Elfenstein’s Rarities

A bilingual horticultural monad of prescient Douglas-esque portrayal, whose yarn and thimbre hortisnultural digression caste into myre a tome and old yadel sambimatricularly and entifucular pornistition. Andid I eversee that why and when he ever dydyah. A dydyah and a tydyaggle Henry had in matricular cornucopia and everflescent myrr. Plistishandic varnish antid and dyr aontok

Drynkyng as e do and or did that lad saidithand were to im: “nacht on selfrimble! Nacht on selfrimble castish in im beddilement and thisthat he had to could he do dorth and if calt and imper windoe that clastich pornucopian viddle.”

Oy, vach venacht enriddinim, thisthat barlag and im inatisch this viddle. Andimstich and classtin im in goodiddle. Plogmach. Goggle in mach viv. Pornucopia. Pornudiddle im in and im in is ead. Plasticher in im middle eyer. Plasticher im in diddlemeyer im iniaticher coldt fachter castvasser im poopie tolgumeyerlichern vlastich gaggleloch. Vasticher goggle im gaopist yundle rastingoflester blisterbanger pornustian hoghenry blosting, blisting, fisting. Lostoprian hoginstine loginstein iminsteryodle the crofpooniatic toonfarmer. This gooster loostian tooglemeyer waas ich in im pooterviddle.presstich! Presstich im VIDDLE ya wankenstein!

-boonisticular krantlefocular trendle. Nachdiddler, penthiddler! Achtinim prnthillder snorti boontrembler? Horgular plentistadiflischer TRENDLEMEYER ay in im? AY! Yuddlesnorting poondiddler graggoehentry inop locutiongaggler.

A

I imagined his corn rows flying ovv in every direction like frying asparagus. The heat and stench of hot sauce rises off of the floor. Hatred is in our hearts as the football game plays on. “The niggers here wear corn rows” says my white CEO friend.

“We hate niggers and their despicable corn rows.”

I felt ill of this hate and this anger. Fucking niggers. Always hollering and bitching about this or that. Their shrill voices carrying off of the building walls for miles like some kind of cartoonish nightmare. From miles away I could hear the sounds of some bickering nonsense blasting out over the traffic and heat of the day. Not a word in the whole tonal mess. Just that lovely, high pitched but somehow warm and fuzzy black female voice. The voice of the ghetto. And with it the tensed asshole and nervousness of impending violence. Impending risk. Impending complication.

and the physicality. The movement of dark shapes. Irreconcilable shapes. Disconnected. Foreign. Otherly. And in further reaches the shape of judgment. Seeing my thoughts and disapproving. Ensuring my submission to the tolerance of my day. Ensuring the castration of my “evil” needs and desire for safety and order. Ensuring my subordination to the joys of diversity and the psychological undoing of my own existence as a white male within society.

outskirts of narrators and journalists beckoned with control freak methods and just dying to write about their views. To beat us down and shut us out and depopularize our feelings and hoist the shrieking tone to fever pitch where it could corner us and destroy us with ease to their sickening applause – that half grin, half grimace of the social justice journalist seeming born from a sort of schizophrenic malaise of upbringing, a sexual dysfunction that betrayed the fetish feature and the sense that at any moment vomit would come spilling out from beneath.

and the dysfunction of the entire apparatus as the moldy golgi teeniboppers and their frothing nonsense demanded total respect regardless, and to it was given, black or white as each and every one of them beckoned in creakingly demure tribal insistence the absolute subordination of our populations to their ego story and the sort of frail and infantile bitching and whining bordering on psychotic and violent always underneath and prepared to shit like a toddler the hate and fear of a teenager masquerading as poetic liscence each and every which way, or no way at all.

yet at similar times the shrill and shreeking shit of a hateful god whose turds stank like rotting shit each night rotting beneath the floorbords and scribbling nonsense shit out like some ballooning faggot in April heat, from which at bottom shorts and ballooning pants came out his shit and stuffed and spead out like nacho cheese on a laundry detergent list the sacrosanct verbiage in perfect harmony unfiltered and allowed to rot and filth away

the crybabies everywhere whose sad songs sat out in dry heat awaiting their festering return yonder way parted and quenched a thirst for untrodden stupidity with which to mold a new narrative of us them conflict for a man or woman even to feel a sense of purpose though there was none, and yet the story carried through and hot moldy do rags were sitting in the canjun heat and getting dried off for years. But nobody ever smelled them or picked them up with their sweat of years of work as white men did homework and Mom and Dad got them a present for their birthday, the do rags of suffering simply dried in the heat. Hay bails and sad slave songs were playing eternally as black women cried tears of Massas vviolence and how she did suffer and run, and how they did whip her oh lawd, yet the white man only chuckled quietly at a computer screen as his amgydyla imagined the men of his life looking on at his thought and snapped out of awareness: “ay, shant offend them then, nay” and he turns off his brain and computer and chooses sleep as its easy yah, and he goes to bed,

in morn the shrieks were heard once more and they did walk before his whip as the madness projected their fantasy of a wild psychotic white supremacist on a shooting soree, he merely laughed at them like wild hens on the prairie, never to let the buffoons ever have control again were he devotion and he did try this time to share a view, the white women were at worst and surely he would see so many of those mealy nurses of his as damned fools, but lest they respected the rules of civ to keep it up for the rest and boost a civ, but lest were the fools and imbeciles shrieking again of a white pride and nation the imbeciles came out creaking like ahitheads and yodeling about some cockeyed fsggotry again and again, nay did it stop?

but the buffoon did nay to understand hos shit of a head to boon and burn the last witchwell of them all. And couldant of them and him had of another way to do it, yest and nast but did they on and on anyhoe, yet it never did occur to him and hern the destitution might be unqueethed if given oest a matter pithy to it the old badger cunt fuck wallop bitch eangalang fuckhead needed more flames with which to burn the motherfuckers , yodeling stevie wrinkie rankle he say, yet no way of his did he piss on their furry fuzzy shit and bluster their stevie wrinkled kunts with his soy milk latte bath, in all of their period stained kunts he could place a latte and view from afar the sounds of orgazm by the hands of stronger alpha males who they begged for as the media told him guilt for being a man and glorifying the alpha nonthe less like a madhouse,ma big mad house

and he and they did rarely feel well, he friends got the attentiona s he sat back and wondered if he would ever, but for a lack of interest and a lack of interest in dealing with modern woman, whose mind seemed to him nearly entirely devoid of value or virtue, stupid, shallow, and trivial. Almost universally ignorant. But with some unseen gift mentioned time to time, the feminine value, yet he was not seeing it often where he peroused. Still though the rest were there, though he found themugly, though did feel guilt in this. Erong to judge on looks, no? Yet he did. He wanted her to look hot and turn him on. Yet he seemed unable to do this to them with ease. The value ws low so it seemed like he sat no place. Reluctant even to give hin to the pursuit of a woman he hardly even had recourse to do much at all at such a point, nearly impossible in these times. Despair not did he his sexual dysfunction.

yet he did wish for a woman, simply whatever she were he wished would come upon him now and with ease. But not alas did this ever occur. It were not a matter of choice. Would absolutely bot occur if he did not let go of his views and take the bull by the horns and force the equals to theirnk. None to care, none to give a fuck. None to sympathize with. None to matter. A shithole stinking and wretched and deserving fire. On knees like the doggs they were. Yet some part of him lived in delusion still and he failed and failed and failed ever to commit the sin and to fuck them like the pathetic doggs they were. And none smiled yet the joyless factotem were to remain and they say he were inferior like the dogg and fuck fuck fuck.

livin on he didnt do nuffin he had to do. He say, fuck it, and didnt give a fuck. Fuck em and fuck em all. And he keep on goin and he happy with he views. He know now no despair int he doggs. And he be like, letting it go now. They aint gonna change b. lettit go. And he jus do what he can now. He hate em all. He believes every man can find his own alpha without havin be like any other man.

its fun to find yourself and be yourself. And to find your way of living. Being an alpha for yourself, of yourself. And alpha is being yourself. It was actually always ttue. What was meant was be yourself anddo what you want no matter the fucking faggots who will judge you for it. Thats alpha. Let those faggots cry their faggy tears.

-!: he

European Energetics for the New Age: A Guide to Surviving the Crushing Effects of Multicultural Mediocrity

This is a guide meant to help fellows living in this dark age to confront the masses and to confront fellows and paths to achievement and success in this new age of diversity, mediocrity, ignorance, jealousy, envy, and hatred of the future.

This guide is meant to engender positive energetics for the purposes of releasing energies toward potentials of the future. We are against all energies which tear down and are for creating powerful centralities from which the harbinger can act without regard for the lowly, without regard for social media groupthink, without regard for pettiness and envy.

There is something to be said for an explosive energy from the center blasting out like a riptide, a blast of hot air, a fart gushing through the stream. We have to note the images of faces, dumbfounded faces, looking on and subtleties used for the purposes of tearing down. Not even the pathfinder of the Europositive mentality is immune from inferiority. It is in all of us, even me, as I express my thoughts here. But this is an important issue for today’s pathfinder, for the neoreactionary minded person as well. For those who forsee a path for mankind upward to the stars, for a civilization which uses its resources to boost itself to greater heights instead of allowing its most base members to dictate the structure of society – both macro and micro – to dictate the psychological experience and mental happenings of all, to dictate the groupthink and to dictate the coloration of the TV set, the coloration of mass media. To dictate the methodology of social media. To dictate the structuration of social media and the structuration of society.

This is not a mere minor pathway for an individual looking for money. It is a pathway for a group of individuals in tandem working to overcome to dictations of the low. This is a choice an individual makes at the same time as another individual, until many are doing it and it is no longer individual. It is a mass centrality pushing out from many into a macro centrality.

This is energetics. It is not activism. It is not words. It is not new age mysticism. It is not science. It is not progressive. Perhaps it is utopian in a sense. What it is, is an understanding of the ways in which the low dictate the situation as it stands. And it is a breaking out from that low through the use of energetics.

Perhaps it is insane. Or perhaps it is not. What is insane is accepting a world where the great are forced into slavery against the low, and where the great are psychological destroyed by the mass dictations of the low over the micro reality of the all, over the micro and macro reality of all. Are the low even entitled to their very own micro reality?

My feeling is that they are not. The micro reality of the low is an oxymoron and should be dictated by the macroreality of the great. There should be no microreality of the low. This should be engendered through papicular splitting. Membreonic shifters should be instilled for the purposes of microrealistic repurposing. All lowly microrealities can be split through degendering and decoupling through natal virility. This should not be an explicit exposition through the utilization of ego, but instead the subcutaneous fetal repurposing of a mitochondrial shifter.

This is one part of the placeholder of Euroenergetics. Or, perhaps we can even just call it energetics. One need not be racially European to participate, but philosophically European, if this makes any sense. One must stand for Western futures, in tandem with Eastern futures (both are essential). One must stand for some form of wellup centrality. And one must stand against the low. Mankind is one entity working toward its own futures. The difference between man, though important, are minor in comparison with the differences between man and other species. Man works for his own interests in tandem, but with an understanding of the micro-macro realities of race which are of interest for forward movement. Man must have both monoracial areas as well as multiracial for the purposes of improvement. One must have his own culture, and areas to mingle with other cultures.

When “white” culture is not allowed to exist, mankind is harmed severely. White culture has never been a bad thing. White culture has filled a placeholder which has always existed, of the high versus the low. There will always be a high and a low, and in any case the color of the skin of the racial makeup for the high or low is arbitrary. These are extremely simple concepts that must replace the predominant narrative. This is done through energetics and total blastoise methodology in breakening through centralities of the mind and out the other side.

It is not a secret that there is a problem of the body in the essence of core centralities. There is no question that the body partakes in its own shutting down against-thought.

And energetics will allow the microrealities taking place, as well as ego placeholders, the ability to energenically blast through the incorrect centralities currently taking hold of the body. And in this, through blastoise-metholodgy, the body will explode out of itself and into a partaking which allows for reality placement.

ON HATE POETRY:

Hate poetry is one of the great new methods for breaking out of core self centralities and opening the body up to the high against the low in permanance and wherwithal. Please appear to my prior post “The Nigger Hordes” for an example of hate poetry. This is an example of radical art and counterculture which is simply to write the single most hateful, cruel, and hate-speech filled bit of text the mind can possibly imagine. Through doing this the speech in and of itself is disarmed, as are the thought police. Art is a right, poetry is a right. The speech is decoupled from the self and given its own room as an abstract entity.

Don’t laugh this off. This is a real possibility. One need not feel any connection to his own language. One may write hate poetry and disavow it entirely. It is a fundamental right of the human being to write and to create art that is up for interpretation. Interpretation and freedom of interpretation is a HUMAN RIGHT – a right of each and every individual.

Use this. Your teacher may accuse you of this or that. He/she will fail. As angry and irritated as the class may feel, they will be compelled by your hate poetry because it will confuse them. Many will find themselves agreeing as the energies in their bodies dissipate. But do not be fooled! Your teacher will then attempt to force you into a box, and to “liberalize” your statement. To turn it into a statement of pro-left sentiment and to capture it.

Euroenergetics will come into play here. The best kind of hate poetry in this case is hardcore supremacist poetry which expresses in extreme sentiment the greatness of white, Asian, Jewish, races and cultures and exposes it to high intensities to the point of rupture with the liberal dialectic.

At your own risk.

The Nigger Hordes

The essence of these cuckolding faggots can hardly be summed up with ease. The bitches, the cunts. The nigger-fucking Spaniards and their hairpieces. The faggots with the dildos stuck halfway up their asses to the fucking moon. Dildos exploding out of their anal cavities and blasting semen and guts across the room. Explosion of gyrating and panopticon obsessed fallacial tubes and fallopian wannabes. Crass cocksucking deviants screeching and begging for the time of day from their cuckolding masters at the statehouses. Fucks and cucks and faggots roaming freely over the plains of an American jungle. Astounding faggotry blasting from their speakers as the nigger hoards squawk and moan over the rolling tundra.

This was not the hell he wanted to be a part of. He had simply wished to take a space rocket to the moon, but alas such wishes were to be postponed for ages due to the kike controlled media and the niggers taking over the science industry. “For fucks sake, Martha, I’m not trying to offend you, I’m just trying to tell you the black population is stupid. They’re dumb, Martha. They aren’t even close to being as intelligent as the other racial populations. I read it in a book, Martha. A scientific scholarly publication. Not some dingo bingo jerkoff joke publication. These people are college educated, Martha. They have data. And for fucks sake, Martha. You know me. I’m not a racist, Martha. I’ve always been nice to everyone I know. You know this, and I know this. I would never hurt anyone because of their race, Martha. But this data, I’m telling you, it doesn’t lie. I looked it over several times and what I see is very hard to argue with. This is factual information. I can’t just unsee it, baby. I can’t just look away. Please, just hear me out, darling. Don’t go. Don’t go over there. Stay away from there, Martha!”

She quickly logged into her Facebook account and updated her status: “MY HUSBAND IS A FUCKING RACIST. PLEASE, EVERYONE. POST THIS ON YOUR WALL. MY HUSBAND READ SCIENCE INDICATING THAT THE BLACK POPULATION IS NOT ONLY NOT EQUAL IN GENERAL TO THE OTHER RACES, BUT THEY ARE FLAT OUT FUCKING MENTAL RETARDS ON AVERAGE COMPARED TO THE OTHER RACES. ALL HIS WORDS.”

Gerome was filed as a racist with rapidity. Niggers across the nation hooted and said things in dark gravely voices at bars about the cracker but that had nothing compared to his treatment from the whites. He was no longer invited to parties, no longer invited to speak at important conferences, no longer considered human. His face became pale, pasty, and white. He resembled a fat, diseased Nazi in the minds of most at this point. All pimples and moles and weird sweaty hair. Fat swastikas and confederate flags sweating and dripping with the blood of coons and dangling with the necks of a rope, all to the sound of hip hop and the incessant diatribes of spokeswomen who had taught their own men to pass on messages, the nigger hoards collapsing and falling out of her own mental fallopian tubes, those torn and twisted tunnels of disgrace from which her mental deviation was wrought and conceived, upon the cervix of her broadcast to the student body and passed like a rancid kidney stone into the public discourse where it would fester and grow like a molding behemoth until it had taken on a life of its own, a giant rotting corpse gathering power from the nigger hordes beneath it, packs of niggers running and roaming across the plains and valleys and calling, screaming for attention, an attention that could not be given to them, and never would, not even from their own groups who seeked their demise through violence and greed, gold plated teeth stomping and scraping away at what little life managed to take place in their communities, watermelons and chicken popping out of the ground like sprouts in a backyard. Jemimah called out from the kitchen wearing a large red robe and an African hat. “His name is Timmy. He’s a wild yondering little nigger, but we take him well round here. Aw, yesah, we take him well.”

Timmy stood up with his gat and shoved it into his loving mother’s face. “Bitch, I need them rocks and quick.” Fuck it, he even shot the fucking gun and sent the poor niggresses brains out of the top of her head like some kind of jack in the box, singing and dancing slave hymns across the walls, scrawled in the blood of iron work and heavy lifting, cotton dangling off of the corners of the gun and popping out of the television to the theme of The Fresh Prince. “Too much popping for one household!” joked the scrawny white onlooker while doing the Crips corporate logo signal with his hands and smiling pathetically like the disgusting, frail white faggot he was. A group of scrawny faggots emerged from behind him and started joking around about rap music. “Haha, you guys pop?” One of them popped his collar and started half mouthing the lyrics to “Pop it like it’s hot.” He did a little semi jig and some of the other kids giggled a little bit. Some of the black students around them were unsure whether or not to endorse it, or run away from it. “This makes me feel a little uncomfortable. Who told these freaks they could do that kind of stuff? I don’t see it as friendly, or playful. These fellows are certainly quite privileged, but is that the issue? I just don’t think they really want to spend time around my niggahs back at the projects. Eh, not a big deal.”

Henry and Jacob, the two resident black students, did a little high five, put on some colonge and got laid to good soul music. Hot black women were with them, and they had a lot of respect on the court, as well as the classroom where the teacher babied them. But hell, people liked them. There wasn’t anything not to like. Decent dudes, no doubt.

Anyway, nigger explosions take place now and again. There isn’t much that can be done about the coon brigades and their whinnying and whining. There is this tight structure from which the sound of a nigger whines, or corn rows sort of just get heated, like corn rows dipped in hot sauce. It blows your mind. Seriously, first time I realized some of the negroes at that place had been dipping their corn rows, it made a big amount of sense. The electricity in the damn things, you could almost smell it emanating like some kind of horrid animal stench signaling the loss of humanity, some kind of territorial information intended to warn another animal that there was a problem of sorts. Even the voices of some of the niggers at the place were getting heated as everyone laughed really hard to signal their tolerance. He kind of shook it off, he was from a low income background so the laughter of the nigger bounced off his back a bit. He knew in his gut that the nigger was stupid, certainly not worthy of respect. He had been whipped up into a frenzy by the kike media and frankly there was no way of helping him at this point. It wasn’t his problem. The irony here was that there could be no way to help the poor guy, despite how much he wanted to help him.

Gerome had been through all this as a child, but he had known better to keep his mouth shut. The whole media system and public discourse was out of his control, and it so happened that the vast majority of the human population was just… nowhere to be found, mentally. It was like this steep incline and once you got too high, nobody fucking knew what the hell you were on about. And everyone was just lost, lost to this discourse, this nigger discourse that kept people in the dark. And all this charged up energy had to be released somehow, so usually it expressed itself in weird, deviant ways. Especially in the weak who truly felt this guilt, the guilt put on them by the deranged society surrounding them. Don’t write cunt, nigger, faggot, chink, or kike in your books. Don’t do it!

And this pressure would build to a fever pitch sometimes. People had little way of expressing it besides back channels. And once media pressures had built into the dysfunctional setting, the perpetuation of the entire system became almost unstoppable. A few stragglers formed and wrote nigger now and then, but even fewer really understood the cruelty in that or in some sense, the truth behind the cruelty.

And even fewer took this any further. The mental retards and their hordes roaming the cities were not restricted to blacks, no doubt, but to every race. It was as though the disease had progressed to a point where it was no longer possible to look at the world and not see it, where it had been before. It had been there all along, but there was something about the new world that made it extremely evident how stupid people were, how different they were. The anger was palpable.

NEW CENTRALISM PART 1: IDEA

In a world of deviants, clowns, assholes, balloon pants wearers, chicos, ball divers, hounds, hooters.

It becomes clear.

Sitting back from afar, for ages upon ages, over years, transforming. You find yourself reading about the GOP, checking the next political candidate, getting cool ideas about what a society of excellence might look like. And you start to wonder, what is that? What ideas are there for such a society?

The New Centralists are more or less the fart arm of the digressed part of the NRX spectrum. A group of clowns in hilarious garb. A special class of fools looking for a rampart.

In all of this midst there comes a silent veto, a sort of chuckle from the henhouse. The chickens are roosting, bellowing and tearing themselves around for any grasp of a pony straw. These boys, and girls, are always out for any grasp at the lasso they can gander. And it is from this the lads start to wonder, and wander, and then suddenly it hits you in the face like a crackle pop… it isn’t economics. It isn’t education. It isn’t media. It isn’t science. It isn’t any single thing. It’s something else. It’s idea.

Idea is the new centralist guiding post. It is the primary essence of what the new centralist judges flows by, how he decides and justifies. How he chooses one thing over an other. Anything which stops the flow of idea is considered an impediment to the society. Idea is the dogma of the new centralist. Yet, at the same time, where does this title “NEW CENTRALIST” arise from?

The idea comes from the notion that over time we have seen a sort of loss of the appreciation for a great phallic object. We have lost the appreciation for a solid value or something cool and bewildering which can only take place when a great many people gather around a phallus. We have lost that appreciation and in doing so we have gained something, yet also lost something.

The New Centralist doesn’t give two fucks about what we have gained, he isn’t trying to sit around placating a bunch of whining children who feel angry that their pathetic contributions won’t be given the light of day ever again. No, he simply notes that there were some benefits.

Yet he suggests all the same that a phallus, arises from the center, and played the part of by a grand schematic, is indeed IDEA in it’s greatest and highest form. IDEA grows from the phallus, it can emanate from it. It is idiotic to think that IDEA cannot come from a phallic society of the central, idiotic to think that this society of the leeching spread can foster the idea on it’s own, and that any phallus is antithetical to the idea. This is the disease of the day which NEW CENTRALISM seeks to cure.

The New Centralist understands the importance of the phallic to the idea, and the idea to the phallic. He embraces these as they are and as their placement originates. He views the current leech-spread or Zerg creep as a sort of IDEA destroyer (though again, it has shown some benefits). The point is that IDEA benefits more not from leech, but from potentiality as raised through phallic centralization. Such centrality is to be embraced by the highest desirers of unbridled IDEA, of IDEA as the flow from which all our aims seek, for the new IDEA, for the notion, that this does not steep to presume. As IDEA goes on.

Toward a new conception of Euro-Optimism: White Energetics, Euro-Positivity, White Centralism, and Neocaucasianism

 

White positivity is simply described as the general and loose movement of white human beings, in the forms of generality, individuality, and in all forms of multiplicity and singularity, to identify with one another, via whiteness as a form of identity and relation. White positivity or white core-self-centrality is a field, a loose study, an occupation of the mind and the spirit, an occupation of language and relation. It is not something defined in and of itself. It is not pre-determined. It is defined by its actions, by its general aim – that aim being a delineation of positive identity. A delineation of pro-active, optimistic identification and self-knowledge of “white” human beings. What that is is beyond the purview of this particular entry. But this entry does seek to define a new aim for human beings, a new aim for societies and cultures.

The word “optimism” means that Euro-Energetics seeks not to harm or interfere with “other” races. White centralism is by necessity neutral toward all other races. It is not interested in discussions of other races, besides perhaps those instances where “other” entities seek to cease the centrality of white identity, of which there are many examples in today’s confused but largely well-intentioned progressive dominated society. Euro-optimism is primarily a movement of positivity – of defining, describing, drawing to attention, expanding upon, and articulating a positive and optimistic centrality that is not of relation to other races, but simply the white race. It is the act of making space for these feelings, words, ideas, concepts, and activities.

In this sense, it is a response to the movement of “other” races, minorities, and so on, to act in their own self-interests both privately and publicly. For we feel that “white” members of the human race deserve, both privately and publicly, to act in their own self-interests as a collective. But they must be able to do so without the everlasting “taint” of historic activities and prejudices, without the “mark” of white supremacist on their clothing and in their social reality. Hence the delineation of a positive identification, and an optimistic centrality from which they can refer.

Whenever you are seeking to craft a new positive and properly white identity, you are working in the interests of white energetics. You are changing the discussion, and moving us away from the activities of what has been tagged and removed from the possibility of acceptance through that tag of “white supremacy” or simply “whiteness.” You are helping to create a new safe space for white people, as a general term, to self-identify, to identify with one another, and to identify with the positive works of their race and their culture, to discuss the problems of their race and culture without ridicule. We compare this movement to the reaction that is the men’s rights movement, in that it is a “smiling” or happy movement, that is not necessarily interested in the more angry or hateful side of the problem. However, I would like to say that white energetics does not shy away from difficult subjects, nor from the necessary actions and attitudes needed to break away from lowly mentalities which seek to make members of this race “forget” their positive side, in much the same way racist attitudes might make members of minority groups “forget” their possibilities as human beings.

We need this word, this conceptual idea to gather around. We need a label that can guide us out of the darkness, something to attribute ourselves to. We need a positive identity based in optimism, but also centrality, in that we gather around a core, around positive central self-identifications. This not, however, a phallic matter. It can be conceived of as a scraggly passage with much possibility, and creativity. We are not against wildness of imagination.

So, with this post I hope to establish the ongoing project of white energetics, or perhaps better termed Euro-optimism, and for this post to be seen not as telling you what Euro-optimism, white energetics, Euro-positivity, white centralism, or neo-caucasionism are. It is merely to set this project in stone, to give it a name, to give it a drive or a movement, and to say “it has begun, even if it is a small, shaky premise… something new has been delivered to us here, and we now have a central core from which to consider and ponder our reality and our situation.”

We are not white supremacists. We are white optimists. We are Euro-Positivists. We believe in the positive value of what is proper to whiteness. We believe in the positive existence of white identity. The last thing I must say in this post is that we are not to respond to petty or trivial criticisms such as “what is white! that means nothing!” We believe that this is self-evident, and that the delineation of this word, “white,” can be done in future posts. Suffice to say, we are uninterested in the usual delineations and criticisms… we are not interested in tearing down white identity. Euro-Optimism runs directly counter to those aims, or is neutral to them and simply “uninterested” in them.

Unlike white supremacy, or nationalist movements, we are not interested in sitting around hating other races. We are not given toward wasting our energy on such things, or in bolstering ourselves. We are interested in what is CENTRAL to our own identities. So why would we waste time responding to criticisms of whiteness, or critiquing the positive or negative qualities of other races? This is for us, whoever that might be.

Is Euro-positivity open to other races? Yes, much in the same way that feminism is open to men, or black culture studies are open to white men. We are not seeking to form a dogma, or form a circle-jerk, or form a hug box that has the dogmatic and incessant goal of making white men dominant totalitarian leaders and slave drivers in control of all reality and all beings. We are interested in the cultural and social experience of positive white identity, of the strong core value of European existence. This can be interpreted in some way as a response to the current modern and progressive ideology which does not allow for “white privileged” members of society to identify with themselves, or with their own culture, in a healthy and respectful way. IT does not allow white people to experience “self-respect” with regard to their own race. It does not allow them to speak positively about European culture without shame. And this is what we seek to dismantle.

This is white QUA white. European QUA European. Be that German, French, Italian, Spanish, or whatever you think it may be. What this means is that Euro-Optimism happens, exists, and is without any reference to the “other.” In this sense it is very much a “phallic” discourse in some ways. It is not averse to centrality or “core” identity. This is the self-esteem of the concept. So to reiterate: White Energetics, or Euro-Optimism, exists only with reference to itself. It is self-referential, self-positing. By its very nature, Euro-Optimism is central to itself. And it moves through like this… it does not refer to outside others. It does not draw energy from the other. It is its own “thing.” It is never “about” anything but the “properly” positive identification and centrality of whiteness. For this reason, moving forward there shall be more to say.

To stomp, puff, snoot, huff, hoof, toot, dance, jig, and bang bongos: A treatise on clown sexuality

Where do our interactions take place? This is the first question we must address, and rapidly: they take place on forums, in corners, in cafes, in sex lounges, in male-female interactions, in bars, in restaurants, with professors, with peers, with friends, with acquaintances. They take place mentally, against the self, for the self. They take place in fantasies of the widespread mass, in dreams of the herd. They take place in self-fantasies of the projected onto the sky, onto the page, onto the newspaper. There can be no doubt that these interactions must be deemed non-trivial, or sexual, social. Penile. Regurgitory, biological. Reproductive. Survival-oriented. For the propagation of genes. They form the basis of who we are, what we are, how we feel, whether we are accepted, whether we are loved. They form the basis of our acceptance into the herd, our reputation as eating, living, breathing, shitting animals. They form our future, our social survival.

They form our self-concept and idea of ourselves with relation to our self-respect, self-identity, and self-esteem. Are we respectable? Are we strong? Are we good? Are we helpful? Are we loving? Are we contributing? Are we benevolent? Are we cool? Are we sexy? Are we funny? Are we likable? Are we popular? Are we respectable? Are we admired? Are we smart? Are we influential? Humanity of animality.

Now, to address the question of the corner where the animals play and fight, and snuff and toot.

These are the questions we must ask. What are the centrifugal relations and causes of the forces which drive us between and over, around and under these bestial modes of intellectualism? What are these imbecilic strands in ourselves which desire for us the color of a bright new suit, or a loud piece of music blasting on our stereo, or perhaps even more the staunch rejection of ourselves for the light of a picture seen by all? What are these things which make us reject ourselves?

There can be really no saying what these things are. It remains up in the air. Yet we can certainly investigate these strands with an eye toward their splaying out, their spread upon the carpet. We can play with them like little blocks and pieces of a bastardized and monstrous erector set. Here is what begins:

It is seen within a community that the whining beasts bray and stampede with great force upon the ground, their hooves tremble the dirt and shake the trees. The force of their stomping and the loudness of the puffing breaths and bleating will always alert us to their presence in the community. Simply seek out those who bleat the loudest and formate the collectivity under a bleating, heavy handed breath which croaks and blusters over morning heat. Here you may find and seek the collectivity unified.

But what can be done to counteract the large hooves of the stampeding monstrosity? What can be done to question and beget the rearrangement of the bastard monstrosity?

Here we see the essential arrangement as that of a tribal stomping. The tribal honking and hooting of the wig, of the feathers worn. The display of a large wreath on a tribal forehead. The loud hooting and tooting of wondrous and multicolored toots and pricking of bongo. This is the only explanation for a mind which is warped to where it cannot look and see what it sees, to a mind which denies its own perceptions. The stomping, wrangling, violence of a hooting and tooting tribal dance. Pre-human. Pre-history. This is our inheritance. This is the play-doh with which we are forced to work.

So, does one know how to dance? Does one know how to toot and jig? To stamp and stomp, huff and hoof? To puff about like a beast in the morning heat? Such are the questions one must ask. Does one know how to regurgitate, parrot, clamber over another to bleat out repetitions? Does one know how to hoof, stomp, puff, and toot? Has one mastered the art of snooting puffs from yonder heavy sacks, heavy barley naps across one’s back?

Fear not. These are not essential questions. It goes without saying though, that they may come back to haunt us all if we are unable to openly and relentlessly confront them. Have we the puffing, snorting feathers we need? Have we the bongos to pick and the breath with which to toot?

Can we stampede? Can we stomp our hooves while wearing feathers? I merely ask such questions as a posing of a question against an endless and stark background of cold ground and cold weather, preceding a coming heat of a morning ahead.

I would like to address now the question of clownisciousness (both clownishness as something observed and known, and the very fundament of clownhood/”dismissability” inherent to the word itself).

It has been said that yonder portfolio has perchance once or two times considered a “clown” in a space. That is, a mad Briar, a shouting, collapsing buffoon.

It has considered a drunk, a screaming wretched dandy. It has considered hollering, dusky bozos scrambling in the dark for a loose pill and huffing it into their pockets with a wild eye. It has considered laughter in a hallway screaming out through a sunroof into the blue sky where a bird flies overhead, watching below with disinterest as it all passes. It has considered the plight of a bozo with paint whose stomping failed, whose pail is full of cement and whose tawdry locality is gestural yet devoid of joy. The question here then becomes, how can a clown throw off his paint and find sexuality? How can a clown become sexual – in the act?

This cannot be called serious research. Sexuality is the least funny thing in the world. Pure sexuality. The sort where ice slides down a back, a woman groads and the man yonks himself forth, or bites, and a sense of passion. There is little sense of snap-crackle yaw-yawing that can be found here, one argues. Whereas, the most hilarious things we can conceive are almost always clownish to some extent, at least for those of us perhaps less restrained by the molecule of the toot. Humor for us is something which bursts off like a flash, blasting out of an asshole and all convention, completely obliterating all pretension, if at least momentarily. Yet such humor always risks the pail which cannot find itself again, a barren pail. With this, we must consider the possibility of re-sexualized clowns. Or a clown that is sexual. How can a clown be sexual? In public, a clown’s job is to make others laugh. Yet, at once, a clown can also be sexually appealing, displaying his paint suggestively, not only to other clowns, but to those in the front row who are curious about his colors. But beyond this, what kind of clown can truly captivate an audience, not simply a few stragglers who are open and sexually aroused prior to their arrival?

So, we have a good idea about clowns. Yet we remain up in the air about the clown-genocide that is sexuality. We cannot seem to wrap our heads around a reconciliation of the two. Here I draw out a conceptualization of sexuality, dark, deep, wet, covered up, and hidden. The unfunny sexuality of passion. This is not a blasting, but a sauntering, a smooth glide, less smooth than rough. Not quite slipshod, but certainly not collected or controlled. Men may glide in like hawks yet under the covers we see something more, something passionate. Breathing that is out of control, hoffing, puffing, yet from the pleasantries of the act. Perhaps this is in itself the problem, for the huffing and puffing of the imbecile has been combined with the feeling of joy, and eventually a return to base-status which is the clownblast at the end. I am curious about this clownblast. Is this the moment where the inner clown returns? Where did the clown go during this time? My conclusion is that the clown was prohibited. In what sense did the clown “continue on?” What did the clown want? How did the colors of the clown shift? From red and yellow, sparkly, green, purple, felt… to dark blue, brown, black, grey, silver.

In this sense we must now consider the possibility of a pre-clownbast pose that is composed of a different color and movement of both the staunch way and the prefabricated way. This way we can come to recognize a tooting/hooting that might calibrate itself toward less of a notion of passion, and perhaps more of a notion of reality. The clown whose grey and green mix, whose sparkles and blue spots shift in and and, red spots and silver lines intertwining and vibrating at high speed. A colorful and disjointed clown whose blasts hoot in and out, whose color patterns shift and enjoin. The ice slides down, the teeth nibble, they saunter and glides, disjointed, yet groad upon themselves, grind and hoot, there is a sense that the covers and pressures are blundering in some manner. Yet all the same, the passion and heat remain continuous.

But the reverse, a clown who brings passion to his performance? A clown whose silver lines sparkle, red spots move in and out, blue hues and traversals moan and press, a pressure inside and out. A clown whose covers saunter and blunders at once. Herein lies our most wondrous clown of the future.

. neoreaction . darkenlightenment . racerealism . skepticism . leftism . progressivism . freethought . thoughtcrime . stupidity . conformity . otherness . culture . collapse .

I stop for a minute to ponder precisely what it is that I might be capable of contributing to a “movement” or “loose collection” of beings, thinkers, remote influences, unknown identities, and pre-capable unities, such as that of ‘neoreaction’ in general, which I have no direct identification with, or positive understanding-of.

Such is the purpose of this post, in which I intend to determine this movement, and my relation to it as a thinker, poet, being, idea-man, conceptual creator, life-doer, and “writer” – or more specifically – commenter/poster/blogger/participant/avatar/voice-in-the-sea/herd-member. And even more specifically: onlooker, viewer, observer – all of these things with these prefixes: confused, lost, curious, frustrated, interested, wondering, skeptical, open-minded-to-.

My relation to such a movement can be considered thus: I feel the movement, from what I have seen, is currently lacking considerably in conceptual personae, and or, conceptual forward motion/rotation. In this sense, I have wondered, what is the problem with a conceptual rotation with regard to NRx? I certainly do not hope to “speak for” NRx, a “movement” which does not exist, and which I am certainly not a “part” of nor want to “lay claim” to in any way. Hence, any contribution I make should be considered less a “contribution” than as a sort of nether-region clambering.

But such as that is said, the conceptual unit formates. Innately decimatory. That is my claim: the which to be able to progress in the shit-regions of the whale formant. The gigantic elf-clamboring essence procedure which we all must call our own home, the hilarious and oafish and prudish realm which we know ourselves to “be a-part.”

Well, I suppose it is thus important to lay some minor ground claims as to the status of my meaning, as to the status of my non-meaning and meaning. In this sense I wish only to give a quick overview of how to approach words and ideas, paragraphs and units contained here. As more like a sort of scrambled hilarity, a more sort of a jumbled and lost mess of newfound ignorance and humor, newfound stupidity. A sort of self-accepting dumbness, self-regard. Nothingness. I make no claims to authority, for authority is not something that helps me make my ideas. Authority in and of itself slows me down from exploring as I must explore, and as needs to be explored.

Without a dejected and outward roaming exploration, what can NRx ever hope to be, for where are these new concepts we need to address a bleating, wretched, stupid dog who barks so loud and violently at whom calls to question his ego-making and interessence of dejectedness? Perhaps a cruelty of the tongue, perhaps a necessitatious dejectification. Such as I now consider, I ponder the problematic of verbiage and quintessence-of-verbiage. For if we have not the proper angtriculationary posture, fortdwidth do we campture the quintessence stardtwidth of the motionality of properality proper to proper verbasciousness? I am so glad you asked.

That answer can be found within the essential disclationary disconnectional proportion between the unit verb and the unity motion. As such the representational cloister that has always filtered forth it unit-ramble-meter is the necessitary motion proper to a cloister which is said to guide, ramble, and pontificate.

I am glad with this. I have hardly had the time to begin a new troll account proper to the starting of a troll-motion, before I am capable of outlining the long-slow descent into complete nonsense. Trolling is not what I am doing, nor do I accept even remotely the accusation. I am merely demonstrating the quick way in which a linguistic tumor denigrates into the textual amorousness that is the cloister. And such as that is, I am more gladly and quickly willing to demonstrate that inessentiality found within and inside of a breakdown.

Now, as one has potentially found a new triumph, with laying down the beginning and notions of how a procedure is to go on forth with itself, and to begin the properness to itself (and to itself only), thus can a proper introduction to the next lines of consideration be “thought.”

Make no mistake, this is not to say that the entirety of this “journal” is to concern that nebulae of distraction and pontificated use that is “neoreaction,” it is also to consider the staunch verbiage that can construct itself into a plethora of unified essences. Hence marks a diverging or quintessential link between the bland and the proto-bland. I perfectly accept the denomination of bland. I have no marks against it. However, anyway. I will say more about this in the next eventuality, but do not consider this an incorrect idea or a backward idea. I have only just begun to stake out an area for myself to begin a new rambling outward, whether welcome or unwelcome, undesired, wanted to be ignored and made to go away… it will all have to be determined within the coming weeks. Take this as a very minor primer as to the directional quality of a symptomatic inauguration. Hence this only marks the mostly premature and simple beginning of a structure for those styles of ideas and writing that I personally want and need to pursue. And what could have caused such an outburst and explosion of semi-stupid-intelligent-ignorant-hyper-brilliance but a need for a space and a response with those inspiring voices I find resonance.

the first thought of an approach:

producing a new form of thought to lead the charge into destinations unforeseen, hare brained ideas ejecting into remote characteristics of the staunch body, reactions to hidden intellectual beatings in various corners of the bigot-realm of leftist dogmatism, viral stains against the windowpane of the bleating herd, a stampede of quintessence and untrodden verbiage qualified toward the unceasing decimation and incredible smash-cracking shattering and obliteration of the undying ignorance and violence of the stamping, stomping hooves of the bastard Cathedral and its processor spread in nodes of reversal beyond which the flagrant death-trap futility of questioning anti-comprehends… a lessening and opening up for the totality of that which we question and wish to view as the intellectual decimation in question, the question giving itself forth ceaselessly and mercilessly in the bleating, wide-eyed gaze of an imbecile viewing the gigantic rupture blasting out of his very own asshole, staring him back in the face with the same reflected symbol, the degraded and impenetrable stupidity of the horse who heard it somewhere else and must never, ever be given over

My first poem is illegal

I must overcome these horrifying poems

Like gleaming lights from a faraway beach

These poems are like treasure troves from dark scandal

These poems are like marry go round trips to the Barbados

I didn’t know I had it in me

They call me Wiley Pete where I used to come from