Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Volkism is a Fucking Insult to Mutts

Volkism is a fucking insult to mutts, let the hybrids rise, and vine and twine. We are all mutts, and purebreds are inbreds, dumb dogs diseased for Beverly Hills cracker-barbies. Let the full rich ancestries sing their coiled DNA songs from wide the earth within. Let silenced masses deep in the bone drone their bone-hum masterpieces flattened by bulldozer nationalisms. Let all the folk of my kith and kin galdur pow-wows with deep drums in the seidr of my soul. Let gagged tribes break free from the hushed moments great-grandmother got a seven-year itch when some husky stranger from abroad sauntered into town, and left divine currents rushing through the genes. Let the earth's joined hands spin race in the mill and grind out gold, golden age, peace and prosperity, salt of the earth. My Yiddish, Slavic, Irish forebears take their place in the blot next to my Rhineland and Langobard ancestors. The Gods know my worship is complex, and always loved knotted artwork runing in the world's floral and thorned blends. Ancestors drafted into the armies of Christ plundering Powhatan and Algonquin shores, some kidnapped and indentured, found fellows often in Africans thralled across the shores by masters no one identified with, and new musics arose. And traitor-nobles Roman-fancying tried to divide us, setting up boundaries, tried to say who could love whom could love whom, and we defied them, and sometimes obeyed them, and created a real shithouse mess in which new seeds of fantastic flowers could sprout. Volkism is a fucking insult to mutts. The mutt shall inherit the earth, we've no problems with polyphonic, multiphasic chromosomal harmonics : it makes the galdur more mystic, more holy. The mud is always holy and there roots twine and rhizome. The Gods are glad with mutts and know the folk souls grow through mixing, for ingwaz winds its winding way upwards through the evolutionary symphony phase after new and glorious phase, and the future is unwritten, though hidden and hinted in today's blossomings fountaining out from yesterday's unvoidable foundations. So find yourself in this rich, thorny thicket of reality called history, tending on towards who knows what, and not in shadows where you dream puerile thoughts of adolescent purity. The folk are rich! The folk are woven day by day, craft by craft, arm in arm, across chasms you can't fathom. Njord loves ports where sailors gather.

2 Comments:

Blogger Ceallaigh said...

I have long believed that it is the Western quest for cultural identity, for that which was lost, that motivates so much of Volkism. In fact, I think it permeates American Paganism as well, far more than it should, so that what ought to be the trance-sit on the hilltop becomes the bookish adherence to whatever snippets of spiritual history are found in lore. What's so sad about this is that the lore-quest often supplants the establishment of healthful community infrastructure, so that it becomes more important to mimic how our ancestors worshiped than it does to provide for our homeless. I hope that changes as we grow. We need less identity and more community, methinks. Anyway, all hail the mutts!

7:14 AM  
Blogger SiegfriedGoodfellow said...

Well, both Odr and Freista are needed, so the imagination may become disciplined. When ancestors are not present, their words must be studied between the lines of lore so the elders may grow within us. But it is also community that disciplines the imagination, so in the struggle with others our visions take their shapes. Yes, too often we neglect the trance-sit on the hilltop, forgetting the Gods speak through ecstasy.

7:52 AM  

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