Mother is watching Glastonbury on television. Good grief I hate these sorts of affairs. The masses in their conformity jostling up and down to some Wigger prodding at a synthesiser, all one in their numbness; their dullness; their soullessness; their pointlessness. Every single one of them could die on the spot and it would make absolutely no difference to the world.
Maybe I’m just projecting my incessant loneliness in a bout of bitter-mindedness. Probably. Maybe the thought of a Huxleyite future agitates the I of the heart within me. More probable. Right now I’m listening to King Crimson’s In the Court of the Crimson King — “Moonchild” to be track-specific.
There’s a clear Englishness manifest within King Crimson’s — Robert Fripp’s — work between the sixties and late seventies; a clear pond of spring water. A roe appears from the adjacent woods and takes a drink, her ears fluttering with each gulp. As we pan-out we see two red squirrels dancing in an oak tree, itself green and full of life, sheltering the forest floor with its strong, aged branches. The squirrels leap onto the floor surrounding the tree looking for acorns in playful curiousity. In the distance, beyond the forest, we see chimney-smoke from a small countryside hamlet; a boy plays outside the village church with his friends, fencing with sticks stolen from the forest with cries of “On guard!” and “Ow that got my bloody finger!” The boys nervously stop as they watch two young women pass-by, but thereafter they continue their re-enactment of Agincourt with vigour and confidence (I pity the boy having to play the part of Charles d’Albret).
Such delicateness is scorned by the modern and their egalitarian stupour. “Too complicated,” they’d say. Lifeless corpses, all of them.
I’ve been reading about English history as per usual, and have found a very nice little piece of information.
The Angles are the subject of a legend about Pope Gregory I, who happened to see a group of Angle children from Deira for sale as slaves in the Roman market. As the story would later be told by the Anglo-Saxon monk and historian Bede, Gregory was struck by the unusual appearance of the slaves and asked about their background. When told they were called “Anglii” (Angles), he replied with a Latin pun that translates well into English: “Bene, nam et angelicam habent faciem, et tales angelorum in caelis decet esse coheredes” (“It is well, for they have an angelic face, and such people ought to be co-heirs of the angels in heaven”). Supposedly, this encounter inspired the Pope to launch a mission to bring Christianity to their countrymen.
The source for this interesting little tale is indeed an online copy of Saint Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum! I’ve been looking for this for some time and I’m glad to’ve found it at last.
I beseech all men who shall hear or read this history of our nation, that for my manifold infirmities both of mind and body, they will offer up frequent supplications to the throne of Grace. And I further pray, that in recompense for the labour wherewith I have recorded in the several countries and cities those events which were most worthy of note, and most grateful to the ears of their inhabitants, I may for my reward have the benefit of their pious prayers.
I’ve added another instalment to “Primer” over at West Coast Reactionaries; part the twelfth. It’s bizarre to read back through such a thing because I write it totally through inaction, which is to say without thinking about it. It comes out onto a text-editor as a stream of consciousness, and about seventy percent of the way through I copy and paste it into WordPress’ draft editor to add a few hundred words more. I then read through it checking for spelling mistakes and the like, categorise it, tag it, give it the correct featured image (a picture of the sky I took in late 2014 over mideastern Exeter one evening), and publish it — and away it goes, all in under half an hour at average. With some other parts of the series I put more thought into them, but these past two or three especially have been ultimately impromptu and spontaneous. Their disjointed and often obtuse prose likely a myth to most of the people who’d read them, these parts to “Primer” will ultimately serve as bookmarks in my intellectual journey and hurdles to the odd few who’d try to “get” them. I imply plenty and say relatively little of substance — a smattering of language to form a mosaic; once one steps-back to observe the whole picture instead of the individual parts all becomes a little clearer, it seems. Though, make no mistake; the only “point” to such writing is the inherent exhibitionism. I’m not arguing or making a point overmuch, just throwing things together and seeing what comes-out the other end. I’d say thus far I’ve been quite successful, if not obscure in some areas. But that’s the point! Writing isn’t supposed to be inclusive or communal — at least not all of it must be. I don’t give a damn if what I’m communicating in those articles makes little sense to ninety percent of the viewers; it’s the ten percent whom understand I have interest in and vice versa, in all likelihood.
In other news, I’ve been asked by my friend David Parry to speak at the Extremists Club in Soho, London at the end of next month. I’ve no clue what I could speak about to a room of assuming bohemians of all sorts. I can communicate by speech easily enough to people via YouTube because I know the general community and there are general presuppositions most of the people who’ll watch my videos will have, thus I will not have to repeat the essentials again and again.
But, to be very honest, I am still stuck trying to figure-out why David thinks I’d do well to speak to such a mish-mash of people. I’ll likely be both the youngest and the most politically extreme there. I’m not liberal in my character like he is; I’m not a patient person, nor a tolerant one. I do not care for the views of other people generally-speaking, nor do I give a toss about “converting” anyone to my ideology. I care about my own existential dimension and the people who are close to me — my views may have supra-individual dimensions, of course, but that fact isn’t my motivator. I cannot “save the white race” or anything so naive. True, if “white people” took my views, they’d be considerably stronger from the perspective of civilisation, but that is out of my grasp, hence I seek to ride the tiger, know myself and advocate the same for the few people I do have some influence upon.
I’m not a social person; I’m deeply introverted. I have fair social skills, but that’s a consequence of my own self-confidence — it’s nothing to do with other people, most of whom I look down upon in some regard anyways. Not in an arrogant fashion, mind you, just in the sense of hierarchy — there are plenty of people who I see as above me, and that’s how it should be. Enough with this silly notion of equality entering our social lives; there are students and masters, the unlearned and learned, the ignorant and the wise, the cowering and the honest.
But, regardless, what on Earth could I stand in front of strangers and talk about for thirty minutes? What a strange thought indeed. James wishes to assist in that regard but I know he isn’t the only one who’d be able to guide me in some manner.
I’ve been listening to King Crimson all evening. We’re now onto Starless and Bible Black, “Trio,” to be track-specific. Words can scarce describe the beauty therein.