Homo Chemicus
The drizzle wasn’t accompanied by its usual coconspirator, the wind. From the store fronts, like a translucent wall, it dazzled down as my girlfriend and I, on holiday, walked out on the street.
Something howled. It could have been human. But because for so long it had been combined with the most hideous of chemicals, methamphetamine, no language of human creation could be used to converse with it.
There were, we discovered quickly, four of them. Multiple generations too. Late teenagers, middle ages; two men, two women.
My girlfriend’s nails daggered into my arm. My nostrils curled. Already? I had been here less the ten minutes, to the town I had finished University over ten years previous, and felt perilously close to getting into a fight. The excitement of holiday, of responsibility suspended, had so quickly vanished; we, my girlfriend and I, had reverted to instinct.
We were to see countless others so intertwined with chemicals as to question their humanity; obese men with rainbow-streaked fanny packs and boom-boxes whining some child’s tune; women barely forty with hair failing out all over their sleeping bags; pick-pockets with ski-visors so ludicrously large to make it bizarrely obvious as to their intentions.
By the fifth day I was still not used to them. I tried to express compassion, some kind of empathy. They must have had terrible lives, I told myself. They were insane and should be in an asylum. But then I thought of my hometown, the pristine beauty of it, and my new home city and how utterly safe it was, and I knew there were other ways; that society and the inner city needn’t be like this.
I was told by friends I had come to see that the council, in all its wisdom, had moved the vagrants into the city so ‘they were closer to help’. The naivety was astonishing. Now they were closer to all the drugs and they were all in one place. Not only had these ingenious public servants failed to help these Homo Chemicus, but they had made the vibrant, eclectic, and family-friendly city-centre dangerous and hideous. I was also told the small park where our hotel was barely a minute’s walk from, sustained on average a call out from police every hour of every day of every year.
How Wellington’s changed.
The Shattering of our National Identity
On the second day we went to New Zealand’s national museum, Te Papa. I had scoured the online website with intentions different to those of my politically ignorant girlfriend, who, not being from this land, is not stricken with the same sorrow of national pain self-inflicted. Pointing at pictures she did, eyes wide with a beautiful smile; whereas I keenly sought after those installations we might avoid.
We both achieved victory: She was kept in constant wonder, while I was never irritated – who wants a cynic on holiday?
New Zealand was a land of birds. The range was astounding. Several heights of a human, the Moa would graze the tops of our vicious native bush. The Moa’s main predator, the human-sized Haast’s Eagle, would snatch Māori babies left alone to play. The Māori – who arrived in the 13th Century – hunted most of our native birds extinct. In the 19th Century, they bought muskets and boats off the British and invaded the remote Chatham Islands where they murdered and enslaved the Moriori people. I always wondered what would have happened if history was different; if the Māori, instead of fighting immature territorial disputes within themselves, united, fended off the British, and invaded Australia.
The Aborigines might have had different rulers.
As many have admitted over the years, from British who fought beside them in the World Wars, to their unfortunate opponents in rugby, our national sport, the Māori’s natural fighting ability cannot be bested. Some may have had more advanced weaponry. Some may have had more intelligent tactics. But none were so fierce.
Such was described in the quite incredible Gallipoli display. Statues of men, both of British and Māori blood – but New Zealanders, New Zealanders foremost, had been constructed by Weta Workshop, the famous costume, model, and animation studio originating from Wellington. Of course they exposed the horror of war; but it was here, in the suicide mission of the Dardanelles, where Winston Churchill made his tragic mistake, the bravery of the men of my homeland was arguably first shown to the world. Mowed down by Turkish artillery and machine gun fire on the banks of the beach, the men perished in their thousands.
They kept running forwards.
Yet it was seeing this inspiration, this synthesis of British civilisational genius and Māori good-natured fearlessness in the New Zealand Man – the thing I had only in my twenties realised was so fragile – that made my ridicule of modern New Zealand even more acute. For most of my life, whether 100% white, 100% brown, or anywhere in between; we were all New Zealanders. The Haka was all of ours, as was the brilliance of Common Law, even Christianity. Not anymore. Intersectional theory, inherited from those intellectual losers overseas, had cracked our identities in half, pitted New Zealander against New Zealander, whites here, browns over there.
All in the name of progress.
I was to write ‘idiots’ but I realise now that is their intention, even their genius. “Divided and they shall fall”, the conspirators of the Liberal Global Order type in their Microsoft Rooms chat groups. My blood is majority Scottish and English speckled with Māori, and I have connections to both English and Māori royalty – a tale that I will someday tell. But it is only recently I have become aware of this distinction. I had thought it merely New Zealand blood. Constantly over the past few years they have attempted to make me choose: “Are you with the baddies, the whiteys? Or are you with the goodies, the brownies? It’s up to you.”
It is something we must refuse.
The Holy Capital
My childhood was one of ridicule of all those who ‘believed’; it wasn’t cool then, and it definitely isn’t cool now.
It is much cooler to believe in something else.
When I wasn’t pulling my girlfriend across the street evading Homo Chemicus, I had time to peruse all the devoted disciples of the Church of Woke. Wherever I went was some cognitive slave to this heretical religion: The women who walk, talk, and act, but just can’t quite be, men; the greenstone wearing ‘allies of the current thing’; the swaying gay and the stomping lesbian; and, yes, you guessed it, the ‘was that a man, or a woman?’
There were heaps of those.
I admit it might have been my own bias, my political position, the way I hold myself, confident, shoulders back, a natural, combative frown, but I felt acutely aware of the inner scoff from these people. I am of a certain sex, ethnicity, and sexuality - the most normal thing in our society - and thus reserved for the lowest status, whatever the merits of my abilities or moral qualities. They would, in their gaslighting, call me ‘insecure’. There was a time when I thought this might be the case. That time passed. I have trained to be a clinical psychologist. I should be skilled in noticing what facial expression is linked to what emotion.
Disgust is not difficult to see.
To be fair, many were friendly; many did not have that suspicion that so readily traces someone’s face as lines just under the eye. But the ratio, compared to my home town, was magnitudes higher. I was their enemy; and if I were honest, they were my enemy too - they could see it on my face.
But, we are together - as it is sometimes so hard to see, as with Homo Chemicus - all still people. I have passed through religiosity to atheism and back, but I have always believed, however we were created, by whatever God or method, in that genesis, we are born of the same spiritual and moral worth. Yet our traits and our abilities are not the same, neither are the actions we take; and so the quality of our lives and quality of our characters will therefore be different. From the left and from the right will come criticisms. That is okay.
How to Dress Like You Have Negative IQ
Most religions have a clear, identifiable dress. And the ecclesiarchy of the Church of Woke and their followers is definitely distinct. The problem is they have no beautiful ideal to aim toward, so their dress lacks descriptors like ‘elegant’, ‘tasteful’, or ‘sleek’. In fact, their religion, so inspired the Liberal Global Order, is one of Christian negation - so trends within their style are supposed to be ugly. Most of their devotees, I assume, do not know this; and, like all trendy conformists, they actually think it looks good.
Anyone without a negative IQ would have a different opinion, however.1
The most obvious indicator, of course, is the rainbow, which includes everything from dyed-hair, to those fanny packs I was talking about, to dumb t-shirts - but I have a feeling the ‘cooler people’ in this crowd are long past that.
Essential to the Church of Woke is feminism. Essential to feminism is the ‘objectification of women’. Essential to women are curves. Essential to their dress then, for women, is the eradication of these curves. The two most common ways I saw this, beside from taking the ‘natural-route’ and getting fat, was the overall/dress and the man-jacket or shirt with baggy pants. Both are designed to make one look more ‘boxy’, more like a rectangle than an hourglass, and thus, more ugly.
I found though, somewhat curiously, that the prettier women did this more often than the uglier women, who, bizarrely, would more routinely expose their whale cleavages. My guess it has something to do with equalitarianism - though, as you might have guessed, it wasn’t really working.
The men seemed to have a greater range of what they wore. The lolly-scramble, mix and match from a second-hand store, was very common - and common in women too. It is the ‘Melbourne, Australia style’, where the objective is to find the most unfitting and unmatching of attires … and fit and match them. The millennial versions dressed the best - dour and boring. At least they were clean, for the most part (they had proper jobs). And I saw plenty who dressed like they wanted MS-13 without the human trafficking (the top-button was only button done up.)
But the best of the lot were the Pounamu-wearing Male Feminists. The left have an incredible talent at generating beta-male archetypes, but New Zealand has created its own specific type. In our country, wearing the Pounamu (greenstone) around one’s neck was a sign of respect for the first mortal man (tiki) in Maori mythology. In my eyes, they were aesthetically pleasing cultural adornments (I still think they are) that were neither under worn nor over worn.
How that has changed.
Usually led by their female partners as if they were well-trained little dogs, they stroll around with their Pounamu greenstone about their necks to signify they are allies of the current thing. “Against ‘male violence’? That’s me!” They might say. “Free Palestine? Oh, indeed. Colonialism? My father and I are guilty of that for sure.”
Some probably do believe such things, and an even smaller amount might even have decent arguments to go along with them. But the real reason they wear that stone is the same reason they ‘believe’ these ideas: They want sexual intimacy with the feminists.
Yes, women; it is that crude.
The even funnier thing is that many of them are so ‘European’ they might as well be albinos; the cultural appropriation here - the thing they are supposed to stand so fervently against - has run riot.
They did provide me much laughter on my trip so I guess I should thank them.
The Scouring of the Shire
One - quite reasonably - might upon reading this political crusade-come-travel log, conclude that I had a fairly miserable time travelling up north to the ‘windy city’. That is not the case. There was plenty I have not included I enjoyed, like the beautiful Neo-classical architecture of the financial and shopping district, or remarking at our bizarre yet wholly New Zealand parliamentary building, the Beehive, or eating the wonderful food and appreciating the brilliant taste of electronic music many restaurants, cafes, and stores offered. To me, Wellington retained its reputation of being eclectic and vibrant, oozing with creativity; the only problem was, it’s now dirty and dangerous, and many of the locals have evolved from being merely weird and quaint, to leftist racialist man-haters.
If you are from the US, the UK, Canada, or even Australia, you may look upon Wellington as minor example of the rot that is Western culture; cities like Vancouver, London, Los Angeles are far worse. You would not be wrong. The problem is New Zealand is the shire of the world. That is why people move here. That is why people love it here. Evil - to us New Zealanders - is that arcane abstraction other countries, the Gondorian British and Americans, have to deal with. Not us merry little hobbits who like to drink beer and watch rugby games and smash a mean-as pepper-steak pie.
And so with my trip to Wellington, I conclude that the Scouring of the Shire has begun.
With his magic developed over eons in Orthanc, Saruman descended on our land while people fought catastrophic wars overseas in places our little imaginations can barely comprehend. He has turned brother against brother, sister against sister, and installed himself as savour of the future, progressive hero to the Church of Woke. And we believed him.
But not all is lost.
In my return to the Capital of the Shire, now scoured, the intention was to see my friends (best described as brothers). Despite our erratic adolescence, all had grown to be symbols of powerful, humble, and nurturing masculinity. Travel they did, like me, around the globe, as Frodo and Bilbo once did, seeing much that is grand and horrible with the world, and concluding, like I did, New Zealand still has it better.
And all of them work for the Government. (WTF?)
Down where I live in the idyllic south, around the beautiful lakes and sky-tearing mountains, around truly happy people who always smile and wave as you pass them by, one begins to think those fools populating the power centres must all be deranged; that all of them are slaves to their own self-importance - the worst kind.
Confirmed by the stories my friends shared, there are likely many who fit that description. Even so, I know it for a fact, there are men who value above all else family, friendship, and the spirit - the true hobbits of Tolkien’s world - who are fighting little by little the mythological trench-warfare against Saruman the Deceiver.
Our National spirit seems dead, yet here they are in its remnants, rebuilding. Is it too late? Are we going to dislocate further like so much else of the world?
Let me know in the comments.
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Chur, and have a good day and night,
The Delinquent Academic
Some day I will complete an exhaustive list, including the opposite style trend of young chads: “Bro, have you like listened to the Tate brothers bro? Like, they go hard I reckon g.” (To be fair, I would have been one of them if I was ten years younger.)
And the greatest sin, is that the very same people who are at the cause of the problem, the council of Karens, are also NIMBYs who never take accountability for their actions, so as soon as they are pressed up against the consequences of their actions for long enough, they will simply uproot, move and repeat the process elsewhere.
Your post nearly brought tears to my eyes. I lived in Wellington for five months in college and I regularly walked home alone every night without fear. I never thought things would go wrong so fast.