Wednesday, 6 March 2019


Very much the last post

I’ve found something
No one else is looking for.
I’ve found something
That there’s no use for.
And what’s more,
I’m keeping it to myself.

Wire, Single KO

And, now, it’s all over.


I began this weblog as Postcards from Traumaville over five years ago. My aims were clear. I know the importance of regular writing, and I had a need to define my attitudes to the modern world, the world in which we all live and breathe and have our being. And I succeeded.
I never hid my identity, and the weblog – I hate the word ‘blog’ as it sounds faecal – either got me fired or helped to get me fired at least twice. It never bothered me. Writing is more important.
I haven’t kept up the weblog for some time, and I am acutely aware that I have nothing more to say, unless it is on frivolous topics. I think we all know where the West is heading. Things are slowly coming to a head. As US writer Steve Sailer writes, in the context of political correctness – that dullard phrase – the modern world consists in not noticing. Gradually, it would seem, more people are beginning to notice.
There is a ruling elite. Their aim is, if not complex, then at least compound. They have been alerted to the fact that the people they are supposed to serve but in fact rule over have far too much potential access to genuine information, and information can be converted to knowledge, which in turn can be transmuted into wisdom. This must not be allowed to happen, and so a programme of disruption has been brought into place. The ‘disruptors’, as I have called them, are numerous, and the list grows with the invention of those intent on disruption.
In the beginning, on a George Perec-like whim, I made every essay exactly one thousand words, and this continued for two or three years. I put it down to a need for discipline, as well as my OCD, an old friend.
I never had many readers. One hundred hits a day was just fine with me. Volume is not the point. I know I made more than one person think, and that is enough for me. I don’t mean I made someone think like me – pray to your god that never happens – I mean I believe I made them think.
I have approaching half a million words, and that can be condensed into a book. The foreword in progress is below. The weblog will remain in situ, should anyone wish to visit the back-catalogue.
I have written more than enough to get me jail time in the UK, should I ever appear on the radar there again. This is the way we live now.
So, to any regular readers of Traumaville, many thanks, and I hope you got something from it. Here, as I say, is a foreword to a potential book – working title A Season in Traumaville – and, that aside, that’s it. As Wittgenstein wrote, that whereof we cannot speak, we must remain silent.



This is the way.
Step inside.
Joy Division, Atrocity Exhibition

Where am I?
In the village
Patrick McGoohan, The Prisoner

Shortly before film director Stanley Kubrick died, he was at work on his final film when he gave an interview to film and television journalists. One television listings magazine ran Kubrick’s comments, including his explanation of the source for his last work, Eyes Wide Shut. The film, Kubrick explained, was inspired by a German novel written in 1926 by an Austrian, Arthur Schnitzler, and titled Traumaville.
Schnitzler’s book is usually translated into English as ‘Dream Story’, and this is the accepted translation of the German Traumnovelle, which is what Kubrick had actually said but which had been misheard either live or via a recording as ‘Traumaville’. It was perfect; a very modern mistake and a place, a location, is born.
Traumaville is where we all live now. A cross between Plato’s Republic and Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland, a combination of Orwell’s 1984, Huxley’s Brave New World and Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange, a strange mix of the real and the unreal, the actual and the fictional, Traumaville feels increasingly like home, if not as secure. But that is a large part of the point...
In Traumaville, an increasingly desperate political class is trying to hold on to power by a combination of deception and selective truth-telling. A powerful media class struggles to maintain a Potemkin village of culture and social cohesion. The inhabitants of Traumaville are fed just enough distractions – panem et circenses 2.0 - to keep them away from the sanctum sanctorum of the ruling classes but, like little Toto uncovering the Wizard of Oz operating gears and levers at the back of his machinery, those inhabitants are slowly beginning to understand both that Traumaville is not what it seems, and that it is about to change into somewhere considerably more dangerous. The political class and its media courtiers will continue to deny, like the wizard, that there is anything of significance to see. “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!” as the old man says in the film. But there is something to see, and the simple folk of Traumaville are beginning, in their twos and threes – Burke’s ‘little platoons’, perhaps, in larval, virtual form - to become more inquisitive.
Traumaville, then. We hope you will enjoy your stay. First, a little etymology. Trauma. According to Merriam-Webster the word comes from the Ancient Greek for ‘wound’, and described using the following set of definitions;
1. An injury (such as a wound) to living tissue caused by an extrinsic agent.
2. A disordered psychic or behavioural state resulting from severe mental or emotional stress or physical injury.
3. An emotional upset.
The body, which suffers the trauma of physical injury, is utilised as a metaphor for definitions two and three. Those who live in Traumaville are troubled, then. Perhaps. We will move on, again with our trusty dictionary at hand, a book which will soon be the target of cultural Marxism.
The suffix -ville ­is the suffix used primarily in France to denote a small collection of houses, shops, and vineyard and farm or smallholding. It’s comforting to arrive in or drive through towns in France with this shared provenance.’
Normandy has many -villes, which may explain the English village, again originally a small collection of houses larger than a hamlet but smaller then a town.
Traumaville, then. A pleasant place in which to be frightened.
It is surprisingly easy to keep citizens in a state of fear in these times. Fear of unemployment. Fear of debt. Fear of crime, particularly violent crime. Fear for your children. All of these genuine phobias, although far from irrational, could be addressed by any and Western governments with adequate allocation of resources, real-world, non-theoretical or ideological solutions, dedicated and capable staff, and a desire to maintain a high-quality of life for the majority of citizens. Instead, fear of unemployment is exacerbated by hurried and slovenly immigration, fear of debt is compounded by the availability of irresponsible credit loans, fear of crime is encouraged by the transformation of the police into ideologically orthodox bureaucrats, and fear for one’s children is kept buoyant by conspicuously meaningless education, the lack of attention to juvenile anti-social behavior and narcotics, and a decadent and sexualized youth culture no young person can easily escape.
So, these are the dark alleys of Traumaville, the broken cobbles and low gaslight that lead down to the old canal. It has been decreed by people crueller than you that you will walk those desolate and untrustworthy streets.

Thursday, 14 February 2019


An English garden, circa 1950

Well, Traumaville is having to close for the season, and you will have to put up with poetry and lyrics and fragments for now. You'll get over it. So, here's The Garden With Gaps in the Fence.

Wind chimes and small bells and sedge-grass.
A garden with gaps in the fence.
The boards from a never-used coffin
Keep the dogs out that have any sense.
The wind doesn’t blow here.
It’s too scared to show here.
The garden has gaps in the fence.

Coriander and rusted old wrenches.
A brass hare hangs over the door.
Rotted wood from some old garden benches.
Molasses spilled right on the floor.
The garden-swing squeaks.
The rocking-chair creaks.
And the garden has gaps in the fence.

There is silt in the ill-bevelled gutters.
Iguanas leave tracks in the dirt.
The cracking paint floats from the shutters.
A new coat of paint wouldn’t hurt.
There are spider-webs, son,
With the spiders long gone,
For the garden has gaps in the fence.

Wherever you set up your homestead,
Wherever your kids get to play.
Make sure that the stanchions are grounded,
And the earth is more root-soil than clay.
But be still as a mouse,
And don’t buy that house,
If the garden has gaps in the fence.

Sunday, 27 January 2019


Pure evil vs. tribal elder

Left-wing ideologues and activists are deliberately standing in the way of civilisation, that much is clear. The reasons for this deliberate obstructionism are unclear, but becoming clearer with every new incident and outrage. To stand in the way of civilisation, you must first stand in the way of those who create civilisation. Predominantly, this means standing the way of the white man because, pace the community organiser Barack Obama, they did build that.
Standing in the way’ has been thematic in the last week. I don’t imagine the smirking ‘Covington boy’ thought that his face would rocketing around the internet for standing his ground and smiling awkwardly.
I am sure you have seen the fracas involving the Covington Catholic School in Kentucky. The boys were on a pro-life march in, I think, Washington, when they had a run-in with a Red Indian, now re-branded as a Native American. You probably should see a video of the full incident and save me having to re-tread what is becoming the hottest topic in what I have taken to calling ‘xenopolitics’, the politics of race. My phrase, I think, but I’m always stealing things, lighters and what have you. It’s not really stealing, I just neglect to return them to their rightful owners. But I digress.
To deny that there is now an offensive strategy practiced by global media to demote the white man from what has been a position of dominance for centuries is to deny reality. Sadly, this is the Left’s area of expertise. Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There is fast becoming as relevant as 1984.
What is of interest is not the Left’s default position of radicalised, weaponised lying. That is as plain as a pikestaff. It has been in plain sight, like Edgar Allan Poe’s purloined letter, for some time. What interests me is how desperate the Left are to find grist to their grievance mill.
Since the election of Trump polarised politics into the hard Left and the Alt. Right, the Left have clutched at any straw to try to crowbar open reality and dump their stolen goods inside. Of one thing, if you know anything of the history of Socialism and its wicked uncle, Communism, you must be sure. The truth is a minor consideration, to be resorted to on the rare occasions where no harm to the cause might result.
Philosophy’, Keats wrote in Lamia, ‘will clip an angel’s wings’. I take this to mean that the coldness of reason can nullify the mythical glories of heaven. But, although the Right as it now exists, including all its outriders, have plenty of classical reason on their side, it just bounces off the shields of unreason the Left are brandishing. The Right believes it has a decent set of arguments to address and partially solve the problems that beset the modern West and its predominantly white populations. The Left knows to its own certainty that the West’s white populations are the problems which beset the West and, indeed, the world. You can’t fight unreason with reason.
The famously hang-dog-faced French racing driver Alain Prost once was racing towards a bend at ferocious speed with Brazilian driver Ayrton Senna, neck-and-neck. It was clear only one of them would make the bend and if one or other did not back down, there would be a horrific accident in which one or both might well be killed. Prost backed down, later explaining that it was difficult to race against someone – Senna was a devoted Christian – who has God in his car.
The Left believe they have God in their car.
I saw a little girl in a supermarket the other day. She was wearing a glittery, twirly unicorn horn on her forehead. The difference between her and the modern Left is that the little girl knew she wasn’t actually a unicorn.

Monday, 21 January 2019


After having finished a pleasant if subdued gig at a restaurant over the weekend, I spoke to two law teachers. Both women in their thirties, and pleasant company, we talked pleasantries. They had enjoyed the music, and left a tip in the jar. The tipping system here helps bolster a musician’s income, as well as being a gauge of whether or not you are playing well and whether you have made the right song decisions. The last addition to my set-list that is worth its weight in colonés is George Michael’s Faith. In a way, it is faith that gathers us here today.
One of the great pleasures of playing live music is the conversation afterwards. Most of the people I meet in the bar once the music is done are north American, but there are also plenty of Europeans and a smattering of Brits to remind me of the old country. Conversation between strangers is just as rewarding as conversation between friends, and I have met some charming and funny people on a one-night-only basis.
The law teachers were from Canada, I forgot exactly where. They were in Costa Rica to teach, as you might expect, and were absolutely forthcoming about who they were teaching, what aspect of the law they were teaching, and why they were teaching it. They had been assigned to a party of about a dozen Costa Rican students to inform them about one thing and one thing only.
Human rights.
The whole concept is philosophically problematic. If a right is granted, is it a right? If human rights require arbiters – I believe the UN is the commission in this field – then was it a right in the first place? I am not up on the philosophical history of rights – I am a metaphysics man – but I do know that human rights are a sub-division of what I am currently thinking of as POWCON. Power and control.
Power is the natural state of unfettered creatures and its army is called control. They are two sides, recto and verso, of the same coin.
Human rights are like those children’s action figures you see in shop windows. The painting on the box, of Iron Man or whoever, looks incredible, vivid and dazzling. In comparison, the actual figure looks a bit crap. Human rights sound so good, so morally nutritious, that you could scarcely be against them. Depending, that is, on who you are.
Human rights are, in effect, a compensatory system for minority groups and are not intended for straight white men unless unavoidable. They will come into play for whites who, say, happen to be criminals. Ordinarily, though, human rights are not really for the likes of me.
The human rights policies in the West are a disastrous and sick joke. The worst aspect of them is that they fuel grievance, as though that particular steam-train needed more fuel as it gallops along the tracks. I could see in a trice what these two ladies would be teaching their charges; the world owes everything to those who have not earned it. Costa Rica is big on legal studies. I am told that almost all the students at the university in San José study law. They will now be having their heads filled with grievance and ideas of justice and oppression that belong in comic books. The students will hear a lot about human rights, but nothing about human responsibilities. This is what will destroy the West, as its people weaken ethically in the belief that they are owed all and owe nothing.
Two charming, intelligent, attractive women, then. And more dangerous than ISIS.

Thursday, 17 January 2019


Yes, thanks, we already tried voting

Even a political rube like myself with a hashed-together weblog was able to predict the two racing certainties of the last couple of years; Trump would not be permitted to govern and Brexit would not be permitted to happen.
Following Obama’s prolegomena to a dismantling of the USA as both a superpower and a fundamentally white Christian nation, Hillary Clinton was expected simply to turn up for work after her election and continue the task. So too David Cameron confidently decreed a referendum which he promptly lost, something else which the political class failed to predict. The deep states of both nations are not best pleased.
The disruptors were all in place, and then suddenly the wrong horses romped home on both sides of the herring-pond. The disruptors are what I call the practices, stratagems and techniques of social engineering designed precisely to disrupt Western civilisation. They include: Islam and the mass immigration of Muslims to Europe; Transgenderism; Hate speech legislation; Technocratic hyper-management; The sexualisation of young children; The politicisation of the police and armed forces; The feminisation of men; The masculinisation of women; Identity politics and the oppression narrative; Shock troops, eg. Black Lives Matter and Antifa; The media acting as the opposition party; Toxic masculinity; Invented and hyped racism and sexism, as well as homophobia and Islamophobia; Social media surveillance by big tech companies. The list has doubtless expanded in the time it took to write it.
Then, as noted, those who were busy successfully putting the disruptors in place were themselves disrupted. And although the two main blows to the political gauleiter class happened in the USA and the UK, after-shocks were felt across Europe, where so-called ‘far-Right parties’ - a joke phrase that isn’t funny – have made significant gains. And so it seems that the political class is under attack.
Perhaps we might ask that strangest of European leaders, France’s President Emmanuel Macron, who at first glance seems inadvertently to have married Iggy Pop. He is almost literally under attack. They beefed up the security at the Presidential HQ because they thought the gilets jaunes were going to storm the place.
Are people fighting back? If there is a genuine economic breakdown across the West – and all the commentators who seem to get things right are saying it is inevitable – then a lot of people who were previously taken up with bread and circuses will suddenly realise they are very, very angry indeed with the political; class.
To run together two aphoristic sentences by French nouvelle droitiste Guillaume Faye; Everyone is happy when the shopping baskets are full, but one day we will wake up and all the magic will be gone. Then the real disruption will begin.

Sunday, 13 January 2019


Sorry, but I am turfing out old fragments of writing. After Robert Walser - you almost certainly haven't heard of this great writer, so don't fucking pretend you have - here is a very short story called Holiday.

I am an alien. It is the closest translation I can find. I am not from another planet. You people seem rather fascinated by planets. They are not, or not exactly, what you think they are. I think that the closest translation which relates to my being – and translation is everything, by the way – is that I am from another dimension.
Take a favourite object, something that means a great deal to you. Something that belonged to a parent. An old book from childhood. A toy, a jewel, a painting or photograph. Three-dimensional objects are better for you, by the way. You only seem to have three dimensions.
Put the object down on a table or similar. Light it well. Look at it intently for 10 minutes. Do not move your head or eyes. After the time has elapsed, close your eyes and move a very small distance to one side of you. Open your eyes and look again at the object. You will never grasp this, but you have just witnessed where I am from.
I have enjoyed your culture very much. Of course, I have watched many science fiction films and read many books of the genre. The depiction of aliens is very entertaining. We always seem to be invading, killing everyone with outlandish weapons, and rapaciously violent.
No one of you seems to have realised that we are not here to dominate or destroy. Many of us merely want a break, a vacation. A holiday.

Saturday, 12 January 2019


At what point, exactly, did British politics become a situation comedy written by talentless stringers who think their jokes are funny because they are drunk? Anna Soubry - is that her name? - is a strident martinet who thinks branding yourself as Thatcher Lite is the way ahead in politics. She makes some gumby comment about forcing Brexit as it had been voted for, and stands in an interview while Leftist dicks-on-a-stick prance about calling her a Nazi.
Now, a couple of points. Look at pictures of Nazis. Best fucking dress sense in the history of genocide. Soubry looks like a bag-lady who happens to have an account at Harvey Nick's. Secondly, everyone who is not to the left of Tony Benn is a Nazi now. It's like 'racism'. It has lost its impact as a word because it is used on an hourly basis. It is very much like the way that tattoos lost their power to shock and impress when everyone's mum suddenly got them.
The point of Brexit is that is has shown who the establishment are, and it has shown the sad fact that England - fuck 'Britain', I'm not British, I'm English - is now something at which you point and laugh. I hope Britain stays in the EU. It will hasten its demise, an event much to be desired.
Politics in the UK is for intellectual spastics now.
Now, if you don't mind, I will return to my copy of Mein Kampf.