Yesterday, with two feet of snow against my window, I was reading Robert E. Howard’s Sword Woman and other Historical Adventures. In the introduction by Scott Oden, which was very well done, he began discussing Howard’s view of civilization, quoting Howard from Beyond the Black River, in many ways one of his best tales:

“Barbarism is the natural state of mankind…civilization is un-natural. It is the whim of circumstance. And barbarism must always ultimately triumph.”

Of course, every natural disaster and every war and lesser natural event that brings to a halt the promised rescue of each of us by our increasingly maternalistic Civilization, gives us a taste of barbarism, of a life lived without the immediacy of the threat of punishment and promise of physical salvation that is Civilization.

With the north wind no longer blowing my way, I decided to take a late afternoon walk, six miles northwest, over three gentle ridgelines, to Towson, where my youngest son has just settled on a house a couple miles north of the city line. In case of a true disaster or social breakdown he is among the handful of people I have committed to checking in on. I would also like to time my walk. More importantly, I would like to see the true composition of the neighborhood along the route and on both ends, his and mine. The fact is, those who are normally seen on the street in urban areas are not those who live there, but service industry employees, like myself, passing through and criminals, diligently scouting for easy prey. The walk is in three stages.

Heading northwest out of Hamilton into Parkville I stay south of the city line for two miles. In Hamilton we have hipster and yuppie men digging out, two actual breeding white families, and a number of black women. There is not a brutha in sight, none.

On Harford Road I pass a cute little snow bunny, a 4 foot 10 inch redheaded hooker, heroically trying to sell her ass, in beany hat, beany gloves and soggy beany decorating her knit leg warmers. She is about 18, one of the daughters of the affluent from Harford County, recently immigrated from the paradise to which her parent's fled, come to Harm City in search of cheaper drug prices, lower rent and more men willing to debase her.

A half mile out I see a police car cruising with his lights on, which is the “proactive presence” style of patrolling in vogue among swine kind these days. The primary roads are 1.5 lanes on each side. The secondary streets are 1.25 lanes wide, and the side streets are snow drifts, where people either leave their vehicle buried or hopefully cut out a snow free space around it hoping that they get ploughed “out” and not “in.”

Heading out Old Harford Road I see a BT-1200 coming my way, walking with traffic, in the center of her half lane and trusting to her servants and worshippers to go around her. I stand aside and let the cars pass.

I pass two single hipsters and one black homeowner digging out, all three of them saying hello, none of them being men I have previously seen while walking this street.

Further up the street I pass a wide old property, a former mansion now occupied by two middle class blacks in their mid thirties. The frontage of the sidewalk is sixty yards! The snow is a hard three feet deep, having been ploughed up from a powdery 29 inches into a wall. They have started on opposite ends of the property front digging out the sidewalk and heaving the snow over the fence into the large yard. [Granted, I have no way of knowing if they both started at the same time.] He, started at the far edge of the property and stood three yards in, leaning on his shovel, breathing deep and mopping a sweating brow with his knit hat as he mumbled to himself. She had begun at the driveway and stood, a statuesque example of African American womanhood, at about six feet tall with an elongated hourglass figure terminating—as far as this discerning eye could tell due to the snow bank—in what Richard Burton would have surely called “a stupendous buttocks!”

From beneath the rim of her black felt beret she looked on her man with disgust—a fine picture of agrarian maternity in her tight black jeans and black bunny jacket with the fur cuffs and collar—who could have surely ploughed, sown, reaped and threshed enough grain to feed Jared Taylor’s entire extended family way back in the day! Noticing my admiration of her hind parts she batted her eye lids at me, smiled demurely, then looked angrily at her man, gave a silent snarl, and chopped into the intervening wall of snow with her trusty shovel.

Crossing Northern Parkway I pass two more white men and a black woman digging out, and then, looking to my left, come face-to-face with a red-headed babe in her mid twenties who was as tall as the top of the line BT-1000 that I was previously admiring, but prettier, and proportioned along the lines that my modern homo sapien friends find more appealing. I would say that she was six foot and 160. She greeted me with a wide, surprised smile as she straightened up with a shovel full of snow like she was having all of the fun in the world and said, in a thick Eastern European accent, “Hello!”

I said, “Good afternoon,” and declined to stay and chat. She did intrigue me though. Is she a Russian slave girl sent outside by her madam to shovel snow so that her pimp can pick her up and take her down town to the Hyatt Regency? Is she an internet bride, acquired by some lucky local guy from the land of lucidly fuckable Caucasian babes that Manuel described in that recent podcast on SingleDudeTravel.com?

Finally, in an area in which only pairs and trios of innocent unarmed black youth are normally out and about, I saw two large black teenagers out with snow shovels, making the rounds, offering to shovel snow for residents. Old Harford Road on this stretch had not been ploughed, so I cut west into the residential area on the city line.

Southwestern Parkville sits on a ridgeline running from the southwest to the northeast, and separates the typical grid sprawl of Parkville Proper with a corridor built around Perring Parkway, a wide boulevard that is not part of the old grid, and is dotted with parks, upscale developments and prefabricated ghettos on the east side where the shopping center is. Coming up behind this shopping center on foot at night is normally a dicey proposition with hoodrats on the prowl out of the notorious Dutch Village Apartments, where numerous murders of non-gang victims, stompings, She's So C-c-cold!, and a rash of recent stabbings have occurred since I have been traversing the area regularly over the past 10 years.

In an area that has no foot traffic most of the time, occasionally traversed by the honest pedestrian or prowling hoodrats, I find myself walking through a mixed-race hive of homeowner worker bees. As it turns out the residents are half white half black and all friendly, with the problems in the neighborhood coming from outsiders from Wet Baltimore who use the black population as a cover and come hunting, and the youths from the section-eight friendly Dutch Village Apartments looming only a hundred yards away behind the shopping center.

I cross the shopping center access ramp where two black fellows, father and son, dig out their work truck and car and give a friendly word to me and another passing Neanderthal.

Jogging across Perring Parkway, I access the base of Oakliegh, which is a secondary street that runs diagonal to the usual grid from the Loch Raven Reservoir down to this last ghetto outpost of Baltimore, where it bleeds over the county line.

I pass a trio of large women muscling a van out of a snow bank: large, jolly, intimidating, and in three generations BT-800, BT-1000 and the just off the line BT-1200! Just in case the three bears are hungry, old Silver Locks darts around them gingerly and picks up his pace.

Walking through the area behind the Jewish cemetery I feel like I am in the countryside further north. I then come to Pappas Restaurant and Bar where the owner was recently pistol-whipped in brutal fashion by a West Baltimore thug. Here, a middle-aged black couple pull up in a car to see if the bar is open, just as a large grizzled Neanderthal drunk I know from the Raven Inn out on Loch Raven walks up and inquires if they are open. They have a friendly “gosh darn, where can I get a drink” conversation, as I cross Taylor Avenue.

As I cross Taylor I leave the mile deep City-County buffer that the Towson Precinct of the Baltimore County Police are trying hard to hold against the invading hoodrats—who are nevertheless winning the battle of attrition, as they are being dropped in behind the lines by the City Housing Authority buying houses and renting them for section-8 vouchers. The terrain—with no sidewalk and no bus route—is now firmly old suburban, not the new hoodrat-friendly suburban sidewalk grid that has been installed since my childhood. The people shoveling out are seven Neanderthal to one black, single family homes dominating the roadway, with one apartment complex, but without bus access and not on a walk through grid. In fact, this neighborhood is difficult to drive through from east to west as the roads cut back and dead end, causing the low energy output hoodrat raiding parties to bypass it like mechanized invaders skirting a swamp.

As I near my destination a gigantic black man approaches me, dragging a snow shovel behind him. He is sixty years old, and wanted to know, “Are you good, brother? You need anything I’m here to help. Name’s Samson, you can call me Sam.”

We shook hands, mine disappearing in his.

“Thanks, no. I just walked out from the city to visit a friend and check out my son’s new place.”

“Oh, it’s all good out here—that’s why I moved out the way. Can’t deal with that mess in town no more. Just out and about makin’ sure the neighbors are all good. What about back the way, any trouble?”

“You know what, I only saw one cop, but not a single punk in sight, nothing but men and some women digging out. A couple good boys making the rounds with a snow shovel.”

Samson grinned, patted his shovel, and nodded left and right to the men out shoveling, “Ain’t no fun when the rabbit got the gun! Is it brother?”

“No, sir.”

“You have a nice safe day now, sir.”

And we were off on our separate uncivilized ways, bringing me to think about what comes to mind every time I read Howard’s old claims that Barbarism was natural and decent, the seat of strength, honor, courage and self-reliance, and that Civilization is its opposite, whimsical and corrupt, the seat of weakness, dishonor, cowardice and dependence.

I thought further, back two years, to my training session with the lead instructor for the Baltimore Country Guardian Angels, a group of decent, non-criminal men who simply want to discourage crime through a group presence, a group who has been forbidden to patrol on pain of arrest by the Baltimore County Police Department, the same police department that completely abandoned Essex, Rosedale and Middle River to armed black mobs who hunted us Neanderthals with impunity for a week, while diverting all resources to protecting the slim corridor of affluent whites in Towson, where I now walked.

My youngest son is soon moving from Middle River to Towson, this outpost of the affluent. At least I know, that when the looting that is going on down town [You will not hear about it but the tactical squad with their bat mobile and the chopper have been down there keeping a lid on it as I made my own unsuccessful bid to get across town to Middle River on the bus tonight and returned on foot.] tonight, and has not abated clear out to the North Baltimore City line since last April’s riots and purge, heads out to Glen’s new house, that I’m an hour away, and that there are a lot of men between him and the enemy if the agents of Civilization permit them to defend themselves.

Civilization, our most advanced social contract, rests on the surety that the individual gives what is asked by the State, and, in return, that the State protects the individual and his property, or at least avenges their loss. Recently, across America, and most glaringly in Baltimore, the State has failed—declined, even—to fulfill its end of the contract, and has at the same time become more stridently jealous of its monopoly of force, insisting, with ever more resolve, that the individual should accept injury and loss—with fear of death being the only justification for the use of force on the part of the individual—and seek redress via the State at a later time.

After four decades of reading on primitive societies, I have only found two mentions of predation within the tribe, and both of these were in highly stressed groups that had been under pressure by Civilization to the point of social collapse and began acting as gangs. Gangs are absolutely not a feature of tribal life, but are the puss of Civilization, a violent reaction of the collective human mind to the faceless savagery and tyranny of Civilization. A gang can never defeat a tribe, nor will a tribe tolerate a gang. Yet in our sick society the tribal facade left to us is this, the gang, the punk pecking order of bitch-raised man-boys who always betray each other in the face of the enemy, for they suffer most acutely from the sickness of Civilization.

"Ain't no fun when the rabbit got the gun."

What Samson said so succinctly was that those who believe in Civilization, and live according to its rules represent the rabbits, with law enforcement representing the licensed hunter and game wardens, and criminals representing the poacher. If you do not believe this, try forming a neighborhood militia and you will find the police and the criminals cooperatively in league against you.

The specific sickness of Civilization can best be understood by looking at Barbarism.

The strength of the primitive, the primal, the barbaric, is that such cultures envision the natural world as predominantly male in nature, the father that sends his son off into the world, trusting to the life and wits breathed into him to survive and prevail.

Thus is the weakness of Civilization exposed, for Civilization is the mother that keeps us close, coddles us, and does not let us fight one another or defend ourselves, but does it for us.

Civilization is matriarchy.

The place for the mother is at birth and in childhood.

Permitting motherhood over male youth is the death of manhood.

Permitting Civilization stewardship over man is the death of humanity.

Never have I been more certain that Man’s present coddled course, suffused in the material glut of an inauthentic lifeway, must end in either a deserved oblivion or the accursed female hive.

My nocturnal jaunts along the same route, over the intervening two nights since, were just as barren of predators, and quite serene, a slice of wilderness life granted to the urban dweller, the carved out driveways giving the houses the appearance of old homesteads under the streetlight-like moon that shined pale and metallic. Also, my walking time was under an hour between 4 and 5 a.m. with no traffic to deal with.