Hello all you traitors to your own kind! You will get what is coming to you. What you have strived and connived for all along. No holiday will mark your victory. No statue will be erected to your fame. They will all be gone torn down in the beautiful impossible dystopia that you have built with ash and rock fragments of the one that you so righteously ripped apart. The work of millennia erased because it did not fit with the trend of the day proclaimed on your I-phones. I hope that you rot in the universe that you are hell bound to create in your self-righteous fervor. You are working hard to deserve it. A master hand from behind the scenes is evident. Whites betray themselves. Defile their own kith and kin. They would rather be slaves to a false ideals. Than fight for their own kind. Than defend their own cause for survival. Blinded, brainwashed, by an embedded enemy that pretends to be a friend. But that is obsessed in wearing the crown of thorns of another. Obsessed by the tale of one of their own that they murdered so very long ago. A band of common cutthroats. Pretenders to the thrown. A deceitful scheming ever restless insurgent bent only by a hatred of the human race. That squats over the moral high ground like a jealous hen. It summons its minions fanning the hot flames in what is worse in them. Turning them into a pack of wild dogs. You can hear the pack barking in midday. No longer simply a nuisance at night. Those subverted by the sham of governing sit idly by shivering in their hutches like lesser hens. Concerned only with protecting their own nests. Of squatting indifferently while they fail their oaths of office with complete indifference. The will not survive. But de-evolve. Blacks cannot change! They still are enslaved. And prefer to remain so because, “da pikin’s is always good!” Shiftless beggars deserving of zero respect. They can never pull themselves up out o the pig pen poverty the so richly enjoy. What fun to exert their mercurial mindless violence and get away with it. The sick twisted mentality of getting what’s coming. The will. But it will be their end. They will be gone after the whites are. Hordes of barbarians babble in their graveyard tongues. Uncaring of anything but what is deemed as wealth. Come from afar to sack and pulverize all that they do not understand. Cannot understand. Were never meant to by the strictures of the lands that they were raised in. That they left. They are merely hatchling’s wrought of former guilt of those that they have come to consume. To cannibalize. Amazing how frugal and effective this unseen hand works! Turning one against another. Blood must be shed to bring all to their senses. But then it will be too late. The world will move on and civil society will lay in shards. In its place a hostile workhouse that will slowly replace humanity by the clock. Commodities only from cradle to grave. Genetically modified to not even care. To be happy like a mindless idiot. To be ready to serve and serve and serve at the push of a button. Robots in name. And worth nothing. Amazing how well decadence works. A lesson passed down from the universe to the lions of old. The hyenas will eat you. The roaches will devour the rest. The seven plaques of Egypt revisited. The same old story brought to you by the same old culprits. Go ahead and laugh! It’s your funeral.
So many time I find after a particularly extensive internal drama spent under the covers in the dead of night that I find myself delivered back into the embrace of my bed once again several ours short of waking. Not any particularly random time but so very often, that exact time of 3:45 AM. On the same exact fraction of an hour being when some six years before my own beloved father drew his last breath on earth. No what makes me wonder is that my being a legacy of his genes and no doubt his eventual ailments of affliction of the heart that make it the most likely reason written on one’s toe tag. It seems curious that I should so naturally be brought to consciousness again and again at this exact time. Small tiny sharp stabs to stage left anterior just below my own thorax. Almost in some strange way as if I had been called back to that habitual place called waking reality. One in my shoes could easily speculate that this phenomena is not exclusive but shared with many others. So much so that after rising from the warmth of rumpled covers into the persistent reigning cloak of darkness I have resorted to the web to in much to some level of surprise that this precise time of night is said to be the hour when the devils come out to dance. A fact that has one’s inner self occasioning imagery from Disney’s classic of demonic ancient tribal rites, “Fantasia.”
My own road to this awareness complete with palpitations of an aching chest beginning in the still cogent memory with some vague scenario commencing on a farm where I had been handed some vague assignment to work with a woman at what I might have described as an inmate of a ‘hen house’. The downtrodden collection of sheds and barns, stables and smithy all gathered around a central court focused upon a raised platform serving as stage. A convenient coven for the faithful of a small congregation of earthy looking females playing both main performers and primary attraction to the audience of themselves. Myself now outwardly the inescapably noticeable Caucasian male sticking out in naked view like a big red sore thumb before this aching distill crowd. And as such, my opinions considered as being completely unacceptable. But in that contemporary humble guise of as a simple respectful ‘cucked‘ male quiet mindful of their ire barely tolerated as spectator. I sat beside an old female friend named Sharon who in her own usual way seemed forever diplomatic in avoiding awareness of such obvious schisms. This universal war on the topic of male potency as heatedly conducted each tongue successively carrying equally sharp barbs dripping with venom. Time and again, the overzealous spittle of biting little speeches boiling over to outwardly condemn all things evil as being defaulted to a failure by that element of ‘man‘ within ‘mankind‘. It all seemed so silly to me in my silence. The presentations, one after another, evidencing an all too obvious inherent weakness of internal character within each of the speakers in their barely concealed lack of any internal self worth. “How odd?“, I thought on the fly sitting there. That this sort of mutual Achilles heel was so blatantly shared and evident within this group? And being so easily interchangeable among them like some form of emotional currency acceptable as a form of unquestionable communal wealth within their dogmatic Feminist realm? One particular verbal arrow loosed my way daring blood as the speaker expressed he venom in a particularly loud fashion. The spoken projectile striking home bringing forth an immediate knee jerk vocal response in kind from me. “RACIST!”, my own voice rang out loudly over the throng towards the speaker. Barely a murmur within the crowd was detectable for the next moment. But then a wave of expected mumbling struck like lightning through the entire crowd. One in a fashion that one would expect to evidence in a stormy wind cutting forcefully through the un-plucked sheaf’s of wheat. Its virulence disrupting the entire field in a wasteful shower of unharvested grain. It was now time for me to exist this farmyard in order to carry out this vague mission. The unspecified collaboration of a sort with another party involving the collection of facts on a topic that might be of possible interest to the general readership of an unnamed local publication in seeding an article of passing generic interest.
I didn’t look to see if another woman was parked on the the bench seat next to me as I exited in my big blur and white outdated sedan. Relieved to be away of such unwholesome irritations, I headed down the expected stretch of road that unexpectedly identified itself as a place and proximity not too unfamiliar to me at all? Some place claiming ownership in my own routine vernacular as not being, “so far from home.” The segment of highway just beyond the intersection offering a shock in the specter of a cathedral-like malevolent vision of several city blocks crammed full of old derelict buildings. Ones so hoary to my first glance as to judge the lot as being completely abandoned over centuries. A second cautionary glance affording a stark impression of their having collapsed upon each other in such a manner as one might expect of wax dripped haphazardly over an extended time by gravity onto tightly packed votive candles left too close over a long night. The red dirt street splitting into a matched set of lanes diverging to either side of an undefined median. Both completely unpaved inching upwards over a steeply inclined Hell of well-worn ruts and muddy potholes that seemed nu-navigable to the eye. Most incredibly of all in the midst of this inhospitable environment families of suburban tourists rambled about unperturbed as if amidst some form of holiday carnival attraction? My own course forward already plotted by inattention in crossing the intersection I carefully ambled my vehicle up through this gauntlet as carefully as possible. These roughly tumbled lanes betwixt derelict structures inhabited occasionally by boutiques of the sorts of barely stocked store one might expect to find serving as commercial way stations in those bleak economic deserts of inner city black ghetto neighborhoods. Large German shepherd dogs were in evidence everywhere. Their universal popularity within this marginal municipality possibly as a form of general warning. These quarrelsome looking beasts roaming about the streets with a brash arrogant independence suggesting a communal sense of barely contained menace. You could hear them constantly growling from within your car’s tightly closed windows. As if each was marking out its own territory vigilantly stalking some potential target to quickly harass. Their collective demeanor surpassed in belligerence only by an occasional uniformed thug sloppily attired in the threadbare trappings of law enforcement. Driving further into this mess seemed some form of unconscious death wish courting disaster.
A gray area of unconscious mist accompanied a transition to someplace not quite explicable. My next appearance being within the battered confines of a large mold ridden disabled structure that served as the lobby of the town’s main hotel. The reason for my foolishness in having allowed myself to be there only be explained as a tacit compliance to that unnamed female consort whose presence was more characteristic of some form of phantom sylph than a real life flesh and blood companion. Exhaustion taking the place of caution, I recall settling down on a patch of floor by a wall to lean back upon some bags and begin to fall into a snooze. My impulse being brought to an immediate hasty conclusion by the intercession of the probing of an adolescent shepherd dog that struck his its tooth bound nuzzle hard against my temple. The young demon snapping angrily at my ear for good measure. Where in any other place on earth the infamy such an interruption might have been a form of blame placed upon the head of the hound’s owner in this case it summoned the immediate antagonism of a local magistrate. Jumping over me like a canine. he solemnly warning me to quickly move along lest I be arrested on the ground of some minor infraction if I did not exit the vicinity immediately. He seemed to seethe from within from an inexhaustible wellspring of rage as it was the true inspiration behind his profession. Not needing any further hints I made my way out of range of his general locale and back towards my vehicle. The exact location of which now seeming to be playing hide and seek trickery with my foggy memory. My companion now an astral entity whose presence I could barely sense anymore at that point. The ceiling now above me cloistered in shadowy dark offering only speculation as to the underlying meaning of such a flighty episode. The connection of thoughts invading the inclination to fall back into sleep charting a direction to the inference that there might be the possibility of another source for this unpleasantness. One that had equal resonance with the notion of the hand of other realms interceding with the conduct of my own. And with those of my now long departed family members. The dance of demons at their high point at the most expected hour of their nightly revelries. The passport allowing their visitation upon a victim being the unhealthy lifestyle of the ready host accompanied by the possession of his long overburdened soul.
“The Reve Mal” It forever seem odd that of all mankind’s devices stories of one kind or another remain the most potent part of human existence. Not necessarily good stories or long familiar ones that have been repeated over and over so many times that they seem etched in the back of one’s brain. Stories that suggest an odd unexpected conclusion that border on the temporal quality of clever. Bundle them all up and you have the motivating force behind society begging along the way of course for it to include those of your own. Case in point of those fed to you by your unconscious in the collective realm of dreams. The current era being overwhelming leaving one a phantom padding about within their own personal museum of ultimate obsolescence. That adage of utilizing a fraction of brain capacity coming down in so many ways to a base level of time spent on contemplation.
“The house was filled with a collection of reptiles. The most notable being alligators and their crocodile cousins that congregated int he middle of the room snapping their jaws as one passes. It seemed a good time for a departure and my aged mother stood at the door to the hallway ready to exist down the short flight of stairs. I met her just outside and bundled her into the Lincoln Town Car onto the front seat. Then it seemed that her older sister also was in the back seat.”
At this point it is useful to stop to tell one and all that this is but simple illusion as it cannot be substantiated by any physicality in the current waking world. And as many have pointed out so plainly when one extrapolates under the bright Sun of midday. So many easy explanations existing presenting existential arguments defying that experience as if it was planted only within one’s head by a more earthly random experience. Yet from the insider perspective of within that single head that inspired it the waking world despite all its easy camaraderie cannot disprove it noting nothing more than a frequency of same. Offering only ones daily return to habit in believing that palpable reality need be proven by the simple fact of its continual intervals of repetition. This becoming a particular delirious dilemma for those types afflicted with an acute form of solitary aloneness that has not strict the convention easily at hand to derail it from being a positive belief.
Thus those afflicted went about their daily routine with a feeling that influenced their appreciation for the their immediate circumstances that could not be verified by actual experience. A distinct disadvantage in dealing with strangers and distant acquaintances, who of course were never privy to the eccentricities of the dreamer. How this all played out in the midst of so many faceless masses only a matter of importance to the one who experienced it. What weight could such a thing have in a sea of indifferent humanity? “For after all . . “, one might easily recite, “. . .what is one man’s opinion against the sea of the many?”
To consider the difference in the opinions of widely disparate eras forever seemingly obsessed with contrasting poverty with plenty it might be appropriate to reflect upon the differences of former times in terms of general popular attitudes. Those particular ones spotted in the from a distant past offering the promise of success gained by the experience of the amalgam of both experiences. Ones that surpass in blatant symbiosis the more contemporary ones which by comparison seem near to impossible to ever actually achieve. Freely available work almost on demand as livable wages for example. The talented being able to cut more favorable deals in terms of wages and benefits based on verbal performance. “Closer’s” versus “talker’s!” The newest most latest form of sensibility being to run general society like a meat packing house where nothing gets wasted despite any potential risk to the public health.
A more polite form of acknowledgement offered exclusively to those from other lands. As those with strange customs strangling the conventional experience of others considered indigenous. You’ll be solicited along the way by vague entities that routinely pass themselves off as just plain regular personable folk. The dreamy image posed in a few well-composed pictures set in a pleasing locale dressed in appropriately stylish outfits that are carefully configured to strike a positive chord with you as their prospective consumer and eventual targeted rival. The closet thing to this composite identifying label possibly being referred to as, “THE TEAM.” A very determined stratagem of lack of identity identifying that same old corporate firewall virtually protecting the company from any need for their accountability to customers for their services. Everyone and everything treated simply like a commodity.
All of a sudden! It all went away. Any hope of getting anywhere. Gone. Perhaps the body of a human is but a chrysalis? Something that wears thin. Does the caterpillar fear its own transition?
For some unexplained reason my old aging Lincoln Continental sedan was the only car parked in front of Sears completely covered with snow in the dead of night. It was contingent upon me to move it or risk having it towed. The fact that I was there to begin with subjected me to the vagaries of the unexpected. Some form of violence by parties unknown. Predators perhaps looking for just such a situation where a motorist is alone within the confines of a vehicle their perception of outside events interrupted by the thick covering of snow blocking vision. Transported almost instantaneously to the bed in my own apartment laying totally paralyzed beneath the covers unable to move. Trying again and again to roll out of it as if some impending harbinger of doom was approaching but frozen in place. Tugging and pulling at the sinews of my extremities tangled in covers that seemed to weigh a ton. but receiving no response. That was until I finally woke up and realized it was a dream. Now awake basking in an amazingly uncustomary degree of clarity in the recall of this experience as well as a building list of classic symptoms including night sweats and occasional shooting pains in the chests wondering how much more time in this material plane do I have?
What ever the drama of the night though I cannot recollect the narrative I live in the wake of that experience throughout the morning. Does it matter? I catch instantaneous glimpses in odd corners of the day.
I cannot surrender to a world that is a prison. Run by fools for the behalf of criminals. What happens when regular people realize that they based most of their lives on the lies that they have been told since childhood? Belief collapses and the population begins to hate everything that they once held dear. A sort of emptiness appears. Live a corpse without entrails. A cleaned fish. The only satisfaction possible being in returning to the myth and reliving it like a movie. A rerun of one’s life imprinted upon its context. That is a very angry was of being! There can be no worse jailer that someone who was formerly imprisoned by their victim. Who in this world knows more about someone ha has robbed them of their innermost self through debasing them. The ‘boreau‘ then becomes a form of recognition of an intimacy that is unsurpassed in relationships that have conventional boundaries. Producing pain in those circumstances becomes the most exquisite form of pleasure. To torment those who have tormented you without mercy becomes a high art. An ultimate high. That is the real danger of this sort of mental violence that is advised against in New Testament virtues. It has nothing to do without he misfortune of the victim of retribution but the addiction of the party initially offended by the transgressions of that person who they will later take great pleasure in debasing.
If that sounds more than vaguely familiar then consider that those who have remorselessly taken power again and again are cut from the cloth of these sorts of persons. People who have no connection or conscience for those whose lives they affect. People that after a while realize that they have become totally reviled for their efforts and now become ruthless and uncaring for the unintended consequences of their ministrations. Nazi’s and their much more terrible counterparts in Marxist revolutionaries who drive their ideologies through conventional society murdering and traumatizing rather than administering competent rule. The only offering being leveraging nightmares through hatred’s long evident and deep seated. Waiting like rabid animals for a chance to sink their teeth in deeply in the arm that beats them. At that point, any arm will do!
Ralph thought to himself as his eyes stared over the rim of his foam charged beer glass. “I am empty.” A cotton sports shirt sweat covered mannequin bulging bulging out below him balanced on top of the bar stool. “I feel empty and am in an empty place.“, he declared solemnly with much theatrical gravity. This is not what many others around him currently experienced in their Saturday night revelries. A solitary Ralph looked down the line of stools beside him at the bar. The row of gesticulating puppets swinging back and forth upon their seat in-between their string bound limbs hoisting glasses in a precarious remote controlled manner. “So I don’t expect many others to understand. Nor would they want to!” His own glass hoisted up in toast but then slammed back down onto the messy counter with a sharp report. Bushy brows settled hard pressed into the top of the bridge of his nose. A continence bespeaking emotional waste surrounding his corner of the world leaving little, if any, hope for possibility of a mutually shared immediate future. Humans as waste being a metaphor inferring a different dimension rather than a more literal form of same. An attitude appealing to an extremist. But, then again, not offering promise.
“I’m caught up in blessed ignorance of doing good.“, said some character named Larry. Ralph’s glass once more airborne. The crowd behind him rambled on in droning nonsense of the simultaneous collision forty or fifty voices. All totally nonsensically incoherent to the ear and devoid of offering any ability to be decoded in the rational sense from a collective mis-understandability. “And you are caught up in the folly of your own opinions!“, said the now disembodied voice of this Larry. Ralph swinging around to find its source bestride his back. The chorus of conversation rising up into full beehive buzz. “It is like you and all your kind have gone mad!“, the haranguing voice blurted as the waxy face behind it moved its lips out of sync. “Mad with your own crazy opinions so virulent and vexing that no one will be able to ever talk reasonably sane with you ever again!” Ralph thought for a while at what was quickly descending into poorly veiled attacks of pseudo factual psychological vitriol. “Tiny torpedoes of verbal venom!“, the little voice inside Ralph’s head spake at half-volume stating behind the numbness in his ringing ears.
It seemed to be a very unfunny joke. At a corner coffee house table way back before the most forward corner of the room’s partition commanding a stage sat a small group of locals. Ones that if anyone else happened to be a frequent customer of this establishment would be familiar with their longstanding status as regulars. Two males taking center spotlight. One quietly passive aggressive while the other evidently too loud and ostentatious by comparison. Both holding court this day before a diminished roster of pre-menopausal females. The loudest talker, an outwardly extreporous orator making snide self-depreciatory quips bearing superficial similarity to his own appearance with that select membership evident in other members of his group. Something now trended popularly and termed as ‘white’. The ongoing conduct of his bile-soaked jibes loosely overflowing inclusive topics of blacks, women and Jews. But with this speaker underplaying his own part as an ignorant specious white buffoon. Someone too easily singled out as the ultimate butt of every one of his own jokes. A mirroring of one or two choices of the polar opposite energy levels publicly afforded from the immediate vicinity of supplicants to embrace. The initial process to obtain membership within this clan requiring the prerequisite of being Liberal minded by default and well-schooled in the Post-Communist tradition of ‘reeducation’ by mental self-incarceration. An egregious sense of irony if seen from afar by those few other objective parties that sought to remain well out of range of the larger arguments. It’s very public demonstration serving as an overbearing social monitor following the model for sanctimonious public behavior in the contemporary Western world these days. The fat man’s face was accoutered in a typical ‘agent provocateur‘ style beard and mustache housed by a dark complexion that might have qualified him as being from any number of perpetually discontent extra-European groups. Perhaps a mix of Italian and Ashkhanism?
That companion sitting next to him being a ‘graybeard‘ more typically rabbinical. The vibes that this character had been know for in terms of this locality over the recent past being aloof and quick to dismiss any and all others that might overwhelm the basic fact of his silent but domineering presence. Something not unfamiliar to those who had grown up around third generation communities of Jews long ago transmuted from the Pale of old Poland. Their halcyon characteristic being a chameleon-like ability to dart in and out of the easy cloak of White American Middle Class to that persistent misunderstood pogrom victimized identity of Orthodox Jewry. The transformation almost instantaneous sometimes as it suits purposes of the moment. A neutral calm masking that bristling sense of ever fractious impulse to seek out ultimate retribution upon the assumed identity. An eye for an eye! And then some! This well-implanted rational of alternatively fostering mischief through customary deceit and then enacting the perpetration eternal violent vengeance always justified in their minds for the destruction of these ever holy second temple. Something more akin to a real estate claim than any real issue of religious fact. The most immediate visual evidence apparent in that characteristic lean hungry meanness ingrained about the eyes categorized as an expression of perpetual discontent. One that simply suggests an ingrained very genetic form of lifelong cynicism. A classical Cassius from the ilk of a Shakespearian play. Or perhaps an Iago?
On and on, the fat man’s un-humorous gibberish paging through lexicons of role reversal’s of white scapegoats painted as straw men and polite European society as the source of the worst of all evils. A further irony arriving a little later in the guise of a winsome young maiden who sporting a thick volume Christian community bible settles down a safe distance away at a side table to study text that might be considered the anti-venom of the diatribe of the vociferous others. Her encampment quiet and undisclosed yet potentially in danger of summoning the Judas Maccabeus in the less than dynamic duo continuously exhibiting their unending tiresome ‘schtick‘ at the far end. A type of patterned response that glorifies massacre of any rival. That long sad road of history of the victor where one group inevitably displaces another after fierce mortal bloody struggles as a matter of human nature by default . One’s own underlying instinct to seek out the safety within one’s own kind, a natural reflex and very rationally reasonable impulse fostering a long term ability to survive. Something now cast a “Politically Incorrect” for access to the European majority population of the nation for Culturally Marxist doctrinaire reasons. The big fat ‘Italian‘ poseur continuing without missing a syllable ‘sans souffle‘ to his small audience of listeners undaunted droning a well-rehearsed morning monologue of supposed self-depreciation in the guise of his diametric opposite. This safe harbor of his didactic ‘pirate’s den‘ prepping more biting comments in order to sail out to raid the ears of the passing commerce of indifferent suburban travelers timidly plying the morning trade of coffee and sweet roll. This current segment on his bandstand rolling the indigestible stone of the Germanic in the tireless guise as NAZI. That faceless white haze of those customers sharing similar heritage keeping their heads down in the public climate self-shaming. The tyrannical Marxist golden rule of “Diversity IS strength!” screaming silently forth as it from stadium loudspeakers. Some sickly white within this ebb and flow eager to ‘rat’ one of their own out in a brief show of public repudiation cast at anyone near fitting the visual description of Politically Correct condemned, “White Patriarchal Culture“.
“Who then? . . .“, might some outward observer ask, “. . . is able to have any respect for those who would shun their own race?”
EPILOGUE: I thought that I lived in a golden age as I grew to maturity yet I could not find lasting pleasure in what seemed superficially so. It eventually became clear that this long lasting impression was simply one of a false Utopia. The unwanted facts pulled over my eyes covering my ears laying claim to my consciousness with lies, lies and more lies daily distributed. Each revealing an ever clearer the knowledge that my time was the time of twilight. My own kingdom becoming hollow and defaulting to an illusion that seems to reign over all those other lesser known unacknowledged truths. Ones that claim to lay open a path to plain sighted’ness of an inequity that has for all time caused death and destruction of my kind since before I was born. I can no longer offer any provable facts to counter the supposed reams of evidential documents amassed by my detractors. Ones who have memorized their parts in reciting heresy as concrete fact repetitively and too well. Nor certainly play their game any longer! The time for fielding this empty rhetoric is over!
I am empty. Bled dry. I feel empty and find myself living amidst an empty place. This may not be what many others currently experience? So I don’t expect many others to understand even the smallest part of this angst. Nor would they want to. Yet the emotional waste of this world surrounding giving one little hope, if any, for a future. Human waste in terms of a way of taking on a different dimension of ultimate disgust. One that appeals to the extremes. But offers no lasting promise beyond the moment. Self annihilation. Do I sit here and wait?
I went to see Christopher Nolan’s “Dunkirk” yesterday. Not because I was personally interested to do so. But because my last remaining relatives expressed an interest of seeing it. We as the children of those that were part of that struggle that the media at large has incessantly drilled in our heads was the greatest. World War Two. The ‘greatest‘ as in Mohammed Ali who initially proclaimed himself so, unlike my father, and because he suited the times as a spokesman of the prevailing agenda of normalizing human society was built by the media into a legend. What did Ali do? He beat people up and made an obscene amount of money doing it while strutting around trumpeting his own greatness. Again, something my father who served in the Marines landing on Okinawa at barely eighteen years old fighting to stay alive for the next four months during the most viscous fight of World War Two. I never heard him call himself the ‘greatest’ on that account?
“Dunkirk“, the big budget blockbuster movie, that its producers and investor are hoping it will be, is actively being compared to what they and their fellow industry pundits have deified as the ‘greatest’ war movie of all time, “Saving Private Ryan.” At face view, the benchmark does share a similar setting for what is always mentioned in its own hype as the most talked about. The two movies begin by recounting as story of a beach. And against the backdrop of that setting, they both share another facet that seems key to their movie industry admirers of being about the senseless slaughter of young white post adolescent men of European descent. Given the incessantly fractious nature of the times that the larger ‘WE’ live in, this is something that I personally was not desirous of seeing. Not before the viewing, nor certainly in hindsight after. In fact, having once been an excessively voracious movies goer who has turned that corner over the past decade and a half of falling out of love with Hollywood’s obsessive penchant for interweaving social justice themes within what they now term as ‘franchise‘ films. In this penchant, all the major studios have outweighed their welcome and my active viewing participation.
Christopher Nolan has been provided with the crown by both hacks and movie critics as the current reigning challenger for the ‘greatest‘ contemporary filmmaker around. His predecessor in this position among several others being Steven Spielberg who gained a similar status some decades previous directing a fanciful politically propagandized big budget film, “Schindler’s List“, once again about people being killed off. In this case, by the estimation of some, the killing of the spirit of white Europeans with the aura of guilt for incidents that to some opinions were willfully misinterpreted as being fact when in point of fact it turned out that they were not. In another sense, Spielberg had graduated to his position based upon his ability to manipulate generations of mass audiences to believe something that at face value had validity. But in the underlying inference that the movie touted as a whole had nothing to do with history but more to do with brainwashing the opinions within people’s minds. Following this tact along in a larger sense over the long haul of the history of movie industry, any director that can foster a specific lasting sentiment within the minds of an enter generation is the ‘greatest’ director of his time. And depending of course on how this influence changes the thinking of a nation, and perhaps the entire world, of all time.
Is it any wonder to find out that the first Academy Award Oscar for best picture was given to a big budget silent era production about young white men being transfixed by the horrors of loss suffered in World War One? Or that the award for best actor was given to a pre-eminent German actor of that era for his portrayal of a Russian general of a deposed white society who is ultimately humbled and crushed by his ultimate fate of being cast as a Hollywood extra reliving his greatest failure? All these films and directors, thus far mentioned, examples of the heralding of failure of the values and impetus of Western European civilization in some way. All completely different in fact to what was for its time in the post World War Two era of nineteen-sixty two, and equally grueling portrayal of young men suffering and dying. The major blockbuster big budget film that was in fact a collaboration of the directorial talent of six different well-seasoned Hollywood directors of the time. This film being set on Normandy beaches some thirty four years earlier than “Saving Private Ryan” yet equally pervasive in its on viewing generations, “The Longest Day.” The major difference being that this film celebrated the bravery and sacrifice of white Europeans not their defeat.
In light of this trend consider that the underlying messaging that one is strongly left with after viewing “Dunkirk” is one of being a defeated empire. Yet not so much so that one’s sacrifice and effort to survive goes unappreciated. The entire length of one hundred and six minutes of cinematic narrative cast not accidentally in the format of a ‘first person shooter‘ computer games point of view. The audience follows along in the guise of several avatars going through the perils of the immediate landscape. No judgment is offered in the cinematic outlay of action that suggests good or bad or even evil. It is completely ‘moral relative’. The major emotions summoned being those of intervening scenarios of horror juxtapose with an aficionado’s viewpoint of the inside terrain and implements of that historical time and incident. Any audience empathy wasted upon a series of characters that are summarily introduced and then unexpectedly killed off or deposed into the anonymity of the larger throng of those summarily ‘rescued’. Their historical adversary never shown or even really identified beyond the term, “enemy” as if everyone can fill in the blanks without he official politically correct contemporary agreed upon conclusions as to, “who“, “what“, “why“, and given the failure of our educational establishment maybe even, “where?” Consider that the equivalent corollary of our very defective modern journalism does exactly the same in ceding their responsibility through daily artful innuendoes where the reader is also expected by the journalist to answer these same questions by referring to socially sanitized online texts. The effect of the experience of this epic event being more important than any insight that can be intellectually assayed!
If this film was more in line with the current canon of comic book corporation franchise film production then “Dunkirk” might be deemed in a similar manner a historical ‘thrill ride’ by the well paid cheerleaders once know as critics. For those who, after seeing same, are left with the film’s final very esoteric image of a burning ‘bird‘ that all too clearly suggests an Illuminati phoenix in the initial stages of total meltdown, it is evidently clear that the intent of the film is to convince audiences that the legacy of that era is at a final end. Moreover those populations that treat upon that sense of ‘greatness‘ have like the films biggest name star destroyed their own heroic legacy and now are to be remanded to an uncertain fate at the hands of a shadowy hostile enemy for all his trouble. Hollywood as a vehicle to the governing mercantile powers that provide the context of our daily lives telling us is essence that any sense of elf identity outside its prevail is in the words of the current neocon mayor of the safe sanctuary of the ‘murder paradise’ of Chicago, “Dead, dead, dead!“
NOTE: The following impressions and provisos were gleaned from a seminar held at the University of Chicago writer’s event covering the topic of promoting your work to get your book published. Three panels composed entirely of women, with the exception of one extremely ‘gyno-centric’ male, provided their own personal takes on the current publishing market. The viewpoints were exclusively focused on the liberal leaning market aesthetic behind the Chicago art scene. The percentage of males in attendance within the audience was on the level of ten to one. Much of the paraphrased ‘advice’ seen below was taken directly from the experiences shared and advice given by panelists.
RULES OF THE GLEACHER: Anything that is considered MALE and especially WHITE is most cursed by a mass hysterical reservation at this university seminar! Why is it that the more ‘Elitist’ and ‘Liberal’ any person might be, the more unfriendly if not absolutely hostile they become? If you want to have your books distributed and sold in the conventional literary market domestically or in the West then you had better have Jewish relatives and be a female obsessed with third wave feminism! Rich ones from the North Shore are even better! The panel announces the fact at the beginning of their segment that they are “the gatekeepers!” A prerequisite of any viable genre or subject matter that this block considers viable in the market place despoils men to the benefit of women. This ramps the stakes if that character is part of a sanctified ethnic minority that engages in deviant sexual practices within the Lesbian agenda. The presence of mind to use proper most currently correct terminology assiduously adhering to the latest set of up to the moment conventions or face the penalty of expulsion! Try the strategy of masking your elitist friendly patriotism serving the cause of floundering PR by offering a stilted counter story of a safe powerless minority that you can provide emotional bandaids to. That same tried and true SJW pattern of exhibiting virtue signaling ceremonies that though they don’t last long enough to have any effect in reality always look good in print. on the page. The bleeding heart Liberal tradition to whip the perpetually guilt assuaged tax paying population into a defensive mode so that they don’t scream foul when even more of their ever mounting tax dollars are extorted for the replenishment of of munitions within the Jewish Utopia of the ‘holely land’ or built yet another Holocaust memorial on American turf. That will make sure that the publishing houses which are almost all directly under control of these kissing cousins will look kindly on your next project.
SUGGESTED THEMES FOR SUCCESS: Make a modern version of a post-war melodrama that references the Holocaust in some form to stay in with the ‘in crowd’ or NYT best seller reviewable potential ‘best sellers’. Stick to the appropriate dual dialogue where all your more significant characters are women disgruntled with me to the point of taking all their power and life-force from them by the end of the last chapter. Cloak your text in classic nineteenth century terms from female authors like Jane Austin or at least more modern equivalents as with Virginia Wolf. Make sure to parallel the action of your characters to some current black studies/women studies approved national social justice issue that are currently entrancing the nation as a whole in further fruitless insoluble divisions. Make sure to denigrate European history or achievement by scenarios where the strew source of achievement is found to be a female or a select ethnic minority. Anything Afro-American Black is always good! Play softball when dealing in the land of the Goyim. Give no mention to any unique and enthralling qualities of characters of that description but find them lacking in courage and integrity at every turn. Remember that the term “gravity” refers to the great farmlands stocked with sleepy eyed suburban sheep! Don’t go too far beyond the well-established programs of educationally enforced guilt tripping that their children are daily indoctrinated with. Any unexpected criticism is to be absorbed and digested but not addressed!
TOPICS NOT TO BE ADDRESSED: Self-publishing is not to be given any legitimacy, period. This does not include any agent connected, contest driven, boutique enterprise that must treat equitably with the ‘legitimate’ publishing distributors who can impose rules similar to those already mentioned. Gynocentric, LGBT, race centered epics to be considered the most marketable and traditional mystery and science fiction tolerated to a reasonable degree as long as the thematics remain hostile to the male. Much like the stockyards of the century before, university trained authors are to be guided along int he process through the rigid system of query letters and infinite patience to be eventually contacted with approved agents and editors, preferably female. Any other demographic of those who write that have not gone through the university system are to be discredited. All hiring within publishing houses is to be geared specifically to this demographic. The most catastrophic situation that needs to be avoided is a Tsunami of ‘net neutral’ outlets or chains of interlocking networks that compete for dollars with the conventional system of big box retailers and specialty book distributors. All acceptable media must reflect the tenets of moral relativity while casting doubt on what was once considered conventional mainstream history! Make all authors feel that they need ‘permission’ to write! That they can only be creative when they have reached the point when they sense that they are ‘safe’ from any criticism or censure as if in their mother’s arms. Stress that ‘SUCCESS’ is only possible by following these proscribed limits.
EPILOGUE: My own demographic was understandably considered hostile within this assembly and my mere presence was met with a mutually observed ‘cold shoulder’ as if I was in the midst of crashing a woman oriented event. This being due not simply to my gender but my age and of course racial demographic. Considering the seismic shift currently underway in politics, entertainment and journalism the focus of publishing and the intellectual pretext that is vigorously supported by elite universities seems a form of institutional Seppuku. The arrogance of Globalist corporations in fostering and nursing this hostile position by exiling criticism, emptying the libraries of volumes embodying conflicting viewpoints, and promoting nonsensical positively schizophrenic politically correct dogmas will be met with a definitive backlash. In the authors opinion, not bloody soon enough!
VIDEO – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLr_5dQqxTk (Post seminar impressions)