De Senium Britanniae

I eschewed my usual route to university on this day and so did not go to the usual metro station. That may have been the greatest displeasure of all, to consider losing the good graces of the Wraith of the Low Morning. Daily and as regular as the metro, and presumably some time between midnight and 6 AM, he, probably a young male with an IQ south of the 20th percentile, goes to that station and impresses his artistic genius upon the pristine laboratorial white of that one wall panel in every hue of the rainbow. The paint is often still wet to the touch as I stand admiring it at 9:25 AM. By the next day there is always a new inscription, the old hidden under a new coat of paint – the work of another person (again, probably a man) to whose annoyance the Wraith’s work is continually done. Not even God knows what is going on in the Wraith’s troubled head. Maybe his only taste of self-actualisation, whatever that means, is the testosterone high he gets as he imagines himself embroiled in some titanic battle of wits with the man who erases his work. Maybe he is a smoker and cannot stand the no-smoking warning. Maybe he fancies himself the next Banksy. Maybe he likes to see his work erased so he can do something new, but there seems little variation except changes in colour. Maybe he is an idiot savant, or perhaps a savant idiot. Now I try to envision his children. And then I stop.

Almost no normal person considers the metro carriage an appropriate place for social engagement apart from drunkards. It is a place where one, in effect, shuts oneself off from communication with the outside world for the twenty minutes or however long it takes to get to your stop. It is a place to stare into space dejectedly, read, pretend to read, plan essays, and scroll through faked shark-attack videos on your phone. Passengers thus tend to look on with horrified or puzzled expressions when someone starts to act out in a strange way.

On this particular afternoon the metro was just about empty, and there would have been little to comment on were it not for a tangerine-faced chav and her black friend, he with his trousers at half mast, stepping into the carriage about halfway into my journey, so I had the chance to observe them for the next few stops. It is more accurate, though, to say that I had no choice in the matter. At moments their voices seemed nearly indistinguishable in pitch and timbre despite his being male and a foot taller than she. It is generally the case that people who truly embody this archetype, the chav, have no self-awareness or indeed self-consciousness; this girl probably behaves like this in every situation that presents itself. They were having something that sounded vaguely like an argument at first. They threw themselves at each other in strange, stereotyped motions until eventually they just ran out of energy, as well as words, and started nondescriptly grunting in each other’s faces until they reached, and almost missed, their stop. Non-white chavs are a recently divergent subspecies who seem to have developed alongside the standard variety but were not nearly so common round these parts, I am sure, until this decade. Well, they have certainly integrated – just not into anything that is actually worth it.

The female embodied this archetype astonishingly well. All of the apparent default-setting fashion choices: the skin-tight leggings (and she will still be wearing those in her forties), the dyed tar-black hair, etc. Females, for obvious reasons, want to be physically appealing, but by the time the female chav has reached late adolescence she has often destroyed herself to the point where there is little to work with, and she may already have had two or three or twenty-three children. By her late twenties she could be a grandmother. Thus, by that time she usually settles into a pattern of bizarre peacock-like ostentation: brightly coloured trainers, preposterously large (plastic, typically) jewellery, etc, which is apparently not so much supposed to be attractive as it is – well, God knows.

Once off the metro there is much to see. On the way into school I damn near had a heart attack because I had forgotten to use my alcoholic hand sanitiser. I normally use it as soon as I am out of the station because the metro is a virtual pathologist’s lab, unguarded and constantly excreting new strains of the common cold virus among other things, especially in the cold months of the year. Winter here tends to render the sky a constant, thick, overcast grey interspersed with ten-hour (or longer) periods of black. Students from warmer climes seem fairly well adjusted here, though. I see them on my way in and out of the school; the Africans, the Han Chinese nouveau riche, and the beautiful dewy-eyed Koreans girls moving in packs about 20cm below my eye level and twittering incomprehensibly to one another. That sometimes puts me dimly in mind of an oddly psychologically distorting experience I had some months back, of the two Korean girls walking in front of me with their hands entwined at the Schoenbrunn Palace, both about my age. It is interesting to see Orientals as transfixed as they were by Occidental history. More than I was, frankly – since I take pleasure in almost no activities. They looked dazed, and, I thought, a little sad. It will be sadder yet to see the condition of Vienna and other European cities at the end of this century.

This is more than I can say for the Chinese students here. They were in British universities in great numbers, so I am told, as far back as the early 2000s, and their proficiency in English seems not to have improved any. Their mother country has a lot more to be hopeful about than we have at this point, but I do not think their parents are going to see much return on their investment when they go home.

Then there was my class. The classmates are a strange lot, which I like. Twelve persons in total; there used to be thirteen. All white, which is unsurprising given the subject matter. Eleven Britons and one non-Briton. Eight extraverts, three introverts, one schizoid personality. I determined that, crudely I admit, by checking who was and was not talking in the corridor before class. Of those not talking, only the foreign girl was not looking at her phone. I do not know which iteration of the iPhone everybody is on, but smartphone upgrades seem about the only tangible technological innovation in the Occident at this moment. Certainly it is the only innovation most people care about. Only two individuals with northern accents, which seems a recurring pattern, surprisingly. So far there have been none of the ubiquitous (and tedious) jousting matches people have about regional accents in England, such as hotly debating where to draw a line on a map dividing north from south. There were also two nose piercings, one exposed midriff (bearing in mind it was 5°C outside), a girl with teal hair, and a girl with rose-pink hair. Seven females and five males – all of the males seem to be in the lower two quartiles of height. I am 172cm tall (about 26th percentile for a male), but I was not the shortest among them. It is probably these people to whom I should feel the strongest cultural affinity; the SWPLs of Britain’s young middle class. Yet, you would not know it if you saw how I (do not) interact with them. Maybe I could deal with them as long as politics was off the table? This time someone was talking about trans awareness week in the corridor. Every week now seems to require a similar “awareness” from you. This is the girl who ended up in the basement at 6 PM one day because she could not find the exit of the building.

Not much to report about that class per se – at least nothing that I can remember.

Once it was over, I cogitated on some of these things as I made my way towards the library to wait for the second class of the day. By this time it was dark.

A small percentage of men and a smaller percentage of women engage with politics beyond trivia such as voting. Among these, reproductive concern is, as everywhere, in play. In general, women want to be protected and provided for and will cling to anything that offers that promise, such as feminism (or whatever else). Men want to climb the male reproductive success hierarchy and will gravitate towards that wherever they find it. Additionally, Jonathan Haidt’s neuropolitics is at work: neurological liberals and neurological conservatives. The extent to which reproductive concerns motivate a person is a matter of degree, I think; it depends on the individual’s temperament and, probably above all else, intelligence. But I am not quite sure where “trans awareness week” figures into all that. Maybe it should be obvious to me. Someone really ought to find a way to incorporate philosophical or mathematical concepts into the morphology of a language – something that would allow you to plug many explanatory factors into a cohesive multivariate structure (in the manner of a statistical analysis) without the endless repetitions, reframing, and blether that come when you attempt it in English. Ithkuil? We are the wrong species for such a project right now, however, and Mira est Lingua Latina sed mortua. I once joked about forcing everyone in the northern hemisphere to learn multiple European languages as well as Ithkuil, and perhaps I can make that my job if I someday ascend to posthuman godhood. But I doubt it.

Some appreciation for high culture is here. Not too far from the library I heard a Chopin nocturne being played a few weeks back. Stravinsky would have been more exciting, but it nevertheless felt noteworthy. It is a point of contrast to what many of my young compatriots have plugged into their ears as they sit in the library; the nu metal, and the indie, which ought to be called “post-indie” at this stage, every song being a pastiche of familiar indie clichés both lyrically and structurally, which seems rather self-defeating.

The old buildings here are so unkempt. Fungal spores cover the windowpanes. That makes a good half-arse of a metaphor for the landscape that surrounds me. What was once Britain’s industrial heartland, where valorous and beautiful men toiled sleeplessly in the mines, the shipyards, the fields, the factories, where the nation’s productive class reached its apogee, is now a shadow of a shadow of what it was. My brothers will leave for Australia at some point, I think. Although I do not blame them, I am not sure what solace they will find there either.

Back on the metro, and this time I made sure to scrub my hands with unusual vigour.

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Arguments and Blueprints

It’s tempting to debate people. There’s always the hope that the person you’re engaging with can be either be persuaded, or if nothing else be revealed to have less persuasive arguments. Minds of the participants rarely get changed, but in many cases the debates are useful for reaching potentially open minded members of the audience. Sometimes clarifications are necessary. People need to be challenged on certain points and called out for inaccuracies, especially when it involves the misrepresentation of one’s views. Over the years though, I’ve learned it is mostly a waste of time. In fact, there is not enough time in the day respond to every claim you disagree with, distortion of your beliefs, or attack directed at you. It just isn’t worth it. Most people are just too dumb to process things, even when they are presented clear as day. I rarely respond to criticism and attacks for this reason (who cares? lol.) When I see people like Millennial Woes or Sargon of Akkad make their hour long rebuttal videos dealing with minor quibbles about this or that, I have to admire them for their patience. I could never do it. At the end of the day who is really left that is even persuadable? Think about the NFL for a second. As openly hostile and preach as it is toward white people, you’d think almost nobody who isn’t a masochist would continue to watch it. Ratings should be down like 80%, yet they’ve only decreased a few percentage points here and there. That may be a big enough deal to affect advertising revenue significantly, but it’s hardly an “awakening.” It’s pathetic really. That’s the reality of so called “boomergate.” No one cares. At a certain point you just have to move forward with what you’ve got, or more accurately…head for the hills with whoever else wants to get out.

There are already more than enough like-minded people that want to escape and form some kind of small nation somewhere together (such a place would probably only require a few thousand people at minimum, perhaps even less.) By all means, if you’ve got the time, determination and energy to try to convince millions of reality tv viewers and sportsball fans people to embrace your socially ostracizing political ideology, feel free to go for it. If you live in parts of Europe, you might still have a chance to salvage your country, if it isn’t too unrecognizably gone demographically. For the rest of us though, it’s worthwhile to start thinking more in terms of building tangible societies, creating the blueprints for the kinds of states you want to live in and actually working out the logistics. I’m not talking about “passivism” or “being the change you want to see.” I’m saying forget about arguing with people online and start collectively shopping for discount islands (and figuring out how you’re going to pay for them.)

Looking a High Horse Rider in the Mouth

I hadn’t planned on writing anything about the Harvey Weinstein story, because: A. Tabloid celeb scandals and showbiz gossip don’t really interest me that much, and B. It’s obvious just by looking at Weinstein that he’s a rather archetype sleazy producer / pervitronic executive type (though admittedly weirder in his fetishes. I mean what kind of guy gets off on having a girl watch him masturbate.) The guy apparently must get turned on by seeing women sit there with confused looks on their faces, as he prevents them from leaving and insists they stay and watch him do things in his bathrobe or whatever:

“Look babe, don’t move. Don’t leave. Just sit there and watch me eat this croissandwich. Yeah that’s it, please don’t leave, or you’ll never work in this town again.”

Anyway, the guy is obviously the scum of the Earth. Still, typical of the times we live in, a lot of people can’t help but overreach. Some of these actresses need to get off their high horses. How convenient that twenty years later after they’ve become big stars and made their millions, these actresses come out of the woodwork to lecture everyone else that ever worked with Weinstein (or worse, they will blame “men” in general.) Many of these women, once aspiring young starlets seeking fame and fortune, were perfectly willing to put up with Weinstein’s sleaziness if it meant furthering their careers and getting breaks in the industry. Some of them accepted settlements and payoffs, which ultimately did nothing to prevent other young girls from being victimized. Now, suddenly they are shaming other actors and directors that have worked with Weinstein for continuing to work with him, associate with him or simply for not condemning him in strong enough terms. Perhaps these actors and directors simply saw it as a matter for the legal system and didn’t wish to become busybodies in everyone else’s affairs that didn’t concern them. I used to live in West Hollywood and have known tons of sleazy and sketchy guys over the years. At the end of the day, there isn’t a whole lot you can do except teach young people how not to be naive in these situations, and hope they notice the red flags and are smart enough to recognize these predators and call them out when they see them. You can warn girls a hundred times about how scuzzy some guy is, and some of them will still go along with his slimy program, either because there is something to be gained, or they trust their own intuition over your advice. If a producer attempts to engage in non-consensual acts with you, simply call your attorney and call the police. Anything less than that, and other people privy to the gossip are likely to assume whatever happened must not have been that big of a deal to you. Even if the cops ultimately won’t do anything due to lack of evidence, it sends a message to the perp that you mean business, and you’re not someone he wants to fuck with.

The “overreach” aspect in the Weinstein scandal is like what we see in other areas of public outrage overreach, like politics and free speech. It is not enough to simply disagree with someone’s political beliefs. You must disavow the person, condemn them and formally disassociate yourself with them, even if it is a member of your own family. You’re considered a “nazi” or “white supremacist,” even if you just support the right for controversial opinions to be expressed and debated non-violently. “So and so made this offensive statement or joke. Will you call on him to apologize? DO YOU DISAVOW?!”

I have a genuine respect for women like Ambra Battilana, and found myself rooting for her while I listened to the recording of her rejecting Weinstein’s crude advances and his attempts to manipulate her. She acted the way you wish every person would act in these scenarios. She stood firm and held her ground, willing to pay the price and absorb whatever negative impact it would on her career. Many of these other women though, are hypocrites…because they essentially took the “deal,” went along with it, kept quiet and are now complaining long after they have reaped the rewards. Now that it is good for their careers to speak out on the matter, they have become more vocal, self-righteous and sanctimonious than ever.

“It’s time for straight talk, Kim. It’s not my fault you posed for Harmon. It’s not my fault you posed for Larry in the nude. You did it. It’s your problem. It’s pretty late to act prissy and prim. All you kids make me sick! You act like little Miss Muffet, and down inside you’re dirty. Do you hear me? Dirty! You’re greedy and self centered and think you can get away with anything. You’re no better than the girl who sells herself to a man. You’re worse, because you’re a hypocrite. And now little Miss Muffet is in trouble, and she’s all outraged virtue. Well you listen and you listen well, you’re damaged merchandise and this is a fire sale. You walk outta here and your reputation won’t be worth fifteen cents. You’ll do as I tell you! Do you hear me? You’ll do as I tell you!” -Lawrence Aberwood ((Aberman,))

Scum of the Earth, 1963.

Brandon Adamson is the author of Beatnik Fascism

Interview With Anthony Hamilton on The Stark Truth

I first heard about Anthony Hamilton when I stumbled onto one of his videos a couple years ago called, “Secret to Time Travel: Your Mind as a Time Machine.” I’ve been intrigued by the idea of mental time travel ever since seeing the film, “Somewhere in Time” back on TNT’s Monstervision (which included some memorably hilarious, biting commentary from host, Joe Bob Briggs about the film) back in 1999.

Anyway, while on the surface Anthony Hamilton seems like another self-help marketing guru and motivational seminar speaker type, he actually incorporates a rather bizarre and interesting theory on time travel into his advice. He posits the idea that when you think about events in the past and the future, your mind actually connects to that place and time, much like computers connecting to websites on the internet.

“The new model of the mind that neuro-scientists are using now to understand consciousness, is that the mind is really a kind of time machine, that has the ability to gather information from the past, gather information from the future and to use this information, and this is in fact what thinking is, now traditionally we have this view of time that says that there is the past, present and the future and Newton in his writings talked about a river; a time like a river that flows from the past into the future, but Einstein in 1904 with his theory of relativity was written described time as the field.
Now the difference between a river and the field, a river carries things along with it , with the field you can move around in it like a field of gravity.”

I’m of course somewhat skeptical of this theory, as I think the mind acts as a kind of computer simulator that attempts to create simulations and recreate scenarios, attempting to calculate how they could possibly or potentially play out. Hamilton does make a great point about memories though, and how they’re much more complex than the mere “recordings” most people think of them as being.

..if you remember some situation that happened to you for example maybe you are attending a party sometime in the past you can remember that party as though you were remembering it from your own perspective or you can remember it as though you’re looking down on it from 10 to 15 feet above where you can remember, so you’re fifty feet away from it watching it like a movie, so the fact that you’re memory is flexible like this indicates what’s going on something different that simply playing a recording,

I would be curious to know more about his sources or the studies he references for these ideas on “future memory” and the mind as a sort of time machine, which he discusses briefly in the interview with Stark. You can also check out Hamilton’s book, Mind, Time and Power.

Click here to listen.

Topics include:

Background in linguistics; linguistics as a cognitive science
The unconscious thought process and how to better utilize it
The Functional MRI
Neuroplasticity; the science of changing the mind
The Law of Attraction
Mental Time Travel
Future Memory
Quantum Consciousness
Dealing with past traumas, fears, and negative thoughts
Goal setting and successfully utilizing future memory
Visualization
Meditation and mindfulness

Postcards From New Suburbia

Sipping a glass of cheap moscato and in between watching episodes of Vega$ on dvd, I thought I would take a break from my “new suburban man of leisure” lifestyle to give a few updates…

I’ve been busy editing Robert Stark’s novel, which can only be described as an insane masterpiece, written in such a way that it will offend just about every type of person. Having seen my fair share of depraved 70’s and 80’s porn and spent several years hanging out in fringe political circles, I’m somewhat desensitized to offensive content at this point. However, what I have found problematic is the atrocious grammar and spelling in the book, for no other reason than I’m lazy, and it ultimately takes longer for me to edit the project. That’s just the trade-off though for a book that runs on pure imagination I suppose. In my own books, I would agonize for ages over a single typo, ready to swallow a bottle of pills over a misplaced apostrophe or improper usage of an idiom. In that sense, I envy Stark… who clearly does not give a fuck about anything but the characters and the storyline.

Some people who have followed my blogs for a long time, may wonder why I don’t write about racial issues as much as I used to. To be honest, I just don’t have a lot to say on it. I’ve written probably close to 70 essays about race, and at a certain point you just become a crank if that’s all you write about. The exception of course is if you’re one of those HBD type bloggers that treats the subject as an academic area of study. I’m not. Admittedly I don’t care that much about “hbd.” I find it to be more of an academic question at this stage. My interest in the topic of race has always been purely for practical purposes. Most non-whites openly say they have no interest in living in a color-blind western society, much less the kind of transhumanist, retro futuristic mini-empire of the sort I advocate… so it’s kind of moot whether or not they theoretically could flourish equally and sustain such civilizations adequately. They don’t even want to, so who cares? It’s like two people arguing whether I’m biologically capable of being a top-tier professional golfer when I don’t even have a slight interest in playing golf, (except perhaps miniature golf…which I’ve been having a bit of nostalgia for having not played since the summer of 1998.) Academic questions are still worthwhile to pursue, but in this case plenty of others are already on it. Anyway, by now most people know where I stand. I have no interest in getting involved in the drama and feuds between various factions and personalities. I don’t care about winning over the masses (who there aren’t even mathematically enough of to make a difference in an electoral system) or appealing to “the eternal normie.” I don’t care about global empires and geopolitics. I’m interested in small-scale tribalism and radical escapism.

Anyway, what else is new? Well, Trump continues to screw the pooch and at this point has almost fully completed his retrogression into a neoconservative republican. He’s essentially useless to anyone who cares about consumer advocacy, workers rights, and staying out of pointless foreign conflicts. His strategy appears to be to talk shit to reporters and celebrities on social media, in an attempt to distract his supporters from the fact that he isn’t implementing any substantive policies that would benefit them. 4D chess? Yeah right. If Trump is playing anything it’s Electric Football…that old tabletop game where the metal football field vibrates and the players move around semi-randomly, occasionally going in the direction you want them to.

Brandon Adamson is the author of Beatnik Fascism

The Far Side of the Mooncoin

One night a few years ago I met up with one of my old friends at Chili’s, and he told me I should get into bitcoin. He tried to convince me to purchase a bunch of computing machines and turn my condo into some kind of improvised bitcoin mining facility. I entertained the idea, but in the back of my mind it seemed preposterous and the whole time I was thinking, “Yeah there’s no way I’m going to do that.” It piqued my interest though, so that evening I went home and figured I might buy a few bitcoins just for the heck of it. After doing some research, I soon discovered they were like 50 or 100 dollars each and ultimately decided it would be a huge waste of money. Fast forward four years, and here we are with the price of a single bitcoin being over $4000. I’m not going to beat myself up about it though. As my grandpa used to always say in response to any “woulda shoulda coulda” talk, “If the dog wouldn’t have stopped to shit he would’ve caught rabbit.”

Anyway, I never wanted to get into this cryptocurrency business as I never really saw any point to it, until now. Recent developments have caused making monetary transactions more difficult online, as conducting any kind of business (even just for boring stuff) has become tied to having politically correct beliefs. So whether or not one believes that cryptocurrencies have any intrinsic value, it’s become clear to many of us that they have “utilitarian value” if nothing else and a role to play in building an AltTech sanctuary, where we can interact as humans of leisure outside the reach of corporate busybodies and their swarms of bugmen.

On a lighter note, trading in cryptocurrency and using it for donations and micropayments is just plain fun. Bitcoin is so expensive that it doesn’t really seem like a good option for micropayments anymore, because you’re dealing in tiny fractions of them at this point (ie sending someone .00001 bitcoin.) So I’ve decided to go with mooncoin instead. It’s much better suited for this purpose and it’s cheap and abundant. The technology behind it seems to work well enough and the transactions go through quickly and smoothly across wallets from what I can tell. While there are a lot of altcoins out there, mooncoin has one of the best aesthetics and seems to me to be a perfect fit for the futurist community. I don’t recommend that people buy large amounts of mooncoin with any intent to get rich, nor do I advocate buying it because you think it will be the “next big thing or whatever.” There is a good chance that most of these altcoins will fail and you may be stuck with a pile of worthless coins. They are not always easy to sell on the exchanges anyway.

Make it a Mooncoin tonight!

So I plan on using mooncoin for tips, donations and micropayments. These coins will be better served by people that incorporate them into everyday usage rather than just the speculators and vultures who engage in pump and dumps for a quick buck.

To obtain mooncoins, I recommend Bleutrade or CoinExchage.io. The mooncoin wallet can be downloaded here. If you enjoyed this article and want to send a few mooncoins my way, you can send them to this address:
2SjmT8hSzvqd6AJTXDCSbxq8oKaXsU3NCA

That’s all for now. I’ll be mining on far side if you need me.

For more info:
https://www.reddit.com/r/MoonCoin/