Frau Ley

 

Maybe the most beautiful of NSDAP women, Inge Ley. Blonde, talented and gorgeous, Inge was born in 1916 in Poland and went on to become a ballerina and singer, a mezzo soprano. The talented and beautiful young woman met Robert Ley, head of the NAZI Labour Front (DAF) in 1935 at a concert in Berlin where she was performing.

Ley, a World War One veteran pilot and violent drunk, seduced Inge with flowers, power and NSDAP funded travel, not least to the Baltics. After a year of Ley's power-Nazi courting, Inge fell prey to her drunken, violent, overweight beast.

Was she seduced by power? Wouldn't be the first time and if so she paid a heavy price. Inge got herself addicted to morphine and threw herself out of a window in 1942. Suicide attempt failed, Inge tried again and succeeded, she shot herself on December 29 1942.

Make of this what you will,

LSP

Babel

 

Do you remember Nimrod's operation on the plains of Shinar (Iraq), where his people in their conceited pride disobeyed God and built a tower to heaven, exalting themselves as Gods? Well, if you don't, it's in Genesis 11: 1-9. Such impious pride and God didn't stand for it, he confounded their language and divided them. Operation Tower over, ENDEX.

And so to today. Babel, the apotheosis, self-divinization of persynkind continues apace, in fact it gathers steam. "Look at us," we announce to the Divine Power we don't believe in, "We are as gods, Masters of the Universe."

Yes indeed, why rely or obey some remote deity, a patriarchal oppressor to boot, when you can do it all DIY? Why believe in God, runs the logic when you can map the human genome and construct a dishwasher with built-in obsolesence?

Why not indeed, but with apologies to Leni Reisenthal, we find ourselves confounded at the very moment we should be celebrating the Triumph of Godless Human Will. Per Babel, our language is confounded and becomes unintelligible, dominant cultural orthodoxy speaks gibberish, the language of Hell.

"I am," says a 19 year old with unfortunately dyed hair, "They/Them." Leaving aside "I am Legion for we are many," this doesn't make any sense, not unlike "I've got my truth, you've got yours." Utter nonsense. On point, Raytheon's marketing department trumpeted its latest anti ship munition as "the greenest munition ever." Wow. And on, ad naus.

This is insane. It makes no sense. It's Babel, a babble of incoherent, competing, unintelligible voices vying for supremacy. A competing pantheon of Gods if you like, but a pantheon inhabited by satanic pygmies instead of the warring gods of Olympus. Heathendom, my friends, has devolved.

Against this arrives the Holy Spirit. The spirit of Truth, Love, and Freedom. The spirit of life Himself, of God. This Spirit cannot be defeated, it is reality itself, and woe betide those who stand against it not least while invoking it. 

They will be relentlessly destroyed. See Bud Lite.

Cheers,

LSP

Space Reich?

 

A Space Reich, Nazis on the Moon, Leni Reistenthal and Hanna Reitsch. "What about that, darling, do you not love?" I asked an old and liberal friend of the family who religiously follows the science of NPR. "You do realize, old girl, that they were women, courageous women, perhaps you know that with your background in film."

She paused, "Yes," but perhaps, I suggested, "you scorn these women because they're somehow... right wing?" Uh huh, exactly. And my friend would gladly throw real women off the bus and onto the tracks of trans inclusivity.

Readers, they have eyes, notoriously, but do not see. Leni became an underwater photographer and Hanna went on, I think, to command the Ghanaian airforce. Respect.

Ultima Thule,

LSP

Rehab - Another Triumph Of The Will

People often tell me, they say, "LSP, do the rehab." And I do, it goes like this. Look at your sturdy wooden cane and thank God it's not some flimsy piece of tariff-ridden aluminium rubbish that's made in China. Perhaps this cane is a badge of rank. 

Buoyed up by the positive thought, use the thing to navigate across the Compound's attractive front porch and into the waiting rig. Then drive to one of the Missions for Sunday Mass, reflecting on the weaponlike aspect of the stick at your side. Too bad it doesn't conceal a sword or a Derringer. Reverie over, use it to nav from the car park to the sacristy, where the lights are mysteriously off.

Non Illuminatio

Struck by the lack of illumination, observe your MC sitting in the dark and greet him with a sunny "Hello Dracula" while waving the stick about, Bram Stoker style. He was trying to sleep, the MC, not Mr. Stoker, because "a dog got me up at 4.00 a.m." Bless him.

Commiserate over the furry alarm clock issue, vest, pray and make your way to the back of the church for the "entrance procession," stick in hand. Use it to lean on, point it at people, practice drill movements with it, whatever, a useful prop. But Bronc Dracula has other ideas.

Bronc

"You're not using that for Mass," he says with steely cowboy resolve. You can't argue with that, so I hung the wretched thing up on a coat rack as if a testimony to a miraculous cure, and the Mass began. 

No cane, no walker, and there it was, genuflections to boot. First time I'd genuflected since I was kicked off the horse, and it felt good, a veritable triumph of the will or more precisely, modern medicine.

Thanks, MC, sometimes it doesn't hurt to be pushed and if it does, so be it. Now in fairness, my friend's been thrown off more horses than I've ridden, and I've ridden a few. You can see, perhaps, why I wasn't about to argue the stick. Respect, and don't look or be weak in front of the team, especially when one of them's a Bronc Dracula.

Leni

And that, vast international readership, is the story of that. A short tale of God, Church, Rehab and Country Life in Texas.

Ride on,

LSP

The Gender Construct

In the bad old days of biological fascism people were indoctrinated into thinking their gender was a given, something dictated by the body they were born with. "Two XX chromosomes?" said the gender Nazis, "You're a woman!" So intolerant, now we know biology and gender are two very different things. 

Yes, you may well be born with the body of a woman or a man, such are the sexes, but don't let this trample like some kind of jack-booted Brownshirt all over your identity. That's something for you to decide, because gender's fluid and flexible.

That's right, a construct, a complex matrix of societal, mental and emotional forces which play together to create you, the gendered self. Biology may say one thing, but who you are is entirely up to you. At last we've found liberation in the transhumanist phase of the liberal project, a true triumph of the will.

Leaving aside uncomfortable NSDAP irony, and with apologies to Leni, here at the Compound we have to ask. If gender's a construct, divorced from the tyranny of the body, why is it that transsexuals spend so much money getting their body changed. Seriously, if biology and gender are unrelated, why spend all that cash to mess with your body? 

Why? Because everyone knows in reality that gender's determined by flesh and blood. Per GaGa, you were born that way, and we get it despite all the agitprop. It's not difficult, in fact it's readily apparent to the senses. Look, there's a woman, there's a man and... then there's that, some kind of hybrid. You can see it.

So, the unfortunate woman that wants to be a man or the sad man that wants to be a woman invests heavily in chemicals and scalpel to make it appear so. And what an appearance it mostly is, blasphemous Frankenstein parodies of the two sexes.

But my question is this. Why are we allowing our children to be abused by this self-evidently dysfunctional, sorry, dysphoric, illness? OK, perhaps that's too mild, let's call it as it is, Satanic degeneracy. 

As you doubtless know, Arlington schools have gone full trans. Far-sighted readers will remember Hungary threw the Bolshevik demons off their backs in reaction to Dukacs' program of sex-ed in schools.

Peace and Love,

LSP

The Rampaging Harridans of the New Orthodoxy

As witnessed on the campuses of so-called higher learning and elsewhere, the champions of inclusion and tolerance don't seem very good at being, well, inclusive or tolerant. The late Richard Neuhaus, in The Unhappy Fate of Optional Orthodoxy, described them as a "rampaging harridan":

The new liberal orthodoxy of recent decades is hard and nasty; compared to it, the old orthodoxy was merely quaint. The old orthodoxy was like a dotty old uncle in the front parlor; the new orthodoxy is a rampaging harridan in the family room.

A Typical Rampaging Harridan

But what's under the harridan's hood, what drives the motor of radical inclusion to run over any and all opposition? A set of radical ethical imperatives, for sure, to say nothing of good old fashioned revolutionary ardour. And what lies behind this? Neuhaus parses the issue in terms of "identity" and "experience":

Proponents of the new orthodoxy will protest, with some justice, that they, too, are committed to normative truths. These truths, however, are not embodied in propositions, precedent, ecclesial authority, or, goodness knows, revelation. They are experiential truths expressing the truth of who we truly are —“we” being defined by sex, race, class, tribe, or identifying desire (“orientation”).

He goes on:

With the older orthodoxy it is possible to disagree, as in having an argument. Evidence, reason, and logic count, in principle at least. Not so with the new orthodoxy. Here disagreement is an intolerable personal affront. It is construed as a denial of others, of their experience of who they are. It is a blasphemous assault on that most high god, “My Identity.”

There can be no appeal against this other than an assertion of identity, of self, and the rules of that playing field are at best a short step away from a raw assertion of power, to a triumph of the will that allows no dissent, whatsoever.

You have been warned.

Your Old Friend,

LSP

The Feast of the Visitation and the Unborn Child

Yesterday was the Feast of the Visitation, the second joyful mystery of the faith, in which Mary visits her cousin Elizabeth. Both women are pregnant, the Virgin with Christ and Elizabeth with John the Baptist, and Scripture tells us that the "infant leaped" in Elizabeth's womb on hearing Mary's greeting. Our Lady, overcome with joy, exclaims the Magnificat:

My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour. For he hath regarded the lowliness of his handmaiden. For behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed. For he that is mighty hath magnified me; and holy is his Name. And his mercy is on them that fear him throughout all generations. He hath showed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and hath exalted the humble and meek; He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away. He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel; as he promised to our forefathers, Abraham and his seed, for ever.

The Visitation is, at the very least, a celebration of the miracle of life in the womb. Consider, then, the irony of House Democrats and seven Republicans defeating a bill, on the Feast of the Visitation, that would have outlawed sex-selective abortions.

life

To do so, it's argued, would have stood in the way of a woman's "right to choose." That's true. The defeated bill would have made it a crime to choose to kill your unborn child because you didn't want to give birth to a boy, or a girl.

What was that old film called? Ah yes, "Triumph of the Will." 

Look it up if you like.

LSP