How the Matrix deals with power
by Jon Rappoport
January 12, 2013
In previous articles, I’ve been making clear how THE VOICE narrates the story of our times through television anchorage (See here, here, here, here, here, here).
The elite anchor is groomed to be able to induce a seamless hypnotic trance in viewers and make HIS voice THEIR voice.
There is power in a voice.
A voice can change reality.
Your voice is the voice that destroys the narrative that has been sculpted for us. Your voice is the voice that rolls over the voice of the elite anchor and the other elite leaders who speak for us.
When your voice becomes your VOICE, you connect with something oceanic that rips away false separations and false systems and false ideas and deserts of sand on which our fake reality is built.
We pretend to be small. We pretend to be whispers. We pretend to be confused. We pretend to be creatures living inside the space of this deluded society. We pretend to be clueless. We pretend to have such limited power.
We pretend.
We pretend that some overriding system or structure SUPERSEDES OUR OWN VOICE. We bow down to that system, and then we see what that does to our own power. It diminishes it. It makes our voice small. It makes our voice thin. It makes us into weaklings.
It makes us walled off from each other, from THE REAL EACH OTHER. The real each other is each one of us with power, with A VOICE.
The word “rant” is interesting to analyze. It originally referred to someone speaking in a completely unhinged way. Its recent online meaning was invented by tech heads, who adopt a “cool” attitude toward problems and answers. These cerebral types consider any outward display of passion or outrage to be a rant. For them, the “ranting voice” is suspect.
Try this experiment. Find a piece of writing you love that expresses great passion and poetry. Read it out loud while you’re alone. Read it out loud 50 times over the course of a few days. Put your own passion into the words. If you’re not already lying in a coffin, something unexpected will happen to you. You’ll find yourself coming alive in a larger way. You’ll experience glimpses of your VOICE.
This has to do with BEING ALIVE.
You’ll experience the absence of little structures and systems.
Keep reading that passage over and over. Put everything you have into it. Don’t stint. Put more and more feeling into it.
Then, watch the evening network news. Listen to the tone of the anchor. Pay attention to how he establishes a continuity. No matter how absurd you thought the evening news was, you’ll now comprehend that absurdity from an entirely new perspective.
As you expand your own VOICE, and as you EXPRESS WHAT YOU TRULY WANT TO EXPRESS—-YOUR OWN THOUGHTS, YOUR OWN IDEAS, YOUR OWN FEELINGS, YOUR OWN INVENTIONS—you are cutting away layers of stagnant consciousness. Each one of those layers says: “reality is THIS.” Each layer has a different restrictive portrait of reality, and as it disintegrates and tumbles away into space, you become freer.
The VOICE.
A path to greater power, greater aliveness, greater empathy, greater engagement, greater self, greater community, greater wholeness.
Your voice, not the anchor’s voice. The anchor’s voice operates on behalf of the established corrupt order, as a mesmerizing tool. Your VOICE liberates you and others.
Many years ago, I was teaching a small class in a school in New York. The kids were all retreads from other schools, where they didn’t make it for a variety of reasons.
They were in a constant state of distraction. Unteachable.
So I picked a short passage from a poem by Dylan Thomas. A few lines. A few great lines. I had each student read the passage out loud. Then we all read it together. Then we went around and around with each child reading it—I urged more feeling, more expression.
It was like trying to break through an iron ceiling. Each kid read the lines in a monotone. It was eerie, as if they were all in a trance. But I kept going anyway.
Nothing doing. Nothing happening.
Then I said, “I’m going to read these lines like a newscaster would read them.” I gave a pretty good impression of an anchor.
The kids cracked up. They thought it was very funny. They immediately grasped how ridiculous the anchor’s voice sounded trying to give feeling to poetry.
The kids began reading those lines as if they were news anchors. They had a great time with it. That’s what broke the ice.
“Now,” I said, “stop conning me. Read the lines with your own feeling. Come on. Put something into it.”
And they did.
Around and around we went. Each kid must have read those lines a dozen more times. They got into it. They shed their embarrassment.
The VOICES that emerged that day in class convinced me that everyone has a VOICE, and it is magnificent and powerful and it cuts through layers of conditioning like a knife through butter, once it’s unleashed.
These kids were titanic.
When we were done (I was reading the lines too), we all sat there and looked at each other in amazement. We knew. We knew we had cracked the egg. The spell of “flat reality” had been broken. We were all alive in a new way. We had come into power, into our VOICES. It was undeniable.
The famous lines we read?
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night…
Although the overall sentiment of that poem might appear to be a kind of futility, when we read the lines over and over, WE came to a different place. A place where we knew that our words COULD fork lightning.
And then we read, from Fern Hill:
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daises and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light…
the calves
Sang to my horn, the
Foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the Sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
To be astonished by something you see on a screen is one thing. To be astonished by what your VOICE can establish is light years beyond that.
VOICE is relentless life.
Jon Rappoport
The author of an explosive collection, THE MATRIX REVEALED, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at www.nomorefakenews.com
[…] nomorefakenews | January 12 2013 […]
your recent writings are just what i need to read…thank you.
Reblogged this on The Unmutual.
Let’s say there’s a “working class” ditch digger. He digs ditches for a living. Let’s say someone agrees to give the ditch digger a sandwich if he digs them a ditch. One ditch for one sandwich.
That is called “Trade”.
Let’s say at some point we all agree to recognize a certain amount of gold as being worth the same as someone digging one ditch and also worth the same as one sandwich. This enables the ditch digger to work for a third party and get paid one piece of gold – then go trade that piece of gold for one sandwich.
That is called using “Commodity Money”.
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Now, let’s say we all agree that it’s a good idea to store our gold in a bank and have that bank issue receipts that we can use in our daily transactions. So, now the ditch digger works and get paid one receipt – then he goes to someone else and trades that receipt for a sandwich.
That is using a receipt as money.
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Now, let’s say the bank is being run by a group of co-religionists whose religious doctrine instructs them to inflict the crime of usury on all others. So they start writing out receipts and loaning them out to people for repayment – plus interest. They also write receipts out to themselves and their co-religionists and they go around “buying” things with those receipts.
This is called “Organized Crime”.
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What do you think happens as a result of that?
Look around.
This is what happens. They own the banks, they own the media, they own your government, they own the large corporations.
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Members of that group have a Monopoly on receipt writing and the governments they have bribed force us to use those receipts as “money”. They also “loan” those receipts out for interest. BTW, there’s no gold in that vault upon which those receipts are based. Those receipts are based on nothing. They are Paper. Might as well wipe your ass with it.
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This crime is mathematically compounded by the practice of charging interest for the use Receipts-As-Money.
Yes, the Voice! I would add one more thing. Sing – and do it with feeling. It works a lot like the experiment with reading poetry.
And don’t forget to dance with abandon too…
Brian Williams, “the voice” — with a little “v” and his so-called “post newtown era”…
http://www.infowars.com/nbcs-williams-declares-post-newtown-era-for-gun-control/
An excerpt of one of the many VOICES of Henry Miller in his novel “Tropic of Capricorn”…
http://readr.ru/henry-miller-tropic-of-capricorn.html?page=14
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It was at Far Rockaway where this took place. After we had dressed and eaten a meal I suddenly decided that I wanted to be alone and so, very abruptly, at the comer of a street, I shook hands and said good-bye. And there I was! Almost instantaneously I felt alone in the world, alone as one feels only in moments of extreme anguish. I think I was picking my teeth absentmindedly when this wave of loneliness hit me full on, like a tornado. I stood there on the street comer and sort of felt myself all over to see if I had been hit by something. It was inexplicable, and at the same time it was very wonderful, very exhilarating, like a double tonic, I might say. When I say that I was at Far Rockaway I mean that I was standing at the end of the earth, at a place called Xanthos, if there be such a place, and surely there ought to be a word like this to express no place at all. If Rita had come along then I don’t think I would have recognized her. I had become an absolute stranger standing in the very midst of my own people. They looked crazy to me, my people, with their newly sunburned faces and their flannel trousers and their dock-work stockings. They had been bathing like myself because it was a pleasant, healthy recreation and now like myself they were full of sun and food and a little heavy with fatigue. Up until this loneliness hit me I too was a bit weary, but suddenly, standing there completely shut off from the world, I woke up with a start. I became so electrified that I didn’t dare move for fear I would charge like a bull or start to climb the wall of a building or else dance and scream. Suddenly I realized that all this was because I was really a brother to Dostoevski, that perhaps I was the only man in all America who knew what he meant in writing those books. Not only that, but I felt all the books I would one day write myself germinating inside me: they were bursting inside like ripe cocoons. And since up to this time I had written nothing but fiendishly long letters about everything and nothing, it was difficult for me to realize that there must come a time when I should begin, when I should put down the first word, the first-real word. And this time was now! That was what dawned on me.
I used the word Xanthos a moment ago. I don’t know whether there is a Xanthos or not, and I really don’t care one way or another, but there must be a place in the world, perhaps in the Grecian islands, where you come to the end of the known world and you are thoroughly alone and yet you are not frightened of it but rejoice, because at this dropping off place you can feel the old ancestral world which is eternally young and new and fecundating. You stand there, wherever the place is, like a newly hatched chick beside its eggshell. This place is Xanthos, or as it happened in my case, Far Rockaway.
There I was! It grew dark, a wind came up, the streets became deserted, and finally it began to pour cats and dogs. Jesus, that finished me! When the rain came down, and I got it smack in the face staring at the sky, I suddenly began to bellow with joy. I laughed and laughed and laughed, exactly like an insane man. Nor did I know what I was laughing about. I wasn’t thinking of a thing. I was just overwhelmed with joy, just crazy with delight in finding myself absolutely alone. If then and there a nice juicy quim had been handed me on a platter, if all the quims in the world had been afforded me for to make my choice, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelash. I had what no quim could give me. And just about at that point, thoroughly drenched but still exultant, I thought of the most irrelevant thing in the world – carfare! Jesus, the bastard Maxie had walked off without leaving me a sou. There I was with my fine budding antique world and not a penny in my jeans. Herr Dostoevski Junior had now to begin to walk here and there peering into friendly and un-friendly faces to see if he could pry loose a dime. He walked from one end of Far Rockaway to the other but nobody seemed to give a fuck about handing out carfare in the rain. Walking about in that heavy animal stupor which comes with begging I got to thinking of Maxie the window-trimmer and how the first time I spied him he was standing in the show-window dressing a mannikin. And from that in a few minutes to Dostoevski, then the world stopped dead, and then, like a great rose bush opening in the night, his sister Rita’s warm, velvety flesh.
Now this is what is rather strange. … A few minutes after I thought of Rita, her private and extraordinary quim, I was in the train bound for New York and dozing off with a marvelous languid erection. And stranger still, when I got out of the train, when I had walked but a block or two from the station, whom should I bump into rounding a comer but Rita herself. And as though she had been informed telepathically of what was going on in my brain, Rita too was hot under the whiskers. Soon we were sitting in a chop suey joint, seated side by side in a little booth, behaving exactly like a pair of rabbits in rut. On the dance floor we hardly moved. We were wedged in tight and we stayed that way, letting them jog and jostle us about as they might. I could have taken her home to my place, as I was alone at the time, but no, I had a notion to bring her back to her own home,…
thank you all for expressing the joy and the power of the Word. to celebrate life, like the people in the movie pleasantville who became colorful in a world of black and white… its is good to be alive.
We are all within the constraints of History. Face time with the public is a classical measure of prestige, influence, and respect, (conscious or not). There is a coda of media, ruling the coda of government, deceptively. Anchors, faces and voices of totalitariansm. Writing and newscasters, detach us from the experience.
1) Are there any means, such as drug use (heroin, psychiatric drugs), sexual behavior, threat, electric shock, brainwashing, depravity,.. that are being used to control television news anchors, and their ilk?
2) Can any Institutions be said to be involved with this media form? Political Parties, The Catholic Church. Universities? Media network? Government? Organizations?