I am for the small West, the hidden West, the West which no one hears about and few ever talk about…I’m for the West which is small, subtle, and hidden, yet makes the West great.
I am against America now, I am against the West now, because they do not embody the principles that fueled the great engines of European culture and brought the world beautiful things.
Mitchell killed it with this one. He absolutely killed it with this piece. In the process, he did me a great service.
I like America in the abstract. I like the idea of America. I like quite a lot of the quintessential American values. I think there is much to be learned from the American model. Yet, I don’t like much about America, and I overall can’t tell whether I like it or not. I’ve been struggling with this tension for a while now, as I think certain hints on this blog have indicated.
Now, I understand why I have felt this way, and the tension I have felt for so long has finally ceased. I understand far better now what it is that I admire and what it is that I abhor and why the same singular entity can elicit both sentiments in me at the same time. I owe Mitchell my thanks for that.
Talk of exit has been bouncing around the sphere with renewed interest of late (much of this due to the idea of newcomer Xenophobe that we should build a sweet-ass Neoreactionary Antarctic Base), as have murmurs of memetic infiltration of more mainstream nodes. The latter began to abound after it was noted that The National Review had put out an article suggesting that white South Africans invoke the right of exit (my words, not theirs) and form their own Singapore-style state on the coast. Both the ethno-nationalist-leaning types and the techno-commercialists were greatly amused and have been feeling smugly self-satisfied all week (here at The Legionnaire we hold no allegiance to any of the three branches, but instead try to reside in the memetic void that exists in the space among them).
Thoughts on exit have been percolating at the back of my head for some time, and one idea keeps coming to the forefront of mind. It is an idea that I do not yet understand, and one that does not quite mean what it sounds like it means, but it is an idea that I think is of tremendous importance.
On a very related note, I think I am beginning to understand exactly why Nick Land is so found of “The Outside”.
I suppose I should explain that last parenthetical.
The general consensus is that Neoreaction is a synthesis of Ethno-Nationalism, Religious-Traditionalism, and Techno-Commercialism. I am not necessarily doubting this, but how many Neoreactionaries are actually Ethno-Nationalists, Religious-Traditionalists, AND Techno-Commercialists? I’m sure we all have at least a current of all three, but from a strict standpoint many of us aren’t exactly any of them (exceptions abound).
We could, of course, rectify this by claiming that many Neoreactionaries are just bad neoreactionaries. There’s no reason to claim that this is invalid, but it does feel unsatisfying.
This is perhaps a bit bold of me, but I believe that the problem lies with the synthesis model of the Trichotomy. It surreptitiously formalizes the assumption that Neoreaction is a set of positive policy prescriptions and ONLY a set of positive policy prescriptions. I don’t think that’s the case. Neoreaction is a lot of things, but if it is that, it isn’t JUST that.
Neoreaction, true Neoreaction, is a void. It is not a thing, it is an anti-thing. It is the photo negative of the post-modern right-wing.
An old acquaintance visited the area earlier this week and I happened to run into them. When she left two years ago, she had been a she wanting to be a he. Nowadays, things have changed quite a bit. I suppose nearly two years of hormone treatments will do that to a person.
Let’s call this person “Clownfish”. Clownfish is a bit different than I remember. Clownfish is hairier on the face and arms, though, interestingly enough, the hair on the scalp retains the same lustrous sheen as before the hormone treatment. Clownfish is also significantly bulkier around the traps, shoulders, and arms. Clownfish even has bigger hands.
Yet, some things were exactly the same. The inflection, lilt, tone, and fluctuations of Clownfish’s voice has not changed. Clownfish’s particular mannerisms — the unique crane of the neck when addressed, the fidgeting with the hands, and the slight tuck of the chin after making a joke — are still all there. The fashion sense is exactly the same too.
To what degree can we actually change who we are? To what degree can superficialities disguise the person the cover? If even high-dose hormone treatments cannot change our unconscious habits, what can?
Side note: That was a rhetorical question. I have a very good idea of how to do it, but that’s not the point.
Before this week, it had never hit me so hard that our little quirks and tics form a signature as unique as our fingerprints, and that we can be so easily identified by this signature.
This owl gets it.
I signed up for a metalworking class. It meets once every week for two hours. The instructor gives a quick lesson on some new technique and we spend the rest of the time sawing and banging and hammering away at whatever design our imagination seeks to free from its brass, copper, or silver prison.
It’s been a bit frenetic on my end as of late. Long story short, I’m under the obligation to write more in the next two weeks than I usually have to do in an entire semester. Fun stuff eh? Needless to say, the pressure is on.
I always was the type to rise to the occasion, and as the deadline looms, I find myself possessed of a mad, frenetic, bubbling energy, as if lightning itself was running through my veins. With all this power crackling through my body, there’s no way I can fail.
And yet, in those two hours of metalworking, all the tumultuous fury melts away, and I experience nothing else beyond the shine of the silver in my hands. I found myself in a zone of quiet tranquility that I last experienced during my flirtation with Buddhism. It is a quiet, calm, serene feeling, a tiny island paradise in a ocean of of senseless ravage, a permanent eye in this savage hurricane.
I love the roar of the storm and the chaos of the maelstrom. I am not alive unless the pressure is on and the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune fly. I will live by the storm and I will die by the storm and I will die a happy man.
But there is a happiness in the quiet serenity as well, and the day I no longer appreciate that calm is the day I truly lose myself to the void.