Primer, Pt. 10: What?!

Here I am again, sat twiddling my thumbs, checking social media for updates and so forth again and again. Snapping oneself out of such a trance is often difficult, and ordinarily I’d relapse into playing videogames for an hour or something, though I’ve already done that today so it seems obsolete; the stone is dry of blood yet my hands long for motion, hence my present preoccupation.

I’ve considered rewriting Primer, my little project which really just existed as a projection of whatever miscellaneous thought had entered my mind that week. Henceforth I’m continuing with it with this little spewing here. I hope you don’t mind the mess. I could write ironically or semipoetically all day, though eventually I’d have to break the habit and the false veneer of self-confidence undercut by self-acknowledgement. “Look mum I’m breaking the fourth wall as I type!” What hogwash. Better off enjoying a mug of Earl Grey tea and not holding back as I’ve come accustomed to doing, fretting over what the response will be to this nonsense — as if it mattered or the opinions of most people mattered. Gaze upon thine words, serf! Know that thou art forever dumbe compared to thine regal brilliance, I say!

And then comes the bucket of ice water, semi-rending the veil of samsara as it knocks me out of one kind of stupour and into another. Another “esoteric” pseudoblogpost laden with little hints and nods hither and thither, eh? Of bloody course you daft git.

The self-awareness many on the Left lack comes in part not from their actual ideology of blame-daddy-ism, but rather from the currents of modernity which, writhing like purple-grey tentacles, entrap them in their ego, from which their perspective on all matters is formed. Not from the self or even the higher “I,” but from how well they belong to the crowd on the surface-level; all is equal and free in brutalist oblongistic mediocrity, you fucking fascist! “Zee zi zo zum, I smell the privilege of cis-scum,” cries another braindead beast, so confined to its worthless and never-realised, never-understood mortality it reeks of weakness and burning whale oil. It’d be a better fate for most of these idiots, that; a quick and useful death unlike the likely dying of boredom most of them will likely succumb to. But has it been any different? No. The plebs are going to pleb; the trouble now, however — and as is self-evident — there’s no-one to actually challenge that. Even our soldiers and the remnants of the warrior caste do naught with their time but serve oil-vampires and mechanised geo-realpolitik which treats them as nothing more than cogs in a machine, whirring and spinning with finite velocity; never looking back, or left, or right; only forwards until the end of history, whenever that is.

My consciousness calls: “Make a coherent point you fat cunt.” Why? Why not make several vague references to points which interconnect with possible manifestations in the mind of the reader, joining dots I didn’t have to map-out, making me seem more intelligent than I am whilst only having to type half as many words as need be? It’s the age of information, you know; and by that I mean the age of indulgence — and that goes for that which is absorbed via the eyes, too. Make no mistake, though there will be a small clique who read this who’ll “get it,” the majority will have forgotten it after an hour. It’s a wonder how some people tie their shoelaces in the morning, is it not? (Though, I hear that’s why they invented slip-ons and velcro.)

As the presidency of Leo-Trump draws near, and Europe continues to spiral downwards in displays of anti-Traditional frenzy, I’m hit by the idea that all is the same, all is the constant, all is the flux which perpetuates all but Being. This is the world of Becoming, of course — I do hope you kids have read your daily dose of Evola (peace be upon him). I read recently that one man believes that only Islam can save Europe, in a similar way, I’m reminded, that a monkey can save a trapped racoon stuck in a tree. Alternatively, the monkey can throw the racoon to the ground, and as the poor thing tries to drag itself away using its two remaining unbroken limbs, the monkey can sit atop it gouging-out its eyes just for shits and giggles. I’m reminded also of the fact that Europe has only received the lowest spiritual and genetic trash from the Middle East over the past few decades and that if these fucking putrid animals are to be the face of Tradition-restored in the West via Islam, then it isn’t just Wotan and Mars who’re fucked regarding respect due. All is lost in a sea of savage rape and gore and the only men who’re around after the carnage are the ones stranded without a foundation to work with. How wonderful! I jest of course, but the fact remains that only the spilling of blood — the right kind, I might add — can even begin to slow this process unfolding. I heard that the elite (pity what passes for such a thing nowadays) actually believes that what we’ve been observing this past couple of decades regarding theft, rape and murder from Negroes and Semite dogs alike, was actually inevitable after the fall of the aristocracy and all remaining visages of high culture shortly prior to the First World War. They weren’t wrong overmuch but a better plan of action in any case would’ve been guns and blood, not on the part of the superior race, but of the lesser animals marauding through the Mediterranean as we speak. It’ll come eventually, though it could’ve all been much more efficient some time ago had the politicians and assorted demons grew a pair of bollocks.

Another thing recently which pissed me off was knowing that a handsome Antinous of sorts decided that the best course of action regarding his boyness was hormone therapy and dresses. What a fucking tragedy that even the degenerates are degenerates nowadays. Had time and place been more appropriate he’d be some coy twink for now but later a sensible artist or poet or something equally wussy. At least then it’s a place within a hierarchy of sorts, not a wasted existence all to end in a suicide at fourty because you have a particular pair of chromosomes that can’t just disappear and your brain isn’t ignorant of them, no matter how much your vague notion sentience whines otherwise. Yet more evidence of the hollow nature of the age, where even young men would rather die after a life of illusion that face a difficult but worthy challenge. Where’s the glory I ask? Where’s the fucking gall in these people? The twat commenting on this article with “are you gay lad” or anything to the effect ought to be hung, drawn and quartered for failing to see the point of the observation and its meta-aspects. But by all means, fill-in the gaps! I know nothing that I know, nor can I say what is or isn’t; I can but guess. For a fatherless cripple I could be doing worse.

This all begs the question of order, though, doesn’t it? Who’s to tell and instruct and teach and guide? We can’t all lead ourselves rudderless and blind of sight, especially when forever seems to last the night. There has to be a rope or several to tug upon and tether oneself to another in dichotomy; just with Aristotle and Alex, and then Alex and Hephaestion, one thing leads to another, and if there is no correction then potential is wasted and we end-up with Weininger again and his succumbing to his own flawed self and all its perceived implications, good and ill. It’s a shame Evola wasn’t around to smack him in the face a bit; sometimes we all need some sense knocked into us. Clear, concise, direct, clean and honest is the way to do things: all else is chthonic nonsense entrapped to ego and fashion of the low. Rise above it, even if for a mere second of energy and wide-eyed-ness; the whole thing about living one day as a lion being better than living one hundred years as a sheep said by that leader-weirdo isn’t untrue (though ought it be a tiger instead..? Hmm…)

Part 9 > Part 11

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Adam

As a man among men, I can learn.

One thought on “Primer, Pt. 10: What?!

  1. >We can’t all lead ourselves rudderless and blind of sight, especially when forever seems to last the night.

    This is a pretty comfy sentence to complement a comfy article tbh fam. Very Lovecraftian. Reminds me of The Nameless City:

    “That is not dead which can eternal lie,
    And with strange aeons even death may die.”

    >This all begs the question of order, though, doesn’t it?Who’s to tell and instruct and teach and guide?

    Indeed. The “elites” (pity what passes for such a thing nowadays as you say) or aristocracy of the past at least had an ethic of civic responsibility towards the commoners which lead to the creation of libraries, museums, universities, etc. They at least attempted to provide moral guidance but disorder travels from the top down. A decadent elite will create a decadent underclass. The disengagement of our cosmopolitan elite from common civic life is certainly one aspect to our modern dysfunction and is described in vivid detail in Charles Murray’s book Coming Apart. But when the clergy class disintegrated and the professional class emerged as the old world gave way to the new one, should we have expected any less?

    Also I enjoy your informal writing, its very comfy. I might try it.

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