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.
WELCOME TO TRAUMAVILLE
This is the way.
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.