Follys, Follys, Everywhere

Paul Fahrenheidt

Paul Fahrenheidt

Many a man thought himself wise, but what he wanted he did not know.

It’s no secret the sphere which reads this publication finds itself, like so many rocks of a ring, in orbit around the Saturn that is the Academic Agent. This has upsides, including the discipline which brings things such as this publication about. But it’s weaknesses are becoming repulsive to me, like a festering wound no one acknowledges or, if they do, spend half the day telling me it is a good thing.

This cannot stand.

AA himself is a self-admitted godless heathen, a so-called “Post-Modern Traditionalist.” My gripe is not with him per se, as he instinctively knows exactly what is missing from his life. Just look at his tweets on how to become Sufi, or his defense of Paganism. No, this is a critique at the sphere as a whole; the bigger rocks in the ring of Saturn, and Saturn’s moons who are known only in relation to the Gas Giant.

The Gas Giant is no Wind-bag, in fact I’ve seen him change over the past five years of my life, a time which has changed me too. Perhaps more radically than he, given I’m near half his age. And indeed he stumbles (accidentally of course) on takes which bring him closer to the truth than any of his guests or fellow-travelers. I fully understand he has people on because he’s friends with them and that is not what the lens of my pen is trained on. No, I train on the substance, or at least my approximation of substance that backs their words.

First I speak to the Technical Totalitarian, the Atheist Absolutist in one Curtis Yarvin, turning out to be both sides of his pseudonym on the side of our cause. His thoughts are as black as the mold which infested my barracks room, his words a parasitic-insect, or perhaps a virus as both could be called a bug. He’s just a year behind Peterson, and everyone knows it.

Separating art from artist, his early work continues to serve as a cornerstone of the canon developing around us, yet it’s always felt tinged with a certain Trojan Horse, which too many on our side have welcomed into our not-so-Trojan walls. This Trojan horse is the systemic thinking, the failure to treat the cause of the disease in favor of making a big show of making your headache go away. Breadmold’s great flaw can be found in his outlook, and his outright failure to address the very idea of the Kali Yuga. Of course I can’t blame this on his ethnicity, although I won’t stop the dear reader from doing so. No he looks at the system like any programmer would: as a problem to be fixed.

To him democracy doesn’t make enough stuff, or perhaps he’d prefer spiritual materialism over material materialism. I.e., he’d prefer us all begging and bootlicking the CEO in our little Patch of the Patchwork for a crumb of Moldy and Insect-filled Bread, and having that be the meaning of our lives. This is not a line against the idea of absolutism, rather the profane system slot Breadmold constructs for us to put one of the ruling elite into to make their tyranny more efficient. At least it’s based though.

Breadmold is a caricature of the truth, the final holding action of the system against an ideological onslaught tipped with the worst poison we can use against it: Metaphysics. His poems are lukewarm. His historical takes are just edgier establishment lines.

NRx theory is to be regarded in the same way as an axe, a chisel, a protractor; a tool. Something to measure and apply the vision, but never the vision in itself. Anyone who believes our parallelism and community building is for Libertarian Localist Fantasies has internalized the Trojan Horse.

I next speak to Mary’s Martyrs, the missionaries of misery mired in monastic aesthetics and the mantra of, “Christ is King!” I must digress and ensure the dear reader understands, I have no problems with Christians of any sort, so long as they’re based. Nor do I have issues with the particular group I address other than their self-congratulatory view of the world.

It appears we have zero problem with universalism when it’s in the name of the Christ. Oh? Another fifteen minute discussion about Pagans with such riveting and original points as, “How many pagans even are there?” Or perhaps the always humorous take of, “Pagans are just LARPers, all of them are LARPers.” All topped off with, “Pagans are the most left wing religion out there.” Really, I can’t understand why the Martyrs keep talking about the Pagans, especially their fellow right-wing Pagans as an enemy if they are such a force not to be taken seriously.

One thing the Martyrs are common at forgetting is that Christian Theology is what lead us to Globohomo in the first place. Call it a bastardization all you want, call it heresy, call it satanic influence, I understand the concept of the infallibility of the Church as an Institution. Yet as Galileo said to the champions of truth found in Rome, “Eppur si muove.” Globohomo exists, and Christ’s followers stand toothless when they cling to the Christianity that created the chimera we’ve been tasked to slay.

The based right-wing is a living form. To be so is to herald the icons of the coming age. I tell the Martyrs not to be sacrilegious, but to show them what moves. The champions of the young right-wing are not the Integralists who read a couple books on NRx theory and understand memes. Their champions are Bronze Age Pervert, Raw Egg Nationalist, Thomas777, the Frog-posters. They are everyone interesting and new, two things the Catholic Church and its aesthetics are not.

But at the end of it, I only accuse the Martyrs of one thing: getting too lost in their inherited narrative. Christ the Redeemer is the most powerful figure in recorded history; he literally splits time in half. But the Martyrs would do better to mimic Rembrandt’s reinvention of Christian Iconotypes than to cling to the corpse of their church closer resembling Pope Formosus than Christ.

Allow me to defend the Bronze Age Pervert, not that he needs it, but there’s a pervasive misunderstanding of him within this sphere which disgusts me in it’s caricature. He is the reincarnation of the type of man like Gabrielle D’Annunzio, the type of man we spend three hour livestreams talking about how great he was. But greatness is something more admired in livestreams than it is when it walks among us, when it is living!

BAP is not a man, nor is he a single issue. No, BAP is a cultural force, the living incarnation of the Prophet Zoroaster. Recently it has been said that all issues of Globohomo are tied up in COVID. I venture to say, all of the refutations of Globohomo are tied up in BAP. He is a Nietzschian, an acolyte of Jünger, of Celine, of Mishima, of Thomas777, of the Tyrant Dionysius, of Heraclitus, and of life! His sayings are not spoken words, but onslaughts of something beyond fact, of truth revealed and answering questions you never deigned to ask.

He is a Fascist, because Fascism is a fact.

He celebrates bodybuilders, because excellence is a fact.

He heralds the warband, as they are the elite of fact.

He is a white supremacist, because white supremacy is a fact.

He places aesthetics above all, because aesthetics are a fact.

I say to all, the contemporaries hate the genius because of their subconscious resentment. BAP has unleashed a feeling, not because he created it, but because it already existed. If you doubt me, watch Office Space or look into the life story of the Reenactor that began the Donbas war.

It is my sincere hope that the fake and gay pretensions of the backward thinkers in this sphere are corrected, or at the least they look to the truths of Our Thing, and seek to update their thinking in light of them.

Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat.