by Jon Rappoport
December 20, 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.
What?
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 the initial draw. They’re building their own stuff in there. They’re…poaching!
Silence.
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:
HELLO, INHABITANTS. I AM CHARLIE. I’M YOUR CREATOR. YOU’RE LIVING IN MY WORLD, THE WORLD I MADE.
They all looked toward the sound of his voice.
THAT’S RIGHT, he said. I’M RIGHT HERE. THIS IS A REVELATION. I DON’T DO MANY OF THESE SO LISTEN UP. I AM YOUR CREATOR, YOUR GOD. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
All 30 or so of them were now gathered together, outside one of the half-finished yurts.
They were nodding and saying yes.
GOOD. WE NEED TO GET A FEW THINGS STRAIGHT. YOU DIDN’T OBTAIN MY PERMISSION TO ENTER MY WORLD. SO YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO COME OUT SO WE CAN DISCUSS DETAILS. MY WORD IS LAW. UNDERSTAND? STOP THE BUILDING. STOP THE DIGGING. WALK TOWARD ME. WALK TOWARD THE SOUND OF MY VOICE.
They hesitated, looked at each other, and started to walk toward Charlie.
THAT’S RIGHT. KEEP GOING. YOU’RE DOING FINE. I’M GOING TO SHOW YOU WHERE I LIVE.
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? Sooner or later, they’re going to hypnotize themselves and fall for another strange deal. Nobody’s going to stop them.
Charlie looked grim. They liked living in my picture. It wasn’t a problem for them. 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.
(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.
8am.
Shot of bourbon.
Sounds about right.
“People have walked into the painting and taken up residence there.”
Each one of us paints a picture of reality and takes up residence in there. And then, many of us will shame others when a picture of reality differs from ours. And of course, The State uses the strong bully arm of endless intimidation and force to push people into the State’s version State-sponsored ‘reality’.
“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.”
This has been the Lockdown approach to the Covid Con. Paint a picture of the Black Death plague running wild all over the Planet. Lock society down. Not for a few weeks, but forever. Let the People get used to a painted picture of a Covid Death Plague so They will do and believe ridiculous things that they would never do if they had kept their sanity about them. Keep pushing the goalposts back. Keep rolling out The Scary Variants. Keep Doctor Death in front of the cameras as much as possible to peddle his scary stories and make his money on his lethal injections.
“Here’s what you need to do. Go over there and add something to the painting.”
This is what The Dark Powers are doing when people begin to see through the fog of institutionalized deception. The Dark Ones ‘add’ something scary to The Approved Narrative. Can’t let the People ever wake up. Herd them back into the pen! Achtung!
“We didn’t want to get out, one of the men said. We liked it in there.”
The Dark Powers giggle with delight when They hear the People who have joined The Covid Cult say things like this. Mask up! Jab away! Virtue signal extravaganza! Shame the non-believers away! The kids! Line up, kids! Get the next jab version ready! They WANT IT.
“Sooner or later, they’re going to hypnotize themselves and fall for another strange deal.”
That’s what People like that do. They do not want to be true artists. They do not want to create. They want to take up full-time residence in someone else’s hell and spend the rest of their lives in there.
And all the while, some ‘artist’ watching them sits back and laughs…
Roundball Shaman, great read, and so right on. We are creator beings, but we will never truly “know” that unless we individuate and mature. And obviously, most people don’t do that because the work is arduous and often results in being cast out of the popular kids’ clubs. Not unsurprisingly, most real artists (myself included) spend a great deal of time alone, and happily so!
“HELLO, INHABITANTS. I AM CHARLIE. I’M YOUR CREATOR. YOU’RE LIVING IN MY WORLD, THE WORLD I MADE.”
All the times that I have read this, the same question arises…You didn’t make it. Its a meta-verse, that you occupy with the rest of us, we have all agreed or been made to agree that we use the same means of communication?
Some of us gain a expression of our own language, but, if we put it out into the public then what the public does with it is of no concern of the creator.
“THAT’S RIGHT, he said. I’M RIGHT HERE. THIS IS A REVELATION. I DON’T DO MANY OF THESE SO LISTEN UP. I AM YOUR CREATOR, YOUR GOD. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
GOD?? That was a hell of a leap, wouldn’t you say. From I’m upset with you Mf’ers moving in to my creation to…BAM.
First your upset because of people, moving in to your painting, and now what, you’re omnipotent.
What do you think if…
“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.”
Then I thought again. Alternatively, he might react well.
Charlie was an artist after all, and the artistic mind is the freest mind of all. It certainly is individual. And never so much as with Charlie.
So, I wrote Charlie the note, and didn’t hear back from him and became a little concerned. He and I talked on a regular basis and now nothing. I hadn’t heard from him in some time.
I went over to his apartment/studio, and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I knocked again and again. A neighbor came out and said, “I use to see him a couple times a day, I have seen in a month, I think?”
So, I went to the back side of place and peered through the window and knocked on his back studio door a number of times and called his name. I looked through dust encrusted back street windows and held my hand above my eyes to shade the sunlight and allow a clearer view.
No one was in there; the studio was silent. Around the place was the images on canvas that he was working on; tables with brushes and a mess, Coffee cups and rags laying about the floor and a large easel from floor to ceiling, heavy and on big casters, with a painting on it that he seemed to be working on.
I looked at the painting on the easel is was the large painting from the museum; but that couldn’t be, he had sold it to them. Was he creating another copy?
I stared closer at it and saw it was different somehow, I had remembered the image from seeing it a number of times in the museum. This one was different though; something was strangely different and just out of focus. I thought I could see a figure in the center of the landscape image.
I left Charlie’s place and went back over to the museum and walked in and paid admission and moved briskly to Charlie’s painting. There it hung in the same place, with an iron fence and gate around it to stop viewers from getting close.
But it was different from the studio piece on the easel back at his studio.
I left the museum and drove back quickly to Charlie’s studio picking up a set of binoculars from my house on my way there – something was not right I thought. I was worried about Charlie. Had something happened to him.
I arrived at the back studio entrance and walked up the flight of stairs to the door. I took the caps of the binoculars and looked inside, scanning the room again.
Images every where, clutter, and then I focused on the painting on the easel. Large and of the same landscape as the museum. An almost perfect copy of the painting, and as I moved across its surface with my eyes, there in the painting just of center to the right was an image of a man, standing in the sunlight. I focused and looked closer.
And there he was, it was Charlie, standing smiling and waving and pointing back behind him. He was happy. His eyes where wide and joy filled and excited and bright. I had never seen a smile that big on Charlie’s face. He was so happy. And behind him was a dog running towards the horizon after some figures; one that looked like a woman, and some others like children, playing.
I never saw Charlie again, or any new paintings. I have never gone back to the studio, but I think of him often. Standing there, in the light of that landscape.
A remarkable allegory for this zeitgeist that we find ourselves in. Unlike other readings of your works, this one called forth shudders and vertigo… Prior…I have been tracking current human realities with stoicism as well as heartful concern…This mass observation situation we are all in, I’ve been assessing in ways similar to your evaluations.. engaging in fanatical research only in recent years. I am likewise a decoder, a faculty that I brought into this world with me, a rabbinical gift of hermeneutical perspicacity, reading symbolism of every day things and current events. Thank you for this allegory. I’ve become stuck in the factual evidence for a while and am inspired to return to other forms of knowing communicating that come through when writing.
Nothing can save western civilization now. It is gone. Will be completely extinct in 20 years. Only some old guys are fighting to save it.
The young people are already robots. They are ready to be connected to the collective.