The Great Forces within the Individual

by Jon Rappoport

July 20, 2021

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From my notes for The Underground: “Whatever the core problem of The Individual might be, DATA is not the answer. A system is not the answer. Neutral sanitized language is not the answer. These modern affectations eat away at the electric forces of the soul…”

THE POWER OF THE INDIVIDUAL, BEYOND ANY MODERN DESCRIPTION…

This is not a power that never existed before. This is not new for the individual. This is what has been sidelined and lost and forgotten and buried miles below the surface.

I’m talking about towering creative power, not “doily power” or “Easter egg decorating power.”

In Jonathan Swift’s novel, Gulliver’s Travels, Gulliver is captured by a tiny race of Lilliputians. In modern society, Gulliver voluntarily shrinks himself down to the size of a Lilliputian.

Contrary to the weak flaccid and madhouse principles of modern psychology, ACTUAL psychology would deal with two towering impulses within the individual:

Creation and destruction. The impulse to create and the impulse to destroy.

Modern civilization has the hidden goal of wiping out both of these impulses; instead, substituting top-down control. CONTROL.

The individual today is viewed by The Manipulators as a social construct, to be profiled, grouped, poked, tested, subjected to stimuli like a dog in a lab, re-engineered.

Indeed, many abject individuals see themselves as cogs in a social apparatus, and approve of the arrangement.

The preeminently successful hundred-year-plus program for embedding control is medical. I have exposed the details of the program for the past 40 years. You could sum it up as toxification and pacification and technological chaining of the body and brain.

CONTROL is the elite solution to the twin impulses of creating and destroying. Wipe them both out. Bury them. “They resist organization. They’re wild cards. They cut through all the rules and regulations of society.”

If you want pictures of creation and destruction in action, above the level of ordinary civilization, look to the stories co-opted by religions; the battles among the ancient Greek gods, the Egyptian gods, the Norse gods, and so on. This is creative and destructive power unleashed, on a grand scale, and at some point it became unacceptable. Instead…

Modern civilization developed. Modern society. Modern culture. Modern behavior. Modern organization.

Submission. Freedom granted by governments as “liberty,” meaning limited freedom within the context and constraints enacted by “the people’s representatives.” A whole host of fictions arose. “Worship the god we tell you to worship.” “Believe only in power that exists ELSEWHERE.”

Consciousness is a placid lake, some theorists claim. Lie on your back, float in the collective infinite. As if THIS would erase the twin towers of creation and destruction in the individual psyche. Pathetic.

Two things are now happening across the whole world. The expansion of top-down brutal control, and the emergence of the destructive impulse coming to the fore like a common currency.

The creative impulse is buried so deep in most individuals, they wouldn’t recognize it if you put it on a plate and served it for supper. They wouldn’t know what you were talking about. They certainly wouldn’t understand that a creative renaissance was absolutely necessary to offset what is happening in the world now.

If you referred them to giants like Michelangelo or Da Vinci or Beethoven or Mahler or Melville or Whitman or Goya or Stravinsky or Charlie Parker, they would think you were reciting the names of creatures from another planet. They might suspect you were trying to tear down God from his throne (the very God organized religions tell you is the True One).

Here is a clue. The most successful entertainment organization in the world, Disney/Marvel, has been producing one epic after another featuring mythological characters come to life as super-heroes and villains engaging in planetary and galactic battles of creation-and-destruction; millions of people watch these special-effect tales on screens, mesmerized and energized by the scale of the conflicts (very much like the Olympic gods at war with one another).

It’s no accident that humans crave these movies. They reflect (however cartoonishly) what is going on in the human psyche; the impulses of creation and destruction. The movies unearth what has been buried.

Under hundreds of layers of conditioning, the real psychology of the individual has everything to do with how these two towering impulses are dealt with BY the individual himself.

“Oh no, I’m not involved with those…impulses. I’m a card-carrying member of society. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m small, I’m trying to fit in, unless I’m against fitting in, in which case I’m dedicated to rejecting the proposal to install a traffic light at the corner of Main and Broadway…”

SMALLNESS is the overriding proposition. Every problem and solution has to be defined and worked out within a shrunken strangulating context.

Therefore, you can see all sorts of grotesquely played-out melodramas that unconsciously give vent to creative-destructive- impulse leaks from the individual.

The bloviating businessman who peddles cheap crap for a living parades around as if he were a living pillar of charity in his community, while he turns the screws on his employees by paying them a bare living wage and, privately, delights in their misfortune. Small stage play of creation and destruction.

Ditto for the grifter-politician who swears dedication to the groups he’s creating for the betterment of his people, knowing these causes will lead to further impoverishment and crime and, ultimately, submission and surrender. Create and destroy.

I could name and describe hundreds of small accommodations and expressions which attempt to mediate between the creating and destroying impulses within the individual.

Their smallness is just a cover for the Niagara-forces these impulses actually embody.

“If I shrink myself down, my impulses will shrink, too.”

It doesn’t work that way.

The impulses never shrink.

This is the problem. The titanic trying to become tiny.

Creation and destruction make up an existential situation within the individual and his psyche. How will he approach the situation? Not with easy answers, I can assure you. Not with a quick 10-minute fix—the favorite remedy-style of the modern age. Not with a pill. Not with grass-fed beef. Not with a medical mask. Not with a fear of germs. Not with meditation. Not with a group. Not with algorithms. Not with computers. Not with a brain-machine interface or nanoparticles or organized human anthills of the 21st century. Not with churches.

With CONTROL taking center stage in new forms, and on the march, the first great undertaking is the recognition that CREATIVE POWER has always existed within the individual. And that power needs expression. On a scale that reflects its magnitude.

Impossible?

Fortunately, in the work of artists I mentioned above, and in the work of many others of the same size, there are worlds to explore. These artists are not dead. Their work isn’t dead…

You want to know the beginning?
You’re sitting on top of a grassy mountain
And you know you could build a city in the valley
You could destroy a city in the valley
You could do both
You know it…like a boiling pepper in the mind, like an ice cube in the liver, like a steamroller, a traitor on trial, a saint in a cave, a god with his sword, a tiger pacing in his cage
You’re going to approach these two forces inside you
You’re going to walk around them and through them and sniff titanic waves and sink to the bottom of lost ships and come up out of the foam
You’re not going to run away into a little box and read the law for the next thousand years and join the society of obedient babbling idiots wearing thin lips
You’re going to burn away the strangulating false fronts
You’re going to know you can invent a city or destroy one
You’re going to come to grips with that
You’re not going to automatically jump ahead and say you’re a citizen of the realm
You’re not going to say there is nothing you want to destroy
You’re not going to remain two-dimensional for the next thousand years

Coming to grips with, and seeing the impulse to destroy within yourself is completely different from giving vent to, and enacting that impulse. The people who go around destroying are not coming to grips with anything.

On the other hand, imagine an innovative architect who is designing buildings no one has ever seen before. In his sketches, in his plans, he creates and destroys. He looks at his work in progress, and he decisively obliterates whole sections that don’t fit his vision and his instincts. He creates new wings of a building in his drawings and wipes some of them out. By the alive process of creating and destroying he arrives at what he wants to make real in the world.

I’ve known many aspiring artists who stall at the gate and never get off the ground, because they’re afraid that, if they put words on the page or shapes on the canvas, those words and shapes will have to remain there forever. To put it another way, they can’t conceive of destroying what they create. They believe “destruction is bad.” So they never create anything.

I’ve known painters who look at what they’ve put on the canvas for days and months; they keep looking; they’re not satisfied; but they’re afraid to wipe out a whole section. They’re afraid because they don’t realize they can create endlessly. They don’t realize that destroying half of a painting will lead to a new painting.

Civilization and society have always tried to define the limits of the creative process, as in: REDUCTION. Boil it down. Make it less. Make it smaller. Hem it in. Summarize it. Claim the individual creator should, first and foremost, be a citizen. A creature inside the system. This is a sick joke. And every artist of reality has rejected the joke with a mere dismissive glance.

The prescribed default position of the modern individual is: “I neither create nor destroy; I’m neutral; I adjust; whatever real power is, it resides outside myself; there is no larger context in which I can conceive of ACTION; if I feel deficient, I join a group.”

And people wonder why they have problems they can’t quite put their finger on. They wonder why their energies seem to be diminishing.

Consider the case of Nikola Tesla. The popularized story has it that he could see, in his imagination, all the complex moving parts of the energy devices he was inventing before he even made a preliminary sketch, much less a working prototype. It was all there in his mind. Magic. Genius.

I guarantee that was the not the whole story. Whether in his mind, on paper, or in prototype, he created and destroyed many models, before he arrived at one he believed would work to unleash and harness awesome amounts of force and energy.

He didn’t have an iota of worry about destroying what was unworkable. He wasn’t looking for a compromise or a shoddy but sellable piece of goods. He was focused on the far shore. Nothing less than the redirecting and transforming of Nature’s Flow.

And with each progressive step, there were spontaneous unexplainable insights that allowed him to move forward. His vision was Promethean. He wasn’t “neutral” or “objectively scientific” like some mechanical-minded little lab researcher trying to squeeze out a tiny extension of what was already known in order to publish a paper and secure a job.

The irony is, if Tesla had produced a working prototype that tapped into the Earth’s power and brought energy to every person on the planet, how many people would have said, “I want to operate and EXPRESS the great forces I have, as Tesla did,” versus…

“Thank you, Nikola, for the free energy. Now I can receive these gifts and sit back and enjoy them…I don’t have to look inside myself and see what is there…”

“I’m a Gulliver who is opting to be a Lilliputian.”

“Does anybody have a drug I can use to forget what I really am? A drug like Alice took to shrink down, outside the little door to Wonderland?”

Yes. It’s called modern civilization. You can go through the Clockwork Orange door. The DARPA mind control door. The medical-drug and vaccine door. The street drug door. The education system door. The media door. The good behavior gold star on the blackboard door…

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

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29^th 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.

Ayn Rand: a creative vision hated and adored by millions

Jul19

by Jon Rappoport

July 19, 2021

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Here I’m republishing my 2014 article because, these days, beyond the manipulation of people and agendas, a few questions are still burned on the sky:

What is freedom?

What is freedom for?

What is justice?

These are not questions for people who believe they already know everything worth knowing.

“Why carry the burden of creating something and then having to stand behind it and be proud of it? Why think and imagine and create your own way into the future of your most profound vision? Why bother? And why, therefore, allow others to do so for themselves and cause disordered, disharmonious ripples in the great silent lake of humanity? Pull them down. Make them equal. Make them empty.” (my notes for The Underground)

The one glaring problem in Ayn Rand’s work is the overall effect of her hammering mercilessly on behalf of freedom and the individual—after 400 pages, her prose takes on a programmatic aspect. It grips the reader with iron. The moral imperative to be free replaces the exhilaration of being free.

On the other hand, she obviously wrote her two great novels in the middle of a feverish exaltation. Every page burned. Most characters went down in flames. A few rose into the sky. She knew she was up against the most powerful forces of society, and she was not going to compromise or relent one inch. She fully intended to destroy collectivism at its root. On the basis of that decision, she refused to suspend her attack, even for a moment.

Most people who brush up against her work can’t stop to consider the depth of her admiration for the independent and powerful and creative individual, or the nature of her aversion to the collectivist who can only borrow from such individuals, and then distort and undermine what they have misappropriated.

She means to be extreme. It is no accident. With no apologies, she splits the world down the middle. In her own way, she is an ultimate riverboat gambler. She shoves in all her chips on the self-appointed task of illuminating the great dichotomy of human history and modern life: the I versus the WE.

On a personal level, she possessed enormous ambition, and she wrote her two novels to achieve deserved recognition. Again, no apologies. She knew she and her work would be attacked by numerous critics who didn’t themselves own a tiny fragment of her talent. So be it.

To say she revealed “a thorny personality” in her relationships would constitute a vast understatement. In her later years, she no doubt contributed to bringing the house down on her head. But by then, her work was over. She stood behind it. She had achieved what she set out to create.

And every cultural messenger of her time reviled her.

“…nearly perfect in its immorality.”
Gore Vidal, reviewing Rand’s Atlas Shrugged

“…shot through with hatred.”
The Saturday Review, on Atlas Shrugged

“…can be called a novel only by devaluing the term.”
The National Review, on Atlas Shrugged

“[The] creative faculty cannot be given or received, shared or borrowed. It belongs to single, individual men.”
Howard Roark, the protagonist of The Fountainhead

When people perceive their society is being infiltrated and taken over by collectivism, how should they respond? What is their ultimate fuel in the battle for liberty?

What do they resurrect as the ideal that is being scorched by collectivism?

Yes the Constitution, yes the Bill of Rights, yes the Republic. But what were those documents and that form of government there for in the first place? What WAS the great ideal that lay behind them?

And if very few people can recall the ideal or understand it, what then?

The ideal was and is THE INDIVIDUAL.

But not just the individual.

The FREE INDIVIDUAL.

But not just the free individual.

The FREE AND POWERFUL INDIVIDUAL.

Which is why I’m writing about Ayn Rand.

To grasp her Promethean effort and accomplishment, you have to read her books at least several times, because your own reactions and responses will change. She was attempting to dig a whole civilization out from its smug certainty about the limits of freedom, from its compulsion to borrow and steal worn-out ideas.

I write this because the matrix of modern life has no solution without a frontal exposure of the meaning and reality and sensation and emotion and mind and imagination of INDIVIDUAL POWER.

Ayn Rand, in her unique way, climbed the mountain of power and told about the vista that was then in her sights. She exercised no caution. She knew the consequences would be extraordinary.

The characters she creates who embody power are electric. You experience them beyond mere fiddle-faddle with symbols.

Rand wrote two novels that still reverberate in the minds of millions of people: The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged.

The books have inspired unalloyed adoration and hatred. They are received as a magnificent tonic or a dose of poison.

Readers who hate Rand’s work hate her for daring to present the power of an individual in full force.

Rand’s major heroes, Howard Roark and John Galt, are artists. Creators. They bow before no one and nothing. They invent. They decide. They imagine. They refuse to compromise. They leave the group and the committee and the bureaucracy and the collective behind them in the dust.

Society is ever more, over time, a mass concept. Society’s leaders, through illegal dictum, deception, and force, define a space in which all life is supposed to occur. That is the “safe zone.” Within it, a person may act with impunity. Outside that space, protection is removed. The protection racket no long applies.

Once a controller owns a space in which others live, he can alter it. He can make it smaller and smaller. He can flood it with caterwauling about “the greatest good for the greatest number,” the slogan of the mob. He can pretend to elevate the mob to the status of a legitimate “democratic majority” who are running things. He can con whole populations.

On the other hand, we are supposed to believe that individual power is a taboo because men like Hitler, Stalin, Napoleon, Attila, and Alexander once lived. That is the proof. We are supposed to believe individual power is always and everywhere the expression of dominance over others and nothing more.

If we only take into consideration “what is best for everybody,” we will see our way out of the morass. That’s what we’re told.

Civilizations are being made more puerile because it is children who are most vulnerable to the “greatest good for all” maxim. It is children who can be suckered into that ideal overnight. And those adults who buy the maxim do, in fact, revert back in the direction of being children.

At this late date, significant numbers of people are waking up to the fact that “greatest good” is being managed and manipulated by new Stalins and Hitlers, who care about humanity in the same way that a bulldozer cares about the side of a building.

Ayn Rand, after growing up in the USSR, knew something about the paradise of the common man. She saw it play out. She could eventually look back and see, with certainty, that writing her two novels in the Soviet Union would have cost her her life.

She was acutely aware of the nature of compromisers. Such characters, brilliantly and mercilessly drawn, are there in her novels, in the full bloom of decay. Golden boy Peter Keating, the pathetic and agonized architect-hack; Guy Francon, Keating’s boss, a socially connected panderer and promoter of hacks; Jim Taggart, moral coward in extremis; Ellsworth Toohey, prime philosopher of the mob impulse; Robert Sadler, the scientist who sold his soul.

Around us today, we see growing numbers of these very types, peddling their phony idealism over and over. Among them, Barack Obama, promoting class warfare, dependence on government as the source of survival, generalized pretended hatred of the rich, and a phony empty “we are all together” sing-song collective mysticism.

Again, keep in mind that Rand’s two major heroes, Howard Roark and John Galt, were artists. This was no accident. This was the thrust of her main assault. The artist is always, by example, showing the lie of the collective. The artist begins with the assumption that consensus reality is not final. The artist is not satisfied to accommodate himself to What Already Exists.

The dark opposite of that was once told to me by a retired propaganda operative, Ellis Medavoy (pseudonym), who freelanced for several elite non-profit foundations:

“What do you think my colleagues and I were doing all those years? What was our purpose? To repudiate the singular in favor of the general. And what does that boil down to? Eradicating the concept of the individual human being. Replacing it with the mass. The mass doesn’t think. There is no such thing as mass thought. There is only mass impulse. And we could administer that. We could move it around like a piece on a board. You see, you don’t hypnotize a person into some deeper region of himself. You hypnotize him OUT of himself into a fiction called The Group…”

Rand was attacking a mass and a collective that had burrowed its way into every corner of life on the planet. If you were going to go to war against THAT, you needed to be fully armed. And she was.

Rand was also prepared to elucidate the physical, mental, and emotional DEPTH of her heroes’ commitment to their own choices, their own work, their own creations. She wasn’t merely dipping her toe in the water of that ocean.

Howard Roark, her protagonist of The Fountainhead, remarks:

“And here man faces his basic alternative: he can survive in only one of two ways—by the independent work of his own mind or as a parasite fed by the minds of others. The creator originates. The parasite borrows…”

Parasites don’t want anyone to stand out from the group, the swamp. The presence of someone who is so separate from them could trigger alarm bells and confirm their deepest fear:

An individual with power and his own singular creative vision can exist.

Parasites want you to believe you’re just a drop of water in the great ocean, and once you attain “higher consciousness” you’ll give in and float in the sea, and you’ll offload that oh-so primitive concept of yourself as Self. You’ll be One with all the other undifferentiated drops of water.

In their ritual of joining, people are awarded a mantrum: “I’M NOT VERY MUCH.”

Just that little phrase can open the door into the collective.

In The Fountainhead, architect Peter Keating utilized a second assertion as well:

“I AM GREAT BECAUSE OTHER PEOPLE THINK SO.”

Keating, the social grasper, finds acceptance from people of influence. They welcome him and reward him with architectural commissions because, well, they think they are supposed to; after all, his name has been bandied about by “those who should know Quality.”

It’s a world in which no standards apply except the opinions of people who carry weight.

And Peter is conventionally handsome, he’s the golden boy, he’s quick, he can design buildings that look like other buildings, he can work with others, he can look like he’s enjoying life, he’s good at parties, he’s congenial.

On what other basis should rewards be handed out? What else exists?

Unfortunately and fatally, Keating knows the real answer to that question, since he’s the boyhood friend of Howard Roark, the architect who does have a singular and astonishing vision, who stands beyond the crowd without trying.

Keating returns to Roark time after time; to insult Roark, to beg him for help, to be in the presence of a Force and breathe clean air.

Not determined enough to be himself, but still possessed of a shred of conscience, Keating is caught in the middle, between the man of vision and power (Roark) and new friends who offer him “the glittering world”—and the grips of this vise are unrelenting.

Adulation, money, success, fame, acceptance…Keating is given all these things, and still he destroys himself.

Here is why The Fountainhead provoked such rage from the self-styled elite: they’re committed to live on an insider’s rotting feast of mutual admiration and support, and in Keating they see themselves reflected with a clarity they’d assumed was impossible to construct. But there it is.

The very people who launched attack after attack at Rand, for “pawning off such preposterous characters as real,” were boiling inside, as they viewed themselves on the screen of her imagination: characters riddled with compromise, bloated with pretension, bereft of integrity.

Keating is eventually reduced to an abject yearning: would that his life had been lived differently, better—yet at the same time he maintains a dedication to hating that better life he might have had. He’s consumed by the contradiction. He sees his own career fall apart, while Roark’s ascends. The tables are turned. Keating has administered a toxin to his own psyche, and the results are all too visibly repellent.

The Keatings of this world carry water for their masters, who in turn find bigger and better manipulators to serve. It’s a cacophony of madness, envy, and immolation posing as success.

The world does not want to watch itself through the eyes of Ayn Rand. It does not want to see the juggernaut of the drama playing out, because, as with Keating, it is too revealing. And yet Rand has been accused, over and over, of being an author of cartoon personae!

She elevates characters and destroys other characters. She picks and chooses according to her own standards and ideals. She never wavers. She passes judgment. She differentiates vividly between the forces and decisions that advance life and those that squash it.

Again and again, she comes back to the fulcrum: the featureless consensus versus unique individual creative power.

Creative power isn’t a shared or borrowed quality. One person doesn’t live in the shadow of another. The creator finds his own way, and if that weren’t the case, there would be no basis for life.

We are supposed to think existence by committee is a viable concept. This is a surpassing fairy tale that assumes the proportions of a cosmic joke.

For those whose minds are already weak, in disarray, unformed, the substitution of the collective for the individual is acceptable. It’s, in fact, rather interesting. It has the kick of novelty. And the strength of hypnotic trance.

The strategy is obliquely described in The Fountainhead by Ellsworth Toohey, a newspaper columnist and philosopher of the collective, a little man who is covertly and diabolically assembling a massive following:

“…if I sold them the idea that you [an ordinary playwright] are just as great as Ibsen—pretty soon they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference…then it wouldn’t matter what they went to see at all. Then nothing would matter—neither the writers nor those for whom they write.”

Reduction to absurdity. An overall grayness called equality.

If the public is told the owner of a business didn’t create that business, but instead the public sector, the collective did, and if this theme is pushed and emphasized by others, eventually the absurd notion will take hold. Then it won’t matter what is done to the independent individual, because he was never really there at all in the first place. He was just an invisible nonentity.

Contrast this treatment of the individual with the stand that Howard Roark takes during his climactic courtroom trial, at the end of The Fountainhead:

“But the mind is an attribute of the individual. There is no such thing as a collective brain. There is no such thing as a collective thought.”

“We inherit the products of the thoughts of other men. We inherit the wheel. We make the cart. The cart becomes an automobile. The automobile becomes an airplane…The moving force is the creative faculty which takes product as material, uses it and originates the next step. This creative faculty cannot be given or received, shared or borrowed. It belongs to single, individual men. That which it creates is the property of the creator.”

“Yet we are taught to admire the second-hander who dispenses gifts he has not produced above the man who made the gifts possible.”

We are now in an age where EVERYTHING BELONGS TO EVERYBODY.

Obama is the latest in a line of demagogues who fully intend to reverse the course of history. That timeline shows us the heroic struggle to replace WE with I.

From the earliest days of our planet, since its habitation by humans, the tribe and the clan and the priest class and the monarchy, all claiming divine right, have enforced the WE. Finally, the I, which was always there, emerged fully enough to overthrow criminals and murderers who were restraining the individual.

But now we are being pulled back into the primitive swamp of the past, through the systematic application of a pseudo-philosophy. The I is turning back into the WE.

To people who carry advanced technological devices around with them wherever they go, which give them the capability to communicate instantaneously with anyone on the planet, this prospect seems harmless or ridiculous or irrelevant or comfortable.

The “I turning back into WE” is happening because IDEAS are slipping away as useful and necessary instruments of survival.

New generations are being raised and schooled in a sulfurous atmosphere of slogans designed to dead-end, from a number of directions, in a foggy “share and care” terminal, where “everything for everybody” and other so-called humanitarian banners wave in the rafters above secular leaders, who speak like priests and assure us that, very soon, the world will be a better place because we, as individuals, are absolving ourselves of the need to think of ourselves as individuals.

O yes, thank God, we are melting down. We are becoming One with All. Why carry the burden of creating something and then having to stand for it and be proud of it? Why think and imagine and create your own way into the future of your best and most profound vision? Why bother? And why, therefore, allow others to do so and cause disordered, disharmonious ripples in the great silent lake of humanity? Pull them down. Make them equal. Make them empty.

Let us, as ancient Greek vandals once did, chop away our most sacred statues, the ones that represent the I, and then let us watch as WE is reinstalled at the entrance to every public building.

Within the WE, individuals can hide and escape and postpone and delay, and imbibe the drug of forgetfulness, and listen to the chimes of paradise.

Roark continues to mount his courtroom speech: “An architect uses steel, glass, and concrete, produced by others. But the materials remain just so much steel, glass, and concrete until he touches them. What he does with them is his individual product and his individual property.”

Obama: “If you’ve got a business, you didn’t build that. Somebody else made that happen.”

Roark: “Rulers of men…create nothing. They exist entirely through the persons of others. Their goal is in their subjects, in the activity of enslaving.”

Obama: “If you’ve got a business, you didn’t build that. Somebody else made that happen.”

Roark: “When the first creator invented the wheel, the first second-hander invented altruism.”

Obama: “If you’ve got a business, you didn’t build that. Somebody else made that happen.”

Roark: “The love of a man for the integrity of his work and his right to preserve it are now considered a vague intangible and an inessential.”

Obama: “If you’ve got a business, you didn’t build that. Somebody else made that happen.”

Ayn Rand could be viewed as a tragic figure, but she would deny it, even in her darkest hour, just as her character, Howard Roark, would deny it.

She not only knew where she stood, she fleshed out, to an extraordinary degree, that position, in two astonishing and unique novels. Bolts from the blue.

She and her books were hated and adored, as no other author and no other works of the 20th century.

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

Jon Rappoport

The ‘chip’ in the brain, prior to all other chips

Jul16

Magic spilling over the edges of time, poetry and science

by Jon Rappoport

July 16, 2021

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Why isn’t every person acting as a shaper and artist of reality?

Why do people rearrange their pasts to omit that self-realization?

The ‘chip’ in the brain is: the non-creative.

The blind spot in the mind is the uncreative.

The false piece of consciousness is: ‘I don’t create.’

So-called Realists want people to pay total attention to What Is, and exclude all other impulses. This is their absurd game. They double down and triple down on it every day.

The realists have very convincing arguments. For example: “I’m your surgeon. You have a life-threatening blood clot, and I’m going in there to try to fix it in the next ten minutes. Do you want me to be a dreamer who fantasizes about mountains in the sky, or do you want me to know how to restore your blood flow before you don’t have enough oxygen to survive? After the surgery, when you wake up, maybe you’ll realize that nuts and bolts reality is what you should be focusing on from here on out, because that’s what I applied to save your life.”

THAT kind of argument.

How many people will refuse THAT kind of invitation and say, “When I wake up from the surgery, I want a pad and pencil, so I can continue writing my 10,000-page poem that spills over and drenches every realistic trap that tries to lock up my mind. A glass of orange juice would be nice as well. And please have the nurse open the curtain in my room so I can see the hills and the river and the old stone skyscrapers…”

Consciousness is not a stable structure. It’s not a structure at all. Therefore, as I’ve been writing, there are no maps. The pundits who claim there are, are kidding themselves. They want to soar and fly, but instead they’re peering through lenses at little shapes and thought-forms in drops of water in a vast unending ocean. And I don’t mean a Collective ocean. Let’s drop that pose.

Every individual soul wearing a physical form has that ocean of consciousness. It spills over edges of time and science and ‘realism’ and money and trinkets and possessions and the news. And yet it isn’t abstract at all. It’s not another realm where everything is pure and organized and perfect. That’s just a cover story. That’s conditioning, training, puerile education, and the out-of-control desire to control everything that moves. That’s one of the versions of the big sleep. That’s all the boring sermons you ever slept through. That’s a contraction of the mind trying to hold things rigidly in place—until the body responds with tremors.

Because THE SPONTANEOUS CREATIVE is trying to break out.

That’s more real than any realism.

The tech freaks and domeheads can try to analyze spontaneous Creative Force from now to forever, and they’ll never make a single inroad. Instead, they’ll just say, “Computers can compose poetry, and they can defeat humans at chess, so turn the universe over to us.”

I don’t think so.

Every religious organization in the world can say to its flock, “We have the pipeline to God, he is present with us in OUR temple, WE have the book that tells you what HE said. Get to HIM through US.” As if an individual soul wearing a physical form with an unending ocean of consciousness who believes in God can’t get through on his own, because it’s just too complicated or hard or it’s Tuesday or it’s raining or the Pope has all the phone lines locked up or a bottle of wine at the liquor store isn’t the bottle of wine with special symbolic portent, or you need a small enclave that’s gained nation-status surrounded by Swiss Guards to rate a look-in from the Deity, or the flock has to be in one place on Sunday singing a hymn, or the night is too long, or the worm can turn in the right direction only when the cliché-ridden minister delivers his candy corn from the pulpit, and the words have to be read from the sacred Book after 169 translations have passed through the hands of writers, most of whom couldn’t get arrested during a riot at a literary convention. Fortunate is the Church who lucked into a real poet who breathed life into its bible.

Because, as I’ve written, every religion starts out as a poem. A poet is working on a million-word Niagara that nothing to do with organized religion, and priests come in and steal it and look it over and edit it down and chop it up and pick the useful lines and insert volleys of vapid warnings and make THAT version THE WORD.

Today’s cutting-edge medical researchers are their own priest class. They, too, are editing and reducing, using genetic tools and nanoparticles they want to infuse with the ability to deliver calcifying messages to the human brain.

The real human experiment? To see what happens when 7 billion souls wearing physical forms bottle up infinity inside themselves and live shoulder to shoulder. They didn’t need to run that experiment. I could have told them before they started what would happen, and it’s what we’re seeing right now, what we’ve been seeing for the last year, the last 5000 years.

When I say THE POEM, I mean what happens in reverse, when the infinities emerge.

An ocean of consciousness turns stagnant if it isn’t EXPRESSED. CREATIVELY.

Just as freedom turns sour.

Just as an individual, decaying from the inside, decides to wave the flag of realism and say we’re all made out of atoms and we’re all doomed. Because he wants to make “the smart choice,” as if we’re operating a contest and the winner gets a new car. There are no points and scoreboards when we’re talking about infinity.

Neither is endless consciousness a placid summer sea on which you float on your back, while you wait for the big ship of Cheese to come along and pull you into a giant collective glob with all other souls.

Consciousness wants the electricity and dynamo of endless creating.

That Force which everyone has felt at one moment or another and then tried to kill off.

It doesn’t die.

And that’s today’s news. And tomorrow’s, too.

And that’s the reason behind the reason I’ve been exposing the machinations of the medical cartel for the past 40 years. By attacking and poisoning and altering the body and brain, they’re in essence attempting to cut people off from the connection to their own dynamic consciousness. And turn them into “REALISTS.”

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

Jon Rappoport

The Astronaut Debrief: consciousness in the year 2080

Jul15

by Jon Rappoport

July 15, 2021

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December 2, 2080, closed room in Houston.

An astronaut is back from a three-month voyage in space. He talks to the NASA men at the table.

“…See it, wasn’t just a planet. It was somewhere that made no sense at all. There were…things there, but I couldn’t identify them. I couldn’t put names to them. I thought it might be a puzzle. A game. So I just started walking. I don’t know how long I walked. You tell me I’ve been away for three months. All right. I can’t put any sort of time stamp on it. One thought came in on me, over and over again. I was in a different universe. And if it was organized, I couldn’t find the pattern. So for a very long time I rejected the whole place, the whole setup. That was my main experience. Who would ever imagine being in a locale where things were so strange he couldn’t find a single word to convey them to anyone else? And then, finally, I remembered something from years ago. A play being performed by crazy actors. They spoke in a language no one had ever heard of. It went on for almost an hour. I felt very angry. A few minutes before the end, I was hit by lightning. I suddenly understood everything they were saying. I don’t know how. And I couldn’t translate it back into English. I just understood. It was a one-time experience. And that was what it was like, being in that universe. When I remembered this, I felt a shift. I knew where I was. I knew what was going on. I knew that universe. But I can’t sit here and tell you what it was. That seems impossible to you. But it’s true. I’m stymied. One thing I can say. Everything I once thought I knew about beauty…that’s gone out the window. I’ve realized there were certain rules embedded in my mind. Maybe principles. Principles of harmony, symmetry, balance. Organization. I was living according to those rules or principles all my life, in all my choices, and now they’re gone. They don’t exist anymore. When they evaporated, I was able to understand what that universe was. All at once. On the trip home, I started to draw. You’ve seen my work. You’ve looked at it, and you wonder whether you can use it to decipher what happened to me. But you can’t. I was just inventing out of a vacuum. A wonderful vacuum. I was working from nothing, a void. I’m not asking you to understand it. I don’t feel you need to. I just know I stumbled across something. I never wanted it or looked for it. You’ve told me the drawings mean nothing to you. That’s fine. I didn’t do them for you. All the vast telemetry we have? The codes and symbols and shorthand, the measurements? The markers and the baselines and the scans? I’m not interested in them anymore. I don’t have the slightest bit of interest.”

There was silence in the room.

“Sounds like you got religion,” one man said.

“I feel,” the astronaut said, “like a tiger who just walked out of the zoo.”

Security men stepped into the room. They had their hands on their holsters.

But the ops chief held up his hand.

“It’s all right,” he said. “We’re fine. This man found something. Let him go. No one will understand him. We’re protected. We’re all inside the protocol.”

There is the little-known work of philosopher/linguist Ernest Fenollosa, the author of The Chinese Written Character as a Medium of Poetry. Fenollosa analyzed modern Chinese words back to older pictographs that minimized nouns. Instead, these ancient pictographs, at one time, presented a view of reality that was far more dynamic and shifting, in which action was the main event. The subject and object of a sentence were themselves of lesser importance, and were related to one another by their mutual participation in that action. “To be” verbs—is, are, am—were just dead ducks. Irrelevant.

Suppose we had a language in which every noun was also a verb, in the sense that it threw off rays and curves and vectors of action and energy.

What would we have then?

We might, at the extreme, have an endless supply of dynamic universes. No potted plants.

We would be communicating with each other in a way that instantly gave birth to possibilities beyond current meanings embedded in our style of speaking and writing. The implications of each word of text would jump and leap. Instead of peeling off layers to get at the precise definition of a word, we would automatically be proliferating it.

Language, created by consciousness, also feeds back to it. And this feedback informs our way of viewing reality. The structure of language becomes, in a true sense, a monitor on what we can see and what we can’t see. What we can imagine and what we can’t imagine.

It’s as if a psychologist, running one of those old inkblot tests, told the patient: “Guess what? There’s nothing wrong with you. Forget all that nonsense. Look at these shapes and imagine anything you want to. Tell me what you invent. Then I’ll do the same. Pretty soon we’ll be speaking a different language, and we’ll levitate out of this worn-out reality…”

Then they start speaking in a different way. They’re out in open water. Their operational concept of Understanding is undergoing a revolution.

They’re experiencing sensations of flying and soaring. These sensations are feeding back into their body processes and into their minds. The hard wiring is giving way.

You could say they’re astronauts training for a mission in which they’ll encounter an intelligence that’s completely alien to Earth.

There are analogues to what I’m discussing here. For example, microtonal music. You tune a piano so that, altogether, the 88 keys display the range of sounds contained within just one octave of a conventional piano. Going from the lowest note to the highest on the microtonal piano, you hear thin slices and gradations of notes that cover, all told, no more ground than one octave of a normal piano.

You sit at the microtonal piano and you play. And play. And play.

You listen to what you play.

At first, it’s repugnant. It’s not only dissonant, it’s absurdly muddy.

But after a few months of playing that piano every day, you begin to hear something. It comes through. And the sensations it brings might remind you of places you’ve been, experiences you’ve had. But they go further, into a void where new sensations and meanings you can’t name are possible, are happening. Are real. Eventually, super-real.

These sensations flood your endocrine system, and new proportions and sequences of hormones are produced. You experience feelings you’d forgotten or never had before.

The spectrum of feeling and thought expands.

Your whole notion of what you can experience and understand changes.

Your imagination is gearing up.

You never seriously considered there could be seven comprehensible sounds between any two keys on an ordinary piano. Now, you’re not only hearing them, they make sense. They convey emotion.

This would be like saying that, between each pair of words in a sentence, there are seven other words, and every one of them is an action verb.

When you understand that expanded and exploded sentence, you can talk to an alien from another universe. He can talk to you.

After your first conversation, when you walk out of the facility where he’s under heavy guard, ride the elevator up to the parking lot, and drive through the gate, you look at the desert and you see things you never saw before.

You understand why magic was hard to do. It was all supposed to be taking place in a tight reality of unbreakable connections. Impossible. But now those connections have snapped. The landscape, any landscape, is much more inclusive and malleable.

You’re reminded things were this way once: wide open, free. And now processes in your body open up. There is a reason for them to change. They secrete information and energy that have been dormant for a long time. Dormant, because there was no use for them.

The cells in your nervous system wake up to a remarkable degree. They’ve been waiting for this moment. They turn off the perverted game show called Life they’ve been glued to for 40 years. They project rays in all directions. Your physical aliveness shifts up exponentially.

Through the walls of the holding facility behind you, you can see the alien. He’s nodding at you. Yes, he’s thinking. You’re on the right track.

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

Jon Rappoport

The Magician Awakes

Jul14

—for Mike Mahoney and Bonnie Lange—and FOR LAURA—

by Jon Rappoport

July 14, 2021

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“Aye, harpoons…stuck in him like so many corkscrews. Aye, his spout is big, like Nantucket wheat. Aye, by death and devils, the white whale is Moby-Dick, if Moby-Dick you see! It was Moby-Dick that dismantled me, that reaped off my leg like a mower, a blade of grass and left me with this dead stump I stand on…The prophecy was that I should be dismembered; and—Aye! I lost this leg. I now prophesy that I will dismember my dismemberer.” (Herman Melville, Moby Dick)

Scattered among my files, there are notes for a work called The Magician Awakes. Some notes I’ve already included in articles. Here is one passage I’ve never published. It’s narrated by a character who is wandering through a labyrinth:

“I’ve read everything, and I remember what I’ve read. I’m one of those people who eats books and authors. I’ve read philosophy and mysticism, physics, astronomy, biology and chemistry, mathematics, literature, poetry, history, and so on. And this was all by age 30.”

“After that, I found myself reading only one book, Moby Dick. Now I read it over and over, and the ideas and feelings swell up ever larger.”

“The whale, Ahab, Ishmael, the sea, the minor characters, they keep rising and swelling and increasing. Last year, they were at Saturn and Jupiter size; next year they’ll be consuming a quadrant of the Milky Way; then the whole galaxy; and finally, they’ll be out in indefinable space.”

“I had a dream about God. He, too, was reading Moby Dick over and over, and when I arrived in Heaven, he brought me to his table for a meal, and we sat down. He said, ‘I keep discovering new scenes I’d forgotten. Most people can’t understand I’m always exploring. After all, if I’m infinite, how could I be a finished product? I gave up reading the philosophers a long time ago. You need the sense of the poetic to GO FARTHER. No one seems to realize I didn’t make humans limited creatures. I gave them all doorways into the infinite, without me knowing the whole or even half of what that was’.”

“Where is Melville now?”

“’I gave him a cottage down the road, but he’s been gone from there for some time’.”

“You made the whales. You should know a great deal about them.”

“’I didn’t make Melville’s white whale. That’s his domain, and even he didn’t understand everything about it. How could he? You don’t explore with full knowledge of the map. By the way…look at the Earth. When the intrepid explorers die and rise above the planet, do you think they want to go back and incarnate again? Unlikely in most cases. Because the people in charge down there are obsessed with organizing and controlling the scene in all aspects. THAT means, little by little, Earth is drained of the most adventurous types. Do you see? An unintended consequence. A serious one’.”

“When you say ‘intrepid explorers’, you’re talking about imagination?”

“’How else are you going to navigate the uncreated spaces? In Moby Dick, it seems at first no one has it, but as you read the book over and over, it leaks out to you. Melville is the one with imagination. The course of the whale and Ahab and even Ishmael is set, but something else is there. An X factor. It’s the book above the book. It’s as if Melville wrote TWO. He wanted to. He wanted the inevitable tragedy. But something else in him couldn’t abide only that. It was his poetic sense. It shines through’.”

“Remember this Melville observation? ‘There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces’.”

“’That eagle-soul. Did I make it that way? Yes and no. I gave it an abundance of courage, but the soul decided he could range and roam in those extreme places. It’s freedom. Without it I would have created nothing more than a puppet show. People start out believing in a closed system. They think everything they want they can find inside that system. They can make magic from the inside. But they can’t. They never have. They have to get OUTSIDE, and then they have the ability. Sometimes what starts out as freedom turns into a system. Because they want to organize the parts. They’re rabid finishers and polishers. So then they’re INSIDE again. I’ve been writing a poem for some time. It’s about 100,000 pages now. I’m just getting warmed up. If you, the soul, were a physical form, which you’re not, MAGIC would live in the muscles and ligaments and arteries and nerves and heart and spleen and brain and liver and fingers and toes and ears and of course the eyes—it can’t be contained. It’s everything that exists outside systems. If my image is put inside a system, drop it off at the side of the road. It’s lost any value it might once have had. Infinite means INFINITE. I’m not messing around. The obsession with the little stuff is an affectation. That doesn’t mean you go with vague dead-leaf generalities. You throw every single thing you can think of into the mix. Cars, old tires, trinkets, gold shoes, bullets, road signs, rivers…I like to assume every person is writing an endless poem, whether he knows it or not, and there are plenty of bad ones, believe me. That’s because people are hypnotized by empty ideas. But it doesn’t matter. They’ll catch on sooner or later. Because again, INFINITE is REAL. There, two birds on every branch. The first one is a piece of the white picket fence and the white clouds and the horse and buggy moving along on the familiar street in the middle of town, but that bird is also one thing and creature in the mix of an endless poem that has lines as long as you want to make them…old Walt Whitman knew that. Read one of his eruptions. There are some truly terrible lines in there I would have edited out, but they have to be there, because he’s working up a head of steam, he’s moving toward a few immortal and unpredictable and unfathomable words strung together, and when you read them you’re stunned in your tracks, you can’t move for a few moments. I see you’ve been wandering in a labyrinth for a long time. You’re trying to figure out how to escape. This is a joke. There is no escape, which means there is no exit. That place where you came in? It’s closed now. You’re in a system, lad. Don’t fret. Just keep writing the poem. Look around you. What’s there? Throw it all into the mix. The old socks and the kitchen sink. And pretty soon you’ll be outside. Not by finding the exit. By magic. Come back around in a year or so and see me. I do readings now and then. We sit around and tell stories. There’s music. A few pals of mine, Ravi, Bird, Bud, Sonny, Igor. Bust the system, kiddo. That’s what it’s all about. The system in the mind. Just go the other way. The long shot turns out to be the favorite every time. It’s magic…’”

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

Jon Rappoport

The Invisible Empire

Jul7

by Jon Rappoport

July 7, 2021

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This article goes up against 50 thousand or a hundred thousand years of human conditioning. That means people will say, “I have no idea what you mean.” “You’re not saying THAT, are you?” “Everything about civilization contradicts what you’re suggesting.”

So be it.

“There is a living empire of The Poem. The Poem is what most people automatically reject as completely worthless and useless, pragmatically speaking—pragmatism being the only language they are pledged to speak, on pain of death. And yet there they are, in church, at funerals, reciting poems, when it counts. When they have to be MOVED.” (my notes for The Magician Awakes)

“The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age…”

“Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, 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.”

“I have dreamed of the green night with dazzled snows A kiss slowly rising to the eyes of the sea, The circulation of unknown saps, And the yellow and blue awakening of singing phosphorous!”

I know logic. And evidence. And investigation. I’ve been doing it for close to 40 years. But underneath it all, I’m doing it to expose the castle they, the insane ones, are building for us. The castle of their dead language and their tattered false logic and their iron bands of materialistic control; their newspeak and lab speak and germ speak and protection-racket speak and payoff speak and robot speak and techno-speak and data speak and modeling speak and squeeze-play speak and propaganda speak and mapping speak.

All the languages that are separate from LIFE.

When the printing press was invented, did people set about worshipping the little metal letters that allowed books to be published? When computers took hold, people DID set about worshipping them and the software and the processing capacity; and the mind-as-computer metaphors blossomed everywhere like cheap plastic flowers.

As social commentators never tire of pointing out, every new era creates its own story about how the universe works. These days, the story centers on “programs.” The planets and stars and galaxies must be responding to some set of instructions. And so are humans.

Taking this myth out to its conclusion, there is no room for LIFE. Or CONSCIOUSNESS.

The poets have always led the way. They burst through the layers of conditioned imprisonment and plant new seeds of time.

They take functional language, transform it, and shoot it up through the clouds.

They express what was inexpressible.

They destroy old crusted empires with a glance.

That centuries of education have failed to ignite billions of the young with poetry is no sign that this highest expression of consciousness is incomprehensible or an aberration.

Poetry isn’t a solution to a problem. It’s what the soul is always searching for. Searching for in a liquor store at 3AM, in an endless desert, in a brothel, drugged in front of a television set, at the moment two lovers pledge loyalty forever, when a coffin is lowered into a grave, when clouds of the mind suddenly clear away on the top of a mountain, when soldiers’ bodies arrive back on home soil, when boredom seems as if it has no end, when a firing squad points its guns, when a child comes out of the womb, when terrible circumstances rip away the foul rotting cover of smug indifference of the know-nothing who thinks he knows everything, when a father realizes what his child is seeing on the morning of a spring day in endless time, when a woman turns over in bed and looks at the man she loves.

Clamp down on The Poem, bury it, deny it, and the invention that supplants it is living death.

In this era, we call that invention Technocracy.

Every religion is frozen poetry. Somewhere, a poet was writing a ten-thousand-page poem, and the priests stepped in and took it and edited it, cut it, framed a piece of it, tore away the wild and free nature of it, and put it in a book—their book.

And this became a model for every large organization in the world: REDUCTION. Simplification. False maps. Making what is vitally electric into something that is dead.

Doctor: You know, I’ve failed you with all these pills. I’m trying to look into your SOUL. It’s like a block of stone. Let’s try something completely different. I’m going to give you a poem that can raise the dead. I want you to read it OUT LOUD six times a day for the next hundred days. Give it your all. Don’t hold back. Force it if you have to. If you feel shame and embarrassment, shove them aside. Read it as if you were the poet himself. Bring your voice to life! Here it is.

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 daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, 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.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea. (Dylan Thomas, Fern Hill)

THE PATIENT RESPONDS: Doctor, I can’t do that. I can’t read that out loud. I don’t even know what it means.

DOCTOR: I understand. You’re looking for a mechanical solution to your problem. But the problem is, YOU’VE become mechanical. That’s what’s driving you into oblivion. So every solution of the type you want makes things worse. You’re dead inside. No pill is going to fix that. You’re going to have to make a grand leap.

A poem, greater than any system or map or portrait of consciousness.

The lost language. The invisible empire. Over and above a hundred thousand years of human conditioning.

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

Jon Rappoport

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

Jul6

by Jon Rappoport

July 6, 2021

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The creative center of the world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It shrugs off the fake harmony of the living dead.

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

Art unchained becomes titanic.

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

As in, The Flood.

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

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

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

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

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

But creation is not neutral.

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

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

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

Prometheus, the artist who unchained humanity…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was Tesla and Rife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beyond systems. Beyond structures.

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

What would create an internal revolution?

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

How would creation begin?

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

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

These are the grand deceptions. These are the illusions…

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

Jon Rappoport

Wormhole in the Museum Called Reality

Jun30

by Jon Rappoport

June 30, 2021

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My friend Charlie sells a painting to the Gregorian Museum out on Galactic Park.

They hang his painting in one of the upstairs rooms for a week, and then trouble starts. Charlie gets a phone call in the middle of the night from the director. Charlie can’t believe his ears. He rushes over to the museum.

Upstairs, the director is in his pajamas pacing back and forth. Charlie goes up to his painting, looks at it for a few minutes and sees it.

People have walked into the painting and taken up residence there.

Holy crap.

They’re in there.

Law suits, the director says. Their families could take us to the cleaners.

When Charlie calls out to the people inside his painting, they don’t hear him. They don’t seem to be able to get out. At least no one’s trying.

What do you want me to do? Charlie says.

Get them the hell out of there, the director says. Pick up the picture and shake it if you have to. Turn it upside down. I don’t care.

Charlie doesn’t think this is a good idea. Somebody could get hurt.

So for the next few hours, he sits in front of his painting, drinks coffee, and tries to talk to the people inside.

No dice. Even when he yells, they don’t notice him.

By this time, the chairman of the museum board has shown up. He’s agitated. He’s yabbering about containing the situation.

Charlie asks him how he proposes to do that.

Blanket denial, the chairman says. Pretty soon, the cops are going to link these disappearances to the museum—but then we just throw up our hands and claim we know nothing about it.

A lot of good that’ll do, the director says. Even if we wiggle out of the law suits, our reputation will be damaged. People won’t want to come here. They’ll be afraid somebody will snatch them.

Okay, the chairman says, we’ll shut down for repairs. New construction. That’ll buy us a few weeks and we can figure out something. We’ll say the building needs an earthquake retrofit. Not a big one. Just some shoring up.

…So that’s what happened. They closed the museum and hoped for the best.

Charlie was upset. If word got out, how could he ever sell another painting? His agent told him he was nuts. He’d become the most famous person in the world, and people would be lining up trying to get inside his pictures. You’ll be a phenomenon, he said.

Yeah, Charlie said, until some loon tries to take me out.

A week later, while Charlie and I were having breakfast at a little cafe over by the river, he told me the people inside his painting were building yurts. They were digging a well.

What are they eating, I asked him.

Beats me, he said. But they don’t seem worried. They look okay.

But they can’t get out, he said. At least they don’t want to. They’re settling down in there!

I asked him the obvious question about shrinkage.

I know, he said. They’re a hell of a lot smaller. But no one’s complaining, as far as I can tell.

They like your work, I said.

He looked at me like he was going to kill me, so I let it drop.

Okay, I said. Here’s what you need to do. Go over there and add something to the painting.

He blinked.

What?

Paint on the painting. See what happens.

Sure, he said, and drive them into psychosis. Who knows what effect it would have?

Paint a nice little country road that leads them right out into the museum. They’ll see it, they’ll walk on it.

No, he said. Don’t you get it? They’ve already taken things a step further. They’re not just living in my landscape. That was just the initial draw. They’re building their own stuff in there. They’re…poaching!

Silence.

Then there’s only one thing you can do, I said.

I leaned across the table and whispered in his ear. He listened, then jumped back.

No, I said. You have to. Don’t be a weak sister. Go for it.

…So Charlie went upstairs in the museum and cleared everybody out. He unpacked the little suitcase he’d brought and set up a player and a speaker. He shoved in a disc and turned on the music. Some sort of chanting. A chorus.

He took out a change of clothes from the suitcase and put on a long robe and a crazy hat. He eventually showed it to me. It was from a costume party he’d had at his house. Tall red silk hat with tassels hanging from it.

He stood in front of the painting and said:

HELLO, INHABITANTS. I AM CHARLIE. I’M YOUR CREATOR. YOU’RE LIVING IN MY WORLD, THE WORLD I MADE.

They all looked toward the sound of his voice.

THAT’S RIGHT, he said. I’M RIGHT HERE. THIS IS A REVELATION. I DON’T DO MANY OF THESE SO LISTEN UP. I AM YOUR CREATOR, YOUR GOD. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

All 30 or so of them were now gathered together, outside one of the half-finished yurts.

They were nodding and saying yes.

GOOD. WE NEED TO GET A FEW THINGS STRAIGHT. YOU DIDN’T OBTAIN MY PERMISSION TO ENTER MY WORLD. SO YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO COME OUT SO WE CAN DISCUSS DETAILS. MY WORD IS LAW. UNDERSTAND? STOP THE BUILDING. STOP THE DIGGING. WALK TOWARD ME. WALK TOWARD THE SOUND OF MY VOICE.

They hesitated, looked at each other, and started to walk toward Charlie.

THAT’S RIGHT. KEEP GOING. YOU’RE DOING FINE. I’M GOING TO SHOW YOU WHERE I LIVE.

This was apparently quite a perk, so they walked faster. They broke into a trot.

Finally, they emerged from the painting and, Charlie said, they swelled back to normal size right away.

It was quite a thing to see, like balloons blowing up—and then there they were, all around me, in the museum. First thing, I took the painting off the wall and laid it on the floor, face down. Enough of that stuff.

Charlie told them who he was, the painter. It took a few hours of intense conversation before they understood and accepted the situation. All in all, they seemed sad.

What were you going to do, he asked them. Live in there forever? Couldn’t you see how to get out?

We didn’t want to get out, one of the men said. We liked it in there.

And that was pretty much that, except for the signing of waivers and non-disclosure agreements with the museum. For which the people were granted lifetime platinum memberships and some vouchers and coupons for the museum store and restaurant.

Charlie went into a funk. He didn’t go into his studio for a few months.

One night, I dropped over to his house with a bottle of bourbon and we had a few drinks out on his porch.

You know, I said, you can start a church if you want to. I know a guy who writes fake scriptures and peddles them. He’s good.

You really do want me to kill you, he said.

We drank in silence for a while.

I told him: those people with their wells and yurts and ritual masks? Sooner or later, they’re going to hypnotize themselves and fall for another strange deal. Nobody’s going to stop them.

Charlie looked grim. That’s the thing, he said. They liked living in my picture. It wasn’t a problem for them. And I took them out. I conned them.

Well, I said, if that’s the case, and there’s nothing wrong with them, they’ll find another painting. See? Someday, you’ll read about a bunch of people disappearing, and that’ll be what it is.

Yeah, he said, maybe.

A week later, he got back to work.

Universes. Some weird things happen in that area.

I started to write a Charlie a note. It began: Maybe all universes are just like your painting. But I stopped. Charlie wouldn’t react well to that.

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

Jon Rappoport

The blockbuster movie called Reality

Jun28

by Jon Rappoport

June 28, 2021

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

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

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

Your perception of x dimensions is narrowing down to three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lights dim.

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

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

You think, “This is a hypnotic weapon.”

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

He waits, then moves on.

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

You’re shocked.

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

Incredible.

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

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

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

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

You walk toward larger buildings in the distance.

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

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

“You were reported missing,” he says.

“Missing from what?” you say.

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

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

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

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

You walk with the men to the car.

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

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

In the haze dance little creatures.

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

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

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

You hear faint music.

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

One of the uniformed men opens the car door.

You nod at him.

“My pleasure, sir,” he says.

The music fades away.

The scene shifts.

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

You’re home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You see pure space that…

Has been placed here. For you.

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

And you’re sitting in the theater again.

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

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

“Sir,” he says. “Please follow me.”

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

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

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

She drops a check in your hand.

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

She shrugs.

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

“And the rest of those people?”

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

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

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

“How do you do it?” you say.

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

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

She nods.

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

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

She looks into your eyes.

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

“Why do you do it?” you say.

“Do what?”

“Sell this trip.”

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

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

You take a deep breath and leave the theater.

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

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

You open it.

It’s a non-disclosure agreement.

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

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

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

Jon Rappoport

The realist vs. the artist

Apr8

by Jon Rappoport

April 8, 2021

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

“Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.” (Albert Einstein)

—You say reality is invented. I say it’s THERE already, and we have to deal with it.

What does “deal with it” mean?

Accept it.

What do you do after that?

Not my concern. Outside my realm of control.

You’re denying you can create something better than reality.

What do YOU do? You just write plays and put characters on a stage. It’s fake reality.

I should just take a camera out into the street and shoot what’s in front of me? That’s my limit? You think consciousness is a steady-state THING. It’s dynamic and alive. No matter how high you go, there’s always something more. Something new that can be created. There is no final state of consciousness.

Consciousness is: what I see. It’s what I think and react to, when I see what I see. That’s all.

So you have no choice. You’re in prison.

I didn’t say that.

That’s what you mean. —But imagination is the key that unlocks the prison cell.

Really? I say there’s no such thing as imagination. It’s a reconstruction of what already exists. You rearrange pieces. Realism makes sense. Everything else is fluff.

Translation: you accept What Is. You might complain, but you accept. You end up creating nothing.

What happens to the characters in one of your plays? They all have limits. Each consciousness is limited. They’re chess pieces on a board.

That’s what you see when you sit and watch a stage play?

What else is there to see?

Life. A different kind of life.

I doubt that. On one end, you have a very imperfect person. He’s making all the mistakes he can possibly make, and he damages his own life. On the other end, you have a perfect person, however you want to define that. And that’s what he is. Perfect. And so what?

Again, you think consciousness is a given—“it is what it is.” It doesn’t change. At best, it just solves problems. I see a stage play as a different universe. It sends clues to the audience. “Reality isn’t fixed.” “Look what can be done to reality.”

No. We’re all in this reality called Life on Earth. That’s what we’ve got. We have to deal with it in the best way we can.

So according to you, all the artists who’ve ever lived were just amusing themselves, distracting themselves.

Pretty much, yes.

And all the mystics who’ve ever had visions were just deluded.

Right.

Reality is something that’s stamped on all our minds.

Correct.

What happens when you change your mind, when you rebel against the stamp?

You find out you can’t move the mountain.

That’s your bottom line?

It’s everybody’s bottom line.

Or…you just lack the courage to make your best vision into fact in the world.

I don’t have a vision.

Why not?

I’m not built to have a vision.

How do you know that?

Through experience. I live, and live some more, and no vision shows up.

You have to imagine a vision.

Imagination is delusion.

You’re imagining yourself as you are, over and over. You’re constantly imagining an image of yourself as you think you are.

That’s an interesting statement, but I don’t believe it.

What would happen if you did believe it?

I’d be forced to go on a whole new voyage.

And?

You want me to give up what I have, on the chance that if I go out into the sea, I’ll find something better.

Yes—something more ALIVE.

And what would that be?

I don’t know. It would be your vision.

You want me to throw caution to the wind.

Yes.

That’s asking for a lot. In return for something highly doubtful.

Forget doubt. Doubt is easy.

I guess, if I have a vision, that’s what it is: Doubt.

What are you going to build on that foundation?

You want me to become a character in a play?

A larger character. Or the playwright.

Sounds like cheap pie in the sky.

You can’t build much on cheap pie in the sky. Or any cheap idea.

You think I’m being cheap.

Absolutely.

I’m “writing a bad play called Reality.”

Yes.

And there are better plays I could write.

Potentially, an infinite number.

The sky’s the limit?

Even the sky is a limit. If great, great sages are sitting there, in their illumined states of mind, sooner or later it occurs to them they can create something MORE. Buddha is sitting there, and one morning he says: I can create something more. And he does.

And in that scenario, if painters like Degas and Rembrandt and Piero della Francesca are still somewhere, painting, they’re going further than they’ve ever gone before.

Yes.

Why?

Because they imagine more, they want to keep inventing. They want to see more.

Whereas I’m busy deciding whether to order a salami sandwich or a pastrami sandwich.

Right.

I’m getting tested twice a month and taking the vaccine.

Right.

I closed my store and went out of business because the governor said I had to.

Right.

I could reinvent my future as a “champion for freedom.” Or whatever.

Right.

Suppose I believe in God?

Yes? And? Did God say STOP? Is that one of His Commandments? Did he say ACCEPT REALITY? Did he say DON’T IMAGINE SOMETHING BETTER? DON’T CREATE IT? Did he say LEAVE THE MONEY CHANGERS IN THE TEMPLE TO THEIR OWN DEVICES?

I don’t know.

I think you do know.

Imagining is just pretending.

If that’s the way you see it, then pretend.

What?

Pretend you have a vision of what you really want to create. Pretend you’ve imagined it.

Really?

Yes. If you think imagining is lying, then lie. Lie to yourself that you have a vision of a better future. If you think imagining is making up illusions, then make up an illusion of a vision, and follow it no matter what.

And if I think I have no imagination, then imagine I DO?

Yes. Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes to overthrow your idea that realism is all you have. Break the chains.

Suppose I can’t?

That’s what you keep imagining: “I can’t.” That’s your vision: “I can’t.”

So out of nowhere, I should just overthrow reality?

Yes, and shove in all your chips on that move.

Why did you show up at my door?

That’s what I do.

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

Jon Rappoport

Jon Rappoport's Blog

NoMoreFakeNews.com

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