RECKLESS ABANDON AND THE INNER MODE OF BEING 05

IT has been many moons since we last lay with
Aphrodite and her nymphs, yet their glow still
resonates on our skin. Keeping us warm for a
little while longer, in an ever darkening world.
Rejoice and be glad glad, for we now hold the sacred
muse. Keep her safe, always close to your heart,
like a priceless medallion. For it is her body,
the vessel of life, that can compel men to do
reckless things. Know this, rider, recklessness
must be embraced, for it will prove an invaluable
asset in our undertaking. I plan to guide you
through the Mountains of Circumspection. A storm
brews ever more that way, and I hope to arrive when those
forces collide. For we will need the danger of
the mountain and the storm’s vicious heat to
create the proper training ground. There we will
learn how to wield lightning. How to move
without fear. We will endeavor to release the
primal aspects of the Aryan, that have long lain
dormant.

However, fate Fate saw it fit that we would should find a
quaint town, here at the base of the mountain
range. Let us enjoy their well-cooked well‐cooked food and
hospitality, before we throw off our civilized
courtesies and once again become beasts. The
smell of cooked meats, cakes and bread fills our
senses. The sound of children laughing, laughing gives us
respite from those horrid monsters we must
endure, endure
out in the wild. This place would be a good home
if our kind could still have homes. If we had not
been forced to become rootless, like
they those who
wish to gouge out the eye of Being. Here men
labor in factories, as cogs, cogs in a machine, to the
rhythm of the assembly line. Cars whiz by on busy
streets to the signal of lights lights, and the clock
tower above, above always serves to keep order.
Whistles and bell chimes all are utilized to
coordinate and instruct these happy people
towards societal stability. The women wear pretty
garments adorned with plastic gems and paper
flowers. The men don hats in many styles and
sizes. A courthouse sits in the middle of the
town as a constant reminder of the rule of law.
That one must remain obedient, here in the domain
of man.

Look, rider, there appears to be some type of
traveling zoo. They have animals from all over
the world here. Elephants and giraffes. Tigers giraffes, tigers
and antelope. We pass by a small showcase of
various kinds of wildlife. There There, a man with a
large hat is
talking lectures the crowd about the numerous species names and
habits.
habits of numerous species. I see an eagle on a
stand and beavers in a small cage on the floor.
I turn to the man who owns the display and say,
“Are these beavers from a near by nearby river, sir? We
soon will make our way up the mountains and surely we
will surely need a water source.” He turns to
me with a smile and says, “No, friend, these
beavers have never even been in a river. They
were born in captivity. Must of have been their
great grandparents or so thereabouts who were first
caught. Same with this eagle
here. here, I had its
wings clipped soon after it was born. All my
animals are perfectly safe, for safe – none of them have
ever seen the wild.” I pause for a moment and
then respond, “Safe. Yes, of course they
are.” Rider, look at this eagle with clipped
wings. I wonder, does he dream of flight, even if
he has never known it? I’m sure he wouldn’t
be able to understand the hidden desire, but surely
there would must be some
type kind of longing when it looks
up into the sky. If we were to purchase these
beavers here, and then release them to the wild,
what do you think they would experience when they
first met a river? What would they feel when they
first encounter encountered twigs and all the various
necessities to build a dam?

Rider, I must ask, if we too have been in a
Semitic zoo, zoo all this time, what will we feel when
we seize lightning again? Will there be some type
of genetic response? A manifestation of an inner
desire, or impulse that will force its way to the
top? Is there such a thing as a memetic key? For
if the cool water of the river, and the twigs
themselves are enough to compel these little
creatures to build great structures, to unlock
hidden potential, then what will we be compelled
to build, when we find our memetic keys?

The memetic keys are the cultures and enviroments
environments that formulate are formulated in unison with
our inner mode of being. They take shape as
systems, symbols and objects which all serve to
unlock our hidden potential. Verily, it It was Plato who
sought the memetic key that ushers would usher in the
perfect political system. The drive to create
the perfect
government, government is an endeavor to find the
memetic
key, which had key that has long developed alongside our
inner systems. For this This key is interwoven within the
fabric of our being. It is in harmony with our
way of life. A memetic key can only be forged in
the fires of naturalism. Thus, any system that is
built on falsity, falsity will inevitably break down and
the yearning, from the animal, will return it to
a memetic key more fitting the totality of its
developed instincts. For we, the Romantics,
National Socialists, Fascists, Third Positionists
Positionists, and dreamers of dreams, dreams desire
political systems that are fundamentally balanced
with our inner drives.

These memetic keys exist everywhere. Jung
wasn’t wrong when he emphasized the importance
of symbols. It was with this mindset that we
hoisted up the black banner with the lightning
bolt. For it was the color black that symbolized
our conviction to neither give, nor accept
quarter,
quarter from these creatures who wish to gouge
out the eye of Being. We brought with us the
lightning bolt, for it had long been associated
with the champions of the old gods. For we We wish to
prove Savitri Devi right in the end. That end – that when
the Aryan’s retribution commenced, he would
ride with lightning.

Our wings were clipped long ago. We have no
memetic key handed down from time immemorial that
we can rely on. Our fathers were capitalists who
sold out their nations for benefits and leisure
time. Our grandfathers aided the communists in
devouring half of Europe. Our great, great, great
grandfathers fought a war to emancipate the
negro.
Negro. Seventeen hundred years ago Constantine,
curse his name, undid all of the steps undertaken
by Diocletian to hold on to the memetic keys that
the Romans had venerated since their inception.
Did these so-called Romans so‐called “Romans” not realize
that every step further from mos maiorum, maiorum was a
step towards losing themselves? Let the
Mohammedan ghoul shit and piss in the Hagia
Sophia, for we should level Constantinople completely.
completely! We should endeavor to build an even
greater city there on the Bosporus.
For And it shall
be named anything but Constantine. Come along,
rider, I grow weary of seeing watching these caged
beings.

A gentle rain now begins and as we make our way up into
the mountains. Mist becomes ever more present
the higher we rise. Rider, before we reach the
peaks and engage with the storm, I must tell you
what I hope to find. I believe there lies a
memetic key in the lightning which comes our way.
A key which unlocks a certain dynamicism dynamism buried
deep in our core. Late one night many moons ago,
as Aphrodite lay her head on my heart, she
whispered to me, “Love can only reach its
crescendo with reckless abandon.” In confusion
I asked her what she had meant and she explained,
“One must make themselves vulnerable to truly
be loved. For love is a dangerous gamble. One
risks their whole being in hopes of a union which
may or may not withstand time. One can build a
wall to guard their weaknesses, but only when
they are told they are loved, in spite of their
insecurities, will they ever truly feel
cherished.”

This “reckless abandon” that Aphrodite spoke
of, does it provide a clue to one of our missing
keys? The Greeks held that between recklessness
and cowardice was courage. That courage was a
virtue because of its intermediate location
within the golden mean. location, a
“golden mean.” That it was neither excessive,
nor deficient. At the risk of being scrutinized
by the Aristotelian, can it be said that
recklessness is a virtue as well? Verily, it was
courage that compelled Alexander of Macedon to
unite Greece and make war with the Persians.
However, it was reckless for him to lead the
cavalry charge at Issus, which pierced through
the Persian line. Tell me, was it not reckless
when of
Napoleon Bonaparte, Bonaparte who, when desperately trying
to inspire his men to attack, seized a flag and
stood in the open, under fire, there at the
Battle of Arcole? If recklessness is not a
virtue, then why do the hairs on the back of my
neck stand, stand on end when I think of their such feats?
Can it be said that courage is not enough? For
what is courage but a man's man’s ability to control
the fear within. within? To hold back anxiety and do what
is necessary. necessary? But is it possible a man could be
without fear? When the ancient Germanic warrior
gave his life for his people on the battlefield,
did he die do so holding back fear fear, or did he die
with satisfaction? Truly, the materialist, the
man of
modernity modernity, will not comprehend such
things. For the Germanic warrior believed in an
afterlife for those who displayed prowess in
battle. Who can be said to still believe in the
meme of Valhalla? Perhaps that memetic key has
been lost to time, yet still I believe the inner
drive can be unlocked. We must merely forge a new
key. If love can only reach its crescendo with
reckless abandon, then let us become reckless,
for it is the European continuum that we love,
that we cherish, that we could die for with
satisfaction. Let it be said that the new man
will not die for his own immortality. Rather, he immortality, but rather
will live for the continuation of Being’s drive
towards knowing.
That knowing – so that he may rest satisfied
on his death bed, that he took up the task to aid of
aiding truth’s pursuit of truth. Being to
being. That he and And that the Romantics of the European
continuum, shall ever chase the Sun with reckless
abandon, to whatever end.

The storm comes finally makes way upon us just as we arrive
at the peaks. It is here where we must learn
recklessness. Lightning flashes in the distance
and the wind howls like some mad pack of dire
wolves. Here we must capture lightning with our
own hands. It is only when we wield the
lightning bolt that we can unlock our true
potential. Just as those little endearing little beavers
had to touch the twigs to build the dam, we must
touch the lightning to become the new man.

A flash of light appears, far off at another
peak, followed by the a roar of thunder that deafens
our ears. I wonder, rider, how are we ever to
capture it with our bare hands? For surely we
must be careful here in the mist. If a single
step is were placed in error, we could sink
down would fall onto the
rocks below. Lightning strikes near by and yet I
am too slow. I can not break off from analyzing
each step. It is step, and caution which dominates me, paralyzing
my abilities. Unless I am absolutely certain my
footing is firm, I can not move. This inaction is
a weakness. The root of it is fear. For the storm too
storm, too, has a lifespan lifespan, and in time will fade
away. Unless we are quick, we will lose our
chance to capture the key. Do you think me mad,
that I could slay Hobgoblins with ease, but these
heights would garner fear
within? within me? That I could draw
daggers with a smile against monsters who wish to
gouge out the eye of Being, yet a mountain stroll
during a light-show light‐show brings forth terror. terror? Rider,
you must understand, even sacred clowns can have
a fear of heights. Know this, the Semitic
Hobgoblin is unnatural and thus waging war
against it can only bring about a
joyous heart. joy. However, this
storm and these peaks armed with gravity
are a natural phenomenon which must be
 respected. Verily, are a
natural phenomenon which must be respected,
whereas it is perverse to respect the Hobgoblin
in any capacity.

Once again a bolt is delivered strikes close, but still out of
reach. The mist surrounds us completely, as gusts
of wind and rain shred away our resolve. What has
happened to us, rider? Are we domesticated
wolves? Has civilization filed down our fangs? Is
the greatest hallmark of civility, fear? How can
we become like the ancient men, who could die
with satisfaction? How can we rid ourselves of
this fear? A great flash saturates the landscape
and a bolt manifests, high in the air, before my
eyes. In an instant I see the face of the little
girl from the graveyard. What was her name? Åkerlund?
Åkerlund? Who is it to blame that she is no more?
Is it the Mohammedan ghoul, whom ghoul who drove the vehicle, vehicle
which disemboweled her? Is it the Semite who
brought the Moslem in? No, it is my fault. I am
to blame. It is fear that keeps me in captivity.

Suddenly I feel a deep hatred form in my gut. A
hatred of my fear, of my weakness. I see the
little girl’s smile and I hate even more. The
hate overwhelms me, filling me and eventually
spilling out, until nothing but hatred remains.
Know this, rider, hate is born from the womb of
love. They are intrinsically connected. Does the
mother not become wild when her young are
threatened? Does she not defend them with
reckless abandon? For that which wishes to
destroy what you love, must be met with hatred.
There in hatred, lies the chaos of the wild man.
For the man who hates, no longer fears rules,
civility and regulations. He no longer fears
death. In an instant I leap out into the mist and
grab hold of the lightning bolt. In a moment I am
made part of the storm. That the The heat of the bolt
matches the heat of my inner ferocity. The wheel
of Ixion stops as I stand above the clouds
wielding the weapon of the old gods.

I am become wild.

However,

But fate saw it fit, fit that gravity would should interrupt my
godhood. Once again the fear finds its way back
into me and as I begin to plummet down into the mist. I
wonder rider, did you leap out and touch the
lightning too? We are separated but you need only
listen for my laughter as you make your way down
to the rocks below. It is my joy that will guide
you. The mist fades away as you approach the base
of the mountain, and finally we meet once more.
There you find me hanging, tangled up in a tree.
It appears to have caught my fall, and I have
made some friends. I shift over and reveal baby
birds in a nest. It is well
with me and good that fate
saw it fit, fit that both these baby birds and I shall have life today. should
live another day. That we
shall should both be given grace graced
with the means to continue our
endeavours. endeavors.

I can barely hold back my laughter, rider. How
silly was it for me to believe all memetic keys
could be found within a single day, from a single
action? But know this, for a moment, when I
wielded lightning, I felt something new in me.
Like an animal, that has long lain dormant, and
has finally been re-awakened. That my re‐awakened. My fangs are
connected to my heart. However, I can not be this
wild man fully. I am an animal who has lived his
whole life in captivity. I am the bird with
clipped wings. But there for a moment I flew. I
tasted what it is to be free. To become the
animal you were I was meant to be. Surely you must think
me mad, that I would find such amusement in this
realization. Verily, it was these baby birds who
gave me this cheerful heart. For even if I am
the animal, an
animal who has recently broken free from
captivity and will never know what it is to truly
be wild, wild – to have one’s own culture derived
from one’s own blood, blood – still I am overwhelmed
with exultation to know that each subsequent
generation removed from the Semitic cage, will
drive itself closer and closer to our true mode
of being. That the memetic key will be reforged
in time. That time; that one day our potential will be
unlocked. It brings me great joy to know, that
even if my wings are clipped, the child of
tomorrow will fly. For that is his inner drive.
His instinct will compel him towards the sky, to
a new world. A beautiful world, because the Aryan
craves the beautiful. It is there in the
sweetness of Tchaikovsky’s melodies and it is
there in the drama carved in the Laocoön Laocoön and His
Sons. He will crave a world of justice and
individual responsibility, for he fundamentally
seeks truth and freedom. The drive towards
knowing, the chase of the Sun, is inextricably
linked to freedom. For how could such an endeavor
be made without an unleashed mind? A new world
where little boys and girls with blue eyes, eyes will
not be taught that they are wicked for simply
being. A world free of the Semitic impulse. A
world free of the Obfuscator.