Editor note: this is the full version of the severely truncated 'My Leftist Journey' found on Thoughts of a Comrade, spanning my full philosophical and ideology development. More appendices will be added in time.
My Philosophical-Ideological Journey
A Short Course on the Developments Regarding the Various Facets of my Thought
Preface.
The main text before us begins right at the moment when I advanced out of social-democracy. Here the text takes some liberties with the formatting of the timeline. It would seem to indicate two things:
I. that the Ruback Revolution was a flash in the pan, a speeding tumult of short duration, and
II. that I had already become a convinced Trotskyite by the Revolution’s outbreaking.
With foresight now at my disposal, I am of the opinion that this was a neceßary adaptation for the smooth progreßion of the telling. It is with this preface that I seek to provide a better nuanced contextualisation of my early political ideology, without hindrancing the text itself with my pre-Leftist views, nor forcing it to be reliant on the preface. One may easily skip over the preface and into the document without having lost any thing eßential.
My very first political thoughts arose, isolated and short-lived, in two separate bubbles. My fifth-grade teacher believed that everyone ought to know their own political ideas, no matter their age. If one does not have for themselves an established view of right, then how can they poßibly defend themselves from being wronged? Although my ideology was barely existent, and we disagreed politically, she is to this very day my favourite teacher of all. The second occurrence was fueled of spite. In sixth-grade, all of us were aßigned (by a teacher I thought stern out of hatred for her claß) either Athens or Sparta, to write an eßay and do a presentation defending their system of government. I was unhappily aßigned the latter proto-redneck, war-mongering, dictatorial, totalitarian shitehole. My presentation was armed with bitter sarcasm, ending with ‘in all, Athens was a dystopia of enlightened, intellectual statemen of reason’.
By seventh-grade, I had become interested in history, due in no small part to the ‘Sparta Debacle’, and, though I did not poßeß a personal library of any size, I was able to go to the public library pretty often back then, and I read my share of history work, but I too found a historical work. A random day on which I was as usual browsing around the history section, I discovered a light-brown tome sticking out, whose spine read ‘Marx, 54, BRITANNICA, GREAT BOOKS’. I was curious for no discernible reason, for I had not a single idea of Marx or of his domain. This book would be my first contact with the ‘man who is mad with coats and machines’. Of this selected work, I started chronologically, and managed to advance three chapters into Capital, before I (stupidly) returned the book without bothering to visit the only other work contained in the selection; the Manifesto! Funny, is it not, that I by this action simply prolonged the inevitable, retarding my political education by a year? I decided to adopt instead the ideology of Paineism, as I had finished reading the Library of America’s selection of Thomas Paine’s works (which I had returned the day of my discovering Marx).
With that, we have caught up to the main text. To addreß text-indicated point I, the Ruback Revolution was not in fact a short proceß at all. The main text begins at the point I made the Revolution visible and vocal, open to the maßes, as it were. The Ruback Revolution began three months prior, not so much as a popular revolutionary uprising as it was a single-minded (mine) reform effort. I wanted to be treated more nicely by Ruback, who was rude and judgemental as relayed by the main text, and it did not register for me that every one else wanted this, too. I was always polite, lodging my complaints within ‘diplomacies’, maintaining an air of compromise and negotiation, and of course following the proper protocols for all of this. It went on for a whole month, with no progreß made. The policy of the ‘education’ system was voiced clearly ‘I hear you; now shut up’. At the end of the month I grew concerned, resolving to escalate the conflict, to force the system into revealing its untrue hand. The Blanquist Hidden Offmarch had begun!
At that time, the Constitution test was just around the corner, so this second month was one of weaponizing the Constitution, Declaration of Independence, and Bill of Rights. I firther dedicated myself to propaganda work amongst the maßes (without at this juncture organising them, or telling themn any thing of a direct nature). I concluded that I was not lacking in organisational intelligence, but in intel-igence, ‘public information’ if you will, so these efforts were the next logical step. For all this, the Dean called me into her office, yelled at me that ‘the Constitution and Bill of Rights do not apply on school grounds’, confiscated (and then lost in her custody, never to be returned or reimbursed for) my all-in-one Constitution, Bill of Rights, Declaration, and Articles of Confederation book, and prohibited me from writing or speaking on all things Constitution related, and from distributing copies of these national documents, in spite of the Constitution test! I had fully expected such a move, and on the Twenty-Fifth of May, ordered Trotsky’s ‘The Revolution Betrayed’, his ‘Fascism: what it is and how to Fight it’, and Thomas Paine’s ‘Common Sense’. A minute detour, I uncovered in the proceß of writing this that ‘Fascism’ never came, the seller must have forgotten to send it (and did not ißue a refund)- I have just re-ordered it from Amazon. I knew from my seventh-grade history reading rudimentarily what the concept of fascism was, and that Francisco Franco was one of these rodents, so it was clear to me that Ruback was at the very least fascism-aligned.
I had finished both books by the First of April, and this is when I actually became a convinced, self-proclaimed Trotskyite. The system had launched an Offencive Offmarch against me, with the Dean, quite literally, it seemed, stalking me throughout the day. My friends would constantly catch her staring at us, following us, ‘accidentally’ running into us, hanging around our claßes, checking in and thoroughly nosing about at our claßes, all of which she used to do noticeably seldom. I wass the target, my mates just some times happened to be in the area of me. Ruback, for her part, would continue to harraß me in particular, and told me to take off my Liberty Cravat or she would send me to the Office (a teacher that was with me when Ruback said this, defended me, presumably intimidating her, since she did not carry out her threat, despite my unwavering ‘insubordination’).
The Fifth of April, thenceforth celebrated as the anniversary of the Ruback Revolution, is when the first event of the main text takes place, the forbidding of the English speech; the undergrave of Molly Ruback, who, thanks to our efforts, was fired from teaching the claßes of next school year. I was ecstatic when that piece of news reached us at the second semester of ninth-grade, a post-mortem victory though it still was. In eleventh-grade, I heard the Ruback Revolution recalled by a group of students that never even partook in the events, and were not friends, nor known, to us. In twelfth-grade, I tacked a Ruback Revolution anniversary celebration poster on a board reserved for official school news, club events, and promotions, and amazingly it remained up for a whole month, being removed only a week before the last day of school, one of the final single-digit numbers of May.
I. Ten Weeks that Shook My World
1. The Ruback Revolution and its Failure
My beginning as a proper revolution-loving Leftist began, much as the 1917 Glorious October Revolution did upon Battlecruiser Potemkin, in Middleschool McHenry in the eighth grade of 2015. In the role of Czarist captain: Molly Ruback, a Spanish teacher who was a Falangist and unapologetic admirer of Franco (having a care never to mention Hitler, Mußolini, or the großer historical context).
This insufferable teacher took choosing favourites to a whole new level, ignoring the rest of us except to give out punishment or orders. The day that, for an activity, made English forbidden, indeed quite verboden, marked her Winter Palace episode. This decision came after what had already caused much grumbling from her nationalist propaganda history of Spain that she forced us to watch. She was handed a Menshevik jail-free card, but like the Mensheviks themselves, stayed true to the war for Spaniard nationalism. To get around the forbidding of our national speech, Ic handed out to my friends sheets with Dutch words and phrases, which to Ruback’s annoyance we spoke, and I had begun also wearing a ‘liberty cravat’ a few days before, a two-by-three French flag tied in two knots, end tucked in to my dreß-shirt. The official meaning of it I told was to represent the fight for liberty, equality, and fraternity which was our cause, but there was also the unvoiced benefit that a French flag turned counter-clockwise vertically forms another nation’s flag, one with a ‘history’ against Spain.
All of this got me sent to the office for lunch detention, and to quickly wrap up the personally leß important scenes of the event, was later given an after-school detention for creating a maßively popular, much signed petition for the principal to review her [Ruback’s] actions, and to basically make her lighten up the many unpleasant grievances reported in the letter. The conniving Bill Ferny in our midst was one supposed friend Trevor McAllister (who would years later make up lies about me to defend a hardcore neo-Nazi friend of his, who had aßaulted me because I was a ‘fuckin’ Commie-Jew’) had reported us to the dean and a Physical Education teacher supervising lunch that day.
2. Trotsky Lied: but I was Blind
Trotsky had erroneously led me to believe that the studentry was an advanced revolutionary force, claß-conscious enough to readily fight Stalinist teachers, yet after the detentions those students not of my friends did not merely abandon me, but treated me like a social pariah. Trotsky had also lied to me on a more subliminal point: he said that nationalism was solely a foreboding and powerful magic of the Dark Lord Stalin, but it is rather plain to see in retrospect that this student rebellion was reliant on nationalism for its maß appeal. No one bar myself cared about the undertones of the French Revolution and Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, they forstood that a dumb Spaniard was attacking them as Anglo-Saxons and other Western European speakers of said speech. Only the former did I so immediately recognise, though I could not then hold Trotsky to account. It must have been those damn Stalinist students, in service of their vile Master’s dark throne and his wicked subordinate officers, the teachers. Who are Stalin’s most servile slaves according to Trotsky (and so myself)? The bureaucratic middle-claßes and the rednecks (well, Trotsky called them peasants, thus I equated the past’s ‘peasant’ with the more contemporary Confederate stratum ‘redneck’). The dawn of the Great Cultural Revolution Against Redneck Stalinism was born.
II. The Great Cultural Revolution Unleashed
1. The Unsichtbaren Front: a Struggle against the Maßes
During this period of covert struggle, the unsichtbaren Front (invisible/espionage/propaganda front) took on the most significance. There was no more contact with, enlightenment of, nor faith in, the maßes, who were from then on considered hostile Stalinist scum, the sworn fiends of socialism (as opposed to the vanguard party of the proletariat, id est in Trotskyist parlance really the Trotskyist intelligentsia). One might say that policy towards the maßes transitioned from Aufklärung, to Aufklärung. From this isolation in war with the Vulgars, I would experience a profound, and profoundly silent, cultural awakening, especially after having read The Intellectuals and the Maßes by John Carey (I carried a meßage somewhat opposite of his away).
2. New England Unfree shall Never Know Peace
It must briefly be interjected here that this cultural awakening was accompanied shortly thereafter by a new nationalist interpretation of the United State, spurred on by Colin Woodard’s book American Nations: A History of the Eleven Rival Regional Cultures in North America. New England became the target of prime adulation in my propaganda work. The proletariat and the studentry may have betrayed the revolution, but there is no way at all a well-lettered, intellectual region as the free folk of New England would fall for the seductive lies of the dark tyrant Stalin. New English independence the United (Confederate) States of America at once turned into the objective of any true socialist.
I was only proven right by this when in Dallas, 2016, a wonderful event transpired, my views towards which foreshadowed my future ventures into national independence theory. A Yankee sniper had taken up arms against the Texas Confederate police garrison, mowing down wave after wave of rabid fascists there, like chaff before the wind. The liberals scolded me, following Barackaret Thatchama’s line that ‘brave heroes’ were being ‘murdered by a political terrorist’, Obama provides the Black, and the butternut Confederates provide the Tans. This was probably my first clash with the liberals. I would refer to Comrade Micah Johnson lovingly as ‘the Damn Yankeh, Johns Monnolly, Mic’ Johllins, first hero of the Yankee Republican Army', and so on. The songs ‘The Confederates they are Worried/One Shot Johnson’ and ‘Rifles of the NEM (New England Militia)’ I penned a year later from this inspiration, and a year more would publish in The Philosopher’s Interior. A funny story, at first I had misforstood his end, that he had himself used the explosive-strapped robot to detonate on the Confederates, leading me to early on praise him as the Semtex Saviour.
All of this illustrates the previous yearnings for a virtuous, ideals-driven nation of left-leaning (at the very least of course) intellectuals; the nation which in the United States for me would become the Free Republic of New England. To this day, I hope to see New England made a Nation Once Again.
At this moment, another national threat emerged. The Warsawvians, who formed a dangerously cohesive, large fascist presence in the school, aside from refusing to speak this WONDERSWEET Deutschonic [Germanic] speech we call English, were trying to form a fascist Warsaw nationalist club in the school, and an after-school/week-end school for the seditious promulgation of that alien, espionage tongue of theirs. Me damn study hall was filled with it already! According to Trotskyism, Warsaw is a Stalinist, nationalist, fascist collaborator, anti-semitic, redneck peasant bastion of the deepest, dankest reaction. Something by rights had to be done, and soon, before they could spread their fascist tyranny here. This was corroborated by Solidar-whatever the hell and Leech Wallstreetsa, and a Spartacist League pamphlet titled ‘Solidar[whatever]: Polish Company Union for CIA and Bankers’.
The most important result of this national threat was two-fold: although it was not my first time thinking about or attempting it, this convinced me of the dire need for a publication to unite the intelligentsia (an important theoretical concept for later), and it had inspired me first feelings of Deutsch (then later Preußian and pan-Deutschonic) nationalism.
III. Trotskyism in Decay
After my national discovery of New England, there was once again a proletariat I might trust, and from there I could once more support the (New England Yankee) maßes. With me political beliefs now reconciled with my practical forstandings of said beliefs, it was at last time to confront Trotskyism.
As a Trotskyist, one is constantly reminded (by far superiorly learned Trotskyist elders) to remain clear of the black tomes written by Stalin, whose dark witch-craft shall corrupt one’s will from with their pages. Not even the advanced healing of Comrade Trotsky himself could cure the poisonous weapons of Stalin. Any real engagement on a neutral perception with the writings or doings of the Dark Lord would slowly turn one into a Stalinist, Stalin-lovers, worth neither letting live nor making dead. Obviously this mystical, quite rather fantastical bull-shite, began to fleck like paint on a lie. After having started to read the works of Lenin and Mao (Trotskyites have an odd relationship with Mao, not hating him like they do Stalin), questions in my head were raised, and inconsistencies betwixt Lenin and Trotskyism, and in Trotskyism generally. It was in this atmosphere that I happened upon an artefact of immense power… titled simply ‘Leninism or Trotskyism?’ by the Dark Master himself, J V Stalin. According to the date in the Amazon purchase history, I ordered my intriguing discovery on the Fifteenth of September 2016, and on the book’s back does it say ‘Made in USA, LY, Kentucky, 16 September 2016’. On the Third of August I ordered Stalin’s seminal Marxist-Leninist political manual ‘The Foundations of Leninism’ (ibidem). I do not well recall how I came about or why I was interested in the former work except from memory that this was of a spontaneous surprise, but the latter had a strong cause for its occurrence.
From the First to the Fourth of July, me mother and I were present at Socialism Conference 2016. This conference was supposedly set up by many groups, yet the near majority of them were Trotskyite ones run by the same persons or organisations as the larger ones. The only definitely independent organisation sponsoring the event was the CPUSA, and strangely enough, this was the single sponsor whose attendance booth (all of the sponsor organisations had one) nobody could direct us towards. Very suspicious concerning the overwhelming Trotskyite presence, and as I learned years after the fact, State Department contingent of conference management there, and it makes one wonder if these two Cold War allies didn’t team up once more to give ‘Stalinists’, or as I like to call them Actual Existing Communists (though this term hardly applies to the revisionist CP, they at least do not openly, proudly side with the arms of State and imperialism), the boot right at the very beginning of the conference? The conference was truly a learning experience. I at long last realised Trotskyism to be the counter-revolutionary petit-bourgeois trend in disguise that it always has been. Shady characters with unknown rises like Bhaskar Sunkara, who was dodgy and squirrelly as one would not expect of a seasoned Leftist organiser and head of a popular publication to be at all. The Trots droned on about how intelligent and great Trotsky and, don’t read whilst drinking- Karl Kautsky was! Not Lenin, but Kautsky! Indeed, they made Lenin out only to be a sympathetic protagonist of a tragedy, the story of how socialism was doomed to fail from day one in the USSR, how delusional poor Lenin was, and that typical vein of non-sense seen from covert anti-Lenin-ists. Apparently Lenin was simply ‘holding back the flood of Stalinist capitalism’, so to speak. The whole conference was one expencive (two-hundred dollars a ticket, if memory serves), wasteful charade. Lenin was barely mentioned, and always in that same tragic light of the ‘poor ald fool’, though the Trots dared not use those exact words, and always did they do this in a superficial, reverential way, never bothering to discuß where in his theory he was wrong (and all of his ‘acceptable views’ were designated over to Trotsky). I have yet to see a Marxist-Leninist wank off Lenin or Stalin, et alia, to the fantastical level that Trotsky’s dead corpse has been by his followers. If anyone has a cult of personality, it is the Trots. One more important occurrence that happened to me was that an anarchist asked me how I could support a totalitarian Stalinist arsehole like… Josip Broz Tito. I argued with his ‘novel’ interpretation of Tito and Yugoslavia. At the end of the conversation, he practically said it would have been better for world communism if the Nazis had been able to annihilate the Yugoslav Partisans, and execute Tito. I had quite enough at this outrageous juncture and so replied to this in the only way befitting it: ‘hell ja, mein Volksgenoße! Sieg Heil!’. With my piece said, I quickly left the small room we were in. My first time bumping into a so-called Leftist who would, whether implicitly or explicitly, rather have the Nazis win instead of Stalin, Mao, Tito, and the Allied Powers, simply because ‘muh socialism easier to get over here!’, both stupid and selfish. It is nay wonder that after witneßing this shite-show, a pamphlet named ‘Leninism or Trotskyism’ appealed to my confused disposition, garnered my curiosity about the true nature betwixt Trotsky and Lenin, Trotskyism and Leninism.
IV. Love is Hate of the Light
And now, the moment ye have all been waiting for, me love life, which is unfortunately a path we must travel to continue the Leftist Journey into me political and cultural development. Long guarded by fear, shame, and the absence of the Wodenly Kaiserlight, I here swear to allow at last its publishment. To answer some questions posed to me throughout high school: nay, I am not a homosexual. Ya, sexually attractive women made (past tense ideologically important) me lose control over bits of myself. Ya, Deutsch and Rußian blonde females made, if I may, Me So Horny. Ya, I did (do?) love some one, Emily. Nay, I never kißed, or otherwise touched in that manner any female. Are you happy, you perverse devils? That be me final say on it. And for the record, let it shew that Trevill McFernyster (remember that lying bastard?) invented and dißeminated the slanderous fiction that I was a homosexual with his neo-Nazi friend, to make the latter look better after he aßaulted (started kicking me) in the school hallways). The joke is them as they are buffoons for this very reason: I am anti-Identity Politic and anti-Sexual, it is not the type of sexuality or identity which I care about. Now, let us never speak of any of the above again, that we are finally moving on to the political, ideological significance of this.
Well, that was rather uncomfortable, partially because all of my history, my memories, are akin to treading over a road strewn with shards of sharp, jagged glaß, but more centrally because sexuality and breeding is the domain of rabid, morally-absent beasts we deem animals (not pets mind you, who are sexually repaired, virtuously fixed). I truly did (do?) love Emily paßionately, the only other woman I have loved being all the way back in kindergarten (but not nearly as intensely) as my Sunflower; here hair is exactly the same border of orange and yellow at which gold, and the Sun, rests, and which like them naturally glistened brightly under the Sun. As a bonus, her eyes are bountifully blue orbs. Emily was a deeply painful and troubling ideological problem, as she was the only woman I was tempted by the unholy powers to desire reproducement with. I was the Swornfaith Augustine of Heathenry, but to me own credit, I had only been thinking in sin, not, however, living in it as he had.
Even to-day, I have mastered, through the serenity of wisdom and the goodneß of worshipping the gods, the sinful chaos of erections, the wicked work of the daemon Eros, the mocking corruption of Woden Lord’s Hallingly Creation. When met with any sort of aspect of Emily (or her sister), I lose exercise over this sickening chaos, becoming revoltingly aroused. Happy devil is Eros that Emily torment me body into such evil response! Thunor save me from this guiltdom! I now have the disgraceful guilts to suffer the knowledge that sexuality and reproduction are evil, devilish even, acts, which I did not yet know at the time. Woden Lord, punish me for my sins, Lord-Saviour Thunor, relieve me of these sins. I forsake the darkneß of my past so that I may be made whole and healthy in Welhalling’s ways, sothlice!
Nethertheleß, I did still have the age old philosophical problem of what the separation betwixt man and ape is. I did (and do) believe that use of the genitals shrinks, indeed shrivels the brain (the amount of sexual pleasure, as a rule, seemingly damages but half the corresponding amount of cerebral intellectual capacity). Socrates suggested attempting to first get married, yet for reasons I can but suspect, or ascribe to the holy hand of Woden and/or Thunor, I skipped to his second, gloriously immortal step, ‘become a philosopher’! Was this also not the answer to the above? Does the separation not dwell because mankind may reject the dark forces’ temptations of sexuality and reproduction, for the infinitely more stimulating struggle for and construction of knowledge, wisdom, and wisdomship?
After reaching these conclusions, I went on a search for theorists, to find out whether others had studied these matters. There were three theories which I found to this end: MGTOW [Men Going Their Own Way], anti-natalism, and the black-pill. I saw at once revolutionary potential and radical people’s energy in all three. I had been thinking for a while now that the entire biological reproduction cycle is the most powerful, widespread, and constant reactionary force which is always draining the pool of available revolutionaries, giving the bourgeois state potential leverage over the movement, dispersing the movement’s resources, despoiling society (as Ortega y Gaßet argues in The Revolt of the Maßes), and most detrimentally (when the scale of time be accounted), replenishing wage-labour, showing the capitalists that they really need not change, for the brood even of Leftists tends to be Right-wing and by nature fascistic. The median theory resonated with me most personally, as a bad childhood in a poorly constructed house lent to a more serious consideration of it, not merely of consequences arising from society and economy, but the fundamental ethical judgement debated in the philosophy.
Indeed, right after the fallout of the Ruback Revolution’s defeat, as proud though I was to have been the Rubolshik leader, I was still crushed, and only in part thanks to the heavy punishments wrought against me. I lokked at my life thus far and recognised just how dull, poor, unremarkable my life had been, contrasted to the numerous lords and leaders of the world since. It is in fact only this subject which the middle-claßes are pre-disposed to be correct and revolution about; always lokking upward at, whilst being proletarianised down the claß ladder, they are acutely sensitive to their helpleß situation, and can therefore see most clearly the criminality in forcing persons into the miserable stew called life. During this period, I dedicated most of my time to the development of the theories of the Famarchy and Natal Rape.
To ever so briefly explain these two theories, Famarchy is the theory that breeding is an inherently selfish, egotistical act, and that because of this eßence, the structure of the family is volatilely competitive, it is a claß hierarchy of innate struggle; it is the capitalist system at the micro-cosmic level of natural selection (except for single-children, who are bestowed the air of aristocracy, and are far superior to the families of unchecked multitude). It is the Original Hierarcy, indeed the hierarchy to encompaß all hierarchies, the so to speak biological evidence that mankind is evil, greedy, and egotistical. Natal Rape, I cannot say was an idea wholly of my conception. I had seen theories similar to Natal Rape floating around anti-natalist spaces for a while, though I had of course codified my own interpretation, and gave it a naming and a more orderly appearance. Natal Rape posits that procreatal sexs can by eßence not be consensual, for whilst the foetus nor the person is in existence, their life thereafter birth has been significantly affected (read: invariably harmed, as argued by Profeßor David Benatar in his ingenious work ‘Better Never to have Been’) and should thus be considered a constitution of rape. My theory further holds that breeding is a genetic supremacist hate crime, a Natal Rape ‘committed with the purpose to preserve and expand the future of the master genome’. I shudder that these equally fourteen words resonate with those written by the fascist supremacist David Lane, yet every one practically agrees with their enforcement. I have since written many clarifications, additions, and connecting theories for both of the above, buried within the gargantuan piles composing (or composting!) my four-thousand-page study archive.
I became a black-pilled vol-cel [Voluntary Celibatarian] Marxist Going Their Own Way. There was no personal stigma, I felt, for adopting what to me were perfectly logical, and morally positive views. There was yet another reason for this, however: the women who had any contact with me were super hostile. Most of the men in high school were agreeable, or at the very least treated me with the most basic of common decencies, the barest modicum of respect, not something that interested the women, at any rate. It came to the point where, if I were aßigned to a woman, I would give one single try to be a neutral human, and get the aßignment done, and if they (always, and I can recount every individual time) responded negatively, I would from then remain utterly silent until the end of claß or the specific activity, and if the lay-out of the activity permitted, I would ask the teacher to re-aßign me to a male. Bear in mind that I only publicly began to even so much as mention my above sympathies or my anti-Identity Politic stand in twelfth grade, senior year, at the end, of high school, which narrows down the poßibilities for their hatred, especially being that I am five-six in height, but I shall stay my thoughts on the peculiarity here. And to the old, battered fallacy that ‘its just high school, bro’ I tell that this experience has not yet failed to repeat itself, ad infinitum, verified for me in banks (the women keep making up regulations and red tape, where the men do not), clinics (the women doctors say I am fine, and that I should just eat soup, the men show concern for my illneß, twice this happened the day after seeing a woman ‘doctor’ {paßive murderer}), groceries (women saying audibly ‘to themselves/their co-workers’ {har har} ‘my Marine{n SS} boyfriend kicked some antifa commie aß’) and the list could go on for an irritatingly long time, if I so wished to put all of you through that, but let me spare you my pain, now that, hopefully, you understand my decisions. The evidence concluded in favour of the objective material analysis of the black-pill: women (especially Western women) form a privileged stratum within the bourgeoisie and middle-claßes, whose relation to the means of production is that of labour-sucking parasite, exploiting the value created by their husbands and a times the system, be this the state or the social structure. Women who dedicate their life and virginity to labour and/or worship are to me all the more remarkable, when contrasted with the labourleß cosmopolitan narcißistic females and their abusive husband Chad, serves these fools right, forsaking the former, admirable path for that of disgusting promiscuity and ruinous teen pregnancy!
This is the end of what may be deemed my sexual revolution.
V. The Five Month Plan to Bolshevise
I, having become disillusioned with Trotskyism and finding no acceptable salvation in the radical wing of social-democracy or the Industrial Workers of the World’s brand of anarchism (really anarchism period), delved into my very own political revolution, days that shook the world for my thinking. I shelved my Trotsky(ist) books in back, and brought my long neglected claßics by Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Mao to the fore-front. Being one of the sole good things to come of ‘Socialism’ (Trotskyism) Conference, I could add a few claßics purchased there to my still-minor personal library collection. Besides staying wary of the dark tomes of Stalin, we were highly encouraged never to read the claßics without consulting a Trotskyist guide before-hand, lest, in our aspiration to use this Stalinism for good, our hearts be corrupted with the power offered by the Staliet Union. Wise were these Trotskyite words, as read alone, there shall be no Trotskyist conclusions drawn. Having read ‘Leninism or Trotskyism’, and being taken aback by how accurately the pamphlet described what I had witneßed unfold at that ideology’s big conference, I decided that if Marx, Engels, and Lenin corroborated Stalin, then I would become a Marxist-Leninism, and join with him. But if Stalin was exposed by their tomes to be a manipulative Dark Lord of the Soviets, then I would adopt Leninistic-Marxism, or Leninism with no adjectives (I never did come up with a satisfactory name to rival Marxism-Leninism).
Thankfully, I need not have continued experimenting with naming schemes, for the claßics of Marxism on every page contradicted the Trotskyite dogma, and absolved the doctrine of Marxism-Leninism. I was at last unblinded by the bright Red dawn of the immortal ideological science. Ironically, this glorious transformation could not have happened (at least as soon) without Socialism Conference, and it caused me to read more Trotsky than I ever had previously as a Trotskyite, realising suddenly more as ach book I completed how many contradictions were present in Trotskyism, and just how much Trotsky’s views diverged and doctored from those of Lenin. In this proceß of de-Trotskyisation, I was aided along by the content of a YouTube channel named ‘The Finnish Bolshevik’. FinnBol’s videols and my growing library of Marxist-Leninist literature, claßic and contemporary, had altered nearly all of my political views, yet it also re-opened examination of my cultural theory.
VI. Socialist Reckoning of Intellectual Activity
Up to this moment of ideological development, my cultural ideology was immensely anti-maßes. With the advent of a real Marxist basis, I could determine the claß-consciousneß and claß-character of the various strata in ‘the maßes’. One of the most veritably profound, palpably changes was in the way I forstood the claß of the majority of the studentry. For so long, I had equated what were really petit-bourgeois sub-urbanites with a stereotyped conception of the peasantry as rednecks (purviewed from my Trotskyism, I presume). Now my analyses, whilst still polemical, were material, id est sensical. I as well had to reckon with the fact that I was of an ideologically conscious advanced element of this very same claß. This is why I had fallen into the fear-mongering, even mystifying, dogma of Trotskyism, and why I thought my writing and I were better than any Marxist who had come before. I burned my autobiography in our back-yard fire pit, for it so disgusted me. To this day, I am a strong adherent of the Lenin-Stalin Biographical Principle: only petit-bourgeois egotists (anti-Communists) focus on such fruitleß endeavours as writing memoirs or autobiographies. This article is the first writing in five or six years that I have made about myself.
I was not useleß to the movement, however. I could do what petit-bourgeois intellectuals do best: write for the movement, and create a publication in which to distribute the writing. Again, I reached the conclusion that a publication was neceßary, but this time I knew the material, roughly speaking, to be the motive of its purpose. Thus, The Philosopher’s Interior (print edition) was had from my own hand and mind. The last detail about The Philosopher’s Interior of importance to my Ideological Journey, is that it once more demonstrated to me the unfaithfulneß and unreliability of petit-bourgeois, incapable of maintaining or developing even their friendships, which caused me to theorise about the nature and structure of friendships for a short time (the primary work on this will be included as an appendix, if I by chance re-discover it).
VII. Inspiration from the Spire of Woden
There is one final awakening which has influenced my Ideological Journey to speak on. So without delay, please excuse me dear readers, but do [translation from Spire Ecclesiastical Script suspended] ye have time to learn about our Lord et Saviour Thunor, Son of Woden Lord? That is right, the last be spiritual, hinted in some areas of the tecst, Sothlice! To truncate hwat is already far too long, Ic began looking at religion through an anti-imperialist, nationalist lens, et found that Anglo-Sacsons, all Deutschonic folcs, really, poßeßed a vastly more doanable et ethfical religion. Den it hit Mic, te Canaanites were pagans, too. Ic slowly developed a new theory of religion, with help, of course, from the learned Imperators of the hofich, hwich accounted for the national othersuch betwicst folcs, et tat would not only unite the pagans of the Earth, but ensure that Heathenry never succumbed to the stifled arrogance of ‘canon’ and ‘authority’ promulgated by monotheistic religions. thvat is how I came upon and joined in the Spire of Woden, a hofich dedicated to these same goals. Marxism-Leninism cannot fulfil the role of, cannot become, a religion; in this it will fail as any grounded, materialist political ideology would. Not only so, but the Abrahamists mutilate children, removing their sacred foreskin; as Woden said in the Second Book of Midyard ‘he who has his foreskin lost, unwholly has been thus made’. It is because of them that we are comdemned to guiltdom, until we may find right to restore from this wrong. To this, Ic also believe that one cannot be an Abrahamist and call themselves a Leftist with any honesty.
VIII. Tying up some Cultural Ends
I near forgot to answer the popular questions of the source for my uniformology and my linguistic endeavours! The former question has two predominant influences. As I mentioned in my national awakening, I looked at the Preußian and Deutsch aristocracies, and the nations they were the leader of, with positive approval. His Majesty Kaiser Wilhelm II appears to have had quite the natural inclination for uniformology as well. For make no mistake, I was destined to wind up there, the influences only served as social validation that I was correct and the grotesque middle-claßes were the degenerates in the wrong. The second influence came from Comrade Stalin and the Bolsheviks. Seeing those high and fold-down collar tunics, with shoulder boards of gold and/or colourful collar tabs, I knew at once that what the middle-claßes were selling us was scumbaggery and redneckery. There were even the flute bands of Ireland, Republican and Orangeist, dreßed in exquisite uniformeries. I would even make the historical claim, without any previous study on the matter, that if the NSDAP had been a typical Western republican party of centrist sensibilities, it would have still wiped the floor with the other degenerate middle-claßist Weimar parties, all thanks to its uniformology, street parades, and Nuremberg rallies. The aristocracy, if I may say, is the natural vanguard of the proletariat. Claß finds its constitution partially in culture. I recently gave a simple explanation on my following uniformology, which I shall include in the appendices.
My linguistic views were yet another commonality shared by the Spire of Woden and myself. I have long been yelling into a chamber of naysayers that English as it stands to-day will not survive, whether it be the coming yearhundreds or the collapse of the US Empire, unleß we take steps, any steps at this point, to reform it. There are many ways to go about this, and the Spire of Woden has taken a path of simultaneous Anglification and phonetification, with some vocabularial alterations and additions sprinkled in. We might also do as the Irish have tried with their speech, and teach pre-1066 English as part of compulsory education, spreading it around the land on signs, boards, and legal documents. I cannot streß enough that the Ghettovian muck pushed by the onlinified sub-urbanite middle-claßes can only destroy English faster. That is no solution, it is suicide. We could nationally switch to Deutsch or Swedish, but that would be the ruin of English, too. To think that the last remnants of the Speech of Beowulf now teeter at the edge of the historical void, is a sad testament to the destructive force of liberalism.
IX. An End if ever There were One
That is the conclusion of my Ideological Journey, besides the appendices. It has been full of developments, of that I know. From what I have learned, I consider myself more useful, more industrious, when alone. Left to my own projects, I am a wellspring of industrious ingenuity. My history here demonstrates so. This was truly an unexpected journey, when it was announced four weeks ago, and I practically abandoned my blog to finish it! Out of the frying pan and into the flame I go, into the lengths of the groß unknown…
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Appendix A
Speech Unfreed; My Confrontation with the Police
I have gotten into trouble with law enforcement but once to speak of. Coming from a respectable petit-bourgeois intellectual background as I do, added in regard by my meek, unpresumptuous manner, it is unsurprising that the police, though they would so enjoy to, do not harraß me very often.
The May Day of 2017, if memory serves, broke any illusions which I may have harboured about my relations with or the modus operandi of the police, personally and as an institution of state. Now, what these illusions, if any, may have been, I no longer command the parcel of remembrance for. I was no longer a reformist by this time, nor do I think that I was any longer a Trotskyite, and thus I can say with some certainty that I was at the least wary of the bourgeois state apparatus, the dastardly, repreßive role that it plays in preserving capitalist interests by force. I was equipped with some basic theory of Marxism-Leninism, of whatever worth that could be estimated to have had.
Ah, that bright though rainy May Day! All of the Leftists and socialist parties were gathered together in a large triangle of the park. The Revolutionary Communist Party/Revcom, and a random Trotskyist party (poßibly Socialist Alternative) were themselves submerged in the lower middle half of the triangle, selling their respective newspapers and shouting their various political chants. The RCP as I recall were one of the most active and energised parties present: in their slogans, in their distributions of their publication (Revolution!) and their literature, and in their quest for recruitment. In direct, painful contrast to the indfatigable radical spirits of Comrade Avakian’s RCP stood the milkwater Party for Socialism and Liberation, under the cliquish, anti-social ‘(un)leadership’ of John Beacham. Occupying the right corner of the congregation all by themselves, one felt as if this part of the park was a graveyard, inhabited only by sullen ghosts with a deflated party cynicism (usually Leftist parties suffer from the opposite, an inflated party ego). These melancholy party-poopers, aside from their isolated social trance, proved by further interaction to be unusually cliquish even for the standards of a fractional Leftist party.
I took notice instantly to the sizable police presence without the boundaries of the park. I am unsure if it was last-minute response to the plentiful contingent of various anarchists and Communists, since the march was technically organised by some Mexican Democrat group, and not by the comrades. This one police officer gave me a rude, unprovoked glare as soon as I pulled out my Stalin cap and donned it. Deciding that there was no reason to worry, that he would not be able to arbitrarily touch me when I joined the maß of various comrades, I ignored it, not looking back or in any other form acknowledging it. I fail to bring forth the memory of what exactly I did before the beginning of the march. I do know that I purchased a copy of ‘Revolution!’, of ‘Basics: from the Writings and Talks of Bob Avakian’, the PSL’s ‘Liberation News’ paper, and a selection of eßays from them called ‘CHINA: Revolution and Counter-Revolution’. I must admit that, whilst the local PSL leadership’s wretched party-recruitment and basic social skills leaves much to be desired, the national PSL certainly understands how to make engaging, informative propaganda, and the party-line is pretty good, if I might say. It’s a shame that the national branch is not representative of the local one. After this I spoke to some comrades from both organisations, and a Trotskyist who said, endearingly in my mind, ‘you look like Uncle Joe’. We discußed party structure or something of that nature before we found our conversation disrupted by the intensifying summons to attention of the forward drummers, beating the order to join the march, party by party, column by column, banner by banner, in lockstep formation to the riveting Red Dawn!
The armoured detachment of black-shirted bobbies followed us in their lockstep force for darkest reaction, through the whole route. Unlike previous years, the police docile, as far as physical contact goes, leaving every disparate group in peace (‘twas not so last year, as I found out from recorded footage of bygone May Days). My personal suspicion of this sudden ‘change of heart’ goes back to who actually ‘prepared’ and ‘set up’ (used relatively, of course) the event. If the niners should have scuffled with any of us or in other ways devised complications, I am sure that they feared drawing disdain from the Democratic Party faction, one of the two ruling bourgeois apparatuses of state.
That glorious International Workers Day parade ended without incident and in the best of cheer. During the second portion of the march route, it had begun to rain with modest aptitude, soaking my wool cap and tunic, which then for the duration home emanated an odour of wet carpet. My feet had also developed a badly bleeding blister that must have pooped open a few times, turning a patch of my sock violet-black, the seams coated with dead blood cells. I was certainly relieved, though not exactly joyed, to board the train. The train car was midly cool, nothing else really stands out about the travel back.
Getting out of the car, having arrived home, is when the trouble started. One of the local Right-wing townspersons caught sight of my Red Flag, planted in a soiled pot on the deck before we left for May Day that morning. Thinking fast on their rod-bundled feet, they called the police to report ‘probable terrorist activity’. Oblivious to the existence of this call, I continued to go about my day. I hung the Red Flag I had taken with me to May Day, that indomitable symbol of proletarian aspirations and resistance to power, next to the one in the pot, thinking myself nothing of it. There was no palpable reason to realise the folly of hoisting high this majestic marker.
The police patroller must have rolled up to the house at around nine at night. I was, if memory be trusted, reading a Marxist political work on the mechanisms of the bourgeois state then. I cannot, however, conceive of which one of these many works it was. I heared the red steel door to our house open of course, perceiving vaguely of some what I then aßumed to be immaterial murmurings, none the wiser as yet of who it was, what had transpired. My mother came into my room, and delivered the harrowing revelation. Seeing no way out of this damning situation, I went out and to every question asked said ‘as Mister Robeson once did, I, too, invoke the Fifth Amendment’. Getting nowhere with me, and it being so very obvious that the ‘probable terrorist activity’ call was a dubious claim incited by personal gripe, the clinkers left our house without fuß.
That was the death-knell of any good will or benefit of the doubt which I gave the bourgeois police since my days of being indoctrinated as a child, that blue-shirts roaming the land is ever a good signifier. From this minor confrontation with the repreßive arms of the state, I learned a great deal of practical and ideological knowledge, that could have only been sought in experience, removed from literature. In the end, this event strengthened my resolve and improved my Communist organisational line. Many thanks are due to these two brave American patriots (or bourgeois bandits), for they had valiantly aßisted me in becoming a Redder Communist, and demonstrating to me the clinker methodology!
Appendix B
Response to the Significance of Uniformology
Ah, that is a story. I subscribe to uniformology
due to my strong cultural and social belief in the
Deutsch aristocracy's (the Junkers) form of aristocratic
socialism/communism. The Deutsch aristocracy, to shortly
give context, rejected both the French's identification
with the state, and the English's identification with the
market, the Junkers, much more ideologically socialist,
proclaimed 'Wir sind das Volk'. By unifying the notion of
the maßes and the aristocracy as a single entity, a claß in
itself, the concept of aristocratic (and monarchistic)
socialism was formed. This socialism tends to be leß
culturally... ,,radical'', for lack of a better (videlicet not outright negative) word. Just like the Junkers, I am not a friend of
liberalism or republicanism. I wear uniforms for the exact
same reasons Junkers do. The ramrod straight, illustriously
embroidered structure of society, its order and Majesty,
must be preserved from the degeneracy advocated for by
petit-bourgeois liberals. These little-burghers hope to make
society economically rich by being culturally poor, and this
is something I cannot abide. Just compare post-modernism to
the glory of the Baroque age: that represents the disagreement
perfectly. From age fourteen, I have never since stopped
wearing uniforms. For communism to win,
we must ruthleßly oppose and crush liberal-capitalist
(anti-)culture.
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