The other day one of my main ladies mentioned how she would like to get a nose job. I was a little confused, as nothing seems inherently wrong with her beak. Sure, it’s more prominent and longer than say, a field mouse’s, but there the striking aspects end. Nothing crooked or aggressively hooked about it, nor wide and illustrious as a joyful potato. Just present, as is tradition.
My initial response was to tell her not to worry. “Your nose is fine, so why change it?”
“Because some people make fun of me.”
Some. Hardly worth redirecting your life and spending $10,000 on the rhino express over, right? I mean, it’s a vanity project directed at other characters, and less so personal happiness.
That’s a wrap, I suppose, of the Hallmark variety. Written and produced by George Santos.
Still, I can’t help but wonder where my own motivations might be sourced. Am I advising her against it strictly because plastic surgery is unnecessary for anything other than severe disfigurement? Do I genuinely reject the vanity polishing popular in our looks-fixated world of Black Pill deniers? Is it some Quixotic mission to boost the fragile female ego in a nice guy’s fashion?
Possibly. On the alternative front, perhaps my schemes are less pure. If she gets the rhino procedure, her looks may indeed be enhanced, thus drawing more attention (and competition) into the mix. I might inadvertently lose something of value by not beseeching an endorsement of the contented pose. Visible elevation could absolutely better her experiences and prospects in life, hence my ulterior motive rises to discourage the surgery, only in supportive and self-righteous terms.
Here we go with another notes post. George Gilder definitely goes off the rails with some of his work, but the broader take on male/female relationships in Men and Marriage, a reissue of his older Sexual Suicide book, is quite excellent. His essential argument is that women are sexually superior, whereas men find themselves lost searching for an identity in our modern world of hostility towards the smallest signs of manliness.
On Silly Appeals to Physical Superiority
“In primitive societies men have the compensation of physical strength. They can control women by force and are needed to protect them from other men. But this equalizer is relatively unimportant in a civilized society, where the use of force is largely restricted by law and custom. In successful civilized societies, man counterbalances female sexual superiority by playing a crucial role as provider and achiever. Money replaces muscle.” (6)
On Intercourse Driving Identity
“For men the desire for sex is not simply a quest for pleasure. It is an indispensable test of identity. And in itself it is always ultimately temporary and inadequate. Unless his maleness is confirmed by his culture, he must enact it repeatedly, and perhaps destructively for himself or his society.” (11)
“The most obvious relief, masturbation, is a flight from sexual identity rather than an affirmation of it. Relations with girls, moreover, are ambiguous and complicated at this stage.” (26)
“In modern society, sexual relations with women are becoming the chief way men assert their sexual identity. But in most of the world’s societies, sexual relations follow achievement of manhood, or accompany it.” (27)
“But homosexuality is merely the most vivid and dramatic manifestation of the breakdown of monogamy—a extreme expression of the sexuality of single men. […] Homosexuality can therefore feel more natural to many men than their comparatively laborious, expensive, and frustrating pursuits of young women.” (69, 74)
On Money and Providers
“But unlike the warrior’s emblems and hunter’s game, money lacks gender. Women can get it as well as men. The provider role, therefore, is losing its immediate sexual correlation. It is sustained by the greater desire of men to perform it, and by their greater aptitude for competition.” (47)
I admit to being very skeptical of psychology. The field is colored by a veneer of liberalism, self-righteousness, and general “bleeding heart” proclivities. It is often weaponized against anyone with principles, which roughly translates to those figures who call out corruption or decay in the social state. Many of the historical figures associated with the field are of questionable moral standing, only heightening my general unease with its efficacy.
But that’s not the full story. As I listened to Brene Brown’s TEDTalk on vulnerability, I was struck by an overwhelming theme applicable to myself, and to men in general: we are not fully honest with ourselves. Present male social norms hearken back years, when warfare was closer to home and the worth of boys depended heavily on their usefulness in hunting or fighting. Free displays of sorrow or pain were cast as symbols of weakness, because “that’s what women do.” Remarkably, even as the world changes radically by each minute, men are yet held to the standards of past times, implored to “man up” and not reveal their genuine feelings. So instead we suppress, suck it up, and move on, without addressing the underlying problem.
Consequently, the only true acceptable outlet to burn emotional excess comes in the form of combat sports, or, more often than should be desired, internet rage. Society’s refusal to permit a listen, and demonization of sympathizers, leads many males to clamber aboard the internet steamship, finding explanations for their rage in politics, “the manosphere,” or hedonistic materialism. Every argument or contrast becomes drawn on the basis of scarcity and separation, where one is expected to take a position in order to not be like “those people.” Elect conservatives to get losers off welfare, take the Red Pill and avoid becoming a simp, or build up wealth and leave the drone culture. All well and good, but how are these jaded outlooks working to overcome individual struggle?
Simple, they aren’t. One can attain great wealth or control of others’ emotions (i.e. “Game”), but if the self is wrapped up in ropes of denial originating from childhood suppression of feeling, they will never escape and be at peace. There will always be the lingering insistence of pointing to the world for an ego-sating comparison, or vilifying the opposite sex based on its mere existence. And this practice is never properly exhausted, so the target of disdain must always be raised to a threshold higher in order to please anger’s flow. Hence we need more restrictions on welfare, and men should work to accrue increased wealth, so they can buy sex dolls and replace women. Because separation is not enough; the scapegoat must be hounded eternally to craft a sense of meaning.
For these reasons, I believe our entire conception of masculinity is inherently flawed. A man is not “alpha” or “masculine” because he shakes his fist and makes vicious threats on the internet. True courage and manliness would require him to be open about his personal struggles and, in front of men, show emotion. Such a suggestion seems like an anathema to the casual observer, but the reasoning remains critical. It’s not absolutely necessary to sit down with a professional counselor or psychologist, yet hashing things out as men is the only way that pain can be drawn out and dealt with, as opposed to hidden under piles of sheer fury.
I admit to spending at least a small share of time browsing the Hufflepuff website. My logic holds that doing so provides an idea of the culture — or mental bearing — of those who think differently, making discourse with them more enjoyable. The alternative often devolves into mindless yammering over talking points selected from the political on high, and little eventual headway. At the same time, the process can reveal saddening truths about the roots of their ideas, and the addictions which fuel them. In the case of leftists, there seems to be a correlation between those perspectives and the swirling domination that drugs create.
Our journey of exposition will focus on Laura Cathcart Robbins, a prominent “Black Voices” columnist who has unleashed the following array of suspect. To start, we have the obligatory “I felt out of place” piece:
Seems to be a wholesome leftist wife:
With a healthy sense of intimacy:
Definitely not hung up at all about her choice of a dating partner:
She’s very comfortable with her decisions:
Not a shred of animosity towards the racial group she prefers:
And the final whammy:
Yes indeed, the empowered writer who layers her work with racist undertones is an admitted recovering alcohol and pills addict. I do not write this to salivate or rejoice over her struggles, but it reveals some difficult truths nonetheless. One would imagine the liberal mind with all of its opulence is capable of bypassing the trivial problems affecting the poor and downtrodden, yet in many cases there is no difference. This majestic “WOC” is brought to her knees by sheer dependency on the most basic of drugs.
On a broader level, Robbins’ story is disconcerting because of the already-established faithlessness of the Plural Left. Imagine if the California Comrade takes office in January, bringing like-minded throngs to the halls of power…will we be ruled by souls enslaved to the bottle, meds, or grass?
The empowered blogosphere has been alight recently over the negative reaction to a miscarriage picture posted by John Legend’s wife. While it all appears to be a case of much ado about cucking, the fury got me thinking about the bizarre and morally degenerate folks who are uplifted, largely due to celebrity status or the relative quality of their body. In that latter grouping falls the insufferable Milana Vayntrub, a girl next door type who has somehow managed to capture the hearts of the commercial-consuming world, though for what reasons I cannot rightly know. She also had the following to say after Trump’s COVID diagnosis:
To be fair, the president isn’t the nicest person in the world, but focus on the messenger for a moment. Vayntrub is a public figure with substantial clout both on-screen and online. Is such a sentiment responsible from the standpoint of a person pretending to endorse positivity and respect, particularly given her own gripes with negativity on the internet? Leftists do get the social pass on hatred, but even on an individual level she has the capacity to rise above this mayhem.
Milana’s mischief is not isolated to Trump, however. In response to the #YouKnowMe hashtag being used to popularize abortion, she tweeted this:
Joke or not, it showcases great imperfections of the soul. Here is a person whose fame is largely based on their unchosen physical appearance, making light of the unborn child’s death. Why, exactly? Not because it gets in the way of humanitarian outreach or self-sacrifice, but rather sex.
Therein is the vile truth about our decrepit nature. Lust seizes and commandeers the spirit, manhandling her purpose towards the subjugation of all value in exchange for that brief utterance, the ejection of fleeting happiness which soon turns to grim depression. We follow such creatures because they reflect our basest selves, the living desire to be mortal gods with a large enough digital soapbox and bank account to where any sense of guilt is swept cleanly away, leaving material grimace in the wake.
So freely virtue dies, bleating ecstatic moans to the lingered end.
Those of you who have followed me for a time know I am skeptical of religion. Such a position should not translate into the understanding of outright disbelief, but rather difficulty in accepting the mainline examples of spirituality as adequate explanations for our existence. Consequently, I do not jump at agreement when presented with suggestions that we are “living in the endtimes,” or “about to face the Rapture.” While in some ways steeling, said claims often seem more about the speaker wanting reality to align with their own worldview, and not an indisputable Armageddon.
All that aside, I will occasionally come across something that turns back my own unconvinced soul, or even hints at another possibility. In point, we have the following article from our friends at Hufflepuff. Though the short written offering is not tantamount to glorious deification of the dark lord Satan, one cannot help but feel dismay over the pettiness of it. Here we have a privileged white female marching in the direction of utter depravity simply because politics didn’t turn out the way she liked. Take this quote, for example:
“When Justice Ginsburg died, I knew immediately that action was needed on a scale we have not seen before. Our democracy has become so fragile that the loss of one of the last guardians of common sense and decency in government less than two months before a pivotal election has put our civil and reproductive rights in danger like never before. And, so, I have turned to Satanism.”
Think about that in context for a moment. A self-described “40-something attorney and mother,” who presumably passed through the seven years of required college education, wants to be a Satanist because the Supreme Court’s ideological balance might shift. Notwithstanding her hypocritical appeals to democracy, which apparently is “threatened” only if she loses, why go so low? Are there no other shores for the sophisticated professional to breach apart from those oriented around the foremost enemy of the Father? Even in the narrow context of the Satanic church’s battling organized religion for legal primacy, the entire affair smarts of overzealous hatred and spiritual compromise.
“Everyone who cares about women having autonomy over their bodies should care about efforts to use religion to chip away at this right. We need to think outside the box to challenge what is coming and what is already here. The Satanic Temple is already doing that, and by becoming one of its members, I believe I have joined a community of people who will stop at nothing to safeguard my family’s rights ― and all of our rights ― when they are at their most vulnerable.”
Ah yes, the classic appeal to female autonomy over the body. This is the same logic which considers harlotry a symbol of pride, corporate wage slavery the highest calling for women, and abortion a flippant decision to be celebrated. Anything that strips away the purposeful ends of the male-female relationship and the family unit holds paramount status, because somehow being “liberated” is a fervent virtue, much like men must obsess over “being an individual” for the sake of individualism itself. Forget about any depth or spirituality, for life must be lived in the moment and sworn to a lack of kind.
When I observe the machinations of such lost peoples, desperately making attempts at justifying their shoddy state and vengeful hearts towards God by joining the column of his sworn enemy, I cannot help but wonder if sinister forces are truly at work. It would seem that the secularist coalition might be content with freedom alone to live their lives, but increasingly they desire to spite the heavens along Sorrow Road. Not content to depart the Father, they insist on cursing Him.
Scrolling down an assorted Instagram, Facebook, or Twitter feed will invariably result in the depiction of a message along the lines of “True Love must be unconditional,” or “There is no ‘but’ in ‘I love you.’” Those statements may well warm the anxious heart, especially in folks who have struggled with the attainment of genuine affection on a romantic or spiritual basis. It flourishes within a hope that someday the same will be true for them, despite continuous disappointment. Beautiful as the sentiments may unfurl, they mask a delusional and unrealistic assessment of the beating world, one coupled to dangerous results for the fiercest believers.
Our salvo might begin by examining marriages. Often these unions are predicated on the lofty notion of the unconditional, but of course more relevant factors are involved. Consider the tragic case of Tyler Ziegel, a Marine Corps sergeant who was horribly disfigured by a roadside bomb during the Iraq War. After returning home, Ziegel married Renee Kline, his high school sweetheart and fiancée from a pre-deployment engagement. According to the Hallmark internet image, the couple were a paragon of successful love:
“A day later he is in San Antonio, Texas, at the Brooke Army Medical Center. She leaves her home town for the first time to fly there with his mother so they can be by his side. She is there for him. His injuries are severe. He will have numerous operations and she will stand by him throughout. It will be a year and a half before they all go home. In the meantime, she will move in with his mother. The homecoming is a triumph. He is a hero and she is his heroine. Their commitment to each other is inspiring and rock-solid. They get married. She is now 21 and he is 24. The wedding takes place on October 7, 2006, and that date is declared a state holiday. Renee and Tyler Ziegel Day. Their romance is covered by The Sunday Times Magazine. They plan to have a family. Love conquers all.“
It sounds wonderful. Here is their wedding picture:
As you can see, Renee looks terribly unhappy, despite all the praise and social accoutrements being foisted on their union. In barely a year, they were divorced, both because she could not accept his appearance, and due to the influence of a “flame” she hooked up with while he was deployed. Some years later in 2012, Ziegel died of an alcohol and morphine overdose.
So what happened? Did love not conquer all in this case? Was it built on lies? Perhaps the simplest answer would be to understand that conditions are attached to the passionate concept. Renee probably loved him to some degree, but it was based on his looks, and when he came back disfigured through no fault of his own, that changed. He was no longer the same person, and that was the disqualifying condition.
Similarly, though less extreme, a woman who gains 100 pounds after marriage may find her husband doesn’t look upon her the same way. She could claim he’s superficial and appeal to unconditional love, but let’s remember WHO he fell in love with. Hint: not the heavy-set chica. Had he possessed a photograph of what she would look like in six years, the ring may have gotten lost in a sewer drain.
Children are not exempt from this dynamic either. It is certainly true that a good parent cannot afford to hate or spite their offspring for bad behavior at a young age, because the new soul may not know better. Over time however stark restrictions must be installed, or else you have the kid public berating his parents for not making food correctly or failing to get the perfect gift. Unconditional love in this frame is just another term for spoiled, and the risk grows with age.
If a daughter insults both her parents, or defames them socially due to their dislike of a romantic partner, should the reply be unhindered love and tenderness? Now suppose she becomes pregnant, and her coupling lives up to the normal DoorDash stereotype…are they expected to support her financially because love is unconditional? The sensible response would be no, and yet I can already hear the shrill castigations of the morally outraged, for whom sleep is never honest.
But past all those cries strikes the glorious heart, where past all recriminations and bloviating, they know I’m right.
As many of you know, Ruth Bader Ginsburg passed away sometime Friday evening at the age of 87, after a long battle with multiple forms of cancer. Though this post has other motivations than pure commemoration, I will pause to take note for a moment. During my days as a young and empowered conservative, I often had a distant (and negative) view of RBG, largely because of her politics. It was only after watching her eulogy for Antonin Scalia that I developed a different appreciation, one surrounding her humanity. A critical issue with modern politics is the conspiracy to invalidate people on the basis of opinions, often whilst claiming to speak for the entire human race. This is a sickening trend with poor tidings for the time ahead.
What RBG’s death will do is tear down the curtains of fragile respectability, or at least the parts still remaining. I would not put her timely passing beyond the wildest machinations of the Democratic Machine, which above all else desires the supremacy of power. Such an event steels the most dejected into action, and increases the chances of any outcome being viewed as illegitimate. The perfect gale has arrived.
Consequently, we can expect to see the level of rioting and pillaging increased to dramatic levels, both before and after this election. The desperation of leftists towards triumph may even cause them to target elected senators in states where the Democratic governor has power to appoint a replacement. Nothing will be off the table for these souls, who now cry out to the internet in anguish, as if they are cut off from the divine culture. Vile dismissals of violence directed against their opponents will become the canon norm, and the timid dweebs arguing about “the intolerance of the liberal left” shall face an epic usurpation of their credibility, while Christians wonder if the end times are nigh.
The remaining lot – us who see past the empty diversions of the political game – are bound to be caught in the crossing fire, despite our attempts at avoiding Armageddon. We are to be the voices that were never listened to, at last set alight at a time when being “right” matters not, for everyone has become wrong. Hence there is no treasure for the rewarding, only a brittle grudge, the child of hearts cast to infinite scorn.
Little as we can do to prevent this calamity, there are measures to take for personal safety:
Review your investments, and determine if some should be trimmed or divested (but do not panic sell).
Be careful about open displays of political affiliation. Free speech is a virtue, but not respected by all.
Take care of your elders, and the young. Weaker targets are perfect prey for the radicalized and unshakeable.
Go about with confidence and caution. Being lost in a phone while in public is a great target made.
If the mob comes for you, fight as if the world is collapsing. You may be right, and no police or allies are guaranteed to come.
Should you follow God or gods, find peace with them now, and pray.
Perhaps these assessments are too harsh, or overblown by the limited scope of one man’s existence. Still, few people ever understand the gravity of their times, or the flimsy nature of the order around them. Be true to heart by knowing what is to come, so your life is not wasted in speculation of when that spiritual chapter may emerge.
There is an awful lot of emphasis on “coming together” and “being one tribe” in today’s world, both before and after the death of Coors Light. Companies can’t stop preaching the virtues, politicians are ever-willing to trot out their statements of welcome, and educational leaders do much the same. We are all one, they seem to mutter, and you best believe it.
The only problem is, reality tells a starkly different story. Depending on who we are and where we come from, our perceptions and experiences stand to be radically disparate in nature, regardless of how much propaganda can be hoisted to block out those facts. No serious person is going to argue that the 6’4’’ white man has any realistic identification or solidarity with a 5’2’’ Hispanic guy. Perhaps if they work in the same economic field we might witness some closeness, but each will be reacted to as though they are two entirely separate creatures, based on skin tone and height. Only an exasperated fool would attempt to join them.
In the field of dating, those differences matter, as we well know. The same could be true of a fit and lipped Latina versus a 250lb “Baby blue eyes” blonde. Is anyone willing to argue that somehow they are on even terms? (This excluding the Alt-Right and minority men who worship skin color). Differences matter, and no one actually believes the aforementioned claptrap unless they have to.
Now some empowered soul will stand and declare, “You’re wrong! It’s a about equality under the law.” Please humor me more. Is a working class person without financial resources liable to be treated the same as a rich fellow who can pay for the fancier esquire? The answer is not in doubt, but citizens are expected to cover their eyes and ears.
Even in the economic realm, disparities translate into divided universes. The college kid whose parents are loaded has far more freedom in terms of extracurricular activities and graduate schools than another specimen forced to pay their own way. I am reminded of the self-righteous classmate who mocked me for having a summer job in university while he took a stipend from the parents for an unpaid internship with the high and mighty. Means lead to starkly opposite ends, at least in the medium term.
As time goes on, this prevailing truth continues to manifest itself in the public square. There is no debate that BMM supporters view the world differently than “Defend the Police” adherents. Certainly Democrats and Republicans have separate views of legitimacy, which raises the deafening cry of what will happen in November 2020, regardless of the outcome.
Will everyone unite, because “We’re all Americans after all”?
“Those fateful days, robust hours, frightful minutes, all lost to the shimmering gray wall of forever.”
Not sure where that quotation came from, so we’ll just say Martin Goldberg. At any rate, it touches upon one of the most direct arguments I can make for the maintenance of a daily – if not at least every other day—written journal. This remains one of the most crucial habits you can adopt in life, and, perhaps unsurprisingly, the practice is relatively uncommon.
As human beings, our capacity for long-term memory is relatively limited. Most of us cannot remember in detail a single day twenty years ago, or even one two weeks passed. It could be something to do with the monotony of everyday life, yet the realization is no less disconcerting under that lens. It is probably not a stretch to say that 97 percent of your life is a frantic blur, and that is somehow acceptable. I try to even but I simply cannot.
Think of the memories, the specifics, whether good or bad, all dashed to pieces in short order, their legacies gone before a second breath. The magnitude is an overwhelming spell of terror. What’s more, those absent slices of time make up your life.
On this very hill we must consider the value of a journal. By jotting down specific notes of what went on and who was involved, the individual crafts an enduring story which can outsmart the mind and leave imprints to be rediscovered in later days. There is no more – or certainly less—of the scrambling wonder, the attempt to recall a name or face, especially as you gaze down the churning tide of advanced age. Instead of being a stumbled and haggard crone reaching for the vanished past, you can feel the touch of scrolls, the scent of faded ink, the love of days gone by but never perished. You have the ability to return, and to revisit.
Now of course at some point you may pass on into that place beyond the stars, where few souls have gone and reported back. Yet with a journal you live on. The heart of the child, young or grown to fill difficult shoes, will look at and enter the mind of his father, feel the echoes of the time, the memory he was too small to experience. Daughters will find the wisdom of their mother, what things she loved, the joy that spoke, rich tears all cried. The legacy will be one living, from time towards a horizon eternal.
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