La Mystic Noise by GIN Nicolò

First pages of a to-be-written book about noise music, mysticism and pure experiences.

(GIN Nicolò is a writer from Italy, and an amateur noise musician, based in Milan, Northern Italy)

When I think of the best way to understand myself, I mean words and vocal sounds, I certainly think of the monologue. You know, that’s how you do a debate: you imagine a monologue and you bring it, broken up, to the audience. So it’s not very difficult for me to think up a character and bring it to life, because it’s making a part of me speak in monologue, breaking it up between actions, descriptions and gestures of the most varied kind, just to etch those few – and right – words into the mind of those who are hearing me. It’s all technical huh, Hitler came to power because he could speak well.

A book is nothing but wickedness, pure and simple wickedness, what kind? Like: opening a vein and bleeding while with your bloody arm you write, and it hurts, it hurts badly, but you have to. You have to open the vein if you want the demon to come out. There is nothing scientific about it, because science and art are two parallels that will never meet, it is everything, simple, technique and pain. Because art is pain.

Yes pain, because the painter hurts his whole body, for days and days, before the canvas is ready, in the same way the writer sabers his arms until he gets the right vein that makes him write. Art is not democratic, if you don’t talk about cutting yourself: everyone can do it, no one can be identical in the way they cut themselves and no one has the same blood pressure, anyone and everyone can be similar, but never identical. It is as meritocratic as a Confucian empire, only those who can pull the demons out of their veins, survive the pain and make their blood spurt like a Pollock are truly masters of art.

When I think, I elaborate and come up with speeches and I think about the best way to throw down a few lines, I imagine a man in the same situation as me, it makes me externalize the pain, the simple painful blood in my veins – it also makes me think that the computer works by converting my platelets into electricity – I think of people who speak, like an Antonin Artaud, who freaks out on the radio and says what he wants, a Filippo Tommaso Marinetti who, artistically, has created his own way of expressing himself freely. And I miss this: to express myself freely, without constraints of any kind. Even screaming.

I became interested in la Noise – also known as rumorism – when I became interested in music in a broader sense. I thought at the time: I don’t think there is anything more experimental and listenable than this or that contemporary artisthow wrong I was. It did exist, and when a friend of mine played me a performance by Merzbow – known for his broad walls of noise and high notes by the simple folk, who associate him with something bizarre as an end in itself (a bit like their lives, bizarre and an ending in itself)I was stunned.

Whenever I find myself talking about la NoiseI call it in the feminine, like a madre – I always think of that fortuitous event: my house, COVID-19 quarantine and the mattress under the TV set. I was listening to Merzbow, a performance at the Boiler Room – which I’m still listening to as I write – the sounds are high–pitched, the brain doesn’t like them at first, then you get used to the first drone – a repeated background note, also characteristic of Eastern sacred music, whether Christian or not – then you get used to the minimal high repeated sound, then you get used to it and there you are: you’re fine, it’s all controlled. It sounds as if you are being hunted by something, but you can control this danger, you know you can kill it whenever you want by clicking the pause button. And immediately afterwards the minimal surprises you with a new sound.

This round goes on for a few tens of seconds, or minutes, or hours, arriving at a state akin to a mystical experience, where your body and your ears are distinct but related. They are two organs, complex yes, but they work together, one (the ears) giving you proof of strength, hardening in a continuous violence given by la Noise, the other (the body) keeps the ears alive. Then, as soon as you’re used to la Noise, the brain takes over – for goodness sake, it takes time, it must be that I live above a factory so it’s a noise I’m used to.

The brain is the one who will guide you, or rather: show you various bodily and organic ways to follow. Since there are no words – apart from in some tracks with a featuring such as Merzbow and Boris or Jun Togawa and Hijokaidan, it is still an alien language to an Italian as it is Japanese – most of it is all your own mental baggage, so what being subjected to the noise – injected, that is, with the ability to control it – makes you feel and imagine. It is an experience on a par with prayer.

Once you get used to it, you are free to travel – and focus on the journey – because la Noise envelops you and you feel, above all, a longed–for peace, hence also the apt parallelism with eastern sacred music – it is no coincidence that Merzbow recorded tracks called Mantras on the album Merzbuddha. So comes the doubt, justified by my faith: is this prayer?

In the usually nihilistic and very materialistic West – one notes that this music in the West (partly in the East) is mostly made with a material and progressive undertone, as if to imply that all experimental art is necessarily an invective against this or that fascist/totalitarian regime – one does not fully understand this spiritual sound in noise.

Yet it was all born one fine Giolittian-era day, in Italy, from the mind of Luigi Russolo. Futurist of the first hour, musician and inventor – at the time there was little distinction between experimental musician and inventor, especially since everything that was to be experimented with had to be created materially, with inventions like the Intonarumori.

At the time it was the second–third Industrial Revolution, but also the very first time that the city woke up, lived and over–lived in noise, in the industrial echo and in its own awakening, Russolo’s opera omnia,Il Risveglio della Città, 1913, was born.

Basically, seen in a technical term of our time, it was a simple re–enactment of a field recordingan activity where you record sounds, artificial and not, in the open air. Everything was in tune with its invention, but after Italian futurism, it would be decades before this noise experience returned.

Going beyond this historical parenthesis obviously written to better define the artisanal environment in which we find ourselves, as well as to divulge that all too often forgotten history – we return to the experience of la Noise: mysticism.

When I speak of pure mysticism, I am not limiting myself to defining rumorism as only and simple music, not even religion, because it does not present dogmaapart from the only one, that is, knowing how to listen to the dynamics of one’s own soul when it is subject to experience – but not even superstitionbecause all of this is incredibly lived, and presents nothing so–called paranormal, and, taking up the dogma, presents nothing but the same dynamism in relation to experience.

It is all a heavy experience – putting the aside on the very democratic word that it is experience, something that can be experienced by all, but also on the egotistical word, as it is not at all shareable (at least not within the very limits of spoken/written language) and above all it is unique – it is yours and yours alone.

Quoting Kitaro Nishida, Japanese Buddhist philosopher:

To experience means to know the facts as they are, to know in accordance with the facts by completely renouncing one’s own inventions… by pure I refer to the state of experience as it is, without the slightest addition of deliberative discrimination.

When I think of an actual pure experience, I think back to when I lay down under the television, with the mattress I had imported from my room, with a pillow under

my left arm while with my right arm I was writing, mostly writing down poems about noise.

At that moment I remember I was inan altered state, but no narcoticperhaps just a realization mixed with psychosis. I was rested, but within me brooded a great destruction and weariness, which I had to keep inside, tightening my mouth, and rationing with an eyedropper how much blood to let out on the paper, lest I overdo it and let out demons that would upset the experience.

Because at that moment, that precise moment – amidst noise and a comfortable bed – I was living the present and experiencing it, dynamic and absolutely my own.

I now quote an Italian occultist, reported in the Introduction to Magic, by Julius Evola and the UR Group, the author writes under the name of Pietro Negri:

It was the complete reversal of ordinary human sensation; not only did the ego no longer have the impression of being contained, however localised, in the body; not only had it acquired the perception of the incorporeality of its own body, but it felt its own body within itself, it felt everything sub specie interioritatis

I quote this to connect with the word: transcendence.

To be continued.

élan vitale by Ronin

Gerardo Dottori. Partita di calcio. 1928.

“The problem with right-wing art is that it’s explicitly political art made by people who are not right-wing when what we actually need is apolitical art made by people who are openly right-wing extremists.”
— Anon

The above mentioned quote is why I believe our art has been lacking. Its not composition which has us lacking (we have many superior artists of every kind). What we don’t have is taste. Whether we are hamstrung by making everything about Swastikas/Third Reich/Mussolini etc. OR we can not express our growing sense of Vitalism because it is considered “impious” or “degenerate” by spiritually old-hags.
I made this channel because I believe we are capable of so much beyond posting about a very specific time period or vibe. What we BRING to the UNIVERSE is élan vitale.
Imagine if Celine was told not to write about prostitutes and gangsters because it was “degenerate”. Or Mishima to unveil the mystery of the sexual pervert (in confessions of a mask) because it delved into something “naughty”. Or any number of great artists who would have been snuffed out by a gross old woman spirit?
Or worse, we are being held back because we can’t let go of imagery from our past. Especially because it is trying to live someone else’s glory. It is right to honor our ancestors, but we may only honor them if we surpass them! And we have that potential in us.
Our content should be about VITAL LIFE that is apolitical. The way we perceive and accentuated our content makes us who we are.
Art is a woman, and every woman wants to be seduced. Every seduction is suggestive/between-the-lines and not outright.
No woman will ever give it to you by just saying, “hey, wanna fuck?” No.
Be implicit, be beautiful, be tactful, and tease!

Some notes on a theological explanation of woke capital by Wald

While this video by Imperium Press on woke capital is interesting, I find the conclusions ultimately unsatisfying. Such heavy reliance on economic and technical explanations are not only boring, they are little more than tautologies. Why does capital support progressives? Because that is what capital does. Why does management create problems? Because managers like to manage, and problems create management. Why do those in power seek to control the population? Because that is what power does. It is like a bad dictionary, the technical implementation of something is not its reasoning, it is merely a tool, the medium for achievement. In itself it has neither law nor meaning. And this is what we lack more than anything today, a sense of the ontological character which gives rise to particular qualities, what we see on the surface. Given the extent of the catastrophe – clownish comedy is not enough to explain it, and is itself one of the weapons – we should look to nothing less than the underlying laws, the very figure of democratic man who set out to be more powerful than the old monarchs. Self-reference to the surface qualities does not achieve this, it is something lower than materialism, completely against irrationalist or Counter-enlightenment perspectives, and leaves us without the foundation necessary for a response.

If we are to take an irrationalist approach then we need explanations that are poetic, aesthetic, theological, and mythological. This is difficult given the taboo subject, as some will make accusations that we are sympathizing or collaborating. Here we need only reiterate that our situation is a total catastrophe, that the human subject has been evacuated, and not one of us have escaped the consequences. The Last Man is only ever second-to-last, a figure who will survive as long as we have an interim state, democracy. We can take this in two different directions: that levelling is never enough for him, like Dulle Griet, plundering Hell itself will never be enough space for human sins; or that this gutting of man has left such a void that only a monstrous striving can take his place, independemt of the values of subjectivity. This is without a doubt part of our modern condition, even for those committed to a sexual revolution which continues on long after its death. I will repeat myself again, these identitarians are no Liten Kersti figures, tricking their way into noble positions – they may not ever obtain any position of power. Nontheless, they are at the forefront of struggle today because all revolution has become democratic revolution, and perhaps even counter-revolution. Here one must admit that nothing greater has been offered to them, conservatives more than anyone else have failed in creating a revolutionary force of their own; one can see their complicity in the decades leading up to the great revolutions of 2001 and 2012.

What we first have to recognise is this void of humanity. The democratic revolution, which is the real permanent revolution, has turned to insane identities not only because class struggles have ended, or that elites are facing a crisis of control – instead we are faced with a monstrous identity, the limits of the last man who begins to sense his own nihilism and destruction, the energy of a war greater than any other in history. This is in modern terms another class conflict, but now it takes on the character of classes of gods or heroes, of ages rather than generations. The final evacuations of the bourgeois figure, the last man, are only a mask of this. We are confronted with Gorgon figures, and they are building monuments to monsters atop the ruins of the Twin Towers, and every other construction which can must be raised as it is levelled.

This is the theological explanation.

Further, one may look to the spatial character of democracy to see its mixed state, a confusion which betrays all class distinction, including sexual character. The changes in identity are tied to architecture, technology, and urban geography more powerfully than in any other system, often developing mysteriously from the hidden elements. This becomes clear when we notice the extent of the changes in physiognomy and character, even in those adamant in their opposition to progressive ideology one will notice feminine traits, especially in their expressions and intonations. Something much more powerful than ideology reveals itself here, and given that many boys grow up isolated from women the shift cannot be due to the eruption of feminine spaces alone. The streets filled with shops were only of a bourgeois character, and it is no mistake that they are gutted along with the final assaults of the last man.

A second-order begins to develop in the 1990s with the gutting of all underground spaces, especially the criminal and counter-culture bars and venues. Today, such underground character, especially masculine spaces, are as foreign to youth as any Third World culture. Who is responsible for this shift other than the neoconservatives at the forefront of the war on crime? No one is more responsible than them, they created an aseptic wasteland which saw all cultural, masculine, and youthful space as criminal. The underworld was met with total war along with the criminal organisations, and this left urban space to the unorganised, hidden, and most inner regions. Everyone else, especially middle class youth, had no choice but to retreat. Here it becomes necessary to point out that the left-wing was seen as a danger, along with the criminal organisations they were met with a total mobilisation of intelligence organisations and undercover police. Identity politics at this point was entirely liberal.

The social war opened up the power of digital spaces, and a new revolutionary type developed along within it. To see this as a left-wing creation could not be further from the truth, there was a long period of non-ideological and almost uncontrollable digital culture. Rather, criminalisation of the underground ensured that power would be taken by unorganised racial types, the pure gangs, which then combined with ideological forces. For the police these types are also the easiest to control and infiltrate. Digital underground spaces are only ever a potential, whether short-term or long-term. And it was the left-wing – or what was left after total infiltration – that was able to take advantage of this situation, to unite the two underworlds, and the extreme ideological factions with liberalism.

Conservative forces are weak and overwhelmed because they are entirely to blame. They created the aseptic identity which is now in an uncontrollable state of revolt. Like the first conservatives, they created the very installations which led to the civil wars and assaults on order.

The Aquatic Modernism Manifesto by Melontyp

Out of the Ocean we arise to bring you this Message. We, Aquatic Modernist, Sea People of a new Age shall proclaim Aquacracy in every Art form. We shall give Water the Glory it deserves, to make it more holy then it ever was. Water, a true blessing from God. Water conquered more of the Earth then the great Khan. God precisely knew the destructive power of Water when he flooded the Earth. Every Life form on this blue Planet needs Water to function properly. Therefore we spread our Points brought to us, with the blessing of God, the Fish of the Sea:

1. We must glorify Water in all its forms and ways in every Art piece that we create.

2. Our Buildings will be flooded with Water, it must accompany us in every possible Room, and it is after all, our Main Theme in Building.

3. The fear of Deep Water is the most cowardly thing imaginable and must be eradicated at all cost, our Houses must scare these Thalassophobes to Death and beyond.

4.We shall flood away all the Waterless Ideas of the past like God flooded the Earth, we will show mercy to older Ideas that show the Ocean respect that it deserves.

5. Ocean grunge shall be our favorite Music of choice.

6. We proclaim two kinds of Aquatic Modernism: Conquered Aquatic Modernism (CAM) and Wild Aquatic Modernism (WAM)

7. Conquered Aquatic Modernism is our attempt to capture Water in a controlled way, to bend its destructive Power to our likings and to our Modernism.

8. Wild Aquatic Modernism is the more destructive side of Water. Here, we glorify the ruthlessness of the Sea and its destructiveness. It is our Primary Weapon to revenge every kind of Injustice that has been made against the See in the most violent Form.

9. We deeply care for the Sea, therefore we wish to clean it from all the Garbage that floats on it and to protect its Inhabitants from Human Waste. Our poor Sea, how the Humans mistreated you, it is not only a Crime to the Sea but also to Humanity to soil the Environment.

10.We need to further the development of Technology into exploring the Sea to the narrow underwater Caves to the deepest Trenches.

11.We wish to transform the Human way of live into living in the Ocean. We must learn to live fully from the Sea and without the Main Land, this shall be the Meer Mensch (Sea Human).

Now what you heard what the Water of the World demands, we go back to our Submarines to explore the Ocean fully. This is our deepest wish, to explore the Ocean every day without an end. From the Surface cluttered with beautiful coral to the deepest Trenches filled with Alien Fish that look like Monsters. Who knows, maybe we find something more Lovecraftian down there then you are too scared off to find. It is a very dangerous Job, but we do not care about our Death, our Corpses will be a fine Treasure for the next fearless Diver. All what we want, is the glorification of the Sea.

Heat by Faust

Some years ago the government finally decided to do something about all the time lost to traffic jams, but as always it proved meaningless, and kept showing that desperate people take advantage of anything. Many times a week a crazy idiot would purposefully slow down, stop in the lane or even cause some minimum crash so they could spend more hours in the road so he would receive more compensation for the hours spent in traffic. Most of the time they’d be caught quickly and forced to do some little work in jail for the intentional delay, but the jams still monetarily benefited all of us who would be there, sitting inside our hot cars until the problem was solved and we resumed our long, exhausting commute. 

The money was okay. It was something. We were all very happy that we rightfully got more money for time we take from our daily lives to drive to work to feed the system and keep everything functioning. But eventually we noticed that money really meant nothing when we were still trapped for hours in a dooming inescapable desert of asphalt and engines.

My fingers curled up around the wheel tightly, my chest started to hurt badly again. Drops of sweat fell from my aching forehead, muscles tense as I writhed from the exhaustion I felt. It was the unbearable Heat, again. It was just another summer work day, wasn’t it? How did we get used to it? How did we dare to accept this? How much did the heart attack rate go up? How many of us died because of the stress? How many of these accidents blamed on greedy people who wanted all of us stuck in traffic were actually innocent poor people dying victim of the Heat?

Nowadays aspirins are a public health requirement, as important as condoms are. We eat them like candy. I take a bunch of them and swallow them with a dry mouth. I can barely taste the bitter artificial strawberry flavor, yet it’s efficient enough to make me salivate to force the pills down my throat. But today I feel like it’s not going to be enough, because I find myself crying. Or is it sweat, too?

The frustration is unbearable and it makes my heart ache. The car feels like a lone metal prison. I am alone, I’m alone with hundreds and thousands of people who are as alone as I am, and we know we are at the limits of our sanity and if one of us goes down he takes all of us down with him. We all do our best to wait, wait, wait, and let the hours pass by while we suppress every bad thought that could spark the end of us. No radio, no music, no small talk can soothe the doom the Heat brings.

There’s no way of accelerating this machine, it’s so slow it feels static, it makes you feel the most despairing fear. There’s no escaping it. Clink, clink. Even if bolts and screws jump and fall off it’s no biggie and they are easily replaced, yet… taking a decision like that it’s one of the few autonomous choices we can ever make in a doomed system like this. Even if it doesn’t affect the bigger picture in any meaningful way… I close my eyes, I think, and I wonder… 

I wonder how it feels to be free.

I wish I had the courage of the steppe nomads conquering on horseback, I wish I had the dreams of the italian futurists with their lightspeed-fast aluminum machines. I want to feel the fresh breeze dragging my sweat away, I want to see ever-changing colors and shapes as I accelerate into the world. I want my body to be so light that it becomes translucent at the shine of the moon and stars. I want velocity to break my corporeality and only carry my joyful ecstatic soul. My heart aches, but now it also burns, and I hope it leaves a trail of fiery angry flames as I step on the gas…

And I drift away.

Terror in Business Class by Anonymous

The passenger opened his eyes: maybe the lady sleeping in the seat next to him had a tremor in her sleep or maybe the plane passed through a little turbulence.

He leaned towards the central aisle, looking for any possible human contact: everyone was asleep and outside the windows the night was impenetrable.

“We should be flying over the Channel right now…” thought Mr. Faber and looked at the window on his left, which was covered by the curtain; he remembered that, from that window, he could directly see the wing of the aircraft.

Slowly, he put his hand closer to the block push of the curtain and made it click: a quick noise preceded the revelation of a dark sky, covered by clouds that poured storm over the sea.

Suddenly, a flash of lightning illuminated the outside realm: Faber saw the metallic wing hit by countless raindrops… and he met a gaze that chilled his blood.

Halfway up the wing, weathered but still hunched over, a gypsy in a rumpled tracksuit and a raggedy snow berret was apparently tearing wires and components from a breach in the metal plates, his ghoulish face scrutinizing Mr. Faber in response with a sullen, almost angry scowl.

Faber turned around terrified and managed to call a stewardess who was diligently crossing the corridor; this woman, surprised, reached for the passenger.

-Ma’am, come, come!

-I’m coming! What’s wrong, do you feel ill?

-There is a person on the wing of the plane, look out!-

A flash of lightning illuminated the outside again: the wing was now free, the mysterious intruder vanished.

The stewardess put a hand on Faber’s shoulder, who was sweating -Look, you seem to have had a bad dream: can I get you anything? Water, chocolate, coffee?-

Faber took a deep breath, trying to suppress the anguish -No …thank you.

She greeted him, politely but still wary, and he tried to close his eyes to fall back asleep.

After a minute, he heard something rasping against the window: he turned around, the curtain was pulled down again.

He swallowed while hearing clearly the sound of something pressing against the glass.

Trembling, he moved a hand toward the curtain lever and pulled it up again.

Through the glass he caught a glimpse of the gypsy’s bloodshotted eyes staring back at him.

He bit his tongue and instinctively grabbed the shoulder of his snoring neighbor, shaking the old lady.

-Look, look! There’s a guy outside the window!

The lady nearly collapsed, thinking she was being attacked, but terrified she agreed to look out the window.

Where there was no one.

Furious, the neighbor managed to summon the same stewardess as before with an irritated nod.

-Ma’am? May I help you?

-My neighbor is bothering me.

I don’t want to stand next to him for another second!-

Faber looked like a whipped dog for the stewardess’ forgiveness and the two agreed to let him change his place.

-So, is there another seat left?-

-Yes, and it’s not right near the window.

I hope your new neighbor will not object.-

The stewardess accompanied him further back, to his new seat; the gentleman sitting by the window was asleep, with a newspaper lying on his head.

Faber sat down slowly, taking care not to make any noise.

-I’ll get you some tea…- the apprehensive stewardess whispered to him, before walking away again; Faber looked at his watch.

-Oh, it’s still a long way to Paris airport!

His neighbor suddenly pulled the newspaper down from his face, revealing the gypsy’s spectral face.

-You have already reached your final destination.- he hissed.

Faber began to scream like a madman, clinging to the seat.

-Hey, hey…stop it! Calm down!-

The sudden rebuke shook him: his vision blurred and everything went dark, with dim lights here and there dizzying him.

Then he realized, incredulously, that he was sitting in the back of what definitely looked like a police car and one policeman was staring at him, with a bewildered air, as he leaned out of the front right seat.

-Where are we?-

The carabiniere scratched his chin -We found you in a ditch as you were about to lose consciousness and now we’re going to take you away and get you some medical attention, possibly.-.

-But how…-he looked around and saw another policeman out of the car talking on his cell phone; it was late night and they were in the middle of a country road.

-You got very cold…- murmured the carabiniere.

-I… my name is Harold Faber, I am the director of a large canned food company, I was on a flight to Paris to attend a conference… I shouldn’t be here, I didn’t do anything!-

The expression of the policeman in the car, from stolidly annoyed, became saddened -Oh God, you are in a state of deep confusion.

According to our identification, you should respond to the name of Marian Pavic, 45 years old, Croatian origin, resident in Italy for twenty years… you fled from the nomad camp where you were staying after an altercation with your cousin for sentimental reasons resulted in a fight with a fatal outcome for your relative.

Now, you are confusing your memory with something you may have seen on the news because you are in a state of shock.

Trust me: it’s better if you stay with us for a while, for now…-

The arrested man shifted his gaze from the policeman’s eyes to the car’s central rear-view mirror; it was returned to him by a wiry, olive-colored face with spirited eyes.

His own face.

The State of Neuburg Chapter 2 by Melontyp

Chapter 2

I was dancing in a very colourful Disco. I danced with very beautiful Women untilI ended up at a giant black table. There was a man sitting there with an Orange coloured Glass Mask covering his whole Face. His Suit was Azure Blue with thin White Stripes all over it. His shirt was white and open and you could see his massive Gold Chain. I sat myself besides this stranger, while he took out some items out of his Pockets. On the left Hand a 1000 US-Dollar bill, on the right hand golden straight Dagger with the Insignia “Deus lo vult”. I stared at both items very intensely until I heard Gunshots and the whole crowd screaming. I woke up shocked and full of cold sweet and realized, to my surprised, someone was knocking at my balcony door. I opened the Door and saw a Red Amazon Parrot, he then said

“Wake up idiot”.
“I am already awake bitch”
“I fucked you’re mom hahaha”

With those Words, it flew away, this goddamn parrot, next time I hang him from this very Balcony when I see it.

It was 12:00, I had to prepare myself quick if I wanted to meet Mia. Showering,
some morning sport a normal routine nothing special. For my Outfit, it would be embarrassing to wear the Black Suit like yesterday, instead I wore a Dark Blue Suit, with a slightly open Black Shirt under it. Due to the sheer absurdity of style of Clothing these People were wearing, I packed out my golden Eisenkreuz that was a Gift from my Uncle when I was younger, he sadly died 11 years ago with my Father in a Car crash. They crashed in a Lorry full of Oil, and their Bodies got fully eaten up by flames as the Police claims. I strapped the golden Eisenkreuz on my petit gold chain and went off into the Lobby at around 12:55. Mia was already waiting for me. Today she had a big straw hat, accompanied by broad red trouser carried by red suspenders. Including black sandals and a blue shirt with the symbol of the Falange on the whole back. Mia greeted me with the

“There you are Bernd, I don’t have much time until Work starts again, and I want to show you a Friend.”

We walked out of the Lobby quickly into the City. The Street was quite Busy and
even the Cars here are weird. Golden Ladas, various military Jeeps and the
Soldiers drive in modern APCs. On the way we also saw a Park, it was called
Park Central if I remember correctly. Anyway it had a giant Roman Fountain
wrapped in Christian Symbolism, in the middle with a glorious Statue of Lord
Jesus Christus out of Marble on top of it. The Park was centred on that Statue,
with purple spiral Lanterns, some Banana Trees to decorate it. After we passed
by, we stopped at the Library full of Bolshevist Symbolism. Hammers and Sickles were carved into the Windows and as Display where the usual Communist Books where on show like das Kapital, State and Revolution etc. All that wrapped in Red Neon Light with a Soviet Union Flag waving in front of the entrance.

When we entered, I instantly got a sad feeling. The Floor was made of black
Stone, the Walls where in a deep purple also covered in old nostalgic Soviet
Posters. The Books shelf where simple made of oak wood, full of colourful
books. There wasn’t much Light in here, mostly strips of purple neon light where illuminating this place. When we got further into this Shop, we saw a much older man behind a brutal oak desk in front of a Giant Picture of Lenin. This man had a mop black beard, with a grey flat cap and a white shirt with black suspenders. The man approached us with the words:

“Ah Mia it’s you, hope you are well, so is this the friend you wanted to show
And Mia responded:
“Yes Kaz, that’s Bernd”
I shaked hands with Kaz and he said:
“My name is Kazamir Zadachin, but everybody just calls me Kaz”
So I responded with:
“My name is Bernd Bäcker, very happy to meet you.”
Then Kaz had to say:
“Mia already told me you want to know more about Neuburg so sit down and
have a listen.”

He brought us two dark Chairs, he also wanted to give us some Coffee but we
refused due to the fact that Mia doesn’t have much time. So he started his Story
with the words: “I live here since around 10 years already and I have to say I
really like it here, that doesn’t mean I hate my Home Country Russia but
Neuburg is much more interesting. Here, I manage a Book Shop not just about
Communism, I got other Books about different Topics like for example some
Lovecraft and I also like to help at the nearby Orthodox Church. Back when the
USSR was still around, I was a Soldier in Afghanistan from start to finish. Also
involved in Protests when the Soviet Union fell. But I know all that Russian past
isn’t that interesting to you, so I tell you better about this place and how it
works. The Reason why this Place hasn’t gone to Hell due to all those armed
and radically different People is because of their Loyalty to the State, their Desire to create and the radical Anti-Americanism by the State. Here, you will never see one American or Israeli Flag, this State is also very Anti-Capitalist by organizing its Industry in Syndicates. Also, it has Troops send to Syria for example to show its Anti-Americanism. And as you may already know, the main Reason of this Island existences is by creating Art. Books, Films, Shows, Paintings, Statues whatever you can think of you can create is going to be State supported if it’s made well. It is also very encouraged to decorate his House with much care for Aesthetics. But what you need to stay here is absolute Loyalty to the State, or rather to Mr Neuburg himself. Recently the Anarchists are doing some Trouble, therefore I advise you not to talk to them until the Situation has calmed, or otherwise you could be suspected of treachery.”
Mia stood up and said:
“Thank you Kaz for that Introduction for Bernd, but we have to go I have to
show him something before I go to work.”
We all said goodbye to each other and we went out of the Store into the
aesthetically pleasing Streets, I would like to meet Kazimir again.

On Fascism, Futurism and the Future of Revolutionary Politics by Hans Wagner

Due to the events that have currently taken place in Ukraine it has become apparently clear the division that has arisen in the current line of thinking of the fascist and third positionist movement and how that and other personal divisions have led to a tear in any actual serious attempt to organize under a single idea or vision.

Although the division over Ukraine is not the first instance of division that has occurred in the current line of thinking, other examples including the infiltration of national socialist and reactionary agents and theorists into the current movement and the general religious aspects of the entire thing has led to even more division. It has become a horrendous tangle of drama and personal politics that have led to stagnation and a general attempt to make any serious progress. Besides that, any actual person that tries to make a serious attempt at their political vision which they try to represent is coated in hypocrisy and collaboration with neo-nazis and reactionary pigs, that wish to send us back into the late iron age and have no views for the future except the republican idea of the status quo. It seems clear that the only solution for this reactionary filth that tries to feed off the corpse of the current movement is to purge it, to burn down and obliterate any idea of collaboration with conservatism, or any reactionary idea such as Francoism or the worship of the old. This does nothing but clog up the machine that tries to move forward and build up an actual future, and yet the people that try to make any attempt to criticize this movement is built by antagonism and hatred from fellow comrades that bring up accusations of state liberalism and degeneracy, that destroys any chance to make a critique of the filthy system that exists today. Yet there is a way of fixing this system; a way to clean it. It is to completely break it; it is to make a new organization of ideal nationalists who aren’t stuck in the past and worship conservative doctrine. An organization that is truly revolutionary and looks towards the future.

School Poems by Melontyp

Montenegrin Dreaming by Melontyp

Various Poems and Thoughts written down during 3 Weeks of School

During School, I was freezing. When finally that blessed Midday came, I rushed
down the Mountain in Übermensch Speed to a wonderful Restaurant. After that,
I came back as a tired man from running up and down to School that lies on a
fucking Mountain.

Rauf! Rauf auf dem Berg.
Meine Beine tuhen weh aber das is mir egal

Every day when I rise from my Bed, I take a Shower. Although, no matter how
good I clean myself, I never felt truly clean from all the filth I get from School.
The dirt I get from sitting 3 Weeks in some dead Building cannot be cleaned by
daily Showers.

Da Gorilla woosh
He flyin weee
Uauauau collect da Banana wosh weee

Too long! Too long! My Hair is tickling my Ears! I cannot control it anymore. To
enforce rule over my Hair, yes. To enforce Discipline over myself, my desires and
my hair yes yes yes.

The colour Yellow is cursed. Flickering. Glowing, turning from 2D to 3D. I hope
only my Eyes are fooling me, someone call a painter

Wearing my Pants feel like someone cutting my Leg with a Razer. Someone
pleas free from my Pants.

I walk into School, I don’t see cute Women. I walk on the Street, I see cute
Women. What is this nonsense?

5 years ago I saw in the mirror a pathetic weak boy, with no Mass and no class.
Today when I look in the Mirror, I see a well formed young Man that can truly
call himself a good looking. In the Future, I will see a muscled Man that
extended himself with Machines

The other day on the Street I saw a very cute baby Shiba Dog. I have zero clue
what it does in Switzerland however, it approached me with playful delight but
sadly got pulled away by its Owners leash. Cute Dog.

Mishima! Mishima! Told me my Mind. This Man, I don’t know why but he takes
me, abducts me, and imprisons me with his Words. Is Japanese Imperialism
taking over my Mind? Why does Mishima interest me? Again and again my Boss
talks about his homosexuality and Retardation. Again and again I get myself
drunk with his Charm, his Words and his prideful Marching songs. That give
such a daring and adventurous feeling.

Is it worth it to break a Friends heart? Fucking Déjà vu I tell ya. Same Man
different Woman, I have already experienced that. I don’t want to lose a friend
for nothing. Fuck, fuck, fuck I should have learned, History is a bitch, I already
know exactly It won’t be the same anymore