Posts Tagged ‘liberal’

  kek-outlined

 Campaign Diary: Fort Trump in Philly

Well. Well. We now have a so-called Nazi president. During the campaign, I got two mad e-mails from a young Italian gigolo pal spanking me for being a Trump supporter. I soon confessed to working the phones at the local Trump Office. Then, when I got promoted, I further confessed to being Media Spokesman at Trump HQS in Philly. That’s right. By the time the election was over, I was Minister of Information at Trump’s fort and brain-trust in the heart of Hillary Country.

La-di-dah. In all, I denied 2 interviews and rudely nixed a third because I just friggin’ felt like it. Sorry! But I did 3 interviews that went very well because I controlled the pace and tenor of the bullshit. How did I get the prime appointment? 1) I was conversational and pleasant on the phone. 2) I showed no ambition to be in the spotlight. 3) The Field Generals in our office were too strained to talk. So I got the spokesman’s job in a flurry on Election Day. Like I said, La-di-dah.

I nixed an interview with a fake Irish kid from a fake Irish Newspaper. “I thought we were gonna gab like a real Irishmen. With rhythm and sway. But you keep forcing question after question.” He pleaded that he was in a hurry. My laughter said, “Not my problem, junior.” I finally told him that I was an unpaid volunteer and wouldn’t talk if it wasn’t fun. My freedom is your melt-down, kid. Then I let him die as a data-crunching robot that was masquerading, with red-hair and blue-eyes, as a lyrical Irishman. But there was nothing poetical about him because he’d sold his soul to Satan or Mammon or the Globalist Ink Machine.

My best interview was with a female reporter from a Black media conglomerate. Born in NYC, she had the sophistication of an African-American with doctors and maybe even publishers in her family. Cute. Lady-like. Learned and worldly. I spoke as a Trump Republican and as a working-class Whiteman. “The Democrats, which used to be the Party of Labor, are now the party of Identity Politics. Black identity. Feminist identity. Gay and transgendered identity. And now, immigrant identity with its Mexican, Syrian and Somali sub-groups. The White worker, whose interests used to be aligned with the Black worker, has been squeezed out of the Democratic Party. Thus, Trump as Republican. Thus, me as a Whiteman supporting Trump as a Republican.” The Black reporter was pleased to meet a Trump guy who explained himself without blubbering, “I’m not racist…” Meanwhile, because this was Philly, there were 3 death-wish niggers hovering and muttering “Fuck Trump.” And, because this was also Clinton Country, a saucy White mom from the ‘burbs stopped to get pictures of the dumb thugs giving the middle finger and grabbing their crotches in front of the Trump office. “My daughter will love this,” she giggled. Such was enemy maturity on the eve of Hillary’s great victory.

Later, about 10:30, I gave an interview with an upstart Swedish/American network. A highly polished operation run by scrappy mainstream-media rejects. Really, I was one of their infiltrators in the Trump Campaign. Talk about fun. In the interview, I looked both senile and ready to fuck, fight ‘n frolic until dawn. Like an old tug-boat captain who’d helped nuzzle the ship-of-dreams into port. I expressed myself well: lyrical, salty and drunk with victor’s generosity. We stood on the side walk where the pro-Hillary thugs had grabbed their crotches for the pro-Hillary mom. In front of the Trump office window through which curious Blacks were surprised to see an African-American law student working as our consiglieri. Our Chief Counsellor in legal and rainbow clusterfuck matters. Throughout the campaign, he repeatedly got the middle-finger. He repeatedly got called “Uncle Tom” and “Traitor.” To make sure their voices were heard, angry Blacks opened the office door and yelled, “Fuck Trump.” A campaign slogan, pithy and street-wise, inevitably co-opted by hipster Whites.

Our own Talented 10th and Thomas Sowell archetype was a fine guy. A man amongst boys, in KKK poesy. His grandparents were hard-core Reaganites. He came from the same racial estirpe, as the noble Castilians say, as the sovereign Black reporter. His best comment on his rote antagonists: “Maybe Trump will get them off the reservation.” In Trump terms, I can do business with such non-Whites. Honest business. Fair business. Mutually profitable business. I meet lots of coloreds, in Philly, who are my moral betters. I’m humbled. I learn from them. But I don’t “go native” in my own beloved country and adopt their lingo, customs, menus, music, gods and stratagems against white pawns in race chess.

In any case, I sent the Swedish/American network video, yesterday, to my young Gigolo pal who spanked me twice for being a clueless Trump supporter. Just to let him know. Just to let him know that it’s time, literally and figuratively, to get outta bed with the liberal floozies. Just to let him know where the juicier bang was crystalizing. Just to let him know where the virgin future was having her debut and, yes, revealing her dangerous but promising curves. What more can I say?

Enough with the sweet nothings of liberal shills. And enough with the cant of cuckservatives who bore everyone, including the most sovereign African-American patricians, with their “I’m not racist blah, blah, blah.” I took a stand at Fort Trump in Philly. I learned more than known about being hated. In the afterglow of victory, I’m keen to do business as a natural-born promoter of the White Brand. It’s not for everyone and neither is my Polish-Irish pitch. Too much Celtic sway and compressed Slavic angst. Too much haywire diversity in a single caucasian skull. Yet old folks in the far hills of Pennsylvania knew me, in a heartbeat, when I phoned from Trump HQS. They sensed their own genius loci in the waft of my voice. We gabbed like long-lost family. The point? Voter outreach was an appeal to Civic Nationalism for everyone at Fort Trump but myself. For me, voter outreach was a plunge into all but abandoned soul of the race. I nixed analytic argument. I spoke to the essence. It’s what floated Trump’s campaign from the start.

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This piece originally appeared in Counter Currents Publishing.

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Fine-Feathered Framed

“Fine Feathered” by Lysa Provencio 

 FASCIST LINE & RAINBOW CURVE

I love this.  The haughtiness.  The clearly defined  borders.   The sight-line that’s as tense and straight as a sniper’s nerve.   

Icy.  Icy.  Icy.   I love the frosty austerity. 

I get a sense of Artemis, The Goddess of the Hunt, who was also protectress of  young animals. A paradoxical figure.  Loading the maternal aspect of her divinity, there is a plumpness within the figures. The woman.  The bird.  The cloud.   There is a swollen,  almost pregnant, softness.

Behind it all is an Egyptian ether.   Infinity and afterlife.  The narrative is traced against it and will pass into it.

The subject’s extended hand turns inward.  Which shows the artist’s sharp conceptualizing power turned against herself.  The coldness works against any kind of liberal or humanist sentiment that Artemis, twin sister of Apollo, was incapable of entertaining.  There’s a divine female grace and strict Apollonian detachment.  Futhermore, the pointed needle signifies a steely self-refinement that’s very yang. It’s yang like fascism is yang.  Not at all concerned with the quantity of blood.  Rather, concerned with the quality of blood that’s sacrificed for its own regeneration.

On the frontier of the battle between female fullness and austere male line, is the scribble in the upper left-hand corner.  A hairy contest between circle and right-angle.   It’s emphasised in black but hushed in scale like a very serious muse.  It’s a key referent where one begins to read the painting from left to right. I see it as a turbulent intercoursing  between motifs that are untangled and solved without compromise in the larger picture.  1)The clear line and 90 degree angle which is an Egyptian, Greco-Roman and fascist motif. 2)The  swollen figures, plush with tender feelings, which is a Rainbow Democracy  motif. Furthering the rainbow mentality, the thought cloud above the blue-bird is a blank. Reason is replaced by a mesmerizing swirl of feeling. Finally, teardrops rain upon the blue-bird with its wing in a noose tied to the arm of power.  

Which brings me to the kind of open-ended question that gives a painting an extended life through right-wing and left-wing revolutions.  Does the leashed bird represent the truth that all of  life is hierarchical, just as the fascists and their antecedents viewed it? Or does the leashed bird represent  the pathos of human oppression as the American Rainbow Democrats and their contemporaries view it?  Only one thing is certain: the painting has a beautiful tension. It presents a modest, and very ladylike,  synthesis of radical opposites.   

There’s a never ending war in this sublimely gentle piece between hyper-control and hyper-emotionality.  It is, I think, an accidental masterpiece.  Created with no ambition to speak to history or the gods. Yet, it does.  Softly. 

 

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Looking for Przybylski

Looking For Przybylski

or

Born Into This

This book is tops in its league: the no-checking and no-fighting hockey league for oldsters. Ex-cops.  Ex-firemen. You’ll either love or hate how the book plays out. You’ll say, “This is the Master League” or “This is the gramps’ league.”

As a bona-fide Przybylski from Detroit, I had to give it a critical reading.  My dad thoroughly enjoyed it.  As for myself, not being a member of The Greatest Generation with its coast-to-coast politeness, I have questions about the detour around “The Race Issue”. How can someone write about a Detroit Polack without a mean stink? Especially as the quality of life declines and the things that don’t cost money, like a safe neighborhood amongst the working poor, are methodically destroyed in the name of social progress.

Yet  Frederick may have more old school codes than politically correct codes governing his work: a gentleman never brings-up a problem that he can’t fix.   So Frederick has his main character, Ziggy Czarnecki, proceed on the plane of a handy-man.  The book maintains a jobber’s, one task at a time, consciousness.  Death is the only nag that isn’t shrugged-off.

Still wanting the book to be tougher, I consider the difficulty of writing about race with moral integrity.  Because the liberal vision of moral integrity demands acceptance of “the other”, while the conservative vision  of moral integrity demands ethnic and cultural self-preservation. Poles tend towards the latter. Gore Vidal said that Poles were unfit for American democracy due to their affinity for a tribal chief. Which, others say, is why Polish-Catholic polities had to be dispersed by bussing in the 1970’s. If this logic points to a timely conspiracy orchestrated by declining WASPs and ascendant Jews in the post-Kennedy era? It’s nothing compared to the timeless conspiracy orchestrated by the Gods of Fate.  A true Pole, in the bottom of his beer glass, would see the destruction of his parish by Civil Rights ideologues as a fated replay of the destruction of Poland by Nazi and Commie ideologues. The bad news is that this long view makes Poles funereal in their metaphysics. The good news is that it keeps them hushed. A Pole looking from the still depths of his beer-glass into the onrushing mirror of the bar would NOT think, “It’s the  Jews, WASPs, Blacks, Germans, Russians, Turks and Huns.”  He’d think, “It’s us.  We are,” as Bukowski’s poem says, “born into this.”

Legendary pain, legendary fatalism and legendary self-sacrifice. The Polish soul is muted in Frederick’s  book. Yet opaqueness suits  Ziggy Czarnecki who’s a retiring guy. Furthermore, it was a fellow Polack from the parish  who betrayed Ziggy’s numbers running biz in the 1950’s. In as much as it happened at the apex of Zig’s life, his obsession with the snitching Pole is  A-1 legit. The treacherous Przybylski, and not the treacherous “other”,  is the proper focus of Ziggy’s  desiderata.

Still, as Ziggy blows off the stink on his road trip to find Przybylski, there could’ve been more odors from the bowels of the race. It’s not enough to pass booze, cigarettes, kielbasa and pierogis under the reader’s nose. There could’ve been more inner-fumes released as Ziggy openned his heart, like a flower, to the Western panorama with its uplifting spaciousness. He could’ve delicately questioned the American Dream with hostile Blacks in Detroit and an all too civil cuckold son in California. At least Frederick creates  the polarities of Black deprivation and White satiation. But not enough is said about the “progress” of Ziggy’s son from an inbred  Detroit Polack to an outbred Boobus Americanus in southern California. Ziggy mourns his debased Old World lineage. Then, at the moment of resolve, he sighs with the shrug of eternity.

The good news is that Ziggy is 100% through making value judgements on others. The bad news is that he’s  forfeited his own existential criteria as a goddamn Detroit Polack for making value judgements on anything.  He’s a husk filled with human sympathy and a pater-familias with no remnant of gonads. I must admit that  it captures a type.

Frederick does a masterful job with Ziggy’s daughter-in-law. The hot-wife of his nice and soapy son.  Her brisk modern character is fueled by her lust to be the best. To live fully. To have cinematic sweep in L.A.  She’s the modern antithesis of  Ziggy’s rustic Polish wife.  Colorless and bouyant as the moon, Ziggy’s wife is his rock. She casts a merciful light across his dim soulscape. It’s a delicate view.  Frederick does a lovely job with the otherwise faithless Ziggy, post-Catholic and post-redemption, turning in desperation to his timeless bride. Ziggy reveres the always adapting but never changing woman he married. The love is raw. It’s true to his birth. It “stinks” of a residual Catholic piety and fidelity that Ziggy’s can’t escape.  All in all, homesickness is the core ferment underneath the racing quest to find Przybylski.

It’s a good book.  It’s written with a gentleman’s reserve.  But the formality that is its strength is its weakness.  As a proper liberal, Frederick writes too much as a  Universal Human Being and not enough as a goddamned  Detroit Polack.  This is my #1 complaint.

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