The DJ

by Jon Rappoport

August 28, 2019

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“For a few dollars, I’ll go to sleep and dream your dreams…”

Movies move mind and soul, as if they’re messages from God. They’re food when no other food is available. They carry the viewer into oblivion where many captivating events are underway. Movies are astral locations manufactured here on Earth. Why pay attention to any of the thousands of trivialities of the days and nights, when you can watch, from the past, a dimpled witty star engage in repartee with a beautiful woman dressed in furs who speaks as quickly and smartly as polished high heels clicking on a concrete walkway?

As for my own movie, I was born with two hungers—one for love, and two for recognition. In my little crib I conjured storms. I was already tasting a bitter fate of unknown origin. Then later, on the basis of curiosity alone, I found a sparkling necklace in a drawer and vowed to become a jewel thief. By the time I was four, this developed into a plan. I would hide the jewels in a mountain cave, where they would grow together with the stone and spread into veins of clear diamond. At ten, I was reading theories of economics. I decided I would leave the discovery of the treasure to another person of the future, who would upset and destroy the world money system with his lopsided wealth. At twelve, I met a girl with yellow hair and abandoned all my schemes. What was her name? Where did she come from?

At thirteen, I sat in the dark, on the floor at the back of a candy store and read comic books. I searched to find the power to launch bullets of lightning and snap off a magic exclamation that would coat me in a new identity…a painted figure by Caravaggio. I read A Voyage to Arcturus. This was my first experience inside multiple dimensions. I was suited to believe in all of them. I was a buyer of the Astral. If I didn’t favor one Island at the moment, I could lazily sidestroke to another.

His Honorable and Sacred Hayakawa L. Schwartzbaum, Magistrate of Federal Dispensations, on loan from The CIA-Harvard University, sat behind his table. He was an expert in the history of history.

In shackles, an artist was led into the room by three federal policemen wearing the gray high-buttoned uniforms of the Motherland Department of Internal Security and Distribution of Goods and Services for the Benefit of All.

One of the policemen rolled in a large object covered by a shroud.

Judge Schwarzbaum looked down at a file and rapped his gavel on a plaque displaying the universal symbol of the hermaphrodite eagle.

“Order,” he declared.

The prisoner, in a tattered red jumpsuit, stood before him.

“Well,” the Judge said, “uncontrolled display…no license to practice art. No prior approval for a work. No plan submitted to the State. No established source of funding. No declaration of philosophic position. Status: potential precursor to terrorist activity. How do you plead?”

The artist nodded.

“Your Honor, I would like to submit one item of evidence. The work itself.”

The Judge said, “Since I am bound by law, submission approved.”

The guard who had rolled in the shrouded object uncovered it.

It was a brass sculpture standing six feet tall. It was a series of twisted interlocking shapes.

“Yes,” the Judge said. “Incomprehensible. Who in his right mind could fathom the sense of this?”

“Look a little closer, Your Honor,” the artist said. “If you would.”

The Judge put on a pair of glasses and stared at the object.

“Meaningless,” he said. “That’s the last time I’ll deign to acknowledge it.”

“Meaningless? Then what is the problem? What harm could it cause?” the artist asked.

The Judge smiled.

“We must have meaning,” he said. “Because then we can judge its quality. Otherwise, we lose control of the situation. We must know, and be able to assess, the significance of the work. This piece of nonsense does not rise to that level.”

“The piece has meaning for me,” the artist said.

“Perhaps, given your state of mind, that is true. But art is public. It is a social undertaking. It gives something to the All.”

“Your Honor,” the artist replied, “I believe you’re missing an opportunity here. If, as you say, my work is meaningless, consider its effect on the public, were it to be installed in a heavily-trafficked venue. People would be confused and bewildered. Isn’t the induction of such a state of mind a forerunner to mind control?”

The Judge rubbed his chin and stared at the ceiling.

“Are you suggesting,” he said, “that you could go to work for us?”

The artist nodded.

“Yes, sir. I could execute many sculptures of this kind. I want exposure. You want MKULTRA. We’re on the same side, in a strange way.”

“Amusing, possibly interesting,” the Judge said.

“You see,” the artist said, “there are two ways to look at mind control. On the one hand, you attack aggressively, to plant specific messages. But on the other hand, you prepare consciousness by placing it in a state of extreme puzzlement.”

perfect as rain and the night I fell in love…trees and buildings on an avenue in Chicago as I was heading out of the city toward a highway that led to 66 on my way to Amarillo and cows standing in faded yellow dawn rolling up like a fancy poster for milk and war, my memory now Amarillo is a city geared a center a radiating pulse broadcasting the little diner the motel the city hall olive trucks and soldiers 40 years ago passing by as I was standing with my thumb out on 66 I was rooted to one spot across from the motel the whole day and no one stopped and the night snapped down like a shade and I reached up toward the yellow margarine moon in the middle of a cloud I was remembering songs dozens of songs I listened to on the radio in the make believe ballroom everyone knew Sinatra was the god but in the yearly poll they would bring in someone else eddie fisher or johnny ray crying like a lost kid on the railroad tracks his mind torn up you’re on a cement playground and a kid starts crying what are you going to do he just breaks down and ten years later he’s on the front lines of a new war with his gear we heard he was a junkie disappeared and then a tall rangy guy stopped his car and I jumped in he took me all the way to Albuquerque middle of the afternoon February warm I told him about the kid he said it wasn’t right the father and mother should have looked after him he shook his head he was a retired oil man couldn’t have been more than 40 said he just drove around the country visiting his family he gave me a new pair of pants and a shirt out of his trunk

There was a memory. Mother reading the story of Babel Tower, and the Tower crashing, and new clean rivers flowing…

When he went out all the way, that memory collapsed, and he swept through reefs of reflecting data in an ocean of surveillance.

He felt velvet hands and sucking fingers slide along him, and he grew cold in submarine depths.

What did the Design want with him?

He luxuriated in a dark baronial calm, uterine perfection, summer childhood bedroom closet.

He was suddenly in the cabin of a private jet. On a small table he saw a team of glass archangels; an ashtray worn yellow from a thousand cigarettes; a framed photo of Al Capone sitting on the toilet in his Palm Springs suite.

The lights of an enormous city loomed up under him, pulling him toward liquor stores, newspaper racks, dark alleys, hotel rooms.

Now a quiet snowstorm in a deserted wood, falling, falling, falling…

He was back in the cabin of the jet. Burnished lights set high in the cabin walls.

A flight attendant entered with a drink.

She was six feet tall and blonde. That made her a target.

Wealthy and powerful men would seek her out.

Her body was sleek. He examined her left leg from wizardly articulated ankle to narrow thigh, through the slit of her sheath skirt. She strode in heels, one foot placed precisely in front of the other.

She set down the drink on the arm of his chair and looked at her watch.

“We can’t have sex now,” she said. “We’re east of the Rockies.”

“I didn’t realize they had a law,” he said.

“Two hours from now,” she said, “we can negotiate a price.”

Exit From the Matrix

(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.

One comment on “The DJ

  1. Greg C. says:

    Meaninglessness is a prerequisite for mind control, so true. Most people confronted with an ocean of meaninglessness will grab the nearest floatation device, someone else’s theory of things. But a few people will learn how to swim in this ocean. To live, decide, act, create, just for the sake of it, without contributing to some theory of meaning, yet discovering the boundaries of unmapped meaning, endless fractal coastlines like so many Julia sets. What does it mean? Who knows, but it evokes a response from something alive inside. Meaning is static, inert.

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