To Become S.C.M.M.
I
:THE VAGABOND CASTE:
By Ioan Eofor
Arrows thrashing down as if from the wrath of God. There is little room for cover, and they pierce through your shield, hairs away from your face. They thud with an ear-splitting clap endlessly. Men that sang only the night before, drinking and sharpening their swords over idle chatter by a dim fire, now slump as corpses that pave the bloody mud like cobbled flesh, scattered about the cold stone walls. Sons, brothers, fathers: converted into hunks of meat, symbols of fear and defeat for the soldier that still clings to the walls of the keep that will not yield. Picked off one by one. None remain beyond those who flee. With tail between legs do they march off like the great beast sewn onto every banner carried with them on this failed campaign. Rarely more than a minor inconvenience to the highborn, a scar on the ego of he who drove them there like shepherd and flock. Yet not so for the common soldier. Not so.
For if they return home, are they better off? No plunder, no new land belonging to their lord, more of the same, which was nothing to begin with. And if they do not have the luxury of returning to their misery, how then does the wife go on? Their family? It is all dire for those who let it be dire. For this is the world of men.
Yet whistles could be heard from the woods over yonder, to any careful ear willing to hear more than just the screams of comrade and command. A gleeful song spittled out of tune by more than just one man. Bloodied knuckles, broken toes, teeth, and a tankard in hand. Fled from the battle? Nay, no longer of interest; and if ever it was one to these few -these merry few- they simply did not believe the outcome to be worthy of any true influence over their lives. I look to Trower, Cutler, Jacob, and Whitehead. Those who midway through a battle in some English field decided they would simply leave. Though on opposite sides of the war, they banded together to depart the entanglement, and simply intoxicate themselves in a near-by village ale-house. 1
Brigands? Perhaps.
Entirely good? Nay.
Entirely bad? Nayer.
Masters of a different realm. Their own realm.
If it has not become clear to you yet, you are the main character of this world, and those men of the woods of which I speak understood this on a vital level of cosmic realization. Jesters who entertain their own court. Fighters who fight for their own Lord. A real time and place? More real than anything else in this bloody world. The situation, setting, and time, matter very little to this rare breed that have always been. And do you know why? Why these men are able to grin through the madness, and skip through the corpses? Because they understand that this world is nothing but a canvas of mutual projection. It is the battlefield of magicians who are able to expel and conjust thought into matter. They are those that grin when others fear. They are those that do before others have even thought. They are those that understand the only difference between themselves and the turnip farmer is this simple inner dialogue:
Question: “Does anything truly matter?”
Answer: “No. So make something.”
Here is what I need you to do: forget about changing anything in this world. Look now to the deep chambers of your mind, where you lay shackled in a forgotten prison. This is your power, this is your reality. Now understand you have always held the key, and that there is a bright world within that needs you. If you want anything in this waking world, you must first hone your power within.
It is not enough to be ‘woke’. You have failed this riddle of life if you let yourself answer this question with a simple ‘No’. When Nietzche said ‘God is dead’ he meant something entirely different to the common understanding of this leaden statement. You are obliged by your own buried conscience to find something more now. If you are to count yourself among the ranks of shining icons that have always been, then you must focus now. What should this focus be? To some it might be the creation of a new God or goal, yet is this not the same thing? Or perhaps even the revival of the old; and I say again, is this not the same thing? Depending on who you are, this concept of something higher might reveal more or less to you. But in reality, it simply doesn’t matter, and I honestly don’t care what you make of any of it. I just need you to ask yourself the question, and figure out where you stand from there.
How accurate, or how ‘blurry’ modern scholars are upon this-or-that subject of history matters very little, when we begin to see the grander tapestry of primordial, collective-myth. We should understand by now that not all history has been documented. Furthermore, we must begin to understand that all history presented to us is biased in some form or another regardless of how pious or professional the scholar may be. The absolute truth of the matter is that if there are individuals like us now, they will have certainly existed in other periods of time. For when a man is aware of his situation, he may choose misery, or laughter; and very few pick the latter. But then, it is easy to tell those few men apart from the rest.
From the woods of Sherwood, to the trenches of the Somme; from Agincourt to Rorke’s Drift does this ring true. Situations, odds, places, and people are often dire. But the unchangeable absolute is the spirit of the fighting man, and his immortal reign over all odds and storms. Perhaps ‘tea instead of tears’ is a good mantra for one facing dire situations. This is a quality that found us exchanging gifts with the Hun at Christmas, and it is the fighting spirit of the merry few.
The world is rotting, all sides and angles of opinion know this. In a world where the youth have been groomed into an understanding of immediate gratification, is it not obvious why so many choose the most extreme solutions (left and right), is it not so very obvious that these are the cries from a baby’s crib who knows nothing but the immediate remedial call for his mother.
Yet if we are to change the outward, we must look deeply within. For is this not the true meaning of myth? To navigate the inner world (we are reminded of Agartha, Middle Earth, etc). For within the brain of all exists a world entirely different to all other living humans who stand at razors edge of the tip to their ancestral spear; honed over centuries. Yet as different as these worlds are, the common themes and archetypes remain true. I urge you to discover the works of Jung and Campbell for more on this.2,3
Within this world stands a kingdom.
And within that kingdom stands a castle.
Within that castle there is a courtroom.
Is Denethor upon your throne? Perhaps a sickly Théoden with the whispers of a weaker man at his side; have you cast out your Éomer? I tell you now, no matter who sits there in that hallowed hall, there is a Strider in the wilderness of your mind, and you must use every godly power within yourself to find him, lest the kingdom fall to ruin. (More on this in SCMM II). For now we must remember that we do not inhabit this throneroom, but face off the terrors of the dark that aim to keep us within our own shackles.
There are many who profit from our self-bondage. To see us move against this is a threat to everything they have imposed through careful spells and the blackest of magic, ancient in its essence but cast through modern media.
They will move against you with force, and impose many fears. What might one do to counter these moves? Whistle and sing? That is to bury your head in the sand and meditate under an unimpressive tree. This is an Eastern tradition which has its merit. Yet ultimately did it not allow Mao to thrive? How noble be the man that lets his culture and body be devoured by the serpent.
Does one unsheath sword? Noble surely, alas their sword is bigger and backed by the masses and arrows. You are the madman of darkest prison after all. Nothing more than a brigand not only to the highborn, but to their populace of serfs also. Do not forget this. Nor should one blame the peasantry, it is simply their way.
My suggestion to you lies in becoming both at the same time. As the guards of your cell move towards you, and jealous fellow prisoners, and peasants alike call for your capture you must become S.C.M.M.
The Equation of such:
BRUTAL SOLDIER – MERRY MAN
The Mantra of highself:
SMILE
LAUGH
UNSHEATH
SWING
This tactic translates to any situation you might find yourself amidst in the waking world.
Let the fighter be present; let the thinker be free; let the ancestors sing; and your future be.
I tell you now, anywhere that this Halithazian spirit is embedded into a culture, there is a roaring fire at the heart of the Kingdom’s myth, and it does not dwindle under rain of serpentine venom.
‘Greatest roots are not touched by frost’ 4
Do you truly believe that the Teutonic knight was not imbued with a paganism he was said to have hated? Is it not possible that we as men of this new paganism have not also upheld the Christian values in our causes and morals?
You are not a man, but a living world of interacting archetypes, struggles, gods, and beasts.
But for now, be that free man who feels sunlight after years of darkness. Take to the woods, and be happy. You will one day find that a young lad might hear your whistle from within your chosen Grove. I promise you this. And as he hears the sound of your sword knocking against the bark of a tree, he will say
‘For what do you swing this sword, away from all, and with no crowd?’
and you will say,
‘I am happily preparing for a time that will need my strength and laughter’
The youth will remember this until a day comes when he might join you there. And you will whistle together louder than just one alone.
Sword-dancing Chivalric Merry Men: our time is now, for this is the Age of Plunder.
1A Field in England, 2013, Film 4 Productions, Ben Wheatley
2 Jung, Carl Gustav. The archetypes and the collective unconscious. Routledge, 2014.
3 Campbell, Joseph. The hero’s journey: Joseph Campbell on his life and work. Vol. 7. New World Library, 2003.
4 Tolkien, John Ronald Reuel. The Lord of the Rings: The return of the king. Vol. 3. Houghton Mifflin Co., 2001.