Wormhole in the Museum Called Reality

by Jon Rappoport

June 30, 2021

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My friend Charlie sells a painting to the Gregorian Museum out on Galactic Park.

They hang his painting in one of the upstairs rooms for a week, and then trouble starts. Charlie gets a phone call in the middle of the night from the director. Charlie can’t believe his ears. He rushes over to the museum.

Upstairs, the director is in his pajamas pacing back and forth. Charlie goes up to his painting, looks at it for a few minutes and sees it.

People have walked into the painting and taken up residence there.

Holy crap.

They’re in there.

Law suits, the director says. Their families could take us to the cleaners.

When Charlie calls out to the people inside his painting, they don’t hear him. They don’t seem to be able to get out. At least no one’s trying.

What do you want me to do? Charlie says.

Get them the hell out of there, the director says. Pick up the picture and shake it if you have to. Turn it upside down. I don’t care.

Charlie doesn’t think this is a good idea. Somebody could get hurt.

So for the next few hours, he sits in front of his painting, drinks coffee, and tries to talk to the people inside.

No dice. Even when he yells, they don’t notice him.

By this time, the chairman of the museum board has shown up. He’s agitated. He’s yabbering about containing the situation.

Charlie asks him how he proposes to do that.

Blanket denial, the chairman says. Pretty soon, the cops are going to link these disappearances to the museum—but then we just throw up our hands and claim we know nothing about it.

A lot of good that’ll do, the director says. Even if we wiggle out of the law suits, our reputation will be damaged. People won’t want to come here. They’ll be afraid somebody will snatch them.

Okay, the chairman says, we’ll shut down for repairs. New construction. That’ll buy us a few weeks and we can figure out something. We’ll say the building needs an earthquake retrofit. Not a big one. Just some shoring up.

…So that’s what happened. They closed the museum and hoped for the best.

Charlie was upset. If word got out, how could he ever sell another painting? His agent told him he was nuts. He’d become the most famous person in the world, and people would be lining up trying to get inside his pictures. You’ll be a phenomenon, he said.

Yeah, Charlie said, until some loon tries to take me out.

A week later, while Charlie and I were having breakfast at a little cafe over by the river, he told me the people inside his painting were building yurts. They were digging a well.

What are they eating, I asked him.

Beats me, he said. But they don’t seem worried. They look okay.

But they can’t get out, he said. At least they don’t want to. They’re settling down in there!

I asked him the obvious question about shrinkage.

I know, he said. They’re a hell of a lot smaller. But no one’s complaining, as far as I can tell.

They like your work, I said.

He looked at me like he was going to kill me, so I let it drop.

Okay, I said. Here’s what you need to do. Go over there and add something to the painting.

He blinked.


Paint on the painting. See what happens.

Sure, he said, and drive them into psychosis. Who knows what effect it would have?

Paint a nice little country road that leads them right out into the museum. They’ll see it, they’ll walk on it.

No, he said. Don’t you get it? They’ve already taken things a step further. They’re not just living in my landscape. That was just the initial draw. They’re building their own stuff in there. They’re…poaching!


Then there’s only one thing you can do, I said.

I leaned across the table and whispered in his ear. He listened, then jumped back.

No, I said. You have to. Don’t be a weak sister. Go for it.

…So Charlie went upstairs in the museum and cleared everybody out. He unpacked the little suitcase he’d brought and set up a player and a speaker. He shoved in a disc and turned on the music. Some sort of chanting. A chorus.

He took out a change of clothes from the suitcase and put on a long robe and a crazy hat. He eventually showed it to me. It was from a costume party he’d had at his house. Tall red silk hat with tassels hanging from it.

He stood in front of the painting and said:


They all looked toward the sound of his voice.


All 30 or so of them were now gathered together, outside one of the half-finished yurts.

They were nodding and saying yes.


They hesitated, looked at each other, and started to walk toward Charlie.


This was apparently quite a perk, so they walked faster. They broke into a trot.

Finally, they emerged from the painting and, Charlie said, they swelled back to normal size right away.

It was quite a thing to see, like balloons blowing up—and then there they were, all around me, in the museum. First thing, I took the painting off the wall and laid it on the floor, face down. Enough of that stuff.

Charlie told them who he was, the painter. It took a few hours of intense conversation before they understood and accepted the situation. All in all, they seemed sad.

What were you going to do, he asked them. Live in there forever? Couldn’t you see how to get out?

We didn’t want to get out, one of the men said. We liked it in there.

And that was pretty much that, except for the signing of waivers and non-disclosure agreements with the museum. For which the people were granted lifetime platinum memberships and some vouchers and coupons for the museum store and restaurant.

Charlie went into a funk. He didn’t go into his studio for a few months.

One night, I dropped over to his house with a bottle of bourbon and we had a few drinks out on his porch.

You know, I said, you can start a church if you want to. I know a guy who writes fake scriptures and peddles them. He’s good.

You really do want me to kill you, he said.

We drank in silence for a while.

I told him: those people with their wells and yurts and ritual masks? Sooner or later, they’re going to hypnotize themselves and fall for another strange deal. Nobody’s going to stop them.

Charlie looked grim. That’s the thing, he said. They liked living in my picture. It wasn’t a problem for them. And I took them out. I conned them.

Well, I said, if that’s the case, and there’s nothing wrong with them, they’ll find another painting. See? Someday, you’ll read about a bunch of people disappearing, and that’ll be what it is.

Yeah, he said, maybe.

A week later, he got back to work.

Universes. Some weird things happen in that area.

I started to write a Charlie a note. It began: Maybe all universes are just like your painting. But I stopped. Charlie wouldn’t react well to that.

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.

12 comments on “Wormhole in the Museum Called Reality

  1. Paul says:


    If you meet the Buddha on the road…

    …Better yet. Have a bourbon.

  2. Dingus says:

    Very thought provoking piece . For some reason, it reminded me of the mask wearers, the vax cult showing off their magnetic injection site, or posing in a selfie with official Vax card while chanting idol worship of Dr. Fauci… were these the people in the painting or on the outside looking in on Us ?
    Rod Serling penned a similar proposition in the 60’s , I think it was called ‘Miniture’…
    Thank you J-Rap !

  3. Eluard says:

    I remember this piece Mr. Rappoport, you published this last year. Maybe before that too. But I know why you revive it. Because people can’t get enough of other people’s paintings (universes). They see something halfway decent and want to move in and live “the good life.”

    It’s interesting that Charlie had to “con” them to come out of the painting. He had to con them into Freedom. Is that what Jesus was doing with the miracles, the loaves and fishes, etc.? We want an easy freedom, we want someone else to do the work and we’ll just “move in.”

    This is my favorite part, when the museum makes a deal and … “the people were granted lifetime platinum memberships and some vouchers and coupons for the museum store and restaurant.” Can you imagine them going back and walking around the museum, having lunch in the cafe and exiting? What a wistful longing they must feel as they descend the steps and get their Ubers home.

    Nostalgia for a lost paradise. But didn’t Jon mention, in that piece a few days ago (the guy who escapes the “movie”) that nostalgia is built into it–the dream, the matrix? Thanks much for making us CONSIDER things, Jon.

  4. Kat says:

    Brilliant Jon, thank You!

  5. Roundball Shaman says:

    “People have walked into the painting and taken up residence there.”

    Every person paints their own life painting every day. Some folks like what they paint and stay in there. Others hate their painting but they mistakenly believe that someone ELSE painted it and forced them into it. So they curse their painting but never venture out of it. Others don’t like their painting but choose to get some new canvas and brushes and colors and paint something else. And if they don’t like the new one, they keep trying.

    The most successful people in life are those who understand who the artist is and who is responsible for the painting they are living in. The saddest people in the World are those who never understand that they are genius artists who could paint anything they ever wanted but never even begin because they refuse to accept their genius and artistry power.

    And the most successful people of all would never think of living inside someone else’s painting. No disrespect to the other artists, but why would a genius give up his/her own genius to be a side character in someone else’s picture?

  6. hyden says:

    Yip and jack shit we can do about it, except just go along with the ride.
    Individual power hahaha we do not have any. Why cant i turn myself into superhero, defy all laws of nature and fly to these places and destroy them. But i can’t, we are all fucked in this place, none of us have any power or else none of this would happen in the first place.

  7. Thankful says:

    We all have our prisons, we even fashion the key…..

    But, to leave the barred gate, escapes me……

    Until the Love of Jesus

    Set me free…………………Blessings………..

  8. hyden says:

    Eventually at some point in time this will happen…..
    A: Spread out in brain-research facilities all over the world. And their
    goal is to make androids. People who react to signals and feel happy.

    Q: Brave New World.

    A: I’d call it Cowardly New World. Pavlov is their number-one saint. A
    colleague of mine once told me a joke about that. A dog attacked Pavlov
    and killed him. The dog got angry. He didn’t like listening to that bell
    that told him food was coming. The dog wanted to find his own food, and
    he finally exploded and killed his master. I can tell you this. If they
    succeed in making a Brave New World, it’ll never last. The population
    will rebel and destroy every society in the world. They’ll level every
    government and every army….you’ve heard of pleasure centers in the

    years ago that interview was for Jon.

  9. george says:

    Heatwave and droughts. Bill gates can buy land cheaper.
    They bought cheap real estate following peaceful protests.

  10. JD says:

    The creation is not greater than the Creator so nothing can be imagined by the painter that didn’t come from the creator.

    The problem is the Painter has a fallen relationship with the Creator and the result is his own perspective is void of the original intent of the creator.

    How did these people enter the painting?, by their own free will.

    As it was in the beginning when the serpent asked “hath God said”?

    It doesn’t matter what the painter says, there is truth and it lies squarely in the hands of the creator.

    He could have pointed them back to the creator but instead pretended he was God and lured them out of the painting.

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