by Jon Rappoport
July 24, 2019
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Fiction
A few days ago, I woke up with the very clear thought—as if it had been planted in my head—that everything I experience is a product of my own imagination.
This, I have since learned, is a teaching of the ancient Hermetic School of Philosophy.
At any rate, I decided to carry out an experiment. I imagined a second moon floating above Earth, to see if I could make it so real to me I would actually see it clearly, on consecutive nights.
Of course, as you know, last night a second moon did, in fact, appear in the sky. People all over the world saw it. I assure you, this was not my intent. I was merely trying to clarify an issue for myself.
I considered making a confession to the authorities—but why bother when I would be viewed as a crackpot? It occurred to me I could announce I had made the new moon and would, at an appointed time, unmake it. But suppose I failed? Regardless, securing the attention of a large number of people, when you are unknown, is quite difficult, no matter what your subject is. (I do not favor running naked into the street and launching a speech.)
This morning, as I approached my mother’s room in the nursing home for my weekly visit, I decided I would experience her as having recovered from her illness. When I entered the room, she was standing by the window singing one of the old songs from my childhood. When she turned to me, her eyes were clear and she was smiling. She said, “I’m ready to go home.”
Was I deluding myself? Was she in the grip of my own projection? I called for a nurse. She walked into the room and looked at my mother, who was supposed to be in a wheelchair. The nurse started to scream, and stopped herself. My mother hadn’t stood on her own in ten years.
A doctor told me she would have to undergo a series of tests. I took the opportunity to come back to my apartment and think things over.
If I do have formidable powers, I should consider options. Wouldn’t you? Would you take, for instance, a daring course and put an end to war and disease? If I can accomplish such a feat, I believe I would. Damn the consequences. I would leave others to sort them out.
I am strangely calm. It is as if I have been pointing toward this moment all my life.
I no longer feel I have needs. Somehow, those chains have been removed.
Once upon a time, I was walking on uncertain ground. But not now.
Others would surely say I have reached too high, and I am about to take a fall. I search for a cautionary note in my mind, but I don’t find it. My mind is quiet. It has no advice for me.
This new state of affairs seems quite natural.
An hour ago, I tried a third experiment. My beloved terrier, Jack, who died after a long illness when I was in school, is now back lying on my couch. He’s looking at me. I go over and pet him and he licks my hand. He yawns, stretches out his front legs, jumps off the couch and trots across the living room to a small table, where I’ve kept a framed photo of us sitting in a field near my school. He looks up at the photo and barks. He turns to me and sits.
Why wouldn’t things be this way? Why would they be any other way?
I’m not looking for a response from you, dear reader. Suppose you, too, have these powers? I have the clear sense you would use them for good.
Suppose what I’m reporting here is the superior reality, and the end of things we don’t want to end is the illusion?
Perhaps I should have started with a smaller example of manifestation, to make it easier for you—but that is not the way it happened to me. That is not the way I chose to change What Is.
What Is, is a brief flicker across a wide ocean. The ocean is all possibility. That’s what I see now.
Am I offending your sense of propriety? If so, I apologize. This is not my intent.
I see us as errant knights. Errant in the sense that we are departing from a prescribed course. We cross a threshold, and then the fabric of events alters. The “news” is different. Solid becomes liquid, liquid becomes vapor, and vapor becomes open space. The space is waiting for us to do something. The space has no plan. It is calm. The challenges we assumed were there are missing. Those challenges were the last meal we consumed on the last day of old time. Now we walk and look up at the night sky. We are satiated and satisfied. Now we can do something different.
We feel an anticipation of dimensions.
You manifest what you will, and so will I, and in the process, you and I will use our powers for good.
That is a very pleasant, even ecstatic prospect to contemplate.
A few weeks ago, I had my first inkling of the change, when I was invited to speak at the funeral service of a cousin. As I stood there in the church looking out at the mourners, I wondered what they would do if, out of the blue, James strolled in the door and danced up the aisle.
I couldn’t help wondering how the family and friends would feel if they saw him in that church, in the flesh. A few of them, I was sure, injected with shocks of lightning, interrupted from their proper grieving, would express outrage. How dare James return!
There is a way events are programmed to proceed, and people prepare their responses. They are tuned like instruments.
Given the choice, would you prefer to surrender to the occasion of a fallen friend, or suddenly find him back in your midst?
Suppose the friend, in some form, is always with you? Is that too hard to believe?
—I can tell you this. I was less alive when I began writing these words than I am now.
(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From The Matrix, click here.)
Jon Rappoport
The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. 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 NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.
Imagination as Infinity.
‘Spirit fable’. I like that — Aesop spoke to his students this way, you might say he was the first to really understand the power of the narrative versus what is not so apparent within the common language. Stories are easy ways to speak of virtue. He was there before Jung — the constant exercising of his mind placed him in an unusual space to understand how necessary the symbol is for us, like say, a mental amulet. And well understood the shadow side.
Stories are like sacred songs, mantras. And so we gather these things in that great space between our ears, as it expands as we age. Amulets placed within the sacred places we call ourselves to serve as protectors from invading thoughts. And thoughts are objects, they have shape and vibration, and they can soothe or cut like a knife. They can be sent unknowingly from an untrained mind like arrows falling from the sky. Which brings me to what I wish to say…
I had been watching a pair of Song Sparrows for while these number of weeks who have taken up residence in my trees. The morning is a quiet time and I listen to their song as it works as an ointment on my musical soul.
Well, this wonderful pair of birds would flit in and out of a hole they caused in the full stacks of flowers that crowd each other out in my flower bed. “Just there in front of me! With tall red fluffs on green stilts and yellow spikes on threaded legs.” With the lilies and that, which lay at Maria’s feet”. Daisies and Nasturnums, Bee Balm and the trumpets, Butterfly bush around a Salvia.
And so this busy pair would in and out all day through that, not so obvious hole. I thought “…insects is what they need.” until I looked and saw they carried insects in with them.
Weeding that area a few days after and without thinking I had pulled the weeds and some of the flowers up to create a better presence, only to find a nest with plump chicks inside, there on the ground. So I quickly cover the area with rhubarb leaf on a bucket as a makeshift roof and entrance to hide what was precious therein.
I would watch the hen and listen to the cock as he sang his life to me in the early mornings, and I discovered he had intent, he would sit near me and sing songs, and I named him Frank, after Sinatra. Frank had twenty or so tunes he could call on and he had an ability to mix and match parts of these in other combinations. His patterns were not so obvious. One had to focus and pay close attention to receive the prize inside. So I took to mimicking his call from a catalogue of calls I found online. Some old Song Sparrow calls from 1952; others from the ’60s and ’70s. Birdcall catalogues are not revised it seems very often.
Days went on with Frank messages and my unqualified calls in return. He would come near listening to my fifties tunes. I was wondering what was being expressed. I searched my head for answers to this question and was wondering at times if I might be a bit offensive, clumsy like an American tourist in a Parisienne cafe trying to order a coffee.
So I thought deeply about this and imagined words to the sounds, quite like colours for emotions — red for anger, blues more passive and persuasive and pinks and yellows as expressions of joy and the wonder. The subtleties took a while…
Frank and I began to have intimate conversations as I am a quick learner — and surprisingly the vocabulary of trills, whistles, chirps and beeps have inflection and conjugation, nuance when gestured without holding or losing a note. Songs arrive from deep within the belly and are presented like a soap bubble out of the mouth.
Frank is a busy fellow and has a complex mind, we spoke of his loved ones and the days he spent in the south — he had noticed changes coming to sutle things like moisture content in the air and the light of the sun; it’s changing, it was dimmer and there was hyper-whiteness starting to take prominence in the full spectrum. A new form of light not seen before was subduing the yellowness of an old sun.
Frank was ageing and coming to the end of his life, he was ten years old and he had some wisdom to pass on before he left. His beliefs about the spirit of flight, his understanding of the minute details of reality were astounding as I listened. He believed in a sparrow God and had a Genesis story of his species beginnings.
The great one fell and took shape from the drops of water that showered from the first cloud. Some drops became flowers, other’s animals, and yet still others the bird and lastly his God who was the last to fall and the first Song Sparrow.
Frank had an intellectual side and believed that a shift was coming for all creatures, he was curious about men and found most times that they hated themselves in spite of their great inventions and blundered through what otherwise seemed simple to him. He was troubled by how we had lost connection with what he described as… “What we were presently doing, just chewing the fat. And the collaborative minds of interspecies relationships.”
We became close friends and our songs one day suddenly became sounds in our minds. Frank was telepathic, and so we would receive and send by thought our innermost secrets. He would allow me to enter his mind and experience his abilities as a flyer. He was a Zen master swooping and flitting and quick movements were a bit nauseating at first for me, as I could not keep up to the speed of his thoughts. The seeing the decisions; the movement, the jumping and flitting and enormous leaps for something so small. Frank was a parkour expert par excellence, his plyometric vaults from high places and standing leaps to far above himself with a flick and flutter sideways to an unbearable impossible edge above it all. His defiance of gravity shocked the very understanding of what I believed was possible in movement in this world. And all this as his mind was an instrument of his sparrow soul.
He told me stories of long ago and sparrow wars and the great drowning of the world, birds and men found friendship and a new beginning then. Which is lost now. He spoke of where he would go when he died, and that he would live again as maybe a man next time. We would laugh at that, and I thought of being a sparrow. He advised me on that if it happened…
I expanded greatly as a student of Frank, and the space within became more profound, my fear of falling from high places in dreams shifted and became a glee, as I experienced the nightly visits in my sleep. My training to overcome the fear of a fall. Frank believed I had been a bird and had a great fall in a distant past. I had dreams speaking in a sparrow voice, echolalia sounding from deep within me. Franks guidance brought forth remembrances of long ago when I flew and jumped in trees.
Frank was a philosopher who might sit amongst the greats — he was a magician passing through this world on his way to another.
The visits stopped, the songs in my head stopped, and I went to the nest and found the fledglings gone, his responsibility was done and he was on to next.
I play a sparrow song out loud on my phone and listen to the quiet and off somewhere in the distance I hear the reply with the added history of the fifties from so long ago. A forgotten song of a Sparrow bird long-dead, now his voice revived and gifted to the world, renewed again.
Love this.
Love that the sites back up.
All best.