WHATEVAH

The day or so before my second son was born I tore a muscle in my back. Not doing anything heroic, like a big lift or stopping a wine aunt from saving a cat in a tree (only YOU can stop the superspread of toxxxo.) Nope. Literally the muscle tore AFTER the last set of a deload rowe. Me. Standing up. Rip. Anyway, it was a humdinger and I spent the next few weeks at midweight squats instead (the ripped muscle could be isolated during squat movements due to spinal rigidity – I guess.) I just got back into my deadlifts and am back to 400/3.

Why do you care? You don’t. This is a braindump.

We had a c-section. Everything went better than expected. Until we got home. A few days into recovery, there were strange symptoms about the wound dressing. “You should think about calling the doctor, use your little gateway thing there.” No, it’s fine, they won’t answer anyway. Another day, worsening symptoms. “Call the goddamn doctor.” It’s fine. Another day, another appointment. Incision infected, deep tissue. No presentation of symptoms. No foul discharge nor odour, just surfeit of lymph which superficial investigation implied was within normative bounds. The wound was in the beginnings of sepsis. Another day might have led to potentially irreversible damage.

One of the problems lies in reporting. While I understand every side of the “spectrum” has just that – sides – I occupy the definitive civilian position. I am not a doctor. What I am, is “redpilled,” or “awake” or whatever cutesy faggot slogan the dissident whatever movement is using this day to euphemise being miserable in a crowd. So. I tend to view ALL commercial medicine with suspicion and disdain. Not the medicine, I’m sorry, the commercial enterprise. The industry. This includes, yes, Eastern Medicine. Taking a mouthful of dragon cock can kill you just as dead as a shot of Mysterium Xarxes.

I also think too much number crunching and too little bedside manner as well as fear of Saint Litigation, have made most doctors into obnoxious tools who ride on the coattails of undercredited nurses. They spout numbers and statistics and seem overwhelmingly to forget that every statistic wears a human skin. Like a lampshade. So when, and this does seem to disproportionately affect women so MGTOW is cordially invited to suck their own pistol bore – a lot of self-reporting is discredited, and many more women omit the whole process.

My wife will cry for days after stubbing her toe at home, but can be gutted like a fish and smile that retard Irish smile when the professionals are about. And when she finally does break down it’s some variant of “well, statistically you shouldn’t be feeling pain.”

You try stuffing an open wound with paper machete and vacuum parts, you overeducated retard.

Yes, it’s all amazing. This wondrous science. And I am grateful. It’s saved the skins of those I love – many times before – but the technology itself, worrisomely, is being steered by a disassociated crew. The old Irish authors called it paralysis. Today we call them NPCs. Everyone reverts to a default to save themselves from engagement. If you’ve ever tried talking to a doctor with his script, you know.

Whatever. The long and short is, I had my last son. This was a painful pill to swallow. Upon reflection we have two living children with at least nine miscarriages. These scales seem imbalanced. Bad luck, Paul, better luck next life. Yes, I know, I have two children. I should be grateful. And I am. But gratitude can be overshadowed by the knowledge that you have been robbed of something essential. My wife wanted 12 kids because, I guess, the Duggars. I had a more conservative position of four. Irrelevant, now.

What’s worse is my own gay little SOB story pales in comparison to the living reality of others. Some never fly the coop at all and escape the ZOG plantation. I have aged into the category where the returns of women are diminished and the wall looms ever nearer. I have seen women destroy their bodies with unimaginable scientific sacrifices to escape mortality. I have seen women wait too long only to have their genitive parts removed. And these are “healthy” women, you see. Prime cuts, my lad. No more than 150lbs American, vegan diets, my oh my, no fun, no meat. The Cthonic Gods do not care how you live, or how you die. The process claims what it will. There is no Sky God who will intervene, only LUCK, define this as you will. What the Sky Gods do, they do, but as for us? There is no sense at all in pretending their hand can be forced. Their mind, if there is such a thing, is so far beyond as it fills volumes of wasted philosophy.

And age? Nevermind. There are now, I am well assured, women into their 20s – prime breeding age, innit – who have the fertility health of post-menstruates. Don’t @ me with your articles, We know why. It isn’t worth getting into, for me, you know, or you don’t. The wound is open, there is no scab to peel. But, I do have spare salt. And there is a not insignificant amount of loathing and crippling resentment. I have a long memory that is full of words I hear. The bloviating of the fashy. A liberal would call it victim-shaming. They aren’t wrong. But I recall so many times I would hear some idiot, usually a man in his mid 20s who has failed to live – spout off his borrowed knowledge and sentiments from older, wiser men who likely never ejaculated such utterances in that speed. The glee at seeing women suffer their ‘just desserts.’ Schadenfreud has limits. And, frankly, I’m tired of that too.

Do I want to see the perpetrators (yes, they exist) punished? Of course. I have red blood. It goes through my big heart. Wicked fast. Cuz I’m a man. I eat red meat. I’m a human, dammit. Press Z to hear more Alex Jones impressions. The degree to which I would love this is disconcerting, and I hate myself for it – truth be told. Because life is meant for living. Life is a process of birth, and unfolding. Harbouring too much grudge, dwelling on too much negativity, can only stunt life. It becomes an albatross. A kind of mind prison with bars you fill yourself. You become a slave to your own malcontents. I don’t want that any more. I want to be free.

Not necessarily in the American sense, adjudicated by poorly pondered pomp and misunderstood circumstance. Because, realistically speaking, you can look at the United Kingdom – such as it is – and levy that against the predicament of the United States. In Maine, a now forgotten referendum on retroactive law enforcement was courted. Consider. The idea was to deal with fraud and largescale embezzlement but, understand, these highminded laws are passed to punish the macrocosmic but end on the microcosmic scale. You, man, woman, camera and TV would inevitably called to court for things you said that you forgot. That is the beginning of what has happened in Britain, where the courts of the Just King, I’m sorry Parliament, I’m sorry Court of Public Opinion, can charge you for INTENT over factual proof. There is no euphemism, the British Court can charge you in advance for crimes it thinks you MIGHT commit. And Sam Melia? As far as Nationalists come and go, he’s among the least offensive from every side. Be honest.

No. Freedom is a pipe dream – and I have never smoked. That component of the American Dream, is deader than the doornail that killed Nietzsche’s “god.” What is left is what was always there, always has been, and might keep on being. That is blood. I’ve addressed the bloody roots of America elsewhere – you’re free to troll my archives. I mean freedom in a spiritual sense. I think most sane (White) men will consider Spiritual Freedom to be a lightness of soul, an airiness of mind, unencumberment. This is how we see freedom of movement. Freedom of association. Freedom of speech. Fewer ties to bind. Fewer shackles to snare. Now let us look at the theological (according to JUDAEO-Christian “values”) opposite of Freedom. Is it slavery? You might think so. But if “Freedom” is lightness and lack of bondage – than what is the opposite?

The Jews correlated GLORY (a Roman word stolen to describe some tooth-breaking Hebrew gobbledygook) with WEIGHT. Just as the Jewish word for Justice (another big, beautiful Roman word) is curiously similar in etymological value to their word for “money.” Tsekina and Shekel share a root, I learned in Theology. Curious. I digress. GLORY is a descending weight. It was not always seen as pleasant. This goes a way in explaining how, and why, Jewish “heroes” always seemed so goddamn down. King David? Scumbag, mopey shitstain. Solomon? Fellow pervert, depressing shitsack. Elijah? Killed a mostly peaceful teenager for mocking the bald spot when he lost his yarmaluke.

Great role models.

I and my Pagan heroes stand ever humbled, thanks Jews, and your ridiculous god.

This is something I have pondered for many years. Outclassed men in pursuit of glory almost invariably become whores and mockeries of their own aspirations. This is because in their pursuit to be taken seriously, when they invevitably fall, the ridiculousness of their situation is all the more infuriating to those in the wrong side of their wake. Especially those who make it a career to try and bully into submission those they feel to be their lessers. Call me a Christcuck – I really don’t care – but compassion is not a weakness. It isn’t an involuted Hebrew word. Clemency was a PAGAN Roman virtue long before Jesus taught belt-buckle Xtians to spread their cheeks. Everything we recognise as erstwhile, was long and away by far in place by the time the saints went to camp. Everything. Without exception. Nothing new under the sun, and all that.

But I digress. This moronic idea that going astray from Xtianity means being some asshole comparing himself to wolves and being a dick to everyone he can… is asinine. And far too prevalent. Compassion is weakness. Heard that line before. Sure Pal. The last Spartans were homos in a Roman zoo scratching their glorious asses for pretty ladies and eating fucking garum for a day wage. Piss off with this. We aren’t Spartans. We aren’t wolves. We aren’t Vikings. We aren’t shadows of our former glory. Never forget, those shadows and former glories made US. So go back to the exact same spirit you worship, you get the exact same result.

Our Glorious Ancestors dropped balls. Bitch about America? You have to peg the English. You do that, you have to aim the finger at Germany & Denmark which birthed them. Run out of that steam? Well now the West is bad, better go suck Dugin’s juicy spirit cock. Yay Russia. Russia isn’t a paragon of superhuman virtue. It’s a fucked up mess that, despite itself, produced people worthy of note but is also peopled with scumbags the equal of our own – for many envy “Western” decadence.

Slippery slopes lead nowhere good.

So we deal with what we have. In a way, the whole idea of Glory as it has stood, seems fatuously unglorious. I will tell you something I found Freeing. This was a cutaway scene in, I believe, “Der Triumph Des Willens.” Hitler speeches aside, which I find to be the least inspiring lowet common denominator of 3R fanboyism today, there is a scene in which the German army calls forth units by region. Bavaria is represented, Silesia, and many other lesser known German principalities. They were one Folk, yes, but they weren’t a blended up mystery-meat monster. These regional strengths and weaknesses were instinctually known as a whole.

The reality is that German principalities, like American regions, had bitter rivalries. There was never a true German Unification, and if there was, half of Germany would have been destroyed to make the New Model. The kind of unity demanded by politicians – of any stripe – is a catch 22. A living sacrifice. The NS Gubmint thought it could make the gambit and pass the gauntlet. It thought it could live in the balance between scales and escape judgement. But it might well have crumbled under its own glory. In some ways it is better that Zionism destroyed it, because it, despite it’s own imbedded future malfunctions, remains a kind of martyred archetype. It did not live long enough to become a disappointment.

If it went on for a hundredth of a thousand years we would all sing a different song. Shitlibs would have needed a new bogyeman. Dissident spergs would have needed a different date-wipe.

But it really is neither here nor there. We can learn much, but it’s between the lines. It was never for export – smart men know this. Models need to be built on the times, not the wishlists. I’m told.

Anyway. Freedom. It’s worth chasing, but it isn’t necessarily glorious. That’s my point. When we use the words, I wonder, are we using them? Invariably a White Man, unhanded from “tyranny” will use the word in the Roman spirit – Glory. A kind of divinity, which feels more like freedom. To the Roman, Gloria was an exaltation, not a crippling albatross. When one thinks of the Arno Brekker statues, the soaring eagles or all the other GLORIES of Empire, they would be goals to move (freely) towards, rather than be pushed from behind by someone equally inglorious.

But nevermind the man married to the land, whose ideas centred more on freedom than glory. Never mind the eternal barbarian who mocked the superstition of the civilised. Of the Gaul who laughed at the learned Greek, the Gaul whose Druids we are told had much to teach the likes of Pythagoras – Druids whose wisdom and power came from lived experience and not learned letters.

I make no apologies, and ask for no forgiveness. I confess, while I have never been Nietzsche’s biggest fanboy, I will acknowledge his refusal to be moved. He was what he was, he lived and died accordingly. I can say the same of Anton LaVey, whom I consider to be an evil man, but what I respect is that he did not beg on his deathbed for forgiveness from the false idol of the Christians, nor less to his own native Jewish demiurge. He let the void stare back – as every honest tribesman should.

Never have the words “I don’t care,” had more significance for me. I don’t expect that uttering them will allow me to go Super Saiyan like Vegeta did. But it has brought an element of peace. I don’t know what I’ll do with it yet. I have a feeling there’s more left to do than live and work and die. I have an inkling the next few years will present, forgive me, unprecedented opportunities. But they may require creative thinking.

Who knows?

The Shadow knows.

Take that as you will.