Mission Statement



It’s okay for me to yap about biological determinism in the case of my own cast and caste.  It’s not okay for me to yap about biological determinism across the racial spectrum.   Fine.  No problem.  A  man should write about what he knows.

For my failures in life, I have nothing to blame but my own White genes.  Why haven’t I been able to mesh  Will To Power with Upward Mobility in America?  The bumps on my head will attest that lack of effort hasn’t been the problem. More heart than brains!

I know.  I know.  “More heart than brains” is a class and a genetic disposition.  Deferring to the former, it’s natural that I should feel a kinship to  Black poets, bluesmen and journeymen fighters.  Deferring to the latter, it’s natural that I should jealously guard my own inherent  difference.   How to explain the two-tiered arc of my identity?  1)I identify with all the Workers of the World.  Furthermore, I identify with all foot-soldiers, impressed sailors and arthritic laborers from the dawn of time.  2) I identify with specifically European peasants with their garden shrines, provincial cathedrals and strange-faith in Rome.  Guess which identity fills me with the most tender yet volatile spirit? Guess which identity gets me “into”  the beautiful madness of  Michelangelo and his  crew?

Sure, I’m not a man of Michelangelo’s genius.  But it is no conceit to see myself as a privileged servant to his genius. I  can live and write as the Aryan, yes the Aryan reincarnation of Michelangelo’s scaffold builder.  His gopher, too.   Maybe even his necessary underling who sent a lunch-bucket up the pulley and received a sloshing pail of piss on the return tether.

My life beneath The Greats! My proud dumb luck! My White Privilege!

All in all, I have an  feudal relationship with all that’s noble in European Art.    I’m might be a peasant  but I’m  born to the racial, cultural and spiritual estate of  The Whiteman.  If that’s not controversial enough, I feel “separate but equal” to the  “colored” who buillt the Egyptian and Mayan pyramids, the Taj Mahal and The Imperial Palace in Beijing.  Finally, I feel no relationship whatsoever with  the global proletariate, the mass-man and the universal nobody.

I know.  I know.  My Hyper-White Identiy is something of an artifice.  But for every season there is a reason and I’m a-okay with my life’s fiction.  In fact, I rather  like the  truth and lies of it.   I’m a born fanatic.  Like Don Quixote in Spain and  the boozing, bible-thumping and nag riding sheriff on the  American frontier, I  have more than a gift for madness.  I have a vocation.



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