fredag 28 oktober 2022

Review: Pagan Imperialism (Evola 1928)

Evolian resurgence -- Evolian wave -- Evolian spree... that's what we're living in since about 2000. The period after Julius Evola died in 1974 has seen a quiet renaissance; after his death his influence has only grown. Hereby a review of a forgotten gem in his opus, Pagan Imperialism.

One of Evola’s books was Imperialismo Pagano. In a German translation from 1933 it was called Heidnischer Imperialismus. In English it became, in 2017, Pagan Imperialism. This was a translation based on the German edition. And the translator was Cologero Salvo; voilà the edition we base this on.

Pagan Imperialism was originally published in 1928, a time when Fascist Italy was about to sign the Lateran Treaty with the Catholic Church. Evola was against the perceived “maternal and lunar” character of Christianity and wanted a more “masculine and solar” creed for Italy. He was also disappointed with Fascism, seeing it as too bourgeois; in addition, he was against communism-liberalism-democracy. Stating his case against all these enemies, Pagan Imperialism is a rather elegant essay by a radical traditionalist. It is far more belligerent in tone than, say, Revolt Against the Modern World, otherwise seen as his magnum opus.

Rivolta often comes through as a somewhat dull and pedantic lecture about esoteric subjects. Pagan Imperialism essentially says what Rivolta does, but with more punch and verve.

Almost everything that Evola later wrote about as a right-wing preacher we see in this book, Pagan Imperialism: the need for hierarchy, the need for a “polar, northern” tradition instead of the “southern, lunar, feminine” tradition of Christianity; the need for a more mindful Nietzscheanism; the glory of Imperial Rome and the Holy Roman empire; the need for a philosophy that goes beyond mere vitalism and reaches an essential truth – “life, and more than life”.

In Pagan Imperialism the Roman idea, the ancient Roman example, takes the place that “tradition” would take in his subsequent books. He for instance speaks about “a revived Dorian simplicity” (p. 82). Rome, to Evola, in this essay stands for the organism (as opposed to the simple aggregate); it stands for the spiritual (and not the materialist); it stands for everything accomplished by rite and symbol; it stands for truth (and not empty rhetoric).

Pagan Imperialism speaks about a “will to order and to hierarchy, to virility, and to authority” (p. 96); this is the ideal.


Further, in this book Evola for example speaks of the need for a new cadre of leaders, responsible men capable of anything. Men who are born leaders, men willing to risk their life in their role, and not mere babblers.

He speaks about the need to replace profane and materialistic science with a spiritual and interior science – a science that taps the occult forces that govern our being and subdues them.

He speaks about replacing feelings of dependence and lack of will with a feeling of sufficiency; the ideal of equality will be replaced by concepts like difference, distance, hierarchy, aristocracy. Pure will and absolute action are the lodestars, not love and happiness.

The new rigorism, Evola means, will see an existence where every instant of life is a heroic event. And the hero of the new age is Absolute Man, Total Man, Magician Man.


Pagan Imperialism lends itself to extensive quoting. We can, for instance, look at the beginning (p. 6). This is a call to arms for any radical traditionalist, these are words by “a rebel, fighting for tradition”:
The current “civilisation” of the West is expecting a substantial upheaval, without which it is doomed to collapse sooner or later. – It has realised the most complete perversion of every rational order of things. – There is no longer breath, nor liberty, nor light in the realm of matter, of gold, of the machine, of number. – The West has lost the meaning of command and obedience. – It has lost the meaning of Action and of Contemplation. – It has lost the meaning of hierarchy, of spiritual power, of man-gods.
This is just the beginning... and equally strong is the rest (ibid):
[The West] no longer knows nature. This is no longer, for Western man, a living body made up of symbols, gods, and ritual acts – a splendid cosmos, in which man moves about freely, like “a kingdom within a kingdom”: he has instead deteriorated into an opaque and fatal exteriority, the mystery of which profane sciences try to ignore with petty laws and petty hypotheses. – The West no longer knows Wisdom: it no longer knows the majestic silence of those who have mastered themselves, the bright calm of the Seers, the superb “solar” reality of those in whom the idea has become blood, life, and power. Wisdom has been supplanted by the rhetoric of “philosophy” and “culture”, the realm of professors, journalists, and sportsmen – the scheme, the program, the manifesto. It has been supplanted by sentimental, religious, humanitarian contamination and the race of windbags who flounder and madly rush while exalting “becoming” and “practice”, because silence and contemplation frighten them.
Evola talks about the evils of modern life, like sentimentalism, moralism, and simplistic humanism. This must be opposed (p. 8):
To all this, let it be said: 'Enough!', so that some men may return to long-lasting paths, long-lasting risks, long-lasting gazes, and long-lasting silence; so that the wind of the open sea may blow again – the wind of the nordic primordial tradition – and arouse the sleepers of the West. Anti-philosophy, anti-humanitarianism, antiliterature, anti-'religion', this is the premise. 'Enough!' must be said to aestheticisms and idealisms ...
Evola wants to go beyond mere discussion, mere talk (p. 9):
In silence, through hard discipline, self-mastery, and self-overcoming, with tenacious and brisk individual effort, we must create an elite in whom “solar” Wisdom is revived: that virtus which cannot be spoken, which rises from the depths of feelings and the soul and is not proved with arguments and books but with creative acts. – We must reawaken to a renewed, spiritualised, and austere sense of the world, not as a philosophic concept, but as something which vibrates in our very blood: to the sensation of the world as power, to the sensation of the world as rhythm, to the sensation of the world as a sacrificial act. This sensation will create strong, hard, and energetic characters, beings made of strength and then only of strength, open to that sense of freedom and nobility, to that cosmic breath which the “dead” in Europe have babbled a lot about, yet have not even felt its puff.
Modern man needs re-sacralization, a reactivating of myth, of contemplation, of gravitas, of dignitas (ibid):
Against secular, democratic, and material science, always relative and conditioned, slave to phenomena and incomprehensible laws, deaf to the deepest reality of man, we must reawaken – in this elite – the sacred, inner, secret, and creative science, the science of self-realisation and “self-dignification”, the science which leads to the hidden forces which govern our organism and are united with the invisible roots of rate and things themselves, and which creates mastery over these forces; so that, not as a myth, but as the most positive of realities, some men are reborn as beings who no longer belong to “life”, but to “more-than-life”, and are capable of transcendent action.

To guide man into this Brave New World of willpower and vision a new elite is needed, a new breed of leaders (ibid): “There will be Leaders, a race of Leaders. Invisible Leaders who do not speak and do not show themselves, but whose action does not experience resistance and who can do everything.”

Nordic Symbolism

For this re-generation of the West we must look to the North. This Evola also speaks about in Rivolta but here, in Pagan Imperialism, it is more succinct, more stylish (p. 10-11):
We alluded to a primordial Nordic tradition. It is not a myth, it is our truth. Indeed, in the most remote prehistory where the positivist superstition postulated right up until recently cave-dwelling ape-men, there existed a primordial, unified, and powerful civilization, an echo of which still resounds in everything that the past has to offer us as an eternal symbol. – The Iranians speak of the Airyanem Vaejah, located in the farthest North, and see in it the first creation of “god of light”, the origin of their lineage and also the seat of “glory” – hvareno – that mystical force characteristic of the Aryan race, and especially of their divine kings; they see in it – symbolically – the “place” where the warrior religion of Zarathustra would have been revealed for the first time. – Correspondingly, the tradition of the Indo-aryans knows the Shveta-dvipa, the “Island of Glory”, also located in the far North where Narayana, the one who “is the light” and “who stands above the waters”, that is, above the causality of events, has his residence. It speaks also of the Uttarakuru, a Nordic primordial race; what is meant by Nordic is the solar path of the gods – deva-yana – and the term uttara connotes the concept of all that is sublime, lofty, and superior - of what in the figurative sense can be called arya, Aryan – according to the concept of “Nordic”. – Again, the Achaean-Dorian stocks are heirs of the legendary Nordic Hyperboreans: the most characteristic god and hero of this race – the solar Apollo, the annihilator of the serpent Python – came from there; Hercules – the ally of the Olympian god against the giants, the annihilator of the Amazons and of elemental beings, the “fair conqueror”, of whom many Greek and Roman kings later considered themselves so to speak, as his avatars – would have carried the olive tree from here with whose branches the victors were crowned (Pindar).

Nietzsche Lauded

We all know that Nietzsche influenced Evola. For instance, in the 20s he spoke about “Absolute Man” (l’individuo assoluto) – and this figure can be seen as the superman evolved into a more mindful being. Now, overall in his major works Evola tended to be critical of the great Pulverkopf; even in Pagan Imperialism we see traces of this. However, he could also openly praise the great German. We for instance read the following, captivating the spiritual essence of Nietzsche’s opus (p. 85-86):
[T]hose who are still not capable on their own can find a precursor even in these dark times, someone misunderstood, who waits in the shadows: Friedrich Nietzsche. The Nietzschean experience is still not exhausted, since it has not even started. What is exhausted is the aesthetic-literary caricature of Nietzsche, conditioned over time, and theological-naturalistic reduction of some parts of his theories. But the value carried heroically by Nietzsche after much nameless suffering, in spite of the fact that his whole being revolted and yielded, until, without any complaint, after having given everything, it collapsed – this value which is beyond his “philosophy”, beyond his humanity, beyond himself, identical to a cosmic meaning, reflection of an economic force – the hvareno and the terrible fire of solar initiations – this value is still waiting to be understood and assumed by contemporaries. There is already in it the call for arms, the appeal for loathing, for awakening – and for the great struggle: the one in which – as we have said – the destiny of the West will be settled: either to fall into twilight or enter a new dawn. – Freeing the doctrine of Nietzsche from its naturalistic part, we see that the “overman” and the”will-to-power” are not true except as supra-biological qualities and, we should say, supernatural qualities, then this doctrine, for many, can be a path by which the great ocean can be reached – the world of the solar universality of great Nordic-Aryan traditions, from whose summit the sense of all the misery, of all the irrelevance, and of all the insignificance of this world of the shackled and maniacs imposes itself.

The Rest

Hereby some quotes without comment from this gem of a book, Pagan Imperialism.

Quote number 1, p. 11, about solar heroism as opposed to demonic darkness:
These are only some of the harmonious references, traceable in the most diverse traditions as the memory of a primordial Nordic civilisation and fatherland in which, in a more precise way, a transcendent superhuman spirituality is united with the heroic, royal, and triumphal element: towards form victorious over chaos; towards super-humanity triumphant over all that is human and telluric; towards “solarity” as principal symbol of a transcendent virility, as ideal of a dignity which, in the order of spiritual forces, correspond to the sovereign, the hero, the ruler, on the material plane. And, while the traces of tradition go back to a road from the North to the South, from the West to the East, which the races preserving this spirit have travelled, the largest formations of Aryan peoples, in more recent times, testify, through the quality of their purest values and religions, to their most characteristic deities and institutions, typical of this force and this civilisation, as well as to the struggle against inferior southern races, which are tied to the earth and to the spirit of the earth, to the “demonic” and irrational part of their being, to the promiscuous, the collective, the totemic, the chaotic, or the “titanic”.
Quote number 2, p. 12-13, in praise of ancient Rome:
This is why pagan Romanity must be considered as the last great creative act of the Nordic spirit, the last universal attempt, successful to a considerable extent over an entire cycle, to resurrect the forces of the world in the forms of a heroic, solar, and virile civilisation: a civilisation which was closed to mystical escapism; which was true to the aristocratic-Aryan type of the patres, the lords of the lance and patriotism; which was mysteriously confirmed by the Nordic insignia of the Wolf, the Eagle, and the Axe; which was alive above all in the Olympian-warrior cult of a Zeus and a Hercules, of an Apollo and a Mars, in the feeling of owing its greatness and its aeternitas to the divine; in action as rite and rite as action, in the crystal-clear and yet potent experience of the supernatural, which was acknowledged in the Empire itself and culimnated in the symbol of Caesar as numen.
Quote number 3, p. 16, in praise of the rustic North:
We call for a decisive, unconditional, integral return to the Nordic pagans’ tradition. ... Our paganism, our tradition in the middle of the great sea of peoples who brought it from North to South, from West to East, did know it. And whoever today rises up against the European sickness, and against the European religion, is not a denier, but an affirmer – the only one who knows what an affirmation is. – We, therefore, today, bear witness to the Nordic pagan tradition and call for the restoration of its value in a Pagan Imperialism. The person of the speaker and of others who may be joined to him in the spiritual reality – solitary, impassive and uncompromisingly aristocratic in this world of merchants, the caged, and deviants – vanishes the face of this every reality, which, through them, calls to the unbroken and unvanquished of Europe, to those who still offer resistance, to those who still possess the future.
Quote number 4, p. 18, in praise of spirituality:
Just as a living body maintains itself only insofar as there is a soul to dominate it, so every social organisation not rooted in a spiritual reality is precarious and insubstantial, incapable of keeping its strength and identity under the vicissitudes of the various forces; it is not properly an organism, but rather a composite, an aggregate. – The true cause of the decline of the political idea in the contemporary West resides in the fact that the spiritual values which at one time suffused the social order have gradually vanished, and no one as yet has been able to replace them with anything. The problem has been reduced to the level of economic, industrial, military, administrative, or, at most, sentimental factors, without taking into account that all this is just mere matter, necessary as long as you want, but never sufficient, and as little capable of producing a strong, rational, self-supporting order as the simple meeting of mechanical forces could produce a living being.

There you go; this is what we want to highlight in Pagan Imperialism. This is the Evola we will later meet in Rivolta, only more succinct.

Evola, Julius. Pagan Imperialism. Sine loco: Gornahoor Press, 2017. 204 p

Jack Steelnack: the metal years
In Swedish: Evola -- några reflektioner
In Swedish: Ride the Tiger

lördag 22 oktober 2022

Poem: Vortex Master (Svensson 2022)

Hereby an epic poem. It comes in eight chapters. Part of chapter one has been published previously on the blog. -- This is a poem about our age -- the New Age, the Dvāpara Yuga... a poem about creating the world with our minds, our willpower and vision... a poem about chakras, storms, and dancing with the gods in the cathedrals.

We hereby give you the poem Vortex Master. It is an epic poem, a kind of story in poetic form. However, the narrative structure mostly serves as a framework to preach and teach. The poem begins by having the preacher worshiping in a church. Then he goes home. Then he goes out into the woods, lighting a bonfire. That's what we narratively find in chapters one through three; for the rest, see the table of contents right below this. The poem has a total of eight chapters.

Chapter One. Chakravartin
Chapter Two. Going Home
Chapter Three. Bonfire
Chapter Four. Burning Magnesium
Chapter Five. Halleluja I Love Her So
Chapter Six. Divine Laughter
Chapter Seven. Home Again
Chapter Eight. Cathedral Dome
Epilogue. Whole Town Dancing


Chapter One. Chakravartin

I'm dancing around in the cathedral dome,
the red brick temple,
the five-nave cathedral...

I'm dancing as the Vortex Master,
the Chakravartin,
the Man of Destiny...
the ruler of the rotation,
king of the wheel, the chakra...

Thus I chant, in the deathless
pattern of the śloka metre...
I sing me, I sing what I am...
a Chakravartin I am, and so I say:
aham asmi cakravartī...

I am dancing around in the cathedral dome,
going clockwise...

I am the Vortex Master,
the whirlpool of being...
the storm, the hurricane,
the tornado... the twister ominously
going through the landscape...

I am the origin of storms, the Holy Roller...
the rotation, the vortex...
the twirl, the swirl, the maelstrom...

I am the Chakravartin, the ruler of chakras...
ruler of the seven energy centres of the body,
the rotating wheels of vital energy.


I am the circuit around the altar...
a clockwise circle making you whole,
making you holy...

I rule the chakras, I rule the maelstrom...
I rule the whirlpool, the twirl, the spirals inside...
inside matter, inside of you – all of you...

I am the Horga song, dancing you to death,
the hambo dance for ever twirling, for ever
rotating, like a stream of existence...

I am the rotating flock of birds in the sky above you,
driving you mad...

I am the circle around the altar,
around Hindu gods... a clockwise circuit
making you whole, making you holy...


I’m dancing around in the cathedral dome,
going clockwise, as we do in the west, as we do in the east –
in Christian churches, in Hindu temples –
clockwise honouring the divine,
circum-ambulating the god.

Dancing around in the red-brick dome,
going round the altar, going round the ambulatory –
spiral movement forever, like the vortices
creating reality – for I am the Vortex Master,
master of storms, king of tornados –
and the storm begins here, with me, in the dome.

Turbulence begins at home...!

There’s a storm coming up and I AM the storm,
creating it by making rounds round the altar,
by going round and round, maddeningly like a flock
of birds in the sky – jackdaws they are,
round and round the towers they fly –

a vortex of birds, like Birds of the Master
in the Valerian adventure... a vortex in the sky,
look at them and go mad, see the swirl
and you’re caught in the movement –
like the dancers having to dance to the Horga song,
the evil fiddler forcing them to dance
to their death, forever whirling to the music,
round and round they went, until only their
skulls were rattling on the ground.

Vortex of dancers, vortex of birds,
vortex of clouds, vortex of stars...


I am the galaxy rotating in cosmic splendour,
rotating forever, rotating in harmony
with the All... I am the sky rotating
around the Pole... I am the Big Dipper
and its position through the seasons...
I am the Fylfoot...

I am the movement, I am the still center...
I am the pole and the circulation at once,
action as being, movement as a state...

I'm the adaptor in the middle of the record,
the still center... as we say in Swedish,
"alla ränner runt och ja --
é centrumpuck...!"


I’m the nexus of the crisis
and the origin of storms...

I’m the whirlpool, the maelstrom,
Charybdis, eddy, tornado, taifun...
I’m the rider of the storm, the Wild Hunt,
the Yuletide chase in the sky, led by
the Wild Hunter, Odin, god of storms...

All this I am.


I am the cycle of the seasons,
the precession of the equinoxes,
the cycle of day and night...
I can turn the day into night...
just wait and see, just follow me on this journey...


I'm a god come down to teach the world a lesson...
and while doing that, teaching and preaching,
I will also see to enjoy myself...
having fun, seeing the sights...
I will not shun the good things in life.

I'm a god, welcome to the satyr play...

I'm going round the altar, chanting Vedas,
adoring god, adoring the light... saying to the world,
ye shall be awakened from your sleep...
a storm is coming up, storm and frenzy,
storm and whirling vortices... and in this stormy weather
I will be the calm point in the centre, controlling the storm
but essentially unaffected by it.

Cue the Horga Song...!

Chapter Two. Going Home

I'm bowing to the altar and leaving the church...
going out in the greyish daylight...
greeting the flock of passerines coming at me,
approaching in the sky... they twirl, they rotate,
they go about madly in the sky... the perfect aerial
symbol of my vorticular creed, my Chakravartin nature...
big wheels keep on rolling... in the sky, inside me,
inside every man... and while I control my chakras,
I incite yours to rotate at my will.

I slowly head off through the city, past the university library,
on through the Picturesque Park... green shadows, the day
is dying... night is coming, darkness gathering... my element
indeed... for “when the night comes, I am king”...

I enter the Botanical Gardens, I nod at the classical backdrop
of the Orangery, four pillars and a front to elevate me
spiritually... just like Vilhelm Ekelund was uplifted
by the sight of Schinkel’s Neue Wache in Berlin...

Four pillars and a lintel, that’s all it takes
to create traditional grandeur...

Such a classical backdrop, a classical
piece of architecture... proud pillars
of the West... so I say, make me a pillared temple
and voilà, Tradition is magically there again –
be it Neue Wache, or this temple,
or anywhere you erect a classical front...

I leave the Orangery, heading off through quiet
greenery... and soon I approach my suburban palace,
white marble, white car on the drive...
and in the cinema tonight, my private monitoring room,
my cinema noche, I’ll be having a screening
of Parisfal on the Met.

Chapter Three. Bonfire

I was at home, planning a screening
of Parsifal... but my restlessness drove me out
into the woods... and there I lit an enormous
bonfire... I like to sit by the fire, it cleanses
my aura... and now, sitting by that fire, souls
approached me... souls beckoning me, calling, inviting,
fussing, fighting... but I was cool... and let
each one of them come forth and speak...
and they spoke of a people in bonds, a people
tormented by tyrants... mourn for us
oppressed in fear... chained and shackled
we are bound... freedom choked in dread
we live...
a people, enslaved in their
minds, scared... and I spoke, and I said...
I will lead you out of slavery,
out of bondage... and in the ashes of the morning
I awoke... and to the grey skies I lifted
my hands, shouting, “To undo the heavy
burden, and let the oppressed go free!”


Sum up your will. Make yourself strong,
not weak. Fight for your country and people,
not against them.

Be ethnically yourselves.
Shape your character, live according
to ideals.
Exercise your body.
Acquire knowledge.

There you have it, these are the commandments
of a Nordic Revival... the revival whose prophet
I am... as Chakravartin, Vortex Master, new age hero.


I am Chakravartin, the incarnated god,
the avatar of this age... at the conjunction
of two yugas I have come to liberate you,
shake you up, make you great... wake up
Faustia from her sleep, awaken Europe,
having the Western world rise and shine.

Freya, weck die Toten...!

aham asmi cakravartī...
namas te, rāja-ti-rāja...
hail the new dawn...


I will play a European song to my beloved...
join in, be overwhelmed, be European and hip...
to the tune of Time and Lady Grinning Soul...
and she nods and smiles but does she get it,
is she really into this European avant-garde...?

Is she...?

We will dance out, into the streets... me and my
beloved will lead the dance... and the whole city
will dance with us, rotate with us... me and Melina
in the centre, the rest around us... like Krishna
and Radha leading the divine dance... râsalîlâ...
round and round we go... symbol of the universe,
the dance of particles... the symphony
of the spheres... dance of life, dance of death...


Vortex Master, Chakravartin... master of wheels,
master of spirals... big wheels keep on turning,
fire keeps on burning... what goes up, must
come down, spinning wheels must go round...

Master of the Vortex... Blaster of the Vortex...
creator of worlds, destroyer of worlds...

Oppose me and oppose the world, oppose
the cosmos... join me and join the world, be part
of a cosmic resurrection, a galactic endeavour...
cue Heaven and Hell by Vangelis...


Holy Roller, Whirling Dervish...

spinning top, pirouetting dancer...
gyroscope, spiral staircase, spiral DNA...

Crown hair, vertex, whorl... we all have
such a spiral on top of our heads... a hair
spiral, a twirl... and we all have
chakras inside... and all matter is spiral
in nature... a spiral motion inwards creates
matter, a spiral motion outwards dissolves it...

We all have chakras... and he who consciously
knows this, wilfully directs the energy of his
chakras, he is a Chakravartin, and he will
potentially rule the world... microcosm
and macrocosm... because these are mindful times,
Kali Yuga over and Dvāpara Yuga just beginning...
and at this conjunction I am come
to lift you up, elevate you into cosmic splendour...


I am Viṣṇu, I am Kalki... I am Odin,
I am Frigga... I am Lakshmi, I am Brahma...
I am Shiva, I am Krishna... I am Freya,
I am Siv... I am Thor, I am Kristos...

This is the 21st century, this is Dvāpara Yuga,
and the gods are back... just look yourself
in the mirror... that divine spark in the eye,
that’s the soul, the true self... it’s divine...
tat satyam, sa ātmā, tat tvam asi...


“Time – is waiting in the wings,
his script is you and me”... verily...
I am Time, I am Death...
the destroyer of worlds... kālo ‘smi,
loka-kṣaya-kṛt pravṛddho...


I am the Vortex Master,
the Chakravartin, and I will cure you...
I will cure Europe of its inherent
disease, passive nihilism... the chakras
of the common European man are
rotating too slowly, that’s the thing...
so here I am, here to set your chakras
rolling... rolling... rolling down the river...

Chapter Four. Burning Magnesium

Astral war, frequency war, energy war...
cold war in a country garden... war games,
tin soldiers parading, propaganda war 24/7...
learn to love it – live it – forever at storming
distance, forever mindfully burning with the
burning magnesium in the sky, the illumination
round lighting up a diameter of 800 m...


All hail the Chakravartin, the Vortex Master...
Man of Destiny, Great Guide... ruler
of the world, Hero of the New Age...

And we all know that the New Age began in 1899,
the year Franz von Stuck painted Die Wilde Jagd...
also known as The Wild Hunt... which later became
Riders in the Sky... in the Wild West version...

But we're not in the prairie now...
we're not in Kansas anymore...
we're in Europe... mythical Europe,
true Europe... where pagan gods still
haunt the skies... especially at yuletide...
in wild frenzy, cosmic vorticism...
a wild bunch riding in a void,
a stormy posse of mythic beings...

The Wild Hunt rides forever through the mind,
the Berserker spirit reborn, riding forever in dream
space, forever fighting the astral war against the Demiurge...


Wind and storm and whirling vortices...
a new awakening where Chakravartin will
teach you virtue with the sword... he’ll
sweep you along in a hurricane of emotion
on to a destiny beyond the Beyond...

Valkyries riding to Valhalla...
einherjar fighting the wolf, the enemy of light...
led by Odin, riding out to fight the hordes
in the final battle for this army of heroes, this vīrasena...
this great army, die grosse Armee... den stora
the Wild Hunt, den vilda jakten...

The myth lives on, the Wild Hunt rides on...!
Led by the Avatar, the Chakravartin, the Magician
Man, the Vortex Master, it is going on tour...
and might soon harass a sky in your vicinity...
an aerial army of Aryan warriors come to fight
the endgame against the forces of the dark,
the forces of the Demiurge, the forces of materialist nihilism...

The Wild Hunt rides on... join us today...!
We will recruit any white man, ready
to fight the dark...

Chapter Five. Halleluja I Love Her So

I am the Vortex Master, the Chakravartin...
Man of Destiny, Hero of the New Age...


Halleluja I love her so... that’s what I do...
who cares if she doesn’t get all
my references... she tops it all off
with her smile, her very being... love fills out
the blank... spirit fills out the void...

Sometimes she falls short of my dream
image... sometimes she surpasses it...

Some things are lost in translation...
some things are won...
you can't strive for theoretical perfection...
you must go out there and live a life.

Chapter Six. Divine Laughter

I am the vortex, the vertex, the twirl...
the swirl, the whorl, the whirlwind...
Westland Whirlwind, Westland Lynx...

I, while the gods laugh, the world’s vortex am;
Maelström of passions in that hidden sea
whose waves of all-time lap the coasts of me;
and in small compass the dark waters cram.

This is Mervyn Peake...
he is the universe's vortex...
and so am I...
I am the Wheeler-Dealer...
I move in circles around you...
and here’s what you shall do:
take two vortices and let them
counter-rotate and voilà,
you have gravity-free power...
you have a perpetual machine,
a space machine, a ship
to conquer the stars in...
so we’ll go to Mars and teach
and preach under the Cydonia
sphinx, we’ll conquer the stars... it’s in
the cards, it’s in the vortex... for I, while
the gods laugh, the universe’s vortex am...


Again I circum-ambulate the altar, doing
the rounds round the ambulatorium... dancing
the rounds of the Black Rose... again I invoke
the Vortex, again I am the universe’s vortex...
again I impel the world to turn, the water to whirl,
the air to swirl, the storms to gather...

I bow to the altar and exit the church, going
to the graveyard... sitting down on a tombstone to brood,
ruminating over the fate of the world... then I go
to a mortuary chapel, lying down in a coffin
to sleep... and after forever I am awoken...
by a bland-looking emcee, a smooth-shaven middle-man...
and he says, “come on it’s time to go”... and I say
to what, to make some Faustian bargain... oh no he says,
we only want you to preach and teach... you’re
the Chakravartin ain’t you, master of spirals, master
of reality, master of the world... and I say yeah
and rise out of the coffin to follow the man...
down corridors and hallways going on forever...
until we come to a large hall... and as the emcee he is,
he takes the stage and says to the audience, hello
world, are you ready to rock’n roll... for here
he is, the Wheeler-Dealer, New Age Hero,
Holy Roller... Chakravartin, master of wheels,
master of energy... Man of Destiny, impeller of whirlwinds,
the origin of storms... and the crowd roars
and so I take the floor... exuding that Man of Destiny-
aura... that terrible and yet inspiring loneliness...
alone with history, alone with God... savouring
the magic of the moment... for the moment
is now, and now’s the moment... a moment
where I become the avatar, the god-man,
and everything I say comes easily... like a waterfall,
a whirlpool, a stream of images... in other words,
as Chakravartin and Vortex Blaster I do my thing...
to the millions I speak, to the audience
I lay out the law... that is, I continue my preaching:


I am soldier and savior, Wanax of the West, the preacher
of the great divide... I am shield Soskation, sword Nothung,
the spear of Dorylaon to pierce the head of the beast.

I am the water of life and the water of death.

I slew the dragon gnawing off the roots of the world tree.

I sent the demon guarding the treasure back to his home
dimension, leaving me with immense riches to create a new
viable currency... I stormed the reality studio, spearheaded
the breakout out of the Kamenets kessel, sailed the steel
breeze of Operation Ultra... I fought the aliens on earth
and their home-world... I sent the co-opting parasites to the hologram
along with blockheads, dolts, skeptics, and nihilists...

I’m a legend in my own lunchtime,
a poet and a pundit, a preacher and a teacher,
for ever seeking Harmony, Beauty,
and Spiritual Passion...

To seek and to find, the journey’s over... having arrived.

“Home is the sailor, home from the sea /
and the hunter is home from the woods...”


My preachment thus over a band magically
appeared behind me... a group, a spooky
ensemble... there to envelop the audience
in its musical magic... I thought I could
discern the notes of Diamond Diary...
and since it was an instrumental number I just
disappeared... there was nothing left to do, nothing left
to say... so I was engulfed by a suddenly rising
veil of dry ice smoke...

Chapter Seven. Home Again

And the rest is a muddle... my memories of what
happened next are not so clear-cut... I mean, I went
to sleep in the coffin, then the MC awoke me, then he took
me to a rock’n roll show... where I shone... and spoke...
like I’ve never spoken before... Man of Destiny, the lone
preacher... out of the desert and into the grand hall...
speaking words of wisdom, of action, of beauty,
of mythopoesy... that was the event... and then Diamond
Diary... and after my going into the smoke screen all went
dizzy... a dream state if there ever was one... a flurry
of action, of vorticular motion... I was the eye of the storm,
the impeller, the creator of this world by projecting
spirals in and out of the objects... I was the Horga song
fiddler, the Great Guide, the DNA... the flock of jackdaws
in the sky, added by ravens and crows, lizard-like birds,
monstrous creatures to drive you mad... and at the end
I fell into the vortex itself, I went down into
the Maelstrom, the whirlpool... into a black hole that was me.


I awoke to the song of birds... gentle birds, homely
birds... not maddening birds in a vortex in the sky...
Melina padded my forehead with a wet towel...
she came through like in a haze, a dream woman for sure...
she touched my face with a cool hand... and I was
saved... however, let me stress one thing... that
this was no turning point, no turning back...
it wasn’t so that I by this would relinquish my faith,
my role, my endeavour as Wheeler-Dealer and Master
of Storms... oh no... but you know how it is... light
and shade... we experience everything and its
counterpart... and now I savoured that moment
of rest... that moment of awakening in the light,
in a room full of flowers... and birdsong from
the garden outside.

I soon was back in form... so I went out into
the garden... and preached to the birds and the bees,
the flowers and the trees... and so I spoke
the following words:

I am god.
I am superman.
I am victory –
victory –

Chapter Eight. Cathedral Dome

Strengthened by my garden episode I felt like
keeping up the good work... I felt like preaching
day and night... forever speaking, forever
teaching... always dominating a crowd, always
lashing out and feeling the congregation surge
and react, like an ocean... like a “tale
from a topographic ocean”... like a metamorphic rock
that you actually shape here and now,
with your thought... as your deathless words ring
out, instantly becoming historical, instantly
becoming as if hewn in rock...

That what was I needed... to teach and preach...
So I went to church... and on the way people were going
in the same direction... they bore me on, they impelled
me to go, they invited and incited me to go to the dome
and preach... so we all went down to the red brick temple...
and in a wave of euphoria I was directed into the pulpit,
a grand artefact of gilded wood... with a staircase taking
me up into the nest, the perch, the boot, the speaker’s
platform with its pertinent frame... and when
the crowd had settled I could go on with my
preaching... first addressing the very room, bowing
to the spirit of the church... namas te... namas te...
all you gods and avatars hanging around in this ether...
om namo narāyanâya... śrī... śrī... and then I went
on with my preachment... and I said the following...

On the tower of Åsele church
is inscribed: Spera in Deo.

On the Apollo temple of Delphi
is inscribed: Gnôthi Seautón.

And on my heart is inscribed:
Aham brahmāsmi.

Believe in God.
Know Thyself.
I am god.

Epilogue. Whole Town Dancing

After the preachment I led the dance around the altar
with Melina... round and round we went, in hambo
rotation as well as in cirum-ambulation round the altar...
the whole church followed suit, the audience spontaneously
formed dancing couples and followed our lead...
we danced out of the church and into the streets... the invisible
band played the Horga song... then Black Rose, A Rock
Legend... which is a jig, very danceable... then
Geschichten aus dem Wienerwald, a walz... the whole town
was dancing to the rounds of a Strauss walz... and the sun
shone and the jackdaws circled... and the galaxy rotated
invisibly above our heads... in four-armed splendour
it created an eternal symbol for me as Chakravartin, Wheeler-
Dealer, Vortex Master, Man of Destiny, Great Guide...
Ruler of the Wheel, ultimate avatar, Hero of the New Age.

Burning Magnesium (2018)
Sanskrit poem, September 2022
Kali Yuga is over

söndag 16 oktober 2022

Sf-kongresser man minns

Att vara sf-fan... om detta har jag tidigare berättat här. Idag blir det mer minnen från min tid i detta gebit. Nu gäller det kongresser jag besökt.

Som sf-fan kom man först i kontakt med fanzinen. Att läsa och skapa text blev för mig centralt.

Men IRL-sidan av det hela, sf-festivaler och fanmöten, var också viktig. Så jag blev tidigt även något av en kongresshabitué. Från Swecon 83 till Göcon 86 besökte jag alla svenska sf-kongresser (8 st). Inalles, från 1983 till 2011, besökte jag 20 kongresser. Därtill bevisade jag ett flertal fanmöten och gatherings från Göteborg till Stockholm så det stod härliga till.

Den första con jag besökte var Swecon 83. Det var en överväldigande upplevelse i ett läckert kongresspalats, Teknis kårhus i Stockholm (se bild). Det var en rymlig lokal i två plan med stor filmsal och diverse andra annex, en del av dem i sober tegelrustik. Tegelrustik är nakna tegelväggar nyttjade som arkitektonisk finess ihop med ädelträ och annat.

Detta Teknis kårhus aka. KTH:s kårhus var annars ofta conlokal under fandoms guldålder. Där hölls enligt uppgift [jag kan inte göra länken klickbar, men:] Scancon 76, Sercon 80, Spacecon 80, Swecon 83, Fantastika 89 och Östan om sol 1995. Därtill, i nyare tid, Swecon 2011.

Generellt var Swecon 83 kanske ingen toppkongress. Scancon 76 och Swecon 82 kanske hade mer legendarisk status. Men vad visste jag om det när jag besökte denna min första con. I dagarna tre nätverkade jag, delade ut ett fanzine och köpte sf i bokhandeln: The Naked Sun av Asimov. Med andra ord, denna con satte spår; man levde i ett slags rus i dagarna tre, i en förhöjd medvetandeform. ”Detta skall hädanefter bliva min musik” tänkte jag under lördagskvällen; jag ville ha mer av denna vara, mer av denna umgängesform. Sf-fan var jag redan men nu hade jag även fått erfarenhet av dess festivalsida, dess IRL-karaktär.


På denna tid bodde jag i Övik. Jag fick resa en bit för att besöka festivaler. Men det var det värt. Den andra conen eller sf-festivalen jag besökte var Göcon 1 i maj 1984.

Det var i Göteborg. Och platsen var gamla Munkebäcksgymnasiet, den i gult tegel. Här, i en källarlokal, hölls Göcon 1. Lokalen var lite påver och steril men helt OK med filmsal jämte smårum och centralrum.

Generellt var detta en mindre con än Swecon men dock bättre, mer livaktig, mer energisk. Utan övriga jämförelser hade Göcon tätt program, bra filmer (såsom Flash Gordon, 1980), vällagad kongressbankett på en kinakrog (kycklinggryta med jordnötter och ananas), bra hedersgäst (John-Henri Holmberg, han deltog i programmet och var lättillgänglig). Därtill bestods man en specialchartrad spårvagnstur från conlokalen till krogen, en tur under vilken Ahrvid Engholm drog anekdoter om Göteborg och dess fans. Allt i strålande solsken; ja det var en ”solskenskongress” på alla sätt. Dessutom var det så att fandom frodades vid denna tid, de hårdare fejderna kom först 1985.


Nasacon 1984 i Fisksätra skiftet juni-juli var en jämförelsevis medioker con. Den hölls i Villa Kaprifol, en friliggande tvåvåningsvilla i brun puts, omgiven av en park. Jag roade mig dock så gott jag kunde, träffade fans och såg B-filmen Den skrikande skallen. Jag vill även minnas att det var här jag såg författaren till The Shadow Over Boston göra entré i en svart Volvo 144; han parkerade bilen bredvid conlokalen och kom fram och hälsade, inte på mig men på några äldre fans han kände. Han var också själv klädd i svart och hade kort, svart hår. Detta gjorde visst intryck; så gör man entré.


Härnäst i kongressväg blev det för mig Göcon 2 i maj 1985. Första Göcon, den 1984 (se ovan) hölls i det gulteglade Munkebäcksgymnasiets källare; denna andra i serien hade en lite snofsigare lokal, Axel Dahlströms torgs föreningslokal, som låg en trappa upp i en samlingslokal överblickande ett funkistorg. Conlokalen hade en glasvägg ut mot torget och inredningen var förhållandevis sober med träpanelad hörsal, specialdesignad rund bardisk mm. Till Göcon 1:s olympiska höjder nådde inte detta event men man hade iaf. en hyfsad hedersgäst (Swen-Christer Swahn) och arrangörsinsatsen var så god den kunde vara. Men pga den begynnande fejdmentaliteten blev detta i stort en trist con utan höjdpunkter. Nåväl, popfilmen Dra på! från 1967, om flera popband på väg till Götet för en konsert, var såklart najs. Hela titeln på detta odödliga opus är: Drrapå! Kul grej på väg till Götet. Man visade även sf-filmer men såsom varande en fannisk kongress medgavs inkluderandet av denna film. Rätt tänkt!

Hedersgästen Sven-Christer Swahn gjorde som antytt en OK insats. Han ”kunde” sf, han var en smart kritiker (qv 7 x framtiden och Tagning: framtid) och han kunde kåsera om livet som sf-läsare. Jag köpte under denna con hans Ljuset från Alpha Centauri och fick den signerad, men tyvärr är den inte bra, denna roman som über-avancerat inte handlar om det den verkar handla om... Den är (om än på ett annat plan) lika betänksam som hans Sf-galaxen, en roman om en sf-kongress. Ty denna roman misslyckas med att träffa essensen hos det den skildrar, sf-fandom. Swahn kom nämligen in i fandom först som etablerad och medelålders och då är det för sent; då har man inte socialiserats in i den unika fandomjargongen när man är ung och påverkbar. Man har då inte absorberat dess själ med sitt hela väsen, såsom man gör när man går med som ung.

Dvs, såsom undertecknad gjorde. Jag gick med som 17-åring och kunde då absorbera fandoms väsen i stort och smått, på gott och ont. Säg vad ni vill men JAG LJUGER INTE OM FANDOM.


Nästa con jag besökte var Nasacon 1985, som hölls i Ålgården i Fisksätra, en trist lokal för en trist con. Jag vill minnas att jag konverserade med något slags språkbegåvning i baren på kvällen, hon kunde skifta från danska till svenska osv. utan att blinka. Det var typ det enda jag minns från denna con.

Swecon 85 så, 16-18 augusti 1985. Den hade en fin conlokal, gamla Hotel Continental mitt emot centralen, med sobert lyxiga faciliteter utrustade med heltäckande matta; det fanns bar, bokrum, filmsal och smårum, dock kändes det hela något klaustrofobiskt trångt. Swecon 83 var mer episk med sin rymliga filmsal etc. Stämningen var något tryckt också pga att NN stoppade X och Y från att hålla sin programpunkt. ”Stoppad programpunkt” på detta sätt såg jag aldrig på mina tidigare coner, och detta inledde en tid av fejdande och badwill som egentligen aldrig upphörde. Fandomen dog, dock överlevde den, men vad som för mig var ”pionjärtiden”, den första tiden, ”smekmånaden” om man så vill, 1983-1984, den stämningen kom aldrig tillbaka. Men denna ”paradise lost”-känsla är allmän för alla fans i alla tider; de första coner man besöker är magiska, sedan blir det mer rutin.

Swecon 85 var dock OK för insatsen av hedersgästen Christopher Priest, som under sitt hedersgästtal talade om ”writers workshops”. Detta handlar om hur folk med författarambitioner kan slå ihop sig i en grupp, kommentera varandras texter och på så sätt bli bättre i sin konst – allt möjligen med målet att till slut nå professionell publicering. Själv har jag aldrig sysslat med sådan gruppkonst men visst är det hela en möjlighet för den som vill skapa och vill ha respons.


Sedan flyttade jag till Uppsala där jag blev med i dess lokala fandomgruppering. Ghöstacon i oktober 1985 som arrangerades av Uppsalafandom var i stort sett en parodi på en kongress; den lämnade föga bestående intryck. Våren 1986 såg Göcon 3 i Götet; jag minns föga av den, den var i samma lokal som Göcon 2 men nu hade man den färglöse skotten Alasdair Grey (romanen Lanark) som hedersgäst. Magisk realism à la Lanark är OK men att ge det hela fannisk bäring är svårare; som påpekades av någon när det begav sig var Grey poänglös som hedersgäst. Att ha folk som vet något om fandom, som ger av sig själva som hedersgäster, är ett måste. Att bara vara litterärt underbarn med vag fantastika-anknytning räcker inte.

Luncon 3 i Lund, maj 1987, bevistades härnäst. Detta event var en medioker sak i solens sken i lokalen Lophtet, en nybyggd skånelänga placerad inom en jordvall à la fornmedeltidsby. Jag växlade dock några ord med hedersgästen David Brin, sittande på sagda jordvall. Denne författare till Startide Rising påminde vagt om Carl Sagan, var lättpratad och positiv. Jag träffade även Alf Yngve (författare till Terra Hexa), som i baren på söndagen sa något ironiskt och nyktert, jag minns dock ej vad.

Nästa sf-kongress jag bevistade var en norsk händelse, Kringcon på sommaren 1988; den hölls i studentbyn Kringsjå utanför Oslo. Man kan säga att det var en norsk motsvarighet till Nasacon mm, en ”fannisk” kongress, arrangerad med vänster hand. Dock gjorde svenskarna Johan Frick, Jan Risheden och Erik Andersson intryck med sin filksongs-programpunkt. Man satt ute i det fria och lirade fanniska versioner av sånger, t.ex ”Tänk att få brev ifrån Andersson” (baserad på Taubes Rosa på bal) samt den egenkomponerade countrylåten ”Love in the Spirit of Philip K. Dick”. Den sistnämnda framfördes av Frick och det är ett glatt minne av honom. Han avled 2015; vi var båda fans i Övik från 1982 och framåt, gick i parallellklass på gymnasiet till och med, men personkemin mellan oss båda var nonexistent. Så att, att ändå glatt kunna minnas ett sådant ”ufo” som han i form av exekverandet av ”Love in the Spirit of PKD” – det värmer något.

Härmed en anekdot från Kringcon: man hade i lokalen lagt fram ex av anarkisttidningen Gateavisa. Jag la mig på en soffa och läste ett ex. En välmenande norsk fan, medansvarig för tidningen, frågade om jag inte ville köpa ett ex...? ”Nej” sa jag.


Sedan var jag med och arrangerade ännu en Uppsalacon, Tröstcon, en tröst för en utebliven större con. Tröstcon hölls i oktober 1988 i Jontes stuga, juridiska föreningens lilla lokal på Övre slottsgatan. Conmiddagen hölls på en pizzeria. Och jag och en kamrat höll föredraget ”Krig i tidig sf”, om verk såsom The World Set Free av Wells. Socialt sett var det en OK con men som event omärkligt. Det var mest en ursäkt för fans att komma till Uppsala en helg, träffas och dricka öl. Men så umgås ju vi högerradikaler också...

Jag bevistade härnäst Nasacon 1989, som hölls på Fiskarhöjden i Fisksätra. Det var, som alla Nasacons, ännu en medioker con som inte gjorde något som helst intryck. Hedersgäst var Sam J. Lundwall; OK, jag såg honom strosa omkring där, bra, då hade man sett denne legendar IRL.

Nästa con för mig var nästa års Nasacon, 1990, som 6-8 juli hölls i Nacka konferenscenter. Anslutet till Nacka gymnasium var detta legendarisk mark; här blev till exempel Gösta Bohman moderaternas partiledare i november 1970 under stormiga former. Yngve Holmberg fick gå då. – Men nu då? Ja, det var nog en magnifik lokal med stor filmsal, spatiös förhall med tegelrustik och snickerier i ädelträ, plus fler anslutande smårum. Men conen i sig var präglad av badwill pga fejdklimatet. Dessutom serverades en usel kongressbankett; idén hade ”rolig” sf-anknytning men var oätlig, felbalanserad, bedrövlig.

Men: jag åhörde under denna con ett föredrag av hedersgästen Brian Aldiss. Denne legendar bidrog med en anekdot om hur han är i Sovjet som kringresande sf-ambassadör; vid ett tillfälle måste han i aktuell lokal uppsöka the gents och han frågar var det är, det är i källaren säger man lite skamset, jaha varför skamset undrar han... han går dit och finner platsen tjänstgöra som avstjälpningsplats för gamla Stalinbyster. Lite poänglöst detta kanske men en bra bild är det onekligen.

Jag vill även minnas auktionen av sf-böcker på Nasacon 90 som en ljuspunkt: tänk er John-Henri vid klubban, kedjerökandes och dragandes deadpan-anekdoter om de verk som såldes, ja det var en syn för gudar. Jag köpte The Dark Light Years av Aldiss – ett verk som jag senare, på tåget hem, av en sf-kamrat bytte till Heinleins The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress.


Nästa con jag besökte var Höstcon III i Uppsala, oktober 1990; jag var även med och arrangerade. Det var en liten, oambitiös con, åter förlagd i Jontes stuga, men conen hade själ, den hade liv. Jag roades av att laga conmiddagen i det lilla köket, roades av att delta i en frågesport, roades av umgänget med svenska och norska fans. Detta var den bästa Uppsala-conen i detta sjok, mitt fanliv 1983-1995.

Bidragande till conens succé var att man hade bar (alla sf-coner måste ha bar, något annat är absurt), att den som coner plägar pågick i två dagar (lördag-söndag) samt att mixen folk var rätt. En lyckad fest sägs ska ha både ”tarts and bishops” i klientelet och det kan gälla generellt för coner också, det ska vara en mix av olika folk – av, säg, författare, förlagsfolk, fans och ”fringe people”, det sistnämnda lika med folk som kanske inte dagligen läser sf/f men som ändå har någon form av intresse för fantastika. – Det var rätt få kvinnliga fans på Höstcon III men de som fanns, speciellt X från Stockholm, roade sig iaf kungligt. Även hon var del i den alkemiska mix som gjorde denna con till en smärre höjdpunkt. Ty man ska komma ihåg att detta var 1990, en tid av bråk och fejdande i fandom, men ändå fanns andningshål i eländet, såsom Höstcon III.

Över så till nästa event jag besökte: Stockon 7, 11-13 januari 1991. Det var en liten con, kanske den minsta jag besökt: 30 deltagare var vi där i Farsta föreningsgård. Programmet har inte satt några spår i mitt minne. Men jag fick i alla fall hälsa på hedersgästen, Mika Tenhovaara, fandoms störste novellist.

Stockon var dock OK pga trevligt umgänge. Detsamma kan sägas om Cosmia i Göteborg, maj 1991. Som con betraktad var den omärklig men han som arrangerade den var en trevlig prick; han var, kan man säga, en motpol till det övriga Göteborgsfandom som bojkottade conen. Denna Göteborgsfandom var legendarisk, den hade ju gjort Göcon 1 till en succé och för det ska den ha evig ära. Men denna gruppering var också lite speciell; dess attityd hade sina underliga koder, trots eller kanske på grund av den inbitna fanniskheten. – Så jag hade det trevligt på Cosmia; därtill så hade jag liftat från Uppsala till Götet och sedan tog jag flyget hem, snabbt och lätt. Hela denna resa hade något obeskrivligt elegant och impulsivt över sig, Actionism i rörelse så att säga.


Så Östan om sol, juni 1995. Detta var en ambitiös fantasykongress med Robert Jordan som hedersgäst. För mig var det hela OK men inte på långa vägar den omvälvande upplevelse som Swecon 83 i samma lokal inneburit. Teknisternas kårhus i Stockholm alltså. – Detta illustrerar det faktum att man inte två gånger kan gå ner i samma flod – potamoisi tois autoisi embainomen, te kai ouch embainomen; esmen te kai ouch esmen, som Herakleitos sa. Återigen: den första con man besöker brukar sätta mytologiska spår i ens inre, och senare event kan sällan överträffa det. Den första kärleken är, med andra ord, obeskrivlig.

Jag har förvisso besökt coner senare, fler än de ovanstående. Jag har rent av skrivit om dem här på bloggen: Kontext 2008 och Imagicon 2009, samt så även Eurocon 2011. Som kongresser var dessa tre i stort sett OK.

Och sedan drog PK-ismen ner sin järnridå över fandom... detta bör nämnas för protokollets skull.

Ska man sluta denna text på en glad not kan man sammanfatta de coner jag besökt så här:
Bästa kongressbankett: Göcon 1
Bästa svenska hedersgäst: Sven-Christer Swahn, Göcon 2
Bästa utländska hedersgäst: David Brin, Luncon III
Bästa con-upplevelse überhaupt: Swecon 83
Bästa programpunkt: spårvagns-sightseeingen på Göcon 1

SF Seen From the Right: presentation på svenska
Eurocon 2011
Mitt liv som sf-fan
Heinlein inspirerar svensk höger med Starship Troopers

onsdag 12 oktober 2022

Poem, 12 October 2022

Good morning. Hereby a study in magical realism.

Mid October, mid autumn...

You know what it's like...

You feel like saying things like this...


When the dark forces gain the upper
hand, I descend to fight for the light...
you know this... for as the scripture says,
“Whenever and wherever religion is in danger,
and irreligon is on the rise – then I descend”...
thus we read in the Gītā, chapter 4, verse 7...

That’s what I say... and you all
know the original... the śloka meter
with its peculiar vibe... in this way...
yadā yadā hi dharmasya
glānir bhavati bhārata
abhyutthānam adharmasya
tadātmānaṃ sṛjāmy aham
And then...

And then...

And then we read in this venerable revelation of the Lord,
“To deliver the pious and to crush the miscreants, and to
uphold dharma, I appear time and again” (4.8)...
paritrāṇāya sādhūnāṃ
vināśāya ca duṣkṛtām
sambhavāmi yuge yuge
That’s what I do... I descend, I become an
avatar among you, here on earth...

In short, I'm a man-god --
a superman -- an übermensch...

I'm a myth -- you're a man.

I’m energy -- you’re matter.

Jack Steelnack -- superman in a sidecap
Sanskrit poem
Burning Magnesium (2018)
Hyperborean history

måndag 10 oktober 2022

Ohlmarks -- några anteckningar kring ett fenomen

In Swedish. -- Härmed några rader om Åke Ohlmarks. Han levde 1911-1984 och han hade stil, litterär stil.

Åke Ohlmarks var en skåning. Han låg i Lund under den gamla goda tiden, dvs. mellankrigstiden. Där tillägnade han sig den lundensiska lärdomsstilen, där mötte han Frans G. Bengtsson, där levde han som i paradiset.

Skåne skildrade Ohlmarks senare i en bokserie: Konungariket Skånes undergång. Detta är en fet krönika från vikingatid till senmedeltid, lite fablat och lite ihopdiktat så som fiktion ska vara, en läsvärd skröna med lagom faktaunderlag. Första delen, om vikingatiden (Striden om strutkronan, 1976) hade till exempel lite äventyr i Baltikum med härjningar och annat, bra driv.

Ett annat band i aktuell serie handlade om 1300-talet. Inledningen var magnifik med en Oden som rider runt i ett nattligt Skåne och signar och har sig. Här var även en scen med några svenska munkar i Paris, snackandes som moderna akademiker med intriger och småtjafs, mycket träffande och med medeltida stuk. Subtil satir.

Ett annat av Ohlmarks möjligen relevanta fictionverk var Sagan om nibelungarna, en fornnordisk saga med fri komposition. Här har vi smeden Valand som tas tillfånga och sätts i Uppsalahovet att smida ringar. Man bjuds bland annat syltad björnram och vildsvinsskinka, lingondricka och frusen grädde. Detta är i stort sett en bra modern omdiktning av en fornnordisk saga.

Ohlmarks var en kompakt man som skrev kompakta böcker, dock med åtskillig charm och med goda enskildheter.


Ohlmarks skrev mycket. Mycket är också läsvärt. Som essäerna i Tidernas vansinnigheter -- rekordbok i historiska kuriositeter (1984), memoarboken Drömfabriken (1970, när han var filmregissör på Europafilm på 50-talet), samt Tolkien-lexikon (1976, en del errata finns här men det är ändå en läsbar ordlista).

Här måste såklart också nämnas översättningen av Tolkiens ringtrilogi. Detta är översättning som konst; "varje sida låter som svensk originaldikt" skrev en recensent.


Det är nu dags att beröra några centrala Ohlmarks-verk. Det är dags att säga något om en illa beryktad triad, nämligen Ohlmarks böcker om Tolkien.

Det började stilla med Ohlmarks Tolkienbiografi (1977). Det var en ärlig, rak, lätt skönmålande bok om Tolkien som den store sagoberättaren. Noterbart var bland annat hur väl det akademiska livet i Oxford skildrades, en sådan där utvikning som kännetecknar en bra fackboksskribent.

Sedan blev det värre. I Tolkiens arv (1978) började bråket. Ohlmarks, den store Tolkien-entusiasten, Tolkiens profet i Sverige, var putt på Christopher Tolkien och Uppsalas tolkienister och allt. Ohlmarks själv var nog inte fri från skuld i det hela; han var en stridbar man. Dock är Tolkiens arv en läsvärd bok, han kunde förvisso berätta och göra i och för sig banala episoder läsbara. Som när han är på tolkienistmiddag i Uppsala och någon medlem går runt och knäpper bilder på honom och hans damsällskap när de klär om inför någon middag; milstolpar i ohlmarxismen.

Sist kom då Tolkien och den svarta magin (1982):
Fader, jag har syndat mot himlen och inför dig... Fader, förlåt mej, ty jag visste inte vad jag gjorde... – Många bibliska kärnord kommer för mej nu när jag betänker de decennier jag förslösat på att översätta Tolkiens smörja som om det gällt någon av de stora klassikerna, på att kuska land och rike kring mellan Umeå och Smygehuk för att göra propaganda för sattyget och dess upphovsman, på alla de stora och djupt inspirerade ord jag med dånande röst utslungat från ett trettiotal talarstolar om hela detta skojeri.

Så börjar boken, medryckande som få. Naturligtvis fablar Ohlmarks när han säger att tolkienister är satanister – men saken är den att han inte riktigt gör det, han uttrycker sig typ "det ryktas om satanistorgier" osv. Därmed visste han att tidningarna skulle överföra det hela som "tolkienism = satanism", medan han själv i en eventuell tryckfrihetsprocess kunnat svära sig fri och bara säga att han antytt detta. Dessutom nämner han inga namn på de personer han angriper, bara deras alias i tolkienföreningen.

Så formulerar sig en van fejdare. Det var nämligen inte möjligt att stämma Ohlmarks för förtal, främst på grund av detta med aliasen (men också för att tryckfrihetsmål överhuvud är svåra att vinna i Sverige).

”Kom igen bara, mördare, gangsters, mafiosis och Cosa Nostra-agents beyond the sea. Jag är beredd, jag ska nog bjuda er spetsen...” – Så låter slutklämmen i boken. Ohlmarks ser tolkienismen som en internationell maffia, inte dåligt fablat. Men det är kul att läsa; jag ser verket som en given kandidat till genren svenska smädesskrifter, jämte böcker som Sven Stolpes om Olof Lagercrantz, Gyllensten-Herlitz' Camera Obscura (som angriper obskurantismen i 40-talets modernistpoesi) samt Ferdinand Fitzschkloffs Uppror (som går till rätta med E. C. Tubb, författare av lite formelartad men i regel god space opera).

Tolkien och den svarta magin är en rik källa att ösa ur. Ni har sett stilprov ovan. Boken är full av finter och knep, guilt by association och allt, och härmed ett citat om vad tolkienister gör på sina möten: ”... där röks troligen hasch; antagligen har man också börjat eller kan när som helst börja också med tyngre droger”. [s. 71]

Och dessa tolkiensällskap styrs av studenter med rika föräldrar: ”Mycket ofta omger sig dessa urspårade överklassynglingar med devota slavar ur den arbetande klassen, stackare som ser upp till studenternas högre bildning och utför varje deras order.”

Så är det... för att nu inte tala om alla människooffer, gravskändningar och häxkonster. Att en viss tolkienist i Malmö internt – och på skoj – kallades "häxmästare" blåste Ohlmarks upp till oanade proportioner.


Ska man våga sig på en slutsats om Ohlmarks så blir det följande...

Ohlmarks var, med sina brister i minne, trots allt en konservativ intellektuell i en tid då dessa var sällsynta.

På denna front, den litterär-konservativa, hade vi då typ Sven Stolpe och Stig Strömholm också.

Men mer var det inte.

Man var därför tacksam för envar någorlunda mediaprofil som INTE tuggade det förutsägbara "Strindberg-Ekelöf-Lindegren-nihilism i betonghusens skugga", utan istället hade ”Eddan, Snorre, historisk bildning” i bagaget.

Oerhört slående... oerhört uppfriskande.

Ohlmarks gav oss apokalypsens färgspel i en tid av betong och utslätning. Man kan inte nog tacka honom för det.

Den heliga flamman (2022)
Redeeming Lucifer (2017)
TGO recenserar Redeeming Lucifer

söndag 2 oktober 2022

Poem, 2 October 2022

Good morning. Hereby a poem by yours truly.

I sometimes wonder: what language shall I write in?

Like, shall I write in English...?

Or, in Swedish...?

That's the mainstay of this blog -- that's the two main languages I write in. I have posts in English, I have posts in Swedish.

Now, however, for this day's post, I will neither write solely in English, nor in Swedish; I will write in both. And in Sanskrit. And some other languages...

And I won't translate any of it into some easily understandable language, some heartwarming lingua franca.

I just won't. Instead, I will write it all in Svenssonian. This is the language used below.

This is the program. So as a reader, you must stick to this program -- or, kindly leave... kindly ignore this post.

In other words, now you're forewarned.

And so it begins...


Om bhûr bhuvah svaha...
tat savitur varenyam...
we’ve come to magnify the Lord...
hiranya shri... hiranya shri...
I am an astronaut... I am a juggernaut...
see time reverse with your own eyes...
praise forever Guénon...
praise forever Evola...
praise forever Jünger...
praise forever Shuré...
hiranya shri... hiranya shri...


Touching down on Nasca landing ground...

Thoth building the great pyramid...

A Brigde of Magpies...

The Watering Place of Good Peace...

The New Improved Sun... angelic radiance from the
Radiant Dome...


You must listen to Belinda Carlisle I Get Weak...
you must listen to B-52s Love Shack... must listen to
always on my mind china in your hand can i play with madness
starstruck voodoo i believe stargazer stars in my pocket like
grains of sand stardust mood indigo...


hiranya shri, hiranya shri...
om bhûr bhuvah svaha...
hell asar, hell asynjor...
praise vishnu praise shiva praise krishna
hare krishna hare krishna
hare râma hare râma...
han är evig fader, underbar i nåd, han är fridsfurste, väldig i makt...
så lunka vi så småningom...
that selfsame moment I could pray...
only when there’s order will the job be done
everybody in the whole cell block...
was dancing to the jailhouse rock...


Who wrote the book of love?

Why didn’t they ask Evans?


How many were there going to St. Ives?

I can play the recorder, can you?


praise odin praise frigga praise thor praise baldur
praise nanna praise the lord praise him forever amen


I am the narrator... godly story teller, writer... the
author of your life, my life, everybody’s life...
I am sweyn bostron peter maltby groff conklin...
jommy cross kim kinnison donal graeme...
curt nelson james bond peter calvert carl griffensteen
arno greif davayan son of dondelias parvan son of palinur


om bhûr bhuvah svaha... om bhûr bhuvah svaha...
der reine tor... harre sein... den ich erkor...
adieu la meuse... mois je suis l’hîver...
märk hur vår skugga märk movitz mon frère...
ja det er et yndigt land... land du välsignade...
flamma stolt mot dunkla skyar... ma come
balli bella bimba... varda che pasa la villanella
i kenya i afrika där bor en stenrik elefant
för uti sin svans han har en jättediamant


ap kaise haim?

N eller M? Är syntetiska satser à priori möjliga?

Hiranya shri... hiranya shri...

I am superman... I have palaces all over the land...

I am god I am superman I am victory – victory – victory...
I have a city palace with façade of gold and chambers of platinum
I have a Sveaväg temple of darkened silver and black-painted panels
and silk rugs and a marble-clad library with a bronze ceiling...
I have a Hornsgata palace with twin wings framing a yard with
a pond, a grand staircase and doors of bronze leading to
a forehall with rich hangings and a double escalier, ending
in a chamber with a painted celing depicting a heavenly scene,
and with furniture made of oakwood, jakaranda, mahogany,
the walls decorated in silver and gold... silver and gold... and ruby
sapphire cat’s eye emerald agate onyx obsidian topaze pearl
coral amber, forever amber...


Quicksilver --

Chevy 55 --

Chevy Nomad Jungle Jim Blue Max Corvette 63...
Corvette 58 Impala 58 Chevy 51... Merc 49 Ford 59 Skyliner Retractable...

Mustang 68 --

Lil’ Coffin --

Paddy Wagon --

43 Willys Drag Pickup Ford 34 Ford 49 Chevy 37 Pontiac Grand Prix 67...


Gurkhas japanese infantry luftwaffe personnel afrika korps...
german infantry german tank crew panzer grenadiers...
25 mm wargame figures...
15 mm wargame figures...
elastolin horse for a 30s german cavalryman...
crescent toys britains prince august revell...
airfix monogram frog matchbox...
dinky toys corgi toys scalextric

Kalki Purâna
Rigorism (2022)