666x666

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Iconoclasts, onward! Already the foreboding sky grows dark and silent! - Renzo Novatore

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Welcome

I'm 666x666. Hillbilly cyberpunk from the myth-infested swamps of a land that is a sickening blend of Siberia and Mississippi. I'm here in WestMass to watch liberals engage in ideological NASCAR - and I'm praying to Satan for burnouts and wrecks, because it's good for my business as an intellectual mortician.

I travel constantly, I avoid work like the plague, and I write for the egoist cause. Say "society" and I cringe in much the same way I'd cringe at the word "hemorrhoids". I eat copious volumes of pizza when I can, drink espresso, love with (as Mark Leyner said) "barbaric ferocity and extreme lucidity", and consider myself a high existential aristocrat. I believe every human who gives a shit about their own freedom during this hilariously tragic age ought to have a motorcycle, a revolver, and a moonshine still - and should stay on the run and take what they can get. I've got a reputation I intend to keep, love it or hate it. The puritan ethic that is present in contemporary New England culture, particularly among the middle class - the one that would have it that we should minimize ourselves to nothing and pour ourselves out for the abstract ideal of "the people" or "the future" - is my target. When the Romans come to crucify me, whether it is with wood and nails, or with Foucault and irritated glances, I'll do as Daddy Lucifer did, and draw my sword (or my AK) and disappear into the hot night.

Catch me cracking 9/11 jokes at a Denny's in El Paso, getting fist-fucked on the 2 train in the Bronx, or cackling over cigars with migrant workers in rural Nevada.

Send me lecherous tales, incoherent rambles, hate mail, and invitations to baptisms, divorce parties, insurrections, and religious conversions at 666x666@protonmail.com and remember: Make America Mexico Again!

Am I an anarchist?

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Listen,” I might say, sucking on a chunk of black tobacco under the Central Nevada sun in July, “I’m not an anarchist anymore.” And I’d mean it, offering for a eulogy thirty rounds from my custom AK-47 and a dark jet of syrupy chaw spit. Like a horndog jockey, I’d rubberband my legs around 700 cubic centimeters of pure highway power, in the form of a Harley Davidson, and I’d cackle so hard you’d think I’d gone completely postal, and I’d fly, 95mph, straight to Mexico, to find a little mezcal and a whore. In a week, you’d receive a postcard; “Politics sucks, and we all knew it from the start” and you’d know that just as you were reading it, I’d be in Guadalajara, tearing into a fat chimichanga with my hand up the skirt of my new bride-to-be, laughing it up in the Mexican heat.

Basically nothing stops me from actually carrying this out. As a matter of fact, I’ve found myself in quite a few comparable situations, what with high-flying highways, far-off lands and carnally-charged fury. And mezcal. Now, though I was once lodged quite deeply in the deeper catacombs of “radical” collectivist ideology, I now merely observe, grandpa-esque, slumped-over with sunglasses on and smiling like a golden retriever, taking deep draws of whiskey and wondering just what the hell these kids are doing. I might bark madly from time to time, only to be jabbed in the ribs with a cell phone, shown esoteric memes, and screeched at by politically-possessed collegiate banshees. Where once this experience was somewhat novel and entertaining, I am beginning to feel that my seat at the party is sliding gently toward the door.

It is proven yet again that the free individual will find solitude to be the bedrock of freedom. At day’s end, there I sit by my lonesome, my Hawaiian shirt as unbuttoned as my mind, among the ticks of New England with the breeze on my chest. I can laugh or I can remain composed. I can smoke or I can eat a carrot. I can do yoga in the lobby of a bank. I can steal a woman’s heart, rob that same bank I did yoga in earlier, and go to Greece. (Actually, now we’re talking…) But I digress. Some have said, regarding Christianity, that they “like Jesus but can’t stand his fan-club.” I tend to agree – and I tend to think that the logic of this statement is quite true of collectivities in general. Ideas are animated and exemplified by powerful, unique, creative individuals, and their efforts propel larger groups of people to employ similar ideas and endeavor toward similar acts. But in time, these groups degenerate because their size makes their adherents redundant, and that their content is already charted out by their originating and most powerful members, those following the group are not compelled to create anything except within a narrow and predetermined set of strictures. This is what makes Jesus’s – and Kropotkin’s – fan-club so thoroughly uninspiring and even, frequently, outright contrary to their originating principles and aims.

This process of decay produces dogma. I could sit here and analyze why, and what this means, but frankly, I don’t give a shit. I think it’s bound to happen. Dogma wells up like a massive pustule on the side of the lily-white face of Reason, and it’s ridden by sycophants like a rocket-sled on rails, a Trojan horse endlessly repeating its entry into the mausoleum containing yesterday’s petrified inspirations. Like little barking reptiles, the mass of adherents to any cause – the cause of Jesus, or the free market, or anarchy, or white nationalism, or sensible liberalism, or whatever – crawl like vermin across vast ideological edifices, veritable complexes of kinky, bald-headed power where, sick as it is, all participating are getting off on it with eyes closed, absolutely unironically in the case of the anarchists. It’s hilarious and tragic, and I think no amount of theorizing would change it. Theorize about it, and suddenly, a new edifice is erected, and if enough people follow your words long enough, eventually they’ll succeed in carrying your ideas to their antitheses. Call yourself the Prince of Peace, and tens of millions of children will be viciously slaughtered in your name. Think and speak earnestly for the workers, and in time, strictly the petit-bourgeois will be reading your works. All of this without a hint of irony.

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This being what it is – and maybe it isn’t – a politics of “the masses” is exposed. To think this way, one must view the individuals from which the masses are composed as being, more or less, automata. Fleshy little machines, with a cute self-assuredness of how in control they are, wound up by power to spin like tops at the market and in the forum, endlessly pushed and pulled by the forces of a blind and cruel History. Humanism as we’ve known it withers in these barren, alpine regions of cosmic pessimism. You might find me here, among the lichens and stone, gazing out across the hellscape in the valley below, watching the Hobbesian terror sweep through the land. Perhaps hitchhiking on a mountain road there, having heard that a less terribly Leviathanic valley exists “somewhere over yonder,” be it Vanuatu, or Tierra Del Fuego, or Wyoming. You’d probably say “What’s an egoist doing over here, in the harsh land of the vulgar Marxist and the historical determinist?” To which I’d reply, grinning, “being honest.”

Neighbors though the vulgar Marxists and historical materialists may be to me, their frowning idiosyncrasies and yellowing wrinkles are hilarious to me. For though the human being is but a bundle of frayed and idiotic neurons, this foolish little meat-bag – the human being – does have reason to be optimistic about her prospects, contrary to what the Marxists might tell her. For all of my aristocratic disdain for the masses and their projects, and the profound pessimism which undergirds this disdain, I possess an ecstatic and empirically-based optimism regarding the unique, free Ego. History adequately, even overwhelmingly displaying the poverty in “the revolt of the masses”, I find that it should be abandoned entirely, and scaled down to the most proven format – the individual self. I can say, cynically – but accurately – that if I expend my energies outward into the collective, and into the future, that I’ll have poured my unique self into a rathole, that my efforts will be co-opted by buffoons, drained of their life, and I’ll awaken to a world in which nothing but necrotized, waxen statues of myself are traded as tokens in a decadent psycho-philosophical sideshow. A Desperate Housewives of anarchist theory, or public policy, or whatever, would emerge. I can say just as accurately, or even slightly more, that if I get on my biycle and ride aimlessly in the sun, that I will enjoy myself. Begin here, and we find the only point at which humans cease to be automata, where humans cease to operate as void-machines in a narrow set of strictures. Enter enjoyment of the self, and those strictures widen into the golden plain of hedonism and insurrection.

Junger, in his novel Eumeswil, says;

“my fundamental structure, […] is anarchic.

“That sounds complicated, but it is simple, for everyone is anarchic; this is precisely what is normal about us. Of course, the anarch is hemmed in from the first day by father and mother, by state and society. Those are prunings, tappings of the primordial strength, and nobody escapes them. One has to resign oneself. But the anarchic remains, at the very bottom, as a mystery, usually unknown even to its bearer. It can erupt from him as lava, can destroy him, liberate him. Distinctions must be made here: love is anarchic, marriage is not. The warrior is anarchic, the soldier is not. Manslaughter is anarchic, murder is not. Christ is anarchic, Saint Paul is not. Since, of course, the anarchic is normal, it is also present in Saint Paul, and sometimes it erupts mightily from him. Those are not antitheses but degrees. The history of the world is moved by anarchy. In sum: the free human being is anarchic, the anarchist is not.”''

The Child is as Christ, what with flipping tables and trudging barefoot through the mud of the sensory..

He craves his object, whatever it is, like a bird and flaps after it with lust and vigor! The Elder is much the same, the wizened goofball, the bloviator, the sinful cackler, he is never “lucid,” that is, never operating on the tenets of legibility, except in a primitive and carnal sense. He farts, he howls, he turns a hot eye to the women, he lays about in the sun in a bathrobe with cocaine or Corona, he is the ludicrous ghoul who is ever-slouching toward Nirvana!

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And so it is that elders are left to rot in institutions, treated as imbeciles, by the very same “upright and rational adults” who put cigarettes out on impudent children who seek new hilarities, who institute martial law on teens who seek cigarettes and voluptuous rendezvouses in the June heat. I say, let me transform myself at once into a geriatric adolescent – but let me bask additionally in the strength and certainty of “adulthood”. For the little one is malleable and weak, and the geezer withered and spent. But when their essences, their pureness of egoistic and anarchic pursuits of pleasure are backed by the clarity of the gun and the articulate words of the master poet, the anarch is born and held in contempt, the anarch emerges and she is lambasted as an enemy of society and sought like an escaped convict. She becomes a terrorist by example alone and is shunned! And when she brandishes fire, in smoke or in bullets or in words, she is shot down, incarcerated, exiled by the state.

It's here you'll find us before the pink of dawn and the sludge of instant coffee, in our hovels hidden in gulches deep in the reaches of planet earth where "extradition" is a punchline and the kids still play ball outside on the piles of dead gargoyles. The sort of scene that would make most lily-livered contemporary anarchists grimace.

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Bunkers

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Who will inherit the wasteland but the builders of bunkers and the masters of survival? Pictured here is an Albanian bunker. Enver Hoxha, the communist dictator of Albania, set his sights on the long-term survival of his reign over Albania by constructing thousands of small bunkers for everyday Albanians to take cover in in the event of military aggression from the capitalist West. While his regime collapsed due to internal political pressure and the fall of the Berlin wall - not carpet-bombing - one cannot help but admire his efforts, for their bleak realism and tenacity in the face of overwhelming force. Hoxha and his supporters knew one historical lesson proved itself again and again: force is the blood of history, and those who fail to adequately defend themselves from the most radical expressions of force in existence will be annihilated and wrested into absolute irrelevance.

When one has aims and goals for themselves or their world, and fails to build bunkers in a nuclear age, we are forced to wonder: Are the politics of these trusting people actually oriented toward achieving their aims? Are their philosophies constructed and employed for the long-haul because their adherents consider them just? Or does their trust make them merely extensions of the status quo they claim to oppose? In so saying, we must look at liberals and their eagerness to let the state forcibly disarm them. We must look also at conservatives and white nationalists whose gun ownership is merely a spectacle composed of no meaningful opposition to the state for their lack of bunkers. In either case, we find hierarchy's harlots and puppets, unwitting adherents to the iron law of American firepower for the fact that they could not resist it if they tried.

To restate the case simply:

- Those with supreme firepower call the shots in history, period. Any examples to the contrary were political larks merely allowed by those with the Big Guns.

- The forceful capacity of the American military is the most supreme ever to exist in human history, ergo, the US calls the historical shots until its military collapses or splinters off.

- If one is to meaningfully oppose the US government and its military in any way, one is compelled to contend with the fact that it has weapons from nightsticks to M16's to Abrams tanks to nukes, and to ensure their opposition's survival through the use of any of these weapons.

- The most sure-fire way to survive them that is low in cost is - you guessed it - bunkers.


And so the time has come for anarchists to construct bunkers nationwide, wherever they can.

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To take the logic of bunkers and their importance one step further, Marvin Heemeyer's "killdozer" was a brilliant expression of the realpolitik of iron-clad survival and force. Absolutely bulletproof, his machine was capable of destroying nearly any conventional building, his gas tank was large enough to ensure many hours of operation, and there was simply no way law enforcement could have stopped him. After many years of legal battles with his town of residence, Granby, CO, he had reached his limit with corrupt government and zoning restrictions. He finally went on a last bender with this beast of a machine, devastating the entire town before killing himself inside of his beautiful machine.

Most people's ideas are of very little consequence except in a very large time frame, and even then, that consequence is a function of economic or cultural power. This is probably why most "radicals" eventually "sell out" - only from positions of wealth, or positions within academia or the non-profit-industrial complex are their voices heard. Yet those very positions bring with them material advantages that corrode their connections to the disadvantaged people they advocate for. This ugly cycle could be bypassed brilliantly by taking a cue from Marvin Heemeyer and his killdozer. How consequential would your ideas be if you had the capacity to destroy any building at will, impossible to be stopped by law enforcement or even much of the National Guard?

LONG LIVE THE KILLDOZER!

Egoism

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Jacques Mesrine, dead after a shoot-out with the police in Paris, was both France and Canada's number one most wanted man in the 1970's. A bank robber, Mesrine became a folk hero for the fact that his targets consisted primarily of banks and the supremely wealthy. To the French and Quebecois working class, he represented one of the most compelling models for resisting the banal life of a worker - seizure of one's life over and against the established order, by force and subversion.

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