1. The West

The West is dying and we are killing it. The American way has been replaced. The decadent, degraded mass-formation and surreptitious, foreign-born neurosis of Armageddon hocked to us in its place says, “revel in the trough of your own mediocrity.” Full of petty spite towards virile spirits, embarrassed by what is strong, embittered against what is great and independent, forever with its ear to the key-hole it critiques but without principles. It relishes in our enrollment into its torturing. Like barnyard animals we rejoice in our own servility.

2. Ideal-ization

The essential features of freedom and beauty are increased strength and plenty. For this purpose, man gives of himself to things.  This is man in his truest, most primordial and most noble form.

He forces them to partake of his riches. He does a kind of violence to them.

This is called ideal-izing, fashioning them into the greater ideal, enriching everything from his own abundance: what he sees and wills are compressed, strong, overladen with power and archaic, natural elegance.

Ideal-izing is not suppression of detail or lesser aspects. It is a great accentuation of the most decisive heart of the matter, and in consequence minor features vanish. He transfigures things until they are stamped with his ideal. This compulsion to transfigure into the beautiful is the heart of human purpose.

The contrary is the anti-purpose state of the instincts, where he attenuates and draws the blood from everything. History is full of appropriators who make kitsch of greatness as second-handers to the static character of things, to thereby make things weaker, thinner and uglier.

Original action appears disorganized to those without the instinctual locomotion. Creation is non-contingent. A reactionary forfeits the asymmetric advantage. The undertaker is the non-contingent oracle of the world – he decides, he generates, he perfects, he wills, he makes beauty, he makes the ideal.

3. Melancholia

Sometimes we are taken up with the memory of lives we did not live, a melancholy inherited from a race of men whom indeed we’ve never met. We move across the seas and do not notice, yet there it is, the melancholy, in the boards of the decking. And it creaks only when the ship rolls in the swell, or when the constellations move behind the drifting clouds at midnight.

But one finds the circumstances of one’s habituated motions hath earned no such dear or earnest introspection, that the gravity of the old melancholy traveler grows somehow dishonored by the disregard which accompanies the habit. Thereby in a kind of sloth we feign that he does not indeed still travel in our own planking, and so we likewise disregard the dearness to which we are due.

And with astonishment, we find we have left a friend long unattended. All the gathered yearning in our sinews which string us together, we pull its slack taught and come face to face with the shipwright, then the forester behind him. Then the sawyer, the smith and the hunter who are our forefathers, each with his own dearness, unmade works and melancholies spun in. And onward into us, the navigators, with our pitch melted away, the planking splitting in the sun, the sections of our charts which must die as we sail into them.

One comes to hear a quiet sympathy imbedded in all things which sits just beyond the horizon of the seascape of words. A longing we are born into, an ancestral story which hath left no details of its plots, but left only its heart instead – an undulating, crimson swath of sea at sunset, and a relinquishment that our plots will not be heard as true as our hearts. These are the downgoings of those of us who cross the seas.

4. The White Peaks

There is a rarified air, a great cold height on the mountain top, where everywhere that can meet one’s gaze is below. Where the sunlight in the blue heaven and billowing clouds beneath lift the soul into a plane in which not one of all mankind can share. Every black and jagged peak is another brilliant word of the primordial language protruding upwards from the deep land of the oldest nobles. The “land of only you.”

The cold bites – it is not forgiving. Sunlight burns the skin permanently. The muscles deprived of respiration. And yet all the truthful stillness of the soul is present there as nowhere else. This is the land where the nerves grip one into the fear of not forgetting a single arc of beauty, a single utterance of the ancient poetry, which emanates with the full force of the purpose of life itself up from the soil and deep molten rock of the great planet.

And the rare heights, one takes to heart that noble feeling, that sunlit, spare and triumphant essence of Man himself, into the breast. Of all his ideals which have fought their way upwards, epoch after epoch, into his sinews. Of the sagas, victories and tragedies, inventions, eurekas and great follies, one is there possessed. An inheritor of all things unexpected, exceptional, which cut through the gray and brown of sundry causes of less-inspired souls. The gravity and great joy of inequality. Where all abundance accrues to one forever more like a storehouse of white celestial gold in a vast deep blue vault of the heart, to be feared both in its fragility and its power.

These are the apices of power: those things blotted out, strange an unrecognizable, when peering through the binoculars of the pedestrian and the mercantile. True profits are the inventions of the great lightbringer in one’s instincts, lifting up into great order and greater agency as manifested in the prosaic of daily work lifted into great and powerful engines which no Man nearby has ever envisioned. It transcends the bittiness of the individual life into the masterwork of ancient psyche and musculature, of those who will live and rejoice long after our own short moments of joy have expired.

Live now upon the rarified peak with all the nobility of them, your strong and purified heirs, drawn up from the rocky earth of those who stood atop white cold peaks and dreamt of you.

5. Ideal in Art

With great art we seek the purity only found in insecurity. More horror, more danger, more earthquake, more natural reality. Great art is the distillation of our longing for the most dangerous life, where our most primordial ideals can seek their most tremendous vitality.

A longing for the life which spurs our most righteous nature, the life of wild beasts, forests, caves, steep mountains and labyrinthine gorges. Where we can deliberately throw ourselves against the fates and trigger a more noble evolution within. To come in contact with the wild animals we fear most, including most especially the animal we know ourselves to be. The same psychology of courage and beauty that captured all of nature’s surplus into Man and made him the mighty creator at the expense of all the beasts.

To transpose this conflagration into the spiritual, the subtle, and the intellectual, and make it Science. The great torrents of the psychology of the West. The ideals laden in our nature defy the universe.

5. Go West

Go West, young man. And when you do, don’t overlook the deep lament of your soul that you would bring this world a new face, more peopling, more covering of her virgin wilderness with your industrious changing. Don’t negate your brilliance against her prime directive. The prime directive of the creator: capture and revere the true roots of the soul of the world you alter and refine. The dawnlight on the mesas. The roots pushing down into the river mud. The Moon, Mars and the many planets. You are the reverent naturalists of new worlds. Capture the spirit of these lands the way the braves of our countries vitally lived in theirs. They gave us the great strength that imbued the Future into our own souls. And that which imbues our souls into the Future. Your soul is the  sine-qua-non of the beauty of the Future. Go West – it is up to you.