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Chapter 3 - Out on a Limb

24 November 2023

I may be going out on a limb here, but I venture to say that Black Month has been a bomb for the retailers that keep sending me emails, garishly proclaiming:


TODAY is the real Black Friday.


After I’ve been bombarded by emails since Halloween that Black Friday is Early. Black Friday is Now. Black Friday is Forever.


Kinda sounds like Covid-4eva.


I gauge the success of any business by the number of incessant promos that I get in my pitiful email box. My email box is pitiful because it displays all the signs of retail desperation, especially at this Time of Year.


Companies I’d never heard of have come to call. I don’t mind being mined at this time of year, but I do mind the fact that it’s the wrong capitalist enterprises mining my name.


Is nothing sacred anymore!?


While the U.S. consumer tries to dig her way out of the pit of economic recession, the Idiots-in-Charge of globalist-blobs came up with the marvelously despicable gimmick of using 11 November as Singles Day. Now, I’d never heard of Singles Day, or night, or even life. I therefore had to research the sickly insulting concept. Turns out it’s a Red Chinese ad-ploy — from the post-Cold War-1990s!


How slavishly thoughtful of the globalists to foist yet another Chi-Comm idea on We the People.


The song, “All I Want for Christmas” has been revised, in my mind. Two front teeth are not requested, but two punches at the next capitalist makeup company that sends me the wrong online ad — with a Chinese gal all tarted up for The Christian Holidays.


I’ve lost all respect (which was minimal) for historic (legacy) French cosmetics manufacturers who can’t keep their marketing demographics straight. Or, more likely, can’t afford to pitch entirely different — and opposing — ad slogans to the targeted zip-coded group.


Christmas in the Forest is what I’m aiming for this year. Actually, Christmas in the Forest is what I’ve always been aiming for, especially during my years of composing THE DAWN, from 2008-2011 in the sleepy little town of Newcastle that has since been completely bedroom-communitied. I have to laugh at the cyber-complaints about No High-Speed Internet, No Amenities, No Sidewalks!


Then why did you Citadins move to the Hinterlands????


I’ve recently returned to reviewing my translation of L’AUBE with a vengeance; and I stunningly realize how far ahead of The Pack I was — fifteen years ago.


Which means I’m even further ahead of The Pack now.


To be a writer is to lead a solitary life. This social butterfly enjoys the solitude, but there comes an unsettling feeling when I look up and see (read) my words from the Yesteryear of The Eternal Recession, and We’re the Ones We’ve Been Waiting For, and Co-Exist — and recognize the same stupidities happening, in full retrograde swing, all over again.

Stupid, you’re so stupid, and so idiotic, I can hardly speak.

That’s the feeling that I get whenever we two meet

And you’re out to get me

Whilst I turn the other cheek.


I’m not turning any cheeks anymore. The face, le visage, is feeling black-and-blue from years of the obscene and obsessive assaults upon my liberty, my land called America, my senses of truth, decency, honor, and the American way.


I now comprehend, fully, what I was seeing while working in the Montessori Preschool of Dear Daughter. At lunchtime, the child-care portion of the pre-school (which was sizable), robotically held up the little straws that had been attached to their Juice Boxes.

“What do I do with this?” I asked a co-worker-nanny.


“You take the straw out of the cellophane and stick it in the box for them.”


“Can’t their nimble little fingers tackle some fine motor skills?” I innocently asked.


Those fine motor skills are now tackling those Keyboard Warrior tasks.


Humankind progresses, whenever it does, not in a linear form, but in fits and starts, going back a few steps, forward one, and then, through some momentous miracle, a leap toward the future.

The future is now.


I’m out on a limb with that statement. Take it from me, a person with a marked fear of heights, that I speak boldly with prescience. And I’m looking for terra firma, real quick.


Chapter Three, ou Chapitre 3, gives me that firm foundation upon which to stand, and to stand up to the inane and insane stupidity that goes on out there, In The Name of The People.


Plus ça change plus c’est la même chose.


In 1849, Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Kerr got that one right.


We the People, everywhere around the world, are getting it right, for the right reasons, and in the most right ways!

Vive la Résistance !

Roussillon is an ancient town. Carved from a ridge of red rock, it is the most dramatic village perché of Provence. Its beauty is intense but quiet. It defies gravity and, for centuries, it defied the face of time as it dared to create another world beyond its physical domain. Roussillon was once a place out of place and out of time; a time placidly frozen in time; a setting serenely stuck in a bygone era in a province of Provence which, by 1940, had not yet experienced the arrival or the departure of le Train à grande vitesse, the Bullet Train, or, in fact, any train.


In 1940, Roussillon looked down upon a fertile valley filled with the wild flowers and shrubs of the maquis, the Mediterranean chaparral. The valley was supplied with the colorful abundance of rocky fields that were quietly and vigilantly tended to by villagers and peasants. The valley had not yet become “la Vallée des Piscines,” the Valley of the Swimming Pools. By the time of the Second World War, Roussillon had valiantly succeeded in persisting in a timeless sway over time. This village benevolently lacked all of the conveniences and complaints which accompany modernity.


Roussillon was simply a simple, small, isolated village in the southeast of France in this magical region known as Provence. For a very long time, this village perché was far enough inland from the Mediterranean Sea to be ignored and largely disregarded by tourists. Roussillon therefore thrived in this haughty dismissal by tourists as they hurriedly thronged to the Côte d’Azur, the French Riviera. This village quietly sat, austerely and augustly perched on top of its ridge of rock in the very fertile Coulon valley, a valley which lies within the Plateau Vaucluse.


The name “Vaucluse” is derived from “vallis clausa,” or “closed valley.” This proper noun has possibly experienced overuse since it refers to a département, which is an official French administrative division; a mountain range, and the valley within that mountain range. Thus, the Vaucluse Mountains are a range west of the Alps; they are located in the département of the Vaucluse which is situated between the Luberon Massif and the majestic Mont Ventoux; and there is the Plateau Vaucluse, a deep valley which itself contains valleys, caves, and villages.


The ancient village of Roussillon happens to be surrounded on all sides by three mountain ranges, le Petit Luberon to the south; le Grand Luberon to the north and west; and to the east, le Luberon oriental. As part of its complicated geologic and geographic identities, Roussillon resides within the département of the Vaucluse, and within the Vaucluse plateau. This village perché remains serenely, quite above it all, official bureaucracy included.


It is necessary to explain, or as the French would say, il faut expliquer, the bureaucratic existence of anything within the French government which is known, endearingly and otherwise, as L'État, the State. Since the dawn of the nation which became known as France, L'État has been ensconced in Paris. This capital has consequently and incorrectly become synonymous with France itself, and vice versa. Nevertheless, the regions throughout France are diverse, numerous, and dramatically different from one another. These circumstances thereby engender even more divisions within a nation prone to sectioning and concomitant walling off of its component parts. All regions, however, have come to agree, in unison, en masse, that L'État, gloriously housed and anchored in Paris, exists to supremely and compulsively classify, codify, regulate, and, ideally, to organize all of life in France.


The shrug of the peasant which indicates “Que faire?” or “What is to be done?” is a reflexive response to this perverse attempt by L'État to simplify life in France by further complicating it. The Frenchman has always known that L'État has always worked hard to establish its control over the individual, even though L'État has very rarely succeeded. As a result, the history of France is replete with an endless array of case studies of the actions of l’individu, the individual, this ordinary and extraordinary French citizen, striving to be free to live his life without the interference of L'État.

It was a bizarre twist of fate for the individual in France when la patrie suffered the Débâcle in June 1940, which was followed by the Fall of France, and the speedy and shameful armistice. The surrender of France by her so-called political leaders swiftly brought about the Occupation of approximately half of the sacred soil of France by the conquering Germans; and the dominion of the Nazis over millions of French, those ordinary and extraordinary individuals, living upon that sacred soil. This bizarre situation in and of itself called for quelque chose de bizarre, something bizarre, from at least a few of the French people.



Roussillon est une petite et ancienne ville. Taillé d’une crête de rocher rouge, c’est le village perché le plus dramatique de la Provence. Sa beauté est intense mais tranquille. Ce village défie la gravité et, durant des siècles, il défia le visage du temps tout en osant de créer un autre monde au-delà de sa domaine physique. Roussillon fut autrefois un endroit pas à sa place et au-delà du temps , un temps figé placidement en temps, un cadre sereinement coincé dans une époque dans une province de la Provence qui, en 1940, n’avait pas encore éprouvé l’arrivée ou le départ du Train à grande vitesse, le Bullet Train, ou, en fait, de n’importe quel train.


En 1940, Roussillon regarda en bas la vallée fertile remplie de fleurs sauvages et d’arbustes du maquis, le chaparral de la Méditerranée. La vallée fut fournie avec l’abondance colorée de champs rocheux desquels s'occupèrent des villageois et des paysans. La vallée ne fut pas encore devenu « la Vallée des Piscines ». Au moment de la Seconde Guerre mondiale, Roussillon avait vaillamment réussi à persister dans une emprise intemporelle sur le temps. Ce village manqua avec bienveillance de toutes les commodités et les plaintes qui accompagnent la modernité.


Roussillon fut simplement un petit simple et isolé village dans le sud-est de la France dans cette région magique connue comme Provence. Pendant très longtemps, ce village perché fut assez loin à l’intérieur des terres pour être ignoré et essentiellement ne pas respecté par des touristes. Roussillon ainsi prospéra avec ce congédiement hautain par des touristes tandis qu’ils affluèrent en toute hâte à la Côte d’Azur. Ce village s’assit tranquillement, de manière austère et magnifique, perché au sommet de sa crête de rocher dans la vallée très fertile du Coulon dans le Plateau Vaucluse.

Le nom, Vaucluse, se dérive de « vallis clausa » ou « vallée close ». Il se peut que ce nom propre éprouve eût une utilisation excessive car cela fait référence à un département, une chaîne de montagnes, et la vallée dans cette chaîne de montagnes. Ainsi. les montagnes Vaucluse sont une chaîne l’ouest des Alpes suisses, se trouvées dans le département du Vaucluse qui se situe entre le Luberon Massif et le Mont Ventoux majestueux. Il y a aussi le Plateau Vaucluse, une vallée profonde qui en lui-même contient des vallées, des cavernes et des villages.


Le village ancient de Roussillon arrive à l’être entouré de tous côtés par trois chaînes de montagnes, le Petit Luberon au sud ; le Grand Luberon au nord et ouest ; et vers l’est, le Luberon oriental. Dans le cadre de ses identités compliquées et géographiques, Roussillon réside dans le département du Vaucluse, et dans le plateau Vaucluse. Ce village perché reste sereinement, s’élevant complètement au-dessus de la mêlée, y compris la bureaucratie officielle.


Il faut expliquer l’existence bureaucratique de n’importe quoi dans le gouvernement français, qui est nommé, affectueusement et d’autrement, L’État. Depuis l’aube de la nation devenue la France, L’État est installé à Paris. Cette capitale est par la suite et incorrectement devenue synonyme avec la France elle-même et vice versa. Néanmoins, les régions partout la France sont diverses, nombreuses, et dramatiquement différentes unes des autres. Ces circonstances ainsi engendrent encore plus de divisions dans une nation qui a tendance à se diviser et, par conséquent, bâtir des murs entre ses éléments composantes. Toutes les régions, cependant, étaient arrivées à convenir, en masse, que L’État, glorieusement assis et ancré à Paris, existe pour suprêmement et de manière compulsive classer, codifier, réguler, et, idéalement, organizer toute de la vie en France.


Le haussement d’épaules du paysan indiquant « Que faire ? » est une réponse réflexive à cette tentative perverse par L’État de simplifier la vie en France par la compliquer de plus. Le Français savait toujours que L’État travaillait toujours dur pour établir son contrôle sur l’individu, bien que L’État rarement réussit. Par conséquent, l’histoire de la France est rempli d’un étalage sans cesse d’études de cas des actions de l’individu, ce citoyen français ordinaire et extraordinaire, s’efforçant d’être libre et vivre sa vie sans l’interférence de L’État.

Il fut un coup de sort bizarre pour l’individu en France lorsque la patrie subit la Débâcle en juin 1940, suivie de la chute de la France, et l’armistice rapide et honteux. La reddition de la France par ses soi-disant chefs politiques rapidement engendra l’Occupation par les Allemands conquérants d’approximativement une moitié du sol sacré de la France ; et la domination des Nazis sur millions de Français, ces individus ordinaires et extraordinaires, vivant sur ce sol sacré. Cette situation bizarre en soi exigea quelque chose de bizarre, d’au moins plusieurs des gens français.

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