The Golden Age & The Grotesque

Aandacht: committing social suicide and touching subjects with a ten-foot pole that others don’t like is part of my thing. Follows deals with things of a sexual nature which will take the reader outside their comfort zones. Emptor your caveats and delende your carthages. Or not. I don’t really care. Anyway. You will by now no doubt have noticed I have included in the body of this wrtiteup a link to a Marilyn Manson album, around which the name of this post is based. I should like it to serve as a juxtaposition towards what the Grotesque has become, as opposed to what it might have been under more optimistic circumstances with less ficasing. I also have a love/hate relationship with Manson music, as does apparently Andreas Swedenborg of Nordic Frontier who will never read this to challenge my forgetting his last name. Well nuts to that, Sweden! You don’t know my last name either, so we’re even. Well, you might, and I’d be flattered if anyone did because that means they will have been reading me since before I got hitched to this goddamn pseudonym of mine. Anyway. For those undaunted by my warning, go ahead and read on. Or not. Whatever floats your boat or sinks your dinghy. As I say, I don’t care, this droning warning is a courtesy for the lily-livered, spleenless weenies amongst us who don’t spend time thinking about shades of sex. Nerds.

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Part of being an Odinist means walking a thin line between comfort and discomfort, awe and loathing, light and dark. There is a need for reckoning, that the very basic catechism society provides you with is biased and without nuance. I do not write these things for the purpose of being edgy, or even necessarily evoking a spirit of heavily discounted Nietzscheism. If I were to wax philosophical, I might pine towards Hegel and his synthesis. But in truth, I think philosophy has every potential to make the seeker weak. Wicked weak. Like weaker than masque mandate defenders weak. It is a surrogate religion, taken without regard to context, the same as science – all of which repurpose basic religious drives.

 Now, that isn’t to say this is bad. Indeed, religion, philosophy & science are perhaps the greatest tools in culture building. Out of balance, there is a kind of deformation one can expect. A science-heavy society follows a trajectory neither opposite nor superior to a religion-bloated one, and as to a philosophy-swollen society I cannot say I in good faith that such a one would necessarily balance itself between the poles of science and religion. Because they are not polarities. They are tools of the mind.

 So it is that I believe a man must experience a degree of nihilism and inner death in order to wield these weapons of the soul as a whole man, and not a half man. Or a witless ape man, parading around in human skin with the soul of a dubious animal. As seems to be the case with an unsettling majority of men. What is light darkness? How can one know good, without evil? How can one experience the whole, without the all? You cannot cherish the surfeit, the bounty or abundance, without feeling want, and lack, and need. One must break to mend. This Breaking of the Will, Death of the Self, however you might call it, is a cornerstone of all transcendental religious paths. It is also a kind of sublimated facet of philosophy. A kind of soul-death is almost by default incorporated into the life of an honest philosopher, who destroys falsity in his own self in pursuit of truth. Likewise, a scientist following ‘da roolz’ will theoretically set aside ego in favour of fact, which can be hard for men in this politically charged world to do where rejection of confirmation bias is a bugbear. At best.

 I am, above most things, an Odinist. I am a Philosopher in that I have extreme Gnostic sympathies and do believe that a Perennial Sophia lies like so much glue tieing the disparate European myths into a tattered tapestry. So, I love Sophia. I find I believe in the Neo-Gnostic ideal of her being consubstantial with Mother Earth, the font of incarnational wisdom, the living Grail – penultimate feminine mystery, as sought by the archetypal questing male. That archetype is Odin, whom Karlsson in Nightside of the Runes identifies as the first Grail Knight. In this way, I am an Odinist above all. The Knight-Errant gallant in his solitude, questing for a drink of that hidden wisdom tucked away in the Only Grail, the primordial womb of the Divine Sophia whose face can be seen in the twinkling eyes of a woman gone down the path. The Knight, orderly and bold, who wishes to lose himself in the ecstasy of the moment, where the line between fury and discipline blurs in a beautiful symphony – and that Knight realises his inner divinity. No, there is no finer example than Odin for this, not a starving wanderer on a stick, not a six armed island monstrosity – Wōden, Wotan, call him as you like – the White Man’s God.

 I believe that the Lover of Wisdom, the High Father, has scratched out the third eyes of some and rendered them in some ways blind. In this, their intellect develops as a keen sense to compensate for an eternal dark night of the soul. In this way those so humbled become model seekers. They can feel the hum of Sophia’s Gospel in the heart of our Mother Earth, but blind and deaf to the miracles fattening the minds of prophets, they must write their own hymnal. They scratch and search, like chickens in the brush. They are disinclined from miracles and are not burdened by the over-mystical, with their mind they develop great tendrils like snakes and crawl through the hidden recesses of Earth, looking for her hidden gems. The Hunt is in the Chase and the Devil is in the details – once seized the Devil becomes our prisoners, secrets to be yielded. And the reward is orgasmic, pieces to the puzzle. Initiated, as it were, in the pitch. In this way they are like, in their microcosm, hypostatic impressions of their Wisdom Gods. To whom could Oðinn pray when he wandered alone in search of Holy Wisdom? There was none higher. There is a kind of wisdom which abounds in existential solitude, that the foolish might deem cynical. But from it comes a kind of prescience, a kind of preternatural connection to the variables which make up the thread of the Norns. A man so inclined can make prophecies out of math, rather than scry dreams from the Gods. One assumes this is what Odin had to do, with nobody but equals and inferiors to rely upon. His life became a wandering gambit, his head for wisdom, early and often. To be an Odinist then is to be unshackled. After all, was it not expressly one of Oðinn’s Rune Songs which calls down and shatters bonds and fetters? Yes, it is.

 An aside. When I write the above, it sounds like a statement implying choice. Wōden does choose. It is among his principle roles, at least in his Norse aspect. Does it imply I am in fact, chosen? It does not. I have no reason to believe I have been set aside for any purpose, but I do make the choice to claim Oðinn as my God as I believe his example and archetype were made for men like me. Should it be revealed to me some day that I followed some divine ordinance, then this I can confidently credit to the Norns who will have held my hand sight unseen. Or perhaps, should it be the God moved the pieces on the board before me, then to the God my thanks shall go. Until then, there is no shame in moving according to my will, my testament and my own grace. Why should there be? To that end, the actual consent of the God is not required for a following, nor I don’t think, is some heavenly message required for authenticity or even authority. Wouldn’t it follow that the God of Wisdom and Cunning would make men in his image so that they could do as he would? And not make tired appeals to authority? I act of my own will, and what the record shall show, is that the Devil didn’t make me do it. I did it to myself, and there’s no shame in that.

 Odin hung himself on the tree. He embodied death to self. Odin to Odin, self to self, the slain to God of Death. Self-sacrifice. This is often described as a kind of Shamanic Initiation, which tracks, based on my minimal grasp of that art. But the idea is, as said, present in most Bible-based Christianities, in the Gnosticism/s, as well as Hermeticism, or Alchemy, and basically any sublet of the “big” “western” trends. Eastern, too, but I was never truly drawn to these and have thus only a beginner’s touch, going so far only as inviting Kali to dinner in my personal practise because I believe she is correspondent to the purificatory, catabolic, resurrective elements of Asatru more or less rolled up into one convenient form. The point is, Oðinn was willing to sacrifice all in order to attain wisdom, and his journey typifies the intimacy of that self-actualisation, or self-initiation that awaits anyone earnestly seeking to engage the mysteries of our ancestors and seize them. Screaming, Oðinn grasped the Runes and fell back. So must we grasp the mysteries, and fall back, pierced as we are onto our own personal Irminsul.

 As luck would have it, I have afforded myself the segue I wasn’t sure how to get to before. Kali is, especially by foreigners, myself included, described as grotesque. A few posts ago I wrote an ode to Kali, the Devourer of Worlds, in which I tried to capture a spirit of the Grotesque. Read it after you read this, and see if you find any nuance beyond the surface level. Let me know. Common wisdom dictates of her grotesquery that she be relegated to her terminal action. She eats, therefore she is a monster. It’s a very basic view, as most are. But it is a helpful springboard. To the modern mind, overconsumption is associated with the masculine in the cognitive domain, thus for a woman to go hog wild, as it were, constitutes to most an aberration. Hence, grotesque, as you may yet see if you have not already. What IS grotesque? Like with most words vomited up from the shallow ponds of men’s souls, these days, the word is a pygmy’s answer to the everlasting sea. Our borrowed word ‘grotesque’ is intrinsically related to another word with intense esoteric symbolism, and that is grotto. Grotto-esque, you might think. Now to embody the former I think it pays to visit the latter.

 The grotto is an intense metaphysical symbol which pre-exists most Post-Semitic religions like Christianity or Islam. However, at least one of these traditions borrows heavily from the grotto-esque and identifies with it so heavily they can-not be easily separated. Formerly non-canon apparitions of the “Virgin” were thus – grotto-esque. Mary would appear, as in Lourdes, in a grotto. Most unadvertised Marian apparitions still do, such as those in Britain especially. Much as her art would often appear in Marian “niches.” Marian grottos traditionally incorporated living water. A spring, a waterfall, a stream – and so on. This is an excruciatingly clear call to Celtic mysticism, but also Nordic, which held that the White Ladies, or attendant spirits, were attached to healing springs. Often these springs emerged from the Earth, and were deeply connected to wells, which became a refined symbol thereof. Think pennies in a wishing well – that is a modified form of an ancient Pagan sacrifice. And yes, it occurs to me the possibility some of you reading might not know what a grotto is. A grotto is often described as a pocket within the earth, half above, and half below, sometimes containing a water source. A cave-like arrangement, but one which is typically small and not cavernous.

 The spiritual associations to the grotto are of liminality. They were supposed to themselves present a dual citizenship, a placement between overworld and underworld, and thus, act as a spiritual gateway. They stretch back to an ancient pulse, which cannot be ignored, that ties us in to the most ancient of days, the shadowy, yes, grotesque religion of the ancient palaeoliths. Not just the earthy Venuses, and their mysterious shamans, their rough beasts and unknowable rituals – but life itself. Religious art was left in cases, we must not suppose it was the only place their religion was, but it was what is left to us of them to find. The cavern was important; their legacy was left there. The cave came to symbolise the womb, and a difficult to describe process of commentary arose – the womb of woman is symbolic of the womb of earth, what is, is sheltered within until it can emerge into life. But in the end, that womb will consume us, we die and are swallowed by the earth. Reborn again from the woman, and so on.

 You can see how this might have affected Asatru, or Hinduism, or any real native faith before the syncretic surrogate religions were formed to facilitate increased multiculturalism, and annihilate the Folksoul in lieu of some bland universal spirit. In the dark-ish ages a sense of the grotesque was rekindled, which was typified by a corporeal obsession. Not with the mortification of the flesh, but a kind of celebration of the flesh, a conflicted celebration forged in feelings of self-denial as per the church, and a primitive urge within the flesh. The urge is not new; it can be seen in pre-Christian lore as well as post-Roman religion. So we cannot – in full – blame the repressive streak of the churches. The church merely agreed upon and amplified something already there, a struggle seen more among Eastern Aryans than Western ones, such as the Greeklings who were imposed upon first by the impetus of multiculturalism in unsurmountable volume.

 A friend once explained to me the meaning of “Uncanny Valley.” While I have forgotten the intimates of the explanation, the idea is the human mind inhabits a kind of concrete environment which is not equipped to deal with the realities of the shades between repulsion and attraction, and can therefore develop perversities in getting lost in the middleground where the mind is bent by the weight of untranslated messages; conflicted feelings, et cetera. I think this trope nicely frames the relationship of the European, and apparently at times Arabic, mind to the grotto-esque. Let us walk back to look at our Gods.

 The Ӓsir took brides from the Jotnar. They had a kind of draw and appreciation to these maidens, despite the overwhelming evidence to indicate their nations were at war, and that on a good day the Jotnar were considered intemperate. The Nordic words for gluttony were intrinsically tied to them. And yet, despite the sheer rawness of the Jotnar and Gygir, they held in them a kind of ancient wisdom the Gods sought. Moreso even than the Vanir, whom the Æsir had little to no taboo regarding but for the fact that they did not stigmatise inbreeding as they themselves did. It remains, the gigantophilia as it were, seems to indicate an almost eternal fascination of men with extremes, but also security and a lack of self-censorship. Perhaps, this might be because the shareholders of the assumed Sky Religions of the Aryan invaders were characterised by strict martial discipline, a thoroughgoing maintenance of which on the social scale requires considerable energy to maintain. We see this in honour/shame driven cultures, a fascination with the inverse of these, which may or may not be unfairly categorised as hedonistic. As the wise kungfu master from the Lucas films says: “from a certain point of view.”

 We see in the Greek a likely story. The Gods of Olympus took brides of the Titans who themselves were only a generation removed from the Cyclops, Monsters and Horrors. The Gaulish mind was no stranger to siring children by the mothers of awful antecedents. Awe, by the by, does not mean horror. It means awe. To inspire awe is to stop you in your tracks, to reframe your mind, neither in good or in ill, but to evoke feelings of wonder. Wonder was a word that conveyed excess, magnanimity and grandiosity. Awful, therefore, does not mean terrible, it evokes wonder and mysticism. That being said, it is no wonder the modern mind equivocates these things. We could blame the Normans, who perverted the English tongue and twisted our words, leaving us with what pointed to the base while they supplied us with their own words of worship to seek for. But that would be unfair and lack nuance. The Normans themselves were perverted, in loss of their own language. As were the Romans before them, who themselves had lost their soul to an alien god. How can one worship beauty from a podium of disembodiment? What better way to assuage one’s own soul than impose your disembodiment as some kind of virtue – imperialism is born.

When you read the myths, there is what we hold to be stunning earthiness. Raw, shameless, now primitive. But free, for what it’s worth. We associate it with lack of sophistication, as if our societies in the wake of what went before are by proxy more advanced. If we sneer at the ruddiness of Lore, what shall our offspring think of that repugnant yenta Sarah Silverman? I must here make a distinction between earthiness as a state of nature, and weaponised for the sake of propaganda which is the problem with all possible Silvermensches. But the body in all sacrality is not so dualised as we see later. In Norse Lore, Freyja, Goddess of all lust and loveliness and longing – farts in bed. In Celtic Lore, one of the great ladies impressed her future husband with how far up river she could piss. Not a question I ever considered asking when I was still dating, but there you go – single gentleman take note; ask an Irish girl about her… um… Irish spring and see how fast is the speed of bail. There are many such examples of unabashed narrative in myth, enough to make most of us with our Neo-Victorian sensibilities blush. These little facets leave us perplexed because we have traded our primitive and ancient Goddesses for the slinking, slithering, needy saints. A characteristic of the repression that came about with the neutering of the Old Ways, is the kneejerk assumption that the presence of the chthonic negates the celestial. Or more irritatingly, that the acknowledgement of the base means the worship of it, in which the chthonic overpowers the celestial. When in point of fact, Heaven bedded Earth – it was precisely the joining of the transcendent heaven and future to the primal earth and present that birthed the human consciousness. It isn’t that chthonic acts, put delicately, were worshipped so much as accepted as matters of course. There was not the compartmentalisation of mind and body that follows.

This is brought up so that I can illustrate a point. In the travelling circles of the White Nationalist one encounters what is called purity spiralling. An assumption is heaped upon our ancestry that in prior to some foggy prehistory was a dawning golden age. This of itself is not so much a worry, as the associations extracted therefrom. There was almost certainly a Golden Age – though what this entails is not beyond debate, I don’t think. But today, we have felonious notions of almost criminal simplicity and superficiality. In this Golden Age was the perfect man. The perfect woman. Except, our gauge of this perfection is extracted from Victorian moralism. Victorian, not Puritan. Puritans get a bad rap for something that came a bit later. Puritans who had sex manuals to guarantee a better orgasm as proof of God’s grace, versus Victorians and their [shudders] chastity belts. The Victorian era ushered in an age of prudery which accentuated to the nth degree the safest spaces ever dredged up. And I say this as someone who generally respects Victoriana.

The point is, by creating these idols of mind creates a future storm for cognitive dissonance. There is a Greek story (because say what you will, they dealt with a lot of consequences of a lot of experimentation) a story in which you have a young man who having seen only pure marble statues of women, was shocked and appalled to learn that women have dimples and body hair. The ending, sadly, is predictable. It ends in my mocking… Le gasp, ye olde Greek homo. Similarly, in Nationalism, there is a predisposition to embrace a kind of heroic ideal and notion which stands on hollow legs and clay feet. Your average Nationalism will pine and wither for the Golden Age without having read the Eddas, or the Book of Invasions, or any number of things our ancestors wrote. He instead reads carefully curated tracts written by admittedly brilliant thinkers a thousand years or more removed from the subject. These authors themselves very often preselect the idols of the mind according to a Pollyanna’s gaze. The reader, then, unless he dares to dare, is hopeless.

He becomes like the Greek boy, having never been exposed to the shadowy side of our people, the earthy, chthonic and unrepentant. When it at last comes about that he is exposed to this shadow, he erects his cognitive dissonant walls and decides where to plant himself. Then you end up with Mark Brahman… Brahmin? The comic book guy. Blithely relegating 90 percent or more of our ancestry to the dustbin, and accusing virtually all of Aryan mythology of being an ancient psy-op by Jews owing to the fact the Gods cried when their favourite son died. I might argue that if you *don’t* cry or mourn upon losing children, then you are a heartless mutant who deserves the bog. And that I might like to be your guide. Twice. The fact of the matter is, by oversaturating Nationalists with the hollow ideal, confrontation with the shadow of reality can break or severely challenge someone. Brahmin is an extreme example. And I don’t need to doubt that he means well, but I am glad Mr. McNallen of the A.F.A. debated him and called him out on some of his bullshit. Part of the role of the Gods is to teach us to live. A disproportionate stress on the Apollonian, disregarding human nature in full, is something which can only produce emotional retardation. I don’t even think Nietzsche would have elevated the Apollonian at the cost of discounting the Dionysian. But then Nietzsche was a bawdy fellow, as I recall. But I haven’t read him since highschool, and that’s getting further behind me every day. Again. Brahmin, extreme example. But there’s another.

A less extreme but more common scenario… I mean no offence against Jason Köhne here, but I recall in one of his podcasts he reviewed the Guy Who Gave Us The Vvitch’s “The Northman.” Herr Köhne was appalled at the rough earthiness of the film, much of which is extracted with historical basis. The kneejerk then is to assume this shadow in the soul is the reflection of a scheming subverter clamming back at us, when in reality the subversion comes about through entangling men in webs of obsession forged in a broken psyche. And certainly, it’s easier to sweep uncomfortables under the rug – like how Napoléon reportedly disabused his wife from the notion of bathing because he preferred a lass with a, eh, natural perfume. Queue please if you will, your best smelly hairy French jokes, because the Lion of Naples hasn’t helped the cause. This is tame, though, really, if you think of it. Given the power of the media to incite disaffection and haplessness, overstimulate the senses and create snares out of mismanaged impulses producing all manner of increasingly violent paraphilia crossing the threshold into mania, then the smelly Frenchwoman doesn’t seem so bad. Aphrodite probably had a muff when she came out of her shell because Venus hadn’t invented the razor yet, and this is not the worst of evils. I defy you, as a Slav once did me, to learn the indescribably awful truth of “Pamperchu” and retain his faith in a happy ending for the hoi polloi. There are far, far worse things in heaven and Earth than spins on a Venus.

It remains, everybody has something in their shadow that they may or may not want brought to light. By expecting there is no such thing, we set ourselves up for disappointment. That was a hidden gem of Norse Lore – the shadow and the sun balance, the profane and divine mingle – all are one. It was business. There wasn’t endless ado made of running from this truth. We were once a sober and shrewd race, accepting and understanding in a true sense. To try and separate wheat from chaff when one doesn’t understand the balance, creates a spoiled pudding from your alchemic process. We also manufacture, ironically, a kind of false market from the resulting taboos. People will always want the forbidden. This isn’t to say nothing should be forbidden, but by extending the borders of Eden so far in every direction that one finds they live in a garden of forbidden fruit – what is there left to eat? You cannot sit and imagine that Pamperchu would have existed in the Eddas, he would have swum in the bog for his final journey. But by creating such attention you create Pamperchu ex nihilo by raising the stakes on a degenerate alternative which didn’t exist before being fear-mongered into existence. This was why you saw Edwardian decadence follow Victorian prudence, the safety valve at some point was released. People remembered being warned off of all those dirty deeds nobody was doing. It was why you had the sexual revolution, in America, which had help from (((friends))) with advertising, but it does not change the fact that Schlomo could have never sold you the ficas had not somebody before him told you that your thing for the girl with freckles made you a freak. Or a Commie. Or something. I know it seems like a big claim, but this is how Big Z sold us homosexuality, and it is how they are beginning to sell paedophilia. They make the sensational claim of how forbidden the fruit is, and how oppressed the fruity, and wait for the imbedded liberation theology deep in the psyche to kick in. Ye olde white saviour complex. Evolution selects even dysgenically for the victims to be saved, as well as the victims to become the risen underdog – it’s a demonstrably sublimated selection pressure.

 That such struggle has been heaped upon the human body, is indicative of a broader malady. I think. And I say this as a descendant of Puritans who at best, is struggling to accept his own synthesis of chthonic and celestial, thus grotto-esque, and cease to live in horror of humanity’s base nature. A foregone conclusion entirely dictated by evolution and not religious pressure, the religious pressure is dead and gone, but the genetic impression on the folksoul is strong. This is not a problem or complaint limited to aesthetics. If it were that simple, with no further flung consequences, then I would not protest. I would read of how the Christian autists cut the big, beautiful tits off statues and made them Mary and shrug. But it is not that simple, and there are far flung consequences.

 By compartmentalising the mind with regards to basic stimulus, and let us be frank, appreciation of beauty is one of the most basic acts, we make a precedent. That precedent is the fragmentary human, he creates categories of the mind, and ceases to be a holistic entity. A God is a holistic entity, which exists as a totality, but the new human nature is opposite to totality. It is why you saw Gods of This and That – they exist as the pinnacle of their embodiment. Odin, God of Wisdom. Freyja, Goddess of Love. Und so weiter. Humans were as Nietzsche wrote, all too. But this is not the worst of all evils, either. Spirituality suffers and becomes an exercise in co-dependency when the human being splits himself into quadrants and begins to place undue emphasis on this part or that, neglecting the whole. The compartmentalised mind cannot process entireties, and thus breaks things down, becomes an engine of negotiation and compromise. And yes, internal repression which held long enough, can produce actual monstrosities. Consider: those closest to the Gods are often those with the least complex personae, fewer moving parts, as it were.

 Where beauty is to be found most everywhere, constraint to the narrow gauge produces internal inconsistencies. These lead to obsessions. Perversion is always proportional to purity, in a fragmentary society. So when we consider the aspirations of the European mind, the Arabic mind, and the Japanese mind you see the most stunning examples of inversions with regards to prevalent aesthetic, sexual or spiritual preferences. They are also the most notably disembodied peoples, compared to say, Jews, who embody the reverse and are so very corporeal that they do not merely acknowledge the chthonic and earthy, but they worship it to the exclusion of the heavenly. Hence the instinctual mechanism of sublimated subversion. This isn’t to say these inversions are intrinsically evil, or that they come out of the blue as it were like Athena from Zeus’ brain tumour.

 But for example, consider one might take a shine to a particular thing, an aspect of beauty. Perhaps a passing act caught in the impermanence of time leaves an impression. Some particularities may have ancient roots, such as **gravitic attractions. The compartmentalised mind separates this moment, act or aspect from the whole and dwells upon it. The psychic reserve deepens and the mere act, moment or aspect grows in interest. His compartmentalised mind, undergoing an actualised self-regulation, condemns the particularity as a deviation from the associated norm. Because his mind is compartmentalised, he begins to dwell, perseverate on the part apart from the whole. It becomes an idol besides, a forbidden fruit. Obsession follows. What we call a paraphilia or fetish is born. I don’t think, in most cases, these sorts of burgeoning obsessions would become deleterious were they at once approached from a holistic angle, bereft of the internal censorship of false dichotomies. Most of them begin as bemusing kinks, but by a cynical and twisted culture, become inflated and warped. Ironically, this kind of crippling false dichotomy brings subjects more in line with the Jew who exists to subvert expectations and ameliorate boundaries – they exist in the Uncanny Valley, and peer out only occasionally. Whereas the rest of us have to wander into the Uncanny Valley to be lost – for now – but the terraforming of the moral landscape suggests that we too, one day, will awaken to find the uncanny valley has become a fissure in the earth to swallow us all to join Pamperchu in the neverending bog of destiny.

 ** Today gravitic preference, meaning liking fleshier mates, is considered a tic or oddity, but is an exceedingly ancient preference which was only “phased out” only recently. In ancient times, a woman’s size was probably an indicator of her health. In medieval times, her wealth. And that’s just the West, other cultures have different sets of standards and rituals, baselines and deviations. In the history of the establishment of moral foundries, you see a long tradition of regulating censors trying to change the natural default – overzealous church fathers condemning women’s appetites, which were generally regarded as indicators of vitality. However… It wasn’t until the conclusion of WWII that the trim, svelte, streamlined woman outclassed the former models of femininity which were more often than not, what we’d call pleasantly plump. I might add that it is a strange coincidence that this model of femininity was promulgated in cooperation with what is sometimes ranked as Second Wave Feminism – getting ladies out of the home, into the workforce. I shall spare you the full weight of my esoteric suspicions, but it’s not a surprise that mothering aspects had to be disentangled from femininity, which was being reinvented from the ground up, as it were. From flesh to spirit, severed, as it were. It is somewhat ironic to me now, as an aside, that Third Wave Feminists and Post-Feminists want to reclaim ancient idols like the Venus of Dolni Vestonice, or Willendorf, or wherever as totems of feminine power but reject out of hand the possibility of that power relating to the generative Life Principle. As if the mothers that birthed them, therefore, had no value and they might have by proxy been satisfied with their origin story being a little glass tube inseminated by a strange little man in a long white coat. Yes, I’m sure the alternative to the Divine Mother is exceedingly liberating, in a scientific way.

The point is. There are sublimated cultural embeddings which explain sexual preference. Why might gentlemen prefer blondes? Why do redheads have more fun? Did I get that right? Hair colour used to be strongly associated with ethnic backdrops, before the universification of admixture, deviance in hair colour was less prevalent – to the point where Greek and Roman anthropologists could confidently predict the colourings of Tribals encountered by their clan associations. So, allowing for the existence of things like Folksoul, or genetic memory – metagenics some call it – than we have the potential for an interesting mechanism. In school science I was taught nature seeks homeostasis. Hair preference could be nature’s way of establishing or maintaining specific phenotypic traits. Now obvious in today’s world the skew is huge due to the volume of admixture even among stereotypically homogenous nations, whose diversity of type betrays past outbreeding. Nevertheless, if one believes the Greek who typified the Celts as lithe and blonde and Teutons as broad and red, then it follows the concentration of colouring was enough to go by. And perhaps as a strand of DNA, the preference for blondes or reds extends to a disjointed desire for retvrn to sender. The memories of what was trying to reconnect and make something that, given the right genetic funnels, could be again. Not the most absurd thought, given our basic beliefs in the evolutionary suggestion – that disparate prehuman populations were funnelled into genetic bottlenecks producing the ethnic strains we have today, and are losing through enhanced globalistic enterprise. What’s “lost” is not truly gone. A thought that might appeal to some nationalists.

I understand that, according to any interpretations of “the” “science” there is a cap on genetic retention. Supposedly due to genetic recasting, after a finite number of generations you lose relation to your alpha point. That is, a modern day Englishman living in, say, the Midlands or East Anglia or such, is no longer ‘related’ to his Anglo-Saxon forebears in the crucible of Anglo civilisation nestled in the bosoms of Denmark and Germany. The same rule could apply to a relatively unmixed Anglo-American, in accounting for genetic drift. I forget which journal I read this in, but it struck me as a tongue in cheek means of getting mostly White people to abandon their racial inheritance on the auspice of science. I say this because the rest of science clings to the sinking raft “Out of Wakanda,” and will claim that we are all somehow related to mitochondrial Eve who was the African mother of… cosmic Detroit or something… but when it comes to modern Whites, well… the more Germanic you expect to be, the less social capital you can safely harvest from your investment. It remains that, yes, even if there is a genetic point where re-replication severs ancestral knots, there are still the leading links in the chain of the folksoul. This is precisely why our peoples had painstakingly detailed genealogies. I, son of he, whose grandfather was him whose dad was that which did the thing. And so on. When you possess a step by step history, it is much harder for Shylock O’Genetic-Testing to come back with your updated results and tell you that you just became Gonwanalandese. It’s ludicrous. But sic semper, in absence of a full picture it is easier for abusers to do what they do and sever you from your self-appointed meanings of life.

Speaking of genes and as to preferring thikkk women to thin, I personally wonder sometimes if upon dissecting rote fat-admirers we might find extraneous concentration of latent Cro-Magnon or Neandertal DNA. Stranger ideas have been proposed over less. I wonder also, if some of these genes might be ‘activated’ during particular stimuli. Gene activation is a reported phenomenon and has been used to explain various anomalies, such as spontaneous language acquisition, or radical changes in sexual preference seemingly out of the blue. Or maybe the Folksoul just wants to Retvrn to Cave, and find that the mighty Architect like the theologian of the mountaintop, had been there all along. After all, among the oldest anthropocentric art seems to vindicate Pierce Brosnan’s destruction of Planet Fitness in that GIF there. Old Palaeolithic art boasts plump women and stick men, archaic rituals and hunting scenes. So, y’know, there’s that. But, anyway. What would I know? I’m just a sperg. What I don’t think, because I believe it is lazy thinking, is that ‘deviations’ from the sexual mainline are accounted for by abuse. This kneejerk reaction to assume all standard or extreme deviations are the result of trauma feeds into the victimocracy which is stifling the West and destroying creative thinking. ‘Ah, you’re slightly to rather odd? You must have had a terrible childhood – please fill out this form and show me on the doll where your feelings were hurt.’ And just like that, with a waive of the hand that ushers vouchers, all discussion is expected to cease. Everything the establishment questions is abuse, go home, don’t think too hard. Product: consume it. Funko Pops, shelf them.

Of course there is the option for mundane explanations. My wife proposed a theory she found in a video on YouTube in which someone discussed the origin of the foot thing, which I never understood. The idea here being that paraphilias are extracted from unmet needs. In her video’s example, a child with an uncaring mother spends his time on the floor watching feet walk away. It sounds ludicrous, but it beats my theory. Because I don’t have one. I’ve asked Urbanites, but asking Urbanites for things is a calculated risk because half the answers they yield are downloaded directly into the memory hole of repressed memories for natty d20 rolls against my comfort zone, which evidently is not as vast as I like to imagine, given how I shrink when called a Ruralite by Urbanites. However, it tracks. But not all the way. For the lovers of big women, or blondes, or reds, or tall folk, or short folk, strong folk or quick folk, you would think that the answer might be as simple as coming from a large family, or not having seen alternatives. However, there are men so inclined who do not and have the preference, and those who do but do not. So. Neandertal blood FTW.

 So how does this apply to the grotto-esque? The grotto-esque I believe, was a kind of subliminal response to pressure. The Folksoul is a self-correcting organism. While the Renaissance celebrated the disassociated heavenly, the Grotesque acknowledged, if not celebrated the disassociated earthly. Each created idols of their respective trajectories. The unvarnished body and uncensored function. The appetites of the body alongside the aspirations of the soul. This was no mean mortification of the flesh, but a panoply of it. A surfeit of flesh. By presenting an unembellished, unflattering, but at the same time neutral image, something occurred. This allowed for a mystique to encapsulate an aura of existentialism. Muses again became women of flesh, indulging in cravings, lying in respite, enjoying a carnal life without an albatross of guilt. The rawness of the real, the anchorage to the earth, allowed for an admiration to evolve. One which could bring the participant in heel with a more ancient spirit. One which celebrated life, the here and now, and not an obtuse or an abstraction of life hinging upon theory or dogma. We used to say beauty was in the eye of the beholder, or something.

 This, I think, exemplifies something people at times clumsily try to link with the elusive Pagan Spirit. A celebration of vitality. This doesn’t have to mean a spiral into licentiousness, which is moreoften than not a reactionary impulse against perceived indoctrination having less to do with Paganism and more with the breakdown of intellectual borders in society, but I think it tracks that; the Gods led us to bodies which operate experientially, and sensually as well as conceptually and hypothetically. In a world of infinite possibilities, endless combinations of aesthetic destiny can be mapped. The pure pleasures of carnal life are not evil, nor necessarily to be shied away from. Nor necessarily the varieties and vectors of approach, within certain frameworks of adherence to the Life Principle. To begin to do, categorise, repress and revile, so invites a decay and spiritual cancer in which loathing metastasises. Especially when repression becomes a hobby for those who fetishise power – and in them there is no shortage. Those souls who extract their perceptions of moral authority and validity by being able to impose sanctions on the ever-widening category of the outsider, the underling, the less than. There is perhaps one god who thrills to this, but no God of no civilised man I know would. Not even the much redesigned Christian god, for all the abuses its servants have suffered at the hands of unholy mother church.

There can be Beauty in the unconventional, enough so that when denied, love of that beauty can become a snare and swallow men whole. There is Good in darkness, Evil in light – multivariate realities are hewn from the infinite potentialities of Ginungagap.

As a means of clarification, I’m not including paraphilia as a necessary abomination, like homosexuality, bestiality or necrophilia. Rather there is a blurred line, I think, between paraphilia and perversity whose moral implications are debatable. Unlike abominations, which offer no chance for life. I personally gauge sexual morality in proportion to the admission for or principal capacity to generate or reinforce life. There is not necessarily anything preventing one possessing a paraphilia from continuing and propagating life, although the depth of their philia might if it becomes a mania. Homosexuals by default cannot propitiate the Life Principal, nor can paedophiles, or necrophiles, or zoophiles for that matter. One might account at best and put generously for a net neutral, and the others account for an abomination as a baseline. But they all occupy a non-genitive category, that makes them concomitant in a way that other sexual deviations from the missionary position do not.

For example, someone with a particular exclusive attraction is not prevented from having offspring. Assuming this attraction relates to the opposite sex. In my own book, perversity comes about when life is denied, or unequivocally reviled. Two men cannot make life, two women cannot make life, a man and his horse cannot make life any more than a woman and her dog. A man and any combination of flavour of women, can, as a woman and any flavour of man, can also. I suppose I could qualify what I mean as a benign paraphilia and call it a fetish. A fetish being a severe and concentrated attraction going beyond mere preference. Of which there are a great shocking many. Dozens. These may include attraction to extremes in height, weight or fitness. They may be fixations on particular body parts, such as breasts, buttocks, belly, or even feet – of which at least three starting with b are beautiful. They might lead to preoccupations with certain acts, like giving or receiving pain, feeding, dominating or submitting, or any number of other things. Race mixing can be added to this, as a fetish. Paraphilia, whatever.

Now, I anticipate a potential gotcha in regards to miscegeny. Yes, intermixture can produce new and varied lifeforms whose merits are debatable, but interracial attraction itself is a paraphilia and should be understood as having a terminus. Carried out indefinitely and without limitation, the logical conclusion is the death of one race, two really, and the invention of a new. At which point a perversion, I believe, has been reached. Whether consciously or unconsciously, I don’t care to speculate –as it should vary by case. But in broad, I believe miscegeny is an unnaturally stimulated reflex in society whose rote mechanisms I have tangentially approached elsewhere in this blog. As with any other, someone with a thing for BDSM eventually crosses a bridge where they might not derive pleasure from recreational sex and begin to neglect conjugal love altogether in favour of extracting their dopamine from alternative stimuli. Recreational meaning re-creation (think about it.) Or perhaps one attracted to large women might have to contend with the possibility that there may be a bridge crossed in which she could theoretically be too fat to bear young. All following their paths are responsible for their own soul-searching, social pressure and stigma a surrogate does not make – but as I said, rather a magnifying glass and an unproductive one to boot.

All these bridges present, for the observer and participant, uncomfortable variables to navigate. But when they are crossed, I think it is fair to presume, perversities have been reached – life has been denied in act, if not principle. Though there could well be exceptions, which often prove the rule. I make this further distinction because there is a separation to be made from voluntary and involuntary sterility. One may not be able to reproduce through no fault of their own, but the choice in actively denying the life principle is different than circumstance. It is volition. Now as to the moralism of crossing the bridge, that is an entirely different commentary which I am not currently equipped to tackle – but embrace as my default a subjectivism and believe that cases must be judged by case, but that’s just me.

 

 

 

 

Related:

Handcuffs & Hoarder Homes

Follows are examples of Grotesque art culled from basic Web searches.

If the intro music didn’t do it for ya, lemme try again. If anybody needs olde Saxo I’ll be in 90s calling Mahmoud a grape ape.

But: you protest softly; I like my metal like I like a woman – where’s my stupid, tangentially related soundbite Bud?? Granted. Have some heavy metal, Dear.

Where do we go from here, Agent Rick? Go ahead and tell me in comments. Your thoughts elongate my telomeres. Give them to me.

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