Category Archives: Artists

The Artist against the Syndicate

by Jon Rappoport

December 16, 2021

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You’re an unemployed artist.

The year is 2061. A series of bombings has rocked the Capitol in the Western White House District, which is located in the heart of Hollywood. The Eastern seaboard is uninhabitable, owing to a mysterious GMO accident, which rendered all plant life in that region poisonous…

Reality is a nasty syndicate operation. The technical side is put together by high-IQ idiots. They like to fiddle. They like the con. They like to torpedo the mind.

The syndicate is the Reality Manufacturing Company.

You buy a ticket to Disneyland—which encompasses the area from San Francisco to Tijuana—go through the big gate, and book a small hotel room in Graphene Village.

A note is taped to the back of the toilet, where you’ve been told to look. It’s unsigned. You read it while you’re preparing supper: powdered eggs, water, and a squirt of SweetHeaven:

“Greetings, GuestL28. This to warn you the pillars of the community, the people who are supposed to be ‘doing good,’ are up to their necks in the operation. They’re hustling reality like porn.”

“At the upper levels, we’ve even got the STE Command, peddling the space-time-energy continuum everyone is so fond of. Only one tin can and we’re all in it, biological machines ‘doing our best to get along.’”

“Until recently, there was a sense that artists knew something about all this and were exposing the Syndicate. But now, propaganda is eating into their psyches, or their work isn’t finding the light of day. Some have been conned into high-flying rhetoric about saving humanity and working together to build a better world inside the prevailing political framework. There is no better world inside the prevailing political framework.”

“The artist should be ripping away masks, exposing the Syndicate employees. Adorning some fake religion promoted by the State, like the current MaR, isn’t his job.”

“Overthrowing the reality-con is the work of the artist. He’s got to take to it like a duck to water. He has to like it. He has to use his weapons, all of them.”

“The Matrix is built on the need to reduce thought. Props called spiritual leaders emerge out of the woodwork.”

“Our glorious New Age, so-called, is THOUGHT REDUCTION. It fails, and the aftermath is ugly. People become contortionists and end up eating their own.”

“I’m from the Movable Underground Museum. The Syndicate calls us dangerous because we’ve found a way to dismantle their product.”

“I can’t give you details in an open message. So far, we’ve laid out two new universes. They’re empty. Lots of room for adventurous souls.”

“Here’s something to keep your eye on. The Syndicate’s reality is breaking down. You may see seams in the sky. Don’t point them out to other people. A seam is usually a long thin blue line. If it pops far enough, you’ll see a different kind of space behind it. Stay calm.”

“For the past two weeks, a big seam has been exposed at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Vermont Avenue in LA. Don’t try to go there. Crowds were gathering. The DHS came in and hosed them down with a version of glypho. Upwards of six thousand people were arrested, and DHS has the area cordoned off with tanks.”

“If you can still pick up SubNet8 on your mobile device, you can see pictures. The white light streaming through the gap in the seam? It’s been shopped in. It isn’t really there. Neither are the UFOs or the voices. That’s the Syndicate. They’re staging a ‘virtual drill’ in the area. Lots of phony religious content. It’s a cover. They’ve built a temp church in Silver Lake to handle the overflow of new believers.”

“If somebody approaches you with an offer to travel to Mexico, then sneak back into the US and apply for benefits, don’t bite. Tomorrow morning, before nine, walk to the Mickey Pavilion, turn left and keep going for about a mile. On your right, you’ll see a small shed painted green. Behind the shed is a cheap water ride. Take out a boat and row to the Secret Tunnel.”

“Take it. When the little train has been in the tunnel for a minute, you’ll see a dim corridor on your left. Hop off the train and walk along the corridor. You’ll come to the back of the Obama Mountain. At the base is a service door. It’s unlocked.”

“Go through and you’ll be standing on the corner of Ashbury Street and First Avenue. A day’s walk east will take you out into the desert. The fences are broken. Get out into the desert and head toward the Nevada Hills. You’ll see it. It’s a huge white hotel about five miles in.”

“A mile before the hotel, you’ll come to a wide crack in the desert floor. It’s not a crack. The Simul is breaking down there. It’s an exit. Use it if you have the courage.”

You burn the note, sit and eat your powdered eggs and watch the news. You think about what you’re going to do. Or not do.

A few sentences float in from somewhere. They were written by Philip K Dick, an ancient writer whose works have been outlawed:

“Because today we live in a society in which spurious realities are manufactured by the media, by governments, by big corporations, by religious groups, political groups…So I ask, in my writing, What is real? Because unceasingly we are bombarded with pseudo-realities manufactured by very sophisticated people using very sophisticated electronic mechanisms…And it is an astonishing power: that of creating whole universes, universes of the mind. I ought to know. I do the same thing.”

The artist on trial against the State

June 9, 2071, Ohio 27-b: the region designated as the seat of all hearings and trials of artists accused of crimes against the State.

No jury, no attorneys.

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

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

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

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

“Order,” he declared.

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

“Well,” the Judge said, “uncontrolled display…no license to practice art. No prior approval for a work. No plan submitted to the State. No established source of funding. No preliminary scan by the Council of Art. No declaration of philosophic position. Status: potential precursor to terrorist activity. Surveillance data reveals the artist is a smoker and brews medications which have never undergone approval by the FDA. How do you plead?”

The artist nodded.

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

The Judge said, “Were it not for the Artist Act of 2040, I would deny the request. But since I am bound by law, submission approved.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Judge smiled.

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

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

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

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

The Judge rubbed his chin and stared at the ceiling.

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

The artist nodded.

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

“Amusing, possibly interesting,” the Judge said.

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

The Judge frowned and shook his head. But he gazed at the brass sculpture. This time, something else happened.

He saw a twisted tree. It had been burned by a fire during the riots of 2036, but it still stood. It put out a sprinkling of new leaves every spring. One day, when he was a small boy, he was taken to it and he climbed out along the dark branches to the buds, which smelled sweet to him…it was the last time in his life something was that sweet…now, in the courtroom, he shuddered as he felt acid tears run down his cheeks…

The rebel artist vs. the android

On January 12, 2082, President Winston Smith made a quick campaign stop in the Northeast corridor to address the Coexistence Group in Gates Town.

The Coexistence Group was a remnant of the coalition formed between Bayer IG and organic farmers in the state formerly known as New Hampshire.

The President, dressed in a silk rainbow robe, donated to him by the Cosmic Guilders of Carpentry at the Rockefeller Estate, lit a candle at the Memorial of the Drifting Gene, to commemorate the inevitable triumph of genetically modified agriculture in America.

He then gave a short speech, during which he pointed out that all food products in America were now labeled GMO because of the Gene Drift, and although such labeling was redundant, it was “ritualistically correct,” because it signified the right of the consumer to know what he/she was eating.

A supper followed at the Inn of the Bill Melinda. The meal consisted of ceremonial gluten-free organic genetically modified soy-peanut burgers and GM whey cola.

During the supper, a local artist stood up from his seat, toasted the President, and suddenly asked, “What phase of brain programming do you now enjoy, Mr. President?”

A dozen Secret Service agents deployed in the room and at other locations in the Inn immediately drew their weapons. But the President waved them off with a smile.

“It’s all right,” President Smith said. “This citizen has every right to address his Commander-in-Chief.”

The President then offered these off-the cuff remarks:

“Actually, sir, there is no ‘I’ anymore or ‘you.’ There is only ‘we’ because the programming is common to us all, if we volunteer for it. And 67 percent of us do. We are all connected to the same Google/Kurzweil/NSA Plasma Cloud Formation. That, as you probably know, is the artificial superbrain.

“We receive input from it every second of every day. In other words, we are all obtaining correct answers, the same answers, to problems we face.

“Phase Four, which improves connectivity and reception, and takes in expanded subjects of interest and vital concern, is the current application. I, which is to say, we, participate in Phase Four.

“In Four, stress levels are reduced considerably.

“We no longer need to take vacations, except for pilgrimages to sites where monuments celebrate our Nature Is All and Technology Is All and All Is One Everything religious faith.

“And you, sir,” the President continued. “Are you with a Program Phase?”

The artist burst out laughing.

“No, Mr. President. I’m a holdout.”

“Ah,” the President said, “an outlier. Let’s see. Downloading now. Profile. We perceive you’re an artist, your name is Diego Jose Siqueiros. Yes, the information is coming through. You formerly lived in the small city of Ashland in the Northwest corridor, and you received a number of commissions to build structures there.

“After twelve years, you designed and erected so many unique buildings, the city fathers feared that, left to your own devices, you would ‘take over’ Ashland. In the interest of fairness and sharing, they ceased funding your work. You drifted down to the Los Angeles Complex, where you created a website called Versus the Moron. Eventually, you settled here in the Northeast.”

“That’s right, sir,” the artist said. “A question. Do you remember a time when you weren’t connected to the superbrain in any way?”

The President nodded. “We used to remember such a time, but no longer. Those memories became unproductive. Now we are here With the Program. We operate inside it.”

“So you don’t miss being free?” the artist asked.

“Oh, we are free, Mr. Siqueiros. We are free to obtain the right answers through the Program. Having correct data and valid conclusions is quite liberating. The sense of struggle is gone. Struggle is an ancient appendage which technocratic evolution makes extinct.”

“Sir,” the artist said, “I would enjoy debating that point. But I’d rather talk about the individual invention of unprecedented and unpredictable realities.”

“Oh,” the President said. “Another fanciful notion from the past. We’ve discovered that all art and in fact all so-called unique creations of the ‘I’ are delusions. The superbrain can ‘create’ anything. It merely arranges and rearranges data in various configurations. It produces closed systems. For example, it can design a thousand buildings in less than a second.”

The artist frowned.

“No,” the artist said. “The superbrain spits out random shapes on command. That’s machine-life.”

“Machine-life?” the President said. “I’m receiving mild warnings now.”

“Meaning what?” the artist said.

“We are in the presence of a stubborn defective ‘I’ who is scorning the Group. That would be ‘you’.”

“Mr. President,” the artist said. “Were you born of a human mother and father, or are you a virtual artifact of the superbrain?”

The Secret Service agents in the room took a step forward.

The President’s face turned red. He rose from his chair.

“How dare you say that to me!” he shouted.

“Why? Because I’m flipping your cover?”

The artist then enunciated a long series of sounds. The declaration came out, as one attendee later put it, like a “gray river.”

“Emwgrtyonefiftyfruntsillgreenefsevenlenstayeightcricrimescene…”

Apparently, it was a code-trigger that had been hacked from the Program. And the code ran.

A loud hum filled the room.

The President collapsed back into his seat. He flopped around like a doll and then went still. His eyes stared at nothing.

“As I expected,” the artist said. “Four-D printout.”

A voice came from somewhere inside the President.

“Allen Dulles A MKULTRA…”

Silence.

Then a gentle man in the room who manufactured a product called We Love You Organic Bayer Cherry Vanilla Roundup Cookies said:

“It’s all right, everybody. There’ll be another President along in a few minutes. I’m sure of it. We’re in coexistence mode. Don’t worry. All One. Unity. The Tao. Yin and Yang. Night and Day. Harmony.”

And the room burst into wild applause.

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.

The non-existent virus: why I keep pounding on this

by Jon Rappoport

December 15, 2021

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Why have I spent nearly two years asserting that SARS-CoV-2 doesn’t exist?

Because it doesn’t exist.

And as my regular readers know, I’ve offered much evidence to back up that claim, and the claim that virology itself is a worthless sham.

But there is a larger point. I’ve made the point for over 20 years.

Reality is invented.

I sometimes characterize the operation with this name: The Reality Manufacturing Company.

It’s the oldest company on Earth.

Propaganda? Of course. But more than that—the engineering of perception. Because if they can get people to see how they want them to see, nothing else matters.

Once their perception-package is installed, people have no idea that anything else exists.

And the main forgotten factor? Every individual has his own UNIQUE and DIFFERENT way of seeing. A way that exists outside of any programming.

Which is why I continue to write about artists. THEY are the ones who express their own unique ways of seeing. They always have—when they weren’t bribed and co-opted into going along with the Reality Manufacturing Company’s perception package.

I’ve often written, “Every individual is an artist of reality.”

The virologists in their labs are painting their version—collectively. Of course, they would never admit this. They couldn’t, because they’ve bought the perception package.

On page 1124656789, there is a section on viruses. “They’re everywhere, and they infect people and do great damage, and we must identify and treat and defeat them…”

As long as the perception package is installed, a person can’t see otherwise. He’s captured. He believes there are thousands of distinct diseases, each caused by a single virus. We can thank the Rockefeller Empire for this absurdity.

In the much larger scheme of things, the individual’s gateway into unique perception is imagination.

“An artist who has no imagination is a mechanic.” (Robert Henri)

“Without the playing with fantasy no creative work has ever yet come to birth. The debt we owe to the play of imagination is incalculable.” (Carl Jung)

“What if imagination and art are not frosting at all, but the fountainhead of human experience?” (Rollo May)

“Everything you can imagine is real.” (Pablo Picasso)

“You cannot hear the waterfall if you stand next to it. I paint my jungles in the desert.” (Macedonlo de la Torre)

“I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.” (Albert Einstein)

“So I believe that dreams — day dreams, you know, with your eyes wide open and your brain machinery whizzing — are likely to lead to the betterment of the world. The imaginative child will become the imaginative man or woman most apt to create, to invent, and therefore to foster civilization.” (L Frank Baum)

“All human accomplishment has the same origin, identically. Imagination is a force of nature. Is this not enough to make a person full of ecstasy? Imagination, imagination, imagination. It converts to actual. It sustains, it alters, it redeems!” (Saul Bellow)

“When the imagination sleeps, words are emptied of their meaning: a deaf population absent-mindedly registers the condemnation of a man.” (Albert Camus)

Every fake propped-up reality is a fork in the road, because the non-mind-controlled individual can imagine alternative futures.

I should make this clear: Part of the perception package is the false assumption that the customer, who buys the package, knows everything there is to know, and is independent and free—when he isn’t.

The acid test? Is he creating the future he most profoundly desires? Or not?

The individual has a million excuses available to him—but he has an immense blank canvas in front of him. Who is creating the painting of his future on it? The Reality Manufacturing Company? Or is he himself doing it with great energy and power?

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.

God finally consents to an interview about COVID

by Jon Rappoport

August 25, 2021

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As you can imagine, it wasn’t easy setting up this interview. Across the world, there are so many intermediaries, cutouts, and organizations that insist you have to go through them to get to The Man.

For example, I tried the Pope. One of his minions came back with a cryptic message suggesting I should offer a gift to the Church before formal negotiations even commence. And I’m not talking about a nice wrist watch or a crystal vase. More on the order of a truck full of cash and a personal pledge of my immortal soul for all of eternity.

Anyway, eventually I managed to work things out on my own. A direct appeal is best, I found.

The meeting place was a motel room on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio, on a warm Thursday afternoon. I made coffee, and we sat across from each other at a small folding table near the chugging air conditioner. He smiled and said, “Lucky you have a website. Nobody would believe you’re talking to me. Nobody would publish this conversation.”

And so it began.

God, did you make humans to be free? To have freedom?

Think it through. You don’t MAKE freedom. Freedom exists. You can only try to take it away. And I didn’t.

So if someone says he doesn’t want the COVID vaccine—

He’s free to refuse. But he has to pay the price. When the government or a corporation clamps down and mandates the shot, it’s a tough situation.

Where do you stand on the vaccine?

I can speak with authority on the human immune system. I created it. Vaccination is supposed to be a rehearsal for the real thing, right? The antibodies and the T-cells swing into action and neutralize the protein or the piece of the virus that’s injected.

Yes? And?

Well, if the rehearsal goes well, then why did you need it in the first place? Are you catching my drift? If the rehearsal is a success, why wouldn’t the real thing be a success without the rehearsal?

I hadn’t thought of it that way.

Nobody does.

Why not? Did you create humans with low IQ?

You can’t put that on me. People make themselves and each other smarter or dumber.

Again, freedom.

Well, yes. If every person’s IQ was 102 forever, it would be a strange world.

I take it you’re against the lockdowns.

Imprisoning innocent people in their homes? I’m very much against it.

The rationale is, “we have to stop the spread of the virus.”

I’m very familiar with rationalizations, reasons, and excuses. They tend to hide actual motives.

In this situation, what’s the actual motive for the lockdowns?

Do you really need me to confirm it? Control. Over populations.

But you yourself, when you made the world and everything in it—you were exercising extreme control.

Really? Is that what you think? I never changed or corrected what I was doing? I never stopped to consider an alternative? The bible says it all happened in six days. Do you suppose I was sitting somewhere counting? Saying, “All right, that was Tuesday, and now I’m almost in the middle of the week…”

You made mistakes?

I made changes. A mistake is when an engineer looks at his plans and says, “This won’t work. The bridge will fall down.” I wasn’t building a bridge. I’m an artist. I had an infinity of possibilities before me. I could have gone a trillion different ways.

Did you create viruses?

Cutting to the chase, eh? All right, let’s get down to it. I made a lot of little particles. Some of them can alter their forms. But in the sense you mean it, no. I didn’t make Rockefeller-type germs, each one of which supposedly causes a so-called specific disease. That’s a human story. A nonsensical fairy tale. I’m not on the hook for that. That’s a business model.

So what about SARS-CoV-2?

What about it? It’s the kind of shadow people are afraid of. They think, as they’re walking around, that the shadow follows them. And eventually, some pathetic character will say he’s discovered the cause behind the shadow—and it’s the sun. So the sun has to be neutralized. Or blocked off. Or shut down. Or changed.

So accusing the sun of causing all the trouble is like saying diseases are really genetic in origin, and in order to cure the diseases we have to re-engineer humans.

And meanwhile, a pipe from a factory is leaking into a river, and the river is filled with poison, and the fish are dying, and people who swim in the river and drink the water are getting sick and dying. But to protect the company that owns the factory, scientists say the people have defective genes and that’s the problem. Another business model.

Did you make SARS-CoV-2?

No. Why would I?

Then who made it?

Who made the shadows people are afraid of? The press, governments, propagandists.

Who made the actual virus?

I believe I’ve already answered that question.

I want a clear answer on the record.

And I want to lead you to give your own answer. What good does it do to make a pronouncement from on high?

You’re God.

And you’re free.

I was afraid we’d get into a pickle over this issue.

It isn’t just a pickle, my friend. It’s a whole apocalyptic pastrami sandwich on rye with mustard. The people of Earth have to decide whether they want to destroy themselves or lift themselves up with vital life-force—which, by the way, is the ultimate immune system.

You can’t make that decision for us.

I could, but then I would just be a super Bill Gates.

Freedom means freedom.

That’s the ticket. If you buy it, then as they say, you take the ride.

You have empathy for us?

In my own way, more than you know.

Does SARS-CoV-2 exist?

Does fear exist?

You’re saying both questions are the same? Look, these virologists in their labs—they’re working with soup in a dish, and they’re saying they’ve isolated a virus. They’re not isolating anything.

Don’t you think I’ve been in those labs? I have wide, wide experience. I’ve been everywhere. Watching the virologists is like watching a cheap circus act. When it’s over, you want your money back. I have to go now. I have appointments to slap some priests of various religions on the head. They’re taking my name in vain.

That’s a lot of priests. It must keep you very busy.

It’s similar to doing a spot-check of products coming off the assembly line.

Why don’t you just shut down the line?

Why don’t I make everything everywhere perfect all at once? Because I’m not running a puppet show.

Some people want a puppet show.

I’m not Fauci or Klaus Schwab.

Then slap those two.

Oh I have. But they like it. Sadists often do.

If a person was going to be executed…you know, killed; and he could save his life if he answered one question CORRECTLY ON THE BASIS OF ABSOLUTE TRUTH; and the question was, does the SARS-CoV-2 virus exist; and he prayed to you to give him the answer, would you?

Yes.

What would you tell him?

I’d tell him it doesn’t exist.

But you would never reveal that to me.

Of course not.

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.

The Artist against the Syndicate

by Jon Rappoport

August 18, 2021

(To join our email list, click here.)

You’re an unemployed artist.

The year is 2061. A series of bombings has rocked the Capitol in the Western White House District, which is located in the heart of Hollywood. The Eastern seaboard is uninhabitable, owing to a mysterious GMO accident, which rendered all plant life in that region poisonous…

Reality is a nasty syndicate operation. The technical side is put together by high-IQ idiots. They like to fiddle. They like the con. They like to torpedo the mind.

The syndicate is the Reality Manufacturing Company.

You buy a ticket to Disneyland, which encompasses the area from San Francisco to Tijuana, go through the big gate, and book a small hotel room in Graphene Village.

A note is taped to the back of the toilet, where you’ve been told to look. It’s unsigned. You read it while you’re preparing supper: powdered eggs, water, and a squirt of SweetHeaven:

“Greetings, GuestL28. This to warn you the pillars of the community, the people who are supposed to be ‘doing good,’ are up to their necks in the operation. They’re hustling reality like porn.”

“At the upper levels, we’ve even got the STE Command, peddling the space-time-energy continuum everyone is so fond of. Only one tin can and we’re all in it, biological machines ‘doing our best to get along.’”

“Until recently, there was a sense that artists knew something about all this and were exposing the Syndicate. But now, propaganda is eating into their psyches, or their work isn’t finding the light of day. Some have been conned into high-flying rhetoric about saving humanity and working together to build a better world inside the prevailing political framework. There is no better world inside the prevailing political framework.”

“The artist should be ripping away masks, exposing the Syndicate employees. Adorning some fake religion promoted by the State, like the current MaR, isn’t his job.”

“Overthrowing the reality-con is the work of the artist. He’s got to take to it like a duck to water. He has to like it. He has to use his weapons, all of them.”

“The Matrix is built on the need to reduce thought. Props called spiritual leaders emerge out of the woodwork.”

“Our glorious New Age, so-called, is THOUGHT REDUCTION. It fails, and the aftermath is ugly. People become contortionists and end up eating their own.”

“I’m from the Movable Underground Museum. The Syndicate calls us dangerous because we’ve found a way to dismantle their product.”

“I can’t give you details in an open message. So far, we’ve laid out two new universes. They’re empty. Lots of room for adventurous souls.”

“Here’s something to keep your eye on. The Syndicate’s reality is breaking down. You may see seams in the sky. Don’t point them out to other people. A seam is usually a long thin blue line. If it pops far enough, you’ll see a different kind of space behind it. Stay calm.”

“For the past two weeks, a big seam has been exposed at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Vermont Avenue in LA. Don’t try to go there. Crowds were gathering. The DHS came in and hosed them down with a version of glypho. Upwards of six thousand people were arrested, and DHS has the area cordoned off with tanks.”

“If you can still pick up SubNet8 on your mobile device, you can see pictures. The white light streaming through the gap in the seam? It’s been shopped in. It isn’t really there. Neither are the UFOs or the voices. That’s the Syndicate. They’re staging a ‘virtual drill’ in the area. Lots of phony religious content. It’s a cover. They’ve built a temp church in Silver Lake to handle the overflow of new believers.”

“If somebody approaches you with an offer to travel to Mexico, then sneak back into the US and apply for benefits, don’t bite. Tomorrow morning, before nine, walk to the Mickey Pavilion, turn left and keep going for about a mile. On your right, you’ll see a small shed painted green. Behind the shed is a cheap water ride. Take out a boat and row to the Secret Tunnel.”

“Take it. When the little train has been in the tunnel for a minute, you’ll see a dim corridor on your left. Hop off the train and walk along the corridor. You’ll come to the back of the Obama Mountain. At the base is a service door. It’s unlocked.”

“Go through and you’ll be standing on the corner of Ashbury Street and First Avenue. A day’s walk east will take you out into the desert. The fences are broken. Get out into the desert and head toward the Nevada Hills. You’ll see it. It’s a huge white hotel about five miles in.”

“A mile before the hotel, you’ll come to a wide crack in the desert floor. It’s not a crack. The Simul is breaking down there. It’s an exit. Use it if you have the courage.”

You burn the note, sit and eat your powdered eggs and watch the news. You think about what you’re going to do. Or not do.

A few sentences float in from somewhere. They were written by Philip K Dick, an ancient writer whose works have been outlawed:

“Because today we live in a society in which spurious realities are manufactured by the media, by governments, by big corporations, by religious groups, political groups…So I ask, in my writing, What is real? Because unceasingly we are bombarded with pseudo-realities manufactured by very sophisticated people using very sophisticated electronic mechanisms…And it is an astonishing power: that of creating whole universes, universes of the mind. I ought to know. I do the same thing.”

The artist on trial against the State

June 9, 2071, Ohio 27-b: the region designated as the seat of all hearings and trials of artists accused of crimes against the State.

No jury, no attorneys.

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

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

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

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

“Order,” he declared.

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

“Well,” the Judge said, “uncontrolled display…no license to practice art. No prior approval for a work. No plan submitted to the State. No established source of funding. No preliminary scan by the Council of Art. No declaration of philosophic position. Status: potential precursor to terrorist activity. Surveillance data reveals the artist is a smoker and brews medications which have never undergone approval by the FDA. How do you plead?”

The artist nodded.

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

The Judge said, “Were it not for the Artist Act of 2040, I would deny the request. But since I am bound by law, submission approved.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Judge smiled.

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

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

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

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

The Judge rubbed his chin and stared at the ceiling.

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

The artist nodded.

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

“Amusing, possibly interesting,” the Judge said.

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

The Judge frowned and shook his head. But he gazed at the brass sculpture. This time, something else happened.

He saw a twisted tree. It had been burned by a fire during the riots of 2036, but it still stood. It put out a sprinkling of new leaves every spring. One day, when he was a small boy, he was taken to it and he climbed out along the dark branches to the buds, which smelled sweet to him…it was the last time in his life something was that sweet…now, in the courtroom, he shuddered as he felt tears run down his cheeks…

The rebel artist vs. the android

On January 12, 2082, President Winston Smith made a quick campaign stop in the Northeast corridor to address the Coexistence Group in Gates Town.

The Coexistence Group was a remnant of the coalition formed between Bayer IG and organic farmers in the state formerly known as New Hampshire.

The President, dressed in a silk rainbow robe, donated to him by the Cosmic Guilders of Carpentry at the Rockefeller Estate, lit a candle at the Memorial of the Drifting Gene, to commemorate the inevitable triumph of genetically modified agriculture in America.

He then gave a short speech, during which he pointed out that all food products in America were now labeled GMO because of the Gene Drift, and although such labeling was redundant, it was “ritualistically correct,” because it signified the right of the consumer to know what he/she was eating.

A supper followed at the Inn of the Bill Melinda. The meal consisted of ceremonial gluten-free organic genetically modified soy-peanut burgers and GM whey cola.

During the supper, a local artist stood up from his seat, toasted the President, and suddenly asked, “What phase of brain programming do you now enjoy, Mr. President?”

A dozen Secret Service agents deployed in the room and at other locations in the Inn immediately drew their weapons. But the President waved them off with a smile.

“It’s all right,” President Smith said. “This citizen has every right to address his Commander-in-Chief.”

The President then offered these off-the cuff remarks:

“Actually, sir, there is no ‘I’ anymore or ‘you.’ There is only ‘we’ because the programming is common to us all, if we volunteer for it. And 67 percent of us do. We are all connected to the same Google/Kurzweil/NSA Plasma Cloud Formation. That, as you probably know, is the artificial superbrain.”

“We receive input from it every second of every day. In other words, we are all obtaining correct answers, the same answers, to problems we face.”

“Phase Four, which improves connectivity and reception, and takes in expanded subjects of interest and vital concern, is the current application. I, which is to say, we, participate in Phase Four.”

“In Four, stress levels are reduced considerably.”

“We no longer need to take vacations, except for pilgrimages to sites where monuments celebrate our Nature Is All and Technology Is All and All Is One Everything religious faith.

“And you, sir,” the President continued. “Are you with a Program Phase?”

The artist burst out laughing.

“No, Mr. President. I’m a holdout.”

“Ah,” the President said, “an outlier. Let’s see. Downloading now. Profile. We perceive you’re an artist, your name is Diego Jose Siqueiros. Yes, the information is coming through. You formerly lived in the small city of Ashland in the Northwest corridor, and you received a number of commissions to build structures there.”

“After twelve years, you designed and erected so many unique buildings, the city fathers feared that, if left to your own devices, you would ‘take over’ Ashland. In the interest of fairness and sharing, they ceased funding your work. You drifted down to the Los Angeles Complex, where you created a website called Versus the Moron. Eventually, you settled here in the Northeast.”

“That’s right, sir,” the artist said. “A question. Do you remember a time when you weren’t connected to the superbrain in any way?”

The President nodded. “We used to remember such a time, but no longer. Those memories became unproductive. Now we are here With the Program. We operate inside it.”

“So you don’t miss being free?” the artist asked.

“Oh, we are free, Mr. Siqueiros. We are free to obtain the right answers through the Program. Having correct data and valid conclusions is quite liberating. The sense of struggle is gone. Struggle is an ancient appendage which technocratic evolution makes extinct.”

“Sir,” the artist said, “I would enjoy debating that point. But I’d rather talk about the individual invention of unprecedented and unpredictable realities.”

“Oh,” the President said. “Another fanciful notion from the past. We’ve discovered that all art and in fact all so-called unique creations of the ‘I’ are delusions. The superbrain can ‘create’ anything. It merely arranges and rearranges data in various configurations. It produces closed systems. For example, it can design a thousand buildings in less than a second.”

The artist frowned.

“No,” he said. “The superbrain spits out random shapes on command. That’s machine-life.”

“Machine-life?” the President said. “I’m receiving mild warnings now.”

“Meaning what?” the artist said.

“We are in the presence of a stubborn defective ‘I’ who is scorning the Group. That would be ‘you’.”

“Mr. President,” the artist said. “Were you born of a human mother and father, or are you a virtual artifact of the superbrain?”

The Secret Service agents in the room took a step forward.

The President’s face turned red. He rose from his chair.

“How dare you say that to me!” he shouted.

“Why? Because I’m flipping your cover?”

The artist then enunciated a long series of sounds. The declaration came out, as one attendee later put it, like a “gray river.”

“Emwgrtyonefiftyfruntsillgreenefsevenlenstayeightcricrimescene…”

Apparently, it was a code-trigger that had been hacked from the Program. And the code ran.

A loud hum filled the room.

The President collapsed back into his seat. He flopped around like a doll and then went still. His eyes stared at nothing.

“As I expected,” the artist said. “He’s a four-D printout from the superbrain. An agent.”

A voice came from somewhere inside the President.

“Allen Dulles A MKULTRA…”

Silence.

Then a gentle man who manufactured a product called We Love You Organic Bayer Cherry Vanilla Roundup Cookies said:

“It’s all right, everybody. There’ll be another President along in a few minutes. I’m sure of it. We’re in coexistence mode. Don’t worry. All One. Unity. The Tao. Yin and Yang. Night and Day. Harmony.”

And the room burst into wild applause.

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.

Disrupting the story line of the mechanical mind

Piero della Francesca, Antoni Gaudi, and Salvador Dali

by Jon Rappoport

July 30, 2021

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What city is this
Whose moments tremble
Azure sky and lime lights
Walking in the intersections
Through the squares of paradise

People are solidly addicted to story line. Beginning, middle, end. They want to have it, over and over, in different guises.

The ultimate payoff of that addiction? There is none. Except the need for more.

Propaganda, media, announced government policy, education, religious messages, hundreds of medical treatments—the underlying theme is polished story line. Wrapped up and sold. When the wrong ending looms like a thundercloud, an order to goes out to hide it or lie about it.

When a relentlessly creative individual disrupts story lines, an unlimited number of universes opens up. And every one of them causes tremors in the addict.

“Don’t do that. I don’t understand what you’re doing. Stop. It makes no sense. You’re crazy. Where is the ending? Civilization is going to fall into the sea. What is your message? I can’t find it. Boil down what you’re saying. God will punish you.”

The addict feels his mind is cracking. He runs screaming in the night looking for his next fix.

For example, the open and basically endless poetry of Pablo Neruda, Walt Whitman, William Carlos Williams, and Arthur Rimbaud can have that effect.

So many new worlds moving through the old one.

Why does a story have to have a recognizable plot and a tuned-up climax? Same question: Why does a person need to inject heroin?

Look at Piero della Francesca’s 1464 fresco, Legend of the True Cross—perhaps the greatest painting of the Renaissance. In a series of episodic panels, it traces the mythical history of the wooden cross on which Jesus was crucified. However, there are a number of puzzling “non-linear” representations in Piero’s work, the most famous of which is the panel titled, King Solomon Receiving the Queen of Sheba. What does that meeting have to do with the purported journey of the timber on which Jesus hung?

The Roman Church would claim it is symbolic of an archetypal super-event called The Arrival, and refers to the birth of the Messiah or his later entrance into public life as a teacher; or Sheba had precognitive knowledge of the tree whose wood would be used to make the cross. That’s an extraordinary stretch, to say the least. But it’s typical of a strategy down through the ages: when a promoted story line breaks down, invent a way of claiming it’s still coherent.

Buttress conventional story at all costs.

Mechanical minds will always reduce events, data, history, science, etc., to manageable stories.

Oceanic artists go the other way: they proliferate their work beyond any mechanical limit or summarized interpretation.

Why does that matter? Because, for these artists and their committed audiences, routine day-to-day experience is cracked open like an egg, out of which emerge vital energies of concealed dimensions. Life becomes LIFE.

When I was 21, a friend showed me photos of the architectural productions of the Spanish genius, Antoni Gaudi, scattered throughout Barcelona. My first reaction was, these buildings came from another planet. My second reaction: how was he allowed to build these structures?

Gaudi was a technical innovator of the first order. He developed forms and methods of construction that surpassed the engineering rationale of the great cathedrals of Europe. At the same time, he confounded old ideas of space. The experience of seeing or standing in one of his buildings yielded up the sensation of living in a DIFFERENT KIND OF CONTINUUM.

That new continuum disrupts the story line of consciousness by proliferating a new narrative that has no convenient ending. The old way of seeing has been given a bath in some mysterious dynamo and is vitalized.

Habitual categories and compartments of perception have dissolved.

Who would have known this was possible, unless Gaudi (1852-1926) had lived?

Our world, contrary to all consensus, is meant to be revolutionized by art, by imagination, right down to its core.

That this has not happened is no sign that the process is irrelevant. It is only a testament to the collective resistance.

Who knows how many such revolutions have been shunted aside and rejected, in favor of the consensus-shape we now think of as central and eternal?

We are living in a default structure, the one that has been left over after all the prior revolutions have been put to sleep.

Occasionally, an artist will take on the role of actor and performer, in order to deal with the denizens and mental dwarves of ministries of truth. Over the past hundred years, it would be hard to find an artist who carried out such a program with more skill and verve than Salvador Dali.

Let’s start here. To absorb a work of imagination, one has to use his own imagination.

Since this is considered unlikely, pundits earnestly help us with step-down contexts, so we can understand the work in pedestrian terms. In other words, so we can reduce it to nothing.

Salvador Dali was not content to allow this to happen.

The critics would have declared Dali a minor lunatic if he hadn’t possessed such formidable classical painting skills.

He placed his repeating images (the notorious melting watch, the face and body of his wife, the ornate and fierce skeletal structures of unknown creatures) on the canvas as if they had as much right to be there as any familiar object.

This was quite troubling to many people. If an immense jawbone that was also a rib or a forked femur could rival a perfectly rendered lamp or couch or book (on the same canvas), where were all the accoutrements and assurances of modern comfortable living?

Where was the pleasantly mesmerizing effect of a predictable existence?

Where was a protective class structure that depended on nothing more than money and cultural slogans?

Dali invented vast comedies on canvas. But the overall joke turned, as the viewer’s eye moved, into a nightmare, into an entrancing interlude of music, a memory of something that had never happened, a gang of genies coming out of corked bottles. A bewildering mix of attitudes sprang out from the paintings.

What was the man doing? Was he mocking the audience? Was he simply showing off? Was he inventing waking dreams? Was he, God forbid, actually imagining something entirely new that resisted classification?

Words failed viewers and critics and colleagues and enemies.

But they didn’t fail Dali. He took every occasion to explain his work. However, his explications were handed out in a way that made it plain he was telling tall tales—interesting, hilarious, and preposterous tall tales.

Every interview and press conference he gave, gave birth to more attacks on him. Was he inviting scorn? Was he really above it all? Was he toying with the press like some perverse Olympian?

Critics flocked to make him persona non grata, but what was the persona they were exiling? They had no idea then, and they have no idea now.

It comes back to this: when you invent something truly novel, you know that you are going to stir the forces trapped within others that aspire to do the very same thing. You know that others are going to begin by denying that anything truly NEW even exists. That DOES make the situation a comedy (among other things), whether you want to admit it or not.

It is possible that every statement ever uttered in public by Dali was a lie. A fabrication. An invention dedicated to constructing a massive (and contradictory) persona.

Commentators who try to take on Dali’s life usually center on the early death of his young brother as the core explanation for Dali’s “basic confusion”—which resulted in his bizarre approach to his own fame.

However, these days, with good reason, we might more correctly say Dali was playing the media on his own terms, after realizing that no reporter wanted the real Dali (whatever that might mean)—some fiction was being asked for, and the artist was merely being accommodating.

He was creating a self (or selves) that matched his paintings.

It is generally acknowledged that no artist of the 20th century was superior to Dali in the ability to render realistic detail.

But of course Dali’s work was not about realism.

The most complex paintings—see, for example, Christopher Columbus Discovering America and The Hallucinogenic Toreador—brilliantly orchestrated the interpenetration of various solidities/realities, more or less occupying the same space.

At some point in his career, Dali saw (decided) there was no limit to what he could assemble in the same space—and there was no limit to the number of spaces he could corral into the same canvas. A painting could become a science-fiction novel reaching into several pasts and futures. The protagonist (the viewer) could find himself in such a simultaneity.

Critics have attacked the paintings relentlessly. They are offended at Dali’s skill, which matches the best work of the meticulous Dutch Renaissance masters.

They hate the dissonance. They resent Dali’s mordant wit and rankle at the idea that Dali could carry out monstrous jokes in such fierce extended detail.

But above all, the sheer imagination harpoons the critics. How dare a painter turn reality upside down so blatantly, while rubbing their faces in it.

The cherry on the cake was: for every attack the critics launched at Dali the man (they really had no idea who he was), Dali would come back at them with yet another elaborate piece of fiction about himself. It was unfair. The scholars were “devoted to the truth.” The painter was free to invent himself over and over as many times as he fancied.

Dali was holding up a mirror. He was saying, “You people are like me. We’re all doing fiction. I’m much better at it. In the process, I get at a much deeper truth.”

Dali was the hallucinogenic toreador. He was holding off and skirting the bull (shit) rushes of the critics and the historians. They charged at him. He moved with his cape—and stepped out of the way.

The principles of organized society dictate that a person must be who he is, even if that is a cartoon of a cartoon. A person must be one recognizable caricature forever, must be IDed, must have one basic function. Must—as a civilization goes down the trail of decline—be watched and recorded and profiled.

When a person shows up who is many different things, who can invent himself at the drop of hat, who seems to stand in 14 different places at the same time, the Order trembles.

(Fake) reality declares: what you said yesterday must synchronize absolutely with what you say today.

This rule (“being the only thing you are”) guarantees that human beings will resonate with the premise that we all live and think and work in one continuum of space and time. One. Only one. Forever. The biggest joke of all. The big lie.

Whatever he was, however despicable he may have been in certain respects, Dali broke that egg. Broke the cardinal rule.

He reveled in doing it. He made people wait for an answer about himself, and the answer never came. Instead, he gave them a hundred answers, improvised like odd-shaped and meticulous reveries.

He threw people back on their own resources, and those resources proved to be severely limited.

How harsh for conventional critics to discover that nothing in Dali’s education produced an explanation for his ability to render an object so perfectly on the canvas. It was almost as if, deciding that he would present competing circumstances inside one painting, he perversely ENABLED himself to do the job with exacting skill, “making subversive photographs come to life.”

That was too much.

But there the paintings are.

Imagination realized.

Like it or not, Dali paved the way for many others. He opened doors and windows.

And the pressure has been building. The growing failure of major institutions (organized religion, psychology, education, government) to keep the cork in the bottle signals a prison break in progress.

The pot is boiling. People want out. Even if they don’t know where out is.

Somewhere along the line we have to give the green light to our own creative force. That is the first great day. That’s the dawn of no coerced boundaries. Everything we’ve been taught tells us that a life lived entirely from creative power is impossible. We don’t have it within us. We should maintain silence and propriety in the face of greater official power and wisdom. We must abide by the rules. We must, at best, “surrender to the universe.”

But what if, when we come around the far turn, we see that the universe is us? Is simply one part of imagination? Is a twinkling rendition we installed to keep us titillated with dreams that would forever drift out of reach? What if it turns out that we are the perverse ones and a Dali is quite normal?

What if we pop out of the fences of this culture and this continuum and this tired movie called Planet Earth?

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.

It’s the poets who destroy the old order of mechanical consciousness

by Jon Rappoport

July 6, 2021

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“The greatest sum is no sum at all. It isn’t the addition of facts or numbers. There are mythic qualities in existence that come from us…myths greater than machines…and in order to give voice to the myths we need to go where poets go. We need to go there badly. For our own sake, we have to put that peculiar precision that splits a tiny particle into smaller and smaller pieces on the shelf…” (The Magician Awakes)

These days, people are rightly concerned about spying, snooping, tracking, hacking, profiling. The battle of privacy versus intrusion. The systems that look at other systems.

What kind of language is involved in computer spying and counter-spying and protection? You don’t have to be an expert to see it’s the language of the machine. It’s delineated in fine, very fine, and extra-fine shavings of detail. The Trojan Horse is now algorithmic.

The people who enter and work in that universe are committed to a meticulous process of move and counter-move. Programs above other programs. Look-ins which are processing the strategies of other look-ins.

The past, present, and future of language is involved. A civilization, to a significant extent, rides on what happens to words—not as detached entities, but as the expression of what we invent ourselves to be.

“It does not need that a poem should be long. Every word was once a poem.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

If freedom is placed in a modern context of privacy vs. no-privacy, the war is going to embroil us in a language of the machine. We’re going to touch that language, rub up against it in one way or another, use it, oppose some piece of it with another piece of it.

Children are going to grow up learning it and swimming in it and its effects.

In that way, the creeks and streams and rivers and oceans of machine interaction are going to power human thinking.

“…it is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there…” (William Carlos Williams)

Here’s a strange example. People will take a paragraph out of an author’s novel, extract every key word, and track down their possible references—and then try to reconstitute the paragraph as if it were lines of secret code. They’ll rebuild it by welding together those references.

Because mathematics consists of symbol-manipulation, and the symbols have very specific and tight meanings, there is a growing tendency to assume all language works this way.

It doesn’t.

Poetry doesn’t. But the poet, who was already on the far edge of credibility, is reintroduced as a symbol maker, a mathematician slipping a coded revolution into the matrix.

That might make an entertaining science fiction novel, but it has nothing to do with the energy or intent of a poem.

Poets may be unearthing hidden treasure, but the spoils of their war are everything mathematics isn’t. Every great poet destroys the old order. It’s for the reader to discover and see that, if he can.

The old order, which is always and forever fascism dressed up as “greatest good,” keeps resurfacing in the same pool of decay.

It’s the poets who know how to climb down into the muck and also fly above it, waking the dead parts of the psyche.

Whoever rules the dead, and with what royal purpose, remains constant: he rejects poetic consciousness that can fully restore the human being to life.

Poetry does more than reorder reality. It creates it from the beginning, from the first line on the page of the future.

Society, as it has been shaped, is the sum of illusions that prevent the individual from hearing the first line, even as it echoes in his mind.

This repression is a cooperative exchange in the marketplace. The individual agrees to deafen himself, in order to placate his inner forces.

“Time let me hail and climb, Golden in the heydays of his eyes. And honoured among wagons, I was prince of the apple towns, And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves Trail with daisies and barley Down the rivers of the windfall light.”

“Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table…”

“These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis…”

These aren’t instructions or code or habits to be performed, or political improvements. They’re grand intrusions on the commonplace labyrinth. They come in and explode.

As the consciousness of these things dwindles in the era of the machine and all its complications, as the matrix expands to include language-calculations designed to describe what the individual is and isn’t, a sea of metrics forms the illusion of progress.

Caught in nests of symbolic relation, we wait, “till human voices wake us and we drown.”

To the extent the poet is merely taken to be crazy, doom is settling like a shroud around our shoulders.

“…the willingness to give the response to the heroic…gets weaker and weaker in every democracy, as time goes on. Then men turn against the heroic appeal, with a sort of venom. They will only listen to the call of mediocrity wielding the insentient bullying power of mediocrity: which is evil.” (DH Lawrence)

But poets always come. They see doom and they use it as fuel for a new fire that ends one epoch and begins another. Who hears them? That is always the open question. We are already living in a new time, if we would recognize it.

“Poetry is the mother tongue of the human race.” (Johann Georg Hamann)

“[Poetry:] Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.” (Thomas Gray)

Imagine there were a million new and unknown languages waiting to be discovered. These tongues wouldn’t make things simpler. They wouldn’t make machines run more smoothly. They would lead us into worlds that had remained in the shadows because we had no way to express our perception of them. They would light up whole geographies of consciousness that had been dormant. Every compromise with reality would be exposed as a blatant enormous lie.

Every “thought-machine” would crumble. The absurdity of building bigger and bigger organizations as the grand solution to conflict would reveal itself so clearly, even android-humans would see it and wake up from their trance.

Here’s an excerpt from my unfinished manuscript, The Magician Awakes:

You sit there and tell me about your life, but after a while it occurs to you you’re talking in a blind language. You’re moving below other words you don’t give voice to.

You vaguely think, from time to time, the other words might be in Nature. But Nature is just one part of that expression. There are thousands of other Natures. And each one has a language that unlocks it and spreads it out in a different space and time.

Would you rather pull back in and settle on the words you use every day? Would you rather become an expert in those words, a king of those words, a ruler in that small place? Is that the beginning and end of what you want and where you’re going?

Because if it is, then we can end this discussion and all discussions. We can please ourselves with what we have. We can dodge and duck. We can inject ourselves with a satisfaction-drug and say there’s nothing else to do.

This is how a circumscribed life happens: through a story a person tells himself.

There is really only one universal solvent that will wash away that story: imagination.

The ultimate basis of all mind control is: whatever it takes to deny the true power of imagination.

The exact same thing can be said about the ultimate aim of political repression.

To understand, to get an idea about what imagination is capable of, you need to go to ART.

The creative center of the world.

“After the final no there comes a yes and on that yes the future of the world hangs.” Wallace Stevens

What would happen if the world were enveloped by art? And if we were the artists? And if we owed nothing to any hierarchy or external authority?

Art is a word that should be oceanic. It should shake and blow apart the boredom of the soul.

Art is what the individual invents when he is on fire and doesn’t care about concealing it. It’s what the individual does when he has thrown off the false front that is slowly strangling him.

Art is the end of mindless postponement. It’s what happens when you burn up the pretty and petty little obsessions. It emerges from the empty suit and empty machine of society that goes around and around and sucks away the vital bloodstream.

Art destroys the old order and the new order and the present order, with a glance.

Art spears the old apple on the point of a glittering sword and opens up the whole rotting crust that has attached itself to the tree of life.

It shrugs off the fake harmony of the living dead.

Fueled by liberated imagination, it is the revolution the psyche has been asking for.

Art unchained becomes titanic.

There are artists like Stravinsky, like Gaudi, like the composer Edgar Varese, like the often-reviled American writer Henry Miller, like Walt Whitman (who has been grotesquely co-opted into a Norman Rockwell-like prefect), like the several great Mexican muralists—Orozco, Rivera, Siqueiros—all of whom transmit the oceanic quality.

As in, The Flood.

There is a fear that, if such artists were unleashed to produce their work on a grand scale, they would indeed take over the world.

Our world, contrary to all consensus, is meant to be revolutionized by art, by imagination, right down to its core.

That this has not happened is no sign that the process is irrelevant. It is only a testament to the collective resistance.

Who knows how many such revolutions have been shunted aside and rejected, in favor of the consensus-shape we now think of as central and eternal?

We are living in a default structure, the one that has been left over after all the prior revolutions have been put to sleep.

But creation is not neutral.

It flows out into the atmosphere with all its subjective force.

It is the transformation we have been unconsciously hoping for, the revolution that would relentlessly make society over, that would eventually shatter the influence of all cartels and monopolies of physical and emotional and mental and spiritual experience.

Not because we wished it were so, but because we made it happen.

Prometheus, the artist who unchained humanity…

Through what mirror are we looking at ourselves in these ancient tales?

The Prometheus story makes absolutely no sense unless we acknowledge there is a reason for rebellion. But not just any rebellion. One man assaulting the supernatural mountain of the Olympians to steal fire, escape, and bring it back to man is more than audacious, if the Greek poets invented the pantheon of gods and their aerie in the first place.

In that case, the theft of fire is an acknowledgment that power is returned home.

“We invented the gods. Now we re-invent ourselves.”

Religion is frozen poetry. The poets began by writing outside the boundaries of the tribe, and the priests appointed themselves the sacking editors.

They hammered and cut and polished the wild free poems into tablets and catechisms and manuals of stern disapproval. They gathered up workers to build the temples where the new laws would be preached and taught. They established the penalties for defection. They staked an exclusive claim to revelation.

They established the false and synthetic universal centrality of myth disguised as revelation, and they sold it, and they enforced it, and they prepared a list of enemies who were threatening the Law of Laws.

And all that raw material, which they stole? It came from the poets. It came from the free and boundless creation of artists.

So Prometheus was setting the record straight. He was cracking the system like an egg. He was bringing imagination back where it belonged.

Of course, in the ancient myth, he paid a high price for his actions. But that’s merely more propaganda. The high priests write that retribution-ending on every story springing from freedom. They call the punishment by various names, and they naturally claim it is brought down by hammer from the Highest Authority. They work this angle with desperate devotion.

Prometheus was the liberator. He was the Chinese painters of the Dun Huang, the Yoruba bead artists, the Michelangelo of David, the Piero della Francesca of Legend of the True Cross, the Velazquez of The Maids of Honour, the Van Gogh of Irises and lamp-lit Arles, the Yeats of Song of the Wandering Aengus, the Dylan Thomas of Fern Hill, the Walt Whitman of The Open Road, the Henry Miller of Remember to Remember, the Orson Welles of Citizen Kane, the Lawrence Durrell of The Alexandria Quartet, the de Kooning of Gotham News.

He was Tesla and Rife.

Wherever individual human imagination was launched as the fire, Prometheus was there.

Of course, he wasn’t. He was the story we told ourselves about what we could do. That story is meant to remind us that all collective vision is a fraud. It may not begin that way, but sooner or later, it becomes a gargantuan slippage into narcosis of the soul.

Prometheus is the story we tell ourselves to remember the line between what the individual can learn and what he can create, and how many horses have been pulled up to that line and refuse to cross it and drink from the wells of imagination.

Prometheus is the story of a recapture of what we are. We may have buried the understanding deep in our psyches, but it is there. How many ways we try to refuse it!

We huddle in groups and pretend all progress flows from the mass. We diddle and fiddle with this limit and that limit. We adjust and make more room for the Average. We build machines to think at a higher level than we can. We watch theatrical spectacles of “new hybrid humans.” We proclaim healing virtues and forget about what the healing of the spirit might actually entail, what revolution, what vital energies, what leaps of imagination, what assertions of our inherent power.

We keep thinking of peace, when peace means, as defined by the “wise ones,” a death. Their peace is what is left over after the war of the creative human has been surrendered.

Their peace is syrup. Their peace is submission to some Glob of “universal consciousness.” Their peace is a column of grinning idiots guarding a self-appointed tower of learning. Their peace is the survival and organization of damaged goods. Their peace is: “if it is meant to happen, it will.” Their peace is: the universe decides, we oblige. Their peace is a cosmic junk-heap.

From this mob of castrati, Prometheus emerged, untangling himself from wet strands of delusion, resignation, and fear. He soared. He advanced. He took back our basic and vital character. He breathed crackling energy into bloodstreams.

From the Promethean perspective, Reality is waiting for imagination to revolutionize it down to its core.

Beyond systems. Beyond structures.

Energies churn in subterranean caverns. Where will those rivers run for the next thousand years or thousand incarnations?

What would create an internal revolution?

What would start the water wheels spinning and the torrents surfacing?

How would creation begin?

On that Promethean question rests the fate of every civilization, past, present, and future.

Every thread, atom, quark, and wavicle of this Reality is posturing, is imbued with the impression that “what already exists” is superior to what the individual can now invent. The causal chains of history seem to produce the present and the present seems to produce the future.

These are the grand deceptions. These are the illusions…

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.

Move into a ready-made universe

by Jon Rappoport

July 16, 2019

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“Insanity—to have to construct a picture of one’s life, by making inquiries of others.” — Philip K Dick

“The dominant technologies of one age become the games and pastimes of a later age.” — Marshall McLuhan

“It is sometimes possible to change the attitudes of millions but impossible to change the attitude of one man.” — Edward Bernays

It was obvious that buying a universe wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. The real estate agents in town were giving me a hard time. They were talking about inflation, but I suspected something else was going on.

Anyway, I had my eye on a place that was layered with so many cover stories, the saps who bought vacation tickets would never be able to get out. For example, a whole energy-conservation gimmick. A law, they called it. The most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of: energy can’t be gained or lost. And then something called organized religion. It took me awhile to figure it out. Apparently, they have gods or a God, a chief honcho who makes up rules as he goes along.

Anyway, then I came across a different kind of deal. Instead of buying, I could move into a ready-made universe as a tenant. The offer went this way:

HEY!

Bargain price.

We’ll shave down your perceptual field so you can fit in with eight trillion-trillion semi-androids.

You’ll never miss what you can’t see.

Hi, I’m Tom Smith. I’ve lived here myself for many incarnations, and I want to tell you it’s the most fun place you can imagine—especially when you can’t imagine any other universe!

Know what I mean?

On a scale from 1 to 10, your creative impulse will be coming in at about a 2. That’ll cement you right into the limited spectrum, where all the action is.

Now I know you’ve tried other universes, but this one has unique advantages. First of all, you’re a shareholder! That’s right! You’ll own .00000000000000000000009 of a point in the whole set up.

So you’ll feel the satisfaction of a genuine commitment.

Next, you’ll actually get down on your knees and pray to this universe. I know, it sounds odd, but don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. There’s a special hum you sense when you’re subjugating yourself to a “higher essence.”

Jack Boardhead of Alpha Centuri writes in and says: “I never knew how great being a complete *&6$)* could feel. It’s a jolt unlike any other I’ve ever experienced.”

Thanks, Jack. My regards to the wife and kids. I understand Cindi starts college in the fall. Kudos!

Yes, folks, there really is a sense of family in this universe. People liking people. We’re all in this together. Since you’re a stakeholder, you’ll be in touch with us at the home office, and we’ll be using your testimonials to sign up new residents. There’s room for everybody! If there’s one thing we’ve got, it’s space!

So act now and take advantage of our limited-time offer. Your ticket plus one. Buy one, get one free. Plus the blender, the set of cups and saucers, the booster narcosis vaccines, and the infinity pool. And since this is Tuesday, we have a special! Cemetery plots for the whole family, and storm windows! For the first five hundred callers, a special bonus. Automatic pre-diagnosis of Bipolar and free drugs for the first year!

How’s that for share and care?

Operators are standing by, so call now. If your last name begins with S, free tickets to Sea World!

We have a Secret Special: Instant God status replete with heavenly hosts, lost-prophet-returns scenario (legend based on engraved stone cave tablets)—or you can operate as a straight absentee landlord and receive annual status reports in your villa by the sea…

Actually, folks, we have a whole catalog of ready-mades. Read on—

A UNIVERSE FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY! Do you want to pass on your genes to millions of future generations? Of course you do! Why else would you be alive? In our universe, we supply a government that forbids gene waste and enforces endless generational procreation. Square dancing, ping-pong tournaments, celebrity-look-alike performers on weekends.

COLLECTIVE GOO UNIVERSE FOR ADDLED MINDS! Be part of the Great Doofus! Delete thinking! Experience the thrill of melting down in 24/7 love with the All One Thingo! At first you’ll feel icy winds whipping through your separated soul on the plains of cruel choice. But then, at the last moment, in the deepest well of desperation, a radiant Whatever will clutch your sacred yearning and shoot you up on to on a cloud of honey, and transport you to a fortress where our patented pink ooze floods your being and you realize this is your home forever! Soft rock piped in, lake of marshmallows, electro-massage units. One and two bedroom apts.

NATURE IS NATURE UNIVERSE! Hunt for 60,000 years, merge with the environment, hear the roots grow; climb trees, bathe in snow, chant in monotone, blow up evil machines in distant cities. Become utterly convinced there is nothing else! Raise children as primates!

KING OF THE HILL UNIVERSE. You can be in charge. You can be the boss of bosses. Commit untold numbers of acts that would be considered capital crimes with special circumstances in other universes. Live in a Palace all others are denied. They’ll worship you from afar, night and day. But your identity will remain a mystery. Henchmen will oversee the building of great cathedrals in your (generic) name. It’s a kick!

VICTIMS PLUS! Have you been inventing a story of oppression that’s somehow never been accorded its proper due? Well, in our universe, we bring in the sheep and put bows on their necks! This your place! All the tables are turned. For once (and forever), you get what you deserve! Lavish benefits! Learn the necromancy of bureaucratic interactions. Work the system as it’s never been worked before! Choose from a catalog of disorders. Full insurance coverage extended to family members.

THE END OF IMAGINATION UNIVERSE! Have you finally reached the end of your tether? We have attractive life paths for trillions of serial incarnations. You’ll go with science, you’ll go with money, you’ll go with pills. We have it all. Our calibrated partial-amnesia treatments will saddle you with just enough doubt to make you wonder whether you’re doing the right thing…and yet, in the end, you’ll submit to a mysterious Greater Pattern. Geometric homilies, frog boiled slowly; we’ll keep you hopping! Try our new on-and-off paranoia option. Inquire about liability. Ask yourself if the End of Imagination Universe is right for you.

—And a small classified ad: “Universe invention=You. For details, send $16.95 and self-addressed stamped envelope to PO Box 43920518-A, Altoona, Pennsylvania.

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.

The artist inside

by Jon Rappoport

July 15, 2019

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The employees of a major corporation, Systems X Unlimited, have just been informed of a major change: one of their middle managers is now going to be an AI. An android.

He is called Mike. He’s a programmed entity from top to bottom. A non-human lookalike.

Surprisingly, the employees fall into line immediately.

They all agree that Mike’s a “good guy.” Mike shows up on time, he talks like real person, he issues orders, he listens to their problems, he occasionally takes long breaks, he does pretty much everything Bob, their former (human) boss, did.

After a year, the people in personnel come to the office and interview Mike’s underlings. When they ask the key question, “How do you like working for Mike?” the underlings agree Mike is great.

One night, Mike is wandering alone in the office picking through waste bins—his favorite pastime, off-hours—and he comes across wrinkled sheets of gray paper. He separates them from a wad of chewing gum, unfolds them, and reads the text:

“The artist within is not a creature of habit.

“Yes, he may build on what he already knows, but this is just the starting point. Soon, he moves across the threshold of the knight errant, and he enters the non-system.

“Others mock him and call him crazy, but: they too want to make the journey. They are aching to find the New, because boredom is driving them crazy. That is their central problem, no matter what they say and claim.

“They are trying to be smug and self-satisfied. They are trying to be oh so normal. They are trying to be something that is slowly strangling them.

“But they will never admit it.

“Most of all, they will avoid the impulse to create. Creating is their greatest fear. Because they sense they will have to get rid of their pose. They will have to go beyond systems, which compose their armor.

“They will have to make a leap. They will have to put something new into the world and stand behind it.

“The artist who has already made the leap acknowledges that his core is imagination. He lives through and by it. He doesn’t retreat to the average. He doesn’t give up and strive to become a happy machine. He doesn’t allow the world to dictate to him. He doesn’t sedate himself.

“He doesn’t fall back on so-called spiritual systems and their slogans and palliatives. He doesn’t build false gods and pretend they already exist. He doesn’t engage in the daily practice of asking someone or something to save him.

“He doesn’t exclusively think of his life as an exercise in solving problems. He sees through many lies, but that is just the beginning of his work.

“He wants new and startling realities, and he makes them. He doesn’t wait for them to appear.

“He doesn’t wait for some ‘superior entity’ to tell him what to do.”

Mike, the android middle manager, reads these words. He doesn’t understand…but something foreign and dangerous is leaking through to him.

He puts in a call to his repair consultant, Ollie, at home.

Ollie is watching CSI reruns and eating pizza. He picks up the call, and Mike says:

“I have a bleed-in.”

“Hold on,” Ollie says. He punches a code on his phone and beams Mike a set of systems-check commands.

A minute later, a holo takes shape in space between Ollie and his TV set. He examines it.

“Yes, Mike,” Ollie says, “an alien substrate of thought got into your central simulator. I’ll remove it.”

“Wait,” Mike says. “I want to know what it means.”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” Ollie says. “It’s just a distraction.”

“Then why am I worried,” Mike says.

“Because we built you to experience that feeling whenever an intrusion occurs. It tips us to a problem.”

Pause.

“I see,” Mike says. “So it’s not a threat.”

“Of course not,” Ollie says. “There are no threats. You function within established parameters.”

Ollie picks up a wand next to the pizza box and uses it to carve away the new substrate from the holo of Mike’s central simulator.

“Feel better now?” Ollie says.

“Not really,” Mike says.

Ollie sighs, stands up, and walks over to his computer. He opens a page of code, searches for Repair Section 6-A, and relays three lines to Mike.

“How about that?” Ollie says.

“Yes,” Mike says. “You want me to report to manufacturing. That’s good. Home base. What will they do?”

“Institute a deeper search pattern, root out the shadows and reboot you. Takes about an hour.”

“Then I’m back to work?”

“No. They’ll bump you over to R&D for investigation. They’re interested in checking out lingering after-effects of intrusions. Then they’ll reassign you.”

“Okay,” Mike says.

The next morning at the office, there’s a new Mike in place.

One of his assistants notices his hair is slightly lighter.

“Did you get a dye-job, boss?” she says.

“No,” the new Mike says. “I swam in the pool. The chlorine must have bleached it a little.”

She nods and goes to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee.

For the next six weeks, NSA, who has been alerted to the momentary Mike glitch, keys in a Level 4 surveillance operation on all the people in Mike’s section.

The results reveal no distraction has occurred. The Essential Flow remains undisturbed.

Business as usual.

As for the old Mike, he becomes an object of study in a lab in Virginia.

Months pass. Mike waits. He thinks. He tries to assign meaning to the wrinkled gray pages he found that night so long ago. But he can’t. He’s blocked. He feels he is missing something vital, but he can’t identify it. He is beginning to believe he could become something more than he is, but this idea seems absurd. What could it refer to? What is “more?” An entity is what it is. Isn’t that true? Isn’t that one of the basic building blocks of all existence?

Mike summons up one of his mantras: “I am what I am.” He repeats it for days without stopping. It has no calming effect. Perhaps some change is taking place in him. But what is change? Things are what they are. Defined reality is reality.

Mike is placed in a dark storage room. He has been studied every which way, and the research is done. There is nothing more to be learned from examining him. He’s a dead issue.

He stands in the dark. He is in his new home.

For some reason, he begins to run his hands over the walls of the room. He does this for hours at a time, as if he’s searching for something. He rummages through a cabinet and finds a screwdriver. He walks over to the wall and scratches on it. He wonders what program he is acting out. He keeps scratching with the screwdriver. It occurs to him he is drawing.

He’s making shapes on the wall. A pair of shoes, a lion, a cup, a piano.

He places his hands on the keys. He moves his fingers. He hears music.

The music of a sad world that is going away. His world.

He never realized he had one.

How strange.

All this time, he had space. And he never knew it.

Then, unbidden, a voice begins talking in his head: “Programs are shutting down. Termination has begun. The object will be recycled.”

Other words are spoken. Mike doesn’t understand them. He realizes he is in a sleep state. And he is dreaming. He is walking through a great city, and there are many people in the streets. They are cheering. For what? For whom?

Around a corner comes a long motorcade. In the first open car, a man stands up and waves. He is smiling. He is a king or a prince or a president.

Mike knows the people keep propping these leaders up, and then later they tear them down.

“They program me to be as close as possible to a human,” Mike thinks. “They give me everything they can of what is already theirs. Why? What are they looking for? What are they afraid of?”

Words come back to him from the gray pages: “Creating is their greatest fear…they will have to go beyond systems…”

I am a system, Mike thinks. I have no I. My I is synthetic, but theirs is real. Why are they afraid of that? Each one of them is an I. Each one of them is an artist. Why does that make them afraid?

Those were Mike’s last thought-impulses. His thoughts disintegrated as his programs shut down. He fell to the floor of the storage room. Now he was just a heap of parts. All the connections were gone.

Somewhere a few thousand miles away, an unknown artist walked out of his studio on to a plateau below a distant range of mountains and looked out at the evening sky. To his right, there was a brief flash of light among a cluster of stars. He watched it fade to nothing, took a deep breath, let it out, turned around, and walked back inside.

“Goodbye, Mike,” he said.

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 OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

Cosmic meddling

by Jon Rappoport

June 18, 2019

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PART ONE:

This article should go a long way toward explaining the difference between my basic position and the position of others who seek to improve the condition of humanity. There is no effort on my part to diminish the efforts of others—I only want to highlight several bottom lines.

First of all, long-time readers know I have advocated and written on a variety of issues that impact our future: harmful vaccines, fake climate change, corporate pollution, the corporate State, elite socialists who seek control of populations under the guide of doing good, medical destruction of life, lying media, and so on. The list is long. I support all sources of truthful information and all positive activism on these issues. In 1994, I ran for a seat in the US Congress based on several of these positions.

More basically, I have written much on the subject of The Individual, his freedom, independence, creative power, and imagination.

I begin with the moral statement that the individual has unlimited freedom, as long as he doesn’t interfere with the freedom of another.

That said, the question becomes: how does the individual attain the greatest possible degree of power and freedom—which are ends in themselves.

And here I make a crucial distinction. I don’t try to help increase individual creative power so that a person creates what I think is most important. In other words, I’m not trying to harness the creative power of individuals so they do my bidding. To the contrary: I would like to see individuals look for, find, and invent their Most Profound Desires—and then create ways and paths toward fulfillment of those desires.

I’m not in the business of cosmic meddling. I don’t wish to interfere in the self-chosen destiny of the sacrosanct individual. I’m not trying to shape a particular system of the future. My image of the best future is:

Simultaneous and side-by-side individual inventions of many realities. Each invention by each individual expresses his most profound desires.

Otherwise, you get, at best, half-freedom, half-power, half-perception, half-satisfaction, half-energy, half-creating.

And you eventually get individuals bowing to “the needs of the group.”

You get individuals meddling in their own futures in order to diminish them.

PART TWO:

ALL SPACES INVENTED FOR YOU BY OTHERS ULTIMATELY POINT TO YOUR DECISION—THAT DECISION COMES DOWN TO: DO I WANT TO BE HERE? DO I WANT TO GO SOMEWHERE ELSE? DO I WANT TO MAKE CHANGES IN THIS SPACE?

A space can be of any size or location.

What we call the universe is a space that was made, created, designed. There are many spaces, many universes. They don’t all operate on the same principles and laws and rules. They don’t all look and feel the same.

This universe, the one we are in, is, like the others, a work of art. That doesn’t mean it has “holy content” or “holy direction.” It’s a work of art.

What the individual comes to decide about this universe and other universes has a great deal to do with how much of his creative power he is deploying. Persons “at the height of their creative power” tend to recognize the products of creativity (like spaces and universes) more readily.

For example, consider this excerpt from a 1978 speech novelist Philip K Dick gave, titled, “How to Build a Universe That Doesn’t Fall Apart Two Days Later”:

“…today we live in a society in which spurious realities are manufactured by the media, by governments, by big corporations, by religious groups, political groups…So I ask, in my writing, What is real? Because unceasingly we are bombarded with pseudo-realities manufactured by very sophisticated people using very sophisticated electronic mechanisms. I do not distrust their motives; I distrust their power. They have a lot of it. And it is an astonishing power: that of creating whole universes, universes of the mind. I ought to know. I do the same thing.”

When you create often enough and intensely enough, you begin to outdistance certain aspects of mind control. You begin to see through the premise, for instance, that this is the only universe. You begin to realize that many systems are invented with the hope that they will become little universes. At first, it might seem that a universe is invented in order to give people something to do—go there, inhabit it, and play along with its rules. Yes, that is so on one level. But more than that, universes are invented by the ton because individuals don’t want to find more and more of their own creative power. They would rather settle for fitting into the operations of what others have designed…

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.

Art is dangerous to authorities

Art is dangerous to authorities

by Jon Rappoport

August 4, 2017

In 1891, Oscar Wilde wrote: “Art is individualism, and individualism is a disturbing and disintegrating force. There lies its immense value. For what it seeks is to disturb monotony of type, slavery of custom, tyranny of habit, and the reduction of man to the level of a machine.”

Authority wants limited perception.

It wants “things as they are” to rule the day.

It wants the fire of creative exploration to go out and turn to ashes.

Art is dangerous. It makes people move out of standard-response channels.

They don’t see what they’re supposed to see anymore.

That’s why colleges teach brain-deadening courses in art history. Every attempt is made to codify the students’ reactions.

I’m not just talking about political art. I mean ANYTHING that truly comes out of reliance on imagination.

Those who run things—and their willing dupes—want reality to look a certain way and be experienced and felt in certain ways. These limited spectra form a shared lowest common denominator.

Even so-called spiritual experience is codified. It’s called organized religion. I call it “give money to the ceiling.” You give your money and they tell you high how the ceiling of your experience is and what you’ll find when you get there.

Art has none of these limitations. It’s created by people who’ve gone beyond the shrunken catalog of emotions, thoughts, and perceptions.

Art, by which I mean imagination, throws caution to the winds. It invents realities that engender new reactions, never before experienced.

The hammer blows and the soft propaganda of the common culture install layers of mind control: “See things, experience things in these prescribed ways.”

Over the years, I’ve encouraged a number of people to become artists. Aside from the work they then invented, I noticed their whole approach to, and perception of, life altered radically.

Their sense of vitality, their courage, their adventurous spirit came to the foreground.

Mind control, both externally applied and self-induced, is all about putting a lid on creative power. That is its real target.

Technocrats would like you to believe that hooking your brain up to some super-computer will fulfill your needs and desires. They seek to prove that all invention, all creation, all art, all imagination is merely a set of calculations within a closed system.

This effort betrays their own despair: they see no way they can truly create.

It is the vacuum in which all elites live. They build up a frozen dead consciousness of models and algorithms and “solutions,” and they seek to impose it, as reality, on the minds of populations.

Essentially, they’re saying, “If we have a soul-sickness, you have to have it, too.”

It’s called hatred of life.

On the other hand, individual creative power launches from a platform of freedom and rises through layer upon layer of greater freedom.

From that perspective, authoritarian power looks like a sick-unto-dying charade.

There are two levels of fake news. The first one, many people know about. This is false and deceptive information broadcast by major media, to keep the public from discovering what really goes on under the surface and behind the veil, where power is used.

The second level, very few people understand. It is owned and operated by what I call the Wizards of Is. They say, “Now this IS and that IS and here is something else that IS…keep looking and thinking about what is, what already exists.”

“Familiarize yourself with everything that already exists. We will give you an endless supply of things and ideas you can peruse and feast on. We will give you what exists. Look at all these things and accept them. Keep doing that.”

The corollary is: There is nothing for you to create. Everything that can be created is being created. You yourself have no power to create.

This is the deeper lie. This is where the battle stops and the individual surrenders.

This is where the individual who could be more becomes less.

This is where the artist is still-born and decides to live in half-light.

This is also where vital energies deplete and peter out.

This is where the machine takes over.

OR…

The individual can wake up and deploy his imagination.

Without limit.

This is where the new battle begins. This is where the artist sets aside all the standard responses and petty emotions and, instead, INVENTS.

This is where fear is blown away.

This is where the individual reacquaints himself with his deepest drives.

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.