Scyldings Nashville

I arrived in Nashville on the Friday and was met at the airport by fellow speaker Mike of Pol, who was very funny and gracious to me and I was treated like a beloved guest by him the entire time. Soon we were chatting up a storm about our lives and experiences and a real brotherly bond was born. We later went for a steak dinner and soon we’re on our way to the [Undisclosed Secret Location]. Interestingly, some of our trades work and hobbies were related to each other, which made for an interesting conversation and exchange of thoughts and ideas. I could not have asked for a better host and chauffeur.

It was great to put so many faces to so many names. Competent and talented young men coming together simply to discuss that which cannot simply be discussed. We are the free. The unbroken. Candles in the dark night of Kali pathing our way through the demiurge’s desolation. For once, the urge to sperg could be sated in peace and harmonious symphonies of salutary song, amongst curious and open minds.

The essence of brotherhood bubbled up over the course of the proceedings, and by the end we all felt much closer. Mutual exchanges of information and networking are paramount for success and building, and each was presented well. The once virtual Rolodex slowly penned its way into books and phones, and what was once solely digital became flesh and soul; a sort of synthesization from based on the interwebs into based in real life. Armed with wit (and other possessions), debate abounded both sober and not; but always it was clear: we are brothers in arms regardless of the mode, regardless of the method, and regardless of the function.

Early in the event, there were some awkward births of personality, the latent feeling of sharp eggshells from our normal lives, the censoring knives to our throats; those memories of being assailed for nothing more than our words and concerns for our people and societies, regardless of the diversity from which we each came, yet soon these ghostly shadow-forms, the latency from our threatened beings within our day-to-day similacra-communities was soon forgotten. It seems as if finally all were free to be heard, and all could feel free to listen. This unwinding was palpable, and the air, though at times clouded in cigar smoke, was fresh and clean. Liberty was back.

Each speaker brought something important to the table, and each speaker affected me to some degree, and so was I too affected by the audience when I spoke during my turn. There is a talent in each case: to think, to say, to hear, to listen, and to reply and respond. All a dance of breathing humanity devoid of fallacy, devoid of ineptitude, devoid of darkness, though we acknowledge there is always darkness surrounding us, so many bright candles gathered in one place brought a feeling that dawn had arrived and so we stumble forward, together.

The event location was of great natural beauty, and the venue was great quality. The venue staff too were glad to have us, and their curiosity like our own bubbled to the top. All were treated well within the grounds, and our host charioteers (I personally thank mine, Mike of Pol for his gracious generosity and southern hospitality, and I’m sure all could say the same of the other gracious hosts) transported us safely, quickly, and thoughtfully around the great [LOCATION] and provided an excellent opportunity to chat and learn more about their part of the world.

As a prisoner of the West Coast, it was refreshing and rare to impossible to have these genuine conversations in the genuine security of person outside of close family and friends. But I suppose that was a benefit of the event, making new friends that you can trust and count on to stand by the principles of truth and liberty, or at the very least, allowing for the sausage to be made while ideas and concepts coalesce into a working model of reality. I came home with a genuine feeling of gratitude and hope, that out on this desolate, windy, and rainy coast, I am not alone. I’m certain others will feel the same.

For my American friends, I understand much better your situation and I recognize it is different to Canada’s. You perhaps need no King, and perhaps I am wrong on that (though I will stand by to see), for a King is but the synthesis of the de jure and the de facto. This perhaps can be achieved in another way, and perhaps once was. In speaking with Mr. Fahrenheit, he pointed out that the Americans, the Free Englishmen of yore, the fathers of your kind and kin and subversive enemies alike, established an order through blood and death; through suffering and struggle; through faint hope and a faith as big as a mustard seed, that the Constitution was King.

But alas my Anglo Brethren, you southern cousins for which I carry much affection, yours is the challenge I have not foreseen. You are the engine of your fates and destiny. This Paper King is but a Paper Tigre lest you can imbue it with WILL; PURPOSE; HONOUR. Like any King, he is but a man and an idea, a concept, and too needs your blood and souls to uphold it. Your King, a paper, lies in the hearts of your people, in tiny pieces and little bits, it is up to each of YOU to keep it. But you cannot keep it unless you want it more than our enemy wants to pervert it, RAPE it, and DESTROY it.

Perhaps I am just that smoke alarm that needs a new 9-volt battery, chirping away like a bird in a diverse home, or perhaps I am pointing out the slowly engulfing fire which nears, but in either case I know you hear and see it.

I was very impressed with the Old Glory Club and can see it as a model for my own Countrymen to consider. I was proud of the real and active leadership shown by the likes of RadLib, RedHawk, Clossington, Mr. Fahrenheit, and all the rest. You of course know who you are and I was inspired. I must have been a little out-of-the-loop because I was not aware of the advancements made in this direction until the event, and I’m glad to know they are! Keep going.

But I must say what inspired me most of all, were the young men. Men like the young and Nonexistent Mr. Turnipseed, whose plight and person is often on my mind, and I do truly pray for him: he is an asset to the movement that I don’t think is easily found. Observe his powerful Sampson-locks, and imagine his power level in ten years. Young men like Sensible EsoCentrist, my fellow countryman, who graciously swapped speaking positions with me so that my suit could arrive in time for my own talk, so I didn’t have to embarrass myself in casual plebeian attire. I thank you.

So now too, allow me to salvage my position I spoke of in my speech, for I feel I missed one aspect that was very important, and were you Canadian, it may have been clearer. The excerpt from Dostoyevsky’s “The Idiot” was done with a demonstrative purpose. As bad as it had been in the USA during the lockdowns, I know you understand in Canada we had it far worse (at least for a time). The man walking to the scaffold was what I thought about later, after the lockdowns were over, after I realized our liberty in Canada was hanging by a horse-hair.

We often think about how the regime brings so many in, and the pain this causes our people as they now must compete with more and more non-kin. At some point those people will stop coming, for they will not have the prosperity they used to find. The ironic thing is that as people stop coming in, soon the government might choose to make it so you cannot go out.

In Canada this happened. We were told we cannot go out. Our regime demanded yours close the border to the pure of blood. Wherein they then persecuted all the pure of blood, ceaselessly, without relent, until the Trucker Convoy became more than a meme, and did the needful kinetic action required to send those foxes into their holes to regroup. Regroup they did. They gathered their best minds for days, weeks. What should they do to these rowdy, “uneducated” blue collar people? Well, of course, first they had to save face. They couldn’t back down. So instead, they knew the restrictions had to go, but they had to deny this and pretend they were always temporary. Secondly, they had to bring the boots to the rowdy crowds of peasants making them look bad and punish their insolence. So they did.

The regime then had us believe it was an unnecessary protest because the restrictions were ending, that normalcy was returning. But the only reason this was done was because if they didn’t, round 2 was going to start. They didn’t want to find out what round 2 was, and so submitted while playing the power-bottom (for Trudeau this seems oddly appropriate). Pure regime cope. The Regime couldn’t even get their Emergencies Act approval through the Senate and so they cancelled it and it died on the floor.

Regardless, you probably knew most of the story, but not necessarily the feeling of our kind in the Great White North. The UNRAKED few felt the crushing realization that we were trapped. We could not leave. You are brothers across the line, legally barred from our presence, and as Prince Myshkin describes the plight of the condemned man making his way to the scaffold to embrace oblivion, we too often felt that utter hopelessness, that utter helplessness, that utter and bitter realization that we could do nothing about it, and in this case we had done no crime, and carried no guilt, yet were meant to atone for the sin of saying: “No.” to the regime. I never want you to feel that feeling for real, and that is the full context behind my use of the quote: a warning.

But alas, I would like to grant all who attended the honour and rank of UNRAKED, a rare achievement for a Canadian, most of whom are compliant sheep begging for Canadian Healthcare. So please accept this honour, as I am honoured to offer it to such upstanding young men, pillars of our ancestors’ legacies, stalwart beacons of credulity in a world worthy of so little respect.

Alone we are weak, but together we form a mighty faggot.

ND Wallace-Swan