France IV by Jack Heart & Jon Valentine Lee
When I awoke, I went to the outsized double windows of Orage’s loft like room that served as a combination, living room, dining room and kitchen. The sun was shining, and a chilly wind was whipping down the alleyway below. Wares were set in front of stores, and tables were already set out for the cafés. The French, an attractive people who are rarely overweight, streamed in a constant two-way procession, some were carrying bread others seemingly just out for a stroll, many trailed children, dogs or both.
We stepped out into the cool air. The cobblestone corridor ended in another fountain ornamented with obscene sexual acts (cover photo) in the center of an open area encircled by cafés. BlackRock had bought up the best one but there were others, most notably a Vietnamese place known for its food. Back by the other fountain under the sprawling cathedral, a street market had been set up, but the wind, which the French call the mistral, and should not have been occurring in the middle of summer, was blowing everything all over the place. The vendors, perplexed why the mistral was blowing in the beginning of August, were giving up in disgust and packing up early. One middle aged woman told Orage she had never seen it in her lifetime.
The town of five thousand, which I am not at liberty to mention by name, is constructed around the slopes of a steep conical hill, crowned by a Knights Templar-like octagonal chapel, Notre Dame de Provence, where a medieval citadel once stood. The citadel was destroyed in 1601. The chapel with its panoramic view was built in 1875. We tried to drive up to it, but Orage ended up losing some paint off his right quarter panel attempting to turn on the narrow road hewn right into rock. We parked and hiked up the rest of the way leaving me quite winded. When we almost reached the top a shapely French woman loped past us at full stride straight up. The view at the top was magnificent and the wind seemed to subside a bit but not enough for me to light a cigarette. The chapel, like the chapel I had seen in Vienna, was crowned with a statue of the Goddess, which Christians prefer to call Mary. Neither Jesus nor his cross was anywhere to be found.
We were only fifty miles north of Marseille, a city that has captured my imagination since I was thirteen years old and read Albert Camus’ The Stranger, which still gets my vote for the greatest novel ever written. Maybe because I am from New York City and the ancient seaport of Marseille was NYC before there was a NYC, there is an instinctual affinity. Camus had talked about the appalling heat in summer. In the book it had driven his character mad enough to go out and shoot two Arabs simply because he felt like it. I saw no evidence of that as Orage and I left his flat that night for a concert recommended to us by his sister. We were both wearing hoodies out of necessity. In NYC the less clothes the better in summertime.
The particular piece of the Occitan we were in was quite ancient. Once a week all the farmers and fishermen from surrounding Provence would bring their produce in to sell in an open air market. This bazaar would draw in as many as fifty thousand to a village meant to accommodate five thousand, but it hadn’t always been that way. The twentieth century had brought decline as it had to much of rural Europe. After the war in Algeria some French veterans, realizing that not only is war a racket, but society itself, had begun a commune dedicated to the arts on the mountainside overlooking the village. The land had been donated by a successful artist and the rest was financed by Swiss bankers. The village along with its market was revived and became the most avant-garde settlement in the Occitan. Orage’s sister a forty-year veteran of the commune ran a radio station and coordinated the artistic events in the surrounding area.
Orage and I made the ten-minute drive to Sainte-Tulle, a smaller adjoining village, and parked Orage’s BMW in front of an industrial building, as the sun began to set. In the back of the building a stage had been set up with seating for about a hundred people. It was standing room only. We had not eaten anything, and the catering truck had run out of food. Orage made a comment about only the French would not bring enough food to sell. The crowd was mostly older people with some young families sprinkled in. The band, Ankle Beat, was featuring a local legend on the Saxophone, whose name I believe was Don Bess. He lived up to his billing and wailed that saxophone as good as I’ve ever heard. In fact, the whole four-piece band, drummer, organ, guitar, were all virtuosos with their instruments. The crowd was getting into it, with many dancing and swaying to the slickly played New Orleans jazz. So was I when they began to play; “Got my Mojo Working.”
I nearly fell out of my seat when they played the next song. The French singer with a very authentic southern drawl sang the refrain; “I could have gone to Texas but instead I went to France.” While the rest of America cowered under their beds I had spent August of 2020 with a very attractive colleague on South Padre Island in Texas, the furthest point south on the east coast of the United States. The mayor didn’t believe in COVID and neither did his town. It was a month of beaches, sex and partying under the relentless Texas sun. South Padre Island, with no airport, is much like Miami without the tourists. I’ve stayed in just about every state east of the Mississippi and it’s by far the most aesthetically pleasing place I have ever been in. Surprisingly the prices for everything including hotels are more than reasonable. Now that I had found a babysitter for my cats I had resolved to go back there for the summer of 2023 and explore with a surf rod its deserted beaches stretching endlessly north. But alas instead I had went to France tracing the source of the simulation. Now it was talking to me.
That night I ended up getting a gyro from the Arab kids who ran the Greek restaurant on the corner, it was stuffed with lamb, smothered in garlic sauce and tasted fine to a man who was starved for days but it certainly wasn’t French cuisine. At two in the afternoon the next day the mistral was still howling down the alleyways but the sun was bright and the cafés packed with people, eating, drinking and trying to prevent their paper napkins from escaping into the swirling wind. It occurred to me that it was my third day in France and I still had not tasted anything French. We chose a café under a canopy of twenty-five foot shade trees in the center of the historic district of town. It’s right across from the Cathedral with its incessantly ringing bells. Before leaving for France I had written something about “for whom the bell tolls.” The Cathedral’s bells would toll all the while I was in France, sometimes making it impossible to do audios.
We managed to get a streetside table at the edge of the shade. Next to us was a table of three, where a distinguished looking man was dining with what appeared to be his twenty- something son, the son’s African girlfriend and a little dog. The son was scrawny, almost emaciated looking with his pencil thin neck and arms, wearing nondescript shorts with a pink shirt. Never looking up he stabbed angrily at his steak tartar. His girlfriend sat sullenly eating a salad. Not a word was exchanged between any of them.
In France all labor is unionized. You do not tip food and beverage servers unless you are particularly generous. They don’t expect it. They are well paid. In France, Germany, Austria and the Netherlands everyone is well paid. One of the most ignorant of conservative talking points in the American media is this will raise prices. Nothing could be further from the truth except perhaps failed gameshow host Tucker Carlsons inane claim that price fixing never works. Fixing prices is exactly how National Socialism’s food production rose like the Phoenix from the Depression while American farmers and fishermen were still standing in breadlines for their next meal.
In September of 1933 Fritz Reinhardt, State Secretary in the Reichs Finance Ministry, “established the Reich Food Producers, an organization to promote the interests of people in the agrarian economy, fishermen and gardeners. With seventeen million members the principal objective was to curtail the gradual dying out of farms in Germany and prevent migration of rural folk to concentrated population centers. Controlling the market value of foodstuffs the organization gradually raised the purchase price of groceries by over ten percent by 1938. This measure was not popular with the public but it insured that Germany now created and controlled its own food supply.” (83)
The residual effects of successful National Socialist economic policies such as that are still in evidence all over Europe. When I stayed in Germany in late 2019 the price of a pack of twenty cigarettes was fixed at seven euros no matter where you went while in America in places like New York City they were charging almost twice that. Currently in France a kilo of prime cut steak is anywhere from twenty-four to twenty-six euros. In America a pound goes for from eighteen to twenty-four dollars. Fifty dollars’ worth of groceries in France would cost you a hundred in America…
This works out to the favor of everything except when it comes to service businesses like cafés. We sat there for over a half hour while the one waiter working over thirty tables ignored our gestures for his services. Realizing he was going home and nobody else would be served we lit cigarettes even though we had no ash trays yet. In France if you are outside you smoke and flick the cigarette butt in the streets, which are meticulously cleaned every morning. Most people don’t even pick up after their dogs but by eight in the morning you can eat off those streets.
Having a sister who is a famous environmentalist I always dispose of my butts in a receptacle even when I am in the chronically filthy New York City but I was disgusted and flicked my butt into the wind. I turned to Orage to tell him we better go get another gyro when suddenly a hand banged the cigarette butt on the table. I turned to see the scarecrow in the pink shirt scurrying back to his seat while he squawked, ‘keep it! Keep it!’ He sat down as I fixed him with a stare acquired from years of working New Yorks toughest nightclubs. I held my patently dreadful glare for at least a minute while he petted his little dog under the table refusing to look up. I asked him if he wanted to fight me and all he said was, ‘keep it! Keep it!’ I jumped up abruptly in a calculating manner seeing if I could illicit a response. When there was none I picked a different cigarette butt off the street and slammed it down on his table saying, ‘what’s this? What’s this?’ His father began apologizing profusely but the scarecrow never even looked up from his doggy under the table. I turned to Orage and said, ‘let’s go’ saying over my shoulder, ‘don’t ever go to America, if you act like that I guarantee you won’t come back.’ When he began to scoff I turned and growled, ‘you better quit while your ahead of the game,’ and walked off. I was no longer hungry.
Orage, already freaked out over the mistral blowing in the middle of the summer since our arrival, told me in all his life, which included years in Los Angeles, he had never been in a spontaneous situation like that which could have so easily resulted in violence. The margin for error in France was very slim and now we both knew that. This was my trip and it was not authorized by the so said Illuminati, maybe not even by those running the simulation. Anything that could go wrong would.
Orage’s sister had been a nervous wreck since we got there. Not only was she running the radio show but the commune’s annual Gala event was scheduled for that night. Musicians from all over the Occitan would be there. The ten euro cover and what they made from vending food and beer paid much of the expenses for the coming year. Orage, who had been attending since he was a teenager warned me not to be shocked or exhibit disapproval, it would be a transvestite, Trotskyist, woke extravaganza.
We wound our way up the mountain in his BMW as the sun set on the foothills of the Alps. The road carved right into the rocks in some places was barely wide enough for a car. As he drove Orage beeped his horn around turns in case another car was coming down. Someone had to pull over at the nearest indentation in the mountainside. Nowhere on the road was there room for two cars abreast. There were no guardrails and below there was a thousand foot drop to the valley. It was the back way and used only by the natives. Orage glibly informed me that a local kid had recently went off it with a motorcycle and was now a cripple.
Fortuitously we encountered no other cars and the first human being we saw as we entered the settlement of ramshackle buildings spread throughout the mostly scrub pine forest was Orage’s estranged niece. She was walking with her dog down the mountain. If Orage was coming she was leaving. The dog ran in front of the car and lingered causing us to pause and Orage to remark, ‘the dog is almost as stupid as she is.’ As we continued more people emerged from the woods in the distance. A shapely girl with long black hair, tight red pants, and skimpy halter stood out. As we got closer I saw “she” had a beard. A large field was cleared to our left where the terrain became horizontal and two men instructed Orage, a celebrity among the veteran communists, to park down there. There were about a hundred cars in a field with the capacity to hold a thousand. So Orage parked in the most level place he could find.
We seated ourselves at the half empty picnic tables and by the time Orage got back with two blonde beers and a goat cheese pizza it was standing room only. I had held his seat, an awkward thing to do when you speak a foreign language. The crowd which would top out at well into the thousands flooded the gathering darkness. Beyond the picnic tables a stage was set up where rappers, the most advertised among them “DJ Kike,” performed in French. Rap is far better when you don’t understand it. Beyond the stage was an amphitheater built of boulders, Orage told me mostly with draft horses and a couple of broken down tractors. It served as the main stage.
I scampered up the rocks to the best seats with a dexterity in my sixty-four year old body that surprised me and settled in to watch a number of bands, all very good with their instruments but the most notable one came at well after midnight. It was four Iranians which everyone had been waiting to see. The lead singer was an attractive twenty-something woman whose range had to be heard to be believed. She sung mournful Irish ballads with a perfect brogue and soulful French amore, both to western instrumentation. Then she seamlessly switched to Indian classics, accompanied by a sitar, with equal fervor. Children danced in the torchlight at the foot of the stage and the crowd was mesmerized. For once I could see how multiculturalism actually worked. By the time we left Orage’s car was lost in a sea of cars and if it wasn’t for my own unerring sense of direction we would have spent the night there. When we got back, the usual crowd of French and Middle Eastern teenagers were lingering past midnight in front of the Greek restaurant but the rest of the town was sleeping.
I didn’t get to speak to any Trotskyists yet nor did I yet know much of these communes were being financed by Swiss money. Initially I was impressed with their emphasis on art and their revitalization of the surrounding area. They were living rough; networking their own subsistence farming throughout their communes in the Occitan. But they had plenty to eat and the children were clean and well cared for. The adults all seemed happy. Strangely enough for communists and contrary to Marxist ideology they see the working class with its populist; Mouvement des gilets jaunes or Yellow Vests as their fascist enemy. They have all learned from birth to say Nazi like a trained parrot, oblivious to the fact that the German Wandervögel championed by brilliant Nazi theologians like Julius Evola and Herman Wirth had set the precedent they were now following.
A byproduct of Pan Babylonianism; the Wandervögel or Wandering Bird was a back to nature German youth movement that spontaneously appeared in Nordic countries at the turn of the twentieth century. It advocated camping out and living off the land, a folkish mentality with a liberal smattering of paganism and a complete rejection of the materialistic Industrial age. It was the boy scouts with an attitude and defined by the work of Herman Wirth, the founding father of the Ahnenerbe, perhaps the greatest anthropologist who ever lived. Following WW I in his native Netherlands, Wirth founded his own Wandervögel group; Landsbond der Dietsche Trek-birds, based on folk music. Wirth’s meticulous research had led him to the conclusion that the Germanic people had migrated into Europe from the far north beyond the artic circle. He fell afoul of the SS with his insistence that the Germans were once led by a Goddess queen, the White Queen, and were instinctually a matriarchy. Wirth said the Oera Linda manuscript, which attributes the founding of western civilization to a woman named Freyja, was the “Nordic Bible.” Currently the highly influential Russian traditionalist Alexander Dugin has valiantly tried to incorporate Wirths irrefutable anthropological evidence into his own theology without offending the equally highly influential Jewish oligarchs entrenched in the Kremlin… (84)
Wirth was an academic and like all academics he lacked vision. It would be up to Julius Evola, by far the smartest man in room during the politically tumultuous time of the Depression, to articulate the collective consciousness that had spawned the Wandervögel in youthful German minds. In 1928 Evola, a Sicilian Baron extraordinarily well versed in Buddhism and Occidental Occultism, published Pagan Imperialism, a scathing theological attack on Christianity, exhorting Italians and Germans to return to their old Pagan ways, their warrior traditions, the way it was before the pope’s disastrous defeat of the Hohenstaufen Dynasty seven hundred years ago that opened the thrones of Europe to the lowly merchant. In 1934 he published Revolt Against the Modern World, mesmerizing the rest of the European intelligentsia. Men like Heinrich Himmler and Mircea Eliade became his apostles. In the book he marvels at the efficiency of the Russian Revolution and sees in it the marshalling of demonic forces symptomatic of having reached the terminal point in the current cycle of humanity. (85)
Back in the south of France musicians are required to actually play instruments and read sheet music. Ironically the French are currently having a torrid love affair with New Orleans style jazz and it dominates the venues of live music establishments in the Occitan. In the evening the sound of horns drifts from every café, wafting down the ancient cobblestone streets, streets that have borne witness to a thousand years of the western dream. It’s ironic because African Americans who invented this music are now totally ignorant of it and the chances it offered to true assimilation into western culture have been negated.
Since Plato penned The Republic it has been common knowledge among the educated that music dictates culture and can be weaponized to create the ideal totalitarian state. In the sixties Great Britain’s Tavistock institute used this principle to stop the Vietnam War and break Americas unbridled materialism but their avaricious American cousins would win out in the end as noted by pentagon banshee Jim Morisson in his eulogy for the western dream LA Woman: “Motel, money, murder, madness. Let’s change the mood from glad to sadness…” The motel is a reference to the Frank Zappa, another product of the Department of Defense, soon to be released movie and album of the same year (1971); 200 Motels. Morrison sets the prologue with just three words: “money, murder, madness…”
During the eighties and nineties when some “rich men north of Richmond,” to quote Alex Hopper, decided the future was in globalism it was also decided the Black man must be repurposed. His labor, much like most Whites, would no longer be required but he could be farmed just like an eggplant. Italian mobsters had been calling Black people Moolinyan, which means eggplant, for years. I should know I have a character in the Sopranos named after me. As a man who also sold crack on the corner of Lafayette and Hunts Point Avenues in the South Bronx in the eighties and collected money for the Puerto Rican mafia in the strip clubs they owned along Rosedale Avenue I am the one who is singularly most qualified to tell you why the people who practically invented modern music now think Nike is a musical instrument.
In the late seventies and early eighties rap, just like break dancing, was an integral part of the ghetto party scene. In neighborhood parties people would compete at it boasting of their prowess and their competitors weaknesses in rhyme, egged on by the crowd, much like the ancient Norse custom of Flyting. As it grew in popularity, those who had failed to lobotomize music with disco saw another opportunity with the added caveat that they could condition Black men to shoot each other, sell the CIA’s drugs, mistreat their woman and end up in prison which would be privatized and owned by them. There was a fortune to be made. Sometime in the latter eighties the proverbial They approached their viscous Jewish lapdogs who had already commandeered the music industry by the end of the sixties with a proposal to make thuggery fashionable. The rest is history. “Gangsta” rap was born and if you don’t believe me maybe you will believe John Homeston, a retired CIA operative, who in 2017 admitted that the CIA invented Gangsta rap on National Russian Television or NTV… (86)
The CIA didn’t just stop there. They never do. When rappers like Tupac Shakur became activists and tried to use their influence to curb the violence and drugs they were gunned down in the street by crooked cops specially trained by the legendarily corrupt New York City Police Department under the direction of the CIA. Shakur was just one of a “massive number of other rappers who started turning to activism, including the late Run DMC DJ “Jam Master” Jay Mizell, Sean “P. Diddy” Combs, the late Wu-Tang Clan frontman Russell “ODB” Jones, the late Earl “DMX” Simmons, and the late Ermias “Nipsey Hussle” Asghedom, Dead Prez and The Coup. A number of these rappers were on the New York police rap unit intelligence list.” (87) Many were murdered. When you make a career out of convincing people, you’re a real live gangsta no one asks any questions when your shot dead for no apparent reason and it’s all too easy for the cops that did it to find a patsy to pin it on.
Regardless rap, with its monotonous yammering and mindless sponsorship of all things material, is now the dominant form of “music” in America. France traditionally the bastion of western art has not submitted itself to this cultural castration, at least in the south. Jazz is king and one does not see rural White youths attempting to look and act like they grew up slinging crack on the streets of Harlem or Compton. In the marketplace there is a visible infusion of Africans, about ten percent, but they have made mighty efforts to adapt French culture. Many Black woman have married White men and their mulatto offspring trail along as well behaved as any child of gentry. Powerfully built Black men are stoic and open doors for little old ladies. Many have jobs as security in the innumerable cafes where they are seen but almost never heard. Racism, if it exists at all, is invisible.
Parts 1, 2,3 & 5:
France, in the Footsteps of Otto Rahn by Jack Heart with special thanks to Orage, Jon Valentine Lee & Joe – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)
France II, in the Footsteps of Otto Rahn by Jack Heart – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)
France III, in the Footsteps of Otto Rahn by Jack Heart – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)
France V in the Footsteps of Otto Rahn by Jack Heart – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)
Citations
83 – “VertigoPolitix – Hitler s Coup The German War Against Globalism (14:33 – 15:10).” VertigoPolitix Collection. YouTube, 2020. Web. <
>.
84 – Heart, Jack and Orage. “Twin Peaks & the Return of the White Queen.” The Human. Feb 2018. Web. <https://jackheartblog.org/wp/2018/02/twin-peaks-return-of-white-queen/.html>.
85 – Ibid.
86 – “Ex CIA Agent Revealed They Created Gangster Rap (4:01).” The Truth IS. YouTube, Dec 2023. Web. <
>.
87 – Potash, John. “Arrest in Tupac Shakur Murder Case Extends the U.S. Intelligence Cover-up.” CovertAction Magazine.19 Dec 2023. Web. <https://covertactionmagazine.com/2023/12/19/arrest-in-tupac-shakur-murder-case-extends-the-u-s-intelligence-cover-up/>.
Previous posts on our expedition to the Sabarthez:
Jack live from Montségur, France – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)
Cave Wrapup – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)
Behind Paywall: La Chevalerie Amoureuse Troubadours, Felibres and Rosicrucian’s – Translated by Romain
La Chevalerie Amoureuse Troubadours, Felibres and Rosicrucians – Translated by Romain – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)
La Chevalerie Amoureuse Troubadours, Felibres and Rosicrucian’s – Translated by Romain – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)
La Chevalerie Amoureuse Troubadours, Felibres and Rosicrucian’s – Translated by Romain – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)
Below are two links where you can purchase Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan. I would suggest you buy it in hardcopy, not because I make more, I actually make the most from Amazon E books, but because you will avoid giving Amazon any money. Frankly you should be shooting Amazon employees in the street, Google too.
Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan by Jack Heart, Hardcover | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)