Nobody can predict what will happen to the world. We are on a high speed train to nowhere, the world being only as small as we want it to be; turning on a computer one can travel the globe, see sites that one could never have seen one hundred years ago, and nearly everyone has done it, regardless of their race or ethnicity, venturing from place to place within only a few hours, taking photographs of their doings and putting them on display for the entirety of the world to see via the internet. Men and women that would never have been able to be paired a century ago are paired, and men walk where men of his race could never have dreamed of venturing in the past.
We work for corporations that extend across the globe, transferring information from person to person, race to race, taking our hard earned capital, interchangeable worldwide, on goods by which we may keep ourselves contented, and can be ordered from any location on the planet with merely a click. We are becoming smaller, but our knowledge is getting larger; all places on earth have been revealed, every nook of the planet explored and photographed in high resolution, and there is apparently nothing left to study other than advanced sciences through which we may live longer, or travel the world faster, or obtain information quicker. Our universities are packed to the brim with young people of different shades and backgrounds, studying the ethnic music of some small island somewhere, or researching the harmonic theory behind Beethoven's symphonies.
But some say no to this. It is only a small minority, but you cannot understand why. They are found in Italy, in Florida, in China, in Guam, in Indonesia, and Africa. Some say, I am happy with what my people have created, and am happy with what our natural souls dictate us to pursue, will be happy recreating it and pursuing it to eternity, and am happy looking out my window and seeing my kinsmen, with their children, and listening to the music of my people, and reading our literature, and looking at our art, and finding no need to spend ones weekends drinking in some large city, or learning about the rest of the world or other peoples, or visiting some far off city to which one has no ties, upon which one takes the same photograph that hundreds of millions of other people have taken, or flying the world to satisfy some deep seated and unspoken need that one has.
I am currently listening to Ma Vlast by Bedrich Smetana. Written during a time of unmatched ethnic homogeneity and artistic spirit in Europa, and glowing with every ounce of dear love that Smetana had for his native home of the Czech Republic, that spirit represents the complete and utter embodiment of the European being, that driving need that he had, when left somewhere between a state of development and industrialization, a complete freedom of the soul and satisfaction in both stability concurrently with a certain fear for the future that modernization would bring. This was a time where the spirit of the people was allowed its furthest reach, and has all but disappeared now in the destructive path of globalization.
But this music is preserved, and it shall forever be preserved, and is still marveled at by peoples all over the world, particularly in the East, where a racial spirit still thrives, particularly in China. After watching a film called "The Curse of the Golden Flower", I was so moved by the essential Chineseness of the film that I could only attribute its stunning visuals and deeply gorgeous sense of beauty both in its delicate handling of the human psyche and the native art of the high people of China to a racial spirit and deep, unfathomable understanding of what it means to be Chinese, that I decided it was far superior a movie to any I have seen in the West in years.
Yet all the while, I listen to Wagner, Smetana, Beethoven, and watch spectacular Chinese movies produced in a country that is 90% ethnically homogenous, skyscrapers that cannot be distinguished from those in Philadelphia or Moscow thrust from the ground in Beijing, uprooting century old houses and replacing them with grand plazas fit only for faceless people-movers, at the center of which rage glass and steel. Sometimes, when I am in Manhattan, I walk to the end of the platform at a certain subway stop, and between the roar of passing trains, a Chinese man sits, smiling, playing diligently and with such subtle beauty, day after day, his zither, collecting few dollars as people race past him, listening instead to the synthesized rap music that persists from here to Singapore.
There is a time in a man's life when he is left, momentarily, with time to think, maybe during unemployment, or during a walk in the park, when he pauses to reflect on himself and who he is, as he disappears into a wooded lane in miniature nature preserve dead center in the middle of a towering urban center. He is not hard pressed, given that he is reasonably intelligent and of any soul at all, to wonder about the point of it is. He can go to the movies, and watch some fabricated adventure involving exploration, heroism, violence and adventure, or he can merely think about the actuality of things. He will wonder what will happen to the world once we are all within a minute's reach of one another, once we can not only tell from what country we are originated, but we can not remember.
He will wonder if this globalist culture is indeed his soul, if any of it, any of it at all represents who he is as a human, as a man, whether Chinese or African or European, requires to express something as evidence of his human spirit, as varied across the world as leafs in the wind. He has nothing against which to compare himself when he is merely reduced to human, for he was deprived of his gods by reason of political correctness or growing religious disillusionment among all men subjected to the crushing wave of global unification. In a panic, he wishes to create something that is familiar to him, to take hold of something so eternally rooted into the ground that is will belong to him forever, to not be destroyed by the faceless people that do not seem to care.
A society such as the one in which we live cannot sustain itself. It values individualism in a world where individuals have no commonality against which to pit themselves or to which to aim themselves. And with no external or internal entities against which we may be used to act, we will begin to turn against one another, distrusting one another because we all look so different, but all look very much alike. We will be defined by how sexy we are, how much money we make, and nothing more, where in the world we've visited, how many people we've slept with, and procreation will be out of sudden and panicked inner urges to persist oneself when presented with the all too humbling awareness of death that the arrogant modern man must inevitably face.
One will not love, as they loved in the past, and not feel that dire need to recreate himself and his people so that they maintain him and his spirit into eternity. And we will marvel, sometimes, when listening to a work by Beethoven or Smetana between breaks from synthesized, hyper-sexualized music, who those strange looking men were that took the time to paint a landscape in music, and how they could devote so much of themselves to it, sometime unthinkable in the era of immediacy.
But eventually the culture of the individual will crash. The means by which leisure and arrogant hedonism will cease to exist, perhaps as natural resources disintegrate, or violence amidst a disillusioned and disunified people erupts, or our technological advancements, so glorified as providing us a means to be like gods, fearless towards death or punishment or limitations, will be used by some ideologue against the teething, raceless masses. What we thought would make us immortal reveals to us our weakness, now, scared for our lives at the humans around us against whom we have no commonality, and eternity suddenly becomes very limited.
But there will be those among the populations of earth that have clung to those things that are truly eternal, those people that have carried their genes, Chinese, Russian, European, Native American, undiluted through time, themselves looking no different than they did during that time period when their countries were at their highest artistic output. And they shall be unified, flying under the banner of their spirit, remembering who they were through their careful maintenance of their music and art, and they shall not die. They shall persist. And their souls will truly be eternal, the real godmen, the people that created things of such profundity and everlasting beauty that they were truly in the image of god, the first, last, and ultimate creator.
T. C. Spencer