Hero Worship: The Western Condition

Hero Worship:

The Western Condition

ALL of Western man’s ethos has been based, in large degree, on the supposition that the ‘leader’, the doer, is behind all that is good; Pericles, Caesar, Frederick Barbarossa, Gustavus Adolphus, Napoleon Bonaparte, Hermann Arminius, Vercingitorix; or, if you like, Aristotle, Goethe, Pythagoras, Archimedes, Daedalus (two of my favorites), Eratosthenes, the List on both accounts, is too long to repeat.

In each and every case, it is self evident that, with time and a following, that is to say, the head and the body, they lead in their respective fields, and led well; some succeeded or were denied success in the military realms, but even in the chaos of their destruction left, in marked contrast to the jooish mind, positive instruction and example. For instance: we have Code Napoleon source, the legacy of Pericles source, and many other well known ‘heroes’.
Compare these efforts, in life or of the pen, with those who would have you, or force you, to restructure your past, and merge into theirs. That of the CHEKA, NKVD. Pol Pot, Marx, Lenin, Trotzky…the list goes on. Hmmm, decisions, decisions…I wonder.

No, hero worship is part of OUR psychology, it is a mechanism which brings both chaos and power; it is tenuous, bold, calculating; it is not always liked, nor understood at the moment, but it is behind all cultural change and restoration. It is not a ghost of the Past, but a warm-blood of today, a legacy which is granted to each generation, in vitro, sometimes needed, sometimes cast aside, but always with us.

One, particular observation, which has made itself manifest to me over the years, was when I first climbed aboard a civil war era Cannon, resting comfortably within its ‘sand box’ setting, open-mouthed, its spoked wheels well taken care of, steel pitted, but shiny blue, carried me well; I resonated with the inherent metal surface, its cold steel warming to my tiny grip. Scooting down the length, I fell to the soft sand below and began walking towards the large Fountain, with its gurgling, undulating stream of water, radiating a harmonic (as I understand it today) sound, relaxing one’s mind and body. Atop the the grand pedestal was a marker of Bronze, a Monument – a term which has, ineluctably and with malice aforethought, been taken from us, from each small village (lately, this has been the theft by mestizos, and gutter whites for money), each small town, and certainly from every Major Cosmopolis in our once great Nation – for these are spiritual things, they are sacrosanct to our very selves, our psychology depends upon these subtle, intangible, yet living things, for by their very nature, their distinguishing characteristics, describe to us, their children, the Memory of, as was the case here, an Officer, a leader, sword out, pointing decidedly in that unique and, perhaps, romantic visions of the ‘charge’, and of victory.

I never have forgotten that experience; but after that, I never saw a new one, a new location or artistic resonance. New Parks, sure, but never again did I see another face, another ancient memory, looking back on me; psychology, to be sure, but not the jooish remonstrations of Oedipus, or Freud’s perverse and simple sexual desires that he would, no doubt, foist upon the goyim. Not the beauty and memory of a time, OUR time, in which, even in ‘civil war’, there were lessons to be learned, of Honour and Duty, of dying and living, of extension. Yes, these things and more, have been taken from you, from all of us, but individuals who understand that to destroy ones enemies, one must firstly, deny that host the very marrow of its own body, and the mind cannot exist without the body – that is to say, a picture, a description, of that body which will, forever, look down upon its children with strength, character, and that direction of purpose which, truly, only a Hero may bestow.

Can we, any of us, anywhere, create these monuments? Try it! Perhaps, some small hamlet, some forgotten township, but anywhere else, no chance; it would be racist, forced to comply with the urban cosmopolis of Canaille, of racial hell, denying us, you and I, something to be proud of, to quietly and gracefully come, meditate, and let that sense of yesteryear, produce the strength and direction for the Future. No, this Theft is complete, and there is no restoring it; you, all of us, must never submit until we have, once again, that place, that great attempt, to lay claim to our own Land, our own Nation – only with this, will our children, and grandchildren, ever be able to share such simplistic and powerful emotions as those mentioned above – their psychology already dead upon its birth.

I digress…

Lift UP your heroes, at whatever level, the real blood and bone of your people, not the spiritualized fantasy of the ‘otherworldly’…place your value, for now, with your People, your family, and your comrades, and protect the weak, work with the strong, and we shall overcome what has become, the legacy of NOT remembering where, truly, a strong psychology is begat – in the hopes and dreams of a People.

Copyright 2009


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