning and feel enthralled to this or that, to ZOG or whatever else you might call the hellish Clown World we have been sent on a silver platter. Life is a great big joke, we might as well roll with the punchlines and laugh a little. Does this mean you forsake your goals, forget about your oaths and fealty? No, never. But if you haven’t a heart that smiles, what good can you give your Brothers and your Folk? Hint: a headache, or a brain tumour.
It seems a paltry thing, but it’s not. So many of us get caught up in our own interpretations of fealty, duty, strength and honour that things like joy, happiness, frith and mirth are lost. Life is hard, it can be grim, that there is a dead horse that’s been quite well beat.
Memento Mori, the grouchy philosophers say, I don’t see how it is you could ever forget in the world we’ve made. It’s a low hanging fruit, for some. Better to remember that today, you’re alive, and ponder what that means, what you can do with it. Over the course of the weeks before I wrote this I made strides in my gym. A personal victory, it may seem a small and pitiful thing to the reader, but my time in the NICU wondering if my son would be coming home with me changed me. For a long time after I wasn’t able to meet my full strength in the gym, but this last week I broke 450 on my deadlift (I confess to using a hex bar, but even so, if I may, 450 ain’t no small thing.) That felt good. I have hit 160 on my overhead press. My real bucket list goals include hitting a PR of a bodyweight overhead press, which for me is around 180-200lbs depending on the season, and a 500lb deadlift. I have come closer to both than I ever thought I would, when I started lifting I weighted roughly 115lbs and could press not quite 80lbs overhead and had not even heard of deadlifting, I think my first deadlift was for 150lbs. Whatever. My forestry work has been coming along, and even though Father Winter is gearing up to shake his fist, there are other ways to keep the light of life alive. The Asatruar present in the NNE Bund will be celebrating the Blòt of Winternights (anglicised from the proper Old Norse.) This for me is huge, in that for well over ten years I have quite in vain looked for others with more meat on their bones than mere talk. Now I will rest somewhat more easily knowing that by the time Seaxling is old enough to ask, we, and not just I, will have traditions to hand to him – and so with the other Bundeskinder I have had the pleasure of holding, playing and laughing with. My son has learned to crawl, and he makes liberal use of his ability to say ‘Dada’ and ‘Mama.’ My retention of Danish has progressed to the point where I can make sentences in my head and awkwardly converse with the one other Brother who wants to learn. (Maybe more will follow, which would be good.)
Innangard and Utangard, Kinfolk first, then your Brothers – nothing else matters. Everything else is pissing in the wind. I say this because it warrants repeating, to steal a quote from Rosco Jones over at Exodus Americanus “politics is fake and gay,” they’re right of course. Politics are a diversion, and sure, for those with the mind for them they are perhaps a useful stepping stone. We’re all guilty, now and then. But at the end of the day, excess political meandering becomes emotional masturbation, a way to impress upon yourself a sense of undeserved relevance. Except few things are less relevant than politics, and few folk are less in touch than those who run in system array. I myself am a cynic, I see no reason to believe my vote counts for anything more than a middle finger in the face of the establishment. Vulgar, but apt. I am not an accelerationist, by any means. I forget who said this, but someone said that the accelerationist votes against his children’s safety and health, and that makes him an enemy. I agree, for what little good it does. My involvement in politics (which I freely admit is by no means my expertise) is limited toward seeking venues which destabilise the L/R 2 Party System. ZOG-o-nomics, if you will.
If there is a goal I think to be worth fighting for, it is a world in which we are not bent to speak of politics. A world instead in which we can tell the deep lore of our ancestors to our children, and they in turn will have for their heroes the Gods and Kings, Saints and Angels of their Race and not the grotesque apery that our handlers have regurgitated onto our plates, no more superheroes, no more television stars, no more cheap filler. We could, well within reach, have a world where handiwork, craftwork song and saga are the premier entertainments. There is still time, the system might be a husk, but we still have human capitol. Such a world would likely render excess partisinal politick obsolete, and wouldn’t that be beautiful?
For those of you who read or care, it is a thing worth remembering. Much more worthwhile a thing to occupy your memory with than the memory of what asinine thing Trump or Biden has said, the foundation and failure of fringe movements, or the spicy takes of podcast hosts.