Posted on


Written for Operation Werewolf by Joshua Buckley

Love trumps hate. Love is all you need. And most grating of all, “live, laugh, love!” (The latter, it would seem, is now something like the battle cry of the basic bitch.) To hear people talk, you would think that we live in the most loving society that’s ever existed. Of course, people today are no more loving—and certainly no more lovable—than they’ve ever been. Moreover, if you listen closely to all the love-mongering, it will become clear that when the Establishment and its educational-political-media apparatus talks about “love,” they want us to understand them in two very specific ways.

First, we are supposed to love everyone equally (“love sees no color”). Somehow, we are expected to summon up the same level of concern for other people’s children, in countries whose names we can’t pronounce, and whose boundaries we can’t pinpoint on a map, as we would for our own families. This is “universal love” of a sort that would make Jesus blush. It’s also almost always disingenuous. Just as “some animals are more equal than others,” the powers-that-be clearly find some people more lovable than others. Nevertheless, the idea of universal love is sufficiently appealing to the amorphous sensibilities of modern people, that it has become the Establishment’s go-to argument when it needs to morally manipulate the public—and politics now seems to consist primarily of moral manipulation.

Second, our society puts a tremendous premium on sexual love, especially sexual love of the more promiscuous variety. There’s not actually a lot of lovemaking going on, but there’s plenty of fucking. Monogamous marriages may be a quaint relic of the past, but the Establishment has never run across a fetish or deviant sexual practice that it can’t get behind (so to speak). There are organized advocacy groups for Adult Babies, scatophiliacs, and people who fuck in cartoon character costumes. I am hardly a prude and could care less if people are into feet or rubber outfits, but why are these things treated as if they have redemptive societal value? Part of it is the fact that in a capitalist society, marginal sexual identities have become commodified, just like everything else. Even plain old-fashioned hetero-sex can now be ordered up like pizza on dating apps like Tinder. As with any other consumer product, the approach seems to be one of quantity over quality. Why try to cultivate meaningful relationships or start a family when you can download instant sexual gratification from the internet? Still, the commodification of sexuality does not explain everything. The Establishment has a vested interest in promoting an entirely sexualized conception of love, just as it has a vested interest in promoting a “universal love” that purports to embrace all of humanity.

So what do these two conceptions of “love” have in common? The answer is that neither of them requires commitment. Imagining that you love all people everywhere, without distinction, and screwing random strangers while never committing your heart to any of them, means never having to choose sides. That’s because choosing sides is dangerous.

And real love is dangerous. “When we want to read of the deeds that are done for love, whither do we turn?” asked the playwright George Bernard Shaw. “To the murder column.” When you really love someone, the implication is that you’re willing to fight for them. Everyone knows that a mother bear with her cubs is the deadliest animal in the forest. It’s also true that some men—often unhinged men, sometimes genuinely heroic men—can be induced to fight and die for an ideal or principle. But even ordinary, seemingly unheroic men, will fight to the death if their wives or children are threatened. Most of the soldiers who have fallen in Iraq or Afghanistan didn’t die or get permanently maimed because they believed the propaganda about spreading democracy and defending “’muh freedoms.” They died to protect their brothers-in-arms, who they love in a way that non-combatants can probably never comprehend. (When I talk about “love” between men, I mean it in a completely non-sexual way. This should of course go without saying, but in our homo-centric, sex-obsessed society, it probably bears repeating.) Uprisings and revolutions are fomented by bands of men whose loyalty to one another can overthrow existing nations, and found new ones.

Similarly, families and extended families can provide for each other and support each other in ways that no government can ever compete with, and can even grow into dynasties that can challenge State power. The cognitive scientist Steven Pinker once opined that the family is the most seditious institution in human history, precisely because it will always favor its own members over the claims of unrelated fellow citizens. This is why the government is such a shameless promoter of single motherhood, child “protection” agencies, and feminist initiatives to destroy the patriarchy. It is also why a phenomenon like “slut-shaming” is now regarded as a dire political crime. These ideas are reflected in the two greatest dystopian novels of the twentieth century: Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World and George Orwell’s 1984.

In Huxley’s soft-totalitarian World State, families have been abolished. Children are engineered and raised in institutions like the “London Hatchery and Conditioning Centre.” Indiscriminate fucking is encouraged, but monogamous relationships and even words like “mother” and “father” are considered taboo.

In the hard-totalitarian society imagined by Orwell, the Party is fully aware of the dangers of meaningful human attachments that stand outside the State’s orbit. “Already we are breaking down the habits of thought that have survived from before the Revolution. We have cut the links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between man and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and no friends.” In the book’s final act, Winston Smith is captured and tortured by Big Brother. But Winston’s interrogator does not consider him sufficiently broken—and ready for re-integration into the Party—until he denounces Julia, the woman he loves.

If libertarians, anarchists, or other anti-statists want real independence from the System, they should be working to form strong brotherhoods, tribes, and families, which are the only true alternative to the State’s hegemony. Instead, these are often the very same people most susceptible to the pernicious myth of the “rugged individual.” We have all heard some variant of the quote from Henrik Ibsen: “The strongest man in the world is he who stands most alone.” While this may be true in some circumstances, or in certain matters of conscience, it completely ignores the reality that human beings are by nature almost entirely social—there has never been a time when people were able to truly go it alone. When modern men tell themselves that they are “self-made,” they are almost certainly deluding themselves about the degree to which they are relying on support systems provided by the government. Our goal, then, should not be to isolate ourselves as individuals (as if such a thing were even possible), but to cultivate relationships of interdependence with people who we actually care about, and who actually care about us. The State would quite naturally be excluded from this equation.

Furthermore, while Ibsen might have thought that being alone is “strong,” for most people this kind of thinking is just a tepid self-justification for weakness. You might tell yourself that you’re a “pick-up artist” because you fuck lots of strangers, but you’re probably just an asshole. Ditto for “MGTOWs” (you can Google it if you need to), who are almost certainly making a virtue out of necessity. Likewise, refusing to open yourself up to real, deep friendships, probably just means that you’re a coward who’s afraid of being “hurt.” There is also nothing strong about adopting the Establishment’s empty platitudes about “one love” that “doesn’t build walls.” Loving all of humanity is pretty much the same thing as loving no one. Real love gains meaning when it chooses its object to the exclusion of all others.

Real love, in other words, is about loyalty. It is a powerful antidote to the spirit of ironic detachment, rootlessness, and the lonely, creeping emptiness, that are the hallmarks of the modern condition.

Posted on


Dire Dogs.

Through my personal time with the Operation I have done my best to exemplify its tenets, and to be an example of how its declared aims and methods can have a positive effect on an individual’s life. It has taken me from an unhealthy and inconsistent person to someone with both feet firmly on a path of strength, a “path with heart.” Like the Fool of the tarot trumps, I am still just setting out on this road with the greater part of the adventure ahead of me- many lessons yet to be learned, and, as my brother Matthias stated in his recent article, I am, in most ways, “just a beginner.”

Clearly, a great deal of self-discipline is needed on this road, but there is more to it than that, or we would simply be lone individuals around the world, living our lives with no connection to a great concept, or a greater whole.

One of the things that has kept me steadfast in my day to day is the concept of pressure. Anyone who has listened to Justin Garcia’s podcast “The Pressure Project” is probably familiar with this term, and most are familiar with the concept itself, at least from a hypothetical standpoint, but many are still “missing it” in their life. This idea of pressure we often discuss is that one’s peers will constantly apply healthy pressure and positive confrontation, in order to ensure that all links in the chain of the tribe are strong. It must be applied consistently and steadily, as so many individuals are habitual “bingers,” people who will throw themselves headlong into an endeavor like weightlifting for a short period of time before quitting due to some “life happened” excuse- they will then go through a period of personal worthlessness or low productivity, before reaching a point of sufficient “motivation” (a term I have come to despise), and beginning all over again.

These types of people are engaged in a chronic behavior that will repeat itself over and over throughout their lives, creating a template of underachievement and zero discipline (which, as Jim Wendler is fond of saying, beats the hell out of “motivation” any day of the week) which will manifest itself in myriad ways within their personal life. They will be masters of the shallow water, never reaching true depth in either their squat(!) or other endeavors they excitedly pursue for brief, ineffective sprints before becoming easily winded and sitting back down just to “catch their breath.”

Svarog/Hamrammr. Svarog/Hamrammr.

These individuals need pressure. If they exist within a peer group, it is the peer group’s responsibility to bring them up to speed through “tough love,” or, in the end, to purge them from the body if they resist all attempts to reforge them. Operation Werewolf is not an acceptance philosophy. It is exclusive, in that it only accepts those individuals who are demonstrably on the path to greatness. But on the path means consistent effort, not haphazard application and grandiose claims. That way lies only self delusion and sickness. These individuals must be tried in the fiery crucible, tested, and if found wanting, issued an edict of strength- an ultimatum that when next encountered they must be better than they were today. If they are not, they must be cast aside to make way for those who are receptive to confrontation and a philosophy and praxis of might.

At periods in my life, and especially in recent years as I have dedicated myself wholly to the task at hand, I have been approached by those closest to me and told that my current best was not good enough. I had a choice to either accept this judgement of my chosen peers with a certain amount of humility and grit, and prove to them that I was capable of more, or to thrash and moan like a child and reject their statement with an ego-driven vision of myself. I am honored to have friends and brothers like this, and am proud to say I chose the former. Had I not, I would not be writing this now. Those men in our peer group who fear confrontation or are too uncomfortable to demand this strength from their brethren are cowards, and no true friends- they create an environment of tolerance for unhealthiness, and they are agents of a cancer that spreads insidiously throughout an organic structure. In many ways, they are worse than the problem itself, as they can see it, and know what steps need to be taken, but choose not to for the sake of their own comfort.

Within Operation Werewolf, it is my hope for the future that this positive pressure will be seen more often in the coming year. By “donning the hide,” so to speak, an individual is not only making a contract with himself, but with all of you. Anything that marks someone as part of this ongoing Operation is also signifying an openness to be tested, to prove himself- it matters only that he is on that road to betterment, and that he can demonstrate improvement when he is next encountered. There are those who have been loudly proclaiming from the technological minarets of the modern Empire those words “Iron and Blood,” while their physique remains the same or worse, their strength does not increase, their technical proficiency stagnates or is non-existent- these individuals must be challenged and pressured to action, or purged from the greater body. There is no room for dead weight, and each must inspire the other to greater undertakings.

Constant pressure from peers does not have to be those directly within your immediate friendship group, or those you spend time with daily. In this strange and modern world, I have seen it come from competition via Instagram or other social media, where individuals use one another to keep the pressure on and rise to each other’s challenges. This is obviously less desirable than physical, face to face relationships, but for some, any port in a storm must be utilized.

Temporary agreements can spring up between those with great distance between them, competitions decided upon between solo operative or division, meet-ups scheduled in order to demonstrate the hard work that has been put in, and great fires lit and celebrations held to honor these victories.

Those who do not work, those who do not travel, those who do not inspire: their names will be forgotten like ashes in the wind. We have only this one life to rise and conquer- we must not be distracted by those looking only to feed on us like parasites and ticks. They must be pulled off and thrown to the fire.


Dire Dogs/Wolves. Dire Dogs/Wolves.

Posted on

It’s Just the Beginning

Written for Operation Werewolf by Matthias Waggener/All photography by Colton D’Agostino

With all the crazies in the streets heralding the end of the world, and what seems like everyone on the “news” talking about the end of this or the fall of that, some doomsday scenario or another, I find myself looking forward to the beginning of something new.

And I’m glad it is just the beginning, because I am just a beginner.

I’ve done many things in my life and have had a very broad range of experiences- I’ve even been referred to as a “Jack of all Trades.” I believe it is good to have a wide understanding of the world around you, to be able to look at it from the broadest scope. I’ve definitely had things that I’ve stuck with for longer than others, jobs that I held for over 10 years, my relationship being longer than 10 years, etc. But the follow up to the moniker of the “Jack of all Trades,” is “Master of None.”

I look at myself now and see that in all the endeavors that I am currently pursuing- I’m just a beginner.

I believe in the value of mastery, and so I can’t aggrandize any of my actions, understanding, or application in these areas as being anything other than at this beginner level. At a very conservative estimation, in most fields, it is generally assumed that mastery can be achieved at 10 years of experience. That is at a very “bare minimum” usually reserved for prodigies and “phenoms.” If we look at mastery like a spectrum, you have to be able to gauge where you are on that spectrum, and to exaggerate or let the ego place that point somewhere further along dishonors the true masters and leads to, or is a product of, self delusion.

Even with the few things in my life that I have been doing for 10 years or more, I still feel proficient at best.

Recently I had to change my routine and start working out in the early mornings at about 4:30. I remember thinking to myself how this was going to be “hardcore,” because it was going to require the type of discipline that in my mind few possessed. As I walked through the doors the first morning I was shocked to see the gym packed with middle aged soccer moms there for their workouts and morning Zumba classes or whatever it is they do. I immediately came to the absolutely humbling realization that I was only displaying the same dedication to fitness found in your average soccer mom.

At a Jiu Jitsu tournament the other day, Iam a warrior in my own mind, there to forge myself iron hard in glorious combat…and I find myself again surrounded by regular, everyday people, computer programmers, construction workers, (more soccer moms!)- some at the highest level of competition- who had dedicated a decade or more to the same endeavor that I put so much stock in.

In the gym I’m constantly pushing myself and growing stronger, but the hard fact is: I still can’t even lift half the weight the masters in the sport are capable of.

Now, it’s not that I am not proud of my accomplishments, and the sacrifices I have made to get where I am now- I am even satisfied with my rate of progression.  It’s just that in order to get where you want to be you have to know where you are going, and an honest understanding of where you are now. I see a lot of people these days becoming experts on a subject after putting in a few hours on Youtube, or listening to the helper constantly complain about the journeyman, always assuming that somehow with only a fraction of the experience, he somehow knows “a better way.” The white belt, who has to add some tidbit of knowledge to everything the professor says.

These types of peopleare the greatest insult to the idea of mastery, by undermining the importance of in-depth study, consistency, dedication and discipline. It desecrates the idea of the teacher/student relationship, and ultimately seeks to remove the need for humility in a human being- replacing it with the rampant expression of inflated ego, leading to a false sense of pride and self delusion. These, in turn, leave the individual in a state of inability to learn at all, and create a generally disrespectful position towards true knowledge of any kind.

For me, it is important that I recognize myself as a simple traveller on the road to mastery, because I don’t want something that is fake, that would break under any true test. If or when I reach a level of mastery, I want it to mean something. I will want the respect that only true mastery can garner. Most importantly, I will want to have the memory of every moment along that path that contributed to producing a master- a full and complete knowledge of what it actually takes to get there. Even after this, I imagine that if I make it there I will still feel like a beginner, and I hope to always maintain that mindset.

I do not consider it to be self-deprecating to minimize my accomplishments in order for them to appropriately fit the scale they should be weighed on. It is not a staggering blow to my ego to admit that somewhere a soccer mom is probably out working me. It is a bar that is set, that in order for me to know I am truly going above and beyond, I must exceed yesterday’s effort in all areas. Many days I fail, because I am just a beginner- but that might just be the most important step towards mastery.

Posted on

To Witness This Death

WWLWW. Photo by Marla Waggener.

Last week, I went overseas to Denmark to attend an incredible event along with Operatives from several different countries- the experience was one I will never forget.

As I sang galdr under the bright moon with men and women from Norway, Denmark, Brazil, Germany, Serbia, America, Canada, England, Italy, Poland and Wales- I knew that the call Operation Werewolf has put out across the globe is being answered whole-heartedly, and the seeds that have been planted are being watered with blood and dedication.

These individuals are, with their very lives, writing the first pages of a new mythology that carries the fire of the old world, but dwells with eyes wide open in the present. A legend of their own creation, these wolf-cults who worship at the altar of Trial and Ordeal are growing stronger and their voices are carrying to one another and being answered in turn.

After I returned home, I spent a few days in quiet contemplation as I got back into the swing of my routine. One of the things that stayed heavily on my mind was that in order to move forward, we as humans must adhere to a higher ideal and seek to embody that ideal with our entire being. There were a lot of discussions between those of us who attended the event regarding this concept- how can an individual stay true at all times to what he is seeking to be an archetype of? Is a man a hypocrite if he is incapable at times of living up to what he says he believes?

This sort of religious devotion to a concept bigger than ourselves is something all of us had in common. The desire, or rather, the need, to demand excellence of ourselves and those around us- to make ourselves something that others can believe in, and that their belief in us is the Truth.

I have written and spoken quite a bit in the past about this idea of consonance- that everything we do in our lives “makes sense” with the rest of it, each activity and pursuit must ring out in resonance like notes in a scale, or brush-strokes on a larger painting that all contribute to the greatness of the entire piece.

Everyone knows how hard it is to maintain discipline at times, to continue to hammer away at our goals day after day after day, without flagging or faltering. Making our footsteps lead ever in the one direction so that knowing the proper way is ingrained into our nature, and that others might follow those footsteps if they are able. Every road worth walking is one beset with adversity and resistance. Climbing the mountain is more noble a pursuit than walking on the wide road.

It is my belief that one can attain this devotion, this consonant self-creation only by continuous, ritualized action, and that that action must exist within, and be visualized through, a mythopoetic worldview that I feel most modern human beings have lost or become separated from.

Our lives are not mundane by nature. They have become so only through nurture. We have become cut off from living lives of saga-worthy action not by some external force, but through our own stunted concept of the world we live in, or the time we live in. We feel that the age of heroes is over, but the truth of the matter is that the age of heroes is just beginning again. From the grey, a glimmer of newly sparked flame. A growing rejection of static serfdom and acceptance that the world is explored and all the marrow sucked out before we were born. These ideas are poison, and must be purged from the brain and vein.

This world is in flux, a time of chaos and confusion, of conflict and madness. Only those who have lived lives of sheltered silence could possibly believe that theirs is a boring or banal era. I say that this is the era that will give birth to a new breed of man, warring against himself and the illusions of the age, to re-create himself, to transform from man into wolf and lead his brothers in the struggle against weakness and the horrors of monoculture’s manacles.

My brother Jack Donovan and I have spoken at great length in endless conversations about what an individual shows about themselves by how they spend both their time and their money. In comparing notes, we both realized that almost all of our total resources go not into “things” or new possessions, but into what we consider our higher ideals. Training, travel, land, tribal infrastructure. Creating both external and internal environments where what we believe in can thrive and be fed via action that is in direct correlation with who we say we are.

I travel thousands of miles across the United States and back several times a year, and will have been to Europe at least twice by year’s end. I spend half of what I used to pay in rent towards training with weights and martial arts in order to keep my body and mind sharp and ready. I read and write every day. I support as many others whose work I believe in with my dollar and my network as I am able, in order to give back what I can to those who in turn support me. I pour time and resources into the Wolves and Operation Werewolf continuously throughout my day, week, month, year.

And still, we all must look for ways in which to streamline- to bring ourselves more in line with our own belief structure and to create deeper channels into which we can pour our sweat and blood. This is what makes us. This is what sets us apart- we can never be satisfied, and ours is a work that strives for perfection but will never attain it.

The criticism we have received, the shrieking detractions, the condemnations and sarcasm- all must only feed the fire.

The experiences I have been able to have through Operation Werewolf and the individuals who have aligned themselves with it, the connections made, the friendships discovered and the brotherhood forged- drowns out all doubt, all negativity, all uncertainty. This is a living and growing organism that gains strength from strength and is sinking deep roots into soil all over the world.

Everyone who has ever supported Operation Werewolf has placed their faith and resources into this growing idea, and has my deepest gratitude. All those who live by the code “Pure Hearts, Strong Limbs, Actions Matching Words,” are men and women that I hope to one day meet around a fire somewhere and shake hands with, to look into your eyes and know that our footsteps have all led us here. That we were made for this- we have given life to a perfect creation. We have gathered here to bear witness to this death of the old world and our old selves, somberly, slowly, in reverence of the new one we will make.


Posted on

True Cult

Written for Operation Werewolf by Joshua Buckley

“In opposition to what psychiatrists, psycho-analysts and ‘social workers’ think—in a society, a civilization, like ours, and, especially, like that of the USA—one must in general admit that the rebel, the being who does not adapt, the a-social being, is in fact the sanest man.”—Julius Evola, “Youths, Beats & Right-Wing Anarchists”

I have an early memory of being at a county fair with my parents in the late 1970s; I guess I would have been about five or six years old at the time. I’m sure the fair itself was fun, but the real thing that I remember was seeing a group of bikers passing through the crowd. They were big, burly guys with lots of tattoos, and it was obvious even then that they made a big impression on people. They seemed to generate a mixture of fear and respect that was completely outside of my little-kid range of experience. I thought it was awesome. If they had asked me to run away with them (maybe the club could find some use for a five-year-old prospect), I would have jumped at the opportunity.

Around the same time, my family was making the drive from our house in Connecticut to my grandfather’s place near the New York state line. I remember crossing a bridge in my dad’s gray station-wagon, when he suddenly got agitated and pointed out a bunch of long-hairs hanging out down by the railroad tracks. “Those are druggies!” he exclaimed. Maybe this was supposed to set some kind of example. It did, but probably not the one he had in mind. I said nothing, but in my innermost heart I vowed that I would one day return to see if I, too, could become a druggie. I had no idea what drugs even were, but the long hair looked cool and the druggies must have been pretty amazing guys if they could elicit that kind of reaction from my dad.

When I started elementary school I was already pretty interested in music. Even in the small town where I lived, there were a few kids in the seventh and eighth grades who would wear denim vests with those giant Iron Maiden back patches that were popular at the time. I was still playing with Star Wars figures and reading comic books, so seeing “Eddie” with his bloody axe leering out at me from the back of those crusty jackets seemed both intimidating and alluring. By the time I was in the third or fourth grade, I was buying all the heavy metal I could get my hands on (I had a paper route, so I could pay for my habit). I was the only kid in my class who was listening to Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and Accept, which also made me feel vaguely superior to my classmates—despite the fact that, by all outward appearances, I was kind of a nerdy kid who didn’t have a lot of friends.

My parents weren’t all that thrilled about my choices in music. The “Satanic Panic” of the 1980s was well underway, and Judas Priest were being sued for causing two teenagers to shoot themselves in the head under the influence of the “subliminal messages” Rob Halford had allegedly hidden in his music. I assured my dad that I just liked the heavy metal “beat” and wasn’t listening to the lyrics, but that was bullshit. I pored over every word on those albums, trying to uncover whatever messages Satan might have encoded there. At the same time, I fantasized about the members of my favorite bands performing infernal rites that would have made the Marquis de Sade blush. The truth, however, was that most of it just seemed to be about partying and chicks (well, maybe not the latter in Judas Priest’s case), two things that I had absolutely zero interest in. I began to suspect that the only Black Masses that were taking place were in the imaginations of the Christian preachers who were burning piles of heavy metal albums on TV.

In the sixth grade I made friends with a kid named Casey who was also a metalhead. Casey’s older brother had a treasure trove of albums stashed in his room, and we would sneak in and listen to them while he was out skateboarding, or getting high, or screwing his girlfriend, or whatever else cool older kids did. Casey’s brother was a big Mercyful Fate fan, and I felt encouraged that King Diamond might actually be a real Satanist. Casey’s brother was also into the Misfits, and I was pretty sure that “Earth A.D.” was the wickedest album I’d ever heard. I played it over and over again, and it felt like demons were flying out of the speakers. I wish I could still summon up that kind of excitement when I listen to music now.

The Misfits were my entrée into punk and hardcore. Glam rock was ruining heavy metal, and black metal wasn’t really around yet, although I was definitely a Venom fan. I couldn’t really figure out what to make of punk. There was no Internet then; you just had to take what information you could get and sort things out on your own. Besides Casey, I didn’t really know anyone else who was getting into the bands that I liked, and the record store near where I lived would stick albums by the B-52s and REM in the same bin with Black Flag and the Germs and call it all “alternative”—whatever that was supposed to mean. A lot of the stuff I was buying just seemed silly and irreverent, like the Angry Samoans and the Meatmen. My dad took away my Meatmen album, because for some reason he thought songs like “Tooling for Anus” and “Crippled Children Suck” were inappropriate for a thirteen-year-old.

What really captured my imagination, though, were the political bands like Crass, the Subhumans, and the Dead Kennedys. (I met Jello Biafra a few years ago, and it may be the only time that I’ve ever felt a little bit star struck.) I had absolutely no context for understanding what any of it was actually about, and, as with my attempts to decode the secret messages I was sure were lying just below the surface of heavy metal albums, I would assiduously study the lyric sheets for clues. What I could tell was that the music was angry, rebellious, and clearly about issues that seemed important. This was what I was looking for, even if the issues were ones I couldn’t really comprehend as a young kid. However, as I started to become a little more aware, I grew disillusioned with punk. The politics was basically just hippie shit set to aggressive music. I didn’t want to hear songs about economic inequality, or evil corporations, or how sinister that doddery old film-actor Ronald Reagan was. Punk really had it in for Ronald Reagan.

As I got to be a teenager, I was angry, alienated, but also vaguely idealistic. I wanted to burn down the world and build a new one. Then some kids I knew through skateboarding played me a third or fourth-generation cassette copy of Skrewdriver’s “Voice of Britain.” It sounded edgy and intense. It was also around the time that skinheads began appearing regularly in the American media. First, they made Oprah Winfrey cry, then they broke Geraldo Rivera’s nose with a chair. To my addled adolescent brain, that seemed a lot more “punk rock” than punk rock. I managed to get into skinhead culture without actually knowing any real skinheads—otherwise, I might have stayed away from it altogether. But in my mind, I imagined that the skins were disciplined political soldiers, ready to march into battle with a corrupt and dying System. Like a lot of those guys, I don’t know that I really hated Black people or Jewish people or gay people so much as I hated everyone and everything. I also liked the idea of belonging to a brotherhood, one that was hated and feared by everyone else. As soon as I turned sixteen, I quit high school and relocated to the city, where I could be a part of an actual crew. There was a pretty big scene where I ended up, and I moved into a house with a bunch of other guys that was basically our headquarters.

Of course, the reality was that most of the skinheads I met were just into drinking shitty beer and beating each other up for no reason—probably not a lot different than gangs of Black kids, or Hispanic kids, or whatever. A lot of them were complete morons. A few of them were smart and interesting people who went on to do smart and interesting things. Some of them were probably genuine psychopaths. I had a roommate who beat his girlfriend to death and got pulled over driving around with her body in the trunk. Another skinhead who stayed with us was a thief who ended up being shot in the back of the head near a militia compound out West. Some of those guys are in prison now, and some of them ended up being normal suburbanite husbands and dads. I spent about three years running in that scene, then drifted away. I was way more into reading than drinking Natty Light, and by the time I was in my early twenties, it seemed like there were a lot more interesting things to do than being a bonehead.

In Christopher Lasch’s famous book The Culture of Narcissism, he talks about how at some point there was a paradigm shift away from thinking that people can change the world, to deciding that every problem is ultimately just a personal problem. In other words, there’s no reason to change this society when we can just change ourselves to adapt to this society. Yet when you consider how many people are on SSRIs, or in some kind of therapy, or self-medicating with booze and pain pills and reality television, wouldn’t it make more sense to conclude that maybe it really is this society that’s fucked up? I wasn’t attracted to punk rock and Satanism and skinheads because I had a bad childhood (I didn’t), or was abused (I wasn’t), or had a “chemical imbalance,” or anything of the sort. I was attracted to these things because this society is weak and hollow and empty, and I never really wanted to be a part of it. I was attracted to anything that seemed angry and antinomian because I wanted to revolt.

It’s easy to point out all the problems with youth subcultures. Most of them are sort of ridiculous, most of them are ultimately dead ends, and none of them are likely to change the world. Movements like punk rock invariably get co-opted by the Establishment (and in reality, even the Sex Pistols started out as a “boy band” deliberately manufactured by the clever fashionista Malcolm McLaren). Subcultures are also clearly a product of the postmodern world, where stable, traditional identities have broken down. But when you’re a kid, the subculture feels more like the true cult. It has its own art, music, tribal markings, and language. It encourages a mentality of “us versus them.” It can be immersive and overpowering. In fact, it is the training ground for the tribal imagination.

Subcultures are also a legitimate response to things that are seriously lacking in modern Western societies. People tend to dismiss teenage angst and alienation as if they are just a hormonal disruption that’s a natural part of “growing up.” I have raised teenagers, and this assessment is partially true. But modernity really is profoundly alienating. Unlike traditional cultures, modernity provides no meaningful sense of belonging, no rites of initiation, and no sense that we have any kind of purpose that transcends our base animalistic appetites. Another aspect of modernity that often gets ignored is just how boring it is. For thousands of years, our evolution has programmed us to hunt in packs and to fight in warrior bands. There is little in our biology that has prepared us to while away our lives in the classroom or in the office cubicle, committing slow, humiliating mind-suicide. The passive consumption of movies and television is no substitute for the type of real adventure that our ancestors experienced. But the mosh pit and the boot party provide some consolation for these lost dimensions of our humanity.

This rotten world may blow itself to bits tomorrow or it may limp along for decades. In any case, there’s probably not a lot that any of us can do to stop its trajectory. However, the lesson that I’ve learned from my travels in the subcultural underground is that we can create our own world—and we can live in it today—regardless of what happens in their world. And unlike the teenage subcultures that are built around music, or fashion, or superficial politics, we can build ours on the solid foundations of tradition, and ritual, of real meaningful human relationships, and under the banner of genuine opposition.

Posted on

On Comfort

As some readers might know, at the beginning of March, my wife and I opted to move out of our full-size house in the city and overhaul an old construction trailer/storage truck into a living space. We had several reasons for doing so, but chief among them were a feeling that we had accumulated too much of two “negative” elements: possessions and comfort. Along the way, I felt the need to articulate in writing my relationship with the idea of comfort and the argument for minimalist living. What follows is my first attempt at untangling some of these ideas to help myself and maybe others understand why someone would move out of a perfectly good house with central air and tons of room, in favor of 240 square feet and no running water.

I begin by admitting that living in the woods in what has been termed a “tiny house,” is a special kind of experience that not everyone is suited for. The drive to do so comes from the desire I’ve always had to experience life at its most “hands on” and primal- I like simple shit, and I’ve always found too much choice to be more of a limiting factor in my life than a rewarding one.

What I mean by “too much choice” is really “too much stuff.”

Don’t get me wrong, I believe that variety is, as the man said, “the spice of life,” but I tend to look at that as a statement about experience, travel, and different kinds of food. Left to my own devices in a comfortable house with too many options of what to do, what gadget to mess with, or diversion to engage in, is kind of like surfing the internet aimlessly, or going grocery shopping when you’re hungry- without a list. I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I do that, my cart looks like a study in bad choices across the board.

I get less done than I might if those choices were more limited by design.

This aesthetic/lifestyle crosses over into everything in my existence, from the motorcycles I dig to the training programs I run. I’m a Wendler guy, not a Westside guy (no offense to the bands and chains crew!). I like stripped down choppers- an uncomplicated, old school machine that is reliable and will take a beating.

The DIY style of life is also very important to me, from doing my own wrenching whenever possible, to stitching my own clothes back together- if it can be done with a heavy dose of motivation and a few YouTube videos, I’m all over it, and so the idea of living in a little house that I did the work on and know every part of directly is massively appealing.

I’ve seen a lot of documentaries about tiny house living, and I always have to laugh- I feel that most of the people in these videos have very little in common with me. Many of the males seem to have gentle, effete mannerisms and talk a great deal about “reducing their carbon footprint” and things of that nature, making it sound like they are performing a sacrifice for the greater good of planet earth. They hold their coffee cups with both hands wrapped around them in a way that I have always associated with females in bourgeois fashion catalogues as they model the new line of jeans and flannel shirts that these guys seem to also be wearing.

They’ve spent a pile of loot on these houses as well- some up into 30 or 40 grand for a house that is less than 300 square feet.

These attitudes don’t jive with me very much. I don’t spend a great deal of time these days thinking about my carbon footprint- maybe because that seems hypocritical to someone who uses a cell phone and rides a motorcycle and also owns a car, and shops occasionally at Wal-Mart and eats meat produced by the industrial world, and uses the internet (and run-on sentences), and all these other things that rely on technologies that are produced from slavery, murder, and the awful treatment of humans and other animals. Maybe I feel that its a bit ridiculous to think that simply living in a smaller house gives me some kind of moral high ground from which I can passive aggressively judge others who do not share my lofty world view.

Or maybe, on my more nihilistic days, I think that the world will probably outlive humans, and that it is total hubris to believe we as a race could destroy something that is billions of years old- or that it would even matter at all if we did that. In the grand scheme of the cosmos, what’s one planet? In the words of the immortal Russian: “If he dies, he dies.”

Most of the time, I just think: I have one short life to live, and I don’t plan to spend it worrying about the fate of the solar system- a thing infinitely older than myself, godlike in its massiveness, and its mysteries.

Wherever my philosophical mindset is that day, one thing is certain- I am not living this way to make a statement to anyone about a moral compass, but to follow my own compass, far and wide. I am doing it to embrace the concepts Speed and Freedom, living fast and dying full of stories- to avoid being static.

All these reasons were the spark that led to the fire of immolating my comfort zone and moving back out to the woods (I have done this before, a few years back, for about a year and a half). This deliberate destruction of what I term “comfort addiction” is something that has become central to the entire experience of getting back to basics for me, and moving into a very small space is a great catalyst for this, because of what it demands from you.

It requires you to own very little. There is simply no room for bullshit in a place this size- you have what you need and what you use all the time, and really, nothing else. This is one of the most liberating feelings I have ever experienced (both times I’ve done this), and at the same time, actually places a greater importance on and connection with those material items that you do need, or like enough to keep in your life. (I apply this same principle to friendships and it works wonders!) Having one or two nice knives is better than a drawer full of mediocre ones. You take care of them better. They receive more of your attention, and in my case, I like to personalize my few pieces of favored sharp metal with art on the handles, custom sheaths, and so on. You get the idea. The same goes for any of your other stuff- it ceases to become a throwaway mundane item and transforms into a work of art, a faithful friend- a sacred object in this ritual of existence.

You also have to get comfortable with the idea that choices become more limited at home for what you will do in that space. My home is not my “castle,” as exterior space becomes more utilized for “hang out areas,” and so on, and I spend less time at home, again, by design. At the last place I lived, I had so much stuff there (maybe not by some standards, but a lot for me!) and so much space to keep it in, I felt I never needed to go anywhere. This kind of thing keeps us landlocked and out of the storyline so to speak, whereas being away from home a lot is one of the entire reasons I chose to go back to tiny house life in the first place. We get too comfortable going from the bookshelf to the internet to the TV to the workshop or garage, to the kitchen, that we can become stuck in this eternal loop of domesticity.

Perhaps most importantly, and at its core, it demands that you reevaluate your understanding of comfort, convenience and “hardship.” Living in a little house in the woods is drastically different from living in a sprawling home in the suburbs, obviously, but its the little things about it that seem to have the most impact.

Getting up from reading to turn off the generator before I fall asleep, as well as making sure there is gasoline refilled in order to run it.

Not being able to operate every damn electronic device in the house all at the same time.

My experience is different from many in that I am living relatively primitive, with an outhouse and no running water, so even going to the bathroom is something that comes with its own “discomforts.”

Having to walk outside in the middle of the night in the rain is a hassle when compared with down the hall.

Refilling drinking water jugs from the spring several miles away.

Showering, for now, is done at the gym- I find myself missing very few days of my routine when it becomes tied into not only my training but also necessary hygiene practice!

All of these things, combined with sharing a car with my wife and running the shipping end of things from a friend’s house for the time being require a sharpened sense of planning and purpose throughout the day- scheduling the next day the night before in my notebook is very important to a productive week.

From the outside, I can understand that it might seem strange in a world where we don’t have to live with these discomforts, why I would still choose that life, but for me it comes down to a love/hate relationship with comfort itself.

“Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.”

I remember seeing these words for the first time when a friend gave me a copy of Thoreau’s “Walden” as I was moving off grid the first time, with this passage by Kahlil Gibran inscribed on the first page. Despite a dislike for some of his work, this passage prompted me to read his beautiful poem “On Houses.”

In it, the author conveys a longing for the open fields and woods, and for a return to a more natural way of life that exists outside of the walls of the city, and touches on the nature of comfort as something that eventually enslaves us:

“Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.

Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments…
Tell me, have you these in your houses?

Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host and then a master?

Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.

Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.”

These lines made an impact, and have remained with me since first reading them. The words “it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires,” resonated with me so strongly, the concept that we give up on many plans and actions that might lead us to spiritual strength, inner knowledge, and ultimately, glory, out of fear of the unknown, fear of discomfort, and an addiction to a life of ease.

It is in the human nature to escape pain and seek comfort. Indeed, there are popular schools of philosophy based around the concept that pleasure is good and pain is bad, and that the avoidance of the one and the seeking of the other is what makes a life worth living. I believe that the modern world has taken this fear of discomfort to its extremes, at the detriment of our greater experience. One cannot be inoculated to discomfort, that is, become undeterred by its effects, if we spend all our time avoiding it.

It might do us all some good to explore our relationship with comfort and ease, and ask ourselves what kind of life we might be living without an addiction to it? Would we set off more often on the open road, seeing what there is just over the next rise, a holy “yes” to life in our heart?

Would we train harder and deny ourselves the low road more often, our discipline becoming sharpened by this discomfort inoculation?

Would we remain the master at home, rather than the servant of all the things we own, all the things we take for granted, and all the things that dull our edge and seek to “make puppets of our larger desires?”

For my part, I will always seek out the path that rings the truest to me, and me alone. I look to make of my life a piece of art in motion, always striving for the perfection and ultimate freedom that I know will never come, but that the mere pursuit of fills me with the fire of purpose and meaning. I will look to the horizon and see in the setting sun a symbol of the transitory nature of life, and my brief time to experience all its joys and sorrows. I will tread my path with friends, sometimes, and alone, often, and know that “the cure for the pain is in the pain,” and I will despise comfort- and seek greatness instead.


Posted on

April Challenge

As we enter into April, those who are walking this path are already entering into the second quarter of their year, adding discipline to discipline and creating a foundation of solidity from which their own work and myth will spring in time.

This time of year is also symbolic of new endeavors, new vistas to explore, and the time of year that many pagan peoples celebrated the concept of victory and conquest. As such, we will be embracing this idea, and putting some of what we have been focusing on to the test.

Firstly, we will begin by moving forward with our meditation into the practice of “Walking the Pathways of Fire,” Laid out in “Vakandibok.” It is dealt with in depth there, so we will not spend much time re-hashing that information here, except to say that this work will lay the base for what we will be working on with our mediation practices for the remainder of the year following. Practice with as much care and dedication as you would any of your training- benefits are only reaped from proper practice, not poorly executed repetition.

Second, in the spirit of sacrifice made to the gods of our ancestors, to give victory to those who kept faith/friendship, we will choose one of our pleasure habits (that is, activities engaged in specifically for enjoyment’s sake alone), and we will abstain from it for one month. The concept of sacrifice is one that for the modern man is less tied up with plant and livestock, and resonates for many on a deeper level when associated with time, pleasure, or habitual behavior abstained from as a holy act. In a practical sense as it pertains to conquest and victory, it is often the man who is willing to give up more to attain his prize that will win it. If we are unfamiliar with the concept of deliberately suffering for a higher cause, we will never unlock the inner strength that this practice contains. Choose something difficult, and bleed it out on the altar of discipline.

Third, we will choose one thing to compete in, and during the course of April, we will sign on for that competition. This can be anything from writing challenge, powerlifting meet, jiu jitsu tournament, boxing match, or foot-race with a friend. The format does not matter. The reason and intention for this is that too often we practice our skills in a vacuum where they go untested. By choosing to put ourselves on the line in competition, we will find truth and honesty with ourselves, and be better able to understand what we need to focus on.

The competition itself does not have to be done in April, merely signed up for, a concrete date with destiny laid down to inform the training with purpose. If you have become conformable competing in one arena, use this as a challenge to broaden your horizon and put another skill to the test. It is only through resistance that man becomes king, and lord over himself.

We look forward to a prosperous Spring season, and wish one for you all, filled with trial, ordeal, and the enflaming passion that only hard-won victory can produce.

Iron and Blood!


Posted on

Front Toward Enemy

Front Toward Enemy

This week I had the pleasure of hosting Brian Jones, a Brazilian jiu jitsu black belt under Carlson Gracie, Jr., and owner and head instructor of Valhalla Academy in Kentucky.
It is always pleasure getting to pick the brains of guys who have been at their craft for as long as Brian has, and I am always blown away by how applicable the concepts of art are across the spectrum of human experience; whether it is jiu jitsu, painting, music, or otherwise, there are certain principles that find consonance with each other, like notes in a scale.

Over the past several weeks, I have been preparing for a move out onto 5 acres of wooded property I recently purchased. The space I will be sharing with my wife and dog is approximately 8×32 feet in total, and must serve as bedroom, library, office, kitchen, and fortress- anyone who has lived in a tiny house or other very limited space knows that the motto “a place for everything and everything in its place” is the holy writ. Every possession must be weighed and found fit in order for it to deserve its place in this little structure. If it hasn’t seen use even for a week, it is probably not essential, and is given away or discarded.

This process is, for me, one of extreme catharsis, as my material possessions are whittled down to only those things that I feel are completely necessary, and this act lends itself to a certain simplicity and focus that can be felt in living by the tenets of minimalism. My slogan for the year is “less stuff, more life,” and the decision to move into this space was motivated in large part by the desire to eliminate many of the distractions and illusions that for me come along with “comfortable living.”

During our many conversations over the last few days, one of the things that Brian touched on is the concept that as a younger man, it is good to explore and undertake many different things; try out new skills, jump from one activity to the next after a brief exploration of a year or so, and continue to chase a broad spectrum of experience within our lives. This is like the novice and intermediate level of jiu jitsu, in which one is essentially trying to take in as much information as he possibly can, like a sponge, indiscriminately, and trying it all out within the structure of his game.

Later on, like in the in the higher belt levels, the process is about refinement. Just like the alchemical process (which is, of course, what jiu jitsu and any other valuable pursuit is all about), the many different elements are distilled and purified through a series of operations that seeks to bring about a simplicity and unification of all these elements into a single consonant resonation- the human becomes a living shrine to those things that he has deemed holy during his brief time on earth.

At one point in the conversation Brian said:

“You’re not going to get really good at your jiu jitsu unless you start to cut out some of these other elements. You have to be like a claymore mine- all the explosive power has to be directed toward something, or it just burns up in a flash like a mound of gunpowder.”

In my life, I have been and done a lot of different things, even in the thirty two odd years I’ve been here. I have put on a lot of miles and had the throttle wide open for most of them- from runaway to professional musician, bouncer, writer, artist, aimless drunk, focused leader; my skill set is very broad, but in some of those places, the river doesn’t run as deep as I’d like.

I have always pursued a “jack of all trades” approach to life, and am realizing more and more in my thirties that I want to excel at a few things that have become increasingly important to me with time.

The physical act of removing unnecessary possessions and people from my life, focusing on a few important ones, and moving forward into a time of simplicity and non-distraction is a note that resonates in my chest these days louder than any other. I want to pursue jiu jitsu as an art form, not just a way to “fuck people up.” I want to deepen my understanding of the writing process and take a few projects that have been wandering the darkened halls at the back of my mind for awhile, and see them to completion. I want to be a more dedicated friend to those who deserve it, and have my full attention on life, feeling the rhythm of the seasons, the changes in the wind, and the little things- like how happy my dog is when I walk in the woods with her.

All these things can only be had at the sacrifice of all the other things. The needless comforts, the lazy approaches, the half assed efforts.

I am on the Path With No End, and I know that it is a path “with heart,” to be traversed, breathlessly, Front Toward Enemy.


Posted on

March Challenge

March Challenge

  1. We will begin this month by expanding on our mediation practice. Continuing our discipline of setting aside time, we will increase from 5-10 minutes per day to 10-15 minutes.
    During this time, we will take a few minutes to simply relax and monitor our breathing and so on, but this month, after we do so, we will be performing some exercises to sharpen the mind for our next phase.Begin using the Wondrous Items discipline found in Vakandibok. If you do not own a copy, or cannot afford one, begin using what I call the Turning the Gears. I cannot remember where I first heard about this practice, but it is simple and effective. One starts out with a blackened mental image, just void, and places one gear, or cog into the void, and begins turning it. Next, they add another cog, which is turned by the first one. One proceeds in this fashion until they “lose the image,” either due to complexity or lack of focus, and starts over.These beginning practices and exercises are important, because we cannot begin the process of uncluttering/self surgery on our minds and inner universe until our tools are sharpened and oiled. Even if we are generally mentally active, but we are still relatively new to meditation and to “going within,” or just returning to it, we have to perform some exercise and get the blood flowing, so to speak. In a similar fashion, if I have been out of the gym for a while, I jumpstart my training by doing some full body workouts and hard cardio to get myself worked back up.

    If you are someone who has practiced meditation for a long period of time, simply use this time to return to the basics, and keep a “beginner’s mindset”- allow yourself to revisit the firststeps of the process from a different approach. You might learn something, or you might not, but certainly, any time spent sharpening the mental faculties is not wasted.

  2. Second, we will perform a financial assessment. Whether we like it or not, the blood that flows in the veins of Empire is green. In order to attain leverage in that world and be able to be effective there, as much as anywhere else, we have to learn to think of money as a tool, just like a wrench or hammer.It helps us get a job done, and do what we need to, in order to live the lives we want. I have met many intelligent and passionate people whose disdain for money or lack of ability to make it crippled their enjoyment, mobility, time, and freedom. Everyone has bills to pay, and goals to achieve that will require capital, unless they are an ascetic who lives in a cave or hut and survives only on what they can produce themselves- those individuals have my utmost respect, but they are probably not reading this article. For the rest of us, we must destroy our limiting views of money, and simply view it dispassionately as a means to an end, an energy supply that can be used in much the same way as electricity, to power the circuitry of our temporal (and sometimes spiritual) plans.For now, we will simply write down our total income for the month of March, and track each expenditure of money for the month (spending as we normally would), and WRITE EVERY SINGLE ONE DOWN. This is essential groundwork for what will come next, and just like everything we are doing this year, we will begin basically and work toward more complexity once we have shown we are capable of those basics.
  3. This month, we will again return to our Heroic Blueprint and work on both a positive and a negative. This is the last month we will mention this, as our blueprint should be in the forefront of our mind at all times- we will begin keeping a journal of our progress towards this archetype if we haven’t already done so, and we will write deeper and more experiential pieces regarding our perceptions of those positive and negative traits. We are looking this month to begin building an archetype in our minds that embodies our blueprint, a mythic character, like a god, that is us in potential- representative of ourselves as we Will ourselves to be, but not as we are now. As we improve, the concept of our archetype will deepen, and go beyond us, and create a constant struggle toward further emulation, which we call worship. This is the ritual aspect of the Werewolf method, a creation of a new god, one known only to ourselves, driving us onward as we give it depth, attribute it with deeper meaning, and realize our own mythology through the pursuit of this higher ideal.



Posted on

On Notoriety.

Operative E.O., work by Kevin S. Operative E.O., work by Kevin S.

Operation Werewolf, as stated from the beginning, is rabid resistance. A path that leads against the grain, toward massive personal upheaval and ordeal, and ultimately, to glory. This endeavor is done through through the reassembly of our willfully annihilated former selves into a new creation of iron and blood- not content to make little adjustments here and there until we have reduced ourselves to ash in the furnace of the great Black Work of Calcination!

During this beginning process, we adopt a mindset that deals in extremes. From the naked aggression of the Operation’s symbolism, to its often brutal tenets of unmerciful transformation, the pathway through the Gates of Iron is one of fire and conquest.

During this time, and through the contract the individual makes to this Operation by wearing the black Totenwolf flag, and swearing an allegiance to his higher self, his own potential, he will meet with that resistance on many fronts.

First, and most importantly, he will meet with resistance from self. From what we in the ongoing Operation refer to as the thrall mind, that inner weakness that seeks to control and enervate us with negativity, self defeating thoughts and actions, as it attempts to channel regular patterns of laziness and surrender within our brain and being. This thrall mind must be brought under the boot of our conqueror mindset, kept in chains, utterly beaten and dominated- no longer capable of raising his head to resist our overcoming.

We have discussed this self overcoming many times, and will continue to do so, but it is another type of resistance that we will touch on now.

This second resistance will be met from without. We have adopted a combative philosophy for good reason. We have adopted a provocative image for a reason. Nothing that has been done, or engendered by this relentless Operation has been by mistake, or without forethought.

This combativeness is integral to the first part of the Operation, because it is through resistance that kings are made.

Our disdain for comfort must permeate our being on all levels, and we must never fear confrontation, but embrace it as a part of a vital life lived with blood hot in our veins! One cannot put on the dread banner and turn his face away from confrontation or he is forever a slave, unworthy to wear the symbols of power and fury that we see as holy.

We will state this clearly: by an association with the Wolf-Cult as it exists today in its true form, that form which we call Operation Werewolf, worldwide, you embrace notoriety. Whether you will it or no, you have chosen to associate with a growing cultus that lives and breathes, that stains altars red with blood at every corner of the earth, awakening a fire that continues to grow and call to others.

If you are not prepared to see your reputation among the mob ripped to pieces, and wish to live a comfortable life free from challenge and pressure, free from accountability and harsh judgements, free from the threat of violence by those who oppose our ideals of strength and healthiness- stay in the village. Remain within the confines of Empire, both physically and spiritually, for it is the Wolf who grows up in the woods outside the walls!

No arguments! No explanations! No remorse or fear! Take accountability for your actions and choices and know that all associations and choices have repercussion. Stop pretending to be a victim when Empire decrees your flag outlawed, your cause unjust- this is a cult of the Father of Wolves, the Unknown Rider, and his people have always been outlaws, existing on the edges of accepted society, gnawing at the roots of what is already falling.

We exist by ourselves, for ourselves- but this does not mean that those who have accepted the visions of the dream-weavers, the technomancers and storytellers of Empire will not hate you. They will hate you, and they will do their best to make others hate you as well. Some doors will be closed to you forever, while others will open to strange new vistas and awful frontiers. You will meet wild men and outlaws, and swear oaths beneath our brother, the moon, and be a part of creating a new myth in which your part is as yet undetermined.

Take up the banner of strength, but do not be fooled into believing it can be held without challenge.

“Run from what is comfortable. Forget safety. Live where you fear to live.

Destroy your reputation. Become notorious.”