We are witnessing the Greatest Russian Tragedy. Now.
“Can anyone explain why the descendants of Vlasov paint a white American star for May 9 on the T-34 tank over our Red Star?”
Anatoly Kucheryavy @ Anatan6, on Twitter, May 1, 2021
“It can be explained: the United States defeated the Soviet Union in the Cold War and today’s Russia, including her Putinist form or rather radical deformation, was created and foisted as a result of the complete and unconditional surrender of the Soviet Union the dictates of which the Putin regime strictly observes.
Eastern Orthodoxy always wanted to write Orphic on its birth certificate as its proper and true name. But then somehow in the process it chose to put there a doxa¸ opinion, a word related to the Slavic desiti, to find, to encounter, to happen, and even to scare or to get terrified, with the underlying sense of Orthodoxy thus being literally “the very horror” or “the true terror.”
Some twenty-seven million Soviets,
twenty-seven million of the beautiful people
fell as sealed and scattered seeds to earth
in the Great Patriotic War with the Beast.
Those were born as one-time Phoenixes
to the timber made of souls, strings, hearts
in the “Orthodox” melodies and songs
I can hear still Orphic romances and dirges,
some of the world’s deepest harmonies
by which the cosmos wanted to array
mankind’s stream and strife and hope.
Oh, what then about the beautiful and its very soul?
How did that vanish so soon—after winning
at such a price and sacrifice the greatest of all wars?
Oh, do or ever did such heroic and beautiful souls
have a place where these were mocked and even denied
in the doctrine that cast the human as a concrete cadre,
as a soulless bloc made to suit a petite bureaucratic mind
for which all was matter, discipline, and iron order only?
What did a Khrushchev or a Brezhnev know or care
about things of the spirit, the soul and the beautiful
or about how gone heroes live or die, if uncared, upon their fall?
And how a lot more less is there left for a beauty and grace of souls
when everyone who wasn’t sold or bought knows that Putin’s bros
and Putin himself are the country’s and the nation’s assassins
and when the latter himself boasts that, under him, Russia is the first
now in the world for having “absolutely the best prostitutes of all,”
if not in the absolute numbers of ex-KGB oligarch-billionaires
made of the planned destitution and degradation of the nation
and of Russia’s plotted, plodding, cashed-in liquidation
under Vlasov’s flags unfurled amid Nazi wartime ranks?
Where can society’s depraved bottom once with total power
lead the country and the state if not to a hole that ends in Hell?
But it is America where Rome’s Capitol was transposed
and where the “Greek system” is deployed at schools
to melt and mold the youth into new bold Dionysians
even if small crosses may still be a sport on their necks.
And it’s the US Republican primary rule that uniquely says
that “man,” as a US citizen, is endowed by God himself
with certain inalienable gifts on which one’s equality
or worth in relation to everyone else is firmly based
and that are neither to be pilfered by the government
nor up to the government whether to be acknowledged.
Thus in each and everyone (a piece of) God is somehow held.
After all what else does humans and whole nations set apart
In the end than the ideas they hold dear and cling to for life
and what, in the very end, is man, that human sapiens,
than what he carries and knows to mind in his own mind,
that is, if one starts from the top and looks at humanity
from there, beholding and fast beholden to the principle
of a higher kind instead of sticking one to the butt and base?
Or should mankind rather prefer and promote the mindless
and the soulless instead—straight psycho- and sociopaths,
paths deadly—with a fit of heartless tyranny erotomania?
So the question remains: who wants to live and die and endure
by what’s noble, better, higher as opposed to what’s base,
worse, soulless, vile, morbid, murderous, corrupt—?
Deep down in their hearts American think that, between
the US and nowhere (else), a special, divine dispensation
made the former a new Atlantis & a shining city on a hill,
on the last Olympus or Meru, a world’s new holy mountain,
where even the Tree of Knowledge smuggled from the East
became a Big New Apple of which its new winners may now eat.
A place where if you are lucky, you are laid off to fit Fates’
grand plan so that you can keep your respect of which the rest
doesn’t give a damn, while you carve out for yourself a place
of a hermit somewhere with a view of the Meru world mountain.
And that happens whenever one is either much too dumb or
way too wise for the system of the government and the market,
free of such souls that differ, without even begging to at all.
This new Rome was built on a premise that all men are equal,
but with one or few of little twists of the legalese that holds
under breath that, in principle, President can be only a Brother
Mason—that is one of those who wrote and designed the whole thing.
Russia wanted to be the new, third or fourth Rome, skipping the US spot,
but with all her counterfeits and miming copies, she never understood
what Rome and its Empire meant and for what or whom they stood,
while the US, like the Rome of old, brought in all the other nations’ Gods
as its spoils both of peace and war—under the gorgoneion, asserted aegis
of Goddess Liberty—Libera, the Light-Bearer. Why, isn’t it her personally
on top of the US Capitol beside the French statue in the harbor of New York?.
She’s in fact Proserpina the wife and the abductee of the God of the dead
and otherwise a consort of Dionysus, the God of revelry, mysteries and wine,
who dies many times and never truly, never quite, and whom the schools
honor every week as often as guts, scholarship, funds, and drunkenness allow,
even if in its churches official the old instrument of death and torture remains
still prominent as the highest sacrament and as the only way and only truth.
By the sophists at the helm even the Platonists are asked to praise and defer to
to such cliches of the day that can get you high or you can never be a spangled star.
But in Russia that succumbed to the Eros of the West, Putin, a new good despot-gnome,
now demands from the offspring of the victors from 1945 to bend down on the knees
and bow to a base of the base, lows of the lows, and ask like good slaves and sycophants
for a leniency in being herded, fleeced, lied to, conned, duped, betrayed, swindled
mercilessly and with a gusto to the country’s early abyss, scrap heap, plundered tomb.
And like nearly all the rest of culture so today’s music ever since the times of rock ‘n roll
is Dionysian, with the mysteries handed over to the devils, buyers of the trafficked souls,
just as in the name of this old new Dionysus and his obstruse Dame the Cold War was won
over the “dialectic” opponent, the sexless, cold and glacial, dull and murky, woeful bore.
If, like Tartarus in the case of the most grievous souls, the Soviet Union tried to stop
its souls from leaving and going up and out of its portentous, forbidding mouth,
the US, like Pluto aka Plutus, Wealth, had been open to all and everything,
a true “All-Receiver,” as the Orphic Hymn to Pluto names the Lord who guards
the “roots of the world” themselves—for everything and all the power is born
of Hades, the earth, and returns to it, as Cicero explains, with the dead he keeps
being Imperium universal and ultimate and supreme wealth. And it is the people,
the people of Meru, this World (Mine or) Mountain that has been built anew
on the premise that if you must believe in something whatever that could be
and once you believe in something, you must stick to it through thick and thin,”
no matter whether it is true or not, no matter even if the Heavens themselves
were to fall and everything else burned down: all you need is to want it above all.
And it was back in 2000 in Montreal where one sick and jaded Russian student
lectured us all in the audience that the Russians are now sick and jaded of ideals to death.
And so it passed, just as Giuseppe Mazzini, the Arch Initiate, already proclaimed
in his vision of the Risorgimento: “After the Rome of the emperors and the Rome of the Popes,
there will come the Rome of the people.” And those people were created and fated
to be Americans, while, in Russia, with each year there is less and less Odettes
gathered by the Underworld king or pimp named Rothbart who, in the meantime,
might have emigrated already too to the Promised Land—along with most of the pack.
For most and too many of the Soviet best perished in the war, and the other sorts
were left more intact, and on those the long and deliberate process of betrayal
and gradual dismantlement of that Utopia from above was then shrewdly based,
as marvelously or rather too painfully captured in the 1957 Soviet movie,
The Cranes Are Flying (Летят журавли), showing the damage done to the nation’s soul
by the war and much more still by the cowardice of the amoral men who hid behind
and survived at the expense of the Victory and other people’s lives and sacrifice.
At the 1958 Cannes Film Festival this film won the Palme d'Or. And for what?
In the movie the good hero who volunteered to defend his land dies after another
soldier insults the photo of his love he left behind in Moscow, and the trash,
a sly musician, wins and shames the hero’s stranded love after he rapes her.
Soldiers’ dead souls are then cranes passing high above the living below.
The French Liberation approvingly contrasted the raped, abused,
manipulated and cheated-on heroine for her purity and authenticity
with Brigitte Bardot, the French “sex bomb” and female prime icon of that time.
And the East German fans wrote an accolade to Tatiana Samoilova, the lead actress:
“Finally we see on the Soviet screen a face, not a mask.”
The killing-off of the spirit, heart, and character
of the Soviet people began—along with the rest.
There the Soviet woman, a widow of a war hero,
was ritually raped by the worst, a traitor, a coward, new
“smart ass,” and thus tumbled, subdued, exposed
and exported to the world—twelve years only
after the 1945 Victory—as there is darkness
with a pounding star, so there’s another one that’s just flat
