Counter-Currents
Grey December Zeitgeist:
Shades of Spengler, Evola, Nietzsche, & Bukowski
J. J. Przybylski
1,626 words
I’m old. I’m grey as December. I’m thinking about moving to a Senior Citizen’s Home that sits near the Liberty Bell and Independence Mall. It’ll put me in the company of real international tourists. Now I’m in the company of faux-international tourists: grad-students.
I live downtown on a busy alley. An avenue for garbage trucks and moving vans. I rent in a brownstone that’s even more eccentrically aged than myself: jerry-rigged with 100 years of electrical and plumbing updates. Each handyman leaving his legacy of genius, cheat, and alloy thereof. On the other side of the alley, blocking the sun, is a hulking new apartment complex that could’ve been built by the Army Corp of Engineers. It has all-butch grandeur.
The 5-Star Fort more or less cradles careers. It houses student mercenaries and post-student mercenaries from afar. Globalist recruits who’re the scions of Indian, Asian, and Arab dynasties. Most of whom learned walking invisibility in their own native slumlands. They glide past mentally ill pan-handlers and leave the liquor store without paying the guilt-tax to poor crowding niggers. At night, peeking through my curtains, I see well-bred Indians hosting dinner parties and solitary Chinese studying like monks at a desk. Of course the swanky barracks has creamy white valedictorians skimmed from Podunk. They’re the necessary “angels” because no self-respecting Han wastes his worth on Rainbow Humanity. Gujarati have similarly pursed hearts. It’s up to the fresh-faced whites to provide surplus grace and ambient gullibility.
So I live in a misfit brownstone across from a neat modular fortress. Everything in the latter calibrated, like a sexless/raceless robot, to a single high standard. The residents have an Ivy League air which upsets my dust. If only I’d been smart enough to get into UPenn! If only I’d qualified for Wharton School of Business or Wet-Works School of Chattel Engineering! Then I’d be retiring with a personal stake, an intellectual and financial investment, in servile bio-puppetry. I’d be happy see humans go obsolete! I wouldn’t care about my terminally subdued and fey white race.
Portfolio obsessed and proudly enlisted in the deep-state. That’s the other side of the great divide. That’s the other side of the alley where a sick Apollonian tech rules. Soulless, gleaming, and dreadful as an US Army passenger drone. Meanwhile, I’m living with local tellurics. I’m living with Blacks, Irish, and polka-grade Germans who’re rooted to the dirt. Back-slappers. Belly-laughers. Boozers with jail and puppies in their eyes. We’re exclusive in our carnal esprit de corps. Exclusive in our small talk with big bodied rhythms. Exclusive in our base Athenian “philia” as we lie about over-possessive girlfriends, step aside to politely fart upwind, and recycle yesterday’s gossip like barbers.
Far apart from the international dorm, we have our own Black ’n White outpost. We have our own bi-racial throwback to America before the 1965 Immigration Act and the Rising Tide of Multi-Color. Personally, I wouldn’t be such a damned “nazi” if I hadn’t been conned about race-replacement and cultural debauchment. Farrakhan knows, bless his Black Nationalist heart, how “Civil Rights” was pimped into Women’s Rights, Gay rights, Tranny rights, Wetback rights, and, inevitably, sex-robot rights. As Céline says, an elephant can bugger a flea if he doesn’t spare the ointment. But enough outrage. I’m living in a homey Black-White preserve downtown. I’m living in a time-warp and a mind-warp with graduated bums. Thoughtful fellows. Most professorial when it comes to lotto tickets and the Golden Age of Cadillacs. I must add that I don’t like my Black “homies” any more than they like me. But we’re used to each other. We have a genuine, historically-ripened, familiarity. We’re almost like kin in our ability to share despite irreconcilable differences. A civic nationalist would say that we’re tried and true Americans! And he didn’t be right, just as long as he didn’t include international carpetbaggers in our fold.
Modified flop-house. Thoughtful bums. Shared ferment of Salvation Army sport-coats. That’s the home team managed by a Greek landlord who works a grill, frying cheese-steaks with fresh sirloin tip, at the family restaurant. A lion among men! A leader of impeccable integrity! Then, on the other side of the dividing wall where drunks and dogs pee, there is the super-secure compound with the kaleidoscopic face of The Plutocratic West.
A split between old and young, poor and rich, expiring promise and globally ballooning promise. I’m amazed at the lack of spite. Other than myself, a racist in principle more than a racist in blond conceit, nobody begrudges the arrivistes and their coy darwinism. I try. I try again. I try to get my “homies” to blurt a color-blind curse. Eat the rich! Everyone knows that we’re getting priced out of the neighborhood, but I’m alone in my heavy-headed twist. I’m already looking over my shoulder at the tragic scale of the receding vista. It helps to have read The Decline of the West.
So what if Charles Bukowski, an ersatz Jesus to beautifully simple bums, thought that scholarship was for sissies? Bukowski would’ve thought that meta-scholarship was for meta-sissies. He’s the polka-brained tenant of record in Philly. The authoritative raw poet. Defying of his lead, I’ve studied Spengler’s theory of Culture and Civilization. Culture: Young, lithe, daring and honorable under country skies. Civilization: Old, brittle, conniving and mean under city lights. Culture gives all it has. Civilization takes all it can. Spengler explains the brain-drain from American pastures and the ports of Third World Oz. Ambitious kids get sucked into economies of scale, the aesthetics of mass standardization and the hyper-adrenalized stasis that makes Philly or NYC a sticky clusterfuck. Plus, metropolises have the lure of the Big Name Brand. They are the grand magnetos of Civilization spun into flashes of paranoid politesse. Do you know that, despite the vortex of high-tech security gizmos, the feds have locked the public toilets on Independence Mall? That’s how oversold American Civilization is to tourists. Invade the world. Invite the world. Then lock the potties so no crass jihadi drops a bomb in the trash and no pissy old white man, with a 1950-issue bladder, can get emergency relief. I’m with Bukowski on the tour de farce imperative. Still, as age bloats then rots bravado, I retreat to books.
Take it from me: harmony is over-rated when horizons fade to grey. Father Time marches on and so does old Man Winter. I’ll soon fall in step with Western decline and join Senior Housing. 1) Because it has income adjusted rent for poor old guys. 2) Because my landlord’s taxes are going up, up, up with new construction downtown, and that means my rent is going up, up, up with the influx of talent from Asia, India, Arabia, and Podunk. I’m being displaced at an age when it aches to move. Oh my aching back. Oh my aching heart.
I’ll end with the story of my landlord. A Greek in a cook’s apron. A proper slinger of cheese-steaks with a pencil behind an ear and a nagging mom putzing behind the counter. His dear dad, RIP, fought the commies in the hills after WWII while the Brits parachuted supplies. After Truman invited the Freedom Fighters to America, my landlord’s dad arrived to bus tables, learn English, and build a grub-stake. Work. Work. Work. Then while the Blacks were rioting in the 1960s, making an Old Testament virtue of racial vengeance, whites liquidated and fled to the burbs. That’s when a whole generation of tough little Greeks, used to dodging bullets, bought prime property.
The further backstory is that Greece was occupied by Turkey for centuries. Just as the Greeks preserved their local patois and feuds in the company of turkic hordes, they now preserve their differences in the company of Multi-Racial Rainbow Rabble. That’s the Greek way. They defiantly embrace their very own, including their very own tenants, jobbers, and lackeys. Let me tell you something. You’ll think I’m bullshitting. If I told you that I cut my own hair? You’d say fine. You’d say that many old guys practice on themselves before debuting as senior home barbers, liars, and gossips. But if I told you that I have lived for the past 10 years with no lease, no damage deposit, no last-month’s rent up-front? Simply insured by the word of one trusty Greek landlord to another trusty Greek landlord?
That my friend, is freedom. That is archaic yet timeless freedom nailed, with a crystal spike, to personal bond unto death or Turkish invasion or Racial Armageddon or North Korea hacking of the electric grid. Baron Evola knew. But Evola had to recall the Ghibelline Middle Ages to show the arch-honor I’ve got today in Philly. Whether my pure loyalty, more syncretic and even accidental than willed, makes me superior to the global mercenaries across the street is a rude question.
Because I must transcend Bukowski’s raw genius when I’m not plagiarizing his riffs as a polka-brained tenant in Philly, I’ll reprise and recast meta-learning. I’ll present the most notoriously learned German-Pollack of all time. The introductory arc is that my Greek landlord would never-ever invite my “barbarian” self, however noble, into his own home. That’s the pathos of distance. That’s Friedrich Nietzsche’s “Pathos of Distance” writ small and it’s nevertheless a very-very good thing when it comes to men loving other men with all their hearts. So much for my landlord and myself. We’re old school. We’re old school through and through the tissue of trust.
Now I’m thinking about a Senior Citizen’s home. With its nondiscrimination clause: acceptance without regard to race, creed, national origin, sexual stripe, and gross insincerity. I’ll get income adjusted rent as a senior. I’ll become a ward of the state. It’s very, very sad. It’s the December of my life.
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12 comments
When the Rus were living under the Tatar Yoke
And burning each others’ cities
Did they know they would one day be masters of the steppe and march in Paris & Berlin?
Thanks for a great piece,
Didymus
Hi J.J.,
it is good to see you share your personal story, different from what we usually read here on this web site, and written in a unique and literary language.
You write about the young Asian, Arabic, etc “student and post-student mercenaries” who live in your neighborhood and aim to enter the world of success.
They think they will make it big, while you and others like yourself are destined to fade away, helplessly watching the world evolving rapidly around all of us.
Well, I am not so sure we should be looking forward to that new glorious future shaped by the recent and new generation of your temporary neighbors.
Watch the video:
https://youtu.be/PMotykw0SIk
I agree with this fellow’s concern about the impact of modern media amd those “soulless” venture capitalists and leaders of Facebook/Google/Twitter-like enterprises on the mental state of our modern society.
But, how many times did this “man of success” use the word “fucking” to diagnose the illness of that business milieu and then to describe his vision of what he wants to accomplish to that (un)fortunate Stanford Graduate School of Business american audience ?
Here is anothe example of capital at work:
http://www.tomatobubble.com/google_white_genocide.html
If all this is what is in our white countries’ presence and future, then we better stop that “entrepreneurial class” trash rather soon, whatever it takes …
Stay strong, Sir.
Find peace in your new place and share your time with us.
Age has its privileges. I spoke to a female “materials engineering” student at Drexel today. I told her that, as an old white male, I thought that the Civil Rights Revolution had entered its decadent stage, and was at the end of its cycle. A brainwashed whitegirl, she reacted with indignation! But I just smiled like her sweet grandpappy and told her that the new revolution, just entering its cycle, was AI, robotics and the kind of material engineering that she was studying which includes synthetics to be implanted in humans. To rectify and heal. To modify and improve. To even give recipients a competitive edge.
I borrowed from Jason Jorjani. I said that the humans were about to be “disprivileged” by robots, bio-engineering and a more. Her eyes lit-up! Nobody had ever explained the decadence of the 1960’s Civil Rights movement in those terms. I hinted that ” Women’s Rights, Gay rights, Tranny rights, Wetback rights” were for dullards. She got it!
Maybe it would be a good time for me to reread Spengler’s “Hour of Decision”, wherein he talks about the promiscuous pimping of science and tech across borders for fast profit. In any case, tech is going to bring all of humanity to a crisis of identity. It’s up to whites, following Jorjani’s lead, to assume ownership of this ordeal.
Whites who don’t think that they are the benchmark of success, and that their non-white colleagues aren’t consciously/unconconsciously competing with them, are fools. It’s time for whites to assert advantage as whites.
This is what we are all facing in the future and you are experiencing it in realtime as a pioneer/prophet so to speak. In Philly and New York I see this paradigm being played out, while in Baltimore we see the same thing going in another more chaotic direction. This should not depress one but rather light a fire under one’s posterior.
Recently at the UPenn campus I noticed the overwhelming amount of mandarin speaking chinese students. Do any of them really have or a feel a connection to the beautiful architecture around them or to the statue of Benjamin Franklin that sits on campus? This is not to say they are being insidious or that a few of them may appreciate the history around them, but in the end they are for their group and their interests.
Not a white student in sight would even begin to be for their racial group and would attack you with a ferocity they could not muster even if their own family members or friends were being mugged or worse.
But man, I give you credit for talking to that student with charm and intelligence. Your age is an advantage in that arena allowing you to seem less of a threat but armed with knowledge and old school manners. That is how you keep fighting on, brother. Godspeed!
The same trend of elite Asians moving into a white area and causing housing prices to balloon in happening in Australia and New Zealand. It’s a shame.
True. Areas in the northern suburbs of Sydney – once comfortable middle class areas full of white collar white Australians – are now overwhelmingly Chinese.
Very powerful and moving piece. I hope Mr. Przybylski can take some solace in knowing that all CC readers hear his message and the difficulties he is going through. I wish him the best at the retirement home and hope that he finds friendship and companionship there and the peace and leisure to pursue his writing and other interests.
This article is one powerful example of why mere HBD is so so misguided. Being surrounded by people of one’s own IQ (or higher) is certainly preferable to the converse (although if all one’s neighbor’s are significantly (>2SD) smarter than oneself, that is also extremely alienating). But HBD / IQ fetishism is an extremely narrow way of defining affinity with people and harmony with one’s surroundings. Many many other traits — and yes that includes “superficial” visual, external appearance — are factored in by nature, whether we like it or not: these are not “rational” responses; they are hard-wired into us. Race contains a complex array of factors and traits, and to limit it to IQ alone is farce.
Again, my best wishes to Mr. Przybylski.
Brilliant piece! What a writer you are, sir! More please.
And as for this: “Now I’m thinking about a Senior Citizen’s home. With its nondiscrimination clause: acceptance without regard to race, creed, national origin, sexual stripe, and gross insincerity. I’ll get income adjusted rent as a senior. I’ll become a ward of the state. It’s very, very sad. It’s the December of my life.” Let’s get off our asses, whippersnappers and build this man a proper homeland. AND send him some bucks, he’s earned it.
I would like to present some “Realizations,” “Mortal Sins,” and “Maxims” I have developed over the years. Although, they have been said many times, in many ways, here is my presentation of them.
(1.) The three mortal sins:
a. The first mortal sin is to be born, from which all suffering follows.
b. The second mortal sin is to grow old, from which the hungry generations will tred thee down.
c. The third mortal sin is to outlive everything, and everyone you love, from which you become a stranger in a strange land.
(2.) The Realizations:
a. The first realization is that you have more time behind you than you do ahead of you.
b. The second realization is that all you have to show for all your pain, and suffering is just that–pain, and suffering.
c. The third realization is that it is all just a cruel joke.
(3.) The four Maxims:
a. People are basically evil.
b. Life is not worth the living.
c. The first best thing for one is not to be born.
d. The second best thing for one is a swift death.
Taken all together these “Maxims,” “Realizations,” and “Mortal Sins” are pretty depressing, but I think that when we get our own countries we can turn it all around.
Whoah! This is a fine list until the middle-maxims. “b)Life is not worth the living. c)The best thing for one is not to be born.” Bukowski was a butt-ugly trash who found his bliss in fighting back. He was, for instance, a cursed isolationist prior to WWII. Like Céline, he developed a taste for despair and ignominy. He made art of it.
Bukowski’s genius was to frame his fight modestly. He knew he was butt-ugly. He knew he was white-trash. So, without ever having read Evola he committed to being the very best of his vulgar caste. In this way, Bukowski was anti-American. He didn’t believe in social ascent. He didn’t believe in remaking himself in the New World via crucibles of hard-work in the scheme of “Judeo-Christian values.” Beat-down yet a defiant in the shadows, Bukowski was popular in Germany. In fact, he once said, “The Germans are the only people who understand me.”
Maybe life isn’t worth living. I’m certain that Bukowski must’ve muttered such a phrase a thousand times. All the same, he didn’t let futility break-him. He fought back. He fought back with rogue elán. His style, not his won-lost record, made him a champion.
Who said life had broke me down; who said that I wasn’t fighting back?
Not me.
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