“The sun is high up in the sky and I’m in my car
Drifting down into the abattoir
Do you see what I see, dear?
..I wanted to be your Superman but I turned out such a jerk
I got the abattoir blues
I got the abattoir blues…”– Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Abattoir Blues
of Hinnom – the trucks
from the abattoir
skidding their loads,
the shameless body parts.
shall encompass all..” –Geoffrey Hill, in Ezekiel’s Wheel
The answer, my friend, is certainly not just “blowing with the wind” – unless you’re a leaf.
The answer is to know your hour, and what is due from you to it, and what it is giving to you; and to take what that hour offers you, and then to do what the hour demands. Being appropriate, in other words. Like, do you brush your teeth out a toilet bowl?
Consider the following:
I contend that you can tell a lot about the true greatness of a civilization by how noble, or insipid, they are in their decadence – right before the fall into senility. I contend, further, that a mistake people make, out of nostalgia, is to hearken back to that specific point; not realizing in their sincere, naive, and dangerous delusion that what they yearn for, out of nostalgia, was that civilization’s extreme illness. I contend, further, that one who is truly perceptive can discern the proper measure of a civilization’s true inner greatness by looking at its earlier, less grand, and primitive stages. The least sexy and glamorous parts of its history. I fear, however, that many people lack the imagination, insight, or discernment to do so, frankly.
Dead civilizations are best left moldering in their graves. Attempts to resurrect them simply creates revenants.
What in the world am I babbling ’bout here, you ask? Well consider the following.
I believe this – and you are free to listen or reject – that there is an inherent tragedy in all types of neo-Paganism, and it lies in a correct intuition of these points. From the most banal teen witch pop-Wicca, to more intellectually rigorous thoughts of men like John Mitchel, Julius Evola, Eldred Thorson (S. Flowers) or Alain Benoist (who in spite of having been a knowing political agent and provocateur at various points in his life, is an excellent and cogent writer), a tragic twist is seen. It is a romantic, terribly romantic, tragic twist.
The tragic twist lies in the fact that all of these men are essentially necromancers of a sort; intelligent, romantic, and in a certain sense pious necromancers. But necromancers yet still, and their trade is in shades and ghosts.
It’s been said that the true Sufi is “Ibn Waqtuhu” – the “Son of his moment“.
This is to say, the one who knows what is to be done, and not to be done. What is to be saved, and what is not to be saved, and who acts to each moment with the appropriate “adab“. That is the appropriate etiquette, withholding what should be withheld, giving what should be given, and not resisting the inevitable.
For the Muslim Sufi, this is done while conforming to it, to the moment’s needs, in accordance to the Sharia (the broader road of the law) with his inner state upon the Tariqa (the narrower path of inner attainment) to reach the Haqiqa (that which is essentially the Reality and entelechy) of that moment.
So, “in other freaking words”, you give a moment what’s due to it. To do otherwise is to probably risk being, or becoming, a numb-skull. Yet you give the moment it’s true due, on sound principles. You don’t go “blowing with the wind” – you maintain discernment and act.
Let’s not be numb-skulls here.
There is a problem of mistaking illusory glamour for substantive reality. If you want to consider a metaphysical perspective, imagine that the subtle world, the lowest Alam al-Amthal, is actually – in a sense – an illusionist’s tent. There is more to it, if we look at it here, for it has a vital intermediary role in matters, but at its lower levels consider the possibility that it does have properties much like a fun-house tent.
Imagine it filled with mirrors with varying degrees of distortion. What is it reflecting back, in various ways?
What’s being reflected may seem profound for a while, until you realize you are locked inside, and utterly lost in a wilderness of mirrors. Some do not mind being in Doctor Parnassus’s mirror for the rest of their lives. I view this as a tragic waste of human potential.
That I disagree with certain ultimate social-political aspirations held dear by many (many, not all) of the fellow-travelers of the men I mentioned is besides the point (e.g. the whole old neo-Rome, European neo-Imperium idea. Typically held while being clueless to the fact that such a beast, itself, is just a stepping stone to further consolidation by world federalists and globalists, etc., the whole matter being rather boring and transparent to dwell on..)
What is the point here, is that you cannot go back to the past and rebuild what has died. There are profound metaphysical reasons for this. But we can skip through all that and just consider what Jim Morrison – in a bit of lucidity – once shouted:
“Nobody gets out of here alive!”