HERE IS A WELL-DONE film created by Western Electric in 1948 which gives a brief history of the vacuum tube from AT&T’s perspective. The short part near the end about the War to Save the Soviet, during which all this technology was used to blast Western Civilization to bits and enslave its people, was a bit depressing — but the revolutionary genius of DeForest and the men who stood on his shoulders is quite inspiring, as are the pictures of America back before the Third World invasion. This is the world I was born into.
I wonder if, had our civilization not been derailed by the fall of the Classical world and the subsequent Dark Ages, we would have had electronic amplifiers and sophisticated radio communications in 948 instead of 1948. After all, we knew the Earth was a sphere, and its diameter, in 500 BC, and we had steam engines in 50 AD — though this knowledge was subsequently lost when the crazies took over.
HIS FOOTPATH TO THE HEIGHTS is almost invisible now, overgrown with timothy grass and mountain laurel, tenanted by bees heavy with nectar and pollen instead of by a man heavy with the future.
Morning after morning, for almost two decades, William Luther Pierce would take this path and ascend to the highest point on what he simply called “The Land.” At the summit, he would look out, all the way to the horizon, upon a creamy, ever-shifting ocean of fog from which the higher mountain peaks, especially his, jutted upward abruptly like widely-separated cliff-islands in some Hyperborea of dreams.
IT WAS 45 YEARS AGO this Summer. Expo 67, the World’s Fair. I remember it very well — though I was just 11 at the time. My family — my Mom and Dad, my brother, and our little part-beagle-part-terrier Cookie — drove up from Virginia in our blue ’64 Belvedere.
We had an attachment to Canada, because in earlier years we had travelled across thousands of miles of her beautiful plains and mountains almost every Summer, driving from Alaska to Minnesota and back again. Quebec was new to us, though.
I had been prepared to be disliked, since some folks had said the Francophones don’t like Anglophones. But I experienced nothing like that. The Quebecers seemed to like me, and I liked them back. No one seemed to mind speaking English to us. Except for the euphonious sound of French, which still delights me, they seemed just like us.
FROM A DISTANCE, it was a scene of almost inexpressible beauty. Ellen and Roger were driving through the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains near the Skyline Drive. The rolling rural Virginia landscape glowed with the warm pollen haze of early spring. A few thousand feet ahead on the narrow two-lane road lay a sleepy village.
“Look at the Civil War memorial and those proud old houses… and at that lovely church steeple,” said Ellen. “I’ll bet this town looks almost the same now as it did in 1905.”
“I think you’re right,” replied her husband Roger. “Not a Wal-Mart in sight, though they did add telephone poles… I like it out here in the country.” Roger and Ellen worked in northern Virginia, near Washington, where endless asphaltscapes have covered practically every green thing, where corporate commercialism and Leviathan government agencies blend jarringly with a chaotic Third World bioculture, where hopelessly outgunned policemen deal with gangs that outnumber them 100 to 1, and where valiant teachers find that a public school system in which 72 separate languages are spoken makes a mockery of the word education.
THERE IS CURRENTLY an obsessed Internet gossip, famous not only for a fairly literate pro-White science fiction book he wrote a decade ago (which I reviewed positively) but also for the sheer number of his false IDs and conversations with himself in online forums and comment areas, who has been huffing and puffing everywhere he can find a mention of my name and recent work, warning everyone about the extreme danger of “allowing Kevin Strom back into the movement.”
Age, aspartame, alcohol, or acute loneliness may be to blame for his progression from the apparent naïveté of claiming that plea deals in the corrupt federal court system have any resemblance to reality, to bringing up false accusations of which I have been acquitted in open court, to out-and-out making things up. And I am reluctant to gratify the homunculus’s hunger to be noticed or to dignify his ever-shifting claims with a response. But I write because 1) it’s important to set the record straight, and 2) new evidence has come to light.
AN EMOTIONALLY DEVASTATED Cyndi Steele vowed to fight on with an appeal to a higher court after her husband, free speech attorney Edgar J. Steele, was convicted earlier today of plotting to kill her. Mrs. Steele spoke of her pride in and love for her husband, stating that she and her legal team have absolute proof that the FBI tapes used to convict him are faked, but that her evidence was not allowed in court in what many are viewing as a rigged trial.
Promising to fight and speak out “until my last breath,” Mrs. Steele called for an end to political prosecutions, saying that no one in America is safe now.
IN A TRAGIC MISCARRIAGE of justice, a federal jury — which was denied the right to hear two experts’ testimony that the alleged FBI recordings of Edgar J. Steele were faked, with over 300 suspicious edits inserted — has convicted the courageous free speech attorney and writer on all four counts related to an alleged murder-for-hire of his wife, Cyndi Steele, and mother-in-law.
None of the alleged victims believe the FBI allegations, instead pointing to the admitted Idaho Pipe Bomber, Larry Fairfax — and his government handlers — as the real source of the plot. Fairfax, who allowed a lethal bomb to remain on Cyndi Steele’s car for weeks without telling her, was given a sweetheart deal by prosecutors and no serious charges were brought against him.