It was only a piece of cheap Chinese-
made tat that she wanted for her birthday:
A musical jewellery box about
yea big that she saw on Amazon.
was one among many unicorn-themed gifts
that she said she would like for her birthday
I bought it, to her mother’s slight passing
annoyance, (it would only be a waste
She unwrapped it the morning
of her birthday, opening the box to
reveal the unicorn spinning in time
to tinkling music, its reflection in
the mirror on the inner lid.
her how to wind it up, ‘not too tightly,
as it could break’
I watched as delight danced
across her enrapt face as it spun round
Only for her to re-wind the box and
watch it some more
hear her in her room, unicorn spinning
to the tinkling music, her face filled with
childish delight, and me wondering how
much longer will she be so enrapt by
something so cheap and wonderful, and I
pray that she will never wind it up too
I would have paid twenty times more
for that piece of cheaply made Chinese tat
I’ve mentioned in previous entries that I wanted to engage in the Great Books firsthand, after getting a lot of it secondhand. The big question was, which Great Books list should I use?
I found a few lists on various sites and one of my first lockdown projects was to compile, de-duplicate, arrange them by date, and assign countries of origin to them. My sources, primarily, were from here, here, and here, and a lot of InfoGalactic.
I have taken it upon myself to read these in chronological order. I tried to get the dates as exact as possible, but where I didn’t have an actual publication date, I would use some significant date from the author’s biography – such as year of death. I will put links to the versions I’ve read as soon as I read them to help mark my progress.
For your edification, please find below the first instalment of the list, which takes us from Gilgamesh to Aquinas. If you find any mistakes, let me know and I will update.
I heard that a few years ago, R. died
of a heroin overdose
modern white male way to go).
C. was with
him and has since not touched the shit, good for
I think of R. every time
I hear AC/DC. R. wore trucker
caps without the slightest irony. He
just liked them. Did R. ever have a chance?
His ginger ‘fro-like coiffure and freckles
betrayed his shanty Irish, maybe Scots-
I wonder if
R. would have been as susceptible if
he were allowed to be proud of where he
came from beyond just listening to the
occasional tune by David Allen
Coe or Johnny Rebel.
Even way back
then, they were taking away what was left
of Southern pride
I guess a country boy
I too busy posing,
trying to forget where I came from, to
see what was really going on around
Looking homeward and seeing no angels.
But ‘home’ is not home anymore;
halfway around the world now with a new
accent, straddling the line between middle-
and working class
Aware of potential
wasted and the solemn compromises
made, and exhausted from my inaction.
A dream as fodder for midlife musings:
What would the teen me say were he to see
me now? Writing reactionary, nay,
fascist, poetry and imbibing the
best poets of the last Century.
would the teen me say were I to tell him
that, yes, your grug-brained skinhead buddies were
probably right all along: Perhaps the
only way we will ever get along
with the others in our midst is if we
separate from them?
I dreamt that last night
that we were all together again, our
loose-knit tribe of skins, mods, punks and what I
was at the time (a mulletted nerd in
heavy metal tee-shirts). But all growed up
Or as grown up as we will ever be.
And I dreamt that they remembered me with
the same epic fondness I remember
them with, each of them larger than life as
they were to me when we were that age: in
bomber jackets, jeans, and DMs.
DMs and bombers were traded in for
the more middle-aged look of Hawaiian
shirts and cargo shorts. Drinking cheap beer and
telling our sea stories.
But other than
a few snapshot moments, I can’t recall
much else of that dream, nor of our times past.
And maybe I was just peripheral or
perhaps we were all just peripheral to
each other’s central stories, a stillborn
Proto-Mannerbund, but never knowing.
I stumbled across James LaFond whilst listening to one of the many thousands of podcasts hosted by Borzoi Boskovic. Upon first hearing him speak I immediately had to find out more.
James LaFond writes on a massive variety of subjects, most notably street fighting and the general decline of the modern American empire, but the one thing that hooked me, besides his engaging erudite prose and sardonic wit, was the amazing historical research he has done in compiling his Plantation America series.
I had become partly interested in the question of white slavery in America ever since reading Howard Zinn’s proctologist’s eye view of America, A People’s History of America when I was about 20. Although mentioning that anti-miscegenation laws came about because white slaves were joining up with black slaves and leading revolts, he never really goes into just how the hell white slaves were actually there. It was always a little niggle of mine to try to find out more.
James LaFond picked up where Hoffman left off, and has built up a massive project looking into what exactly happened during the early years of British America. Using primary and secondary sources, he uncovers – sometimes directly, sometimes deductively – the unsavoury history of white slavery in what was to become the United States.
Each of the books in the series tends to focus on a different theme, and he changes up the manner in which he delivers his subject matter. For instance, one volume consists of reprinting the first-hand account of someone who had been kidnapped in Aberdeen and sold into slavery interspersed with his own commentary. Other parts of the series are comprised of essays and blog entries where he has documented his research around the theme of each book.
One particularly disturbing pair of volumes are the ones based upon adverts for runaways from a local Maryland newspaper offering descriptions and rewards (So Her Master May Have Her Again / So His Master May Have Him Again). LaFond’s accompanying commentary provides a real eye-opening account of the plight of so-called indentured servants. This leads one to conclude that perhaps it wasn’t all we’ve been told.
Additionally, his astute reading of the sad series of events [beginning with Magna Carta – although I firmly believe (and I suspect LaFond does, too) the rot would not have been possible without William the Bastard – and continuing through to the Vagabond and Enclosure Acts of the 16th Century] which led the English elite to enslave their once relatively free yeomanry really hits home about how little we common people hold in common with our so-called betters. This, in turn, leads one to contemplate our current plight as wage slaves. Plus ça change, etc.
Due to his research, I’ve been able to apply a few coups de grace in debating so-called indentured servitude versus its African cousin, so it will help with interweb libtard ownership points. For example…
From 1600-ish to the late 18th Century, c. 4 million whites were brought over as ‘indentured’ servants. In 1865, they had c. 2 million descendants.
Over a similar time period but ending c. 1820, c. 500 thousand Africans were brought over as ‘negroes’ and subsequently ‘slaves’. In 1865, they had c. 4 million descendants.
Think about what that might imply regarding the relative treatment of each of those populations.*
I highly recommend dipping into his work if you have any interest in white slavery, the decline of civilisation, Aryan folkways, the classics, tabletop gaming, masculinity, street fighting, and more. He is an autodidactic specialist on many subjects. And if you have a polite question around anything he writes, he is often good for a well thought out response to your query, as well.
You can find a lot of his work on Amazon, but I would recommend checking to see if you can pick it up at one of the following two sites first:
Attached by voluntary (so they say) chains
To the desk provided to me
In this open plan office
Compromised from birth
Unable to speak up
For fear of master’s minions
Taking the food out of my children’s mouths
They call me fragile
There are those that do their jobs
Because they can
(not because they must)
Smiling as they say things about
Me that are not remotely true
As I am cornered in the re-education
Session of the HR seminar
And I take it with a well-disciplined
Yet, They call me fragile
On social meeja
I see some members of a certain tribe
Wishing to eradicate me and mine
‘Dear fellow whites…It’s only a joke…well kinda…
get over it’
Yet, They call me FRAGILE
I see the tribute on the
Company’s web site
To Black Lives Matter
And the concern for ‘BAME’ colleagues
Through these ‘challenging times’
Yet, They call ME fragile
As the future baristas
In sociology and journalism departments
Deconstruct my life, my history, and my culture with
A singular sociopathic misandry
Yet, THEY call me fragile
They demand to see my face
And know my real name
On the social meeja
When I show the slightest resistance
To this, the greatest control system
‘I’m sure your employer would love to know your
Real feelings about this, wouldn’t they?’
Being the catch-all retort
When neither their rhetoric nor dialectic
Has lived up to its supposed
And we do not respond in kind
Yet, they call me fragile
They have declared war on me and mine
Just for existing
Heaping calumny upon calumny
And accuse me of holding the deepest hate
For the Other
Attacking us in
Weakly justified pre-emptive attacks
And I and mine
Have not responded in kind
Yet, They call me fragile
They attack our women
Calling them Karen
For expecting the same treatment
They would give to others
They threaten them
Then video -
Only registering the fear
Of cancellation and the ultimate white curse of ostracism
And we have not yet responded in kind
Yet, They call me fragile
But one day we will respond in kind
And it won't be because we are fragile
I guess he needed my wallet more than I did
As I walked away from the cashpoint
On Boulevard de Magenta
Down the street from the fleabag joint
We were staying in
He came up behind me
right arm coming over my shoulder,
knife held to my throat
his left arm clenching my chest
to hold me back like a boulder
Whispering ‘Doucement, doucement…’
Not quite the French sweet nothings one likes to hear
Whilst strolling through Paris in winter
With a lusty buzz from a couple of beers
Again, but grunting through clenched teeth
Il n’avait pas de l’argent
I kept his knifehand at bay
By pushing it the other way
with my own two hands
Never quite removing it as a threat to my immediate wellbeing
(truth be told, I’ve made stronger stands)
The traffic lights had just turned red
As my girlfriend began hitting him on the head
with her bag
And I shuffled with him clinging to me
Like a limpet
As I emerged from the sea
Into the middle of the emptied street
Whilst thirty or so
Onlookers took in the show
As the Parisian drivers realised that
I had just created a roadblock
To the freedom provided by the impending green light
They began beeping their horns and yelling
Giving the Algerian a bit of a fright
As I refused to move from the middle of the road
Green gets flashed from the light
He relents and runs to the opposite side
I stand in place between the lanes
Waiting for the gap
in the cars so I could return to my side of the river
But wallet still in tact