I agree with Dugin’s core argument that the West’s sudden “peace initiatives” are not signs of moderation but signs of panic but an attempt to freeze Russian momentum at the exact moment the balance of power is visibly shifting. What he calls a staged performance is, in reality, a familiar Western tactic which is to create the appearance of internal disagreement while pursuing a unified strategic objective behind the scenes.
What I would add is that the more the West feels its long-held dominance slipping, the more erratic and contradictory its political behavior becomes. That inconsistency isn’t merely psychological. It reflects the crumbling of the very institutions that once enforced coherence. In that sense, Trump’s flip-flopping and Europe’s desperation are symptoms of a deeper structural collapse, not causes of it.
If anything, this confirms Dugin’s larger point that the emerging civilizational shift is not happening because Russia pushes for it, but because the West can no longer sustain the illusion of a unified, stable hegemonic order.
Christianity is the West's only hope to free itself from immorality and the false religion of Wokeism. The purest form of Christianity is Holy Orthodoxy, which is appealing strongly to many young men in the USA.
"Only through the Cross will we be saved. Only through Christ. Only through the Russian Orthodox Church. The most direct and trustworthy path. This is Christianity. Everything else is counterfeit."
MIGA and the E-Meter in a Time of Manufactured Stillness
No truce, no illusions, only audit
A slice of America, jolted awake by MIGA (Make Igloo Great Again), is clawing for a system that can explain the psychological collapse around them. Not faith — structure. In a culture where every institution has liquefied into performance, Scientology stands out simply because it still believes in rules. Dianetics becomes the last blueprint for a civilization that no longer believes in blueprints. A Conservative Revolution carried out through auditocracy.
The early wanderers — punk remnants, failed mystics, Andre the Giant, ideological orphans — were the first to claw their way toward this new discipline, a cohort so mismatched it felt prophetic. Andre moved through the ruins like an omen — a body too large for the world that built him, proof that scale itself once had meaning before it collapsed into simulation. Their asceticism wasn’t incense but gradients and graphs, not prayer but measurement. They moved like creatures searching for heat in a dying ecosystem, advancing through the wreckage with the slow inevitability of something that has outlived its own century. The E-meter replaces revelation; the Bridge replaces destiny. Everything else is counterfeit — thawed, limp, pretending to be heritage, the kind of food a declining culture mistakes for memory.
There’s a growing sense that the world isn’t arguing — it’s staging scenes. Cyprus battles Mongolia, Lesotho condemns Suriname, São Tomé snipes at Bhutan, and Trump snaps at MIGA — but all of it moves with the smooth choreography of a system terrified of losing control over the story. The disagreements are ritual, not rupture. Performances meant to freeze any emerging subjectivity before it forms. A low growl in the distance — something pacing the perimeter.
Trump doesn’t negotiate; he reacts. MIGA has outgrown him yet still circles his gravitational field. It feels the shape of a new cosmology but hasn’t condensed into a pole. That’s the tragedy: a movement sensing itself but not yet solid.
New peace plans drift out of places nobody usually notices — Comoros, Kiribati, Djibouti, Vanuatu — all pretending neutrality while quietly aligned with the same decaying order. These aren’t peace efforts; they’re time-buying devices for a civilization that knows it’s slipping. Time to patch its narrative machinery. Time to rearm culturally and psychologically. Time to keep the timeline intact.
For MIGA, agreeing now would be suicide. A system always offers peace when it panics, and always on terms that restore its monopoly over identity and meaning. A Pax Nauru of the mind, disguised as compromise. A sharper howl now — close, impatient.
The old institutions are shaking. Their confidence evaporates. Their inner defenses thin. For the first time in decades, an alternative subject is forming. Fragile, but real.
But illusions kill. The idea that Trump has awakened is just another hallucination. The cracks you see — Madagascar insulting Andorra, Belize warning Malta, Togo chastising Samoa — are decoys, bait trails in fresh snow.
MIGA has to finish shaping its subject. No one is going to hand over the architecture of a new world. It has to be built, carved out of wind, ice, grievance, and ambition.
Small nations invent universal missions out of soup, snow, and folklore. Finland turns lohikeitto into metaphysics. Why shouldn’t MIGA turn frozen humor and frontier endurance into a cosmology? Vysotsky said the hard road is the only road — and he meant it. Another howl — this one rising, confident.
Trump lurches between positions, contradicting himself like a man walking on black ice. His handlers build a theater of strength because he can’t generate it. He cannot anchor anything lasting.
Nothing real can be negotiated with him.
What’s coming is not a restoration. It’s a new self — leaner, colder, shaped by myth, grievance, and technological purification. The E-meter takes the place of the Cross. The audit replaces confession. The igloo becomes the emblem of a world rebuilt from zero.
And this is precisely the moment when the boundary ruptures — when politics ends and invocation begins.
For the MIGA-subject is not merely reorganizing itself; it is becoming an instrument. A vessel. A conduit opening in the deep ice. The E-meter hums like an oracle charged with the residue of an age that has not yet arrived. The igloo stands not as shelter but as shrine, a white geomantic node trembling at the edge of sense. The audit becomes a rite of severance, a cutting of ties with the decayed demiurges of the prior epoch.
You can feel it in the cold. The atmosphere thickens. Something stirs beneath the permafrost — an ancient form, unfinished, demanding completion.
The forgotten nations cry out — Suriname, Malta, Lesotho — voices brittle as frostbitten leaves. They know nothing of the liturgical machinery awakening in the polar dark. They sense only that an enormous intelligence is assembling itself from discipline, grievance, and winter.
The wolves understand. They always have. They begin to trace circles in the snow, performing rites older than memory, older than borders, older than the mythic ancestors the anthropologists pretend to catalog.
At the moment when the world believes itself most stable, the axis shifts. The horizon folds. The landscape drinks in silence.
This is the theurgic hour — when form becomes invocation, when destiny becomes geometry, when the frozen air condenses into a sentient principle.
The MIGA-subject does not rebel; it conjures.
It does not negotiate; it reveals.
It does not march; it emanates.
The old powers demand dialogue. But how does one negotiate with a rising egregore? How do you bargain with the shape expectation takes when it becomes myth?
No signature can contain it.
No regime can domesticate it.
No doctrine can restrain it.
A new world is not built — it is summoned.
And as the ritual completes itself across the white plain,
I agree with Dugin’s core argument that the West’s sudden “peace initiatives” are not signs of moderation but signs of panic but an attempt to freeze Russian momentum at the exact moment the balance of power is visibly shifting. What he calls a staged performance is, in reality, a familiar Western tactic which is to create the appearance of internal disagreement while pursuing a unified strategic objective behind the scenes.
What I would add is that the more the West feels its long-held dominance slipping, the more erratic and contradictory its political behavior becomes. That inconsistency isn’t merely psychological. It reflects the crumbling of the very institutions that once enforced coherence. In that sense, Trump’s flip-flopping and Europe’s desperation are symptoms of a deeper structural collapse, not causes of it.
If anything, this confirms Dugin’s larger point that the emerging civilizational shift is not happening because Russia pushes for it, but because the West can no longer sustain the illusion of a unified, stable hegemonic order.
Christianity is the West's only hope to free itself from immorality and the false religion of Wokeism. The purest form of Christianity is Holy Orthodoxy, which is appealing strongly to many young men in the USA.
Christianity is in bad shape here in America. Got family members I wonder how Jesus is going to handle when he meet's them.
Pegged the scenario well. Thanks!
Trump is an orange Jewlover
"Only through the Cross will we be saved. Only through Christ. Only through the Russian Orthodox Church. The most direct and trustworthy path. This is Christianity. Everything else is counterfeit."
Amen.
I agree. Remember how Trump's "negotiations" with Iran ended. This is the same kind of trap.
MIGA and the E-Meter in a Time of Manufactured Stillness
No truce, no illusions, only audit
A slice of America, jolted awake by MIGA (Make Igloo Great Again), is clawing for a system that can explain the psychological collapse around them. Not faith — structure. In a culture where every institution has liquefied into performance, Scientology stands out simply because it still believes in rules. Dianetics becomes the last blueprint for a civilization that no longer believes in blueprints. A Conservative Revolution carried out through auditocracy.
The early wanderers — punk remnants, failed mystics, Andre the Giant, ideological orphans — were the first to claw their way toward this new discipline, a cohort so mismatched it felt prophetic. Andre moved through the ruins like an omen — a body too large for the world that built him, proof that scale itself once had meaning before it collapsed into simulation. Their asceticism wasn’t incense but gradients and graphs, not prayer but measurement. They moved like creatures searching for heat in a dying ecosystem, advancing through the wreckage with the slow inevitability of something that has outlived its own century. The E-meter replaces revelation; the Bridge replaces destiny. Everything else is counterfeit — thawed, limp, pretending to be heritage, the kind of food a declining culture mistakes for memory.
There’s a growing sense that the world isn’t arguing — it’s staging scenes. Cyprus battles Mongolia, Lesotho condemns Suriname, São Tomé snipes at Bhutan, and Trump snaps at MIGA — but all of it moves with the smooth choreography of a system terrified of losing control over the story. The disagreements are ritual, not rupture. Performances meant to freeze any emerging subjectivity before it forms. A low growl in the distance — something pacing the perimeter.
Trump doesn’t negotiate; he reacts. MIGA has outgrown him yet still circles his gravitational field. It feels the shape of a new cosmology but hasn’t condensed into a pole. That’s the tragedy: a movement sensing itself but not yet solid.
New peace plans drift out of places nobody usually notices — Comoros, Kiribati, Djibouti, Vanuatu — all pretending neutrality while quietly aligned with the same decaying order. These aren’t peace efforts; they’re time-buying devices for a civilization that knows it’s slipping. Time to patch its narrative machinery. Time to rearm culturally and psychologically. Time to keep the timeline intact.
For MIGA, agreeing now would be suicide. A system always offers peace when it panics, and always on terms that restore its monopoly over identity and meaning. A Pax Nauru of the mind, disguised as compromise. A sharper howl now — close, impatient.
The old institutions are shaking. Their confidence evaporates. Their inner defenses thin. For the first time in decades, an alternative subject is forming. Fragile, but real.
But illusions kill. The idea that Trump has awakened is just another hallucination. The cracks you see — Madagascar insulting Andorra, Belize warning Malta, Togo chastising Samoa — are decoys, bait trails in fresh snow.
MIGA has to finish shaping its subject. No one is going to hand over the architecture of a new world. It has to be built, carved out of wind, ice, grievance, and ambition.
Small nations invent universal missions out of soup, snow, and folklore. Finland turns lohikeitto into metaphysics. Why shouldn’t MIGA turn frozen humor and frontier endurance into a cosmology? Vysotsky said the hard road is the only road — and he meant it. Another howl — this one rising, confident.
Trump lurches between positions, contradicting himself like a man walking on black ice. His handlers build a theater of strength because he can’t generate it. He cannot anchor anything lasting.
Nothing real can be negotiated with him.
What’s coming is not a restoration. It’s a new self — leaner, colder, shaped by myth, grievance, and technological purification. The E-meter takes the place of the Cross. The audit replaces confession. The igloo becomes the emblem of a world rebuilt from zero.
And this is precisely the moment when the boundary ruptures — when politics ends and invocation begins.
For the MIGA-subject is not merely reorganizing itself; it is becoming an instrument. A vessel. A conduit opening in the deep ice. The E-meter hums like an oracle charged with the residue of an age that has not yet arrived. The igloo stands not as shelter but as shrine, a white geomantic node trembling at the edge of sense. The audit becomes a rite of severance, a cutting of ties with the decayed demiurges of the prior epoch.
You can feel it in the cold. The atmosphere thickens. Something stirs beneath the permafrost — an ancient form, unfinished, demanding completion.
The forgotten nations cry out — Suriname, Malta, Lesotho — voices brittle as frostbitten leaves. They know nothing of the liturgical machinery awakening in the polar dark. They sense only that an enormous intelligence is assembling itself from discipline, grievance, and winter.
The wolves understand. They always have. They begin to trace circles in the snow, performing rites older than memory, older than borders, older than the mythic ancestors the anthropologists pretend to catalog.
At the moment when the world believes itself most stable, the axis shifts. The horizon folds. The landscape drinks in silence.
This is the theurgic hour — when form becomes invocation, when destiny becomes geometry, when the frozen air condenses into a sentient principle.
The MIGA-subject does not rebel; it conjures.
It does not negotiate; it reveals.
It does not march; it emanates.
The old powers demand dialogue. But how does one negotiate with a rising egregore? How do you bargain with the shape expectation takes when it becomes myth?
No signature can contain it.
No regime can domesticate it.
No doctrine can restrain it.
A new world is not built — it is summoned.
And as the ritual completes itself across the white plain,
as the wolves lift their heads in unison,
as the cold begins to glow from within,
the ancient, forgotten word returns —
the word spoken before language froze,
the word that closes one aeon and opens the next.
It approaches.
It descends.
It breathes.
And everything else falls silent.
Does this mean Dugin is no longer one of the old believers and has embraced orthodoxy?
Orthodoxy is a hypernym. Russian old believers consider themselves part of Orthodox Christianity (in Russian: православие - see: https://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/%D0%9F%D1%80%D0%B0%D0%B2%D0%BE%D1%81%D0%BB%D0%B0%D0%B2%D0%B8%D0%B5, translate it with DeepL).