Voids To Fill

There’s much fashion for the word “cope” lately. At one time it likely emerged outside the manosphere, though by this point use has become second nature to the fierce and reactionary male promoters. More and more lifestyle choices are labeled with such approbation, to where I suspect there is at least a horde of souls who have been trained to think along its guarded lines. They cannot escape the sensitivity, no matter how much stealthy avoidance is attempted. Destiny has clasped all moments for repressive study.

The fallout from this dynamic is brutal in descriptive shades. Everything that one does, especially as a man, must swiftly be called into question for not meeting the professed fantasy lived by Chadish specimens. Interested in art? Well, if it’s not leading to a six-plate harem and endless expansion of the sexual zone, then coping has come to roost. Not specifically focusing on workout regimens or diets that will make you large, and presumably more sexually desirable? Waste of time and an obvious coping mechanism. Better throw in some real estate investing and career-maxxing as well, because a basic life is not acceptable for anyone save the malingered souls of soyciety.

Absent careful consideration, we can easily fall prey to such twisted perceptions of truth. For example, when I moved to a larger city and had less of a robust social circle, I would at times feel pressured to seek out new avenues, hardly because I was full of energy after 40-plus hours of manual labor in wretched conditions; instead, it was the unceasing dictums of the internet pushing along. Best stay active and constantly move on to the next lay or night out, lest you slouch into the blasé inactivity of a NEET wannabe. You can’t yourself to just relax and enjoy the downtime, for losers sleep while winners go hard and fast on 4 hours a night.

Lately the influence has passed across my research efforts as well. Since 2019 I have issued at least 9 books, on a variety of subjects and demanding varied degrees of study to write. The present topic of Conservatism has proved especially frustrating, and at times I question the value. Pointedly, I wonder if I’m “coping” by dedicating time to a useful endeavor, albeit at the expense of more hours spent going out to interact with the opposite sex and merrily build the never-ending harem of gold. One of my next projects is a book that will likely require a year’s worth of reading and writing, with some sources not even available in an ideal translation. Am I frittering away time that could otherwise be spent “in the GAME” by following a dutiful passion on the digital page?

Them that follow the popular assumptions would no doubt concur readily. I’m not so ready to take that position. It seems like provision of energies to a cause, a personal myth perhaps, may not be so far from valid if one can stay halfway rational about the whole thing, while still dedicating some time to other offerings.

But then again, that could just be another cope.

Culturalism · Uncategorized

Looking In

In the course of my routine stroll through literary fields, I typically stay within the bounds of a few genres, mainly history or political theory. On occasion however, I may allow myself the vague impulse snag and pick a subject far outside the traditional realm. This presents something of a danger for me, as books can range from short and tolerable to long and brutal, or even those curt varieties which seem to endure past the life of a thousand generations. Still, there are times when I stumble across a perplexing title that, in its bizarre fashion, turns out to be wildly endearing,

The latest iteration on this front is Punch Me Up To The Gods, a memoir by the author Brian Broome. Even compared to others, the text is an odd choice, in that the author is gay, black, and a recovering cocaine user. Not exactly my go-to content creator profile, but strangely enough, beyond all its lurid degeneracy, the story was relatable on a level completely unexpected. As it turns out, Broome’s perspective during his childhood reminded me of my own, particularly in regards to the way he viewed the idealized American family structure on television.

Whereas Broome’s own home was a warzone of violence, alcoholism, and hatred, the flickering box offered a different angle. He watched shows where husbands loved their wives, and wives adored their husbands. Children were the light and joy of their parents, who never seemed to lack an ability to express love towards their offspring. Grandma was there to make cookies and be sweet at all times, while money seemed to never be a matter of concern. In short, Broome associated goodness and love with white people, similar to the author of I Love Yous Are For White People.

If only they were right. Though I can’t lay claim to the same degree of instability and abuse experienced by Brian (apart from much shouting), the visage of television provided a suggestive model that I looked at with some curious longing at the same age. In my family, “I love you” was a rare, almost endangered, utterance. It was more often replaced by positive actions, themselves welcome, but still distant from the speech dropped so readily on screen. Those other families. The ones who seemed to get it, for whom fitting in was a matter of natural course.

And then there was the grandma persona. Kind, open, ready to bake up batches of gingerbread and provide a reassuring voice. Never harsh, always gentle. A stark contrast with what I knew. My grandmother, for the time she was around, maintained a stalwart crabbiness and judging personality that would cause you to walk on eggshells around her. What you ate or said (or the manner of speaking), or even the way you smiled. Everything was grounds for scrutiny and condemnation.

In fairness, such behavior came from her own difficult childhood, imbued with poverty and struggle. So it felt wrong to wholly judge her back, though I admit to at many times deliberately avoiding her presence out of a desire to not call down the wrath of the “good old rage days” upon my head. This defensive strategy worked for the most part, but of course you never saw it on T.V. Again, normal people didn’t do that, because they had normal grandmothers.

I suppose my experiences growing up have prevailed to some degree and influenced the present day. My usual inclination is to be relaxed about what others think or do with their own lives, yet I cannot deny that at times I look back to the serialized family or current Instagram-styled behavior and just wonder. Are they not living the right way, like a better version of the Truman Show, whilst my own reality is a pale substitution, just “looking in” on harmonious perfection?

Perspective, always perspective. 


If You’re Stuck

Been a bit languid as far as producing content here is concerned. That may or may not change depending on how things proceed in the next couple months. In any case, I want to drop the following information for those of you who are hesitant but have no realistic option of turning down the insertion. Whether they actually work is still up for debate, but at least some of the people advancing such possibilities appear to know their stuff.

Other things that have been thrown around are Pine Needle tea, Dandelion Extract, and Nettle Leaf Extract. Make sure to look into each one in detail and consult with nutritionist or doctor before going ahead with them.


Is Everyone Being Outraged Without Me?

In today’s world I often find myself confused. Not because my brain malfunctions, or simply chooses to be sluggish, but rather on account of the strange tendency for people to suddenly agitate over things that wouldn’t otherwise bat an eye. We saw it previously with the Peloton ad, which generated mass hysteria for absolutely no reason, forcing Google to preempt questions about why we should all be enraged:

More recently, the Plural Left was able to dig up anger regarding some white woman’s attempt to market food in her unique way. The culprit, a literal Karen, added some different flavors to congee, a mundane breakfast dish popular in Asian circles. She also wrote a post discussing her “improvements” to the slushy gruel, but clearly honored its longtime cultural foundations in Asia. The response? Utterly juvenile. Casey Ho, a female with questionable gender credentials, had this to say:

I sincerely apologize for subjecting you to that image. What remains interesting is how people are (justifiably) confused:

It seems we can only expect more of this desperate grasping for meaning in the years to come. America is unquestionably in decline, so the propensity of folks to scrounge for anything with which to give themselves purpose and opportunities for moralistic strutting is bound to flourish. We can either join in, ferociously shaking fists at the established boogeyman, or stay agape, wondering where it all came from.

Choose wisely.