Category Archives: Energy & Imagination

The Individual vs. the digital platform; the global rebellion vs. the machine

Washing away the stink of obedience

by Jon Rappoport

September 8, 2021

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Using fascist vaccine mandates and passports, governments are expanding their digital platform, which is a surveillance and control system.

The excuse is: “We have to keep track of everyone who receives the vaccine…we have to make sure they update their booster shots…we have to know the people who are refusing the vaccine… ”

Of course, the platform reaches out into, and collects, all sorts of personal information about every person. Medical records, social media presence, consumer habits, political preferences, etc.

Underlying this massive and ongoing effort is the assumption that The Individual is a social construct. A unit. An assemblage of data.

This unit is entered into algorithms governing millions of units.

Thus, the living individual disappears. He is now an abstraction.

The repressive State takes on the shape of a technocracy:

“We regulate what units (humans) can and can’t do. We fit these units into an overall pattern of enforced behavior that achieves the greatest good for all…”

It turns out that many people, badly educated, trained to think of themselves as eternal victims, and resentful toward Constitutional liberties, are content to be plugged into systems that track them and tell them what to do.

These are the people who are always thinking about what other people are thinking of them. They are the foot soldiers of the Great Reset.

On the other hand, The Individual who knows he is alive, independent, and far more than a biological machine, who wants freedom…that Individual has a vision of his existence that outstrips any platform, algorithm, or fetid version of “greatest good.”

That Individual is who I write for.

I don’t write for ant colonies of the 21st century.

In 1928, the father of modern propanda, Edward Bernays, stated: “This is an age of mass production. In the mass production of materials a broad technique has been developed and applied to their distribution. In this age, too, there must be a technique for the mass distribution of ideas…The conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses is an important element in democratic society. Those who manipulate this unseen mechanism of society constitute an invisible government which is the true ruling power of our country. We are governed, our minds are molded, our tastes formed, our ideas suggested, largely by men we have never heard of. This is a logical result of the way in which our democratic society is organized. Vast numbers of human beings must cooperate in this manner if they are to live together as a smoothly functioning society.”

For Bernays, and his political descendants, “smoothly functioning society” has meant mass mind control.

Indeed, Bernays also wrote: “It is sometimes possible to change the attitudes of millions but impossible to change the attitude of one man.”

The one man is the disrupter of the machinery.

The vaccine mandates and the passports are a large jump in the direction of mass/group surrender.

In this expanding technocracy, it’s no accident that the main component of propaganda is “science.” Technocracy itself is based on the misapplied “scientific” notion that, since a properly functioning machine is composed of many connected and integrated parts, human society should be built in the same fashion.

COVID “science” is a structure made up of interconnected facts—all of which turn out to be gross lies. I’ve spent the past year exposing those lies (see here and here for boil downs).

The best propaganda appears to be true to those who can’t think, who can’t summon up the desire and will to break out of the system.

The life-force inside every person, whether he knows it or not, wants to break out.

Rock-bottom materialists, who try to deny this force exists, will sooner or later succumb to some piece of propaganda and surrender to The Group.

In these times, The Group wants a digital platform to control their actions. The Group wants to submit to authorities who claim to have altruistic motives. The Group wants to fight for the right to be slaves.

However, as the vise tightens on the population, more and more individuals are realizing the mass and the group and collective and the digital platform and the prevailing propaganda narrative are spelling doom for them. They made a mistake in joining up and surrendering.

The altruism they’ve been supporting is a fake.

Their false gods have gone too far.

Before they slip into the final Big Sleep, more and more Individuals are stirring and waking up.

Their mind shackles are loosening.

More and more Individuals are realizing the talking news heads and the governors and presidents and prime ministers and premiers are puppets. The governments and bureaucracies are Police States. The promised new day is really a long night.

And so comes the rebellion. It is widening.

There is now a clear choice. Be a free and independent Individual, or be a loser, an ally of inhuman technocracy and tyranny.

History.com: “’These are the times that try men’s souls; the summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph’.”

“When these phrases [written by Thomas Paine] appeared in the pages of the Pennsylvania Journal for the first time, General George Washington’s troops were encamped at McKonkey’s Ferry on the Delaware River opposite Trenton, New Jersey. In August, they had suffered humiliating defeats and lost New York City to British troops. Between September and December, 11,000 American volunteers gave up the fight and returned to their families. General Washington could foresee the destiny of a rebellion without an army if the rest of his men returned home when their service contracts expired on December 31. He knew that without an upswing in morale and a significant victory, the American Revolution would come to a swift and humiliating end.”

“Thomas Paine was similarly astute. His Common Sense was the clarion call that began the revolution. As Washington’s troops retreated from New York through New Jersey, Paine again rose to the challenge of literary warfare. With American Crisis, he delivered the words that would salvage the revolution.”

“Washington commanded that the freshly printed pamphlet be read aloud to his dispirited men; the rousing prose had its intended effect. Reciting Paine’s impassioned words, the beleaguered troops mustered their remaining hopes for victory and crossed the icy Delaware River to defeat hung-over Hessians on Christmas night and on January 2, the British army’s best general, Earl Cornwallis, at the Battle of Princeton. With victory in New Jersey, Washington won not only two battles, but also the love and thanks of man and woman.”

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.

Covid madness and mass conformity vs. the Life Force

by Jon Rappoport

August 26, 2021

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The basic human immune system is HEALTH. VITAL LIFE FORCE.

It ISN’T a germ-killing antibody-marching military machine inside the body.

However, since modern society is based on a massive attempt to install Pavlovian stimulus-response as the basic principle for “better living,” professionals are going to view Health as a machine-produced outcome.

The antibodies march and scout, the T-cell troops come in behind them and attack the invader, and so on. This preposterous bullshit becomes a model of life.

And therefore doctors and public health experts are the messiahs who protect us every day from harm caused by the invaders (viruses). This load of gibberish forms the basis for the fake pandemic and the robot responses of the population.

LIFE-FORCE, on the other hand, is a unique drive within the individual to express vitality and energy and imagination in the world. When it flows, health flows.

Conformity is the “we’re all in this together” lullaby for the mesmerized masses sitting in a decaying common pool of mind control. For five minutes it looks like a superhighway and then you’re in a blind alley at midnight up against a brick wall.

Who is this WE? What is the THIS in which we’re all together? Answer: The WE is rubber-stamped copies of humans that individuals pretend to be, and the THIS is a vapor of spiritual and energetic sedation.

What is the source of all the systems, protocols, models, and methods that dominate modern life to the point of lockstep surrender? A good place to start is the education system. It’s managed to promote the false belief that, unless everyone goes to school for at least 12 years, whole nations will be composed of rank drooling idiots.

In fact, the education system has a propensity for turning out those drooling idiots.

William Blake, one of the greatest poets of any era in any language, attended school until he was 10. After that, his mother taught him at home.

I’m not sure about this, but I’ve been told God never went to school at all.

It’s impossible to study a child who has been inoculated with 12 or 16 years of education and ask, “What would he be like if he’d never gone to school?” But common sense tells us that, if he had an innate curiosity about life, he would have pursued learning in his own way. He would have learned to read. He would have found books. He would have launched his own imagination in many directions. AND HE WOULD HAVE BECOME STRONG AND INDEPENDENT. He wouldn’t have become a trained weasel.

Highly organized civilization makes us think there are only so many paths in life, and we must choose one of them and stay on it. This automatically shrinks our view of Reality. The concept of RADICALLY DIFFERENT LIFE seems impossible.

Nations and people are choking on SAMENESS.

So when a shit-cloud of experts blows in the door and announces there is a pandemic caused by a virus, most of us stand up and salute. Most of those who don’t merely disagree on the fine points. “Do I really need the booster shot, or am I good with two doses of the Pfizer?”

It never occurs to most people that the whole story is pulp fiction flying under the banner of warped and confined “scientific” minds that have been conditioned by years of schooling and training. These expert medical and public health minds have been deadened and walled off from LIFE ITSELF.

I see dead people. I see dead people telling us what to do. I see dead people promoting fear as their only goal. Trapped themselves, they want to trap us.

The elite strategy is in for a penny in for a pound. “Well, OF COURSE the virus exists. So it’s a question of how serious and deadly it is. Now, the official figures suggest it was weakening by June 15th, but then the Variant emerged. That was a game changer. The latest measurements of antibody production against the Delta Variant indicate…” Zzzzz.

The flying edge of a SYSTEM flew by and caught people unaware and dragged them down into the depths of mental surrender to the STORY about the original STORY…

Life is not a protocol.

An imitation of life is a protocol.

Hence, I repost my piece, THE BLOCKBUSTER MOVIE CALLED REALITY:

There is always a certain amount of whining and remorse as one enters the theater to see the movie called Reality.

“Is this a good idea?” “Why did I buy the ticket?”

But you can already feel a merging sensation. The electromagnetic fields humming in the theater, even before the movie starts, are drawing you in.

Your perception of x dimensions is narrowing down to three.

You take your seat. You look at the note you’ve written to yourself, and you read it again:

“Don’t forget where you came from. Don’t forget this is just a movie. Don’t fall asleep. The serial time in the movie is an artifact. The binding feeling of sentimental sympathy is a trance-induction. It’s the glue that holds the movie fixed in your mind.”

“The movie will induce nostalgia for a past that doesn’t exist. Don’t surrender to it.”

“You’re here to find out why the movie has power.”

“You want to undergo the experience without being trapped in it.”

“The content of the movie will distract you from the fact that it is a construct.”

The lights dim.

On the big screen, against a gray background, the large blue word REALITY slowly forms.

Suddenly, you’re looking at a huge pasture filled with flowers. The sky is a shocking blue. You can feel a breeze on your arms and face.

You think, “This is a hypnotic weapon.”

Now, the pasture fades away and you’re standing on an empty city street at night. It’s drizzling. You hear sirens in the distance. A disheveled beggar approaches you and holds out his trembling hand.

He waits, then moves on.

You look at the wet shining pavement and snap your fingers, to change it into a lawn. Nothing happens.

You’re shocked.

You wave your hand at a building. It doesn’t disappear.

Incredible.

You reach into your pocket and feel a wallet. You walk over to a streetlight and open it. There’s your picture on a plastic ID card. Your name is under the picture, followed by a number code. On the reverse side of the card, below a plastic strip, is a thumbprint.

There are other cards in the wallet, and a small amount of paper money. You look at the ID card again. There’s an address.

Though it seems impossible, you remember the address. In your mind’s eye, you see a small cottage at the edge of an industrial town. There’s a pickup parked in the driveway.

It’s your truck. You know it. But how can that be?

You walk toward larger buildings in the distance.

Three men in uniforms turn a corner and come up to you. Behind them emerges a short man in a business suit. He nods at you and holds out his hand.

You know what he wants. You pull out your wallet and give it to him. He looks at the ID card, at you, at the card again.

“You were reported missing,” he says.

“Missing from what?” you say.

“Your home. Your job. What are you doing here? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” you say. “I was…taking a short trip. I’m just out for some air.”

“In this part of the city?” he says. “That’s not smart. We’ll take you home. Our car is right over there.”

One car sits on a side street. In large red letters printed on the trunk, the word Concern.

You walk with the men to the car.

Waves you’ve never felt before are emanating from it.

Mentally, you try to back up from them. You feel a haze settle over you.

In the haze dance little creatures.

You look at the short man in the suit. He’s smiling at you.

Suddenly, his smile is transcendent. It’s so reassuring, tears fill your eyes.

You’re thinking, “They built this so I would be lost, and then they found me. I’m supposed to be rescued. I’ve never experienced being rescued before. I never knew what it meant.”

You hear faint music.

It grows louder. As you near the car, you realize you’re listening to a chorus and an orchestra. The rising theme is Victory.

One of the uniformed men opens the car door.

You nod at him.

“My pleasure, sir,” he says.

The music fades away.

The scene shifts.

You’re standing next to the pickup in your driveway alongside your cottage.

You’re home.

Think, you tell yourself. What’s going on?

Now, as you walk into your cottage and instantly remember the rooms and the objects in these rooms, the sensation of Familiarity, slightly out of phase, grows stronger.

You realize you’re supposed to feel tremendous relief. This is what’s expected of you.

It’s expected of everyone. They live with one another through the touchstone of the Familiar. They share it like bread.

They keep coming back to it. The Familiar is a sacrament.

It’s built in. It’s invented through…it’s stamped on every object in this space…

…In order to suggest you’ve been here before. To suggest you belong here.

You see pure space that…

Has been placed here. For you.

And at that moment, there is a small explosion behind your head.

And you’re sitting in the theater again.

The movie is playing on the screen. All around you, in the seats, people are sitting with their eyes closed.

You feel a tap on your shoulder. You turn. It’s an usher.

“Sir,” he says. “Please follow me.”

He leads you up the aisle into the lobby, which is empty.

An office door opens and a young woman steps out. She strides briskly over to you.

“You woke up and came back,” she says. She gives you a tight smile. “So we’re refunding your money. It’s our policy.”

She drops a check in your hand.

“What happened in there?” you say. “What happened?”

She shrugs.

“Only you would know that. You must have done something to interrupt the transmission.”

“And the rest of those people?”

She looks at her watch. “They’re probably into their second year by now. The second year is typically a time of conflict. They rebel. Well, some of them do. They rearrange systems. They replace leaders. They promote new ideals.”

“I had such a strong feeling I’d been there before.”

She smiles. “Apparently it wasn’t strong enough. You’re back here.”

“How do you do it?” you say.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “That’s proprietary information. Did you meet your family?”

“No,” you say. “But I was in a cottage. It was…home.”

She nods.

“If you hadn’t escaped, you would have been subjected to much stronger bioelectric bonding pulses. Do you have a family here?”

You start to answer and realize you don’t know.

She looks into your eyes.

“Go out to the street,” she says. “Walk around. Take a nice long walk for an hour. You’ll reorient. It’ll come back to you.”

“Why do you do it?” you say.

“Do what?”

“Sell this trip.”

“Oh,” she says. “Why does a travel agent book a vacation for a client? We’re in that business.”

You turn toward the exit. The sun is shining outside. People are walking past the doors.

You take a deep breath and leave the theater.

The street is surging with crowds. The noise is thunderous.

You notice you’re carrying a rolled up sheet of paper in your hand.

You open it.

It’s a non-disclosure agreement.

“If you return from your movie experience, you will not reveal or discuss, under penalty of law, anything about its nature, substance, or duration…”

You look at the sheet of paper, make up your mind, and it bursts into flames.

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 Last Vaccine Resister in Australia

by Jon Rappoport

August 26, 2021

(To join our email list, click here.)

7News Brisbane, 8/21: “A man has ridden his horse through today’s protest at the Queensland-New South Wales border, encouraging crowds to cross through checkpoints. ‘Cross over! They cannot arrest all of us!’”

ABC News Australia, 8/21: “More than 2,000 anti-lockdown protesters gathered in Brisbane’s Botanic Gardens before a planned march through the city…Thousands of demonstrators [in Melbourne] were seen breaking police lines near Parliament House in Spring Street, where the demonstration started…[A Victoria police spokeswoman said that] ‘For the first time during lockdown protests, police were forced to use a range of non-lethal options including pepper ball rounds and OC foam cannisters in an effort to disperse the crowd.’…Each person arrested will be fined $5,452 for breaching lockdown restrictions…”

December 2, 2023:

Hello, everybody. You’re shocked, right? I just cut in and interrupted the news broadcast you’re watching.

I’m sure the cops are busy trying to pinpoint my location.

I’m wearing a mask to make it a little harder for them. Not because I’m afraid of a virus.

Here in the land down under we’re under the tightest COVID lockdowns in the world.

Australian cops are busting heads, breaking into people’s houses and arresting them because they aren’t wearing masks. They’re holding people down and testing them and shooting them up with the vaccine.

They say everybody in the country is now vaccinated. I’m not. So I might be the last holdout.

I don’t want the jab in the arm. I have the right to say no, to walk down the street, drive out into the country and sit on a rock and smoke a cigar. Screw the authorities.

Does the right come from God? Maybe. I don’t know. Depends on the day of the week. On Tuesday, I might believe God said we’re free. On Wednesday, I might not believe in God. Either way, I’ve decided not to line up for the jab.

I don’t believe this pandemic, whatever it is or isn’t, makes me a slave.

It could be a hurricane, a flood, an earthquake, a war, a riot, and we still have the right to go outside and go to work and make a living. Have a picnic in the sun with our family and friends.

We can tell the politicians to fuck off.

And if enough of us do, the politicians lose.

I don’t like them. I don’t like their attitude. They think they own us. Even if they kill me, they don’t own me.

This country was once a lot freer than it is now. Nobody can deny that. But then the busy-bodies started butting in and making a lot of rules. They meddled with us. We thought it was easier to go along. We knuckled under. And THIS, what we’ve got now, this Police State, is how it all played out.

Now we can’t take a piss in the middle of the night, in our own bathrooms, without wearing a mask.

Don’t you get it? The bosses like watching us squirm. That’s their game.

You think they really care about us? About our health? Are you that stupid? They care about themselves, their power, their money. They’re control freaks.

Australia was a penal colony. The British sent their worst prisoners here. Outlaws, rebels, thieves, killers. Crazies. And now look at us. Our brains have melted down into pudding. We’re afraid of our own shadows. We’re afraid of cops with guns. It’s disgusting.

Remember when they took our guns away? They always do that. Somebody shoots a few people, and they take the guns from all the people who didn’t shoot anybody. You think they did that to protect us? They wanted sheep and they got sheep.

People argue about whether the vaccine works or doesn’t work. Whether it’s safe or dangerous. I’m past all that. It comes down to: do I want to take it or not? I make up my own mind for my own reasons. I’ve still got my goddamn freedom, no matter what anyone says.

If two or three million of us get off our lazy and scared asses and go out into the street every day, every single day, the bosses lose. There’s nothing they can do.

For a long time, I took my freedom for granted. But now I don’t. I realize it was always on the line.

You might be wondering who I am.

Well, I’ll tell you a secret.

I’m nobody.

That’s right. The only reason I exist is because of you.

I’m not on any list. I don’t have a name. I’m not in any file.

You created me.

I came out of your minds.

I’m a phantom. I exist because you dreamed about me, whether you know it or not.

If they make slaves out of all of you, in your MINDS AND SOULS, I stop existing. If you surrender all the way down, I’m gone.

That’s how Reality works.

The only question is, what are you going to do about it?

I’ll tell you another secret. The bosses know that if they let us all out in the open living our lives, going to work, sitting and playing in parks and on the beaches with our kids, our health wouldn’t be any worse than it was before this “pandemic.” Our health wouldn’t be any worse than it is now. THE BOSSES KNOW THAT. THAT’S WHAT THEY’RE TERRIFIED OF. THAT’S WHY THEY’RE CLAMPING DOWN SO HARD.

I’m here. I’m what you made me. I’m your reflection. I’m what your spirit is when you take all the bullshit away.

The bosses dream about me, too. But in their dreams, they’re sweating. They’re trying to chop me to pieces. Blow me away with bullets. Burn me down.

I’m your dream, their nightmare.

Bottom line, I’m your freedom.

So what are you going to do about it?

You can try to snuff me out, but that means you’re trying to kill your own spirit.

Spirit can be a tidal wave, or it can be a little piss-puddle. Your decision.

If it’s a tidal wave, it’s bigger and more powerful than any so-called germ that ever existed.

See, the germ the bosses are twisting your minds with is also a dream—and right now, you’re saluting it and taking a knee in front of it.

You screwed up. You fell for the con.

But it’s never too late.

You can sell out your lives down to the last penny, or you can break the bank.

I’m here as long as you want me to be.

I’m standing up as long as you’re not lying down.

I’ll be here interrupting the cocked-up news from your fascist bosses and thugs as long as you want me to be…

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.

A hundred years in the future: joy during the lockdown

by Jon Rappoport

August 12, 2021

(To join our email list, click here.)

A dreamer dreams many things. In this case, he was merely walking from his living room to the kitchen, and a thought struck him, and he went AWAY for a few seconds, and a dream laid itself out like a fresco…then folded up and disappeared. He shook his head and resumed walking to his kitchen to make coffee. Crazy, he thought. Where did THAT come from? He looked at his watch. Another day in lockdown.

THE DREAM:

On May 14, 2266, the New England Journal of Medicine and Psychology published a paper titled:

WHAT IS ‘A NEGATIVE CONSEQUENCE?’

A quote: “Brain research discovers common patterns of activity across a whole population. These patterns would be called ‘normal’. Exceptions would be classified as various categories of ‘disordered thought’. It’s assumed that only ‘harmonious and symmetrical’ brain patterns are positive and beneficial.”

A reader commented: “This assumption is grossly false. It’s a stunted version of aesthetics. Creative force always breaks out of these little geometries. So does every new idea. Increasingly, Earth culture is unable to understand this.”

—The reader receives a government notice and is summoned to a hearing. He’s interviewed by a virtual AI employee of the federal Department of Stat Research.

HOLOGRAPHIC i-FIGURE: “Are you all right during this epidemic lockdown? I see you live alone.”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“We want you to enjoy yourself. Are you watching learning programs?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like them.”

“Well, we have a report on you. It indicates an output difficult to measure or interpret. What can you tell us about this?

“I don’t know. I’m composing a symphony.”

“A symphony? What is that?”

“It’s a piece of music written for a large orchestra.”

“I find no extant orchestras in the country.”

“That’s true. Nevertheless, I’m composing.”

“Why?”

“For that day when an orchestra may come into being again.”

“Your thought-impulses entered ranges we were not able to summarize.”

“I suppose that means your instruments are limited.”

“Your last statement might be viewed as incendiary. It suggests we are imposing a restriction. As you well know, the science is settled on this point. We measure and interpret thought that contributes to an overall positive outcome, for the population at large.”

“I’m aware of that, yes. But the science rests on certain assumptions. I would call it greatest good as a lowest common denominator.”

“What do you mean?”

“You assume a certain mindset contributes to the consensus reality you favor. You legislate a range of thought that will produce the consensus.”

“That’s a gross oversimplification.”

“It doesn’t describe the algorithms you employ, but all in all I believe my summary is correct. You’re reality makers. You monitor thought-emissions, and when you find a departure from ‘combined averages,’ as you call them, you issue a citation.”

“What is this symphony you’re composing?”

“It’s impossible to explain. It’s music.”

“It has a specific message?”

“No. If it did, I would write out the message and leave it at that.”

“Why have we not heard of you before?”

“I was doing illustrations for the Happiness Holos.”

“We know. What happened?”

“I became bored. A machine could make those pictures. So I decided to compose music.”

“The Happiness Holos are an essential social program.”

“Perhaps. They encourage people to stay on the positive side of a construct called Positive&Negative, which as you know is a State-sponsored theme. But what is superficially indicated by those two opposing sets is, in fact, fuel for the fire.”

“Fuel for what fire?”

“The artist can use and transform any material.”

“Where did you hear such a thing?”

“Nowhere. I’ve experienced it many times.”

“Your views are highly eccentric. I will have to consult your childhood history to understand their roots.”

“I’m afraid that won’t do you any good.”

“Why not?”

“Because your version, the US Department of Psychology version of cause and effect, is propaganda for the masses.”

“This is your idea of a joke?”

“Not at all.”

“When you compose this…symphony, how do you think?”

“It’s not thinking in the way you use the term.”

“No? Then what do you do?”

“I invent sound.”

“Preposterous.”

“Large masses of sound.”

“Absurd. According to what underlying pattern?”

“None. Check the Library of Structures. I doubt you’ll find my activity in the catalogs.”

“Only known structures and patterns are contained in the files.”

“I don’t invent through pattern.”

“No? How then?”

“I improvise.”

“And this term refers to?”

“Something done spontaneously.”

“And you exceed prescribed ranges of thought in the process.”

“Perhaps. I would hope so. I don’t keep track.”

“You’re being flippant.”

“I assumed you’d eventually cite me. I’m just composing music during the lockdown.”

“There is no citation yet. You’re an anomaly. We investigate. We consider.”

“I’m afraid your and my idea of ‘consider’ are quite different.”

“Let me ask you this. When you are composing, do you ever believe you enter into a realm or area that could be called ‘non-material’? We’ve heard such claims before.”

“Not if you’re referring to some fairyland. But all thought is basically non-material. The brain registers it after the fact. Thought, the real thing, doesn’t take place in the brain.”

“You’re deluded. And disordered.”

“If I could simply confess to that and be on my way, I’d be a happy man.”

“You live in a society. To keep the peace and maintain the Positive, science has discovered that thought should occur within certain parameters.”

“If you insist.”

“We want to study you. It’s a great honor to be called. You could help extend the boundaries of research…we register variation from the norm in your present thinking.”

“What present thinking?”

“What you’re thinking right now.”

“That was quick.”

“The readouts are instantaneous…what are you doing?”

“I’m starting the fourth movement.”

“Wait. What you’re doing is disruptive.”

“It’s because of how you set your frequencies.”

All along the major esplanade, and in the lake area, and in the industrial parks and residential high rises, virtual structures shattered like glass.

The i-figure went dark.

A thousand holographic government buildings froze and vanished.

The composer said to no one, “I’m just composing. Well, apparently not just.”

—Back in his room at the edge of the city, he said, “I suppose that’s what they mean by a negative consequence.”

He sat down at his computer and turned it on. Before he went to the composing page, he had to click on a sunburst icon and read a government message for the day. It appeared:

“We want everyone to be happy during the lockdown. This is very important. Because much government function is being carried out by virtual assistants, we’ve encountered a disruption in service owing to a segment of Disorder entered into our Net. Please be patient. Repairs are underway. These are learning experiences for us. There is always a certain amount of disordered thought in the environment. Most of it is unintentional. We welcome the opportunity to study such examples. As a member of the educated class, we’re sure you can appreciate the research aspect of our work. Thank you for your patience. Food deliveries will be delayed by a factor of…two hours. Our latest figures indicate 2,147 new epidemic cases have been detected in your sector in the last 24 hours. Re-testing is underway. Please place your hand on the screen now…thank you. You may remove it. Just a moment…we’re unable to process your assay at this time. You’ll receive a message indicating your viral status as soon as the system is up and running again. End of message.”

The composer plugged a small module into the side of his computer. The screen went red. Black letters formed: DISEQUILIBRIUM. He pressed the send key.

The encrypted score of the first three movements of his symphony set out on a rapidly changing zig-zag journey to a series of caverns below cities in Belgium, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, America.

A program consisting of the synthesized instruments of a full orchestra read the score and began to broadcast the music to small groups of people sitting in the caverns…

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 Future of the Future

by Jon Rappoport

August 10, 2021

(To join our email list, click here.)

“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)

Face it. For various reasons, the human race is addicted to solving problems, even where problems don’t exist.

But imagination, unchained, would take us into a wholly different arena.

At some point in the future, art will intersect with reality in a way that exceeds any transformation yet seen.

I can’t put a number on the year or the century in which this will occur, but it won’t matter, because when it does happen, something will also happen to time itself…

As a result of art, language will change. A new layer will be added to the way we think and talk, and this layer will impregnate us with new esthetics which are impossible to define or label.

What was mystery becomes fact, but not rationally surrounded fact. It is immediacy of experience. In every second, we are alive. And a new language facilitates that.

For all this to come true, we need, above all, imagination—unchained.

Here is an introduction made by the famous astrologer and philosopher, Dane Rudhyar, before a concert of his music almost 40 years ago:

“Thus you find in my music extended chords which provide a definite sense of spacing between notes, notes which are supposed to be in dissonant relationship. These harmonies can be disturbing at first, but eventually you can learn to realize what is their essential purpose; and this purpose is to stimulate you, to arouse you, to break down crystallization…

“It is that kind of music to which you are subjected tonight. I hope that it will bring to you some sort of a realization of a possibility which perhaps you have not been aware of, or confusedly so, in the past. To really help you to live a more intense, a more creative life — this is the purpose I have always had in music, in other arts, or in my philosophy, astrology — indeed in whatever I have done. It is always an attempt to bring the human person away from the old traditional pattern of a classical, set and definite kind of society, and to lead it to new horizons where the creative factor in what really is man can be seen operating in full and glorious freedom.”

Paul Klee: “To emphasize only the beautiful seems to me to be like a mathematical system that only concerns itself with positive numbers.”

Klee was intimating that our language could be expanded so that it exceeds the possibility of translation back into prosaic terms.

What we are has the potential to invent art out along an infinite number of roads—and in doing so, we surpass any previous form of language. And when THAT happens, our communication with one another reaches new heights and depths. There is nothing technical or scientific about such a momentous breakthrough.

We tend to place a tremendous emphasis on UNITY in our culture. But the truth is, evolution is taking us in another direction. When this false unity fragments enough, we discover another possibility. The unique character of every individual can be taken to its extreme, and then we arrive at millions of different ways of being artists.

This is the future.

As improbable as it may seem, it has wings.

Magic is nothing more and nothing less than imagination superseding this universe. Magic occurs when imagination takes this reality for a ride.

Which brings us to what I call the Is People. The Is People are dedicated with a fervor to insisting that this Continuum and this consensus reality are inviolable, are the end-all and be-all.

They strive to fit themselves into Is, and this eventually has some interesting negative consequences. These people come to resemble solid matter. They take on the character of matter.

For them, imagination is at least a misdemeanor, if not a felony. It’s a blow to the Is of Is. They tend to view imagination as a form of mental disorder.

Technocrats like to gibber about imagination as if it’s nothing more than just another closed system that hasn’t been mapped yet. But they’re sure it will be, and when that happens, people will apparently give up creating and opt for living in a way that more closely resembles machines.

There are many people who secretly wish they were machines that functioned automatically and without flaws. It’s their wet dream.

Magic eventually comes to the conclusion that imagination creates reality. Any reality. And therefore, one universe, indivisible, is an illusion, a way of trapping Self.

What began as the physical universe, a brilliant work of art, ends up as a psychic straitjacket, a mental ward in which the inmates strive for normalcy. Those who fail at even this are labeled and shunted into a special section of the ward.

But the result of imagination, if pursued and deployed long enough and intensely enough, is:

Consensus reality begins to organize itself around you, rather than you organizing yourself around it.

There are various names and labels used to describe this state of affairs, but none of them catches the sensation of it.

Magic is one of those labels.

What I’m describing here isn’t some snap-of-the-fingers trick of manifestation; it’s a life lived.

The old alchemists were working in this area. They were striving for the transformation of consciousness. In true alchemy, one’s past, one’s experience, one’s conflicts all become fuel for the fire of creating new realities. Taken along certain lines, this is called art.

One universe, one logic, one Continuum, one role in that Continuum, one all-embracing commitment to that role, one avenue of perception, one Is…this is the delusion.

And eventually, the delusion gives birth to a dedication to what “everyone else” thinks and supposes and assumes and accepts. This is slavery.

Freeing one’s self, living through and by imagination, is not a mass movement. It’s a choice taken by one person. It’s a new and unique road for each person.

Societies and civilizations are organized around some concept of the common good. The concept always deteriorates, and this is because it is deployed to lower the ceiling on individual power rather than raise it.

“Be less than you are, then we can all come together in a common cause.”

It’s essentially a doctrine of sacrifice—everyone sacrifices to everyone else, and the result is a coagulated mass of denial of Self.

It is a theme promoted under a number of guises by men who have one thing in mind: control.

It’s a dictatorship of the soul. It has always existed.

Breaking out of it involves reasserting the power of imagination to invent new and novel realities.

Under a variety of names, this is art.

Promoting the image of the artist as a suffering victim is simply one more way to impose the doctrine of sacrifice.

In 1961, when I began writing and painting in earnest, I had a conversation with the extraordinary healer, Richard Jenkins, whom I write about in my book, The Secret Behind Secret Societies. This is my note from that time about what Richard told me:

“Paint what you want to, no matter what anyone else says. You may not always know what you want to create, but that’s good. Keep working, keep painting. You’ll find your way. You’ll invent something new, something unique, if you don’t give in. You’ll see everything in a new light. Reality is a bad joke. It’s nothing more than what everyone assents to, because they’re afraid. They’re afraid of what people will say. They’re afraid they have far more power than they want to discover. They’re afraid that power will lead them away from common and ordinary beliefs. They’re afraid they’ll become a target for the masses who have surrendered their own lives and don’t want to be reminded of it. They afraid they’ll find out something tremendous about themselves…”

Nothing I’ve experienced in the 50 years since then has diminished what Richard said to me.

These fears are all illusions that disintegrate when a person shoves in his chips on imagination and makes that bet and lives it.

This new language—what does it consist of? Heightened ecstatic impressions, a sense of thrilling dynamic motion, images, emotions on the aesthetic plane, and other qualities too immediate to describe. These are all in flux. There is no aim to “trap them in a bottle.” Trapping them would change their nature. The “procession of packets of energy” in some cases might appear to tell a story, but a story without the usual plotlines, without beginnings, middles, or endings.

It is a language we have known before and will know again. It is an expression of imagination itself, and it contains, as direct experience, all those desired exaltations and triumphs and joys and powers that we once thought were hidden from us, like mountaintops in the clouds. But instead, they are right here. They are flowing from person to person. They are the substance of daily life. They are vision finally realized. But they are not an ending. They are rivers.

Art is dangerous to authorities.

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 schools 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.

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.

VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE: A poem for the 21st century

by Jon Rappoport

Copyright © 2021

July 23, 2021

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After money was sold down the river and resurrected on a cross of blood
After a cash-loaded God strolled into town
After the Universal Hospital drugged synapses and drove the wild horses of imagination down into underground canyons
and sculpted androids stepped out in the aftermath buying back their own memories

geologic wraiths spiraled up inside television sets—
their only ambition to stunt prayers for deliverance and kill raw desire—

we watched wildcats of Texas dripping sweat into their high hats pull black blood out of the ground and send it through tubes of night to porcupine refineries on the shores of the Body of Christ
   apostles were resurrected in knife-cutter fins of long Cadillacs running hot across the Kansas plains with blondes in the back seat drinking

New horizontal towns were multiplying on Long Island, stage flats of perfect geometry coddled in the breasts of hopeful mothers asking for redemption from pill-addled afternoons and hallucinatory music cooking in shining ovens
                             monthly budgets laid out neatly on Formica counters below the knives
          distant farm fields dead in the snow
         blank-eyed children walking in the snow
         cultivating nightmares they would one day visit on Reality

I flew over those fields and heard the crackerbox houses rot and rust as nothing ever rotted before

[…]

To read the poem in full, click here.

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.

If the Individual is an Artist of Reality

by Jon Rappoport

July 22, 2021

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…Then what are the Illuminati illuminated ABOUT?

They’re illuminated about their own invented narratives and story lines and symbols and ceremonies and rituals—which, when you add them up, result in ART; in that case, perverse art.

Every secret society and organized religion…if you stripped them of their art, what would they have left? About as much hair as Sampson, after Delilah clipped it off.

It’s easy to say, “Oh, but the masses are incapable—one person at a time—of becoming artists who individually invent and shape their own highest realities, so why even bring it up as a possibility? Just forget about it and let life go on as it always has.”

But here is the problem. When the individual believes he is unable to invent his own reality, he accepts what perverse groups design for him. He’s entranced by their symbols and story lines and pretended metaphysical insights and their systems of illumination and their concocted theatrical ceremonies and rituals. He doesn’t see the art and artifice because he doesn’t see art at all.

So he says, “My church, my secret society doesn’t invent anything. My church has DISCOVERED a connection to the ultimate reality, and I’ve joined them.”

It’s the same with the so-called science of virology. “These researchers aren’t inventing fictitious stories about the existence of viruses. They’ve DISCOVERED the viruses. I don’t know anything about that process. How could I? But they’re QUALIFIED. So I accept what they say. If it means I have hide my face with a mask, lock myself up in my home, bankrupt my business…so what? It’s NECESSARY.”

“Inserts in the brain? Nanoparticles as sensors inside the brain, receiving instructions from Control Central? QUALIFIED people would handle that, so let them shape my perception with those inserts. I’m sure it’ll work out well. I mean, SOMEBODY has to be in charge of reality. I’m certainly not. How could I be?”

Huxley, Brave New World: “Hot tunnels alternated with cool tunnels. Coolness was wedded to discomfort in the form of hard X-rays. By the time they were decanted the embryos had a horror of cold. They were predestined to emigrate to the tropics, to be miner and acetate silk spinners and steel workers. Later on their minds would be made to endorse the judgment of their bodies. ‘We condition them to thrive on heat,’ concluded Mr. Foster. ‘Our colleagues upstairs will teach them to love it’.”

Groups, large and small, are made to limit the elasticity of reality.

Here is the kicker. No one knows what any individual, over the course of his life, would invent as HIS OWN reality…but there is a general consensus that it would be too dangerous to find out, to allow such a voyage to take place.

In other words, people, left to their own devices, are threats; so they must be controlled.

In other words, freedom must be chained up.

Of course, it’s not as if we are living in a paradise here and now, with all the restrictions on freedom surrounding us.

THAT experiment is not working out well at all.

Over the long-term, the only way out of the mazes that civilizations create and impose is: individuals need to invent their own realities.

There has to be an understanding of what this means.

No one said improving that understanding would be easy.

It requires a completely different kind of education, from the bottom up.

It requires, for example, an immersion in IMAGINATION. Without it, individuals are going to opt for their smallest and most parochial conceptions of what reality can be. Individuals are going to invent what they’ve been trained to invent, or they’re going to rebel against the training like common criminals.

“Oh, but the kind of educational revolution you’re suggesting would be too difficult. It could never work…”

Newsflash: every radical departure from What Already Exists is a massive challenge.

And just to be clear, here is civilization’s counter-argument: “Reality you say? This is not something that is INVENTED. It’s DISCOVERED. It’s discovered by the people who are trained in that kind of work. What they reveal, we must follow. Because it is the truth.”

There it is, the Big Lie.

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.

William Blake: prince of imagination, vision, and faith

“If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is: infinite.”

by Jon Rappoport

July 21, 2021

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Since I’ve been writing about the individual inventing his own reality, and having posted a piece about Ayn Rand, I now turn to a quite different person of a different time, the poet and artist William Blake (1757-1827). No doubt Blake would take vigorous issue with my simple claim that he created his own reality; nevertheless…

Aside from the fact that Blake mercilessly criticized organized religion, there is no other poet in the English language possessed of greater faith; the form of that faith, and whether it changed substantially over the years are subjects for scholars. I view Blake, first and foremost, as a poet, who set down what he saw, envisioned, imagined, believed, and questioned.

Here is a question (was it rhetorical?) he raised in one of the greatest poems in any language:

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Blake also wrote: “And now let me finish with assuring you that, Tho I have been very unhappy, I am so no longer. I am again. Emerged into the light of day; I still & shall to Eternity Embrace Christianity and Adore him who is the Express image of God; but I have travel’d thro’ Perils & Darkness not unlike a Champion. I have Conquer’d, and shall still Go on Conquering. Nothing can withstand the fury of my Course among the Stars of God & in the Abysses of the Accuser. My Enthusiasm is still what it was, only Enlarged and conform’d.”

And he wrote this: “The ancient poets animated all objects with Gods or Geniuses, calling them by the names and adorning them with the properties of woods, rivers, mountains, lakes, cities, nations, and whatever their enlarged & numerous senses could perceive. And particularly they studied the genius of each city & country, placing it under its mental deity; Till a system was formed, which some took advantage of, & enslav’d the vulgar by attempting to realize or abstract the mental deities from their objects: thus began priesthood; Choosing forms of worship from poetic tales. And at length they pronounc’d that the Gods had order’d such things. Thus men forgot that all deities reside in the human breast.”

And this: “It is not because Angels are Holier than Men or Devils that makes them Angels but because they do not Expect Holiness from one another but from God only.”

“Thinking as I do that the Creator of this World is a very Cruel Being & being a Worshipper of Christ, I cannot help saying: ‘the Son, O how unlike the Father!’ First God Almighty comes with a Thump on the Head. Then Jesus Christ comes with a balm to heal it.”

Make of that powerful brew what you will; I just keep reading Blake’s lines of poetry:

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne’er believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt
They’d immediately go out.

Love to faults is always blind,
Always is to joys inclined,
Lawless, winged, and unconfined,
And breaks all chains from every mind.

Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell’s despair.

O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.

Blake went to school only until he was ten. He was then educated at home by his mother.

His religious faith was equaled by his faith in imagination. Perhaps to him they were the same.

There is no other voice like his in the history of poetry. It is unique, in part, because he never wavered from his own vision. He took jobs and commissions, but they never distracted him from the ocean of his work.

He had “a genius of the ear.” He could hear a nursery rhyme and then raise it to the door of his heaven without ever dropping back into a trace of syrup or sentimentality.

A hundred years later, Yeats read Blake’s most magic lines and realized that modern poems could be filled with them. Magic? Here is what I mean:

Yeats: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

Blake: What immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Yeats: Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Blake: When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

I mention Yeats for another reason. There is a story told about his marriage. There are several versions. The one I prefer illustrates what I mean when I say: no one can predict what reality an individual will create when left to his own devices, when freed from the restraints of what he is supposed to believe. The story also illustrates the lengths to which individuals will go to forge a unique vision.

For almost 30 years, Yeats pursued the love of his life, Maud Gonne. She refused to marry him. A year after she turned him down for the last time, in 1916, grief-stricken and at the end of his rope, at age 52, he married Georgie Hyde-Lees, who was 25.

Almost immediately, Georgie saw their marriage was doomed to fail. Four days after their wedding, she suddenly told Yeats she could perform automatic writing. “Instructors” dictated highly esoteric texts to her. This intrigued Yeats. Together, they began to work out myriad systems to make metaphysical sense of the huge cascades of strange pages Georgie began setting down—-eventually resulting in the 1925 book, A Vision.

Their marriage endured. They had two children. Yeats dug deeply into the automatic texts and extracted images and phrases which he used and reworked in his late poems.

In my preferred version of this story, Georgie, desperate to hold on to her husband, invented both the pretext of her ability to perform automatic writing AND invented the ensuing mystical texts.

It worked. Once the new alliance with her husband was formed, the marriage survived; and Yeats, his writing up against a brick wall of exhaustion, suddenly found new sources and material and inspiration.

New life, new poetry, new partnership, new love.

Georgie decided to risk everything, and she won.

On the wings of THE INVENTION OF REALITY.

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.