Monday, November 30, 2009

Clarion Call

Here is an impassioned essay by my friend Daniel, which he posted on his blog. I think it's important enough to give it the widest possible dissemination, so I am reposting it here. Please read it carefully.


~ Wheeler MacPherson


Losing The Battle
by Daniel

The present generation is lost. It should come as no surprise that any chance at perseverance for whites and white Christians will not come through the efforts of the white men that are now living. I don't believe there is a honest man alive that can deny what I am saying if they just take a look around. Our present world is a mockery of the truth, and what follows can only be the persecution of those that bear the truth. When men create art featuring Christ in a bucket of piss without fear of recompense, the enemy becomes certain they can walk over our faces without fear. Yes, this generation is lost, and there will be no mass awakening in our time because most whites have already purchased a one way ticket to hell.


We are on the path leading toward death. Some of the most beautiful white women in the world are being buggered by the blackest negroids from the dark continent. Furthermore, they are carrying their babies and flaunting it to the entire world. That's right, whitey, your blond-haired, blue-eyed sweeties are giving birth to brown, frizzy-haired babies and there is nothing you can do about it. Make no mistakes, this race has been conquered by the forces of degeneration that are presently turning this world into a cesspool of sin and social decay. The trouble is that the so-called "sensibilities" of white folks are killing them. They absolutely refuse to have families and children and cannot see that this trend is going to destroy the world. This selfishness is typical of the modern white race. If you have any doubts about what I am saying, go to your local mall this Christmas season and take a look around at the school age children. Little white girls walking hand in hand with every two-legged mamzer and beast of the field. So we can now establish two concrete facts about white men today:


1. White men are cowards. They allow their God to be mocked and ridiculed.

and

2. White men are cowards. They allow their women to be defiled.


The modern world tells us that the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. Oddly enough, that's about the only thing the modern world has right. The purpose of this blog from the beginning has been to take that first step that nobody seems willing to take. Responsibility. I have brought that responsibility with brutal and often insulting honesty because I love Christ and I love truth. This feeble effort of mine, Beyond The Pale, appears to be either disliked or just read infrequently based on my statistics. Unfortunately, people just don't care anymore and I imagine that its not just my blog but similar blogs as well. White racially conscious Christians are the ultimate minority, but the truth is that quantity doesn't matter. It is obvious that most white men are worthless, and most white women are career-minded harlots who would rather self-promote than be selfless Christian wives and mothers. But they still must be reached. It is not an entirely lost cause. The spirit of God can turn the mind of any sinner around. Time and again I read Christian blogs that invoke history, conspiracy, and modern white man's imagined strength and virility. Most of it is nonsense that has little to no benefit or practical application in the end. Eventually this bullshit will be the end of us. How about survival? How about solidarity? How about real effort in reaching our lost brethren in more meaningful ways other than just saying, "Hey, did you know white people are really the Israelites of the bible?" And most importantly how about brotherhood and Christian charity as we have been commanded by Christ? It would appear that white men would rather think and write about the good old days when we actually had the stroke to make our enemies think twice before insulting the name of Almighty God. Brothers, those days are finished. Today we would rather argue theology and the various doctrines of CI and Kinism in comment wars that drag on and serve no purpose other than stroking egos and pissing people off. While we are spending all this time living in the past and practicing our internet "bad assery" we are losing the future, and by losing the future, we are losing everything! But hey, don't let me stand in the way of your debates and your book reviews, I'm just here to tell you that the world is on fire in case you hadn't noticed.


Whites have a big problem and it will not be solved in this generation, and possibly not even the next. We have already endured several generations of indoctrination that has undone the strength and wisdom our ancestors had entrusted to us. The truth can be a fragile thing, particularly when it is entrusted to fallible men. There is nothing special about us or this time in which we live. We are not immune to torture. We are not immune to suffering, and the coming years will prove to us that we will not be immune to the same persecution our ancestors have had to endure at diverse times. This will happen whether we want it to or not. And it will happen because the men that should have known better stood by and did nothing when their conscience told them otherwise. May God have mercy on us all.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Happy Thanksgiving


Wishing all my friends a blessed, peaceful, and traditional Thanksgiving. May God in His mercy lead us back to His paths.


~ Wheeler MacPherson

Wednesday, September 09, 2009

Cycling Down


As seasons pass in the rolling year, so too do personal projects. The time has come for The Caucasian Literary Review to pass on.


The main reasons for my decision to cease blogging here are:

(1) I have allowed the content and aim of the blog to stray far from my original intent, which was to showcase literature for and by our people.

(2) The amount of time and energy spent here must be redirected to much more needful areas of my life.


I am at this moment undecided whether or not to delete the blog in toto or to leave some of the posts up. Truth be told, I am pleased with some of the things I wrote and/or posted here. I will make this decision soon.


To those who have been such faithful readers, I hope that you will be faithful writers, too. Writing for our people and our future. And writing to me: I very much enjoy receiving and answering email, and I hope some of you will retain contact with me through this convenient medium.


~ Wheeler MacPherson

Friday, August 07, 2009

Harvester Evening


Back on 6/22 of 2008, I posted my poem, Harvester, in which I referred to something that actually happened to me: witnessing a daddy longlegs (or what some call a "harvester" or a "harvestman") take a drink of water.


This evening, the chores done and the locusts speaking their curious metallic verse into the haziest blue air we've seen this year, I went up into the woods and picked my way through the shade, letting the slight breeze dry my forehead and neck. I sat on a log near where I once watched a puppy roll and romp - the bluest blue puppy I have ever seen in the sum of my years. I tried to shake off the sadness that sometimes overtakes me on Friday evenings (this is one of my own mysteries) and I stood and I strolled some more, coming to a maple tree wrapped in ancient wild grape vines. One certain angled section of vine was beautiful; it looked like the striated sunburned bicep of a sea-weary Viking.


When I approached the vine, I noticed movement. Several daddy longlegs were tiptoeing about on the vine, raising tiny puffs of dust that eddied in the single sunbeam arrowing through the treetops. A large daddy longlegs was making a movement personal and familiar to me: a push-up maneuver, bobbing up and down. There was a single drop of moisture caught in a groove on the bark of the grape vine, and the daddy longlegs was dipping down to it, touching it with the weight of a memory, moving in his own God-taught rhythm of thirst and need and life. I watched for a long time, and then I came back down, out of the woods, out of the canopy of blueness, out of the day and into the evening at home.


That moment at the vine was a gift, and I will hoard it on the same shelf where I keep the sound of my grandchildrens' squeals and the scent of my wife's hair and the feel of grass under my feet. My most precious bric-a-brac are all there, in my memory, beyond the reach of thief or weevil or the bleaching sun. Thanks be to Christ for all of them, for all of it, for all and all.

Saturday, August 01, 2009



Mrs. MacPherson maintains some hummingbird feeders here at the farm. Call it “livestock management.” We share the duties, and I enjoy replenishing the sugar water for the little iridescent wonders. I especially like it when the hummingbirds will hover within a foot of my shoulders while I fill the feeders. Trusting and alert, they wait until the moment when I re-hang a feeder, and then they swoop in for a fresh taste.



Early this morning, I went out in a light pattering rain to fill the feeders. As I walked to the first one, I noticed that there were no hummingbirds anywhere in sight. Nor did any approach as I neared. When I reached the feeder, I saw the reason for this: a clutch of black hornets – the genuinely evil variety – were roiling around on the feeder’s base. I swatted as hard as I could with a rag from my pocket, but I ended up running back to the house like a screeching nancygirl, the staccato insanity of Al Hirt’s trumpet blittering within my brain. There were too many of them and they were too ready to shove 10-gauge stingers into me. Tomorrow, I will approach that particular feeder with caution – and with my reliable badmitton racquet in hand (I first mentioned my use of a badmitton racquet against winged varmints back in May. While shopping, Mrs. MacPherson and I recently spied a souped-up version of this simple accessory, outfitted with sharp metal strings, and retailing under the brand name “BugBlaster” for $16.95. I was again reminded that I will never get rich by taking hasty advantage of my own innovative ideas. And yes, I am aware that non-Southerners spell it “badminton.” Yet I still deign to speak to such persons.).



A few minutes after the encounter, I peeped from the front door and noticed the hummingbirds hovering nearby with caution. The hornets seemed to have left for the time being. And my mind was full of empathy at this moment. Let me be clear that I am not one with nature. Neither the whale nor the albatross are my brother. But I can peer into the mind of the hummingbird. I know what thoughts their miraculous, buckshot-sized brains are conjuring at certain moments. And as I watched them loop back and forth around the dangerous feeder, I knew for certain that they were thinking, “This used to be such a nice place to eat. But maybe we should frequent one of the other feeders.” I believe that some of the other hummingbirds will insist on staying at that particular feeder, not wanting to give offense to the very insects who will, given the opportunity, sting them lifeless from the skies.



And so some of the hummingbirds may move down the line to another of Mrs. MacPherson’s feeders. But inevitably, the hornets will find their way to that feeder, too. And to the next one, and to the next one. They will do this because they have discovered an easy meal. They will do this because they are already in the area in great numbers. They will do this because it is in their nature to do such things. And I will never be able to protect all of the hummingbirds.



But woe betide those particular sonofabitching hornets tomorrow morning.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

His Four My One


Papaw said Let’s go, and then I rose
And trailed behind his massive frame until
We’d passed from kitchen, porch, garden gate,
Gravel road to rich and sloping rises
Full of clover, vetch, and ragweed. There we


Watched a mother mockingbird – a Reb
Without a kepi – whip a surly tom
And drive him from the Rose of Sharon where
Her babies cried. Papaw took my hand
And led me through the pasture, up the needled


Treeline, past a scooped-out place where blackened
Stumps and copper coils bore silent witness
To a craft my parents tsk about
On nights when sleep eludes me but my ears
Are tuned to secrets, fights, and lies. Papaw


Pointed to a clearing, just a perfect
Cedar circle kept from too much sun
Or man. We stopped, and as I made my seat,
Papaw took a knife from his bib
And unfolded it and aimed the tip


(it seemed) at me. And the slit that often
Held a ruler offered up a tube
Of saltine crackers, and another pocket
Then produced a summer sausage, still
Encased in shiny plastic wrap. Papaw


Lifted eyes and voice beyond the oaks
And sang a blessing down upon our food,
And then he sliced that summer sausage up
In discs, and I unwrapped the crackers, and we
Shared our meal while bluejays fussed, and I


Kept staring at his fingernails and wrists.
You want some water? he asked and smiled,
That stirring crinkle of sunburnt skin beckoning
Me to nod and rise and walk with him
(My four steps to his one) and find the brook


We’d heard while chewing, and he showed me how
To cup my palms and gather frigid mountain
Sips, and I thought the trick was fine,
Like all the outcomes of his ways of doing.
Later, while we circled back towards


The house, I filled my apron with some colored
Stalks that raged across a squarish patch
Of earth. Those ain’t flowers, Papaw said,
Those are weeds, and someday when you marry,
You will want to know the difference. You won’t


Want to bring them in your house or let them
Clutter up the growing ground. So I
Spilled the plants beneath my feet and tried
Again (as granddaughters do) to match my steps
To Papaw’s slowing gait across the yard.



~copyright 2009 by Wheeler MacPherson

Tuesday, July 07, 2009

Book Review: Standing Up On The Inside



Back on March 11th, I announced the first-ever
Caucasian Literary Review free giveaway. The giveaway was won by our good friend Kinswoman. Since then, she's been reading the book I gave away, taking notes and preparing a review of the book.


I'm very pleased and very proud to offer now the review of the book by Kinswoman. It's a stellar piece of writing. This is precisely the sort of thing White people should be producing.


Heartiest thanks and congratulations to our sister for this fine example of critical writing.

Enjoy!



~ Wheeler MacPherson



Standing Up on the Inside:

A Review of White Soul: Country Music, the Church, and Working People

A thought-provoking (and cuss-eliciting) book, White Soul by Tex Sample seeks to examine the purpose and utility of country music as the soul music of working people in America today. After establishing the origins of country music (an offshoot of White folk music centered in the southeast US in the 1920’s), Mr. Sample shows that country music is the expression of working man’s rebellion against a system which has been imposed upon him by an elite bent on robbing him of his soulful humanity, one aspect of which is depicted so poignantly in Henry and the Great Society. One need not agree with that author’s eschatology to mourn Henry’s demise, our people’s demise. Mr. Sample’s heart for, and empathy with, working people and their life circumstances is clearly evident in his efforts to reach out to them.


Country music is the music of the working class, versus an academic, ivory tower, ruling “elite.” My own family has recently moved from a multicultural metro area, replete with classical music teachers, to the rural outer Ozarks, and has felt the shift in attitudes. As we steer our children toward a working community experience instead of having them follow us by default to college, the children have become immersed in the music of the area: bluegrass, that early offspring of country music, complete with country music’s “a’cheatin’ and a’drankin’” songs. The types of lyrics that show White culture in a degenerated state would be irrelevant, a curious non sequitur, in an animalistic, godless, free-breeding culture. It is the very virtues of duty, faithfulness to family, and honor – the traditions behind country music, according to Mr. Sample - from which these degenerative influences seek to draw us away. A jungle native would never sing about the heartache caused by his wife’s desertion or lament that his children now have no momma. If we as a people had never possessed these virtues, or had never known consciousness of sin, the corrupted lyrics would not have such an appeal and would have no relevance. (Sin nature is always seeking an outlet. It wants to bust out all over the place. Since Baptists “don’t smoke, drink, or dance,” they seem more prone to gluttony and gossip. Pick a denomination and make your own list for fun.) Country music is also an avenue for unregenerate man to use “oppression by the elite” as an excuse to violate other legitimate restraints on White people’s actions: “Let’s see how many of the Ten Commandments we can sing about breaking in this three-minute song.”


In his book, published in 1996, Mr. Sample seeks to demonstrate how “the church” can minister to “working people,” and mistakenly presumes that the terms are mutually exclusive, with dangerous consequences. He uses the term “church” to mean a “social gospel” liberal institution which is distinct and separate from working class people. His solution to “bridge the gap” and reach out to working people – using CM lyrics that glorify fornication, break our Lord’s commandments and violate the sanctity of the place of worship – are questionable. Christ cannot simply be relegated to the language of the White man’s response to the liberal elite, because that response has been polluted by that liberal elite, namely antiChrist Marxists of the jewish persuasion. Our Saviour, however, transcends that language, and knows His creatures, remembers that we are “but dust” and came in a body of flesh to rescue us from ourselves and our enemy. Christ “pitched tent” with us, as Mr. Sample points out, but He was without sin. Can we sing “Help Me Make It Through the Night” in church in order to “loosen people up” for ministry? Let Brother Wheeler address this:


I went through a period some time back where my philosophy was, “Hey, if you’re White, you’re on our side.” Back then, it seemed to me that the main thing was racial solidarity, and all the other stuff might get sorted out later.

I no longer believe this. I know longer believe this at all.

I believe that as Christians, as the blood descendants of Israel, as the chosen people of God and the image-bearers of Christ, that we must separate ourselves from the unclean and the unholy – and this means other White people if they do not bow the knee to our King. The White people who care more about their “freedom” or their swastikas and their drugs and their sexual “freedom” or their mindless vandalism than they do about the commands and words of the Ever-Living God are not my people. (“Sowing the Wind, and Then Reaping Amid Winking and Nudging,” The Caucasian Literary Review, 2009)


Mr. Sample almost realizes this when on page 141 he notes, “A church that is insensitive to its entrapment in such larger systemic social constructions simply will miss the powers at work to destroy or at least diminish its capacity for mission and ministry.” He sees that the church has been using highly rationalized organizational procedures of corporate America (italics mine) and that “the church would be far better off in terms of indigenous ministry with working people if it utilized traditional tribal practices “(italics mine) which are, by definition, racist, sexist, and classist. He cannot bring himself to admit, on a treatment of White soul music no less, that working people’s music is a response as a race protesting a class/race/gender war foisted upon us by antiChrist Marxists, themselves of a particular race.


The author states that elitist tastes are not “pure” because they are racist and classist, and as such, are not a viable standard to judge all music. In calling cultured tastes “elitist,” he biases the reader against classical, cultivated music that is historically and generationally respected by all classes of Europeans. In Louisa May Alcott’s An Old Fashioned Thanksgiving, a family of poor 19th century New England farm children loves to recount a tale of their noble European ancestors’ bravery and fidelity:


“Read out a piece,” said Tilly from Mother’s chair, where she sat in state, finishing off the sixth woolen sock she had knit that month.

“It’s the old history book, but here’s a bit you may like, since it’s about our folks,” answered Eph, turning the yellow pages to look at a picture of two quaintly dressed children in some ancient castle.

“Yes, read that. I always like to hear about the Lady Matildy I was named for, and Lord Bassett, Pa’s great-great-great grandpa. He’s only a farmer now, but it’s nice to know we were somebody two or three hundred years ago,” said Tilly, bridling and tossing her curly head as she fancied the Lady Matilda might have done.

“Don’t read the queer words, ‘cause we don’t understand ‘em. Tell it,” commanded Roxie, from the cradle, where she was drowsily cuddled with Rhody.

“Well, a long time ago, when Charles the First was in prison, Lord Basset was a true friend to him,” began Eph, plunging into his story without delay. “The lord had some papers that would have hung a lot of people if the king’s enemies got hold of ‘em, so when he heard one day, all of a sudden, that soldiers were at the castle gate to carry him off, he had just time to call his girl to him, and say, ‘I may be going to my death, but I won’t betray my master. There is no time to burn the papers, and I cannot take them with me; they are hidden in the old leathern chair where I sit. No one knows this but you, and you must guard them till I come or you send a safe messenger to take them away. Promise me to be brave and silent, and I can go without fear.’ You see, he wasn’t afraid to die, but he was to seem a traitor. Lady Matildy promised solemnly, and the words were hardly out of her mouth when men came in, and her father was carried away a prisoner, and sent off to the Tower.”

“But she didn’t cry; she just called her brother, and sat down in the chair, with her head leaning back on those papers, like a queen, and waited while the soldiers hunted the house over for ‘em: wasn’t that a smart girl?” cried Tilly, beaming with pride, for she was named for this ancestress, and knew the story by heart.

“I reckon she was scared, though, when the men came swearing’ in and asked her if she knew anything about it. The boy did his part then, for he didn’t know, and fired up and stood up before his sister; and he says, says he, as bold as a lion: ‘If my lord had told us where the papers be, we would die before we would betray him. But we are children and know nothing, and it is cowardly of you to try to fight us with oaths and swords!” (pp. 11-13)


The children admired their ancestors for their loyalty and steadfast bravery, and the fact that their progenitors were in a higher class didn’t bother them at all. There need not be a class war, and country music is the gritty, poetic response of modern working people to oppression passed off on them as a “class war.” When I visit my home state of Louisiana, I still catch glimpses of the old order – blacks over fifty years old often treat me as would a black mammy or Uncle Remus figure: no hostility, just a pleasant “Whatcha need, Baby?” in a respectful, cheerful, helpful way, or “Can Ah help ya, Miz Lisa?”


If the author sees no difference between elite White Christian European nobility of old, with their Handels and Bachs in service, and those “elite” who control today’s media and message, then it is no wonder he seeks to throw off cultured musical tastes and traditions of our European forbears. On the other hand, he recognizes that today’s country music is the soulful cry of a defiant, formerly dominant White race who will not bow, at least psychologically, to the machine crushing the life from its people. As the little boy who’s been punished and told to sit down said, “I may be sitting down, but I’m standing up on the inside.”


At times, Mr. Sample seems to get a glimmer of the real problem. “The church as an alternative community with an ultimate allegiance to Christ and not to the nation is an important anecdote to the poisons of the nation-state that is bound to late capitalism.” (p.160) Sadly, he cannot get past his misconception that the problems of working people have nothing to do with race. It is humorous that the term “working people” is used in reference to “white soul music,” as Mr. Sample calls country music, while he bends over backwards to deny any “negative” or racial exclusivity inherent in country music. It is interesting to note that in recent years, he has also now bent over forward to accommodate his denomination’s compliance with sodomites and same sex “marriage.”


It is evident in the book’s final pages, that “overcoming racial exclusiveness” still resident within some working White people is part of the author’s goal for the “church ministry” to “working people.” But as Cambria Will Not Yield so succinctly puts it,


I am only a chronicler, and I am a white male. As such, my opinion is not valid in Utopia. But I must say that Utopia is not working. One gets the sense among the lower strata of white people (by lower strata, I mean those outside the liberal elite) that there is an incredible longing in their hearts. Are they suppressing something in their blood that must, simply must, be satisfied lest they die of longing? Dare we say that the something is faith? (May 31, 2009)