Compost Nationalism

One of my little rituals, as it were, above and beyond trying to make mindfulness the middlemost of my worship – is Stewardship. Is it perfect? Hell no. But it tracks. I don’t do big brained magick or source occult practises for use. Most of it is an abstract, a purely platonic weapon for me to be used in chipping away the Goddess in the Machine, as it were, freeing the ghost in the shell, banning mangaloid references. ETC. But to the Earth, it makes sense to send my first and foremost. And so I make rituals out of little, silly things. Like compost.

 This morning, as I most often do, I woke up a few hours ahead of the rest of the clan. I had meant to go down the woods where I keep a little Veh. Or wayshrine. However, I ended up saddled with some other tasks, among which was the attempted repair of my persona snowblower which allows your snowstorms exceeding a waist to hip circumference of five inches to still be workdays, albeit late starts. A true and unforgiving snowstorm often means staying at home, when the wind is true and the dump is white.

 Point is. I didn’t make it out to do the things I wanted yesterday. No Uitseta, just blood for oil. So I digress. Sympathetic magick. I like the idea of this because it can be seen as a intellectual domain dominant exercise. A therefore B means C, kind of deal. Ironically, it is the most heavily mocked and spurned form of magick. But bear with me; while you might scoff at, say, cargo culting negroes, it remains that from the perspective of the observatorial scope, there is a grasping causality. For our stunning and brave African friends, the White man was known to bring delicious food from flying machines. Thus, why not erect images of them to draw the energy, or attention, of the White man back to the black man where it so clearly belongs.

 Yes, easy to mock, but we did it too, and still do. I could wax cynical about CoVid and maintain that the measures taken by average idiots were no more enlightened than Leopard Print LeeRoy and the Metal Bird Express. In fact, it is far less impressive given that society is meant to imbue the civilised with… sense? Is it sense? Is that still a thing? Anyway. Sympathetic Magick visualises intention through totemic physical depiction, and indeed also through symbolic metaphorical understanding. This is how I view my relationship with Jörð. Whether you believe she is the physical terrain (from Terra, Roman Earth) upon which/whom we live, or that she is a deity apart who acts as Governess of said land – the victual is the same. We rely on her good grace for our daily bread.

 If any deity was to be anthropomorphised first, it makes sense it should be Mother Earth. If she is fussy, we starve, if she is angry, we starve. Nature is a cruel mistress. The animal kingdom is composed of unrelenting savagery and unlimited bloodshed. From the domestic chicken to the wild turkey, there is violence as a means to every digression. Our ancestors would have seen the burgeon of civilisation as a boon, divine ordinance. Echoes abound in every myth. The Gods found man and raised him up from crude matter, set him apart from the ravening wilderness, and inseminated him with something of themselves.

 But before all this then, which may well be the work of the Aryan invasion, there was Her, the Mother. The earliest shells of civilisation propitiated Earth. Fed her. Indeed, the sympathetic magick is clear – if Earth Herself can be domesticated, made fat and happy – as it were, than surely Her wrath would be spared the faithful. It isn’t hard to see. An angry Earth casts storms, she can quake the lands, she can parch fields, or drown valleys. There is no end to the wreckage she can unleash upon man should her blood sugar dip too low. And so Earth was fed, that men might eat. From the “stone” ages and well into Anglo-Saxon times, ere the Æcerbot was this notion.

 And so I see keeping Earth fat and happy as a duty. And so I stir my compost soup. Rather than dumping compost scraps into the garbage to raise up a stench, I feed them back into the land. I wonder. With the mass promulgation of landfills, and the insistence of sanitised modern man; does this account for the depletion of soil nutrition? Compost was once inevitable. But now we hoard our scrap and feed it to machines who turn it into Wōden knows what. The soil, it seems to me, is starving. If Earth is neither fat nor happy, then it follows her soil and thus our blood, wither.

 Trees, you know, due to genetic manipulation and environmental impact, grow faster, but are also now more susceptible to rotting illness. And you don’t even get the good burls out of the deal. The soil, as I mentioned, is now drier and less nutritive. I forget the statistic, but vegetables have been inextricably altered. Protein yield has increased, but micronutrient and vitamin content has, I believe, almost halved. Earth is starving. We’ve made her into an anorexic whore chained to a bed, where before she had been the flowing Goddess that inspired the dawn of mankind. Not a wretch on a stick, or a shaman on a tree. A Goddess, full and flowering. This is our alpha, our origin point, as a species. Hand in glove were the cranial development of ritualised food consumption, process and preparation, and the advent of the Earth Goddess aesthetic – assuming as I do that this is what it was.

 So there I go. But as I said, it’s not perfect. I’m no Finnish Science Man. Petticoat Linksemup? Something. Someone will undoubtedly correct my Americanism here. No. But I’m a better ecofascist than some. Moreso than they who claim ecofascism as a virtue signal, and not an actual lifestyle. I clean my lawn. I try to clear the dead away that I can and put it to the feed lot. I try to clear smothered soil so the green can grow. Everytime I spill my compost, I say a little blot, remember my intentions and focus my will. At first I thought it was disrespectful, but it dawned on me, Earth is an omnivorous Goddess. And it’s not as if I’ve never fed the Goddess with fine faire, but I’d assume our Earth has a wider palate than I and it is better to give than waste.

 And I tell you another thing. When you’re emptying your compost in the small hours when the stars are bright and the sky is dark… it’s a whole other experience. When your eyes adjust, the cerulean blue on the pristine white create hues and shades you don’t see every day. Greys and blues mingle, the quiet trees like obelisks stand, holding their breath. The world is alive every day, but the small hours are mine. The best time. Into the woods I traipsed, taking note of the circumlocutory deer tracks and asking aloud why not now for hunting season. If I applied myself I could stalk the deer in the snow and beat them to death with a seal club and save my ammo for leaner times. (I understand the questions of conservation.) But still. It’s something to remember for those leaner times I expect may someday come. Deer sleep too. Like the Hibernian, they are too late awake to conquer the world, and like the early American Republican we could cross the river with ease and kill them in their sleep in time for Christmas dinner.

 In general too much stress is put on perfection in the world. The world I inhabit is broadly nationalistic, though I am not opposed to the occasional intersectionality where I can make strides and betray nothing. Of which opportunity there are more than you might at first think. There is a creeping notion, unspoken, that it is better to do nothing than do something wrongly. As I had with my worship. I long did nothing for fear of seeming silly, or “doing it wrong.” But it can be said; our ancestors had no such stigma. There was no global pagan rulebook. That was invented post hoc facto after the papists invented globalism. The myth of a pagan threat had to justify neo-imperialism. As it had in times before, like when the Roman had occasionally to castigate his foe – but a notable difference was the Pagan Roman sought a sense of equanimity. And perfection, yes, but not at the exclusivity of failure.

 I see it so often. If I work a craft, others will say, I could never do that. And so they do nothing. If I have a thought, some will say they wouldn’t have gotten it, and then they proceed to go on being unthinking. In Nationalism there is something to think of. It is better to try and fail than do nothing and fail anyway. And there is no shortage of failure to conceivably learn from. But consider this. If the lügenpresse is at least half right about statistics, than there is an incomprehensible huge reserve of potential inactive Nationalists. Now, true, the lügenpresse has a standard which is so vast there is hardly room for deviation when it comes to categorisation of “hate.” “Hate” being an inverse definition of “self-love” in a racial construct. But my point is, upwards of 1-10% of American citizens hold “Nazi” ideologies. What the lügenpresse defines as “Nazi” these days is anyone’s guess. I stopped caring in the weeks after Charlottesville when the local news tried to paint some jackass Boston “freedom” rally (with a gay injun keynote speaker) as “literal” “Nazis.” If there are billions of Americans, 1% of this means there is probably more than one in every County, maybe one in every town. That’s a lot. Enough to work with.

 But. But there is such a halting psychological pressure, which James Joyce correctly diagnosed as paralysis, that there is a reservoir of awakened men doing nothing. And women, too. We can never forget that if there is ever to be a “revolution” than women must be involved, full bore, no tilt. The NSDAP knew this, and it must be allowed that the stunning success of their rise in large part was owed to their advertisement to women and the feminine virtues of the day. The modern Nationalist is often an idiot who discounts half his population in favour of brainlet rhetoric on loan from the manosphere, which is about the gayest shit you’ve ever heard. Funny thing, you can’t have a sustainable revolutionary attitude without the power to make babies. That’s why the American South mongrelised first. Yankees brought women. Southrons had to borrow theirs from the library. Yankees pioneered industry. Southrons got shacked to a future cosmic guilt trip. Little changes make big differences. In the end, the North lost Her women anyway in a deluge of consumerism masquerading as feminism. (Is anyone going to pretend that weaponising women as labour assets didn’t benefit capital gains? And that removing women from the labour pool WOULDN’T hurt ZOG? HmmmmmmmmMMM?) And no. This is not to insult the South, I still love and respect the South, but we had different management styles. The South had a warrior aristocracy, the North had a familial transcendentalism and tribal democracy.

Anyway.

I don’t really have much a point besides. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about. Today is Sunday. I’m trying to entertain my son quietly and allow my wife to wake up naturally. AND my Queens of the Stone Age album is on the last song. So, it’s time to face the day. Sun’s up, fun’s out. Maybe we’ll go stalk deer. Probably not. But soon enough. Time flies, when you have a job.

Anyway. Seaxling is looking for his favourite Uncle? Will he find him? You don’t have to wait till next time on DRAGON BALL Z to find out. The answer is kidnapped by Libertarian Priories of Zion and held for ransom in Goy Hampshire. Can we save him? Not at these gas prices, now show your colours and love America in this new poll. Really own whoever ZOG tells us to be mad at!

This Poll brought you by the Maine Democratic Committe to Feed Earth Democratically with Due Processed Food For Democracy because Freedom and Choice and AMERICA and Apple Pie and Wimynz. And stuff. Just buy the Funko Pop, Goy.

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