Das Box

Hello Internet, and Agent Rick. I’m posting off schedule because it’s rather cold in Maine, cold enough to cancel my work plans. (Somebody has to keep the ovens of Sachsenhausen running so the pipes don’t freeze, and Seaxling keeps Seaxwife busty enough.) I boiled a gallon of saltwater to render my compost for travel to my Hügel Mound. Yes, I compost in the winter, too. Mother Earth never sleeps, how dare I? My boiled compost froze at the bottom on my walk to the pit, my hands went numb and I deeply regretted my decision to shave earlier this week. That’s the only reason the temperature dropped. So. Here I am, in my sinister lair, doing squats by firelight.

Being myself a bit of a professional misfit, it never ceases to amaze me the lengths to which your everyday Joe goes to be put off and out. I’ve said it before. My optics, according to the civilised optimus cuck league, suck. I know that, if you’ve been reading for awhile, or know me offline, you know that. It’s funny to me, because we live in an environment where being a rebel, theoretically, is admired. Except, if you are a dissident, you understand that the reality is different. Rebellion is a carefully curated experience sold by Coca Cola company. There’s a great Ayria song for that. If I forget to link it, somebody remind me. The experience of rebelling against a fake patriarchy and a fake “White” “Supremacy” is sold as products you can consume while confidently sneering at everyone outside the Overton Window – Left, Right & Centre. In this way your safespace rebellion looks curiously similar to everyone else’s. It looks like consumerism. Rebellious haircuts and rebellious tattoos and rebellious nostalgia all sourced to the common surrogate culture of pop-culture references. Batman supports your rebellion, and applauds your decision to drink sucrose in excess. Superman absolutely applauds your choice of videogame. And everybody knows that Spiderman would totally support your exquisitely predictable objections to a shallow reality barely scratched by 99% of citizens crammed into their Fubus and Northface and… I don’t know, Old Navy. That still a thing? I digress.

Meanwhile there is, well, I. I don’t fit a mould. There were times I kind-of almost did. Other people that don’t count as rebels because they don’t see a high value in being arbitrarily antagonistic. Rebel? Against what? There has to be a tangible, meaningful system of oppression to actively rebel against, and the systems of governance are so convoluted that, let’s be honest, most folk don’t know where to begin. It’s why rebellions in the West don’t quite work, now. I suspect the reality is, is that Parallel Societies need to be built in the great big bellies of the beasts. Trying to “rebel” is a bit of a waste, since nobody knows the truth of the matter, who the true evil wizard really is. It’s more of a case of emotional masturbation, I think.

There are things I do understanding I will make normies uncomfortable, like wear a Confederate Flag to Gay Mordor (Portland) when visiting the “we don’t do business with hate” shoppes. I used to have a little too much German swag when I went through my awkward 3R adulation phase. (There is NOTHING wrong with admiring the good in ANY regime, so long as you follow your conscience and can differentiate good from bad – but after a certain point, where my German has eroded and I no longer have German friends like I used to – when does admiration tip into actual cultural appropriation?) So there were reasonable points of concern.

But here’s the funny thing. Despite my insistence on wearing the blood-dipped Hakenkreuz medallion I made in College, or going to Mass in a Luftwaffe coat with a drunk Bavarian lady for the ROFLMFAOz my current choices in optics unnerve folk almost as much. And in my book, they’re tame as all sin. I’m trying to be better about not being a baseless contrarian. It’s easy to stand against something, not as easy to stand for something,

I wear a Grand Union and/or Taunton Flag on my beat up old DPM jacket with a Maine tartan underneath over whatever undershirt. Gnarly dungarees and what my son calls “tractor boots” (John Deer cowboy pull on boots.) People give my flag the same evil eye that my college Swazi got. Seriously. I wear a Venus Willendorf pendant alongside my Bornholm Torshammar. The Venus pendant gets as many suspicious glances as the Hammar. Meanwhile, people still confuse my Black Sun tattoo for a goddamn Mandala – I mean, they’re kind-of right, but come on. (Why these things, to anyone reading who might wonder? I’m an English-American, my family has roots that go back to before America was and flow back to 1400 Suffolk, East Anglia – England. Venus because above all Gods I worship Mother Earth, and follow Wōden as best I can. I wear the camo because I like the pattern, not because I fetishise the military – because I don’t. Militia, yes, military? No. I am, actually, a peacenik – against organised war.)

Meanwhile I’ve seen normies grit their teeth and pull a “you’re so brave” as a mandatory greeting to the odd crossdresser and/or voluntary eunuch, when it’s painfully obvious they don’t know what to say, how to say it, or want to be bothered with the potentially painful complication. With me, they’re under no socioeconomically sanctioned mandate to accept my choices, preferences or whatnot, but Billy-Bob Women’s Wrestling League, they presently are. Stunning and brave is a dude in drag proving there’s no biological gender by beating the tar out of smaller, weaker specimens of indeterminate gender. When I was a kid that was called bullying. There are no SW stickers on the Hannafords door, but there are LTBBQ notices. I get that. I understand and more or less accept it. I think it’s a bit pathetic, but that’s their choice. For the few diehards that believe, I can try to respect them, but for the lemmings who don’t but go with the flow… what can you do? At the end of the day, it falls to us to follow our conscience and determine for ourselves, using our Nature given Right to self-determination, whether or not we can go along to get along. But I humbly suggest that there is a third position between being an agitator and a compliant.

What I am curious about, is how pathetic have we become that, say, the Grand Union Flag should upset normies because it is vaguely unfamiliar… The Flag of the English Colonies, technically, the original American Flag. There’s a potent commentary, it is America’s own past, haunting it. The Manifest Destiny of the W.A.S.P.’s which is so popularly denied, gone but not forgotten. But really, that history exists only in my head, still… I would have assumed most folk seeing it would see the Union Jack and conclude it was British. But even that, I think, is lost on most. I have a straight New England Flag, I’ll post a link – and for no other reason than it is red, with a white square and a dark mascot – it arouses airs of suspicion. As to my Willendorf pendant, I can’t quite finger why that should upset my fellow liberals of Maine. Obviously, Thor’s Hammer along with all of my tattoos have been added to some dingbat alphabet soup agency hate watch – so that is self-explanatory.

Or maybe it’s just because I don’t fit in the box. Slippery serpent. I’m hard to pin. I have drawn the aggravated confusion of both Right and Left Wing NPCs, and been found wanting. That’s okay. I’ll take it. I failed Grey Man Academy. Well-meaning Wignats tried to get me greyed up, but I cannot into NPC. I’ve tried, the software update failed. Whatever. Braindump over. What about you, reader? Have you got “a box?” Do you fit in your box?

When does “being outside the box” become another box? Can we trust the media to tell us what rebelling means? I’m guessing if you’re true, you’ll answer “no.” And if not, then, if we’re being fair, does falling into equally arbitrary camps make you more erudite than the gormless lemmings? Does railing against props like “Capitalism,” “Communism,” “Nationalism,” or “Socialism” which exist as pure strains, really, only in a fever dream – make you better than the straw-men? Does it really, in the CURRENT YEAR (more on time bias later) matter? Or, perhaps, maybe the Alherjarsgoði of the A.F.A. is right in his assertion that the beautiful loser, and holy outcast tropes no longer serve The (or any) Folk. If so, then what?

Whatever. Let me know in the comments. Your grey matter are my telomeres. Like the mighty Lobster, thinking keeps me young.

As for me, it’s back to my Bow Barbell to work my squat up to +300 so I can feel accomplished, and then I’m off to find a cold-friendly way to celebrate the Idises (Disir) and think about how I might reverence Fornax (whom the blogger Neptune’s Dolphins) recently introduced me to… It’s occurred to me, ironically, that I have forgotten I asked Seaxwife to bake a Frige loaf and pitcher of milk for the Idises before I had learned of Fornax, so, that might do in a pinch. Be well, fellow lurkers of the cyberspace of doom. I’m about to break 300. Not great, but not awful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fear & Loathing in New England

#303/6: not bad for can’t feel toes.

Did come back for 333/5, enough till benchpress time.

See here:

Neptune’s February

Compost

#Anglogangdreamland

Grand Union Flag

Big Willendorf Energy

Venus

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