I can say with some authority that one of the strongest positives of running a dissident blog in our blighted age is coming into contact with so many truly exceptional people.  One of these, for me, is Polish-born writer Tadeusz Korzeniewski, who has kindly tendered substantial assistance to me for some of the work I have done here down the years.  Now I have the opportunity to repay him a little by mentioning his book To Wyoming, now available on Kindle.  In 1991-1998 Tadeusz traveled across North America. In 2013 he published a book in Poland, Do Wyoming, addressed to ethnic Poles. The English version of the book is made for ethnic Europeans.

I asked Tadeusz to expand the official blurb, which he has done; and which I reproduce here.  Below the fold is a sample chapter to whet your reader’s appetite.

In 1977 porn developer Larry Flynt had a Christian/Pagan vision while flying on his jet in the company of president Jimmy Carter’s evangelical sister. He described it in his autobiography An Unseemly Man.God, the apostle Paul, and the late comedian Lenny Bruce appeared to him. The vision knocked him to his knees and he became a practicing Christian afterwards. Then money and celebrity status took better of him. He has even de-emphasized the fact that in his vision he saw himself in a wheelchair, which “scared the wits out of” him. Several months after the hallucination, the wheelchair became reality for the rest of his life when he was shot. He likes it gold.
After a seven-year travel across the northern America, the author Tadeusz Korzeniewski concludes his road-diary To Wyoming: Look closer at what happened to your famed porn developer on that pinky jet. The subject of that epiphanic pop-up claims today that it had occurred due to chemical imbalance in his brain and prolonged stress. Fine, it even brings the thing closer to the real world . . .
Larry Flynt fell into his mental turbulence because he was messing too much with the forces of Life. And when biology clocked him at thirty-five, when a man needs to finally straighten out and get his job done, they had gotten unnerved. Sure, the evangelical sister of the evangelical president of the United States flying beside him on his labia-pink jet put some gasoline to the fire, and influenced the vision casting. But what really brought about such an unusual eruption of greater forces, was that the sister and the porn developer were both conjoined to the mightiest energies of the country. The political one in the case of the president’s sister, and the pop-cultural one in the case of the porn developer. That’s what that enormous confluence of submerged energies came from. That’s why it is worth paying a national attention to that hallucination. It can be perceived just like the great poets’ insights have been. In 1977 over the Rockies heights the great ethnic Euro-American subliminal forces had a sit-down. Let’s try to understand what they were saying…
Larry Flynt was shot by one Joseph Paul Franklin over interracial porn. So is still there or isn’t a nationally - and what is a nation, hm? - viable link, an umbilical cord, if you will,  between John Wilkes Booth punishing Abraham Lincoln and Joseph Paul Franklin taking to the woodshed Larry Flynt? They were disturbed individuals in the extreme, Franklin and Booth, they even bordered on insane, we’d agree on that. But within their possessed state, can’t there be traced also sane undercurrents of a courageous man’s idealism? Of the common folks’ sensibility? However crude the executioners’ overall mental processes were?
Leon Czolgosz, sending in 1901 a signal to the corporate vultures of the era – and weren’t they? – by taking out their cigar room pal president William MacKinley. Shortly before his high voltage get-together, Czolgosz would lightly confess: “I killed the President because he was the enemy of the good people – the good working people. I am not sorry for my crime.”
Even Mark David Chapman, John Lennon’s extractor in 1980, can be looked at as transmitting the reality’s irritation at the teeming masses prostrating before their barely-betters. In the days of Haydn, Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven, what would John Lennon, Mick Jagger, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and thousands of other upper-crust three-chorders be but the village fiddle-and-yodel virtuosos? Thirty-two years after the Dakota shooting, on his seventh parole hearing and knowing well the outcome, Mark David Chapman would unrestrainedly point to the reason for the crime: “Attention, bottom line.” “Attention,” decreasing the unnatural awe-gap between the common guy and a hallowed village yodeler.
Gavrilo Princip, caring for the right of his ethnic kin to live and have a ball on their own, and taking out in 1914 the Archduke Ferdinand of the multicultural Austro-Hungarian blob. That then-powers that be would go total European bananas afterwards wasn’t the executor’s principal liability, was it? And where are they today anyway, and where are the Serbs.
So yes, they were – and there will be – the unwholesome yet actual agents enforcing reality. For if you go back to their time and compare with ours, you’d see that in most instances, when it was a little guy willing to give up his life for taking out a big guy, his intended objective has come to pass; and that which hasn’t passed yet, it likely will. The United States of America, the original European Union, is going south. Blood borders will be established in it in time. Ethnic Communists will be run out of town. America, Americans, still don’t buy – such a trader nation! – how handy in halting the sinking in Ethnic Communism’s quagmire could be to soberly look at their prominent porn developer’s mind pop-up over the Rockies heights. They need probably more comeuppance. They’ll sure get it.

A Skirmish
a chapter from TO WYOMING

The university district. She’s a law professor, he’s a journalist. Curtis at odd jobs agency has fixed it for me. Shelves in the garage. It started the last week, today’s a payday. The Kimbells wrote a check and said dinner was about ready, linguine in the white clam sauce. I drove to a grocery, we’re sitting with Teri in the patio now and sip frascatti. In the kitchen Kent also sips, heating up a pot for linguine.
Teri tells about her grandmother, who growing up on a farm in eastern Montana bathed once a week in family water. I know, firewood was hard to come by in a treeless country. I bring up a coffee shop waitress in North Dakota, who as a kid worked with her siblings in a farm field. The mother would cheer them up: well, kids, if we would see just one tree somewhere on the horizon, it would already seem cooler, now wouldn’t it?
I also bathed in family water, when I was little. Coal was expensive. But I don’t bring it up, I concur with Teri that it was hard for the pioneers. That’s a ritual between a newcomer and the locals. Because it wasn’t by chance that Teri brought up the pioneers, though she may not be quite aware of it. It’s an instinct, so a stranger would appreciate the local effort. Not easy to make a country, any country. One who understands it will respect it and adapt usefully. One who doesn’t will leave. Or will remain a stranger.
Teri’s looks down at little Jason now, who’s trekking a plastic Luke Skywalker up and down her shin. She looks at him as if from a mile above, as if from eternity, and yet intimately.
“When I get back from campus, that’s the only thing I want to do. To sit down with Jason and forget all the rest. I can look at him just playing, just moving, for hours on. Nothing else…” she confines.
Something more than a joy of motherhood resonates in Teri’s voice. A trace of anger at the white male can also be detected.
What?!
Yep. When Teri found out that she was pregnant and decided to keep the baby, she felt guilt. Until that point, pregnancy was most positively associated in her with her right to terminate it. When Jason came about and clasping, clinging, taking food, babbling, even drooling, was taking her to the realm she had had no idea, even hours before birth, that a woman can feast so richly in, the guilt was still gnawing at her like an immovable avenger. The blame that she had chosen not to terminate. To which she responded with defensive aggression, feeling so elated now. “You white male!” with fullness of her maternity’s natural rage she’d lash emotionally at the one whom she has been lead on to lash, by the ones…
Just kidding. A bit.
A Japanese SUV pulls up smoothly in front of the house. A man in his fifties wearing glasses gets out. He sees us in the patio, walks over. Steven West, a University professor. Like Teri, only she’s an assistant prof. She brings him a glass of wine. I saw in the dining room three dinner setups. The professor must be passing by.
A friend of the family. Lives on the next block. He, Kent and two others, the head of the hospital and a writer from the Blackfeet nation (excuse me while I laugh), meet on Tuesdays for an evening of poker game. A men’s club. Retro, of course. Spoken with a self-deprecating grin. Not serious, you kidding? The women’s organizations’ would get biceps spasms.
Teri goes back to the house. Steven picks out one of the picture books on the table and asks the kid to point to a dog in it, a bird, a tree, a car… He asks me if I like traveling. I answer and return the question. He likes it, too. A lot of time has passed since his last one, though, to Hungary.
“Did you like the country?”
“Well, I was a visiting Fulbright professor, sort of busy. But I saw the country, yes. They go through these changes now…”
“I know. Cleaning the house. Good for them.”
Good for them, because the feisty Magyars gave the boot to the Marx-inebriated Russians, finally. They’ve been taking their home back.
After my response, the Professor seems to have lost some wind in the sails. The conversation has come to a still. As if he was the head of human resources, I was applying for a job, and my answer wasn’t quite corresponding with the company’s expectations.
I think I know what’s going on. Will he drop it now, or will he carry on?
“Well, yes, but the situation there is such…,” he carries on. “A whole new system needs to be put into place. Rebuilding the economy, installing the free market, basically from scratch. There is an immense need for experts, in all areas, and a shortage as well. Meanwhile, they seem to be more interested in witch hunting…
There. I knew it.
I will try him once again, to make sure.
“Well, after a tragic experience, the nation wants to have patriots now at the helm, for a change. A healthy reaction,” I speak in a casual voice, picking up for Jason Luke Skywalker from the floor .
From behind the glasses, Professor flashes his eyes at me. I’m looking down at Jason, but I notice.
Steve is a Jew.
There’s a lot of talk about Jewish antennas. How the Jew is sensitive to even the smallest change in the environment, because it might jeopardize his safety, or the safety of his position. But I can also say that after years of traveling alone in America, I have developed a no lesser radar to help me read who is a Jew. I had to. Because they know who I am and where I’m from almost from start. But I often don’t know that about them. So I have to collect the information by piece, stepping carefully, as in a dry forest, as here today. So as not to get into some uncalled for head-on. Because, well, they’re trying to adapt the world to their tribal needs. And those needs do not always coincide with the needs of my group, or mine individually. It’s only natural.
Teri has returned from the house. A woman, she picks up the tension between us like a sensitive meter. She glances at one of us, then another. Kent calls from behind the screen door that dinner’s on the table. Steven lingers. Teri invites him inside. Kent places the fourth dinner cover. We eat.
As at dinner, the conversation gets light. I start about the old magazines I had found on the previous job, crammed inside the walls as insulation. All from the early 1950., including the Life with the first printing of The Old Man and the Sea. Teri drops about her ex-boyfriend, who since a kid had fixed his mind on sea treasure hunting, and today’s a millionaire. She leaves the room and brings in a National Geographic with a photo of her former squeeze. We look at a trunk overflowing with precious stones and gold scrap, and a guy beside grinning like a rum-blasted pirate.
“And what were your ex-girlfriends’ childhood dreams, Kent?” I turn to Teri’s husband.
Because I agree, for a long time in history, even before the formation of spoken language, using the sign tongue, I’d bet, men liked to tell their women of chicks from their past, or even those on which they had an eye currently. Because it made them feel good. But they forbade their women to do the same, because they didn’t feel terrific hearing that. I agree that we have to put an end to it. But I do not sign now for women, who at the drop of a hat bring in the pics of their former beauxs, as if saying see, this one, I did with him like I do with you, if you made a sound recording in the dark, no one would tell who was who.
And so to restore the balance, I have put into equation Kent’s erotic past. I want marriages to be successful, anything wrong with that?
“Whaaat! She’d scratch out his eyes, if he only mentioned one ,” Professor.
We laugh. He’s probably right, women’s democracy. A man is a horned creature, if he says “no”, he will try to stick to it, or he will feel shame. But a woman’s like water, she’ll always leak. One Enlightenment can’t undo millions of years of Nature’s lobbying.
So in the first part of the dinner it has eased between Steve and me, he’s stepped back, somewhat. We were all after a day’s work, wanting to relax, have fun. But I had a feeling that it wasn’t the end. One way or another, he’ll be back with it. The radar was telling me.
Because “witch hunting”... Sure what Professor had in mind was holding the former enablers of the Communist regime accountable, even bringing some to a trial. Among them – let’s call a spade a spade – thousands of able, ambitious, often well educated Jews, who were installing and in the first phase greatly assisting that anti-national – from the ethnic Hungarians’ point of view of – system. During his Hungarian stay Professor might’ve made friends with some of them, today probably all in the front-line of the new Hungarian transformation, this time the democratic one. There might’ve been family ties in play, too. Budapest’s Jewish community counts some 100,000. And so in a scenic town in a scenic valley in the scenic western Montana, I have come across the second American border customs. An informal visa zone with the precise, though not fully realized, including by the very controllers, probably, directives: whom to let in, whom to block, whom to support, whom to undermine. This is not the first time that it happens to me in America. And not the last one, that’s for sure.
I was right, it wasn’t the end. The table talk ceased for a while, then Steve :
“So you’re an American citizen?...” politely, as if awaiting a confirmation.
“No, I’m not.”
“But you are going to be?...” politely, as if expecting for it to happen.
“ . . . “ I waved the fork as if conducting.
“Do you think you will go back to your old country?” Teri with curiosity in her voice, sincere one.
“He’ll become a citizen of the world,” Kent with a drop of tabasco, to taste.
“Actually, there isn’t probably such a thing as the world without a country. That I have already found out in my travels. There will always be a country in the equation. It’s that for one reason or another, it might be differently prescribed…
Kent ponders for moment, then says that he thinks he understands what I mean.
“How did you come to the U.S.?” Professor.
Gotcha! I have just gotten one over him. The tone of his question wasn’t entirely natural. He blinked. Too impatient to know.
“Through the southern border, Steve. Through the southern one…” I dipped a piece of baguette in the sauce once, and again.
Teri and Kent chuckled. And they immediately became serious. As if apologizing.
Professor’s and mine eyes have locked in. Most of today’s ethnic Euro eggheads would already wet their pants in that fix. One does not encounter such stares daily. It wasn’t one human looking into the eyes of another human. It was one nation assessing another nation. And that other nation assessing that first nation. Not in a simple sense of nationhood, as we Europeans have been prone to understand it. No, it was something rather closer to what I had tried to say before. That there will always be a country, but for one reason or another, it might not be obviously specified. Not yet.
Well, I was no longer a green New Yorker, who went out of Manhattan after the setting Sun. I have clocked a half dozen years and rolled through nearly all of Daniel Boone country. We have the summer of 1990 today. The effects of radically deregulating the American immigration law are becoming more and more visible to the public. A so called white flight, the Euro-Americans running away from the great benefits of “ethnic diversification” grows steady. Starting from the 1960s, with the advent of the civil rights - equal citizens rights and their ideological perversions like busing – the Euro-Americans began fleeing the cities for the suburbs first. Then, in the suburban neighborhoods instinctively, naturally creating organic “white suburbs.” Then they began moving deeper into the country. Nay, not so long ago they fled to such states as Colorado. Today, they flee Colorado, too. In Denver today , we read, schoolchildren are over 50 % Mestizos, near 25% Afro-Americans, and less than 25% Euro-Americans. And in Montana one can already spot the grumbling bumper stickers, “All Montana Needs Is More Californians,” about the Californian Euro-Americans flooding the state, selling homes down there, driving up property prices up here, squeezing into an already poor job market. I knew that Professor knew that I knew that deal. And he was saying nothing.
The rest of the dinner was calm. Interesting, will he work behind my back in town?