|My latest, and perhaps favourite, portrait of Christ. The picture fairly accurately captures some of my beliefs and personality, and I am proud of it, rightly or wrongly.|
Everyone has irrational fears. They make us human. Personally, I find them endearing. So I'll tell you mine. I don't like mirrors.
Wait... Mirrors? But Paul, come on. You're a reasonably intelligent guy. Are you telling me that you're afraid of mirrors?
Yes and no. Mostly no. Mirrors make me uncomfortable. I come from a spiritually inclined and perhaps superstitious, predominately Gnostic family. Mirrors, I have always been taught, have a certain supernatural element. They peer into the Otherworld. Of course, my rational mind rebels against this notion. Still. There are layers to the brain, and the imprintation of this superstition has become ingrained in my being. So now I always expect that in the mirror I shall see a reflection which is not my own. So in my home you shall never find a mirror, with one exception(an antique mirror whose glass is so stained that it scarcely yields a reflection,) in excess of the size of my bony fist.
I worked, for a brief time, in a house of mirrors, not too long ago. In the Manor of my Uncle. Deceased, so those readers who feel so inclined, say a prayer for my dead Uncle's soul. I shall surely thank you when I'm dead - and he as well! At any rate.
It was a disturbing experience. And no, not because I saw a ghost in the mirror. Only my own. If nothing else, and there is plenty more to say of it, the experience quelled one of my other irrational fears - fear of obesity. I have conquered obesity, my reflection in the mirror tells me that. What is disturbing is the motion of life, the rhythm. I have always been fascinated by ghosts, the different cultural interpretations thereof. And now that my Uncle is a ghost, and so many other branches of my family tree having been cut down these past few years, I've plenty to think about. For a brief time, I myself was a ghost in my former parish.
Still. My Uncle, now, is reduced to memories. While I have little doubt that part of him persists in the ethers, here in Midgard, he is now little more than a collection of dusty pictures, disjointed recollections and personal stories which will undoubtedly change as the tellers age and embellish. In short, he has no mortal power.
But I never truly knew my Uncle. I wished I would have, he was a kind and saintly man, as the men of my family tend to be: selfless, intelligent, bold (when necessary,) and, yes, painfully neurotic. Like all Morse men, my Uncle had an aversion to the sounds of chewing, swallowing, sniffling and laboured breathing. That alone is enough for me to form a mental kinship with him. But still, he's dead and dead man rarely provide me with scintilating conversation except for in the realm of dreams.
It was my dear Grandfather to which my thoughts turned, and forward to the topic of this rant.
I have always droned on to whomever listens concerning the totality of the nuclear family's importance in the upholstry of a healthy, homogenous society. It was not until my Grandfather died, until the living Patriarch of my family, if we may be permitted such naked chauvinism as to the admittance of natural law, that I realised the depth of my adopted argument's poignancy.
Without his ever having realised it, my Grandfather was the glue that held my family together. It was a silent, instinctual respect of natural order, of paternal guidance, ergo natural law, that held my family in check. With the exception of one bad seed, one exception to prove the rule, this was the law of the clan.
But, as it seems to go now with so many other hapless families, my Grandfather represented the image of an age on hiatus. Whether or not that hiatus remains permament is a topic best left to God and the Nornir. Still, for the Morse family it remains that my Grandfather's death, as silently and unconsciously as his life upheld it, dissolved the image of clemency that the past so often enforces.
As it so often goes in the wake of a funeral there were grumblings for money, drifting of relationships, opening of old wounds, forging of new ones. I can think of no good, save for my Grandfather's release from the clutches of his awful wife, that came of his passing.
My Grandfather was a strong man. Like men ought to be. His presence, no, his existence held things together. By sheer force of will he assembled a sufficient amount of wealth to remain financially solvent - and fiscally advantageous. It never corrupted him. It never mattered that much to him. He lived like a Maine pauper until his wife finally succeeded in nagging him to death. He did not believe in divorce, adultery. He was modest in speech and action. But he didn't traffick in bullshit. He said it how he saw it, and how he saw it was unabashedly naturally.
He was a bright man. Entrepreneurial. Clever. Mechanically inclined. Most importantly to me, personally, was that despite his intelligence and wealth of experience, culiminating in wisdom and good counsel: he was *not* a snob. I look up to my Grandfather's memory, and I pray that his spirit continue to impart me with wisdom.
The generation that immediately followed my Grandfather's was a victim, perhaps a willing victim, to the worse cultural paradigm shift in recent history. Not since the French Revolution, it seems, has there been such a radical transvaluation, in this case leading to mass degeneration, of classical mores which can be said to have taken place in the span of a generation.
The generation my Grandfather saw as progeny embraced the values which the harlot, whore and charlatan Ayn Rand espoused: untapped egotism. Now, I am neither a Catholic Dogmatist (though I am Catholic, simply not a misanthropic one!) who hates the human persona, nor the Eastern equivalent - a buddhist who seeks to annihilate the ego. Ego is good and holy, a gift of Providence. Ego, and all personal pronouns of an Aryan derivative, are culled from the primordial word for "ethic." Meditate on that. I digress. The generation of my father embraced a radical indulgence, a self-involved indulgence which lead to the present indigence we experience. Worse of all, it was an indulgence entrenched in anti-ideology. I say worse because it is very difficult to reason with one who absolutely absconds from the throne of idealism in lieu of totalitarian instrinctualism.
The generation my father oversees as progeny, at best, can be described en masse as insane. And why not? The nuclear family, thanks to the likes of the Devil's fluffer Gloria Steinem and all her gormless broads, the nuclear family has become a shattered memory. Unless you have seen it, in spite of my carefully honed vocabulary, I can but fail to describe the nuttiness of people my age. Ours is a generation of disconnect. For so many reasons. We are souls floating in a soup, a stew. Tragically, we often float in an ocean of philosophical excrement. Excellence is utterly condemned. We float as such because our immediate forebears decided that strict ideologies, immutably rooted with moralism and conviction, were no longer politically correct. We were not bequeathed upon sny lofty higher principles, and so we guide ourselves. But the average man is not technically geared for self-motivation. Which is why leaders have always been sought for, and why Hobbes wrote his neat little book about a snake.
Morals are eschewed utterly. This is a reactionary trait of my generation inherited from those that came before us. One thing we know of mankind, owing to Original Sin, or whatever YOU choose to call it, is that mankind is societally inclined to seek the easy way out. And who can blame us? The only blame is when the easy way out eclipses personal honour, which is all but forgotten. That is the predominant downfall of the Civitas, in that it was originally intended as a convenience measure. However - the Civitas, friends, was originally an exclusive establishment. Those who did not fit the moral bill were excluded. Now we believe, as a society, in false ecumenism and in poisonous egalitarianism.
The media ensures that following generations will eschew the morality of my Grandfather. At the very best, it is considered quaint, but unteneble. At worst, it is somehow sexist, racist, or whatever-other-ist. And why would the youths look to anything further? Why should the seek the counsel of the shining mother, our lady Sunna? No, the call of the glowing television set glows much brighter, it seems, than the source of our solar system's holy light. Why should they respect their elders, when their immediate elders sold them out for slipshod Woodstock music and horrid cultural imports, such as Rand and her post-Bolshevist genophobic ilk? And why should they seek to better themselves when their heroes now are yesterday's villains?
Several years ago now I attended a "Christ"mass event which despite both meditation and heavy drinking, I can neither forgive nor forget. I celebrated "Christ"mass with my sister (the Chinese one.) How did we do this, you ask? Until sundown, I myself played videogames with my newphew. They were violent videogames, but I took the time to try and sneak my quasi-Catholic moralism in between the sounds of artificial gunshots and admittedly comical bouts of electronic screaming. Meanwhile the boy's father had begun the short order of picling his liver. My sister went about the long order of ignoring him and preparing dinner. After the sun went down, we had dinner. We, and by we I mean they, discussed matters best left unsaid in mixed company, by which I mean matters of an explicitly sexual and grotesque nature. Mind you, my nephew had not been dismissed from the table.
There was a young woman there. I still don't know who she is, nor do I really want to know, who at the best of possible times can be described as "loose." It is strongly suspected my nephew's father had done "things" with her in the hottub after hours.
After dinner, in place of any family tradition, prayer or productive activity, we watched a movie. The movie was Jackass 2.0, I believe. At any rate, unless you have seen it, I shall suffice to say that it is a piece of vile filth. The makers should be chemically castrated, and these are strong words from a bad Catholic who is nevertheless infuriatingly pro-life. My nephew, mind you, had not been dismissed from the living room. His father lets him, and encourages him, to watch "Family Guy." The boy once had a screen-name of "Sexual Chocolate." He was not yet ten.
Of my mother's daughter, this one is the most highly functional, as far as functionality after 1945 goes. Rather more disturbingly, this is not an isolated case. In fact, I have had people call me a prude for my "delicate" and "girlish" sensibilities being offended at such inhumanely hedonistic spectacles.
Anyway. The point I am trying to make is this. Chances are anyone who takes the time to read my rants up until the morals I seek to imbue can be categorised as belonging to the same boat as me. That said: you and I are survivors clinging to the wreckage of a great ship sinking in the vast midst of a poison sea. There is hope, however. Our ancestors, whatever tribe from which you might hail: Anglo-Saxon, Batavian, Cherusci, Danubian, Eritean, Flemish, Gothic, and so on down the line, your ancestors were sailors, venturers, explorers. When the others were content to languor wherever they were placed, our forefathers found new islands. Or, in the case of the Varangians who would go on to become the Rus, drift a ways upstream.
At any rate. There is no such thing as hopelessness. I think most everyone recognises that there is a problem. It strikes me that, for those of us disinclined from extreme lippiness, which undoubtedly brings unfriendliness (which I in my liberal College know well,) there is another option.
The events that led up to the sexual "revolution" which can be better described as a 'dissolution' were gradual. The events following WWII were simply, to borrow a near perfect metaphor, the Archduke Ferdinand of a cultural war. The enemies of social conservative heretofore worked in pussyfeet, they tiptoed, gradually changed. They broke down the resistances of their host societies by capitalising on the natural gregarity espoused by them. In order to stem the tide, the reverse is required.
Don't do like the Baby-Boomers do. Don't settle for less. Big things come in small packages, Trojan Horses leave little droppings and those termites can be the end of cities. If society asks you to damn your Grandfather as an abstract, a throwback to an uncivlised time, refuse. Rather than bury your head in the moist recesses of your sigmoid colon, defend your familial honour. Remember that it was this "cruel" patriarchy which gave us the society which is now being destroyed by those who would bite the hand that feeds them. When they ask you to deny that there is a problem, refuse. Resist. If you don't want to offend, at least defend.
It has been my experience that the Liberals hate defence. They expect offence. They expect us, the more conservative we are, to respond to all criticism by attack their dogmas. The problem is one of infantility. The Liberals have no dogma. Everything with them is negotiable, subject to change. And they are typically less prone to absolutism than we, so they have less to defend against. We, however, have quite a bit to defend -most everything that came before us, to be honest. That's a big target. So most of us skip defence, because it is hard, and the easy way out is to put on blinders and bite.
Consider. There are things you cherish. Rather than attack that which your ideological enemy holds dear, cling fast to what makes you feel Sunna's warmth. It will give you strength. This strength will come from honesty, which makes you a holistic defensor fidei. It is also personal. In a climate of ideology, it is easy to lose track of a human element when arguing ideas.
Ideas themselves have no moving power but for the power given them by their adherents. Consider it a form of worship to empower your ideals with your own soul, your own warmth. The Liberals typically expect of Social Conservatives a vain rhetoric. They expect empty words and platitudes, tired, fat and riddled with moral warts. They expect rinse-and-repeat dictums. They expect us to say that this, or that must be diallowed because the Church says this, or, my political hero said that, or, Rabbi Butterstein said so. They do not expect us to put our souls on the line. To rely on narrow-minded dogma is to barter someone else's soul, which marks us as cowards.
The funny thing is. Most of my personal friends are liberals. One of my best friends is a half-closeted sodomite that wishes he were a woman. Another is one that thinks those who feel sodomy has no place in civilised society are themselves cavemen. I am not threated by this man who would have been a girl. Nor am I cowed by this woman who will be generationally replaced by a man who will steal her boyfriend. I am not threatned by them because I am my ideals. They resonate within me, and moreover, they flow from Mimir's Well, which is full of the blood of my forefathers. Because I am convicted, in this regard, I am solid. This is a communicable fact. People respect that - even when they hate your convictions. Some, indeed, are jealous of it.
And it is much easier to communicate values personally, because mankind naturally institutes a cult of personality. So I suppose that leads me to this. Check yourself. Check your motivations. Are you your ideals? Are you so intrinsically synonynous with what you hold true that you are willing to wear it on your sleeve, to carry it from place to place? I think you shall know when you come to realise that it doesn't matter in the least the opnions of others in regards to your morality, for in the end, they are inconsequential. In the end, you will face your end, with your idealisms. And, putting aside any notion of a judgement and hereafter - consider, what will you think of yourself? Have you fought for what you believe because it is right? Or because it was convenient? Or simply because it was fashionable? Do you have beliefs? Have you cultivated them?
The strongest personalities are those that are inculcated and acculturated by strong ideals. And everyone has the potential to have them and hold them dear. It is only when we buy into the lie: that our ideals aren't worth it, or that they aren't worth expositing, or that they're too controversial, or that our enemies are too hard; that we have lost, and that we are no longer worthy of the ideals we COULD have had.
Well. That's it. That's my prolonged rant for the time-being. I hope all is well with you in deviantArtlandia!
Gott mit uns,