Category Archives: Energy & Imagination

The blockbuster movie called Reality

by Jon Rappoport

April 14, 2014

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I’ve had a number of requests to repost this piece. The kernel of it was born in a series of nights at the LA Factory Theater with director Scott Kelman. He ran an informal group called The Liars’ Club.

Each one of us would go up on the stage and tell, in the most convincing way we could, a giant lie about our past. A story.

And the strange thing was, after listening to a few of these stories, we lost the difference, we couldn’t figure out whether they were true or false.

One night, in fact, after I’d told a rather grisly tale, I rode home with a friend. She was angry with me. She said, “How could you have done that?”

I said, “Done what? We were all telling lies, right? Lies.”

She fumed in silence.

Then she said, “No, that wasn’t a lie. You really did that.”

OK, here’s the piece…

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

Is this a good idea?

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

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 an 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 trance 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. 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 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? 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 are the words Care and 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. They’re targeting your body. You feel a haze settle over you.

In the haze dance little creatures. They’re speaking. You try to hear what they’re saying.

Now you do. “Reality, reality, reality.”

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.

But 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?

You recognize your mind is now divided into two parts. The first part registers sensations from this reality. Feedback. These sensations are meant to be sorted, in order to answer the question: How Am I?

The second part of your mind is entirely devoted to perceiving problems and solving them. Everything at this level is organized to constitute problems.

You were never aware of these two sectors of your mind before.

Where did they come from?

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

You realize, without knowing how, that 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…electromagnetically induced fields. It’s stamped on every object in this space…

To suggest you’ve been here before. To suggest you belong here.

As you look around the cottage, you apprehend a third sector of your mind. You struggle to identify it.

It’s the fount of a different kind of perception.

Yes.

You keep staring at the cottage and you see space.

You see space that…

Has been placed here. For you.

It, too, is threaded with the Familiar.

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 into 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 fifth year by now. The fifth 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?”

“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.

Exit From the Matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From The Matrix, click here.)

She looks into your eyes.

“Go out to the street,” she says crisply. “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 agree to reveal or discuss, under penalty of law, nothing about its nature, substance, or duration…”

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

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.

Artist exceeds limits permitted by brain researchers

~a short story~

by Jon Rappoport

April 12, 2014

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The year was 2054. The artist, living on the edge of the city in a small room, picked up his messages and discovered one from the Bureau of Mind Management. It was an order to appear.

In an office on the 15th floor of a virtual building, he sat in a chair surrounded by a ring of yellow tulips. A holographic interrogator materialized.

“We have a report on you,” the iFigure said. “It indicates an output difficult to measure or interpret. What can you tell us about this?”

“Well,” the artist said, “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,” the artist said. “Nevertheless, I’m composing.”

“Why?” the iFigure said.

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

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

“I suppose that means your instruments are limited,” the artist said.

There was a pause.

“Your statement is incendiary,” the iFigure said. “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,” the artist said. “But the science rests on certain assumptions. I would call it greatest good as a lowest common denominator.”

“What do you mean?” the iFigure said.

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

“That’s a gross oversimplification.”

“It doesn’t describe the algorithms you employ,” the artist said, “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?” the iFigure said.

“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?” said the iFigure.

“Because I was doing illustrations for the Happiness Holos.”

“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,” the artist said. “They encourage people to stay on the positive side of a fantasy-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 creative fire. The artist can use and transform any material.”

“Where did you hear such a thing?” the iFigure said.

“Nowhere,” the artist said. “I’ve experienced it many times.”

“Your views are highly eccentric,” the iFigure said. “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?” the iFigure said.

“Not at all.”

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

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

“No? Then what do you do?”

“I invent sound.”

“Preposterous.”

“Large masses of sound.”

“Absurd. According to what underlying pattern?”

“None,” the artist said. “I assume you’re from The Library of Structures. You won’t find my activity in the catalogs.”

“All structures and patterns are contained in the files.”

“I doubt that,” the artist said. “But regardless, I don’t invent through pattern.”

“No?” the iFigure said. “How then?”

“I improvise.”

“And this term refers to?”

“Something done spontaneously,” the artist said.

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

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

“You’re being flippant,” the iFigure said.

“I knew you’d cite me,” the artist said. “I’m just trying to enjoy myself until you pass sentence.”

“There is no sentence,” the iFigure said. “You’re an anomaly. We investigate. We consider. We direct resources. We question. We determine.”

“I’m afraid,” the artist said, “that your and my idea of ‘determine’ are quite different.”

“Let me ask you this,” the iFigure said. “When you are composing, do you ever believe you enter into a realm or area that could be called ‘non-material’?”

“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,” the iFigure said. “And disordered.”

“If I could simply confess to that and be on my way, I’d be a happy man. But I’m sure you have charges to attach.”

“You live in a society,” the iFigure said. “To keep the peace and maintain the Positive, from which all good things flow, 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.”

Exit From the Matrix

The artist was about to ask whether he had a choice, when a holographic webbing that looked curiously like a rainbow clamped him tight in his chair. The pressure increased.

“We register some variation from the norm in your present thinking,” the iFigure said.

“What present thinking?” the artist said.

“What you’re thinking right now.”

“That was quick.”

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

The artist took up from where he’d last left off, composing his symphony.

“I’m starting the third movement,” he said.

“Wait,” the iFigure said. His left arm sizzled and disappeared.

“This is the thunderstorm section,” the artist said.

The pressure of the rainbow around him relaxed.

The iFigure said, “What you’re doing is disruptive.”

“It’s because of how you set your frequencies,” the artist said.

He continued composing.

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

Then adjoining suburban towns blew away into the sky of the communal apparatus. The iFigure reminded the artist of one of those ancient neon signs, broken, buzzing, blinking. Finally, it went dark.

Ten thousand holographic government buildings started to explode, froze, and vanished.

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

He was suddenly back in his room at the edge of the city. But now there was no edge and no city. The room felt like a vehicle traveling through space.

“I suppose this is what they mean by a negative consequence,” he said.

The room increased velocity and…jumped.

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 emails at www.nomorefakenews.com

Interviewing the astral Albert Einstein about free will

by Jon Rappoport

April 5, 2014

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It was a strange journey into the astral realm to find Albert Einstein.

I slipped through gated communities heavily guarded by troops protecting dead Presidents. I skirted alleys where wannabe demons claiming they were Satan’s reps were selling potions made from powdered skulls of English kings. I ran through mannequin mansions where trainings for future shoppers were in progress. Apparently, some souls come to Earth to be born as aggressive entitled consumers. Who knew?

Finally, in a little valley, I spotted a cabin, and there on the porch, sitting in a rocker, smoking a pipe and reading The Bourne Ultimatum, was Dr. Einstein.

He was wearing an old sports jacket with leather patches on the elbows, jeans, and furry slippers.

I wanted to talk with the great man because I’d read a 1929 Saturday Evening Post interview with him. He’d said:

“I am a determinist. As such, I do not believe in free will…Practically, I am, nevertheless, compelled to act as if freedom of the will existed. If I wish to live in a civilized community, I must act as if man is a responsible being.”

Dr, Einstein went inside and brought out two bottles of cold beer and we began our conversation:

Q: Sir, would you say that the underlying nature of physical reality is atomic?

A: If you’re asking me whether atoms and smaller particles exist everywhere in the universe, then of course, yes.

Q: And are you satisfied that, wherever they are found, they are the same? They exhibit a uniformity?

A: Surely, yes.

Q: Regardless of location.

A: Correct.

Q: So, for example, if we consider the make-up of the brain, those atoms are no different in kind from atoms of the same elements, wherever in the universe they are found.

A: That’s true. The brain is composed entirely of these tiny particles. And the particles, everywhere in the universe, without exception, flow and interact and collide without any exertion of free will. It’s an unending stream of cause and effect.

Q: And when you think to yourself, “I’ll get breakfast now,” what is that?

A: The thought?

Q: Yes.

A: Ultimately, it is the outcome of particles in motion.

Q: You were compelled to have that thought.

A: As odd as that may seem, yes. Of course, we tell ourselves stories to present ourselves with a different version of reality, but those are social or cultural constructs.

Q: And those “stories” we tell ourselves—they aren’t freely chosen rationalizations, either. We have no choice about that.

A: Well, yes. That’s right.

Q: So there is nothing in the human brain that allows us the possibility of free will.

A: Nothing at all.

Q: And as we are sitting here right now, sir, looking at each other, sitting and talking, this whole conversation is spooling out in the way that it must. Every word. Neither you nor I is really choosing what we say.

A: I may not like it, but it’s deterministic destiny. The particles flow.

Q: When you pause to consider a question I ask you…even that act of considering is mandated by the motion of atomic and sub-atomic particles. What appears to be you deciding how to give me an answer…that is a delusion.

A: The act of considering? Why, yes, that, too, would have to be determined. It’s not free. There really is no choice involved.

Q: And the outcome of this conversation, whatever points we may or may not agree upon, and the issues we may settle here, about this subject of free will versus determinism…they don’t matter at all, because, when you boil it down, the entire conversation was determined by our thoughts, which are nothing more than atomic and sub-atomic particles in motion—and that motion flows according to laws, none of which have anything to do with human choice.

A: The entire flow of reality, so to speak, proceeds according to determined sets of laws. Yes.

Q: And we are in that flow.

A: Most certainly we are.

Q: The earnestness with which we might try to settle this issue, our feelings, our thoughts, our striving—that is irrelevant. It’s window dressing. This conversation actually cannot go in different possible directions. It can only go in one direction.

A: That would ultimately have to be so.

Q: Now, are atoms and their components, and any other tiny particles in the universe…are any of them conscious?

A: Of course not. The particles themselves are not conscious.

Q: Some scientists speculate they are.

A: Some people speculate that the moon can be sliced and served on a plate with fruit.

Q: What do you think “conscious” means?

A: It means we participate in life. We take action. We converse. We gain knowledge.

Q: Any of the so-called faculties we possess—are they ultimately anything more than particles in motion?

A: Well, no, they aren’t. Because everything is particles in motion. What else could be happening in this universe?

Q: All right. I’d like to consider the word “understanding.”

A: It’s a given. It’s real.

Q: How so?

A: The proof that it’s real, if you will, is that we are having this conversation. It makes sense to us.

Q: Yes, but how can there be understanding if everything is particles in motion? Do the particles possess understanding?

A: No they don’t.

Q: To change the focus a bit, how can what you and I are saying have any meaning?

A: Words mean things.

Q: Again, I have to point out that, in a universe with no free will, we only have particles in motion. That’s all. That’s all we are. So where does “meaning” come from?

A: “We understand language” is a true proposition.

Q: You’re sure.

A: Of course.

Q: Then I suggest you’ve tangled yourself in a contradiction. In the universe you depict, there would be no room for understanding. Or meaning. There would be nowhere for it to come from. Unless particles understand. Do they?

A: No.

Q: Then where do “understanding” and “meaning” come from?

A: [Silence.]

Q: Furthermore, sir, if we accept your depiction of a universe of particles without free will, then there is no basis for this conversation at all. We don’t understand each other. How could we?

A: But we do understand each other.

Q: And therefore, your philosophic materialism (no free will, only particles in motion) must have a flaw.

A: What flaw?

Q: Our existence contains more than particles in motion.

A: More? What would that be?

Q: Would you grant that whatever it is, it is non-material?

A: It would have to be, but…

Q: Then, driving further along this line, there is something non-material which is present, which allows us to understand each other, which allows us to comprehend meaning. We are conscious. Puppets are not conscious. As we sit here talking, I understand you. Do you understand me?

A: Of course.

Q: Then that understanding is coming from something other than particles in motion. Without this non-material quality, you and I would be gibbering in the dark.

A: You’re saying that, if all the particles in the universe, including those that make up the brain, possess no consciousness, no understanding, no comprehension of meaning, no freedom, then how can they give birth to understanding and freedom. There must be another factor, and it would have to be non-material.

Q: Yes. That’s what I’m saying. And I think you have to admit your view of determinism and particles in motion—that picture of the universe—leads to several absurdities.

A: Well…perhaps I’m forced to consider it. Otherwise, we can’t sit here and understand each other.

Q: You and I do understand each other.

A: I hadn’t thought it through this way before, but if there is nothing inherent in particles that gives rise to understanding and meaning, then everything is gibberish. Except it isn’t gibberish. Yes, I seem to see a contradiction. Interesting.

Q: And if these non-material factors—understanding and meaning—exist, then other non-material factors can exist.

A: For example, freedom. I suppose so.

Q: And the drive to eliminate freedom in the world…is more than just the attempt to substitute one automatic reflex for another.

A: That would be…yes, that would be so.

Q: In one way or another, there is a great impulse to deny the non-materiality of the qualities that are inherent to human life. Scientists, for example, would be absolutely furious about the idea that, despite all their maneuvering, the most essential aspects of human life are beyond the scope of what they, the scientists, are “in charge of.”

A: It would be a naked challenge to the power of science.

The Matrix Revealed

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, The Matrix Revealed, click here.)

Einstein puffed on his pipe and looked out over the valley. He took a sip of his beer. After a minute, he said, “Let me see if I can summarize this, because it’s really rather startling The universe is nothing but particles. All those particles follow laws of motion. They aren’t free. The brain is made up entirely of those same particles. Therefore, there is nothing in the brain that would give us freedom. These particles also don’t understand anything, they don’t make sense of anything, they don’t grasp the meaning of anything. Since the brain, again, is made up of those particles, it has no power to allow us to grasp meaning or understand anything. But we do understand. We do grasp meaning. Therefore, we are talking about qualities we possess which are not made out of energy. These qualities are entirely non-material.”

He nodded.

“In that case,“ he said, “there is…oddly enough, nothing. What I means is, in terms of matter and energy, we could say there is a nothing. But that’s just a relative judgment. In this nothing, there is, what shall I call it, a completely different sphere or territory. But it can’t be measured. It’s not that kind of territory. It has no beginning or end. If it did, it would be a continuum and we could measure it.”

He pointed to the valley.

“That has energy. But what does it give me? Does it allow me to be conscious? Does it allow me to be free, to understand meaning? No.”

Then he laughed. He looked at me.

“I’m dead,” he said, “aren’t I? I didn’t realize it until this very moment.”

I shook my head. “I would say you were dead.”

He grinned. “Yes!” he said. “That’s a good one. I was dead.”

He stood up.

“Enough of this beer,” he said. “I have some schnapps inside. Let me get it. Let’s drink the good stuff! After all, I’m apparently Forever. And so are you. And so are we all.”

While he was inside, I looked out at the valley. Suddenly, I saw the clouds and the sky and the fields as a theater. It was one more stage on which we could live, as we tend to do, within an envelope of time.

It was a beautiful artifact, intensified by our own desires.

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 on trial against the State

The artist on trial against the State

by Jon Rappoport

April 4, 2014

www.nomorefakenews.com

June 9, 2061, 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, “looks like another case of free expression. Uncontrolled display of a gobbledegook idea. 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 for the Benefit of All. No declaration of philosophic position. Status: renegade. Such status is explicitly listed in DOD Manual 347 as a precursor to terrorist activity. Surveillance data reveals the artist is a smoker, grows his own vegetables, brews teas 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.”

Exit From the Matrix

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. He sat in the tree and looked at the sky. For the only time in his life, he experienced ecstasy. He felt as if he were rising into the sky and moving among the clouds, like an animal, striding through banks of thick white cumulus to a secret destination, a place beyond—as he thought, much later in life—a place beyond all the rules that defined order and the State. He soared in those clouds. He had no need to explain himself to anyone.

The Judge blinked. He looked at the prisoner.

“How…did you know?” he said.

The prisoner said, “You told me the story of the tree many times. I’m your son.”

The Judge let loose a howl. The room wobbled, hazy and distant.

The policemen rushed forward to him.

They lifted him from his chair.

One of the policemen shouted, “Look!”

There in the center of the room, the prisoner was gone.

The sculpture was gone.

Instead, in a small grove, the bent and burned and twisted tree held new green leaves. Out along one of its dark branches, a leopard was stretched out on his belly, looking at the policemen.

Court was recessed for the day.

The Judge was sedated and flown to the Danny Thomas Center for the Treatment of Mental Disorders Among Government Officials.

Even after three rounds of anti-psychotic sleep drugs, electromagnetic microwave reprogramming, insulin shock therapy, and a partial lobotomy, he kept shouting for his son.

The doctors knew the Judge was still in a grave condition, because there were no records of him having a son.

Many years ago, calling in every marker he possessed, the Judge had seen to it that those records were destroyed.

At the time, he’d said to a colleague, “My offspring an artist? Going out into the world and doing any damn thing he pleases, with no conscience and no sense of propriety? I’d rather destroy myself—or erase his existence. I took the more convenient choice.”

And so he had. Until that day.

Jon Rappoport

The author of two explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED and EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 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 emails at www.nomorefakenews.com

Who produced the movie called Reality?

Who produced the movie called Reality?

By Jon Rappoport

April 2, 2014

www.nomorefakenews.com

This question would strike most people as strange, to say the least.

But it’s strange only because most people don’t grasp the idea that they can invent reality themselves.

For them, reality sits there like an old plate of scrambled eggs, day after day, year after year. Wake up in the morning: yup, there’s that old plate of eggs.

The analogy breaks down, because they don’t eat the eggs and move on. They just look at them.

Artists, however, about whom I write much in these pages, take a different approach. They never got the memo about the unchanging nature of things.

Nor were they informed that change always comes from Someplace Else.

While I’m at it, here’s another message artists haven’t fully signed on to: “the patterns inscribed in the universe are so stunning, they should be worshiped on bended knee.”

Fractal this, sacred geometry that? All right, sure, quite interesting, but every work of art can be analyzed and found to contain patterns, even if the artist didn’t think they were particularly important, even if he didn’t put them there.

And the universe (the movie) is just that, a work of art.

The movie called Reality is one production out of a possible infinity of films. Whichever studio produced it was, as all studios do, hoping for boffo box office—and they got it. This universe is a hit.

People line up around the block every day, waiting to get in.

But as we all know, commercial success is a deeply fallible indicator of value. You can get a few million people to watch a video of a singer who can’t sing singing a song a composer who can’t compose, composed.

Whichever studio produced the movie called Reality was committed to enduring appeal, in the same way that people behind a soap opera design it to hook in audiences and addict them.

Taking this a step further, many people build their own lives as works of art that will addict them. As in: I’m hooked on my own life.

And not in a good way. Rather, these people construct their lives so they’re filled with just the right amount of sentimental chaos, demanding their undivided attention. Today’s crisis blends into tomorrow’s faux tragedy.

The movie called Reality (this universe) is injected with the illusion of “forever and everywhere.” In other words, it seems never to end and it seems to occupy space wherever space is available.

And then there are the rules. One: there will be no new space. Two: every event will appear to be the result of a long, long chain of previous causes and effects.

Therefore, if a person does something that jumps outside the chain, he is informed that he is nuts. And representatives (paid and unpaid), who are defenders of the movie, reassure one and all that the links of cause and effect are intact and can never be disturbed.

These reps are actually claiming (though not publicly) that everything, including people, inside the movie are nothing more than waves of tiny, tiny predetermined particles in motion. Which means: there is no such thing as freedom.

But this doesn’t sell well to the majority of the audience. So, at the same time, freedom is promoted as a feature of the movie. An obvious contradiction.

Did I fail to mention that the movie called Reality is displayed so that everyone in the audience is also in the movie? Yes, this is certainly a key factor.

It’s holographic. Watch it, exist inside it.

Exit From the Matrix

I should also lay out a few other strategies of the movie producers. They enlist artists to produce other work that, while appearing to be original, actually promotes the notion that the central movie is the end-all and be-all. This is called Realism.

They also fund various “spiritual” groups to devise complex systems that pay homage to the movie—as if it is a sacred object worthy of genuflecting worship.

“I’m waiting for the universe to tell me what to do. The universe is the source of wisdom. If it’s meant to be (by the universe), it’ll happen. If not, it won’t. We’re all ultimately connected in the universe.”

Meaning: you can’t walk out on the movie.

Lesser forms of this command abound: you can’t walk out on the government, you can’t walk out on the money system or the medical system or the energy grid or the surveillance state or the consensus culture or religion or the corporate empire or the approved sources of information.

Mostly, you can’t walk out on the space-time of the movie called Reality. You can’t walk out, come back, walk out, come back, and walk out at your pleasure.

If you could, that would be magic.

And there’s no such thing as magic.

So say the movie producers, who want a monopoly on that quality.

Jon Rappoport

The author of two explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED and EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 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 emails at www.nomorefakenews.com

Tibet deleted

by Jon Rappoport

April 1, 2014

(To join our email list, click here.)

For some unknown reason, the last post deleted the section on Tibet….here it is:

There’s a local church in my neighborhood that brings in Tibetan monks once a year to do a sand painting.

For a few days, the Monks use colored sands to create a very complex mandala on a table.

Then at the Easter service, the monks destroy the mandala. They always do that. That’s their gig. They make it over the course of a few days and then they whisk it away into dust.

An array of reasons is given to the congregation, to explain why the monks get rid of the sand painting after they’ve completed it.

One, they’re “transmuting” the painting. Two, they’re using the sand to create “healing.” Three, giving people small envelopes of sand, they’re “spreading the healing/creation.” Four, they’re illustrating the ineffable or transient nature of all things.

These are all New Age reasons. Superficial jive food for a modern entrained audience.

In the ancient Tibetan tradition, the creation of art (I’m boiling it down) had a purpose: to reveal that the universe is a product of mind. Period.

The universe, then, isn’t some final sacred entity, it’s a work of art…and if it can be vividly and deeply perceived as such, the adept (artist) can then spontaneously delete pieces of physical reality and/or insert pieces of his own invented reality into universe.

To really qualify as an adept/artist who understands all this, you also have to able to destroy (as in DESTROY) what you create. Not disperse it or turn it into some healing force or blow magic dust on a crowd with it. No.

A long time ago, the Tibetans clogged up their own technique of creative work with immense amounts of ceremonial baggage and ritual and “preparation.” You couldn’t go straight into practicing their creative techniques. You had to approach it from a long way off, and you had to endure all sorts of introductory strain before you walked through the door.

Then on top of that, coming into modern times, further New Age fluff was added to the mix, resulting in a ludicrous mess.

“Hey, man, give me some of that magic dust!”

Exit From the Matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From The Matrix, click here.)

Anyway, you see, DESTROYING isn’t a word you want to use nakedly, in polite company, to describe what’s happening to those sand paintings. It’s too stark for people. It’s too real. It’s too profound.

Destroying what you create means a few things: you know you can always create more; you have that bedrock confidence; you aren’t afraid that if you destroy what you created, you’ll suddenly find yourself in a great big vacuum; you’re perfectly willing to stop creating; you aren’t residing in some whimpering spaghetti of ideas and feelings about creation and destruction; you aren’t conning yourself with all that garbage; you aren’t totally relying on what you’ve created to feed back messages to you about what you should do in your life.

And destroying what you created also means you can enter into what the Tibetans call the Void, which, when you strip it of all superfluous nonsense, really is the place where you’re not creating anything.

And then you can start creating again.

Yes, the ancient Tibetans—before they obscured their own cosmic kick-ass philosophy—the most profound of Earth-bred cosmologies—were on to something. They weren’t messing around.

They were way ahead of the baloney modern so-called gurus have been cutting and turning out.

The monk sand painters at the local church on Sunday? I have no idea whether they know and remember all this. But they are a vague reminder of that wildness.

Whether anyone knows or cares, that’s what the sand painting and destruction are about.

It doesn’t need an audience at all. The audience is supposed to be doing the painting and the destroying, too.

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.

Tibet, Kabbalah, creation, destruction, tofu dog to go

by Jon Rappoport

April 1, 2014

(To join our email list, click here.)

You can find codes in War and Peace if you want to, or in labels that list all the ingredients in the weird junk kids buy at AM-PM stores on gas-station property.

Ready?

Here it is.

The Kabbalah is about…

The Kabbalah.

That’s the secret. That’s the real impetus behind it. That’s the driving force. That’s the headwind and the tailwind and the engine and the fuel.

That’s what it was always about.

Of course, most contributors to it never realized that. They were caught in the net of the themes, the threads, the topics, the arguments, the logic, the exegesis.

Think about it. If you’re going to write thousands of pages of something, and many people are going to author it together, for centuries, you need a broad compelling subject to bring them into the act. You want that net.

So the stated theme, the net that dragged in authors, was HOW DOES MAN APPROACH GOD. That was floated, and then authors were happy and they could write reams on that subject, and they did. They were motivated. They could bring a lot to the table.

The Kabbalah is about the Kabbalah, though, because the top men who started it had a closeted idea. It was what you’d call a meta-idea. They didn’t want to bring that idea out into the light, because if they had, everyone would have frowned and gone home before the text ever got off the ground. Everyone would have said, “Aw, that’s ridiculous! How can we take off on that? It’s too stark. It’s too simple. It’s too wide. It’s too permissive.”

These top few men who started the Kabbalah, as I said, had a secret meta-idea. Not the stated theme. Their secret idea was: YOU APPROACH GOD (or Ultimate), YOU GET CLOSER THROUGH…PROLIFERATION.

Proliferation of what?

Creation.

Human creation.

Creation, in particular, of more language, more poetry, more philosophy, more knowledge, more science, more learning…but most of all, through more language, new invented poetic metaphorical suggestive language.

If they could get many authors to jump in and write about the stated (not the real) theme, they would, in fact, over time, get more proliferation of language, more poetry. Yes. You see?

And that’s what happened.

It was a rather sensational strategy:

State a theme that will bring in many authors, who will then write for centuries, developing extensions of language as they do so…these authors will focus on how to approach The Ultimate—that will be their stated subject—but ACTUALLY, they will be carrying out (unconsciously) the real mission by proliferating language and poetry…because you can’t get close to Ultimate without making language stretch into metaphor…you can’t use mechanical language to move beyond a certain point down the road…

There is another reason why this is an interesting strategy. To move humanity (if it will ever be moved) into a truly new and much wider state of consciousness, you need art. But not just a piece here or a piece there, A FLOOD.

You need a flood (a vast proliferation) of art in all directions, so that the reality we accept as solid and restrictive and final (Smart and Final) becomes the loosely woven fabric it actually IS. With gaping holes. So what then comes to the fore is the creation of many many artists acting on their own. Millions and millions and millions of artists inventing new and powerful realities.

You NEVER need reduction and narrowing and bowing and scraping before the pillars of consensus reality. That’s a hoax. You NEVER need that. You need endless proliferation.

But you see, in modern times, there is a great emphasis on precision and tight asses. That’s the case. So there is a tendency to reduce and reduce and distill and forget that the royal highway is proliferation.

To remind one’s self of the real and greater energy, you might return to Walt Whitman and Melville and Dostoevsky and Henry Miller and Goya and early Stravinsky and Lenny Bruce and so on…

Really, the force behind Kabbalah wasn’t about walking up to the door and knocking on it and shaking hands with MR. ULTIMATE, it was about the thunderous expansion of metaphor, which is poetry, which is what meaning is when meaning shrugs off its shell of sheer literal mimicry of the physical world.

Exit From the Matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From The Matrix, click here.)

RISE OF THE EMPIRE OF IMAGINATION

The invention of worlds.

Entering into realms that had previously been hidden to you. The shapes of your experience widening and deepening.

Isn’t this, in fact, what people hope to gain from the study of arcane metaphysics and cosmology and “ancient mysteries?”

Except in this case, there is no external guide that directs your consciousness down specified roads and paths defined by “the wise ones.” All that baggage is gone. Gone, too, are the pretended principles of WHAT ULTIMATELY EXISTS.

The arrival of sweeping “earth changes,” the landing of visitors from space or other dimensions, gods, holy scriptures, channeled information, sacred geometry, cosmologies erected by priests and secret societies…all the objects and entities which people tend to treat as authorities and “permission-givers” and game-changers and wisdom sources…all those things no longer carry their former weight and gravitas…

Instead of sensing that some revelation is at hand, you’re inventing your own revelations, by the truckload.

You’re not crouched inside some space hoping for the arrow of truth to arrive, you’re outside that space inventing new universes.

You’re not waiting for The Big Green Light in the Sky to confirm what you’ve been led to believe is ultimate truth…you’re free.

In other words, you’re an artist.

(Click here to continue).

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 poet on trial

The poet on trial

by Jon Rappoport

March 27, 2014

www.nomorefakenews.com

“Don’t you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it.” (George Orwell, 1984)

The judges in the room, behind their table, were gray, but the poet in the dock appeared to be refreshed.

The charge against him was, as usual, incitement. This time the statement read, “…he has used words outside their legal meanings, and in so doing has risked the security of the State. His poems suggest another language, another form of expression, which would introduce disorder, since they are never defined. The State trains the citizenry to make it unified and literal, because without precise shared ideas expressed simply and beyond the possibility of misinterpretation, the Common Cause is undermined.”

The poet spoke in his defense:

“You can put a hat on a word, and a coat, and shoes, too. You can make it walk in the rain, you can force it to fight and die and come back to life again. You can strip it naked and reduce it down to the size of an atom, and you can pump it full of ashes and circle it around the sun, a dead planet.

“You can turn it inside out, cut it. You can surround it with fog and have people walk past it without ever knowing it exists.

“What you can’t do is define it narrowly forever. Sooner or later, it will take on new meanings, rough approximations of itself, it will become relative and comparative, it will grow lopsided. It will refer to other words, go silent for a thousands years and then incarnate.

“Like a human being.

“Fascisms rise and fall. Their unit of measure is the human being, who remains, despite all appearances, incalculable.

“The State tries everything in its power to defeat the individual, and can’t achieve it. Force, seduction, bribe, they all eventually fail.

“Every effort at unification is a glue that hardens and then disintegrates.

“Try to capture a word in a net, and it burns through the cords, though it seems no one lit the flame.

“You sit in judgment, hoping to snuff out a spontaneous creation of a spontaneous poet. Your verdict is refrigerated, mine is coming out of a hot undersea vent. I walk down the street and see a thousand things that have no numerical significance whatsoever. I see an angel who invented herself out of nothing. You see a dank cathedral whose petty bureaucrats impose order.

“You worship ideals that, in their implementation, turned your hearts into dead machines. You, sitting there in a row, are a little grove of petrified components.

“You’re at the end of the line. I’m just getting started.”

Exit From the Matrix

The sun shone through the windows of the room. Its rays fell on the judges, who were silent. The poet stepped out of the dock, walked over to them, and pinched their faces. There was no reaction.

They had sat in judgment of thousands of accused criminals. Now there was nothing left. They crumbled in their chairs and the dust fell to the floor.

The poet nodded and walked out of the room.

On the crowded street, he looked at a giant calendar on the side of a building. The year and the day were gone. He sensed it had taken several thousand years to arrive at this moment, but it didn’t matter. The State was in the process of disappearing.

Jon Rappoport

The author of two explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED and EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 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 emails at www.nomorefakenews.com

You can have consciousness made out of poetry or brain surgery

by Jon Rappoport

March 22, 2014

(To join our email list, click here.)

~recounted as a dialogue~

“Well, Jim, we found a few interesting things when we went into your brain.”

“Really?”

“Yes. A whole lot of poems, in fact.”

“What?! Impossible. That has to be a mistake. I’m just an ordinary guy. I go to work, have a few beers, take the train home, eat dinner, read the paper, do a little note-writing on experiments at the lab, go to bed around midnight…”

“Jim, I’m not asking for your biography—”

“I know, Doc, but what you’re telling me is crazy. I like a limerick now and then, but the weird stuff…Shakespeare and Milton…that’s for the dome heads. I’m just…”

“You’re a regular guy. Got that, Jim. However, I can show you X-rays. Scans. There’s poetry in your brain, and it’s threatening to take over your cerebral cortex unless we go in and do a second surgery.”

“Take over? You’re joking.”

“You have to face up to a few things, Jimbo. You’re actually posing as just another Joe, and it’s a good impression, I’m sure, but inside you there are poems waiting to come out. And if they do, it’s going to get ugly, believe me. For one thing, you’ll see more.”

“See more what?”

“More of what existence can be.”

“THERE ISN’T ANYTHING MORE. There’s what I do every day. My work. My family. My salary. Beers with the boys. Football. I love football.”

“Yes, we all love football, Jim. It’s mandatory. But you…let me read one of the poems we found in your brain.”

“HELL NO.”

“It won’t hurt that much.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Now as I was young and easy, under the apple boughs, about the lilting house, and happy as the grass was green—”

“STOP!”

“Okay, Jim, take it easy, it’s in your head, don’t blame me. We’ve discovered that…how I can put this…on some level you’re always thinking in poetry. Your whole consciousness is involved, and if we were to take the poems away, you’d go into a deep sleep, a kind of amnesia, perhaps a coma, and you’d never wake up. So we can’t surgically remove the poems. At best we can bury them deeper.”

“Do it. Bury them. Bury them all.”

“Yes, Jim, but hear me out. If we do that, you’ll lose something.”

“You mean I won’t like football anymore?”

“No, Jim. You’ll still have football. But you might not have beer. Just kidding. Ha-ha. What you might lose is your interest in life.”

“What do you mean?”

“You may not feel alive in the same way. You could become very dull.”

“How’s that possible, Doc. You’re just getting rid of poems. Who cares?”

“Well, Jim, apparently you do. As much as you’d like to deny it, your existence, your feeling about what it means to be alive—even though you’re trying to emphasize how ordinary you are—is wrapped up in a certain poetic consciousness. I know, it’s strange. But again, don’t blame me.”

“Look, Doc, you went into my skull to remove some kind of little blockage. And then you came up with these poems. And now you want to bury them. But you say if you do, I might turn into a zombie.”

“In the surgery, Jim, there was a leakage. Poems started to come through. We put in a plug, but it’s just temporary. It’s a delicate situation. Going back in a second time, we either let out all the poems, or we build a thicker wall.”

“Let me ask you a question, Doc. This thing, consciousness. What is it?”

“It’s two things, Jim. It’s what makes you know you’re alive, and it’s also how you’re alive. That second part is tricky. You’re connecting with the rhythm and sound of certain thoughts, certain energies. And these energies would NEVER come through to you if it weren’t for language, and that language is poetic. It’s much greater than the reality we see around us. You dampen down that language, Jim, because you want to appear normal. It’s your goal in life, to pretend not to understand anything about this. Do you see? You want to come off like a regular guy, who’s smart and good at his job, and who knows what’s happening in the world. But you don’t want to admit you’re connected to…that thing you’re afraid of.”

“But LOOK. I AM a regular guy. All right, so I read the newspaper and I can look behind the stories and I can see a lot of the con games the government is playing on people. I know something about who’s running the show, who’s behind the curtain. I take pride in that. But this poetry thing. It’s crazy.”

“Yes, I understand, Jim. But that’s not going to cut it in this case. We’re at a serious crossroad. We have to do something. You’re playing with fire, trying to deny your connection. Because on some level, you’re participating in a greater reality. You’re thinking on a different plane, and that thinking is what we call poetry. We could call it Budweiser, but it wouldn’t make any difference. It’s thought with higher force. And it’s coming from you, from your mind. You want to say you’re living in a pond, but you’re living in the ocean. Let me put it this way. If you weren’t accessing oceanic consciousness, you couldn’t step it all down and appear to be a normal very smart guy. It wouldn’t work. You’d have nothing to step down from.”

“What would I be?”

“A broccoli. A head of lettuce.”

“You’re serious?”

“As serious as an aneurism, Jim.”

“Geez, Doc, this is bad. My whole reputation, my whole rep with MYSELF is riding on the fact that I’m a hardheaded realist. Do you get what’s at stake here?”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m being so forthcoming. I could have put you under without you knowing it and just cut into your skull again. But I wanted to explain the whole thing to you and give you a choice. You see, Jim, the truth is we’re all living in a charade. We’re all faking it. We’re pretending we don’t have these fantastic energies in us. We’re all stepping it down to average and normal and smart.

It just so happens that, by the luck of the draw, my assistant in the OR nicked a little piece of your brain and opened up a portal into what we’re all trying to avoid. We’re all hooked up to our own poetic centers. I don’t mean little stupid rhymes. I mean great language that vaults us up into atmospheres and spaces that…well, I can’t really do it justice sitting here talking to you. But this is mind control here, Jim. The most profound kind. Self-induced. We do it to ourselves. We cut off access. We keep ourselves ignorant about the language we have…the genuine language that comes out of imagination. If I operate on you again, there’s a chance the wall we build will be too thick, and you’ll wake up with very little awareness. You’ll be regular and normal and average for REAL. And trust me, Jim, that’s a nightmare. I’ve seen it.

“What should I do, Doc?”

“Take a chance, Jim. Let us clear away any scar tissue and just leave an open portal. Let the language and the energies come through. From one faker to another, go for it. Go for the great adventure. Who knows what’ll it be? One thing’s for sure. You won’t be sitting here whining to me. You’ll be you. Dealing with that won’t be easy, but with enough guts, you could make it through. You could show us what we don’t want to see.”

“Doesn’t sound very appealing.”

“That won’t be your problem, Jim. I guarantee it. The problem is, it’ll be too appealing.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. Being who you are is what you’ve sacrificed your whole life. You’re going to retract that sacrifice. Think of it that way. You’re going to pull away the sacrifice like an old coat and burn it in the fire of a thousand new suns…”

“Or else come back as a carrot.”

“In which case, people around you will still think you’re Jim, but inside you won’t be anybody or anything. You’ll be a robot with no real consciousness.”

“I hate poetry, Doc.”

“Why do you think that is, Jim?”

“I don’t know. I want things to be simple and clear. Like a story. Beginning, middle, end.”

“Wrapped up like a nice neat package.”

“That’s right.”

“Like your life.”

“Why not?”

“You tell me.”

“I hate poetry.”

“We all do, Jim. It reminds us of something we’d rather forget.”

“So help me forget it, Doc.”

“You want to be a zombie.”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Imagine a world full of zombies, Jim. Everybody cut off from their oceanic consciousness.”

“Sounds good. Sounds like realism. No more conflict. No more demons.”

“Demons? Is that what you think I’m talking about, Jim? Your greatest thoughts and energies expressed with their greatest force, with—”

“They’re not RATIONAL, Doc. They’re meaningless. I don’t understand those thoughts. They don’t make any sense.”

“If we build that wall in your brain, Jim, what’s left of you will be a machine. Do you get that?”

“That’s what I want. I want to be a machine. I’ll be fine.”

“Well…okay, kid. Your choice. Your destiny. We’ll prep you for surgery. We’ll make those trillion watts of energy shrink down to a ten-watt bulb.”

“This thing you call poetic consciousness, Doc? It’s just a delusion. And I want to get rid of it.”

“Okay, Jim, I’ll put the genie back in the bottle.”

“Nice talking to you, Doc.”

“I wish that were true, Jim. TYGER, TYGER, BURNING BRIGHT, IN THE FORESTS OF THE NIGHT, WHAT IMMORTAL HAND OR EYE COULD FRAME THY FEARFUL SYMMETRY?”

“See, Doc. That’s just what I mean. What the hell kind of talk is that? I don’t understand it! Get rid of it!”

“Sorry, kid, it just slipped out. I’ll go get ready. Relax. The nurse’ll be in in a minute. Piece of cake.”

“Poetry. Ridiculous. It’s for idiots.”

“Sure, kid.”

“We don’t need poets.”

Exit From the Matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From The Matrix, click here.)

“Of course not. One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is
myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or
ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can
wait.

My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset…Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon!…

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 rebel artist vs. the android

The rebel artist vs. the android

~a short story~

by Jon Rappoport

March 21, 2014

www.nomorefakenews.com

On January 12, 2061, 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 old coalition formed between Monsanto 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 Foot of the Most Pleasant 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 hundred 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 to a nine, on a scale from one to a hundred, where one is the lowest possible stress-count.

“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. 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 in it and with 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. The superbrain claims to have right answers, but why should I believe it? But I’d rather talk about imagination and the creative life. The invention of unprecedented and unpredictable realities.”

“Oh,” the President said. “Another fancy 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.”

Exit From the Matrix

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. That phrase is an RRT.”

“Meaning what?” the artist said.

“It’s a playful sub-sub category in the Program. RRT stands for rebellious rat tail. It indicates we are in the presence of a stubborn defective ‘I’ who is scorning the Group.”

“Mr. President,” the artist said. “Were you born of a human mother and father, or are you an 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 blowing 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.

A few seconds later, 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 thirteen A seven branched MKULTRA…”

Silence.

Then a gentle man who manufactured a product called Organic Monsanto Cherry Vanilla With Roundup Cookies said:

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

And the room burst into wild applause.

Jon Rappoport

The author of two explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED and EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 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 emails at www.nomorefakenews.com