France XI (second part), In the Footsteps of Otto Rahn

Orage, Jon and I made our reservations with only fifteen minutes to spare. The restaurant stopped taking orders at half past eight. As the owl had promised, the whole town shut down at eleven. I opted for the duck on the menu, and Jon convinced me to order it cooked in traditional French fashion. It arrived almost raw, and before I could send it back, Jon told me that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be ‘cooked’. He tried to sell me on a bottle of wine that complemented the dish, but I was having none of Europe’s glorified salad dressing. I drank coke, a lot of it, I was thirsty. Two local women, pushing forty, but quite attractive sat next to us gossiping in French. Somehow, French women manage to make summer wear look elegant, and these two were no exception. They looked like they had just stepped off one of Putin’s yachts. They must have spoken English, because they were obviously eavesdropping. I thought about asking them, but I hadn’t showered in two days and had just sweated out a couple of liters of body fluid.

When we got back to the bread and breakfast, it was dark, and the first thing I did was take a shower. Jon and Orage, much to the Swiss Frenchman’s horror, settled at the picnic bench with my two bottles of Bourbon. We had come, we had seen, and we had conquered. Finding that hole, at 333 degrees in the last abode of the Perfecti, and in the confusion of the boulder strewn ruins, was something to write about. If Stanley is up there excavating, only God, and perhaps Christian Koenig know what he is looking for. Stanley was wise enough, like myself, but without the string of miracles to propel my every step forward, to understand the implications of his own research. There is nothing in this world besides Otto Rahn and the Holy Grail.

The whole point of The Montauk Project / Experiments In Time is man can create his own artificial reality. In Preston Nichols’ words: “The Rainbow technology turns on and creates what can be called an alternate or artificial reality.” The experimental subject is enveloped in an electromagnetic bottle, removing it from the space-time continuum and rending it invisible. It is this ‘electromagnetic bottle’ technology which eventually resulted in America’s stealth fighter aircraft. ⁽¹⁹⁶⁾

When Dennis Gabor’s math is applied to the Winfried Otto Schumann resonance, using high-frequency technology honed in Nazi genius Manfred von Ardennes’s WW II underground laboratory, not only images can be projected, but entire alternate realities. The historical elite of the German, Anglo-American and Russian empires who hide behind pop culture politics, all had this technology by the end of WW II. They were sharing it. That is why Jon von Neumann, the best of the best, came to America first, then Heinz Schlicke after the war. That is why Oskar Heil and Agnesa Arsenjewa were bouncing between England and Russia before the start of the war, and that is why the Nazis’ best scientists, outside of von Neuman, von Ardenne and Gustav Hertz went to Russia after the war. 

The problem faced by von Neumann after WW II was that people placed within the electromagnetic bottle, or artificial reality if you will, were afflicted with what Nichols calls ‘transdimensional disorder’. This state of permanent madness is due to the extreme disorientation of consciousness which results from its inability to anchor to a timeline in an artificial reality that doesn’t have one. According to Nichols, because the human ‘soul’ is born with one it must have a ‘time reference point’. Referring to the Schumann resonance, Nichols tells his readers that this time reference point “actually resides within the electromagnetic background of our planet.” After ten years of extensive experimentation and research, von Neumann solved the problem by using computers to “generate an electromagnetic background (or phony stage) and feeding into the bottle all the natural backgrounds of the Earth — at least enough to convince them [the inhabitants of the artificial reality] that there was a continuous stream time reference.” ⁽¹⁹⁷⁾

It turned out the shower door did not close properly, and I had to mop up the water that covered the floor  when I exited. In addition, the proprietor had a sign posted that the shower should be wiped dry after use, but I don’t dry showers, not for my mother, not for my wife, and certainly not for a Boniface who is charging me to use it. When I exited outside to the fire escape-like wooden stairs, the problem began. The Swiss Frenchman had turned off all the lights, and the light on my expensive iPhone doesn’t work, hasn’t since 2018, when my daughter gave it to me because she had gotten the new one. I picked my way down three floors and along the back path, but when I came to the side of the house, I was faced with a path that wound it’s way along a ten meter drop. I called Jon and he came back and got me, using the light from his far less expensive phone…   

When we got back out to the picnic table, illuminated by the light of his phone, Orage sat grinning in his chair. Next to the phone on the table was three quarters of a bottle of Wild Turkey, from which I poured myself a triple knowing I had to catch up. I was wondering whether the Swiss Frenchman was expecting a Nazi air raid, when I asked them what was up with him turning off all the lights. Orage said nothing, but Jon was already getting that Wild Turkey buzz, leering like he was attending a Manchester United football match. He told me laughingly that the Swiss Frenchman was greatly disturbed by our nocturnal Dionysian activities, and had already come out there to express his displeasure. At that moment the shutters opened on a third floor window above, and the head of a woman popped out saying, “guests are trying to sleep.” Jon laughed and pointed at her shouting, “Sister Monica!” When I asked him who Sister Monica was he told me it was an expression his mother always used for a reformed whore, who now had pretentions of respectability. “Look at Sister Monica, eating the altar rails…” I guess it was my own fault, unable to resist instigating, I had told Jon about the “always the English” remark our host had made about his sandals. A thousand years of simmering hatred between the English and French was now being fed on French soil by good ol’ American whiskey named after the French House of Bourbon. The Gods love irony, and so, I guess, does Otto Rahn.

We were not being loud, just looking back on the day’s activities, when the Emmentaler again came back outside, imploring us to go to bed. It was half past nine, and the adrenaline of the evening climb was still coursing through our blood. We were having none of it. We told him we would in a little while. By ten, the Sister Monica cuckoo clock had already struck two more times, only to be answered by Jon’s derision. The bottle was empty, and I strongly suggested we finish the other one in our room. They complied.

When we got upstairs the room seemed bathed in a red glow. Orage broke out his camera equipment, and Jon was quickly finding out, authentic Englishman or not, he could not outdrink me. We were about halfway through the second bottle, when I turned around to see the Swiss Frenchman imploring us again to go to bed, talking about how we were disturbing his other guests. Maybe that’s when the room began to go red. The door had been locked, and he had let himself in, even though we were paying for the room, which incidentally we had not done yet. The Romandian left, and I turned to Jon saying, “in America, what he just did is breaking and entering.” Jon said it was in England too. We finished the rest of the bottle, arguing over who would set this punk straight, while Orage continued to play with his footage from Montsegur. I wanted to do it myself, but the next thing I knew, Jon had gone outside, and from the top of the stairs loudly commenced haranguing the innkeep. The Swiss Frenchman could be heard screaming back at him, and I said to Orage, “pack up the equipment.” Which he was already doing with unerring German efficiency.

I went outside to get Jon, and as I went to grab him, the Swiss Frenchman came charging up the stairs armed with a baseball bat. As he reached the top, Jon nonchalantly snatched the bat from him and in the same motion, back kicked him, sending him tumbling down the stairs in a cacophony of thumps. Thinking fast, I did not want Jon finishing him off with his own baseball bat, besides, it was proof when the police inevitably showed up, I grabbed the bat from Jon. After he finished bouncing down the landing, I heard no more from the Helvetian, and I thought maybe Jon had killed him anyway. I dragged the by now, very drunk Jon into the room and handed him the case of beer we had up there, Orage had the rest. I said, “c’mon we’re leaving.” As we exited the room, the now fully recovered Swiss Frenchman barred our way saying, “the police are coming!” I said, “good when they get here, I’ll tell them you attacked him with this.” I held out the baseball bat mockingly to him. He grabbed it, but he had no more strength than a woman. I just sneered at him, “don’t make me knock you out, I promise you won’t get up this time.” He wisely let go of the bat and let us leave.  

Orage drove the car down to the campsite, while Jon and I made our way downhill over three hundred meters of pitch black road. A hundred feet behind me Jon could be tracked by the sound of breaking bottles as they tore through the wet carton he staggeringly carried. A couple of times he sat down, and I had to go back and get him. About three quarters of the way Orage met us and led us to the car. By the time we got there not even half of the beers were left. The three of us retreated to a picnic bench cloaked in the utter darkness of the tree line. Jon immediately collapsed in the grass, his button shirt open, exposing his chest and stomach, snoring loudly. I placed the baseball bat on the table between Orage and I. It wasn’t long till the beams of high powered flashlights were scanning the tree line. I told Orage to let me do the talking. As head of security in many New York strip clubs, this is what I did for a living, which is why I knew how important getting that bat was.

There were two beat cops and a sergeant, one of the beat cops spoke perfect English. I spoke to him while I addressed the sergeant, always making sure to make eye contact with the superior officer. In an assault you don’t talk to the beat cops you talk to the commanding officer. He is the one who will make the call who got assaulted. I explained to him in painstaking detail exactly what had happened, admitting to him that we were all drunk. How could I deny it? Jon was laying in the grass at our feet snoring. The police agreed it was prudent to not rouse him. Campers were starting to wake up, shouting in English from the darkness that they were sleeping. I shouted back, “it’s the police!” They told me to just talk to them and I apologized shrugging, “what do they want out of us?” They smiled. When I gave the sergeant the baseball bat, I could see he had decided we should go in peace. They wrote down our IDs, not even bothering to take Jon’s, and advised us to sleep it off right there. As they left, Orage demanded they not return the Swiss Frenchman’s baseball bat, it was evidence for when he filed his assault charges.

Somehow, we got Jon into the car, and I was trapped in there till daylight with the two of them snoring away like duelling chainsaws. After finding a standup latrine in the morning light, I wandered around the campsite marvelling at all the different types of people there from all over Europe. The troubadours still lived. I roused Jon and Orage, and we found Roger who was adamant about going back to the house for his eyeglasses. When he returned with them he told us the Swiss Frenchman was not happy. We finally got the kid packed, and we set off for Foix. Au revoir! The Svizzer never did get paid.

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 IV by Jack Heart & Jon Valentine Lee – 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)

France VI, In the Footsteps of Otto Rahn – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)

France VII, in the Footsteps of Otto Rahn by Jack Heart – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)

France, in the Footsteps of Otto Rahn VIII by Jack Heart – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)

France IX, in the Footsteps of Otto Rahn by Jack Heart & Jon Valentine Lee – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)

France X, in the Footsteps of Otto Rahn by Jack Heart & Jon Valentine Lee – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)

France XI, in the Footsteps of Otto Rahn by Jack Heart & Jon Valentine-Lee – The Human: Jack Heart, Orage and Friends (jackheartblog.org)

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)

Citations

Cover and End Illustrations: Caspar David Friedrich courtesy of Ozymandias

 196 – Nichols, Preston, and Peter Moon. “The Montauk Project / Experiments In Time.” I – the Philadelphia Experiment. Sky Books, 1992. Web. <https://web.archive.org/web/20221107030755/http://www.stealthskater.com/Documents/Montauk_04.pdf>.

197 – Ibid, VIII – The “Phoenix Project” absorbs “Project Rainbow.” 

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)

Amazon.com: Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan: Memoir of an awakening god: 9781736288016: Heart, Jack: Books