Mr. Positive

I’m about to ply my last deadlift in the #300lb bracket. Muse, Supermassive Blackhole, is playing. Years ago now my wife wanted to learn to lift, so she came down cellar with me and plied herself in Vault 88. I taught her basic technique and mechanics. Nothing fancy. The big 4, and a handful of bodybuilding staple movements to do the toning or whatever. She wasn’t looking to develop man-face, like a lot of the women lifters do. We both know soft and squishy fits a woman fine. (Fight me, I don’t give a shit.) She only wanted to strengthen her baby carrying-having muscles. Anyway. That was where I learned about the (British?) band, Muse. Great song, sexy beat, excellent gateway to a very focused blend of cardio.

Did I tell you that story to tell you another? Not at all, Rhonda. Who is Rhonda? Privileged information. Maybe I just like the song… or maybe I want to see if Agent Rick does anything with it. I haven’t done an Agent Rick story in a short minute, and I’m not about to. I had some ideas. But I’m working on what will likely be an incredibly stupid story, a shortish story. About a comb. You know the kind. A comb used by a housewife, and only a housewife – a comb that never, ever, ever, not ever, gets cleaned. It looks more like a prosthetic Wookie thumb. Pablo, why do you know this, even? Because I’m a carpenter goddammit. I don’t need to drink to know things, and Gods damn you fat Greek hat man for my knowing this reference! Anyway.

The other day I was drywalling a bathroom. And like many clients, mine didn’t understand you should clean your room before Jordan Peterson washes your…

Nevermind…

There was this comb I had to move. Then it got me thinking. What if, instead of an ambrose mosquito, Jurassic Park happened in the Metaverse with this woman’s comb? I was confident there was enough vestigial genetic data to clone a whole human.

Also, and I know it’s a case of T.M.I, but if you hire the services of a sub or contractor – do him the courtesy, if he should be working in your bathroom, to not use it immediately upon his arrival in a sleep-panicked haze that he might reasonably shut you out… when you have two to choose from as you live in a generational household with high water demand… Especially in winter when the windows aren’t an option. I understand the Do Unto Others rule is blasé and all, but, you know – whatever. Nobody cares. Timewarp: in talking to my wife, she suggested I write an award winning blogpost: How To Estrange Your Contractor in 10 Easy Steps. #2 Panick Squat.

Because I’m a Nerd and whatnot, and also a Nationalist, one of the features of WordPress that I love is the statistics breakdown. Specifically, because I can monitor traffick by country. I will admit, and if some enterprising engineer in India reads this take note: I wish there was a breakdown, for example, where in the U.S. does my traffick come from? I am, after all, a Northeast Supremacist. Eat my Timezone, kids. Anyway. Unsurprisingly, the lion’s share of my traffick comes from the Good ‘Ol U.S.A., followed by Denmark, then Britain, Canada, the Ukraine of all places, and then Sweden. After that it fluctuates. Recently I have experienced an influx of Australian and Egyptian traffick.

Most of this can be explained by user VPNs, or bots of some kind. I figure I probably get a handful of organic traffick a day. But still, it is interesting, the mostly synthetic breakdown. Because I am a Nationalist, I make it a point to appreciate something from the Nations I can name. It’s a habit I’ve gotten out of, in the past few years, as I have been working on hammering down my sense of localism. Why? Because it is easy to get lost in the everything. There are so many Countries, and Nations, about which of each something is lovely. There is no country that boasts nothing beautiful. Rather, there is a long list of which I don’t give a squirt about.

No. This isn’t an apology post. But I have gone back in time to ask dumb, 20y/o Seax for advice. Somewhere along the line I bought the bit, and got sucked into the negativity spiral. This prevalent idea that in order to be “right” than it is contingent upon another’s “wrong.” That to prove your worth, you must always be on the prowl to knock down the subversives, or whatever. It’s to a degree highly counterproductive, and can destroy your soul if this is all you do. One can maintain any viewpoint, however disagreeable, and manage to see beauty in everything. It is precisely the poison of modernism which leaks into alternative politics and makes them this way. And so, I have taken it upon myself to reject Ye Olde Culture of Critique, which exists in spades among dissidents, and often moreso. So. Yayas aside. You can scry my archives, everything I’ve written is still there of a crass nature. But I shall be making an honest attempt to elevate myself, while sacrificing no ideals, rather than be guided by cynicism or deleterious sarcasm. My sense is we’re at a spiritual precipice, and the time to rise has come, as opposed to dwelling in the crude muck like a Roman caricature of a barbarian. Anyway, Anywho.

I think I shall take stock of the top traffick sources and look into each of the Countries of Origin. I may or may not discount formerly Great Britain (press F) and the Kingdom of Denmark, as they feature tangentially and unavoidably in my writing anyhow. It could be fun. I actually miss Social Studies from school, because, again, NERD. That, and, frankly, I need to un-yeet myself from my Anthropology with Six Mix-A-Lot and the Architect Gang. My autism is bad enough without wishing I lived in a cave in France by firelight. Or, or exploring my newfound love of that stupid goddamn Wojack meme depository I found online. Whatever. It’s Rammstein o’clock time and I just hit my 5th #415lber. Feels good, man.

Follows in declension are my top traffick contributors, whose countries I will do a sketch of. Don’t expect anything cerebral. Expect abstracts. What will follow is what I think of when naming each of the countries on my list. No brainpower here. That comes later. I intend to give myself social studies homework and do it up. So, there we go. I’ll invite the reading audience to freely discuss the countries in question when I begin throwing u my homework. It could make for interesting conversation.

United States, Denmark, United Kingdom, Canada, Ukraine, Sweden, Australia, France, Ireland, Germany, Switzerland, Bulgaria, Austria, Italy, India, Netherlands, New Zealand. Why do I care? Because when I was younger, my introduction to Nationalism came from a bit of a different species of Nationalism than what is had today. Not the grievance based Nationalism that our culture has produced, but an affirming Nationalism that one could arguably accuse of being Pollyanna-like. It remained, though, that inspired by Bands like Laibach, or Man-O-War, there was a tendency to glorify the positive aspects of every Nation, the workable assets, rather than bag on the warts and bad smells. Because every country has ups and downs. Admiration of others, does not need to mean diminishment of your own, and indeed, admiration can be weaponised towards the betterment of your own lot. You can see the glories of Great Britain, or Germany, without needing to dwell on the all-too-predictable baggage of each. Anyway. What I’ve decided is to do a brief impression of every country, the basic things about which I admire in each, and then later produce an ode to them. Maybe then I can get back to my naïve late teens, when I thought everybody could get past their differences, keep their differences and their integrity, without shame. A more positive Nationalism.

United States: Home of the Whopper. 10,000 semi-autonomous cultural zones, the most important of which indubitably is New England. Yankee twangs, Colonial history, Old Stock Americana. Quaint townhouses, old stock constructions, pilgrim cemeteries. My blood in the soil. Country-Fried extra thikkk town girls. Plaid. Dungarees. Huge tracts of land, fertile, yet untamed. Unrealised dreams. Potential, unmet, destiny, unmanifest. Loveable idiot bouggie hipsters. The sadly false allure of wonderful freedom. The unavoidable gateway back to Old England, where my ancestors lie, beyond the shimmering sea like Thule.

Denmark: Vikings. Dry, brütal sarcasm. A balance between cultural preservation and natural liberalism. Kelly Louise Killjoy and half of Sofie Hagen. A little red roof in Scarborough, Maine attesting to the New Denmark that could have been. That one friend of mine who despite not working out on the regular, is built like a goddamn oak tree and has the baseline strength of a well-trained but normal-sized human being.

United Kingdom: Also Vikings. The land of my forefathers is England. But I am also a lover of Irish music and poetry. I admire the rugged Scottish stereotype, and reject what I’m told is the flaccid reality. I don’t know much about Wales but they’re there, too, and they have their own folkways that despite all my jokes I do respect. Over there. Chivalrous past, knighthood, an imperial and humanitarian recent history. Stonehenge, Sutton Hoo – fae-folk and trolls, things going bump in the dark night. An age of Colonialism, the spread of English genes through the world like a well-meaning but overwhelmingly irresponsible parent. A superior diction and prose. Bureaucratic efficiency. Snapshots of time; Victoriania, industry… A Sun that never sets. An unfortunate decay – like ours in the U.S., but a hope in the faithful, my cousins across the pond.

Canada: The maligned second lung of British North America, Queebs excepted. The Red Ensign flew there far longer than our own flag. Until 1956, I believe, when Amerindian pressure groups changed it into a syrup label. Polity, generosity, and cripplingly slow summer driving. Agreeable people, hearty, warm and open. Unassuming, innocent. At least when they come to Old Orchard. Often Anglophilic Monarchists, I can have some conversations with Canadians which Americans find repellent – that is – share an English heritage without bringing The Revolution into it. At times, more British than the Brits.

Ukraine: I don’t know much about the Ukraine. It produces lively music, and has a Nationalist underground that loves many of the symbols I do. There is a kind of Asatru which blooms there apart from Rodnorov.

Sweden: I’ve already written an Ode to Sweden, bear witness to my LINK.

Australia: A frontier, wild and free. Adventuresome spirits braving the burning sun to fight armies of crocodiles and rabid kangaroos.

France: This is hard for me. I am not a Francophile. A contrarian spirit. A willingness to entertain thoughts few do. A philosophical bent rooted in a kind of cthonicness an Anglo-Saxon mind, apparently, does not understand, but can respect. Sensuality, failure of restraint.

Ireland: Freedom loving souls, mad contrarians, poets and speakers of spirits. A mystical people, incapable of being hampered for long by strangling conventions. Moon-faced country girls, singing to themselves. Green fields. Echoes of hillsong from the past. Secrets on the wind which only the storyteller understands, whose bardic enterprise shall not be betrayed to foreign ears. Riddles. Friendly jibes.

Germany: Can you love a land you have never seen? The German language is a delight, rugged, and yet tender. The entanglements of the mind behind the language are alluring, deceptively honest. Victory arches, Romanesque art and a surpressed barbarian streak. The Ghost of Jung’s Wotan, something I can understand in my dieing Anglosphere so far away. Stout village women. The music of my youth. A tempestuous Bavarian villager who bludgeoned me into ripping the scales from my eyes. The delusion of unity, like we have in America, of some 30 confederated Staaten not unlike our 50 States. I never cared about the industrial stereotypes of the accomplished German race, nor the military fetishism – but I begrudge neither. No, it was the vestige of barbarian Germania, evident in the sui generii of the different tribes still there, exemplified to me by the Bavarians I have known. Baroque scenes, earthy people, something of the rest of our race before the curtain of industry, which being iron, seems to have hit the Germans harder in their modern stereotype of calculated efficiency. A foundation which can be delightfully cracked, with applied friendship, to allow the truth to flood. But then, don’t we all bleed red?

Switzerland: My aunt’s Heimatland. Surely a brilliant breed, multilingual. Surely practical in their neutrality. A crossroads of Europe, which I suppose could breed superior diplomacy. Brilliant, if naïve, starry-eyed and clinging to a kind of optimism I wish I understood. Those have been the Swisslings I have known.

Bulgaria: Dude, I’m sorry Bulgaria. But I other than really, really thick trenchcoats at the MilSurp store… I don’t know anything helpful about you. So if you’re Bulgarian, please, chime in and tell me what makes Bulgaria great again.

Austria: Nyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Do you want to know the meaning of life???? Arnold is Austrian. Or at least he was. Now he belongs to Joe Weider and the State of California. Alp Horns. Cows. I am guilty of thinking of Austria as Germany’s backside. Anschluss me, baby. Yes, I know, most Austrians would probably disagree. I can’t help that now.

Italy: I am not a pastafarian, and know little of Italian culture. Still, I recognise, like their French cousins, a sensuality of being, failure of restraint. A sense of refinement and aesthetic purpose above and beyond what is found in their drearily efficient neighbours. Vibrant exuberace. The kinds of pasta which easily impress the palates of women, which for some men is an erstwhile gift. I should mention the ghost of Rome, of course.

India: Temple incense. Mysterious curses. An ancient faith. Shrines. Looming shadows of a spectral Goddess whose coming is anticipated. Vast jungles and vibrant nature, savage beasts. A land waiting for conquest, a mistress begging to be tamed. British frontiersmen leading expeditions into vast expanses. Adventure.

Netherlands: A nation of entirely unreasonably tall and thoroughly agreeable people. A bit libertine. Enough so that in my own vernacular three hundred years removed from vital contact, is the muted memory of their liberal humanism influencing the English soul in exile. Heidevolk, one of my favourite bands, a language so close to the other ones I love I can almost read it without trying.

New Zealand: Hobbits. Beautiful wilderness. I’m sorry, those are my only previous associations.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Note: the day after I wrote this, I got a freakish amount of Turkish traffick. Turkey beat out New Zealand off the bottom. Turkey: home of ancient fat Venuses, hulking temples and mysteries.

Advertisement