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Apr 7, 2026
Pagan Rage
Pagan Rage
00:00
11:02
Transcript
0:00
[electronic music] Here I remain, and here I will make my stand.
0:24
Forest and field, hearth, home, and land. Forest and field, hearth, home, and land. Here I remain. Here I will make my stand.
0:39
I plant my feet where root and stone still speak, where the forest holds its council, dark and deep, and fields remember labor, bone, and sweat, the boundary where the wild and worked have met.
0:57
No circle drawn in borrowed urban parks, no weekend rites performed like theater parts, no pronouns worn like pendants around the neck, while ancestors grow silent at such a wreck.
1:12
This hearth was fire, not symbol, not a thought. It was flame by which survival fought through winter's teeth, through famine's hollow year,
1:27
where children learned that hunger teaches fear and reverence both, that life is earned, not given, that every harvest is a bargain driven with
1:40
soil and sky, with season's harsh commands, with blistered palms and broken-nailed hands. The forest was not safe. It was not kind. It was the place where human met divine.
1:55
It was the place where human met divine.
1:59
The terror and awe and necessary dread, where spirits walked among the living dead, where wolves had voices, where that dark had eyes, where foolish men who wandered there met their demise.
2:13
You don't enter lightly, didn't claim the wild as yours. You spoke its secret name with a trembling tongue, with offerings and care, because it suffered fools through tooth and snare.
2:30
The field was answer, human, hard, and clear. This much we tame, this much we hold, right here. We break the earth. We plant. We pray. We wait. We read the clouds. We calculate the date.
2:49
And we pass the knowledge down from sire to son, from mother's hand to daughters when the day is done. We break the earth. We plant. We pray. We wait.
2:58
This is the line where chaos must concede to human will to plow and scatter seeds.
3:06
And home, the center where the dead still dwell in honored memory, in the smoke and smell of bread and woodsmoke in the warm, soothing chair where once grandfather sat.
3:23
Their presence is still there. Not metaphors for comfort or for pride, but actual presence on the other side of life's veil, thin, still watching, still concerned of how we carry what they died and earned.
3:41
This was religion lived in flesh and fact, not ideology abstractly stacked like books on a shelf you've never really read, nor fashion statements for the spiritually dead who want aesthetics, crystals, cloaks, and chants, but free from duty, blood, and calling,
4:03
from soil beneath the nails, from sacrifice, and from knowing that the earth exacts its price. My grandfather once... They're still present, illustrated gods for grievance, fire for grace.
4:21
Of modern sympathies and gentle creeds, its service feels you fashionable seeds that have no roots in loam or history, that will bend to every wind of ideology. They speak of the land with calm, detached...
4:38
This was religion lived in flesh and fact... They praise the wild while giving nature's hacks behind the glass of phones and curated feeds. They claim the old ways while planting weeds.
4:52
Not fashion statements for the spiritually dead.
4:55
Imported invasives, academically blessed, but foreign to the soil and totally dispossessed of everything that made the old ways true, the hardship, the hunger, the fear that our folk knew.
5:14
I'll not dress up modern pieties in stolen symbols of ancient deities made mascots for the latest moral war, conscripted to causes they would abhor. My gods were not abstractions.
5:32
They were real, as winter's bite, as summer's scorching zeal, as birth, and death, and bread, and bone, and blood, as consequences and cause.
5:47
Hating this land and wearing a stranger's face in pagan words and rites. Before their god, the grieving fire could burn. The grievance fire could burn. Of modern sympathies and gentle creeds.
5:58
So I step back-To air things of belonging and balance.
6:14
I want the forest, actual, dark and vast. I want the field that makes each harvest last through winter's glory or see your children starve.
6:25
I want the hearth fire's legacy to carve its truth in me that we're not our own, that we are links in chains of blood and bone that stretch behind and forward, binding tight.
6:41
Responsibility to the day and night, to seasons and soil. My gods were not abstractions before real. As winter bites north from the south. We go through war through the same narrow door.
6:54
Let others chase the fashions of this age. Let others make their virtue into wage, paid out in social currency and canned praise. I guess I choose the harder, older, colder way.
7:12
Where forest waits with patient watching eyes. Where fields exact their price beneath the skies. Where hearth demands its tending every day.
7:24
Where the home meets duty which you cannot pay in words or wishes, only loyal deed. Only in children raised and mouths you feed. In memory kept and green.
7:39
In stories told, in fire holding fast to what the dead once holds. This is my turn. I want the field that makes each harvest last. Not to sink into pointless fashion's burn. I want the forest, actual, dark and vast.
7:51
Through ancient wisdom of the forest fire. That is its source, the earth, the blood and mine. The actual ground where gods once stood. Where actual people cleared the actual wood.
8:09
Where actual families kept the actual flame. Did it pass down on and not change? I will not let them turn my faith to farce. Let my heritage turn to hash tag as they will.
8:28
Their pronouns in the circles if they must. I'll honor different obligations of trust. In older compacts, walk a wilder trail. Where the forest closes dark behind my back.
8:42
And the field spreads open, stubborn, hard and true. And the hearth burns faithful through night's cold blow. This is where I stand. This is my refusal. The gods deserve more than this heartless disgrace.
9:02
The ancestors deserve more than this fashion. Our knowledge is an inheritance of trust. This land deserves more than performative passion. So I withdraw, I turn, I plant my feet.
9:14
Where the wilder path to the sacred still leads. It all becomes work to sink my still hands. Where duty meets us in silence, cold and bare. Where the forest meets us in silence, cold and bare.
9:23
Where oaks are final and memory keeps. The old ways safely, not fossilized, but living. Not taken, but received. Not talking, but hearing. In reciprocal exchange with the earth and the sky.
9:40
With those that live and those who have to die. To bring me here to this particular ground. Where the actual gods make actual, actual sounds. And I can hear them still, puzzling me.
9:56
Of a morning discourse entwined in this wood. I turn my feet toward leaves and memory of the seed. But in the wind turning leaves and memory of the seed. The hearth fire's ground, the forest's scent and the stone's rock.
10:05
The hearth fire's ground, the forest's scent and the stone's rock. Here I remain and here I will make my stand. Here I remain and here I will make my stand. Forest and field and hearth and home.
10:14
Here I remain and here I will make my stand.
10:16
Forest and field and hearth and home.
Dark Moon Rocks Radio
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