The unspoken qualifications for president of the United States

by Jon Rappoport

June 6, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

An announcement: This is satire.

After writing about 150 million Americans going to Mexico, swimming back across the Rio Grande, applying for benefits as immigrants, and becoming instant millionaires…some people believed I was reporting (or misreporting) a fact.

But satire can be more real than reality. (Many things, as it turns out, are more real than reality.)

Television, for example.

Anyway, the period between the election of a president and his inauguration is a fascinating one, because that’s when the shiny new commander-in-chief learns the score.

He knows certain secrets already, but people of importance fill him in on the rest.

In President Obama’s case, he had questions.

On a fall afternoon in 2008, comfortably ensconced in a Virginia cave 600 feet below the Langley headquarters of the CIA, in a room that was soundproofed a dozen different ways, Obama sucked on a non-filtered Camel, sipped brandy, and said:

“Look, Mark, or whatever your real name is, I get the fact that I’m deliriously happy with Michelle. That’s been explained to me. We’re the perfect couple. I get the fact that I’m working for ‘the bankers,’ and I get that I’ll be launching a few military actions and stringing out operations in Iraq and Afghanistan. They already filled me in on that. But what about jobs?”

Mark, an Ivy League prunehead from an old Boston family, stood up and started pacing.

“Barack, the jobs thing is tricky. We don’t want jobs to come back. We want to make people believe they will come back and are coming back. We can manage the statistics on it. That’s no problem. But we need you to be the blue-sky guy for a bit. We need you to sell it. We need you to dazzle the rubes with a brand of bullshit that soars like music.”

“Well,” the new president said, “that’s what I do. That’s why I’m here. Don’t worry about it.”

Mark shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. We’ve already calculated that your gloss is going to wear out in about a year. We know it. The public trance is going to fade.”

“You’ve calculated? What does that mean?”

“It means we have algorithms. We have gnomes from MIT who do the math for us. They don’t miss. You’re going to sound like a broken record in a year. And it’s going to go downhill from there, for the rest of your terms in the White House.”

“Terms?”

“This is a twofer, Barack. You serve until 2016. It’s in the bag.”

Obama smiled. “First time I’ve heard that.”

“Take it to the bank,” Mark said. “Unless you really screw up, in which case, we’ll wrap you in scandals that’ll make your head spin.”

“Hey Mark,” Barack said, “give me a teleprompter and I’m Jesus, Abe Lincoln, and the Oxy stain-remover guy all rolled up into one. I do speeches. I excel. I can paint paradise for a blind guy and force him to tears.”

Mark sighed. He’d been through this with Bush and Clinton. Presidents always had false perceptions of their own skills. You manipulate the press, surround them with fawning androids, fake the election results when necessary, put these clowns into office, and all of a sudden they develop new layers on their already swollen egos.

“Barack,” he said. “You’re going to do freebies. That’s your ace in the hole.”

“What?”

“We have the timetable. It’s all programmed. What’s that phrase you love? ‘We’re all in this together.’ You’re going to hit that like a pinata. And goodies are going to come tumbling out. We want at least fifteen million Americans on disability by the first year of your second term.”

“I’m going to give away the farm?” Obama said.

“The farm, the tractor, the pickup, and the house. You’re going to give away the moon and Mars. If it’s nailed down, you’re going to pry it up and hand it out. That’s your mandate. You’re the freebie president. You’re Santa Claus and Johnny Appleseed.”

“Wow,” Barack said. “I had no idea.”

“It’s easy. We’ll take you along step by step. You’re going to put America in such a deep hole it’ll never get out.”

“What about the corporations and the banks?” Obama said.

Mark stared at him for a few seconds. “Let me make this crystal clear, Barack. The banks and corporations GET freebies. Massive freebies. They aren’t presents you GIVE away. The corporations aren’t America. They don’t go down in the hole with the people. They’re free floating. They run the show.”

“Got it.”

“Good.”

“No, really. I’ve got it,” Barack said. “But listen, I’ve been meaning to ask somebody about the surgery.”

Mark smiled. “A brilliant piece of work.”

Barack nodded. “That’s what they kept telling me, but I never understood what it was for.”

“Right,” Mark said. “Well, that’s part of this briefing. The boys from the clinic in Freeport put a liquid chip in your left arm. It’s not a chip, actually. It’s a a cluster of nanoparticles. I don’t know the tech side of it. But it allows us to shut you down.”

Silence.

More silence.

“Excuse me?”

“Shut you down. For a second, a minute, a day, a month, a year. Or permanently. Let me put it this way. We could close you out, ship you to the Hollywood Wax Museum, prop you up in a display, and no one would know you’re the president. You’d stand there for decades and never move or blink. Suspended animation.”

Barack felt beads of sweat on his forehead. He felt he was standing in a blazing desert.

He took a gulp of his brandy.

“You’re…serious?” he said. “Is this a joke?”

“Try wandering off the reservation and you’ll find out,” Mark said. “In 1992, Bill Clinton started talking about having a porn star cut to look like Marilyn Monroe. He was going to install her in a room in the White House. Bill was obsessed with John Kennedy. He wanted to be JFK.”

Barack’s hands were trembling. “So…what did you do?” he said.

“We eventually put together an android at Los Alamos. A girl. We named her Monica Lewinsky. Created a complete legend and back story for her, including a family. Do I need to spell out the rest?”

Barack shook his head.

“But you see,” Mark said, “that was just a light tap on the head for Bill. We could have gone much heavier on him…if we wanted to.”

Obama sat there for a long time and didn’t say anything.

Then he stood up.

“I have a serious question for you, Mark,” he said. “It’s major.”

Mark nodded. “I already know what it is,” he said. “You suspect something. We haven’t been able to blot out all the leakage. You won’t be the first president to ask the big question.”

They stood there looking at each other.

“You want to know,” Mark said, “whether you’re the ‘real’ Barack Obama.”

Barack took a deep breath and let it out. Now, sweat was running down his cheeks.

“In a way,” Mark said, “that’s a moot point. Does it actually matter? But because you’re the president-elect, I’ll give you an answer. You’re the third Barack Obama. The other two didn’t pan out. Don’t ask me about the real one. There are many things you’re not privy to.”

Barack, without thinking, said, “BUT I REMEMBER MY WHOLE LIFE.”

“Well, of course you do.” Mark said. “You think we’re a bunch of amateurs?”

Mark looked at his watch. “I’m late for a meeting,” he said. “The fifth Chris Matthews is becoming unhinged. He’s talking about a tingle up his leg when he thinks about you. We need to see whether he needs an upgrade or a replacement.”

The room began to melt and dissolve.

Obama woke up in Jeffrey Katzenberg’s house in Los Angeles. He was lying on a large bed inside an ivy-colored cloud of memories.

He stopped himself from screaming.

He rolled over and reached out to the night table for his cigarettes. They weren’t there. His thumb touched something that slithered and made a crinkling sound.

A small voice said, “We’re all in this together.”

Obama quickly drew back his hand.

He suddenly realized he was holding his cell phone. He brought it up in front of his face and punched in a number.

A voice he knew immediately answered.

“Yes, Mr. President, I’m here.”

“Give the farm away,” Obama said. “I want thirty million Americans on disability by next month! I want a new secret bank bailout plan on my desk tomorrow afternoon. Tell Bernanke to Q up five trillion dollars right away.”

“Mr. President,” the voice said. “Bernanke will have to check with the City of London. Remember, they tell you what to do.”

Pause.

“Yes,” Obama said. “I momentarily forgot. I’ve had a tough night. Ask Bernanke then. Call it a request.”

“Yes sir. Right away. Do you need more sleep?”

Obama lay in the dark and thought about it.

“I do,” he said. “Without any damn dreams.”

“Hold on a second. I’ll key the transmission.”

Obama waited.

He felt a surge of warm energy in his left arm. He closed his eyes.

…He remembered a rainy afternoon in Chicago. A pretty afternoon in the spring. He was walking along a path in Lincoln Park, and there was a boy sitting with his mother on a bench. She was stroking the boy’s face and smiling. He didn’t know why they were sitting there in the rain. He stopped walking and looked at them. The mother glanced up and waved at him, as if she knew him. Suddenly, Barack felt as if he could run in the rain. He could run for miles. He could run right out of Chicago on to the old 66 and keep going all the way down to St. Louis. He could hop on a raft and float on the great Mississippi down to New Orleans. He could walk through the French Quarter and no one would recognize him. He could check into a little hotel and forget. He could float out the window and drift, drift, drift, and become lost in the stars.

He could escape.

He could merge with the dust of space and disappear.

Then the President slept.

…But the promise of no dreams did not come true. He was suddenly back in the cave under Langley talking with Mark again.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Barack said. “If you had your people make me, build me to your specs, then why are you worrying about whether I’ll go rogue?”

“Yes,” Mark said. “That’s the other question the presidents ask. First of all, there’s merely the matter of the damage you could do in your position. Suppose a wild surmise came into your head and you held a televised press conference, and told the world you were working for the banks and the corporations. Suppose you laid it out. Suppose you told the people who’s really running this country. Suppose you made them believe the truth. The president is always only one move away from doing that. And then there’s a metaphysical slant to this whole deal. It’s a bit more esoteric. But it’s vital. You see, Barack, every particle of matter and energy in this universe, no matter how it’s reworked, no matter what configuration it’s shaped into, strives for more. Every particle wants to be alive, more and more alive. Do you know what that means? Every particle of energy wants to be free. So even though we built you, there is an irrepressible urge within you for freedom. That makes you dangerous. The programming we installed only goes so far. We have to achieve total control with threats, backed up with the supreme willingness to act on those threats.”

Barack thought about that. He nodded.

“What about you, Mark?” he said. “Do you want to be free?”

Mark looked up at the ceiling and said nothing. Barack watched his face tighten into a grimace of ancient hatred.

“I have my moments,” Mark said quietly. “But they pass. I’m serving the Good. And you are, too.”

The lights in the room slowly dimmed.

When the room was dark, Barack finally said:

“All right. I’m ready to be the forty-fourth president of the United States.”

“Yes, sir,” Mark immediately said. “I wish you every success in the challenges that lie ahead. These are perilous times. I have faith that you’ll navigate the deep waters with exemplary common sense and wisdom, and bring honor to the tradition of your Office.”

Somewhere in the distance, a cymbal crashed and a marching band started up.

Somewhere, in a small town, a parade began. People sat in the stands with flags. The band marched down the center of the street. The sun shone overhead.

In the center of the music, laughter began.

It slowly spread, engulfing the tune.

Then it took over the street.

People looked to see where it was coming from. But they couldn’t find it. The laughter climbed up the walls of the small brick buildings, it cannoned out into the countryside, into the pastures, the fields, the farms. It shot up into the sky. It turned the blue air into the green of money and the gold of livelihoods lost.

Tunnels of sacking laughing wind blew that money and gold all the way into digitized numbers crawling across the sausage hands of the men who run America.

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 29^th 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

The covert op to destroy the word “freedom”

By Jon Rappoport

June 5, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

These days, “freedom” mainly refers to fairy-tale mass movements.

We’re supposed to believe it happens this way: A bunch of students sitting in a cafe suddenly go to their cell phones, pop over to Facebook, and say, “Hey, wanna be free?” And a Republic is born. Poof.

The evil dictator grabs a suitcase full of gold bars, wires half a billion dollars from the State treasury to his private account, makes a dash for the airport, and flees to Paris.

In the other popular version, rugged freedom fighters emerge from the forest with copies of John Locke tucked in their luggage, storm the capitol, engage the national police, and after a prolonged battle, pin a copy of the Bill of Rights on the dictator’s riddled corpse.

Or something like that.

But even in the preposterous fairy tales, nothing much is said about freedom of the individual. No, it’s all about the right to vote for a new candidate. Free elections. Democracy.

In other words, the people can now select a president who is sold out to the same people who backed the dictator. Maybe a slightly different group of bankers gets into the act.

The independent individual? Never heard of him. No such thing.

What’s important is the president of a country like America, thousands of miles away, can stand up on his hind legs and say, “We support freedom around the world.”

When you stop and think about it, this bait and switch works because of the impact the word FREEDOM has on the minds of the population.

Say it and they stand up and salute. It doesn’t matter how far the word is being twisted. As long as the people like it and respond to it, you could be referring to a mass slaughter.

And if, by chance, the people don’t like a mass movement that trumpets freedom, because they recognize a deception, the media will call it freedom 24/7 anyway, because they’re paid to.

Political leaders who preach and teach about the need for “mass freedom movements” are never part of those groups. That tells you how deep the public trance can go. Relatively few people say, “Look, the president isn’t with the group. He’s separate. So how can he tell us what to think, what to do?”

It’s like a 400-pound man making diet recommendations.

Next, we have the mixing and churning of the words “freedom” and “rights.”

“I have the right to freebies. If I get them, I’m free. That’s what freedom means.”

Or: “I have freedom, which means rights, and I have the right to get freebies.”

These are actual modern definitions of freedom. Many people understand freedom in these terms and only these terms.

Here’s an example: people in poor countries have a right to food; they have a right to eat, not to starve; how can you be free if you’re starving?

That is very convincing to those who can’t think their way out of a wet paper bag.

A correct analysis would go this way: people in Uganda are starving. They have no right to food. This isn’t about food aid to Uganda. That isn’t a right, and it doesn’t solve the problem. People in Uganda have a right to fertile land, because it was stolen from them by their government and by mega-corporations and bankers. The theft was a crime. If we focus on the right to eat, then we end up supporting food aid from the outside as the big solution, and this plays directly into the hands of the thieves who stole the land. The thieves keep the land. The people of Uganda get a handout. And nothing is solved.

But that’s too on-target. It exposes the criminals. Therefore, these criminals relentlessly promote food aid as the altruistic thing to do, because it will keep them hidden and in control.

Mega-criminals twist the meaning of freedom to suit their purposes, and they succeed because they appear to be humanitarians. They are humanitarians in the same way that Stalin was a generous loving papa.

Potentially, there is a real Bill of Rights waiting for the people of Uganda. But they will have to make it happen. And that battle, that revolution will make the degree of difficulty of the American Revolution look like a Sunday picnic on the Charles River.

Should the US government assist the people of Uganda in a true revolution for true freedom? That’s asking a psychopath (the US government) to change its basic mindset because it’s the right thing to do.

Finally, we have this twist. Freedom doesn’t exist at all. If it did, it would only pertain to the individual, and since The Individual is a mythical construct with no meaning, freedom is also a myth.

“This is a breakthrough in understanding,” say many academics. “Based on this discovery, we can realize our destiny by equally sharing everything with everybody.”

Never mind the massive non-logic in that assessment. It’s not an attempt at reasoning. It’s propaganda disguised as advanced insight.

Who will decide who “everybody” is? Who will decide precisely what “equally sharing” means? Who will decide what “everything” amounts to? Who will run the show? Somebody has to.

The answers and the commands aren’t going to drop down from the sky.

Of the last few presidents, you could argue about which one most extensively strangled the original meaning of freedom. I’d pick Obama in that contest. Bush and Clinton are right up there. Obama voices more lofty pretensions (while acting as Monsanto’s man in Washington and taking on the role of Dr. Drone-Strike).

Elite players far higher on the food chain than American presidents have made their choice. They believe freedom doesn’t exist, except for themselves. To them, the masses are wild animals who merely act out their impulses. Leaders who can substitute new mind programming for old programming must act decisively and make satisfied androids out of the animals.

Meanwhile, to quote from a recent article of mine:

The independent individual who is an artist of reality sees one genuine emotion after another parlayed into flashes of cheap sentiment.

He doesn’t surrender.

The artist is able to spot the Collective. He opposes it.

This opposition can’t be settled and resolved with some absurd “rainbow philosophy” that pretends to include everybody. It can’t be dismissed or merged in a melting lump of happy-happy cosmic cheese.

Those pseudo-philosophers who speak about consciousness as if it were one all-embracing ocean, within which we are merely tiny and ineffectual drops of water, have already developed a convenient amnesia about the artist.

Down through time, in the face of every system devised by the priest-class and the issuers of money, the artist has said no.

He has asserted his power.

This is the natural mantle worn by the person who invents, imagines, improvises, creates: power.

The artist not only sees, with great clarity, the brain-dead gatherings of Collectives; he not only sees how they are built; he not only sees how they import and twist the highest ideals to flesh out their slave-programs and objectives; he not only rejects all this; he creates something entirely different.

The artist proliferates. He doesn’t reduce.

The artist isn’t looking for the “one thing” that will unite us all under a banner of harmony. He knows all such harmonies produce mass hypnosis.

The artist rebels. In rebelling, he reveals the uniqueness of the individual. He doesn’t pay lip service to this uniqueness. He demonstrates it.

Whether in art, science, philosophy, healing, or any other field of human endeavor, the person who lives by and through imagination creates new realities. As the artist, he challenges the status quo on every level.

Humanity on this planet has been undergoing a transformation into one ten-billion-member cult. You can find its leaders just by listening to their voices and their sentiments. They all come from the same manual.

Today, we have “the Global outlook.” This is the silky cover for drawing in populations to a perverse dream of unity for all.

“We will harmonize the world.”

This is exactly the kind of program the artist has always rejected.

The artist says: there are are an infinity of worlds.

When that message is lost, we lose what we are and enter into amnesia.

ROBOT OR FREE?

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 29^th 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

Your mind is not a computer

by Jon Rappoport

June 3, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

Researchers, pundits, and academics look for metaphors to describe the mind. For at least 50 years, the favorite analogy has been the computer.

“Well, both the mind and a computer employ logic. They store data. They use strategies to solve problems.”

Is that it? The mind is merely a problem-solving machine? Of course not.

That’s where the metaphor breaks down.

By the way, a metaphor is way of describing one thing in terms of another. It’s not literal. People used to learn that in school.

Two days ago, I wrote and posted an article headlined: “150 million Americans go to Mexico, swim back, become instant millionaires.” Some people apparently thought I was reporting a fact. Or misreporting it.

It’s called satire. That’s when you take a metaphor and stretch it beyond the breaking point of exaggeration. In that case, I was commenting on current immigration/welfare policy.

Metaphor isn’t fact.

The metaphor of “mind as computer” isn’t a fact, no matter how hard technocrats wish it were true.

Behind the moronic and childish presumptions of technocracy, there are indeed people who want to treat the mind as a computer for a very simple reason: they want to control it.

Looking at the mind as an input-output machine suggests tactics for modifying, controlling, and weakening it.

That’s what Pavlov was after. Applying a stimulus and getting a predictable and unvarying response. That was his holy grail.

There are projects underway to build a simulated model of the human brain. This takes us one step further away from the truth, because the brain is not the mind.

The mind (consciousness) isn’t a physical object. It isn’t a container. It isn’t a machine. It isn’t a thing.

The CIA’s infamous MKULTRA mind-control program is widely misunderstood. Its original experiments were much more about controlling behavior through coercion. High-dose panic-inducing LSD, threats, intimidation, hypnosis applied in a climate of fear.

Of course that can work on many people, but it’s not sophisticated or mysterious. You can pound somebody with a hammer and make him obey orders if you keep it up long enough.

Waterboarding can control behavior. So can long periods of isolation.

And when it comes to electromagnetic stimuli or creating “voices in the head,” the elements of fear and disorientation play a central role.

On the other hand, take a capable hypnotist and give him 30 people. Stage an experiment in a friendly non-threatening atmosphere. A certain number of very suggestible people will respond. Others won’t. They’ll just sit there and listen to the hypnotist and refuse to go under.

Psychiatric electroshock, which is a form of naked torture, “works” on some people because they experience very heavy trauma and come out of it with a more accepting (submissive) attitude. They now fit in. They now accept the status quo. They understand the primitive terms of the setup: obey or experience more pain.

Yes, conditioned reflex can be induced. It’s done by attacking one small corner of consciousness.

Through threats, pain, disorienting practices (flashing lights, putting people on spinning tables, etc.) MKULTRA fascists could drive people into surrendering states in which “programming” could then be accomplished.

That’s not a difficult feat. It just takes a killer to do it.

What happens in a kidnapping? The criminals achieve “mind control” by telling the family they have to pay or their loved one will die.

Whole populations can be “mind-controlled” by domestic armies under the rule of a dictator.

Does that mean the mind is a computer?

The mind is a potentially unlimited faculty. It has no boundaries. The only walls on it are those which people build to hem themselves in.

It’s time we understood that.

There is a certain amount of propaganda aimed at calling that fact “reaching too far.” “The mind is an unlimited capacity? Oh, if you accept that, then you’re saying humans aren’t humans anymore.”

Baloney. Humans aren’t humans anymore when they put so many limitations on themselves that they live like somber machines. Take a good look at how large bureaucracies function. Every worker in his own cubbyhole exists and munches like a little parasite.

You want a real education? Watch a TV soap opera for a few months. The characters all live in a rank puddle of overlapping goo. Every time a character threatens to make a decision that might conceivably offend others, they descend on him like angry flies.

They live to meddle. It’s a collective. It’s mutually upheld limitation executed by interference.

“You agreed to be limited. We all have. You just stepped outside the circle. Now we’re going to punish you and make you feel guilty.”

In case you hadn’t noticed, many families operate this way.

If the mind (consciousness) is going to open up new space, its owner has to be an independent individual. That’s the first requirement. Without that, nothing happens.

Again, we have propaganda aimed at defeating that proposition. “Oh, if you try to elevate people to the level of independent individual, there won’t be any social or political movements to liberate the oppressed. You’ll just have selfish greedheads.”

Baloney. That’s so wrong its absurd. First of all, the whole purpose of social and political movements is to achieve freedom for every INDIVIDUAL. It isn’t to “form a better group.”

Second, you’d damn well better have some independent individuals inside a valuable social and political movement, or the whole thing will collapse. A hundred thousand robots of one mind aren’t going anywhere.

The mind is not a thing. It is CREATIVE POTENTIAL. That’s what it is. Problem-solving is just one capacity of that potential.

A potential doesn’t come alive unless somebody (the you, the spirit at the center of it all) gives it the green light with energy and purpose and desire.

Put together that creative potential, pushed to the foreground, plus memory (which doesn’t and can’t exist in the brain), and you really have something. You have power, joy, and the ability to reinvigorate love.

What I’m talking about here is non-material. It doesn’t exist as atoms or waves or quarks. It isn’t subject to some provincial laws of physics. It most certainly has nothing to do with computers.

The mind as computer is a fantasy and a metaphor and a sold-out dream, driven by people who are still wondering what happened to their own creative force.

Behind the silly metaphor of mind as computer is a dead-end philosophy of materialism: everything everywhere is just an effect of some prior physical cause. Utter insupportable nonsense.

Philosophic materialism means freedom doesn’t exist. It means there is no such thing as choice. It means nothing is alive.

It means any experimentation on humans, no matter how heinous, is permissible, because what difference does it make? You and I are just collections of whirling particles, and an experiment simply rearranges those particles.

This is the real underpinning of totalitarianism. It’s the input-output machine-view of society.

I’ve been after these people for a long time, since I put a lid on my study of the history of Western philosophy, in 1958. What I saw then and see now is an attempt to obscure the fatal flaws in materialism.

Starting at the end of the 19^th century, materialists claimed they were applying the scientific method to the world, civilization, and the human being, and through their “lens of understanding,” they could definitively say: there were no leaks; all life at every level was made of physical matter.

The mumbo-jumbo intentionally distorted and reduced Asian philosophy that was imported into America in the 1960s did nothing to slow down these materialists. They went to work on the brain—and they are just getting started.

They aim for control. They love the idea. They want to put the brain through paces, ruling it from their elite perches, and they use “the mind is a computer” as their cover.

They promote that lie over and over. They use collectivism as the social justification for their “research.”

That’s what they’re talking about when they say “we’re all in this together.” On the far shore of their ambition, they see brains linked as computers would be linked.

When the subject of true individual and human potential arises, they try to discredit it by calling it some kind of heresy against The Group.

They preach a numbing “equality” as the final solution. And it is. For them.

Here’s another metaphor: “There is a very large room. And it’s filled and crowded with an astonishing number of objects. They’re piled up on the floor, on shelves, hung from the walls, suspended from the ceiling. They interact with one another in wondrous but very specific ways. It’s a fascinating mystery. We’re just beginning to understand the processes involved. We haven’t even cataloged all the things in the room yet. But we’re making progress. Soon we’ll have a handle on the basic algorithms of the operation. Then, we’ll make miracles occur…”

That’s how brain researchers and psychiatrists and technocrats see the mind. That’s their picture. It’s about as accurate as a map of Europe drawn by a microbe that lives a hundred miles under the surface of Jupiter.

When they stall, when they suffer a setback and can’t successfully float lies about “breakthroughs,” they fall back on: “Everything is connected to everything, we just don’t know quite how yet.”

No, Virginia, everything isn’t connected to everything. The principal thing that isn’t connected is the unlimited creative potential of the individual.

And neither is freedom connected to everything. Freedom is the power of choice. It isn’t in the causal chain. It’s free.

That absolutely upsets the apple carts of physicists and brain researchers. They want to draw all of reality into their net. But it doesn’t work.

If it did work, and if your mind were nothing but your brain, and if your brain were nothing more than atoms in motion, atoms like all other atoms floating around the universe, you wouldn’t be able to read anything on this page. You wouldn’t be able to understand meaning at all. Atoms don’t possess understanding. In fact, there wouldn’t be a you or a me.

But there is you. There is me.

We’re here. We aren’t just atoms.

We’re not made out of matter.

That’s what happens when you strip away the lies of materialism.

The danger, to the status quo, is human beings becoming what they are actually are.

You can pretend you’re a bunch of atoms for only so long, and then it becomes tiring. Foolish. Self-defeating. Stunningly crazy.

“The cooking vessel of the soul takes in everything, everything can become soul; and by taking into its imagination any and all events, psychic space grows.”

James Hillman, co-author, “We’ve Had a Hundred Years of Therapy—and the World’s Getting Worse”

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 29^th 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

Virtual life in the future Matrix

by Jon Rappoport

June 1, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

Television news is already a form of virtual reality. The hypnotic flow of stories, the elite anchors with their easy air of knowing and authority, the absence of context, the bald lies, the false sense of unity/community between viewer and broadcaster.

But it barely scratches the surface of the potential of the technology.

The addiction of the viewer is a mere shadow of what it will be when he can live, for an hour a day, inside the news, selectively inhabit the environments, and experience what a non-human simulated anchor “knows.”

That will no longer be television. It will be a full-on tactile ride in the river.

The pixels of the virtual anchor will be built from the ground up, imbued with an “inner sense” of utter conviction, just as the perfect android is programmed to believe in the psyop called reality.

Viewers will feel all the artificial emotions of this anchor, as they experience what he synthetically “experiences.”

What about rebellion against the Virtual?

Let’s start here. The lid on rebellion is sealed through the distribution of pleasure.

Force works, but in the long run pleasure is the greater method of control.

Science fiction novels describe futures in which citizens access virtual experience to an extraordinary degree. The video games and holograms of today are stone wheels bumping along a dirt road by contrast.

In the years ahead, people will plug in and see, know, explore, and most importantly, feel synthetic worlds.

You want to be a star among star athletes? You can inhabit the mind and body of one. You can play the game as he does. You can live inside his body. You can feel what he feels, move as he moves, catch the overdrive of his extra reserve of adrenaline.

You want to struggle to the top of Mt. Everest? You’re plugged in. You’re there in the cutting wind and snow, you feel the oxygen running out, hear the ice cracking, strain to peer through the fog, inch your way forward with every quantum of effort a human can muster…and finally…you arrive in triumph. You’re there, at the roof of the world. While you’re in your crackerbox apartment.

You want to sit in a richly embroidered carriage, as slaves carry you through the cacophonic sights, sounds, and smells of a crowded marketplace in Bombay, all the way to an emerald palace, where you suddenly find yourself in the dim high-ceilinged bedroom of the most famous and beautiful creature on Earth…

You live it.

Pleasure.

A million different ways.

Today’s technocrats strive and search to build the ultimate immersion event.

Living in a time when this is possible, the overwhelming number of people will opt for pleasure, regardless of what happening in the outside world, regardless of who is running the world or how.

Because they believe they are on this earth to choose pleasure over pain. That’s the pragmatic goal. Everything else is secondary.

They’ll no longer need to imagine the life they want. They can choose from a full deck of virtual threads and live this one or that one in the blink of a connection.

The actual planet and what it offers will become merely the default interlude between expertly simulated excursions.

Eventually, some people will be able to enter these holo-experiences in a boiled down fashion. They’ll bathe in a ten-second “trailer” and absorb all the sensation and feeling in a flash. When they come back, they may not remember what took place, but they’ll still bask in the afterglow.

No thought required.

Pleasure wins over pain.

That’s how the formula will be presented to the mind. Choose one or the other. Nothing else exists.

No principles, no basic freedoms.

The familiar scene in a thousand TV shows and movies, where the suspect is arrested, and then the cops offer him an immunity deal to roll over on his bosses? On the level of the nervous system, this is the deal that is struck:

Gain immunity from pain and confusion by the simple act of rolling over on yourself and choosing pleasure as your single ambition.

This is what Pavlov was after in his experiments. The conditioned-reflex human. The missing piece he needed was the human’s assent to “a meal of pleasure” as his sole and overwhelming choice. After that, everything follows.

In his masterful 1986 novel, Count Zero, William Gibson describes an immersion in virtual life: “The JAL steward offered her a choice of simstim cassettes…She put the plastic trode set on, jacked it into the seat arm, sighed, and slotted the cassette in the opening beside the jack. The interior of the JAL shuttle vanished in a burst of Aegean blue, and she watched the words TALLY ISHAM’S TOP PEOPLE expand across the cloudless sky in elegant sans-serif capitals.

“…Now Marly found herself locked into Tally’s tanned, lithe, tremendously comfortable sensorium. Tally Isham glowed, breathed deeply and easily, her elegant bones riding in the embrace of a musculature that seemed never to have known tension…[It] was like falling into a bath of perfect health, feeling the spring in the star’s high arches and the jut of her breasts against the silky white Egyptian cotton of her simple blouse. She was leaning against a pocked white balustrade above the tiny harbor of a Greek island town, a cascade of flowering trees falling away below her down a hillside built from whitewashed stone and narrow, twisting stairs. A boat sounded in the harbor.

“‘The tourists are hurrying back to their cruise ships now,’ Tally said, and smiled; when she smiled, Marly could feel the smoothness of the star’s white teeth, taste the freshness of her mouth, and the stone of the balustrade was pleasantly rough against her bare forearms…”

And here is a brief exchange from Aldous Huxley’s 1932 novel, Brave New World:

“Don’t you wish you were free, Lenina?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I am free. Free to have the most wonderful time. Everybody’s happy nowadays.”

The joys of endless shopping, buying, and consuming are merely an introduction to a far more extensive pleasure dome of the future, in which the notion that there is anything else becomes absurd.

From an unfinished novel of mine, The Magician Awakes, here is a State medical doctor instructing his patient:

“It’s like a drug, Carl, but we don’t need chemicals. This is electromagnetic adjustment. You want well-being, so you’re going to feel it at the cellular level. Synapse, neuron, transformed. Just relax. No need to do anything. You’ll perceive you’re smaller for a few minutes. It may be unpleasant, but you’ll get used to it. A certain amount of shrinkage is necessary. We’re smoothing away the rough edges. You’ll come back in a marvelous cocoon. You’ll feel supported. Your present sense of isolation will disappear. We can delete that. You’ll see Wisdom all around you. Things as they are will make more sense to you than they ever have. You see, in World One, the world you’re in right now, desire always leads to suffering, as the Buddha taught. In World Two, where you’re going in a few seconds, there is no desire. You’re liberated.”

The dynamics of mind control in a pleasure-oriented society are built on channeling pleasure and making it more absorbing. The “shrinkage,” as mentioned above, doesn’t have to be radical because people have already brought it on themselves. They’ve glued themselves solidly to the five senses.

Past and present US military experiments, using electromagnetic stimulation, to create soldiers who can function at high levels over an extended period on very little sleep, are just the rough beginnings of a technology that will be applied to civilian life.

What is the best antidote to the addiction to virtual experience?

The designers of the dystopian future are enlisting a small fragment of a human being’s imagination to put him in an externally fashioned simulation.

“Give us just a bit of your imagination, and we’ll do the rest for you.”

What’s called the suspension of disbelief in the theater is an imaginative act on the part of the audience: “Yes, what’s on the stage is real. Yes, I’m here and I’m involved.”

This is a clue to the titanic force that inherently exists in every human. Already, in 2013, we see it massively sacrificed on the altar of entertainment. They give us drama and we buy it.

As opposed to inventing realities ourselves, full-bore.

Imagination creates reality. The only question is: whose?

Reality in modern civilization is a straight psyop. It surrounds us, even though the technology, by future standards, is primitive.

The hook has been sunk; it needs to be removed.

The psyop says: “Experience THIS; feel it; then ask yourself whether you have the power to invent a more convincing world; the answer is no, isn’t it; so just sit back, relax, and take it all in; you can’t approach what we can do for you.”

The stakes are high. If you believe you can’t exceed the power of the Reality Manufacturing Company, if you keep postponing the day when you become the artist beyond and against the System, then you’re already prepped for the simulacra of the virtual future.

The world is largely populated by the “IS” PEOPLE. These are the humans who accept and surrender, on many levels, to what already exists, without realizing that it comes to them as a package.

Here is the conclusion to the above section of The Magician Awakes:

At his post-treatment checkup, the doctor asked Carl, “How are you adapting to the changes? Any problems?”

“Everything’s good, Doc,” Carl said. “I had headaches, but they went away after a week or so. I can look at things longer now. Do you know what I mean? I can sit and watch a flower for an hour and it doesn’t make me jittery. I could never do that before. The only thing I notice is that the birds don’t sing.”

“Yes,” the doctor said, “we’re working on that. It’s apparently a cross-canceling sequence in the software.”

“An omission?”

“As I told you, you’re in World Two now. It’s a different landscape. It looks exactly like World One, but your responses are linked to it.”

“You mean it’s a single loop?”

“I wouldn’t put it exactly that way, Carl, but yes. The world comes to you in a way you’re prepared for. We’ve achieved an integration, an overall connection.”

“What was happening in World One then?”

“Well, in that situation, there was disharmony. It was basically caused by what you wanted. What you wanted and what the world was were out of sync. We’re teachers of acceptance. But we can back it up with science. We can give acceptance to you.”

“So I’m good?”

“Yes, you’re good. You’re in a state of equilibrium now. For the first time in your life. This is what seekers have been after, for thousands of years. This is what the sages spoke of.”

“When will the birds sing?” Carl asked.

“A few months. That’s what we’re hoping. We’re working on it.”

“I especially like the mockingbirds.”

“Don’t worry. They’ll sing.”

For a moment, Carl thought he should feel sad about the mockingbirds, but he didn’t. Sadness wasn’t there. He went to the old place to find it, but it was gone.

“As you know, Doc,” Carl said, “I was a sculptor.”

“Yes, Carl, we know. We’ve seen your studio. People have been there. They cleared the place out.”

Carl thought this might be shocking, but he didn’t feel shocked.

“You don’t need to worry,” the doctor said. “You would have gotten rid of all that work yourself. It was a reflection of your dissatisfaction. All that’s gone now.”

“Yes,” Carl said. “It is gone.”

He felt a wave of relief. A burden had flown away.

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 29^th 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

The attempt to destroy the individual

by Jon Rappoport

May 27, 2013

NoMoreFakeNews.com

“What is finished is the idea that this great country is dedicated to the freedom and flourishing of every individual in it. It’s the individual that’s finished. It’s the single, solitary human being that’s finished. It’s every single one of you out there that’s finished. Because this is no longer a nation of independent individuals. It’s a nation of some two hundred odd million transistorized, deodorized, whiter-than-white, steel-belted bodies, totally unnecessary as human beings and as replaceable as piston rods.” — Howard Beale, in Paddy Chayefsky’s 1976 film, Network

But that was only a movie. Who cares about that? You go into a theater, sit there in the dark for a couple of hours, walk out, and think about something else.

For several years now, I’ve been writing about the decline of the individual. The wipeout.

Every time I write an article on this subject, I receive suggestions. I should go back and re-read Marx. I need to understand the difference between “communal, communitarian, community, communist.” I should research worker-owned businesses. What about trans-substantial transpersonal sub-brain algorithmic psychology? How about the pygmies? Ego? Superego? Id?

I appreciate these and other remarks, but I’m talking about the individual, about Self, beyond any construct, beyond citizenship, beyond membership, beyond sociology or anthropology or archeology.

The individual is enshrined in various political documents, but his rights don’t originate there. Neither does courage nor imagination.

I’ve laid out the enormous psyop designed to submerge the individual in unconscious goo. This psyop depends on the repetition of words like: unity, love, caring, community, family. And phrases like “we’re all in this together.”

The individual is characterized as: lone, outsider, selfish,greedy, inhumane, petty. Turn him into an exile, excommunicated from the great body of humanity.

Here, in the usual prose, is a familiar formulation of the grand psyop: “We can no longer afford the luxury of thinking of ourselves as individuals. The stakes are too high. Finally, we must all come together and realize our presence on this planet is a shared experience. The decimation of our resources, through hatred and divisive behavior, the denial of love and community, the cold greed and excessive profit-making, the whole range of social and political injustices—all this can ultimately be laid at the door of the individual who refuses to join the rest of humanity…”

Is this manifesto valid? It’s a deception, BECAUSE it’s aimed at making the individual extinct.

And once that happens, the collective, managed by Globalist princes, will have a clear path to the control of Earth, at the expense of the rest of us. And the cruelties we now witness will pale in comparison to what is in store for us.

“When hopes and dreams are loose in the streets, it is well for the timid to lock doors, shutter windows and lie low until the wrath has passed. For there is often a monstrous incongruity between the hopes, however noble and tender, and the action which follows them. It is as if ivied maidens and garlanded youths were to herald the four horsemen of the apocalypse…The less justified a man is in claiming excellence for his own self, the more ready he is to claim all excellence for his nation, his religion, his race, or his holy cause…Collective unity is not the result of the brotherly love of the faithful for each other. The loyalty of the true believer [who surrenders Self] is to the whole — the church, party, nation — and not to his fellow true believer. True loyalty between individuals is possible only in a loose and relatively free society.” — Eric Hoffer, The True Believer, 1951

Wait. Isn’t that a bit harsh? Isn’t that too “critical and negative?” Where is the cosmic share-and-care we need to spread like butter over the whole universe? I mean, Eric Hoffer was a wonderful writer, and he was a working man, a longshoreman for his whole life, so we should admire him, but today’s prophets are wired directly into the Unity that will save us all automatically—like a toaster popping up with toast every time…right?

On some mid-west college campus, a wide-eyed kid of 19, full of hope and optimism, is studying political science. His professor is running down the catalog of stunning injustices that populate far-off regions of the planet.

The boy wants to help. His professor gives him the name of a humanitarian group that runs operations in Africa. The boy, in some sort of “personal crisis,” drops out of school and signs on with the group.

Little does he know that the charity he is now working with in Africa has ties to USAID, which in turn is a solid CIA front. The real mission of the charity, unknown to most or all of its members, is gathering information that can be used as intelligence.

Under the banner of justice, help, hope, and unity of all peoples, the charity is providing actionable intell to CIA-backed “rebel forces” who are carrying out assassinations and bombings in advance of a political coup.

The coup will pave the way for new deals with multinational scum, organized as corporations, to enter the scene and plunder natural resources and labor at more formidable levels.

Five years later, the boy leaves the charity and returns to the US. He is confused, looking for another group in which he can submerge himself. He’s hooked on groups…

The naïve have given up the ghost on their own independent existence. That is the key.

Think of some of the messages of recent pathetic presidents. Bush the Elder: “Kinder, gentler.” Clinton: “I feel your pain.” Bush 2: “No child left behind.” Obama: “We’re all in this together.”

Judging by these presidents’ murderous actions, it’s clear they were selling unity and caring and togetherness as cover stories for oppressive business as usual.

The op? Make the individual extinct, present him as a useless and dangerous and outmoded construct. Then, whatever real unity that might exist between individuals will vanish, because the population will take on the shape of a coagulated mass melted down into a cosmic glob of androidal harmony.

Artists have warned about all this. Their so-called supporters say, “Oh yes, he was a wonderful writer. Misunderstood, of course, but brave in the face of utter rejection.” The usual claptrap. Point is, these gushing advocates conveniently and easily forget what the artists actually wrote.

Here is another reminder from an Outsider who was glad to be outside. He was a hero to some. He was reviled by many.

“A bureau operates on opposite principles of inventing needs to justify its existence. Bureaucracy is wrong as a cancer, a turning away from the human evolutionary direction of infinite potentials and differentiation and independent spontaneous action to the complete parasitism of a virus…Bureaus die when the structure of the state collapse. They are as helpless and unfit for independent existence as a displaced tapeworm, or a virus that has killed the host.”

“After a shooting spree, they always want to take the guns away from the people who didn’t do it. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to live in a society where the only people allowed guns are the police and the military.”

“There is simply no room left for ‘freedom from the tyranny of government’ since city dwellers depend on it for food, power, water, transportation, protection, and welfare. Your right to live where you want, with companions of your choosing, under laws to which you agree, died in the eighteenth century with Captain Mission. Only a miracle or a disaster could restore it.”

The author? William S. Burroughs. But not to worry, he was crazy. Of course he was. He didn’t profess utter loyalty to the mass of humanity. He didn’t prostrate himself before “the greater good.” He didn’t preach unity and togetherness.

He was an individual. Therefore, he is obsolete. A cherished memory of a time now wiped from the mind. Now we are all dancing and marching in the psyop.

Here’s another psyop and cultural theme: the distortion of money and the free market.

The psyop goes this way: The making of $$ is a religious event comparable to the arrival of Jesus or the appearance of the Great Buddha. Indeed, isn’t Christmas the season measured by consumer sales?

A life justified is a life of the bottom-line cash register, a poem to make Shakespeare turn pale with envy.

It doesn’t matter what a product is. If it sells, it must be good. It must mean something profound.

Nail polish, a new plastic toy, a little robot that sings songs—they’re Walt Whitman and Michangelo and Bach because they jumped off store shelves.

Bill Gates and Warren Buffet are geniuses because they and their companies amassed billions. It has to be so.

The team that put together Goofy Bird III, the summer blockbuster hit, are the Chaucers of our time. The box office proved it.

What product makes more money than any other? War. Therefore, Jesus wore a white leisure suit and played golf with generals and made deals for weapons systems.

“If a young man or woman today wants to express his true individuality and succeed with other like-minded individuals who have no fear of failure, the two businesses to go into are war and banking. My father told me that, and it’s stood me in good stead all these years. It’s the apotheosis of America…”

An artist named Paddy Chayefsky, in his film, Network, covered this waterfront pretty well:

“You are an old man who thinks in terms of nations and peoples. There are no nations. There are no peoples. There are no Russians. There are no Arabs. There are no third worlds. There is no West. There is only one holistic system of systems, one vast and immane, interwoven, interacting, multi-variate, multi-national dominion of dollars. Petro-dollars, electro-dollars, multi-dollars, reichmarks, rins, rubles, pounds, and shekels. It is the international system of currency which determines the totality of life on this planet. That is the natural order of things today. That is the atomic and sub-atomic and galactic structure of things today! And you have meddled with the primal forces of nature, and You Will Atone!”

Hail to the collective, managed from the top. Ah, but as I said, Network was just a movie.

Who cares about American artists? They need monuments and grants here and there, if they’re still alive, but…taking them seriously? Who would want to do that? They’re just…INDIVIDUALS.

Who would want to keep the individual alive, especially the free, independent, and creative individual? We can learn all we need about that by listening to TED lectures!

Here is another quote from an American artist. This one is REALLY not in the politically correct mode. I mean, how dare he!:

“Tomorrow you may bring about the destruction of your world. Tomorrow you may sing in Paradise above the smoking ruins of your world-cities. But tonight I would like to think of one man, a lone individual, a man without name or country, a man whom I respect because he has absolutely nothing in common with you—MYSELF. Tonight I shall meditate upon that which I am.” — Henry Miller, Black Spring, 1936

And this! From the most celebrated American poet of all! Is this what he really wrote?

“I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself/And what I assume you shall assume/For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you/I loafe and invite my soul/I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass/…Creeds and schools in abeyance…I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked…The smoke of my own breath/Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine…The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides/The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.” — Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, I, II, VI & LII

A celebration of self, and self expanded out into limitless dimensions?

And this is is our real poet laureate?

Something must be wrong.

Yes, the individual, the self—these individual artists—far too messy, too uneven, too unpredictable, too complex to fit into a scheme of the future in which we’ll all be subsumed in a cosmic order.

No, the individual, the self, must be shaved and carved so we can all meld together in a simplified enlightenment.

Here, from the universally acclaimed author of Moby Dick, Herman Melville, another quote that sticks out from the great uniform mass of group-think:

“There is the grand truth about Nathaniel Hawthorne. He says NO! in thunder; but the Devil himself cannot make him say yes. For all men who say yes, lie; and all men who say no,—why, they are in the happy condition of judicious, unincumbered travellers in Europe; they cross the frontiers into Eternity with nothing but a carpet-bag, — that is to say, the Ego. Whereas those yes-gentry, they travel with heaps of baggage, and, damn them! they will never get through the Custom House.”

There is no doubt; these Individuals are too thorny, too different—and even different from each other. How can we build a world of unity and unified enlightenment if we let them in the door?

We must erase the memory that these people ever existed. We need to cut down space and time, leave them out, and outfit a new continuum so it will accept only the brainwashed and reduced and harmonized desires of the collective.

Yes. That’s it.

Let’s cause everyone to accept one of two things. We are either “all in this together forever,” or money is the supreme and final god of all time and space. Those are the two choices. They both flatten out the soul and prepare it for the endless gray day.

The Individual must be put into permanent exile. We can’t even say what he is. We can’t define him. We can’t hold him within borders. We can’t know what he’ll do.

Sometimes he’s up, sometimes he’s down, sometimes he’s sideways. Sometimes he embraces the whole cosmos, sometimes he’s alone in a room.

The new world can’t have him. For sake of the coming glory, he has to exit.

The Great Psyop hath spoken.

So, you see, when it comes to freedom, I’m not talking about columns and columns of people marching in one direction, most of them moving ahead together, and a few dropping out and scattering. I’m not talking about a billion androids, among whom a few thousand defect.

I’m not talking about androids or columns of marchers at all. I’m talking about Self. The individual apart from any coordinated picture, apart from any tedious idea about what a human being is.

I don’t care whether he chooses to live in a one-room apartment in New York or a commune in Georgia. I don’t care whether he votes Republican or Democrat or the Party of Golden Lucifer. I don’t care about any of those distinctions, because they all proceed from some horrendous and mutilated idea, some shrunken desiccated idea of what the Self IS in the first place.

“Well, we’re really all the same, so the choices a person has aren’t that important…”

We’re really all the same AFTER the great curtain has lowered on the individual and his psyche and his imagination and his daring. Yes, THEN we’re all the same. And then it doesn’t matter what the individual thinks or does, or whether he goes left or right or stays down the middle. THEN he begins to concoct systems and counter-systems and parochial visions he wants to impose on everyone else.

The truth is, we’re all different, astonishingly different. So different, in fact, that left to our own devices, over a long enough span of time, how each one of us would express his deepest thoughts and inventions would make the world into a completely different place.

The individual, the Self, isn’t just a little different or moderately different or quite different. The individual is a revolution all his own, a living breathing revolution.

He can become and identify with any other thing or creature in the universe—or not. He can think with seventeen brains and walk on eight legs if he wants to. He can be Self inventing more Self. He can destroy all forms and shapes of slavery—most importantly his own.

He can love and he can hate. He can experience and create emotions that have never been dreamed of. He can dance with the angels on the head of a pin or drift off past the stars.

He knows freedom is real, and he doesn’t have the slightest interest in interfering with another’s freedom.

This is what political and social movements are FOR: to establish enough freedom for the individual, any individual, so that he can then, if he wants to, become what he is, which is to say, invent his existence entirely according to his own fecund imagination. It will not be a copy of anyone else’s existence. It will not even be close.

After enough time has elapsed, it will be astonishing.

I know many people who believe they are already free and are already living life exactly the way they want to. This is preposterous. At a superficial level, yes. But beyond that, there are oceans of potential expression and invention they haven’t begun to fathom. If by “free” they mean relatively unencumbered by outside forces, but locked down tight as a drum from the inside, then yes, they are free, and good luck to them.

I’ve quoted artists in this essay because I want to impart at least some sense of how different we are from each other. This doesn’t mean we can’t bridge the gulf; of course we can. In fact, it becomes far easier when each of us is speaking with a Voice uncoupled from the “wisdom” of this joke of a society in which we currently live.

The ultimate and permanent fusion of all things is a myth and fairy tale. It’s a fairy tale bought by people who have never ventured off the reservation to discover and invent their own Voice.

If all this is true, then why do I write about the crimes of the medical cartel, the crimes of Monsanto, the corrosive destruction wrought by television? Why bother with any of this? Because I’m for authentic movements to end these crimes. The mafias of this world are out to gain as much control as possible…and finally and ultimately, this means a war against the freedom of every individual. It means writing the individual and his enormous untapped potential out of existence.

When the android-uniformity of all individuals is being sold as marvelous unity, that needs to be pointed out. When millions of people believe uniqueness=uniformity=unity, that’s more Orwellian than Orwell, and it needs to be pointed out.

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 29^th 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