Category Archives: Energy & Imagination

How the Matrix deals with power

How the Matrix deals with power

by Jon Rappoport

October 22, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

I’ve been asked to reprint this piece.

Here it is a with a new brief introduction.

Most people use memory to explain why they’re living the lives they have. They arrange memories as if they’re symbols, and the sum is: this is the life I have; no other.

If you could somehow take away all those memories and insert a whole new synthetic raft, people would arrange those to come to the same conclusion. And the same life.

So it is with the world. People look out at it and decide, on some subterranean level, that the world dictates what degree of choice and power they possess.

Put them in a different home, a different city, on a different planet, and they would eventually settle on the same assessment of their power: small.

In that sense (and many others), memory and the world are constructs the individual ingests, arranges, and builds to suit and fortify his conception of his “geometry”: the shape of his life.

In previous articles, I’ve been making clear how THE VOICE narrates the story of our times through television anchorage.

The elite anchor is groomed to be able to induce a seamless hypnotic trance in viewers and make HIS voice THEIR voice.

There is power in a voice.

A voice can change reality.

Your voice is the voice that destroys the narrative that has been sculpted for us. Your voice is the voice that rolls over the voice of the elite anchor and the other elite leaders who speak for us.

When your voice become your VOICE, you connect with something oceanic that rips away false separations and false systems and false ideas and deserts of sand on which our fake reality is built.

We pretend to be small. We pretend to be whispers. We pretend to be confused. We pretend to be creatures living inside the space of this deluded society. We pretend to be clueless. We pretend to have such limited power.

We pretend.

We pretend that some overriding system or structure SUPERSEDES OUR OWN VOICE. We bow down to that system, and then we see what that does to our own power. It diminishes it. It makes our voice small. It makes our voice thin. It makes us into weaklings.

It makes us walled off from each other, from THE REAL EACH OTHER. The real each other is each one of us with power, with A VOICE.

The word “rant” is interesting to analyze. It originally referred to someone speaking in a completely unhinged way. Its recent online meaning was invented by tech heads, who adopt a “cool” attitude toward problems and answers. These cerebral types consider any outward display of passion or outrage to be a rant. For them, the “ranting voice” is suspect.

Try this experiment. Find a piece of writing you love that expresses great passion and poetry. Read it out loud while you’re alone. Read it out loud 50 times over the course of a few days. Inject your own passion into the words. If you’re not already lying in a coffin, something unexpected will happen to you. You’ll find yourself coming alive in a larger way. You’ll experience glimpses of your VOICE.

This has to do with BEING ALIVE.

You’ll experience the absence of little structures and systems.

Keep reading that passage over and over. Put everything you have into it. Don’t stint. Put more and more feeling into it.

Then, watch the evening network news. Listen to the tone of the anchor. Pay attention to how he establishes a continuity. No matter how absurd you thought the evening news was, you’ll now comprehend that absurdity from an entirely new perspective.

As you expand your own VOICE, and as you EXPRESS WHAT YOU TRULY WANT TO EXPRESS—-YOUR OWN THOUGHTS, YOUR OWN IDEAS, YOUR OWN FEELINGS, YOUR OWN INVENTIONS—you are cutting away layers of stagnant consciousness. Each one of those layers says: “reality is THIS.” Each layer has a different restrictive portrait of reality, and as it disintegrates and tumbles away into space, you become freer.

The VOICE.

A path to greater power, greater aliveness, greater empathy, greater engagement, greater self, greater community, greater wholeness.

Your voice, not the anchor’s voice. The anchor’s voice operates on behalf of the established corrupt order, as a mesmerizing tool. Your VOICE liberates you and others.

Many years ago, I was teaching a small class in a school in New York. The kids were all retreads from other schools, where they didn’t make it for a variety of reasons.

They were in a constant state of distraction. Unteachable.

So I picked a short passage from a poem by Dylan Thomas. A few lines. A few great lines. I had each student read the passage out loud. Then we all read it together. Then we went around and around with each child reading it again—I urged more feeling, more expression.

It was like trying to break through an iron ceiling. Each kid read the lines in a monotone. It was eerie, as if they were all in a trance. But I kept going anyway.

Nothing doing. Nothing happening.

Then I said, “I’m going to read these lines like a newscaster would read them.” I gave a pretty good impression of an anchor.

The kids cracked up. They thought it was very funny. They immediately grasped how ridiculous the anchor’s voice sounded trying to give feeling to poetry.

The kids began reading those lines as if they were news anchors. They had a great time with it. That’s what broke the ice.

“Now,” I said, “stop conning me. Read the lines with your own feeling. Come on. Put something into it.”

And they did.

Around and around we went. Each kid must have read those lines a dozen more times. They got into it. They shed their embarrassment.

The VOICES that emerged that day in class convinced me that everyone has a VOICE, and it cuts through layers of conditioning like a knife through butter, once it’s unleashed.

These kids were titanic.

When we were done (I was reading the lines too), we all sat there and looked at each other in amazement. We knew. We knew we had cracked the egg. The spell of “flat reality” had been broken. We were all alive in a new way.

The famous lines we read?

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night…

Although the overall sentiment of that poem might appear to be a kind of futility, when we read the lines over and over, WE came to a different place. A place where we knew that our words COULD fork lightning.

And then we read, from Fern Hill:

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs

About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,

The night above the dingle starry,

Time let me hail and climb

Golden in the heydays of his eyes,

And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns

And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves

Trail with daises and barley

Down the rivers of the windfall light…

the calves

Sang to my horn, the

Foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,

And the Sabbath rang slowly

In the pebbles of the holy streams.

To be astonished by something you see on a screen is one thing. To be astonished by what your VOICE can establish is light years beyond that.

VOICE is relentless life.

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. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at www.nomorefakenews.com

The artist vs. the “religion” called consensus reality

The artist vs. the “religion” called consensus reality

by Jon Rappoport

October 22, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

Time and time again, we come back to this: the core of the individual human being is creative power, imagination, invention.

Through the ongoing process of the creative act, an individual moves higher and deeper into uniqueness. In the long, long run, everything else turns out to be a short-circuited consensus, an attachment to a story told by someone else.

Basically, the mechanical structure of consensus is derived from the concept that:

Everything is connected to everything.

This notion is increasingly hailed as a positive marvel. For example, in quantum entanglement, paired particles, even at great distances from each other, both react to an impact on either particle.

“Everything/connected” produces a sensation of Weave&All Inclusiveness.

It’s ultimately designed for long-term rental. The occupant is there, and there he will stay.

Feeling this “everything is connected to everything” is meant to instill a sense of the sacred. The mind completes the equation: sacred=forever.

But this kind of “sacred” is no more forever than listening to a Bach concerto is forever. It’s one thing to bathe in a majestic feeling. It’s quite another thing to infer it means eternal occupancy.

There are many people ready to shake your hand and embrace you and welcome you into the labyrinth, the weave, the connection of everything to everything.

People aspire to be wired into the “everything/connected” apparatus as their highest ambition—which is their primary substitute for imagination.

That they don’t realize this doesn’t make it any less true.

Let’s say you’re an actor. You work in a repertory theater that stages 100 plays. In each play, you have a role, a different role. You’re “connected” to each one of those roles. BUT YOU’RE AN ACTOR. That means you can inhabit a role and then take it off like a coat.

However, this distinction is lost on most people. When they hear that “everything is everything,” they grab that role and hold on to it and move in, lock, stock, and barrel, hoping it will be forever.

The idea of “everything/connected” is quite old. You can find it enunciated in ancient Egypt and China, and traces of it exist in Aristotle. It’s sometimes arranged as a hierarchy. The “great chain of being.”

So are we talking about an architecture of the universe or a notion in the mind?

Think of “everything/connected” as a style of building among various possible styles.

And its goal is the inducement of awe. That is the stage play.

People join the “everything/connected” church. They want to be in that congregation.

When you take apart the “everything is everything,” it’s not as sensational as it first seemed.

The Matrix Revealed

Let’s pretend that a few Chinese sages, long ago, decided to float a trial balloon.

They spread the word that opposites could resolve in a state of harmony (everything connected). Each polarity could reflect the other.

It was a poetic thought that might be embedded in a few verses.

The sages watched and waited. Eventually, they saw that this fancy had taken hold. In fact, it had become embedded in a philosophy. It was now being discussed as a principle of the universe, the cosmos.

The sages were shocked but not surprised. Humans exhibit strange fetishes.

What started out as a poet’s passing rumination on a summer afternoon—entertained purely for the purpose of writing verse—was now an all-embracing weave of metaphysical consensus.

I use this as an illustration of “piling on”—adding one piece of imaginative art to another, on and on, and inferring that the sum is Ultimate Reality (consensus).

Richard Jenkins, the extraordinary healer I write about in The Secret Behind Secret Societies (part of the Exit From the Matrix collection), once told me, “Most people aren’t satisfied with just two or three myths. They have to keep adding new ones. It’s like children with dolls and clothes. You’ve got to have more outfits.”

Nearly 40 years ago, I rented a garage in Santa Monica and turned it into a studio. It was small, and I wanted to paint large. I stretched three canvases, the biggest of which was 15×8 feet. Because there wasn’t enough room in the studio, I kept painting over that canvas.

Six months later, I had done perhaps 15 paintings on the one canvas—each painting covering the one before it. I’d used all sorts of paints—acrylic, oil, enamel. Finally, I painted the whole thing black.

I looked at the black space for a few days, and I noticed there was a small glint of light green peeking through in the lower left.

I worked at the area with my fingernails, and suddenly a two-foot section of black came away like a swath of rubber, exposing many colors and shapes, which were intact.

I realized that, because I’d used different kinds of paint, the layers hadn’t adhered perfectly.

For the next week, using a screwdriver and a mallet, I uncovered painting after painting, going back in time.

Eventually, I settled on a painting composed of several layers. I liked it.

Exit From the Matrix

If I had been a devotee, I would have fallen on my knees at that point. I would have, for the moment, been happy I’d determined how many layers (myths) were necessary to give me the One Painting For All Time. The permanent fixed reality.

But it was a painting. And of course, since I was the artist, I knew that.

Consensus reality endures because there is an audience for it.

And audience is fascinated by, and glued to, STORY.

For example, the hero is faced with a problem which turns into a mystery, and he then penetrates the mystery after much work and danger—during which time his friends lose faith in him—and finally he does away with the villain at the heart of the mystery…

WHATEVER KEEPS AUDIENCE BEING ONLY AUDIENCE KEEPS CONSENSUS REALITY IN PLACE.

For the most part, audience wants to remain being audience, and it will search for and rationalize ways to do just that.

Story has beginning, middle, and end. This pattern, so obvious and universal, is rarely thought about, but it creates a trance. Try writing a story without that sequence and see how many people want it.

“I’m audience, and I want beginning, middle, and end, over and over.”

Part of being audience is experiencing the letdown that happens after the story ends. This depression stimulates the need for another story. And on and on it goes. But the letdown, at a deeper subconscious level, is really about a dissatisfaction with the WHOLE PATTERN of story—people want to break out of that. They want to conquer that addiction.

And how is that done?

Well, the first step is being able to invent stories of your own.

And this is where people balk.

At a conference some years ago, I gave a talk about freedom. In the middle of the talk, I told the audience we were going to do a few exercises that would possibly stimulate their sense of freedom. The very notion that I was asking them to DO something, to come out of their audience-trance…which they hadn’t expected, caused a stir, a sense of apprehension. They were programmed for beginning, middle, and end—and I was suddenly shredding that.

They had planned on being entertained with the notion of freedom.

After the lecture, a friend of mine came up to me and said, “Did you catch what happened there, when you told them you were going to have them do exercises?”

“Sure,” I said. “I did it on purpose.”

AUDIENCE DOESN’T INVENT.

THEY EXPERIENCE.

AND THAT’S WHAT THEY WANT.

MATRIX.

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. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at www.nomorefakenews.com

The sandman

The sandman: a short story

by Jon Rappoport

October 17, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

They invited me through the door into the room in the desert.

It was not a place I’d ever visited, and perhaps I’ll never know who they were.

But I was in the room, and there was a man sitting at a steel table. That’s all. The room was white and bare.

This man was looking at me and so I began to speak to him. I don’t remember what I said. I only remember I made every effort to get through.

At moments he seemed to grasp my words, but each time I felt he was on the brink, he looked away and lapsed into his doldrum, his place.

He was in a frozen universe. He was the final and ultimate distracted king of that place. It was all his.

I watched as a series of things happened then. An explosion tore away his castle and lit it on fire. A hand floated through the air and ripped the crown from his head. A tiger approached him and dispensed foul breath into his nostrils.

The man, the king, fell apart. He fell into pieces of plastic flesh that clattered on the floor.

The tiger walked into the wall and through it.

I understood this was my initial introduction to…life on Earth.

I had come from a long distance, and it was meant to inform me of some particular truth.

But what was it?

In those days, I was earnest. I had not yet set myself up in the Western desert as an entrepreneur peddling waking dreams.

In those days, I was looking for the single thing, the clue that would lead me to understand the resident species.

Gradually, in the months after my visit to the room, I began to fathom the lesson. By various means, the residents were turning into bereft creatures. They were involved in a process of emptying out their minds. They were dedicated to this goal, above all others.

They were devotees of the reflex. A thing happens; they respond.

It took me several further years to realize the content of the response made no difference at all.

Ten billion people could pick up a spoon; they could go to war; they could order ice cream.

They were driven to find a sequence in which all would participate.

This, they calculated, was a religion.

And they were arriving at their objective.

One by one, their leaders, who were sure they could remain above the fray, dropped off into the pit below. One by one, they lost their position and joined the rest of humanity.

And in this joining, there was great praise, as if the fall were proof of concept.

Exit From the Matrix

As a purveyor of dreams, I had a clear field for my operation.

I set up shop, and I sold them for a mere few dollars. I shaped these dreams—and this is the secret—so they would contain no endings.

They would wind off into murk and fog and cloud and vanishing point.

Living through such a dream would leave a trace in the psyche, a question, a doubt, a disaffection.

A thing to which no reflex would suffice.

It is how a world is born, or reborn.

The subsequent search demands ambition, desire, self-appointed thought, and imagination. From the depths of the swamp, these qualities surface.

My customers are not happy (as they previously defined happiness), but they move, and they learn to pay attention.

Some come to understand that the emergent qualities of the search ARE the goal, and having come back into their possession, they can live again.

They can, each of them, observe the collective reflex in its variations. And each of them can begin to create.

Create what?

New realities without end.

Non-reflexive; limitless.

Of course, I only peddle dreams. I don’t claim to do anything else. I am viewed as a kind of entertainer.

I have my little stand in the lobby of one of the great casinos of the soul, where gamblers lose everything they have, and stumble over to my counter on their way out to the desert.

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. 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

Artist exceeds limits permitted by brain researchers

Artist exceeds the limits permitted by brain researchers

~a short story~

by Jon Rappoport

September 18, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

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 i-figure 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 i-figure 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 i-figure 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 i-figure 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 i-figure 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.”

Pause.

“Why have we not heard of you before?” said the i-figure.

“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 i-figure said.

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

“Your views are highly eccentric,” the i-figure 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 i-figure 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 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 i-figure 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 i-figure 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 i-figure 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 i-figure 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 i-figure 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 i-figure 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 i-figure 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 i-figure said.

His left arm sizzled and disappeared.

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

The pressure of the rainbow around him relaxed.

The virtual building blinked off, on, off.

The i-figure 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 i-figure 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 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. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at www.nomorefakenews.com

The short happy trial of an artist

The short happy trial of an artist

by Jon Rappoport

September 12, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

Guilty! the judge said, and it was over. The charge? Maintaining that his work was his own, that he had done it himself, that he had made the choices and invented the words and imagined the whole thing, whatever it was, the novel, the poem, the play.

What it was, was not on trial. Nothing to do with the message. No, it was all about attribution.

Because the great spiritual merger had already taken place. The masses had undergone enlightenment, and the government had seen it—actually, seen TO it—and then declared that artists could face jail time for pretending to be what many of them said they were:

Individuals. Inventors. People who did things in their own rooms, privately, out of view, by their own means.

This was now verboten. Because it had been established that the whole human race, no one excepted, was tapping into the very same great consciousness, and whatever was in the world emanated from THAT experience.

So the judge had no need to deliberate. It was simple. This artist, whoever he was, and it didn’t matter who he was, was guilty. He claimed he had created his work. He’d insisted on it. In fact, he denied the merger, said he was no part of it. He opposed it on several grounds. One, it was a fanciful delusion, and two, even if people were actually melting into one another, he didn’t have to. He could stay right where he was, in his own room, alone, and he could turn out his work.

The sin of pride. The sin of ego. Quite distasteful.

The artist was transgressing against the human race. He was by deed, word, and attitude, denying the final ascension to Unified Infinite Consciousness. He was saying no to that, over and over. He was revolting against the truth. He was spitting on the Messengers of Peace.

This needed punishment. Society had to censure him, had to deny him the right to turn out new work, unless he righteously admitted he was just a channel for it.

For example, an anonymous monk in Albania had recently published a 1000-page work titled, The Whole World Engages in Orgy. He dedicated it to the Great Spirit of Wholeness. He prostrated himself before the Akashic Warehouse From Which Information Proceeds and abluted his body with the symbolic blood of past suffering generations. He confessed openly that no word of his book came from him.

“My subconscious,” he said, “is abiding in the Oversoul, and there it asks for knowledge, and knowledge is granted.”

He made a pilgrimage to the Monument of the Eternal Smile at the Arizona Yoga Mat Hotel and Entertainment Complex and fasted for 13 days.

He titled the introduction to his opus: We’re All in This Together. He stated in no uncertain terms that we are all little dots in the sea of energy and consciousness, and art is merely an expression of that condition. Nothing more. Ever. “No one person achieves anything,” he wrote. “We must cling to that. Not only as a political fact, but as a spiritual revelation.”

He stated, “I ask nothing for my work. I abdicate ownership. I surrender. In the past, I suffered from spiritual constipation, but now I have let go.”

In his Epilog, Letting Go and Moving On, he praised Bright Day III, our new president, for his work in ushering in legislation confirming the discovery of One World Self.

“Just as government consents to new scientific discoveries,” wrote the monk, “it now affirms spiritual ones. The President is the expression of our collective thought, and therefore his election was inevitable.”

As the judge in the trial described how the monk was an example of what a real artist should be, the defendant in the case stood up and said, “Your Honor, before you pass sentence on me, I have a question. Will there be boundaries on what people, any people, can do in the privacy of their own homes? Since I’m going to jail for producing my art, I was just wondering whether other prohibitions will soon follow.”

The judge nodded.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “there is pending legislation to outlaw certain kinds of independent research, on the grounds that it takes a person away from the Universal Body. So much of a spiritual and political nature is now settled, unfunded research amounts to meddling with Unity. Why should we allow it?”

The defendant sat down. He said, “Can I think my own thoughts?”

“You see,” the judge said, “that’s your problem. You insist on your contemplations, as if they were private possessions.”

“All due respect, Your Honor, but I just like to think.”

“Why?”

“It pleases me.”

“More than your freedom?”

“That’s a tough choice.”

“And apparently one you’ve already made.”

The artist said, “You know, there was a time when a person who used the word ‘magic’ as a term of approbation could be excommunicated, even tortured, because he was said to be on the side of the Devil.”

“Nonsense,” the judge said. “We are all magic, together.”

Exit From the Matrix

The artist said, “I deny the right of this court to pass sentence on me.”

“Obviously,” the judge said. “But your opinion has no effect. I could sentence you to six years’ hard labor in a camp in Alaska. Instead, I’m going to have you live in a padded cell for two years with a group of artists. You’ll sort out your problems and basically do what you do. CBS is organizing it as a new reality show. It’s called When Evolution Fails.”

“Your Honor,” the artist said, “how can you sentence me when you don’t really believe I exist as an independent person?”

The judge wagged his finger.

“Don’t try to pull that one on me,” he said. “You’re a piece of energy that has broken off from the whole. That’s all.”

“But how? Through my own choice? If so, I have freedom. And that means I am I.”

“No it doesn’t. Some force ultimately pushed you out of the hive.”

The artist shook his head.

“Review what you’ve been saying to me, Your Honor. You’ve been accusing me of willful behavior, immoral choices, and claiming I need to change my behavior.”

“It’s a convenient way to speak, nothing more. When we get around to changing the language, and we will, all references to individuals will be eradicated. Eventually, the kind of thing you write will come across as gibberish. No one will understand it. It will drop like dead leaves from a tree.”

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. 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

Matrixology: fact vs. fiction

Matrixology: fact vs. fiction

by Jon Rappoport

September 2, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

I’ve made this point several times: fiction is often a better way than fact to gain insight into the Matrix. With some people, this notion turns over in the mind about as compellingly as the engine of a 1947 Buick in a junkyard.

They can’t grasp it. They believe Matrix is a thing that can be taken apart piece by piece and then reconstructed.

They’re defending themselves against, perhaps, well, the sort of invader I’m describing in this story:

I’m at Walter Reed, where a lot of bad shit happens. I came back from Zganb12 in a heap. I was a ship captain once, but that’s over.

They’ve got me on pure IV neurotransmitters, but the proportions are never right. I still feel the pink love bugs. PLB don’t live by our rules. For one thing, they always smile. At least, that’s how I imagine it.

What I’m not imagining is how they got into my bloodstream through a scratch. In the dark towering forest out there, we were searching for one of our crew, who was probably sucked into a nest and incorporated.

They laughed in my veins at first. It was more than pleasant. I saw perfect breasts and slender thighs and curving puddles of Hindu gods having cosmic sex in what I took to be an ultimate form. No form.

That was in the first three seconds.

After two days, I realized the PLB were relentless. They were after my soul. And I didn’t believe I had one up until then. They were determined to be in love with me forever. How does a person know that? I just did. I felt it. I felt them swarming around my heart. At night, lying in bed, I saw them circling my head. They were pink. They were small. They always showed up in groups. The smallest group I saw was three. One ate the other two, and then hundreds came to join him. Or her.

The docs at Walter Reed are treating me for cognitive disintegration. That’s their story. It isn’t mine. They have me classified as delusional because it’s easy. Just another Navy man who was out there on the edge of the Milky Way and went nuts.

So how can they can cure me? They can’t. In fact, with the neurotransmitter treatments, I’m registering enhanced perception of the PLB. I can hear them sometimes. They have a language. It’s something like Portuguese, no geometry, all liquid.

I also realize they’re multi-taskers. For example, they can function as building blocks. Last month, I watched them assemble themselves into a chair in the corner of my room. It was a recliner. Maroon. It stayed there for almost an hour. Then it faded out.

I sat in the chair for ten minutes or so. I felt connected to the Whole. I was here, there, and everywhere. I was looking through the eyes of strange nameless creatures. I was inside the mind of an entity I’m calling The Reality Builder.

She makes reality out of nothing. That’s her work. That’s all she does. She can’t do anything else. She builds time, space, energy. She’s a kind of machine. She’s benevolent, but not through choice.

She talks to me. “Don’t worry about the PLB,” she says. “They’re all show. They overwhelm you with love, and then they go away. It might take a year or two, but it’ll happen. They’re like an infection. The cure is time.”

The Realty Builder came to me while I was sitting in the chair, as if the PLB were handing her off to me as a gift.

This morning, she was standing by the window. She said, “Think of me as a prop woman in a theater company. Maybe the stage manager. The set designer. That’s it. I make the sets. The rest is up to you. I don’t know why people get so worked up about reality. It’s pretty simple. I do my job. I keep adding space, time, and energy to what’s already there.”

“Then what’s the problem?” I said. I felt a sense of urgency.

“Well,” she said, “for you the problem seems to be the doctors here can’t accept what you’re telling them. That’s all. If you’d come back with a different story, they would have released you. Put you back to work.”

She was probably right. What was I doing to myself? I’d made a heavy mistake. So now, if I pretended their treatment was bearing fruit, would they sign me out, let me go? I could tell them the PLB were gone, they’d never really been here, they were a persistent but ultimately temporary hallucination. I wouldn’t pilot a ship again, but I could find something else to do.

The Reality Builder asked me if she could hang around with me for a few years. She needed somebody to talk to. Naturally, nobody else would know she was present. We would chat by ourselves at night.

I was on the verge of saying yes when her form, which had been hazy up to this point, clarified. She looked like Ava Gardner. In her prime. She was wearing a white gown. Her hair was up. She was young and eager and new.

“Are you a group manifestation of the PLB?” I said.

She looked at me silently.

Then she walked over and put her hand on my arm.

“Does it matter?” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

She nodded.

“You were inside my mind,” she said. “You were sitting in the chair and you entered my mind. You saw that I make, what, reality? Just the basics. What’s wrong with that?”

“But” I said, “I don’t want to fall for a mistake. I don’t want to give my trust to something that isn’t what it seems to be.”

“Yes,” she said. “In order to trust me, you have to believe I’m just one thing. That’s your real sickness, Captain.”

She started to fade out, and I heard a soft explosion at the back of my head.

I multiplied.

I became people and creatures and even inanimate objects. They sprang out of me as if from a trap.

I felt myself being torn apart. A wheel inside me was suddenly running at high speed and it was snapping and throwing off pieces of itself.

Then I felt I was alone for a long time.

Days, weeks, months.

Or perhaps only for a few minutes.

I was all alone.

I was the singular.

And she. She was the many.

She was doing the work she was pleased to do. Bringing light into the cracks between dark places.

I was the immovable object and she was the irresistible force.

This was the stage play. This was the plot I had failed to notice.

In a forest on a distant planet or in the hospital room at Reed.

“I won’t be bored with her,” I said out loud. “There’s that.”

The doctor walked in.

“Bored with who?” he said.

“A woman I just remembered. I used to go out with her.”

“You’re thinking of contacting her?” he said.

“Yes. I am.”

He smiled.

“Good. That’s a good sign. In fact, you look better today.”

“Feel better…Let me ask you something, Doc,” I said. “Have you ever caught yourself realizing that something deadly serious wasn’t serious at all?”

He stared down at his shoes.

“What’s the matter?” I said.

He shook his head and looked back up at me.

“No,” he said. “Not your fault. What you just described…well, I learned that from my wife. Every day. She died last year.”

The room darkened.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He smiled. “That was my journey out into the forest,” he said. “I had to decide whether there would always be something of her that would stay with me. Something…forever.”

Two weeks later, he signed my papers and I walked out of Walter Reed, a free man.

Exit From the Matrix

I trudged through the streets of Washington DC all day. I finally checked into a small hotel off the Park.

She was waiting in my room. She was wearing a dark blue dress. She was standing by the window.

“You know,” she said. “Things aren’t exactly the way you think they are. I’ve been alone, too. I know what it’s like. If, now and then, it seems like I’m trying to put one over on you, that’s why. I remember a lot of empty space and no one around. I don’t want to go back there. I do things to stay here.”

I walked over to her and put my arms around her.

“Let’s go out and have supper,” I said. “Then we’ll come back here. It’ll be a nice night.”

“Will you kiss me or kid me?” she said.

“Kiss you. Later, when we’re used to it, I’m sure we can kid each other about a lot of things.”

She smiled. “I can tell you this,” she said. “The PLB were never there. That was just the yearning. When we have that, we tell stories. But I’m here now.”

And she was.

It was a summer night. We had supper at an outdoor cafe near the river. I don’t remember what we ate, but I do remember she laughed.

Later, in our hotel room, she said, “Do you mind if I, well, become the night table and the chair and the bed and the carpet and the walls and the ceiling and the buildings in the city and the clouds?”

“For how long?” I said.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe an hour.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t mind.”

“Good,” she said. “Because I don’t mind you being the same you a thousand times over.”

That was how it started.

When the lights go out suddenly and you’re in the dark all alone, and your eyes are trying to adjust, don’t look. At that moment, just know, just feel your way along, and you’ll find something. Hold on to it and follow what happens. I guess that’s pretty much what I did.

Three years later, on a foggy night outside our cottage in Delaware, she finally said, “I like you, Captain, so I’m going to tell you the truth. I’m a representative of the universe, and my mission is to make you a cog in that machine, to connect you with everything everywhere. That’s what I do. I use any and all means to make it happen. You peeked through a window you weren’t supposed to notice at all. So I was sent in to plug the gap. To keep you in check. Okay? So do what you want to now. I’ve blown my own cover.”

I drove all night and reached New York at dawn. I checked into a hotel and…here I am. Considering my options. Whatever action I take, I’m not going to back down…

And if you think this means I’m rejecting love, you’re way off the mark.

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. 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

Why do they try so hard to end freedom?

Why do they try so hard to end freedom?

By Jon Rappoport

August 26, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

I have several answers to that question.

The people who run the people who run things want to own everything.

To them, freedom is another thing to own. So they want it. And they want it all for themselves.

Second, they realize that people who have freedom will not want the kind of world being lowered on them, and with freedom, those rebels may just find a way to keep the planned future from happening. So…better to close all doors.

All the phony political talk about “we’re in this together” is a blatant attempt to promote the idea that freedom is a small thing that must be sacrificed. For the greater good.

The people who run things from the top believe that freedom can be owned, because they can’t think of anything that can’t be owned. That’s their view. That’s the way they see life and the world.

That puts them at a strategic advantage. They focus all their energies on buying and selling. The holdouts among us are those who have values that can’t be displayed like cars in a showroom. Values that can’t be argued for in commercial language. Values that are ultimately non-material.

Holding the value of freedom gives us one advantage. We’re not competing against similar products in the marketplace. We’re competing against one thing only: slavery.

In one way or another, I have been writing about mind control for 30 years. It’s the doorway into slavery. It’s an attempt to wipe out everything that freedom means—most of all, how much it means.

Whatever humans can accomplish, the platform for it is liberty.

To say that freedom carries too much potential for abuse is like arguing that oceans are too dangerous and should be outlawed.

The so-called philosophies that replace freedom try to paint their conclusions with inevitability, and they all fail. From Plato to Marx, they begin with statements of what is possible “if only people would recognize the truth.” Their utopias, when played out, produce tyranny over mind, body, and soul. The cost of perfection.

Behind every good thing you or I or anyone has accomplished, there was the space of freedom. It’s almost a truism, it’s so obvious. But because it’s so obvious, we tend to ignore it.

Now, strong advocates of freedom are looked upon, by the government, as potentially dangerous people. They are demeaned in every possible way. If that doesn’t give you a clue about where government is heading, try reading the piece of paper called the Constitution, and then compare the statements in that document with the present scope of government and come to a decision.

As an aside, try finding a serious college course that does exactly that comparison in great detail. Good luck.

Freedom is out; the collective is in.

Exit From the Matrix

Our petty leaders, the dupes and mules for the future over the hill, are humping the ultimate prize, freedom, which they will lay at the feet of their masters. They will do it gladly, because they can sell all the programs and systems and laws and regulations that add up to no-freedom. It’s easy. They believe it’s workable. And the less freedom that exists, they more power they, the dupes, have, and the bigger their principalities. They’re mercenaries.

Here’s a principle you won’t find in a college economics course: the free market can only exist when the participants have non-material values that conspire to produce good relations among people. In the absence of that, anything and everything can be bought and sold, including the right to be free.

This, of course, ties in with the elite philosophy of ownership.

If we give up our values, some distant future historian will write: “Those people believed in a myth of great men who had much money, much power. Demi-gods. The demi-gods appeared and approached the people with an offer. Sell us your freedom. What is your price? And the people named a price and the bargain was struck. The people were satisfied. They reasoned that what they were trading was a thing, an item, a kind of product, which, were it not for the demi-gods, could never be sold. In a way, the people were mesmerized by what they had been able to accomplish with that sale. Ironically, they were so deluded because they had allowed themselves to grow fat on freedom…”

Mind, body, soul, imagination, and love all exist on the basis that freedom is there—or if it isn’t, it must be fought for.

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. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at www.nomorefakenews.com

The tyranny of broadcast reality: a short story

The tyranny of broadcast reality: a short story

by Jon Rappoport

August 23, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

The year is 2034. You’re hacking into a classified syndicate broadcast.

First you see a thick grove of pine trees, then a watering hole where a pack of wolves gather. Behind them are simul rows of infantry wearing black masks studded with silver sensors.

This gives way to a page of deep blue sky and white stars. A voice emerges:

“As I was saying before the riots interrupted us, we’re in good shape. The dopes are still buying reality. In fact, they’re more hungry for it than ever.

“Our surveys show a growing subset of addicts who are absolutely devoted to the Church of the Polite. In one experiment, we gave them a placebo. They went away grinning like idiots.

“Injections cause the full blossoming of a perceptual field filled with people, events, memory. Who knows what there was before? NOW is all that’s important. Take your shot and live a new life.

“WAIT A MINUTE. I’m showing a disruption of the consensus field in Sector 4-A-12, Los Angeles. It’s fluctuating, blinking out. Search underway for a source. An alt.reality-construction is occurring. Command: Go live with primary blocking program. Alt.reality-construction expanding in downtown, north of Olympic Boulevard. Blocking program fizzled.

“Crowds moving on to Olympic. They’re seeing the alt.reality! Drone strike called. Spraying aerosol vaccine to restore consensus field…no effect. Our agents are on the scene. We’re flying holographic banners: “THIS IS A LIE.” No effect so far.

“The alt. reality is coming in stronger now. It’s based on emotional sensation. Effluence of FREEDOM. Drones releasing Roundup, Paraquat…”

You leave your cellar apartment on Hoover Street, fight your way through a flank of buzzing subliminals, and hit Wilshire. DHS troops are setting up a roadblock at Vermont Avenue.

The underlying principle of the whole op: DON’T LET THE PEOPLE BE AS CONSCIOUS AS THEY CAN BE, AND DON’T LET THEM LIVE AND ACT FROM THAT CONSCIOUSNESS.

You head north through Lafayette Park and a blast of alt.reality from downtown crumbles the consensus field in front of you. You’re not in the park anymore. You’re walking through your own mind. You’re moving along a corridor next to a bookstore.

You now see your mind as a series of apartments and corridors. Two floors are devoted to EMPTY NEUTRALITY. You break down an apartment door. A heavy sleep machine is pumping out perfumed air. You almost go under.

You take the stairs down to ground level and see an apartment with an open door. You walk in.

It’s a large hall filled with people. At the front, the President is making a speech. The people are laughing. With each new statement he makes, the laughter grows louder.

You go back into the corridor and walk swiftly toward the end, which is floor-to-ceiling open window.

Exit From the Matrix

Reaching it, you look down at a city spread out before you. It’s Los Angeles, but something is missing. You can identify streets, buildings, neighborhoods, but something that is always there isn’t there now.

You stand at the window for a long time. Finally, it dawns on you. There is no hatred in the city. It’s gone.

How is that possible?

A wave of fear sweeps through you. Has it been artificially removed?

No.

Somehow you know the people themselves have emerged out of a cocoon of synthetically and externally broadcast hatred.

In its place is a…quiet.

Islands of alt.realities, in the form of wide percolating streaks of energy, are sweeping through the streets.

The energies are emanating from…people. It’s theirs.

Each powerful and thrilling wave is a unique emotion, but not one you can name or label or describe. You recognize all of them, but as distant memories of a long-ago time.

A voice in your mind, your voice, says: Log in.

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. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at www.nomorefakenews.com

The individual against the syndicate in 2044: a short story

The individual against the syndicate in 2044: a short story

by Jon Rappoport

August 22, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

You’re an unemployed artist.

The year is 2044. 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 now uninhabitable, owing to a mysterious Monsanto 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 soon find out there’s no exit. At least you’re relatively safe. You book a small hotel room in Aspartame 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, GuestL28vi35. 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 Company. 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.

“It’s just another hustle. Cheap salesmen on the job. ‘Here, let me try this pair of shoes on you. I think you’ll like them a lot…they’re supposed to feel tight, otherwise, the design doesn’t work.’

“The artist should be ripping away masks, exposing the Company employees. Adorning some fake religion promoted by the State, like the current MaR24tc, isn’t his job.

“But he’s promoting peace these days as if it were a little magic stone you rub. Or a gold fairy worm inside a gourd you shake.

“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. He has to build bigger towers than the Company.

“Lately, have you noticed people asking you, ‘Are you coming from a place of anger or love?’ First of all, ‘coming from a place of’ is psycho-op lingo. It’s fake wisdom for the kiddies (adults whose development has been arrested in the Oprah-phase). I personally am coming from a lot of different places, including San Diego. It’s a town populated by many androids. They’ve learned to affect a pose of happiness because frankly they don’t know what else to do.

“I bring this up because it’s another Company op. Goes like this: find a place ‘to come from,’ and then make your existence an emotional bumper sticker. REDUCTION.

“That’s exactly what the syndicate wants. It opposes proliferation because it can’t profile it. The Matrix is built on the need to reduce thought. Reduction inevitably leads to whining and complaining. Then props called spiritual leaders emerge out of the woodwork and offer to solve the complaints. But they never can (even if they wanted to), because the original problem remains. REDUCTION.

“Our glorious New Age, so-called, is exactly that: THOUGHT REDUCTION. It fails, and the aftermath is ugly. People become contortionists and end up eating their own livers. They don’t even know how to season them. They take it straight.

“You might be wondering who I am. I’m from the Movable Underground Museum. You’ve probably heard of it. The Company calls us dangerous because we’ve found a way to dismantle their product.

“I can’t give you details in an open message. Keep your eyes open. We show up here and there. You’ll know. So far, we’ve laid out two new universes. They’re empty. Lots of room for adventurous souls.

“Here’s something else to keep your eye on, too. The Company’s reality is breaking down. You may see seams in odd places where there shouldn’t be any. Don’t pick at them or point them out to other people. You’ll get busted for that. 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. Don’t try to go there. Crowds were gathering. The DHS came in and hosed them down with a version of Roundup. Upwards of six thousand people were arrested, and DHS has the area cordoned off with tanks.

“If you can still pick up SubNetB8 on your mobile device, you can see pictures. The white light streaming through the gap in the seam? It’s been photoshopped in. It isn’t really there. Neither are the UFOs or the voices. That’s the Company. 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 Clinton-Bush-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 Company’s Simul is breaking down there. It’s an exit. Use it if you have the courage.”

Exit From the Matrix

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.”

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. 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

August 20, 2013

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—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 alive, Jim, through 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 can see crimes and conspiracies. 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. 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. It’s great and grand ideas. And they’re 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 dampen down.”

“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. We all see life in much wider and deeper terms. 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. The person is, to put it kindly, at an enormous disadvantage.”

“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.”

“Pretty much. 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. No poetry ever again.”

“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 raw beauty and—”

“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,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are
with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I
translate into a new tongue.

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

…I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,
I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.

Press close bare-bosom’d night — press close magnetic
nourishing night!
Night of south winds — night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night — mad naked summer night.

Smile O voluptuous cool-breath’d earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset — earth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbow’d earth — rich apple-blossom’d earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.

Prodigal, you have given me love — therefore I to you give
love!”

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.