Author: HollyO

This Article Is for White People

One for sorrow, two for mirth,
Three for a wedding, four for a birth.
Five for a girl, six for a boy,
Seven for heaven and eight for joy.
Nine for freedom from coveting gold.
Ten for a secret ne’er to be told.

-Upon Counting Magpies, traditional

On recommendation, I downloaded the recent film Bohemian Rhapsody. I enjoyed it tremendously overall—it was charming, and reminded me of the lost dimension we often refer to in this generally genial confederacy that is The Platform That Burns.

What struck me most clearly was the final scene at Wembley during Live Aid, the rolling ocean of White faces comprising the celebrants and congregation—one hundred thousand of them. In this vast multitude there were perhaps five or ten non-Whites present. In real life it was one of the largest and least diverse crowds ever seen, and everyone there—nearly two billion worldwide—participated to raise money to rescue, feed, heal, nurture and educate a generation of Blacks who would then grow up to torture and kill White African farmers by way of thanks, then aim to destroy whatever remained of the White world they could get their hands on.

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The Conjurer’s Tale

“If names be not correct, language is not in accordance with the truth of things.
If language be not in accordance with the truth of things, affairs cannot be carried on to success.”
孔子

“No one is so much a fool as a willful fool.”
Medieval Flemish Proverb

Before my first effort for The Platform That Burns I had never submitted a piece for online publication and rarely commented on any forum anywhere despite twenty-five years drifting through this Internet dimension like Voyager 1. This place is my Deep Space Network, and from the start I could hear it calling forth something better, something greater in me despite the ever-increasing distance between us.

The Platform is as unique in its contributors as it is for the silent, thoughtful multitudes who catch its signal daily, though the greatest part of it, the heart and the art and the hope of it, is the captain of the ship, Admin Jim.

We are all here in this place in this moment reading these words because one man wanted to write, wanted to be read, desired to accomplish this unencumbered by rules imposed by gatekeepers and hoped to become supported enough to have the time at his command to do it well. I often wonder if it’s played out as he’d hoped; from what I have gathered he lives and breathes the Platform—no Admin in history is more attentive—yet still maintains a steady gig in the outside world. He’s a marvel and has my enduring respect.

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The Tunnel of Babel

Two physicists walk into a bar—actually, they stroll into a government office in a crumbling-concrete, linoleum-floored brutalist building styled on-the-cheap after Le Corbusier during the boomtown rush of the post-WWII nuclear frontier. They are prepared to pitch an idea that goes roughly like this:

There is something we cannot precisely describe, nor are we able to quantify its dimensions, nor how it behaves, or whether it has any commercial application. We don’t even know if it actually exists but we think the people of the world owe it to themselves to find it, name it and pin it to the mat. We’ve got ten nations signed up and expect the rest to fall into line. Want a piece of the action?

Bien sûr! the bureaucrat replies. Here’s a blank cheque—no—wait— just take the chequebook and let us know if you find anything worth selling. Bonjour! Bonne chance!

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The Lathe of Hell

There we were, having a good time, making money, making love and good music, bringing beauty into the world, building new things and Bang! we awakened to find totalitarian assholes in charge via some back door we were too busy, too happy and too satisfied to keep an eye on. The bill for those good times has now been delivered to our table and via some arcane calculus it appears we are presently held to account for all the bad in the world. It is time to pay up and pay up and pay up again until the parasites at last kill off their host and then I expect we will be blamed for desertion as well.

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On the Pursuit of Pussy in the Age of Decline Part 1

Upon the highest hill in the land of my fathers was a burning bush and it spake unto me in a resonant voice saying, “Seek ye my kinsman, the burning platform, and go hither unto the men that dwell upon it and bring this knowledge unto them, for thou shalt betray thy sex that these men shall know of the three sacred tenets needful for them to be saved from all peril in the pursuit of pussy.”

And I said, “Okay.”

1. Women want to please men, but modern media keeps telling them they shouldn’t want to please anyone but themselves, and most modern women are addicted to modern media.

2. Women are angry because they suspect (and cannot afford to admit) that it’s a man’s world and that most of their power still and always will derive from pleasing men.

3. Women Still Think Like Slaves. This is why:

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