How I put together Exit From the Matrix: forgotten languages
by Jon Rappoport
November 8, 2013
There’s a reason I included more than 50 imagination exercises and techniques in my collection, Exit From the Matrix.
Imagination opens up vistas that are outside the Matrix, outside consensus reality, outside this space-time continuum.
Imagination is the forgotten engine of change, transformation, breakthrough, power, revolutionary consciousness.
Imagination is the doorway to a whole host of brilliant emotions for which there are no names.
In our lowest common denominator society, people are used to thinking about and experiencing a vastly reduced range of feelings. Imagination changes all that.
In 1995, I was painting in a studio in Santa Monica, California. One day, the phrase “forgotten languages” popped into my head.
I found several large pieces of cardboard. Each one was about four feet by two. I filled them up with black shapes. I was working spontaneously, with no plan.
When I finished, I propped them up and leaned them against the sliding glass door, went over to my bed, lay down, and looked at them for a few minutes.
They began “talking” to me. It was quite startling and exhilarating. The shapes were broadcasting images and very vivid sensations of flying in mid-air, in space. And then, behind that, feelings came: Unnameable feelings, in a rush.
This was a shifting language in which meanings sparked other meanings, rose and fell, disappeared, gave way to new sensations, all of which were infiltrated with ecstatic freedom.
I lay there, bathed in it all, for a few minutes. Then the transmission faded away.
The residual impact was this: there are potential languages, very different in kind from those we use, which transfer far more information far more quickly. But the information isn’t symbolic or referential—it’s alive in the moment.
One could almost say these languages have consciousness, and they deliver their ever-changing “messages” without the need for translation or interpretation or thought by the “reader.”
The languages are open doors into vistas and panoramas of thousand-faced joys, each joy a different collection of tones and personalities.
A “word” in one of these languages transmits figures, personae, beings in various states of dynamic action overflowing with acrobatic exuberance.
And we could speak to one another in such languages.
We most definitely could.
The only thing that shuts us out is the decision to forgo imagination, to put it on the shelf and let it sit there.
If we did speak to one another in these languages, we would automatically rise to another level of being, of instantaneous understanding. No filters, no intermediaries.
I visited a linguistics professor in his office and spoke with him about all this. He pulled out some samples of Chinese calligraphy. He told me that many modern scholars refuse to admit that the Chinese language had it roots in pure pictographs, which communicated in a more direct way than the later abstracted forms.
I thought we were about done with the conversation. I got up to leave, but he stopped me.
“You want to see an exercise in linguistic dreamtime?” he said.
That was an interesting phrase.
He told me he knew exactly what I was talking about, because he’d had similar experiences in dreams.
He showed me two notebooks full of shapes he’d painted with a small brush and black ink.
“Each notebook is a conversation with myself,” he said. “It began as sheer amusement, during a summer vacation. But then it turned into something else.”
He went on to describe how he knew what the shapes meant, although he couldn’t put it into words. They were reciting a kind of history of the human race, but on a different hidden level.
“This is psychic history,” he said. “The registering of what’s happening in the world, as the imagination reframes it.”
We looked at each other, and ordinary reality just went away. We were two people acknowledging a parallel and potentially endless reservoir of Other space-time.
Then he started talking about his son.
“When he was three, for a few months he looked at these notebooks every day. He turned the pages and studied the shapes. He was quite intent on it. He was still coming into this world, getting used to it, but I was quite sure he was remembering that other realm, that dimension. He knew about it.”
In the early 1980s, I spent every Monday night, for a few months, at the Factory Theater in downtown Los Angeles. Scott Kellman, the director, was conducting an improvisation workshop.
One night, a friend and I did an exercise in which we spontaneously invented our own sign language. Our hand signals weren’t supposed to represent anything, but we imagined we were engaged in serious conversation.
A few minutes into the exercise, we were imagining so well that something else took over. We were now in a space where the flashing signs did, in fact, have meaning.
We both knew it. We knew we’d gotten past the entire literal fixation on ordinary language. We were sending images back and forth. The images revealed themselves as some sort of drama, in which two people discover they exist, right now, in more dimensions than they previously realized. That was suddenly the unspoken theme.
We played it out.
When we were done, my friend said, without thinking, “I’ll always know you’re alive, wherever you are.”
The room was silent, and slowly we felt the other actors and Scott, the director, being drawn into this space with us.
It was telepathic, but not in the sense of sending and receiving thought. It was telepathy of “occupation.” We were all in a new dimension right there in the theater.
As I left to go home that night, I told Scott, “That was like flying a little plane and stepping out of it and staying right there in the sky.”
He nodded and said, “And all you needed were a few pieces of wood called a stage.” He grabbed my arm. “Think about what would happen if people started creating a piece of random sidewalk or a grocery store as a stage, the way we did tonight. Whole different world.”
The early Tibetan adepts were well aware of all this and more. At the core of their practice were imagination exercises, before the priest class stepped in and bungled the whole thing, and asserted their theocracy.
Early on, many of the figurative Tibetan paintings and mandalas, rather than simply being adored saints, were actually images meant to be recreated in those imagination exercises, for an entirely different purpose: the liberation of the inventive core of the individual.
To begin to understand the later distortion the priest class launched, imagine people walking into a museum and falling down in abject worship of a row of Van Gogh canvases, while remaining entirely ignorant that anyone had painted them.
In Exit From the Matrix, I set all this straight.
I’ve given you enough imagination exercises and techniques to last several lifetimes.
Civilizations come and go, rise and fall, stultify and change. Each one of us remains. Wherever we are, in whatever circumstances we find ourselves, we can be artists of reality.
We can remember that and live it.
Imagination is like having an indispensable tool of archeology, but in this case we’re uncovering our own forgotten languages that speak of greater levels of being.
This is the great adventure.
Jon Rappoport
The author of two explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED and EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, 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
This conversation is starting to become very interesting Jon. Back when I was developing myself as a painter, I hung with two other artists, both painters; we would get together and have incredible conversations about what you speak of here Jon.
Robert the oldest of us three, was more an older brother to my friend Doug and me. Robert and I believed deeply in the self-taught artist, searching, exploring, risk-taker, going it alone.
Douglas was different, but he believed for the most part in that ideal. He went on to get his Bachelors and finally his Masters of Art majoring in painting. He did wish to teach at the University level. So a Masters degree was a prerequisite.
Doug and I were the same age; Robert was about ten years older. We would get together and drink red wine or Retsina on a Friday night and sketch and draw the whole night in some café. Those were fun days… it is strange though, you’re writing and words, your thoughts on creativity, Art, imagination, and the paranormal; remind me so much of those days.
Anyway… we would get into these cafés, and Doug I would start strange these conversations with sketch books. Now you have to understand that we are all accomplished draftsmen, not neophytes. I had been drawing for about fifteen years or more, Doug about the same amount of time.
He would draw a line in his sketch book, any line; it didn’t have to have any particular shape, weight or size. Something outside his own sketching vocabulary. It did have to have intent. Not complete thought, as an emotion. It could be a crabbed, straight, heavy or thick line. It could be even be a few lines, but the trick was to remain ambiguous. He would then pass the sketch book to me and I would respond to the line or lines. It was important that nothing was suggestive of something known like a female body or an eye or a tree. But one had to read and respond, by inventing language. And searching for a common language with the other, that we both agreed on through the process, recognition of line weight of shape as a type of word or suggestion of a feeling. We would have these long conversations. This became exciting and necessitated moving to the next page, and the next, and so on. We would get a line conversation going, and start to notice dialectic establish for the evening. They became quite intense. So much so that we moved the conversations into one of our studios. Every so often we would get together, and have this intense collaborative time on a canvas. The last conversations Doug and I had resulted in thirty canvasses, over a period of about three weeks in my studio, it was about 1998, some of these canvasses were 6 ft by 8 ft. worked out continuously over days. Layers upon layers of talk. The medium was kept to acrylics, usually a white ground, or to soft ivory tones, no hard or heavy color, and the drawing media was charcoal usually, sometimes pastel and graphite.. Many of the conversations did start to develop into new feelings, strange feelings not specifically recognizable as an anger or frustration. These were intense periods for both of us; they were exhaustive. Always long periods in the studio. We would start at 9:00 o’clock in the morning and easily work until midnight sometimes… stopping only for food, or coffee.
Doug and I agreed that these sessions, started to cross over into our dream states. After a while we became aware of a third artist developing and becoming involved in the surfaces. And this happened in a matter of a few days. This ‘other artist’ would just show up for a period of time during these conversations. It was like a third hand involved in this process. This was quite startling to us, to say the least. It was a style change. A complete change in one’s own known aesthetic, and signature, in some instances almost like an altered state. That additional voice started to come forward in some works more than others. This was something that was completely outside the normal. They were amazing times, I will remember them always.
I don’t see Doug very often, he does not paint anymore. His hands are gone, he was gifted figure painter. But every time I do see him we talk about those intense periods.
I have one of the larger pieces upstairs, I love looking at the piece, and they were all fascinating works.
These periods of working with my friend, totally changed my ideas revolutionized for me what it means to be an artist. Without arrogance, and false modesty I would care to say, that being that kind of artist is the highest state of consciousness one could achieve in a waking state… an almost perfect state.
Jon, I find your Exit from the Matrix fascinating. It will take time to complete the program and regain the essence and comprehension of my dormant and repressed imagination, but the process, has begun.
Thank you.
Clouds
It all comes and goes faster than
Lightnin Hopkins in a New York minute
Percolating through the pores
These clouds of obscurity nothing
More than nothing more than
Vaporized layers revealing the
Nothing in which everything blooms
Reblogged this on unity2013.
The forgotten language of the matrix is biology, and cellular biology for the entire universe, that is the true matrix, and what we study. I wrote because of your ongoing Boycott of the chemical companies and would suggest the Cause of Fukushima to top the list, Boycott anything GE, including NBC.
Each of us can protect and repair the damage of radiation exposure, and the damage of the chemicals made by those you already Boycott.
You and Laura are both sulfur deficient as are all people on the planet but adding organic sulfur to your diet can protect by allowing the internal matrix to become biologically complete.
Dr. Richard L. Stump and I would love to hear you laugh on our Sulfur Hour Plus One, we seldom hear you laugh. Sulfur deficient?
By the way, we the people outnumber the rulers, the military, the one percent and sulfur will make them wish they had been more friendly when we erect the gallows. Or they can add organic sulfur to their diet and we will retrain the selfish bastards.
Patrick McGean
Director
Cellular Matrix Study
Body Human Project est. 1999
200,000 Plus living study members,
Hello Mr. McGean,
I am so intriged by what you are saying about sulfur. My first reaction was thinking about the Lake of Fire & Burning Sulfur, in the book of Revelations in the Bible. That if it’s good for you, of course the derelicts would have us believing that it’s not. Par for the course?
People interested in this line of thought might in my ideographic system of writing for English. See neoideograms.wordpress.com They engage more of the mind than ordinarily written words. they illustrate Latin and Greek roots, overcoming the unconsciousness of not knowing the meanings of the syllables we use. They also illustrate ideas and words more directly, always creatively. They are a means of transcending ordinary English, and beginning to free oneself from its stultifying matrix. stevehudson@fastmail.fm