Or Heaven on Earth

by Jon Rappoport

May 31, 2011

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Remind me how this system works again? We, possessed of the greatest altruistic spirit in the history of the world, are gathering up all the struggling souls we can find and lifting them into a decent standard of living?

And when I say “we,” I don’t really mean you and I are actively pursuing this goal. Ha-ha, don’t be silly. We’re on the sidelines nodding yes. We’re registering our support so we can earn a gold star in The Book of Life? Is that what’s going on?

We’re with this great movement because we want to be known as good people (or not-bad people), even though no one is watching us or cares?

Or…has the “heaven on Earth” agenda spilled over the banks of the river, to the point where, in order to have an identity, a kid has to invent a disability and wear it like a badge?

Let’s see. Are we living in a society where people who earn money are paying out a very sizable chunk to the government so it can fight wars AND play messiah to every person with his hand out from here to the moon?

I’m asking, because that’s the way it looks to me.

And if by some random chance I happen to be right, how is this heaven on Earth thing going? Are cities cleaning up and becoming more prosperous? Is cradle to grave medical care making us more healthy? Is the ever increasing size of government making it possible to extend more real power to more people…or is it all turning to Bloat in a morbidly obese way any fool could have predicted?

What kicked off these questions? Well, the most recent trigger was an Atlanta Journal Constitution article in which an estimate was given for the total of outstanding student loans in America.

Projecting through 2011, the figure is: $1 TRILLION.

More than what all Americans owe on their credit cards.

So there is no confusion, we’re talking about loans made to students so they can attend college. And “outstanding” means: not paid back yet.

As of 2005, a survey study of college grads concluded that only 25% of these people could read at a rate that was considered proficient—and proficient simply means you can function in society and use information to forward your goals in life.

Since the federal government has taken over the student loan program, it appears the taxpayer is on the hook for $1 trillion, in order to produce 75% of all graduates who can’t find their ass with both hands.

But you see, it doesn’t matter, because it’s people helping people, and this is the prime directive, no matter how it’s working out.

Speaking of obese, 2007 government stats indicate 26% of Americans are obese.

Call me crazy, but it looks like victims are everywhere—and you can define that as real ones, made-up ones, ones who did it to themselves and are now being bailed out by taxpayer money, ones who are employed by government to help other ones, people who study victims and obtain gov grants to do it—a whole panorama.

Whereas once America was thought of as a place where people lent a helping hand, now that seems to be the main business of America, apart from wars and turning tribal people into Jeffersonian democrats. Where is the opium again and who is dreaming opium dreams?

And it’s quite possible, these days, that a nice kid from a decent American home will go through high school and learn, in various ways, that making money is a crime and parents are oppressors and we must all live in trees so the planet doesn’t overheat and explode—so when this kid reaches college, he/she is primed for the more serious kind of bitterness, resentment, and entitlement—vital experience he’ll garner off of loans laid out by the government—which is the only force that can create this heaven on Earth that must come to pass. By tomorrow at the latest.

And then we have this unchallenged figure: every year, the US medical system kills 225,000 people. 106,000 from FDA-approved medicines, 119,000 from misadventures in hospitals.

So…when I write about imagination and magic, and when I paint this idea of the great dormant power in each one of us, I’m not floating on a pink cloud. I’m not doing double rainbows. I’m not touting the New Age as the answer. The New Age has brought this many-headed morbid obesity to our doors.

I’m writing every day about individual POWER.

I don’t care if some people think it’s a bad word, a tainted word, a fearful word. I don’t care if some people shiver in the face of it and want tea and crackers and doilies instead.

I don’t care if this morbid society wants to redefine power to mean something we all collectively jump into and share, a vast vat of butter.

That’s triple-A high-grade, 100% pure bullshit.

And behind the faces of the people who promote it, there is a conniving spirit that runs like moldy scum through a stream.

Do you want a universe you want?

Then INVENT it.

That’s the power society tries to obscure with its heaven on Earth machinations.

That’s the original power being lost in the morbidly obese shuffle.

Good morning.

(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.

BYE BYE, UNIVERSE

by Jon Rappoport

May 20, 2011

The inspiration for this article came from the only productive conversation I’ve ever had with a student of ancient Tibetan practices.

Back in 1982, I was just building up momentum as a journalist for LA Weekly, writing a flurry of articles on nuclear-weapons issues. I met a few doctors who explained radioactive fallout spread to me, with maps and charts. One of the doctors brought along a friend to a meeting, a bright woman who was between teaching jobs.

She mentioned John Blofeld, who had authored a book about Tibet I admired. After the meeting, she and I had coffee at Zucky’s, in Santa Monica, the old deli that had been open 24/7 for decades. It was a home away from home for all sorts of light-night LA denizens.

We sat at a table and talked until dawn. The upshot of the conversation was: if, as the Tibetans used to say, universe is ultimately a product of mind, and if the individual can imagine and create other universes, where does that happen? Is it important to leave this physical reality to do it, do you do it right here, and if you manage to leave this reality, do you come back?

Quite far-out engaging stuff. It was like collaborating on a science-fiction story. She’d had a number of experiences doing a version of the Tibetan practice called deity visualization (dv). So had I. We compared notes. Especially about time and how it changes during dv.

I told her that once, I had entered a “time channel” that reminded me of the swiftness and happiness of my favorite movie comedy, His Girl Friday. Cary Grant, Ros Russell.

She said, “Have you ever watched a movie and discovered that the actors on the screen were real?”

“You mean, more than images?”

She nodded.

“More than my subjective impressions?”

She nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “Alive.”

Well, that part of the conversation took us through breakfast.

I left Zucky’s with the feeling that a person’s most remarkable and impossible experiences tend to gather dust, unless there is a way to share them. Otherwise, the colors fade; the feelings recede. I vowed not to ever let that happen again.

I’ve kept that vow.

So here we go…this piece is a kind of excursion that traces a leaping line of thought/experience I’ve reflected on many times. It’s the jumping-off point for my 1999 book, The Secret Behind Secret Societies. It’s for you, Margo, wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, and for Zucky’s, long gone, where we brought ancient Tibet back to life one night. It and Zucky’s still live…

People want to say they understand reality.

Or sometimes they want to say they don’t have a clue.

Depends on the situation. And on how they feel.

They can go either way with it.

And they’re right, you can approach reality from both directions. If reality is an egg, you can peel it and break it open and look at it and eat it. As soon as you do, another hardboiled egg appears on the table. And you can break that one and eat it, too. And boom, another egg. Or you can pretend, in the first place, the egg is an impenetrable mystery and just stare at it for a few centuries…

It’s fun, for a while.

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

Philip K Dick, “How to Build a Universe That Doesn’t Fall Apart Two Days Later,” 1978.

I’m sure science fiction writers have tried their hand at this, but there are interesting story lines to consider—a human approaches and meets the highest level of reality-manufacturers and discovers exactly what the hell is going on.

But I’m not talking about the political, economic, media, medical realities, I’m talking about UNIVERSE-generators, the folks who bring you this whole physical apparatus, the space-time tin can.

Absent, of course, the religious myths. Forget that. All that falls by the wayside right away. It’s just a cover story.

Obvious story line: Universe is an amusement park, with all the chills, thrills, and excitements of a Disney production…factoring in just the right amount of pain and suffering to give it street cred.

Better, the vacation scenario. You’re taking the spouse and kids to a new place, you buy the ticket, and you’re in. WELCOME TO UNIVERSE.

Of course, there’s a trick. The Roach Motel trick. Check in, can’t check out.

After about 20,000,000,000 lives, you’re indoctrinated, as they say.

The ancient Hindus realized there was something fishy about this setup, but they embroidered their insights to include “good reasons why” you and the family shouldn’t be able to escape universe.

The whole karma shell game, the caste system, various hierarchies, running all the way up from microspore and ant to king of the world…

The religion story produces a lot of nonsensical static. You need redemption, you were a bad boy, you can’t do it on your own, you have to contribute to the building fund for a new pyramid or cathedral, your exit strategy must involve grindingly gradual ascension.

But hey, be a good little soldier, and drop coins in the box.

Some people buy into the squishy New Agey variation. We’re all one Glob of Consciousness Goo, that’s the final destination, take it easy, don’t worry, it’ll happen when it’s supposed to.

But see, the clue is:

some guys built universe, so why not build your own?

Trouble is, when you’ve lived in this space-time vacation spot long enough, you tend to forget your have imagination. That’s a drawback if you’re trying to create a brand new universe.

However…you can imagine you have imagination. Works just as well as the real thing. Truth is, there is no real thing. Imagination ultimately IS imagining you have imagination. I know, it sounds odd, but there it is.

You just have to want it.

Physicists tend to get weird on the subject of universe. It’s expanding, it’s decaying, it’s the result of an explosion that came out of nothing and nowhere and still distributed titanic energy, it runs on twelve strings with no guitar player, there’s a bullpen where unused energy is stashed, you can’t destroy even one micro-micro of energy, ever, or that would somehow upset the whole applecart. They’re obviously troubled souls.

In one of the first interviews I did for LA Weekly in 1982, I talked with Bill Perry, who had just quit his cushy job as head of PR for Lawrence Livermore Labs. They do advanced nuclear weapons research there. One day, Bill passed by the desk of a guy who was fidgeting and frowning. He told Bill he was worried about cuts in the defense program. Bill said, “Man, don’t you realize we already have enough bombs to blow up the planet ten times?” The guy stared at him. Zero comprehension. “I’m a physicist,” he said. “I do research. I solve problems.”

Moving along…Ancient European magick was the premise that there was an exit door to universe somewhere. They would eventually show it to you if you submitted to initiation, professed eternal loyalty, and learned all the key words and symbols and ceremonies. Maybe a small cash donation could help. Drugs were sometimes employed. Becoming a slave earned you points.

Yes, there is an exit from the Grand Vacation in the space-time tin can.

But it’s not a magickal portal.

It’s you.

Always was.

That presents a problem to most people. They don’t like it.

Basically, they want to remain Small while exiting into Big.

Ha-ha, doesn’t work that way. Sorry. Nice thought, though. Clever.

“Yes, I want to move outside this universe through my TV set, while watching Law and Order reruns.”

Seinfeld, maybe. Law and Order, no chance.

Now, if you were sitting in a concert hall when George Carlin was up on stage, that would be different. A few years before he died, my wife and I saw him at an outdoor venue in San Diego. He was trying out new material for an upcoming HBO special. He did a ten minute piece on the end of the universe and his Uncle Dave. It was a stunner. I won’t try to describe it, but I think, if one wanted to choose that moment to wave bye bye to this whole Machine, it would have been possible.

Yet why would anyone want to leave universe? A facile answer might be: after a vacation you’d like to get home.

Or, you want to see what’s outside.

Or you’re tired of same-old same-old.

Or you want to obtain a platform where you can gain decent perspective on this whole vacation location.

You want to try to remember what it was like before you bought the ticket to the ride.

You want to be able to take off from, and come back to, Here. You want that freedom.

You want the kind of power that doesn’t need to operate (and shrink down) within the space-time continuum rules.

And you want to get rid of any stray vestiges of the enormous propaganda that goes along with this universe, the nonsense you’ve been absorbing in all the sorts of vacation brochures that attracted you in the first place.

But let’s not deceive ourselves. Getting out doesn’t automatically mean you become someone else.

You’re still stuck with the fact that you have infinite imagination and infinite creative power. You can’t shuck that off. You might find a spot where you can sink into a couch and watch those Law and Order reruns and not have to worry about having a job or bringing home a paycheck, but amnesia will only take you so far.

Narcosis, amnesia, hypnotic trance—they fight the good fight, but in the end you will need to mount a major campaign to stay small. And even then, the programming tends to develop holes. You wake up one morning, and you look out the window, and you see a reflection of your own power on the horizon.

It’s a disconcerting thing, but hell, immortality has that downside.

So why not do something interesting right here and now? Why not imagine imagination and go for the up? Like it not, there are a whole lot of oysters in the sea, and they’re possible worlds, and they’re yours.

No brochures, no salesmen will call, no killer fee, no packing, no crap to deal with at the airport.

Turns out that when you imagine and create widely enough and adventurously enough and intensely enough and long enough, the road you’re on, around the next bend, has an exit sign. You make the turn and you’re out.

You’re outside universe.

And you can come back.

When people say, without knowing why or what they’re talking about, that there is cosmic joke, this is what they’re really getting a whiff of.

Bye bye or hello, the wind is in your sails, the car is gassed up, the plane’s on the tarmac, the rocket’s on the launching pad. Ready to rip.

You can then push the discovery button, in which case you’ll embark on journeys that involve meeting many interesting people and creatures, some of whom want to burn you. Or you can do a super-galactic war of good versus evil and save the princess from her tormentors. You can glide into astral islands of grottoes, elves, trolls, lost crowns, hyperbolic wizards, sailing ships, and winged horses.

Or you can push the imagine button, in which case you’re the artist starting from scratch. Then you invent without limit.

Remember to lock up the house and set the alarm. Tell the neighbor to feed the dog. You may be away for a while.

There’s an interesting twist to this tale. Sometimes you think you’re in the space-time tin can and you’re really already out. Then, coming back can be quite a kick. Tells you something about why you bought the vacation package in the first place. Being here can be quite exhilarating. Especially if you’re not carrying around all the propaganda with you. As in, “Hey, shut up already. I know what’s in the brochures. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m enjoying myself right now. Take a walk. Go sell somebody else.”

Maybe 45 years ago, I was sitting in a movie theater in West LA. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I had walked from my apartment to the theater on a whim. The place was nearly empty. On the big screen, Liz Taylor and Stewart Granger were working through the plot of the costume drama, Beau Brummell. Granger (Beau) and Liz (Lady Patricia) were talking in a drawing room.

The film was a bore. For no particular reason, I decided to home in on the two stars. Focus in hard on them.

After a minute or so, something happened. I wasn’t looking at the movie anymore. I was seeing Liz and Granger, as if they were two ordinary people talking on the street. The fancy overstuffed drawing room, the costumes, the story—they were no longer propping up the artifice of the movie.

You know the old saw about the audience suspending disbelief, in order to accept the terms of a play? Well, I had reversed that. I was in such a diamond-hard state of disbelief, I came rushing into the moment like a freight train. And there they were. Not the characters on screen; not the actors. The two people. Spouting lines to each other. It wasn’t funny, it wasn’t sad, it wasn’t absurd, it WAS. Pure, real. The membrane that separated them from me was torn away.

It was like discovering a pirate’s treasure chest in a fast-food joint next to the cashier. Nobody else saw it. I saw it.

It seemed like it should be illegal. It wasn’t supposed to happen. I was aware some cardinal rule had been broken.

It occurred to me there is a main-event feature about the world and probably the universe itself that is based on permanent andcontinuing distraction. And now the distraction wasn’t there anymore. My mind was very quiet. I was sitting in the dark looking at two people on the screen.

Two people. Very bright on the screen and very clear. There was no movie left. The two of them were undeniably THERE.

The three of us were very alive: I in my seat, the two of them on the screen.

I could have heard a piece of popcorn dropping on a shoe a hundred feet away.

I kept looking at the screen.

What a marvelous thing. The two of them kept talking to each other, I kept watching them. I half-expected one of them to turn to me and tell me to go back to seeing the movie, I was intruding, I should stop.

In the dark space I was sitting in, the air felt cool and gorgeous. The two small side balconies were perfectly scalloped. The muffled sound of somebody whispering down front was clear as a bell.

Everything around me was brilliantly composed.

The raked slant of the seats, the heavy curtains at the sides of the screen, the downward angle of the aisle, the row of little yellow glowing lights on the aisle seats.

Ordinary, but now breathtaking.

Here, in the theater, in that extended moment, without anything added, was a sensational glorious place to be.

The day I met Liz and Granger.

You want to be able to exit, and you want to be able to come back. You want to be able to imagine and create worlds and universes beyond this one. You want to be able to do that from here, from outside, from anywhere. You want the thrill of being outside and the thrill of being here. You want to be able to see reality as ordinary and dull or brilliantly alive.

This is all possible.

This is all doable.

Civilizations always bet on the opposite, they keep doubling down and redoubling on the line that says: can’t happen. When they finally play out the string and see the extreme folly of their way, out of the gloom appear these ancient and present facts written on the sky:

You and I and everyone else is immortal and there is no limit, no boundary.

JON RAPPOPORT

by Jon Rappoport

April 25, 2011

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THREE PIECES

I wrote these three articles over the weekend and thought I’d hook them together and send them out all at once.

You’ll find some connections among them.

For those of you emailing me about my recent activities…

In the last three months, I’ve been dong a lot of painting. The canvases are all about…well, I don’t have an overall title for them, but it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of “new languages,” “invented languages,” and “imagined languages.”

Hoping to get back in the studio soon to record new piano music. I’d like to put out a new CD or two this year.

My weekly online radio show continues. Don’t know for how long. Visit my site to click in and pick up older shows in the archive.

I’m working out some thorny technical issues to bring back an e-book version, with revisions and updates, of AIDS INC., my first book, published in 1988.

I’m still offering my course for home schoolers and adults, LOGIC AND ANALYSIS. See my site for details. I recently sold a copy to a private-school teacher in the San Diego area. He’ll be giving it as a course to his class in the fall. That’ll be interesting.

I have a concept for a new course, for alternative health practitioners. I’m trying to connect with someone who does lots of natural-health seminars for professionals. He would do his presentation, and then I would offer an extensive seminar called A CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF MODERN MEDICINE. Lots of explosive information there.

(Update: Since the time this posting, the book AIDS Inc, and the Logic and Analysis course are part of The Matrix Revealed collection)

Okay. Here are the three articles for today.

TIBETAN WISDOM THEN AND NOW

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

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

You can Google that kind of painting and see some images.

At this service on Easter, the monks destroyed the mandala. They always do that. That’s their gig. They make it and then they whisk it away into dust.

I wasn’t at the service (I break out in hives at churches and I also make nasty comments in the middle of proceedings. I think my remarks are penetrating, but no one else does.). But from second and third-hand comments, I gather that an array of reasons was given to the congregation, to explain why the monks get rid of the sand painting after they’ve completed it.

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

I claim these are all phony reasons. Superficial food for audience. Jive for the rubes.

In the ancient Tibetan tradition, the creation of art (I’m giving this in shorthand) had a purpose: to reveal that the universe is a product of mind. Period. The universe, then, isn’t some intrinsically sacred entity, it’s a work of art…and if it can be vividly and deeply perceived as such, the adept (artist) can then spontaneously delete pieces of physical reality (chair, table, tree) and/or insert pieces of his own invented reality into universe. E.g., horse galloping across a tomato.

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

You might find useful information about this whole process if you Google “deity visualization” along with an author named John Blofeld.

As I say, I’m shorthanding it.

Anyway, starting from a long time ago, the Tibetans clogged up their own technique of creative work with immense amounts of ceremonial baggage and ritual and “preparation.” For reasons their teachers spelled out to students, you couldn’t go straight into creating their kind of art. You had to approach it from a long way off, and you had to endure all sorts of introductory strain before you walked through the door.

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

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

(Yeah, I would have uttered that if I had been at the service. And gentle blue hairs would have shot me withering stares.)

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

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

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

At the deepest level, it means, since universe is a product of mind, you’ve stopped creating universe. Boom. You’re in a void. Universe isn’t there.

It’s okay.

You can learn to stay there for as long as you want to.

And then you can start creating again, anything you want to. You don’t have to put back universe. But you can if you want to.

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

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

The monk sand painters at the local church on Sunday? I have no idea whether they know and remember all this. But they represent that wildness and actual wisdom.

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

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

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

ARTICLE TWO: THE SECRET OF THE KABBALAH

APEIL 25, 2011. Man’s relationship with God. Of course, this isn’t what the Kabbalah is REALLY about. Not in a million years, unless my grandma plays right tackle for the NY Jets.

Man’s relationship with God is the overall theme of the Kabbalah. The organizing principle. The excuse, if you will, for writing it. Because it helps to have an excuse, when you’re going to embark on such an ambitious project.

And before you get carried away, I’m not going to expose some hidden code, either. No. I’m not going to tear apart chunks of text and show you what’s behind the veil. That’s another misdirection. That’s, well, another excuse to add to the Kabbalah. And that’s fine. It’s quite all right. You can find codes in War and Peace if you want to, or in labels that list all the ingredients in the weird junk kids buy at AM-PM little stores on gas-station property.

So code is out. And no sense in commenting on what scholars have argued about re Kabbalah for hundreds of years. Why add more commentary?

Ready?

Here it is.

The Kabbalah is about…

The Kabbalah.

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

That’s what it was always about.

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

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

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

And they would have been right.

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

At this point, I should say I’m not interested in that theme. Not at all. The reasons are many. But if we leave God out of the equation, we could have something very interesting.

If you like the inclusion of God, fine. If you don’t you could substitute any of your favorite Ultimates.

Thus the theme becomes, in general, HOW DOES MAN APPROACH ULTIMATE?

Of course, we would have to decide whether ultimate means or implies a STOPPING PLACE, a final haven, or whether it means an infinite road which keeps getting better as you go.

I opt for the latter. That’s my preference.

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

Proliferation of what?

Creation.

Human creation.

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

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

And that’s what happened.

It was a rather sensational strategy:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wings over the world.

Congratulations, Kabbalah boys, you did it.

We can take it from here.

IF WE WILL.

ARTICLE THREE: RISE OF THE EMPIRE OF IMAGINATION

April 25, 2011. As an illustration of what might happen in a future whose spearhead is imagination, I return to the subject of language.

Perhaps it’s best if you start out assuming what I’m going to write here is completely off the charts, meaningless, and crazy. Assume that. It might help work your way back to making sense of it.

Consider the possibility that, on top of the languages we already have, there arises a different kind of structure, which is actually a non-structure.

Think of words or written characters or pictographs whose function is not defined—but whose impact is undeniable…

Like, oh, modern paintings.

Standing in front of a De Kooning or a Kandinsky or a Pollock, you might experience and imagine powerful impressions. But you don’t have a manual that translates these impressions into something literal.

And were you to return to those paintings again, on a different day, guess what? You would discover/imagine different impressions and feelings.

The “language” is that flexible.

Or if that analogy doesn’t work for you, listen to Beethoven or Stravinsky or Bartok; explore those worlds—which don’t remain the same every time you listen. No they don’t. And the bulk of the impressions you get/invent from the music can’t be translated into English…but still you listen, and still you are moved.

Obviously, in the presence of the paintings or the music, nothing happens unless you use your imagination.

Suppose, in similar fashion—and now I’ll go completely off the deep end—you write a letter to a friend across the world, and the letter consists of invented characters, pictographs that have noconventional meanings. Your friend, going along with it and employing his imagination, reads the letter and finds all sorts of untranslatable impressions in them—then he answers the letter with one of his own…just as untranslatable.

And you go back and forth, exchanging letters for five or years.

Imagination working back and forth.

And suppose, God forbid, after a year or two, you feel you’re getting the hang of things in this new language that has no rules and no boundaries.

What do you have then?

You have the back-and-forth invention of worlds.

And since there is no defined one-to-one correspondence between this language and English, you aren’t corralled into experiencing the ordinary range of sensations you would if conversing in English, or any other known language. You would take off, as it were, you would be experiencing and imagining sensations and feelings that were on a new level. Your feelings and sensations would expand through novel perspectives and dimensions.

And then you’d become aware that you were capable of “entering into” realms that had previously been hidden to you. The shapes of your experience would widen and deepen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In other words, you’re an artist.

And if you think this notion of a new type of untranslatable language is too weird to be possible, consider the love you have for some other person. Do you believe this “sensation” has a direct translation into English? Or do you admit it is beyond translation—and none the less real for it?

It turns out we all experience many things for which there is no direct one-to-one correspondence in English—and yet we accept these experiences as very real.

So why not invent open languages that start off by being untranslatable? Why not, through imagination, open the door to thousands of impressions we, at best, only glimpsed before?

Is that unthinkable?

In some actors’ schools, there is an exercise where two students, on stage, begin speaking gibberish to each other. The point is to impart certain tones of voice and gestures and energies that manage to communicate feeling—back and forth. It works. But if you continue that exercise long enough, an interesting thing happens. The usual cues and movements and sounds…the ones we are all used to in ordinary life…recede into the background, and what takes over, instead, are sounds and movements for which we have very little precedent. And the actors literally move into other realms. New realms. They invent spaces and sounds and motions that make up, moment by moment, improvised languages. Languages that never existed before.

And they understand each other.

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.

—a fragment—

by Jon Rappoport

November 6, 2020

(To join our email list, click here.)

Here is a fragment of my unpublished book, The Magician Awakes.

I realize this is not for everyone.  So be it.

Become a functioning front for the apparatus.  It’s easy.

Every generation invents its own unimpeachable authority.  This generation invented “The Universe.”

A prophet appears friendly and exuberant, above the cares of the world, as if he were inexplicably hatched out of an egg.  Wear his suit.  Comb your hair the same way.  Stand next to him.  See what happens.      

If you could investigate billions of people’s minds and find those thoughts on which the majority agrees, you would be at the farthest possible distance from magic.

Millions of people thinking the same thought at the same instant might be able to affect physical reality. They could move a table across a room.  That is not magic.  It’s the sacrifice of individuality.

At the beginning of the enterprise, there was a kernel: the real road is through massive proliferation of thought and language and poetry.  Good luck with reduction.    

The ceremonies, rituals, and symbols of any Magick are all lies.  They are dead on arrival.

There is no inner anyone.  There is, however, the invention of personae, characters.

Being receptive to What Is, on any level of “Is,” is a dead end. 

‘You have your place; you need to find it.”  You end up like a bumblebee on heroin. 

All religions and spiritual movements engender the same outcome.  Their followers, regardless of what actions they take, maintain a core of knockout sleep in the center of their consciousness. 

One life isn’t enough time to get used to the scope of imagination.  You might use 100,000 lives to really work into it. 

When you live through and by imagination, you can never end anything, or you can do nothing but end things.  You can make the middle the beginning or you can forget about beginnings and endings altogether.

Eventually, you can move mountains with a wave of your hand if you want to…

If you really want to wave your hand and move a mountain, you will.  Today, tomorrow, a million years from now.  That’s what imagination yields up over the long haul, whether you like it or not.  Who cares how long the long haul is?  Are you in a hurry? 

The last Pharaoh was fed up with the ancient language.  He began speaking in giant burning apricots on staircases.  That was the end of the empire.    

At the core of every philosophy and spiritual system and teaching is an unasked question: Suppose I imagine something else? 

Every system explains What Is.

There is no church of imagination. 

A spellbinding storyteller needs to spellbind himself and cut out the nonsense.

Magic is not about the group or what the group might think as “One Mind.”

The notion that we are somehow manufactured by space and time and energy is an interesting idea for children.     

Magic is not about aligning one’s self with natural forces.  It has nothing to do with aligning.

Arshile Gorky:  “[Abstract art] is the emancipation of the mind.  It is an explosion into unknown areas.”

“Sometimes I’m working on fifteen or twenty pictures at the same time.  I do that because I want to—because I like to change my mind.  The thing to do is always to keep starting to paint, never finishing painting.”

You can make a Zen sandwich out of anything.  Most Zen teachers avoid the subject of imagination.  They have no idea what to do with it.

The Garden of Eden is perhaps a page of lines of a poem.  Freezing the page and then entombing it in a dank cathedral is the “critic’s review.”  Every critic wants to be Pope. 

The hunger for protocols always reveals a loss of desire.

Caterpillar in cocoon, but no rebirth.  Another myth sold, the seller moves on. 

You could create a blue square on a table.  You could paint it there.  And then you could paint a blue square over that blue square, and you could do it again and again.  You could do it for ten years.  Do you want to do it for ten years?  If you do, you will.  At some point, though, you could decide you want to paint something else.  And then you would.  What’s important, though, is that you’re painting.  What happens while you paint, whether you keep painting the blue square—all that is up to you.  What’s important is that you keep painting. 

There is no such thing as the space-time continuum.  It’s a myth.  If you find that in no way comforting, you need hip boots and a shovel.  You’re in too deep.   

“The universe is running down.  Energy is dissipating, it’s consigned to an inactive bullpen.”  This is a fabrication.  Entropy appeals to a certain kind of mind that wants grand failure.

Every audience wants to buy protection.  It’s a soft spiritual mafia operation.

IS, in physical or metaphysical terms, is the most overrated idea in the world. 

The notion of Final Scripted Reality sitting behind ordinary reality is about as important as a parking garage under the street at two in the morning. 

Read the entire canon of philosophy from any region of the planet, starting from the earliest texts, and count the number of times you find any reference to imagination. 

The history of Earth is the history of a spiritual shakedown. 

Andre Breton: “To reduce the imagination to a state of slavery…is to betray all sense of absolute justice within oneself.”

Harmony, symmetry, balance, perfection—these qualities have been worked out over and over, for centuries.  You can do it in your sleep.

The universe is willing to wait around until imagination revolutionizes it down to its core.  Imagination has less patience.

You are forever, whether you like it or not.  Occasionally, the Hindus stated this succinctly.  But there is no wheel of life, and no mandatory echelon of incarnations.  That is another fairy tale.  Believing it may provide interesting motivation, but so would believing you are made out of a substance that is attracted to one of 7000 magnets located in various parts of the galaxy.

Which is more unlikely?  An artist named Jackson Pollock does a painting, “No.5, 1948,” and 58 years later it sells for $140 million, or Jackson Pollock, now living under a different name, on a distant planet, occasionally indulging in a sherry before dinner, driving carefully, continues to paint, as he has for several thousand years, and discovers he can move a mountain with a wave of his hand?  I would say the odds are about the same.  Give him another few million years, and he’ll be able to make a horse gallop across a tomato. 

The artisan wants to produce a fine, finished chest of drawers.  The singer wants to imitate Billie Holiday. The juggler wants to climb a rope while tossing five balls in the air.  The Chinese artist wants to travel to the Dun Huang caves on the edge of the Gobi desert and execute a mural on one of the interior walls that will take a year to complete.  It doesn’t matter.  The artisan will change his mind and turn into a mime, the mime will change his mind and become a gymnast, the gymnast will turn into a prodigy who can knock off a Bach fugue at the age of three, the prodigy will turn into a stage director, the stage director will turn into an architect who designs asteroids, and so on and so forth, over the course of a few thousand years and a number of lives.  How it begins and where it goes is none of our business.  The artist lives on.  He keeps creating.  We see only a snapshot of him in mid-stride.  We think we know all about him.  He drinks, he doesn’t drink, he’s difficult, he’s buttoned down, he’s a marvelous fellow, he’s a nasty son of a bitch.  We know very, very little about him.

e.e. cummings: “Knowledge is a polite word for dead but not buried imagination.”

Looking for magic without imagination is like eating an empty plastic plate for dinner.  Of course, you can become famous by doing that. 

An old man with a long beard wearing an oversized elf’s hat sitting at a table next to a lit candle by a dusty volume inside a dark room with shadows dancing on the walls is a politician.

Somebody once said: religion is what happens when space slows down.

William Burroughs: “In the magical universe there are no coincidences and there are no accidents.  Nothing happens unless someone wills it to happen.”

Nature and the planet aren’t praying.

There is now a whole professional class of people who see an apple and say it’s holy.

The ancient Roman Empire was dying.  Expansionism hadn’t worked out.  Bread and circuses were a momentary diversion.  So they doubled back and tried conquest by other means.  Religion.  The Roman Church.  It was a brighter idea.

When a person decides being an artist won’t pan out, he goes into religion.

Colin Wilson:  “Our misconceptions involve the passive fallacy and notion that consciousness is a plane mirror that cannot lie about the world it reflects.”

Vladimir Nabokov:  “A genius is an African who dreams up snow.”

Paper, paint, and brushes are more powerful than trembling gods walking out of clouds.

Reductionism is the practice of shrinking down reality in the hope that you’ll be able to control it.  It always works.  That’s the problem. 

Whether the universe is a giant clock or an explosive dynamic event or a complex of quantum entanglement has no bearing on magic. 

If 50 tribal members sitting in a forest can change the direction in which birds are flying; if a billion people can change the pattern of a random number generator; if 400 church members can pray and cure an ill parishioner; this is gold.  Fool’s gold.  “This is what we have been searching for.  This is what science has been studiously ignoring.  This is the hidden secret of history.”  The appeal will be enormous, because these phenomena are emanating from groups.  “We always knew it was the group.”  The magician ignores all this.  He lets it pass by like stale wind from a factory. 

Some day, a billion people will focus as One on a polished gold ball sitting in the Gobi desert, and the ball will rise three feet in the air.  The event will be heralded as the start of a new millennium.  Eventually, a Great Boredom will set in.

Prehistoric artists who painted animals on cave walls were probably threatened with death, at which point they claimed the paintings referred to the tribe’s religion. 

The worship of a statue is an improvement over adoration for an invisible god.  And Melville discovered that the people of the South Pacific broke and abandoned their statues if their prayers did not come true.

Limited government had a brief moment in the sun.  The silence was too hard for the populace to take.  If all the necessary noise could have been produced by a remote machine, things might have been different.

“What everybody wants” is a distraction in a card game.  The player with a busted hand lifts the corner of his mouth and makes the rubes think he is holding aces.

Mondrian snapped his fingers and became Jackson Pollock. 

Eric Satie sat in his living room with a shawl on his knees and dozed for a few seconds, during which he composed Rite of Spring.

Lies are not preposterous enough.  When they are, you have theater replacing society. 

Aristotle explained local theater as catharsis.  He had no idea what he was doing.  He was hoping to give a public face to a private story.  Freud came along and tried to describe the private story.  He also failed.  A dream is an adventure.  This fact seems to disturb many people.

In the territory of art, there are no initiations. 

Norman O Brown: “The view only changes for the lead dog.”

If principles could be laid down for the production of magic, magicians would be somewhere else doing something that has no name.

Go to the Sistine Chapel, sit on one of the benches along a wall and look up at the ceiling.  Michelangelo performed an episodic series of paintings on spaces defined and sliced up by the ugly framework of wooden partitions.  In a few places, he gave it his all.  In many, he produced cartoons and moved on.  The whole commission was ill-conceived.  The ceiling would have been better suited to a candy man like Tiepolo.  The great churches of Italy have surprisingly little to offer in the way of painting.  Making ads for the Roman Church fairy tale is a grinding occupation.  There are no magicians in the Vatican.

Someone writes the word imagination and other people read it and understand it in the context of a Pekinese determined to find a superior eyeliner.

If you watch large schools of small fish, you see the perfect blooming of collective action.  They balloon to the left, they all strike ahead to the right, the whole school suddenly contracts when an outsider attacks.  It’s hypnotic to observe.  Their communications system is blindingly fast.  It’s a good example of the All as a longed-for spiritual goal.  Scintillating absurdity. 

Odilon Redon:  “Artists who approach perfection do not have many ideas.”

The ultimate sideshow the universe provides: if you can position yourself and your mind and your eyes in certain ways, you can connect with magnetic circuits and hubs, and then you can do tricks.  You can make a cloud change shape.  You can tell a leaf to fall from a branch and it will.  You can make rain.  You can be in two locations at once.  But these tricks are then the bloodless imitation of magic. 

There is a School of Religion of Love of Nature.  Across the street is a school dedicated to the religion of Love of Technology.  Both schools hold chapel services every night, after which the students and parishioners pray for one another’s souls.  Then from both sides of the street, they stride and climb into a huge vat of butter on a grill.

Shrugging off the harmony of the living dead.

Educated people want to read about failure.

All Western philosophy tried to explicate the universe or cosmos as a setting of the greatest importance.  Then, in the 18^th century, there was the onrush of the individual.  But no one accorded him the size of the discredited cosmos.  He was somehow still living in a giant tin can.

“The human condition” is a myth invented by addicts.

The cosmos is a forgery of the individual.

How would ridiculous evolutionists rate the survival chances of an ant colony in which the queen gives birth to a dog who plays the violin? 

Sixty years ago, when I was 11, I argued with my mother and father and convinced them to let me take a walk alone in a hurricane.  Today, a boy who did that might be tied down and given a shot of Thorazine.

There is another universe in which James Joyce wrote the Bible.  In that place, a self-appointed God has been trying to undo the damage ever since.  You think we live by slogans here?  You should see the pressure there.  All futile, of course.   

People are worried by artists’ purported ideas.  They are reading the work from the outside in.  There’s a reason for that.  It’s really the atmosphere and the flesh that disturb them. They don’t want to get near it.  The flesh of Cocteau, the flesh of Walt Whitman, the flesh of Dostoevski.

To be struck dumb by a painting is not a bad thing.  Better to run out on the street, to an empty theater, move up on the stage and begin telling the story of your life as it never was.  The audience will trickle in, and then who knows how far it will go?

The windows are closing on civilization.  Soon, everything will take place in a giant room.  After that, it may require 5000 years to make the room into a genuine theater and establish dialogue among invented characters.

All dust is gold when filtered between the curving fingers of a man who has taken off his suit and put on a heavy robe.  He lives, he dies, he comes back.  He speaks to his lost son who is shipping out to the asteroid belt.  It happens in the twinkling of an eye.  The moon shuts down its motor; then turns it back on.

In the long run, non-structures are more important than structures.

Thinking and existing in small spaces, yearning for larger goals, people devised adventures that carried them into inflation of the same lives they were living.  An arm that was three feet long grew to 3.2 feet. 

One trip to paradise gives you new ideas.  Five trips to the same paradise give you syphilis.

Piet Mondrian: “In art, the search for content which is collectively understandable is false; the content will always be individual.”

Renaissance art was based on the pretense that the artist was working for the Church or God.  It was the ticket to the table; it wasn’t anything else; it wasn’t anything more.  The painters and the sculptors were actually the gods.  The Church was a fat man smoking a cigar.  Goya eventually came along and painted him.

You spontaneously invent what you need, and then you supply that need.

They had left the springs on in the Wadlen Gardens by the 101.  I walked through the cascades and wiped the red-rock dust away with my gloves.  It was a fine April morning.  The pines were threading the river.  No one was there.  I was alone.  Then I saw a few people praying near the fountain.  A goat was standing on a tether looking at them.   His bell rang.  I saw Sam sitting on a bench reading the Times.  He folded up the paper and left it next to him.  The day was cool.  Off to the east, I watched a light rain falling out of purple clouds over Pasadena.  It was wetting down the immense deck of white stone in the Hayward complex.  The windows reflected copper.  Showers to the north, too.  They bathed the filaments out of the air and weighed them down on the soil of the corn fields.  I heard a truck snorting its way up the delivery road.  I drifted back down to the path and walked toward Sam.  He was holding a plastic cup of coffee in his hand.  The V-line of traffic on the 101 was thinning out.  Police were removing the road blocks.  A man outfitted with fake wings was taking a ride on the wires through the Mt. Washington lift.  I peered all the way through Los Angeles to the orange groves of San Berdoo and smelled the blossoms coming into their own.  A news kid on a bike tossed his papers on to the old porches.  Bang.  Bang.  It was the morning I had dreamed of.  It was here, all around me.  Hello from the inside of the outside.

As we approached the city, we heard mumbling and smelled flesh.  Support our men.  Live for tomorrow.  The mail has come.  Brush your hair.  The drones believed they were time.  One entry wound after another.  Slow and solid, cows in the field staring at the breeze.  Put out to pasture without food or water.  Bland brown eyes.  Measured response.  Think it all through.  Check the books again. 

I reached into the soft manual of one of them and took out stillborn pink cases.  The drone dried before he could utter the word colonization.  In the presence of the drones, anything could happen.  Best to turn the flamethrowers on them.  They had been sent as serial sequences of numbers from somewhere. 

One of them on the side of the road went crazy.  He stood up from his blanket and started spitting.  He waved his arms, as if he was signaling to a car.  A jeep stopped and a soldier got out.  He said to me, “That man is my father.”  “Well,” I said, “I guess that’s who you’re fighting for.”

A is the sonar fish.  Born out of the Milky Way.

B is the running building.  The stone building is running down the street.  People are chasing it.  C is several reddish brown partially flattened cylinders of stone held in the hand.  D is the letter of portal.  You find imperfections in it.  Cracks, discolorations.  F is a hundred thousand people making sounds of their own choosing, without direction or plan, at the same time in the same place.  N is a bolt of lightning striking a pond toward which a herd of zebra is fleeing.  O is a gold phantom passing through solid objects at will on his way to the last gasp of the universe.  P is a large barge slowly moving out from the dock.  Q is the mixed smells of food brought out to a long wooden table from a kitchen.  These translations would become credible science.

No one survives Matisse.  You live in his Saturdays and Sundays for a long time.  Then you change your name and start a new life.

You don’t need to call something a divine miracle to escape calling it a machine. 

The American Republic took five minutes to reject decentralization. 

You’re a diplomat from Andromeda and you don’t speak the language.  You drift, you gesture, you comply, you grimace, you assure, you consider, you deflect.  You vaguely imply auto-fellatio.  You finally sweep out of the room and write up a report which recounts events that never happened. 

To the public, magicians are large pieces of exceptional cheese coming out of a vacuum.

(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.

The lost idea

By Jon Rappoport

October 30, 2010

www.nomorefakenews.com

Over the last 60 years, there has been a massive propaganda campaign to convince the public that all great ambitions, morally speaking, should be pursued on behalf of Other People.

In other words, the creative individual ought to be working to supply the masses with what they need.

This is insanity and moral bankruptcy parading as canonized altruism.

It presumes the existence of a Collective, whose hopes, dreams, fears, and needs are the only focus of great creative achievements.

Children, especially, are pounded with this fairy tale.  Ads and public service announcements feature children acting like grotesque miniature adults, proclaiming they want to “make a contribution to the world.”

The basic truth is, the creative individual decides how, why, and for whom his accomplishments are intended—if he think about these things at all.

Often, the creative individual simply implements his vision, period.  That’s the long and the short of it.

There is no “target audience.”

However, when is the last time you witnessed an awards ceremony in which an artist or inventor was praised for SATISFYING HIMSELF?

It never happens in this brainwashed culture of the Collective.

And that culture has existed since the dawn of time.

I dare say Van Gogh, Cezanne, Piero Della Francesca, Rembrandt, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Tesla, Harold Ridley—the list goes on without end—once they were truly engaged in the creation of a masterpiece, couldn’t have cared less about the masses or humanity or the Collective.  They were working.  They were in the middle of the fire of the creative process.

This may be a bitter pill for professional victims to swallow—since they think they must be the focus of all progress—but it’s the truth.  And it exposes the weighty lie that “we all must think of others before we think of ourselves.”

That’s a principle that was designed to produce, in the long run, slaves.  Slaves with masters who turn the screws, masters who work to manufacture an ever-expanding populace which considers victimhood to be a badge of honor.

To say I DON’T WORK ON BEHALF OF OTHERS sounds criminal, because the propaganda mills are operating 24 hours a day. 

It goes further than that.  In our society, it is fashionable to fasten on to vital ideas and pervert them to serve small purposes.  Therefore, we see the fluttering geese of Wall Street mouthing I DON’T WORK ON BEHALF OF OTHERS to justify their money-grubbing existences.

In a democracy which has lost complete track of the foundations of the Republic and its underlying meaning, the highest ideals are pulled down to accommodate venal morons who are obsessed with inflating their importance.  Thus, we arrive at a society that is a cartoon of its former self.

Nevertheless, the free individual creates.  The truly free individual goes on.

In the long run—and the long run is very, very long—the free individual triumphs.

The author of two explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED and EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29^th District of California. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at www.nomorefakenews.com

Where should the power be?

by Jon Rappoport

May 29, 2010

www.nomorefakenews.com

There are various kinds of power.  Perhaps you’ll recognize the type I’m referring to in this article.

WHERE SHOULD THE POWER BE?  This is a question that has been asked and answered for a hundred thousand years.  Wars, death, destruction, deception, grand theft, heroism, manifestos have all provided evidence of the struggle.

We now have people behind the curtain and peeking out of the curtain claiming the answer, for our sake, is global governance.  Call it anything you want to.  New World Order.  Globalism.  Planetary management system.

They assert their motives are altruistic. That’s right.  They’re not doing this to make a power grab, they’re helping us.  They’re solving the problems of the world.  They’re maintaining order.  They’re bringing us into a new era of peace.

They’re all liars.

There isn’t an altruistic bone in their bodies.

And as far as we are concerned, we have a whole lot of self-deception going as well.  Why?  Because we keep falling into collectivist language and thought.  We think we can’t talk about power unless we address the great WE, the group, humanity, The People.

We’re afraid of mentioning power in the context of the individual.

It has to be family, community, group, species.

It’s we against them.

Well, it isn’t.

That’s just another delusion.

It is now, and always has been, the individual.

WE is about mystical religion.  WE is about submerging the individual in some delusional fictitious Whole.

In that box, it’s just the WE of the globalists versus the WE of the vague mystics.  And the outcome, in the long run, will be the same.

The New Age people, no matter what disguise they are wearing, are afraid to make a proposition about individual power and back it up.

They cower behind pseudo-science and limp philosophy to create another WE.

Behind all the drugs and rebellion and music and so-called freedom of the 1960s, the real and lasting failure was the omission of the INDIVIDUAL.  He was never spoken for.  And the clear reason for it was fear, that’s all.  Fear of power for one person, and then another person, and so on.

Then and now, people say to themselves, “What power?  How can I have power?  What would that look like?  What would that feel like?  What would that be?  I don’t understand.  I can only see power in a group.”

It’s as if a blind person believed he could only regain his sight as part of a collective.  On his own, it would never work, but as a member of a group, a cipher, the rebirth might occur.

Notions of various Utopias are always about the group.  History flows into a paradise where the species lives, and the individual is finally and miraculously submerged in the collective.

Yes, well, that’s the definition of non-consciousness.  It’s a sketch of fascism.

The mystical WE says to the globalist We, “You want coercion and slavery.  We want peace and love.”

The truth is they are both heading to the same place.

The illusion of power rests in the group.  The reality of power rests in the individual.

Jon Rappoport

The author of two explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED and EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29^th District of California. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at www.nomorefakenews.com