“Saint” Paddy’s day is behind me. It was a good one. Because nothing happened. Nobody pinched me. I wore orange and red. Today I wear black. Nobody asked me if my mother was from Ireland, or any of that. The only Plastic Paddy bullshit I saw was at Walmart. No beers, no fears, no tears. It’s great if you’re into it. I’m not. I’m not Irish. I am a Yankee. I live in New England. I respect the customs, but they’re not mine. Not really. I could take them, but it bothers me when foreigners to New England tell me what a Yankee is, or offer their opinions about the New Maine. The New Maine sucks. Give me the Real Maine. So, pray tell, why would I do that to the Irish? They remind me often enough about the evils of English Colonialism, in English, the language we gave them. So, why add to the insult? But it is the Easter season, and I will be hosting some Asatru shenanigans later. I look forward to this. I love playing host. I was made for it.
(As an aside, I find it curious just how many Irish flock to Asatru and try to Chucky Orlog or however they spell it – in the troth. I don’t care. But it is curious. Perhaps it is because the Christians did not leave the Celt with enough to work with, like they did with us. A shame, because Celtic Paganism is beautiful and I would love to see a modern, organised Folk Religion for those of Celtic Extraction as there are options for those of us of Germanic Extraction. Even though the consensus for Folkish Asatru has become a placeholder for Pan-Aryanism, a tactical decision I reserve the right to question when we get what we want and can get to actual diversification. (You can read about my thoughts on that in this blog’s archives, but I do have a specific paper on it if you are dreadfully curious.)
Years and years ago when I was a boy I played a vidya game. I don’t recall the name of it. Bounty Hunter? You played Boba Fett’s dad. Chuck, I think. Anyway. In the special features there was a blooper reel. Django Fett unchained…….. in acting Skool, dawg. In it they had a greenscreen of daddio. The gag was “what’s my motivation?” Because it was acting class. Every scene he would ask “what’s my motivation.” It was probably intrinsically unfunny, but I was a nerd and most of my friends were simple. But it was, and is, a valuable question…
What IS my motivation?
I think every philosopher worth their salt knows that life needs purpose for fulfilment. And in a swooping Bartonian moment I write on my inner blackboard “I will not contradict myself” 666 times before failing. What if life has no purpose, but the Gods gave us the majesty of WILL to fulfil our own? Anyway, still a purpose, still counts. But that’s such a sweeping generality, isn’t it? Read Rick Warren, nice guy, vague purpose. Good rubrics, not for everyone. Their message tracks and translates, yes, but some folk need a personal touch.
Kind-of how we have Big T & Little T truth. Or Big G and Little G god, and so on. I actually hate little g god, but love little t truth. Funny. Anyway. The point I’m making is this. In a reasonable State Education, from which we as a collective of quibbling “American” states are divorced, the question ought be asked; “where do you see yourself in five years?”
It’s cheeky, to Millenials, who maybe never saw themselves anywhere and knew the ship was sinking. And I can tell many Zoomers have never even been asked because many Millenials feel the ship has sunk, I’m not sure Gen. X is even real because they never talk about anything, and I try to make this blog’s policy not to engage in Boomer Bating anymore – but as a clinical assessment, the Boomers have their own thing going on. Some good, some bad, but the lamentable generation gap is lamanetable.
Anyway. What IS my motivation? They’re not gonna let me go live in a Cave in France, retvrn to Shaman, also become a swole barbarian, kill badguys and retire in the evening to feed the Venus of Spergenberg sweetmeats all night, now are they? Although, and take this how you will, I think it would be awesome to squat in Dordogne. Maybe it’d make a rad videogame. “Fevered Paleolithic Dream Simulator.” I used to want to grow up and be a philosopher, or an English teacher. But. Really. Those are the end-all be-all. I can kind-of have those things now.
So. I know one of my things. I have a “where do you see yourself in 50.” Not helpful now. But I base all my life’s decisions around this potentially vain hope.
I want to be like my Grandpa. My Grandfather was Patriarch of the what my family tree calls the English Morses. OH GAWD DA PATRIARCHY. Now before I yeet myself down the warm, moist, sweet but salty rabbithole of Autismia my Lady & Saviour… bear with me. Patriarchy is a weighted word. And not the good kind of weight, either, not warm & soft & squishy. And I suppose that isn’t the needfire behind the concept, at all. You hear Patriarchy, you hear Paterfamilias and think, ‘Ah, yes, the Proto Wops could kill their sons with little legal blowback, rape their wives and stuff…’ and then you see the intractable online spergs being all “yo, dood, what’s the problem, maaaaaan????” I get it. I do. Shit’s crazy, yo.
But there’s a lot of shekel to be raked in propping up these tired, anachronistic and largely hollow stereotypes. SO I shall tell you about my Grandfather, since later today I will be hosting Ostara, and in Asatru every day is a good day to remember your forebears. My Grandfather was a clever man. A shrewd businessman. Last of the WASPS, in many ways. He was calculating and calm, he often saw 5-10 steps beyond his peers. This gave him an edge that he, to his credit, never abused. It also led him to accumulating high volumes of trust. Most of his endeavours were successful.
In his youth he plied his trade as a naval engineer. He signed on as patriotic men do, and sold his brain to the U.S. Government at a time where you could do that and think it meant something. He was lent to the British Government in an exchange programme where he helped our cousins across the Pond develop some kind of sonar detection. This was for the purpose of thwarting Unterzeebooten. Or however you conjugate that. He enjoyed his time, and bore no animus against the Germans so much as against the Asiatics whom he suspected would cause societal disruptions.
When his term in the navy elapsed he became a successful businessman in the Northeast. He operated a reasonably successful mill until the time of his retirement, where he had socked away well over a million dollars. He had several patents which, had he invented things outside the confines of military service would have been to his name. One such item, is actually the zipline that action movie stars use to go from one tall building to another. He evidently figured out an enhancement to the pulley that let it go fast. It was originally for porting luggage.
Anyway. He had kids. He became the Patriarch of our Family. I don’t think it was something he meant to do, it just happened. Because my Grandfather could see ahead of others, he was one folk went to for advice. Even my father, who hates it, so much, when anybody can see further ahead of his 1-3 step limit. His advice was offered freely, but not forced. Often people took the opposite of his advice, and would later be forced to eat sweet humble pie and admit the old man had seen it coming. More often than not. He was incredibly aware of a great many problems and offered seethingly unpopular advice, but always in a transactionary manner. He didn’t invest superfluous emotion in variable enterprises. I struggle with this, like my father, I have a great many passions to struggle with, unlike my father I have inherited my Grandfather’s sense of calculation.
I have never understood how it was the enemies of culture have sold being calculating as some dour, evil thing.
Anyway. You take these things for granted. He was the axehead around which the fasces were bound. Every year we assembled for a Family reunion. And when he died, those reunions quicjly scattered and fragmented. We have since begun doing them again, but it’s different. I have borne these incredibly hard to translate lessons into everything I have done in ‘nationalism.’ Which isn’t much, in paper, my actions aren’t very traceable beyond superfluous internet bullshit. But that’s never been my aim.
I don’t need what a lot of wignats do. I don’t need to write complicated manifestos and pompous programmes and rulebooks. What would that even look like? … Seek Sophia, seize the Overman. Find your Gods in the Gaps. Honour your forebears. Keep your wife fat & happy and your children bright & hopeful. Work hard. Be free. Follow your conscience. Keep your soul clean. Preserve your legacy. Maintain your tribe. Show clemency.
But no. No. None of this is easy. Waspish idealism doesn’t sell high because it requires effort, and presence. It isn’t some pyramid scheme and you can’t displace the responsibility. People can mock our legacy. They can throw it under the bus. It’s their right. I don’t have to agree with it. It won’t change what I’m going to do, try to do – sink or swim.
Family comes first, it is everything. I can’t really think of anything I want to be involved with, that doesn’t put this first. So much complication, convolution – it spoils the stew. The machinery marches on, but that isn’t where humanity is. Laugh at my ‘racist’ Yankee liberalism, but it’s mine to take or give. Self-determination. Wasn’t that what we were all fighting for? Left, Right, & Centre? That starts at home. I guess. Ah whatever.
It’s time I got to my squats and benches. Then it’ll be time to throw the old corned beef in the crock and make ready for Ostara – we have the kindred coming, and I hope to introduce a few people to it. My own grassroots. Seedbed, I think, for a more organic future. It hasn’t been much of an Ostara reflection now, has it kids? But that’s it. I’m going to host my way to blood and soil. There’s something to it, for everything else I have failed to do, this has worked – reckon it’ll keep on working.
Have a blessed Ostara, whenever it is you celebrate! May Sophia smile on your endeavours, and bring you in line with your own equanimity!
(Our ancestors worshipped Hospitality because God is in the Blood, thus flesh. A good example is Baucis & Philemon, a favourite of mine.)
5 thoughts on “Ostara 2023”
Nobody cares, but I hit 388/2 on my skwaat. That’s like, 2⅓ Mr. Morses, 15⅝ Seaxlings, or one Venus of Hamilcar.
I consider Ostara as the 20th going alongside the Spring Equinox.
Fair! I work on Monday. So today has to be good enough for gathering. Besides, the Goddess has a few dates to her name this month, as it was once her month in full.
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Ostara is the name not only of the festival of the Spring Equinox, but also of perhaps one of our most important goddesses, or aspects of The Goddess. It is likely that she is both the Freya of the Norse and the Brigid of Britain & Ireland. Jörg Lanz von Liebenfels wrote a fantastic treatise on her importance in the first issue of his famous newsletter named in Her honor.
Enjoy a song from a Austra, the name taken from the singer’s middle name which was in turn taken from the Latvian goddess.
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Reasonable points! Given how Brigid relates to luminescence, and is in eternal conflict with the Cailleach as an axis of recurring light and fertility. I’ll check your song in the morning.