In the deep state of the Right Wing (such as it is,) the word “nuance” has taken on a renaissance of late. Nuance, nuance, nuance. The Right Wing is like a thirteen year old, when it learns a new word as a Movement it proceeds to abuse that word. Overuse breeds contempt. But there you go, one must smile and be patient as with any child and take the time to appreciate that kind of innocent joy that comes from learning new things. It strikes me that Webster, Funk & Wagnall could up and redefine the word thus; “nuance; a needless overcomplication of an otherwise easy thing to grasp.” That being said, my approach to spirituality is nuanced. You may now groan. Or if your arm is long enough to hit me with a rock if I’ve ever hiked with you, go ahead. Hit me.
In short, my beliefs can be rendered thusly; “atheism is mostly harmful.” This seems odd. But there you go. There are always exceptions to the law, but there it is. Scandinavians, it has been argued, have fared well with secularism. Therefore, I don’t need to tell them they need Jesus or Thor. Although I will happily entertain the idea I have heard that the so-called “happiness index” of the Scandinavian countries might be misrepresented to those of us outside their borders. I say this not to insult, Wōden forbid, I love my Scandinavian cousins. However, I have known enough of them online and offline to know that despite the index there is a sufferage of modern problems – alcoholism, depression, etc. Swedes have the highest consumption of candles in the world to combat vitamin d deficiency, and I once dated a Finn who told me that the alcoholism among the young is appalling in a way that even Americans would raise an eyebrow at. That said, I don’t doubt that materially they were until quite recently, happy. A homogenous nation-state that practised safe socialism? I’d think that would alleviate a lot of mundane concerns, but the alcoholism and depression are indicative of a deeper rot. I digress. It is not my purview to judge other Nations, so much as to try (whether or not I win or fail) to help my own. That’s not my goal, judgement. Gods know, secularity didn’t do anything good for the Slavs. It doesn’t seem to have made the Chinese any more humane. And for that matter, when secularism comes to town, folk religions spring up. I seem to recall reading some sociological report or other suggesting that during the ban on Orthodox Christianity in Soviet Russia, that belief in ghosts and Baba Yaga returned. Apparently Baba Yaga’s wild hunt was well enough, but a dead man telling tales is a bridge too far. What I will say, is that straight secularism, atheism and materialism has not been well met in the Anglosphere – which is where I am, and the only where I will ever be. I am, as they say, what I am, and what I am is a child of the Anglosphere. A man without a country, no-no, a man with a country become a laboratory, a Yankee in Yankeeland unhinged from morale and restraint. Kudos to thee, dear powers. Likewise, there are individuals who might have the constitution to weather secularism, atheism and materialism. But applied across a broad swath, the observable effects are less than optimal. Again Russia; her prospects of recovery from Communism, neoliberalism by another name, are slim. Her people are broadly damaged, and sadly many appear to have no desire to get well. There are the few, the brave, I know, but these are exceptions to rules – the same as goes elsewhere.
You may argue, and you would be correct, that what I have just described is not a belief but an observation. This is true. But that observation observes every single belief I have held since turning 18, likely longer than. Simple as, as the British sometimes say. Beyond this, I believe in grabbing a hold of the chains and the reins before there is nothing left. It’s not a surprise, I’m a Yankee. To the outside world, that word is a (sometimes fun) means of lumping all Americans together. But it used to mean a Northerner, and before that it was the ethnic graft of the New England Englishman – so called by his Dutch cousins to distinguish him from his brothers from the Isles since there was so little to divide us, then. Since then, the Englishman has been reduced or elevated back to Anglo-Saxon, had the Saxon dropped and in most cases forgot he was ever an Anglo and is now lectured to by Irish and Polish about what New England is from a political pulpit while a that time devalued “old” Mainers are being stabbed in Lewiston by new “Mainers” whom the other varieties of Social Justice White uphold as community pillars in the same breath that they use to shamelessly and cluelessly bemoan “colonialism” which they almost always mean to be English expansion, and almost as often, German expansionism – so called. As though nobody else has ever expanded before. As though nobody else has ever used their virtues to impose cost. And nobody, really, stops to smell the irony.
Again, you may say; these are insights. You are right, of course. And to that I might say this: one must move past their raising to find their root, in this the current year. Was it Descartes the Frenchman who believed that because nothing could be known, that everything must be doubted to begin again and thus gain knowledge? A very French zen, to know you must know nothing. I suppose this is why the French put their babies in the bathwater with their tubs upside down. Regardless. The youth of the indoctrinated American is a void. As short a time ago as my Grandfather’s day, the English-American had awareness and, dare I say it, pride. The insult W.A.S.P. has teeth for a reason, it was not always an insult. In light of this overwhelming negativism, of having your existence passively deconstructed in school and used as a bludgeon to compare with the Happy Scandinavian (who at the time of the mythmaking had far less heterogenous immigration to delineate his identity, by the way.) I mention this because the Happy Scandinavian was used as an objective indicator of liberal success in convincing Americans to be more like them, a bombastic lie with many omissions. But one with purpose. In that way the American is crushed into a mould in which he, like biblical Esau, lashes out at all and is lashed back at in return. He hates the Europeans for their successes, viewing himself as some amorphous other, choosing kinship with the resident alien over those who are, or perhaps were his blood. He stands for nothing except freedom. And what is this, when it is so obviously gone? A ghost in the machine, perhaps? Or a machine in want of a ghost. It gave up the ghost long ego.
So, I believe that I am a specimen in a laboratory which was once a Nation. I am among the few, the proud, the remnants of the English families which came here and made New England – the first and the real America. I have a bloodline which I know I can trace back to 1400 on the nose in Suffolk – East Anglia, and with logical deduction I can take further back to Denmark – for all the good it does me – I shall never be the Happy Scandinavian, but ever the broody bloody Englishman or the dour Yankee as the inside joke goes. All the better, it is a legacy and it is mine. That is an identity, not a belief. But which comes first, the chicken or the egg? What is identity without belief, or belief without identity? That is a broken man, and we don’t need to stay broken and we don’t need The Powers to fix us. We can, should, do it ourselves.
I claim as my belief, Asatru. I do this because the shoe fits, so I wear it. I have loved learning about the Vikings, and moreover the Nordic Iron and Bronze ages and into Germanic prehistory. I loved these things before I had reason to believe they were mine. When I learned they had become a religion, of course I was smitten. I believe our Gods are worth carrying forward – it was belief in them that formed the foundations upon which I stand. Everything I value as a Nationalist is impacted by those ancient beliefs held by the Romans, the Scandinavians and the Teutonics, Germanics, Celtics – and so forth. And, somewhat begrudgingly, I admit the Greek influence as inescapable. For a very long time I viewed this as a marriage of convenience. I believed in the Gods because they made us great, not freedom or democracy, or God forbid Mountain Dew and nacho cheese Doritos. That did not mean, for the longest time, that I believed any of us had an individual soul or could expect to meet them (or anyone) when we die. I had my conviction that the only reason my ability to believe in the transcendent dimensions of our forefathers was broken was because my childhood’s default conditioning was gaytheism** (what I’m calling ZOG’s materialism.) Had I been raised in a traditionalist home I might be a lapsed Christian with strong Pagan belief of the book-reading kind. Thus, I was not a tragic atheist, like many of my friends, because my children deserve better than being maggot food. I was lucky, I had many years of struggling with my wife’s infertility to come to grips with how poisonous my childhood doctrines are, and how vital it is to avoid passing them through my genes.
That said; something that Roscoe Jones said in a podcast of his what feels like aeons ago sticks with me. “The thing that shook my atheism.” I have a ‘the thing that shook my atheism’ moment. I reckon the only reason I’m bothering to write about it is that I saw an eagle this morning. It may well be that I have seen that same eagle before. And it may well be that I’m doing the very thing that gaytheists all love to say all religious people do – make their own mythology. And of course, I should be guilty of sins of omission if I failed to recant that all gaytheists who do this are hypocrites, shameless or ignorant – I don’t care which. Atheism as a singular worldview has evolution and eventual nihilism as a cornerstone of belief, value bases and somewhere to retreat from ideological conflict to. A religion by any other means, one with considerably less Empire building properties. Now, I will say I know my share of atheists in the struggle for identity, and in the end, when pressed, most of them understand why (((atheism))) is not a sustainable programme for our people. Even our Uncle, whom few would care to disagree with overmuch, is said to have intoned “the Aryan Spirit cannot conceive of something as alien as a religion without an afterlife.” And seeing the vast religious spergery that our Uncle oversaw in his Empire, than clearly he new they wouldn’t have gone far without it. Please: can you imagine a Rome – old or new – governed on atheism? You can’t, because no Empire ever rose on anti-values. And for those who might caw, I call atheism an anti-virtue because “without” or “in absence of” literally follows the thing it defines itself against; in the absence of gods. Now you have some worldviews, like Buddhism, which decentralises and neuters the role of Gods, it is a far cry from nihilistic – as the Russians defined it. When you have to define yourself based on something you think is false, that is a negative value, and these are unilaterally unsustainable in culture building. There is the difference between an agnostic, an atheist and a Buddhist. The Buddhist in absence of certainty of God and Soul nevertheless has a way forward, whereas the atheist is defined by knowledge of absence and the agnostic by absence of knowledge. Unenviable. Consider Neoliberalism which is the unchallenged (drag) queen of anti-values. And while values apart from Gods have certainly cropped up, there’s still the problem of their lack of conveyance of transcendental vigour. A man who believes his deeds echo throughout eternity as a rule achieves more than the man who thinks he’s maggot chow. The problem is not so much atheism as a facet, but on the whole, it is problematic. A nationalist who is also atheist, is different than an atheist who is also nationalist. That said. I may be guilty of inventing my own signs and beliefs, but I no longer think I am. And, again, it is better to have something bigger than yourself than not. So, I will write about them. It’s cathartic.
For context, my wife and I struggled with fertility for years leading up to this. It was a bitter pill to swallow. That said, after about three years of infertility, the strain was beginning to get to me. Around this time, I was conducting a Rune study and it dawned on me to look more into Tyr whom I felt more than Odin or Thor represented a spirit of self-sacrifice a father would need. Not too long after this, I took it on myself to rebuild part of what becomes the bedroom. Not that it matters to the story, but I knocked out a closet and turned it into a little nook the head of the bed can rest in which increased our foot traffick area by 14 square foot. Now, when I came close to nailing up the ceiling boards, I did a thing. I made a sacrifice. I took my favourite Thor’s hammer, the one that had a knotwork handle with the Anglo-Saxon helm for a pommel, an oath ring and some Runes on a slip. I cut into one of my arms and bled onto the lot, when the bleeding stopped I put the lot up into the loft and nailed the thing up inside. The Runes were a first, asking for something, offering something. Like many I was afraid of saying what I wanted, for fear it would never be granted. I had never any trouble believing in a cold, indifferent universe. But I did, I offered up my greatest fears; that we would never have kids, the land my family held would be turned into a parking lot for some bloody condo and the world I know would be wrapped up in the pathetic mess that the Power Structure traded all our pasts for. That’s no mean fear, and one that has plagued me for long before I even began dating, let alone married and let the dating alone. (Mercifully so, ZOG, Entropy has not been kind to the dating “game.”) Anyway. The deed was done. It was cathartic. I had been a ‘Heathen,’ a Folkish, what-ever thing you would call one who tries to call upon and follow the Gods, for years. Had been since the last time my world was smashed when I woke up to this and overdosed on Red Pills in College in the heady days where if there was anyone in New England who knew this stuff, they would have never let on or talked to you about it. Anywho. The deed was done. Life moved on. Soon after, I hosted the first or second seasonal spring conference for the young Bund in my back yard. It was a tent city. But for the time being, it was my tent city. It was a proud moment, and for those few days I was a happy landlord. I might have even passed for a Happy Scando because the tents were very hygge, neatly arranged around a central gathering field with a fire barrel. Whatever. Irrelevant details that nevertheless make me smile. Among other things, what became the final draft of the Eagle that watches over every lodge was done in. With by Odin’s beard, I will meme the name Pinetreagle into existence with nothing more than sheer force of dogged perseverance. Anywho. The event ended, and I was left with the heady remains of a bonfire to clean whose embers lasted well into the following weekend. (The fire had been great, and had shot up like a pillar by a good 20ft at peak.) I think back to my brooding, dealing with the darker thoughts that grip lonely moments where you wonder what the point of all this is. And then, when I looked up for a moment from my hoe and rake there was an Eagle circling overhead. Gliding in slow, regal circles above my zone. The Eagle. The Eagle carries tremendous meaning on his back. The herald of Nations, the messenger of Zeus. You don’t see a lot of Eagles in Maine – sure they’re there, but in the wild and over the skies of the wilderness. They don’t often visit you at your home. So, you’ll forgive me for dropping my tools and staring a spell. The Eagle said nothing, no cries nor grunts. For ten minutes it circled, me, in tight swoops above my cleanup. After ten minutes or so it glid along the treeline of my field and turned, casing the field, before finally soaring off down the tract of Rte. 202 toward Buxton. It was within three days to this that when I came up from deads day in the gym, my wife met me with a pink line on the pregancy test. I couldn’t believe it was real at first, I was numb. We had gone through early miscarriages before, enough so that I had built up a stark dislike of seeing any missed blood in the toilet bowl for fear that was just another one of my babies that saw fit not to make it and become a clumpy bloodstain instead. Anywho. A doctor confirmed the pregnancy. And we began going to the hospital. That’s another story, I reckon. The long and short, is that things got hairy and the Seaxling was born premature. He was born in January, the month of the God Ianus Dei the lord of new beginnings and closure in the Roman calendar, and not Febuary the month of purification besmirched with a black shadow that never lifts. The sum total of his birth, numbers added, was again; 9 – still Odin’s number. That said, the interesting connotations kept on keeping on. His feed drip was 1,066. His room number had a value of 9 – Odin’s number. Not too terribly long before we were set to take him home, I decided to have my long hairs zipped off so I didn’t look like a country music redneck for the going home photos. (Women care about that kind of thing.) The lady that cut my hair at the discount salon was an (admittedly attractive) goth girl with one identifiable tattoo in her sea of rinse and repeat hipster ink, she had a Gar Rune carved into the left side of her neck. The Gar-Rune as a rule indicates those things offered up to Woden, as his attribute was the spear that was used to throw over the host to determine fate. There it was. A storied beginning.
Much better than: kid, you began as sticky goo and drippy goo and will end as maggots, dust and a daisy getting pushed if you aren’t cremated. So suffice to say, when I saw the Eagle return (it’s been a little over a year, and worth noting that I had hoped that Seaxling might have been in the oven a little overtime and be born in the Ides of March to represent the death of tyranny.) Nevertheless, the Eagle flew through the Ides, for a split second, before I even had time to call the wife – she was busy with the boy. It might be nothing, but it might also be a future storied beginning. Time shall tell. But either way, I can look back at the Eagle that passed me by at a time when I had invested great consideration as to my future in my political and religious leaning, and the investiture I have placed in developing a curriculum by which my child and future children can recall their patrimony – a gift I wish my father and grandfather would have left me, moreso my grandfather who still understood our world in English terms. The Ides of March, being indicative of regime change. Time shall tell, as it is the only thing that can.
**Gaytheism: I am defining this in meme-speak as the expression of dualistic hypocrisy of neoliberalism, that is that God is Love simultaneous to God being a hindrance to love, thereby necessitating the removal of said Love God from culture so that men and women alike can feel the glow of true butt-love. This apparent (false) dichotomy does not impede the Love God’s followers from boarding the Love Boat and working with secular humanists, materialists and nihilists on their march to destroy all traditionalist and theistic values and expunge them from the public consciousness and conscience by way of economic and social punishment, mild to moderate violence and general chicanery. The Gaytheist sees no flaw in his reasoning, of signing his own death warrant by choosing to work with those who destroy rather than uphold values and thereby be perpetually surprised as the goalposts move and their “love” is redefined as intolerance. After all, if the final object of neoliberalism is absolute equality, and the only true equality in nature is a lowest common denominator, then it follows that we must be reduced to animals who haven’t the IQ to believe. Gaytheism. Drink the KOOL-AID, bigot. Might as well put on your armband, Goy, there is no escape from the march of progress and you will never stay on the winning side for long. You might be a social justice warrior today, but this time next year they me be calling you a Nazi and saying you’re no better than me. The Liberals eat their wounded, and the Conservatives, for that matter, piss on them and tell them it’s raining. The Third Position is the future for the free-thinker. Might as well embrace it, you’ll find the intolerant to be far more forgiving than the perpetual enlightenment of the self-proclaimed Tolerant.