Reframing reality: the shift

by Jon Rappoport

July 12, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

Here is a quote from my unfinished manuscript, The Magician Awakes:

You see, Jimmy, this I can attest and swear to. We’re only operating in part of the arc, a small sector. We’re playing chords in one building. That’s where everybody is.

We’re recycling these chords, and putting them in different sequences, but it’s the same basic music. And when I say music, I mean what people call emotion.

This music goes here and there, and you’ve got ten or twelve billion people convinced it’s the whole shooting match. You can feel this or that or this or that, and nothing else is left over.

We’re talking about experience, Jimmy. But see, what if there are galaxies and universes of experience we know nothing about? Emotions we know nothing about.

We’re in the visible-spectrum arena, a tiny piece of the whole arc. We have no words for all the sixty trillion other emotions that exist out there.

And if that’s true, then we’re puttering away. What we’re quite sure life is, is just a speck in the sea.

Now, Jimmy, I KNOW you’re going to nod and agree with me. You always do that, as if you already know what I’m talking about. You’re going to tell me how the very same thing I’m talking to you about occurred to you when you were a kid in Illinois.

But see, that’s a bunch of crap. You don’t know what I’m talking about. How do I know this? Because nobody has experienced those sixty trillion unknown emotions yet. Nobody.

But we could. We could get started. The only question is how. How do we bust out of the circle, out of the labyrinth?

You’re an engineer, Jimmy. You like to think of yourself as a man who’s at the frontier of knowing what it’s possible to know. You’re a hard-headed guy. You pride yourself on that. At the same time, you claim great power to have thought of everything anyone has ever thought of. My question to you is: how can your wife stand you?

A way out of the labyrinth, Jimmy…the only faculty capable of making the necessary leap:

Imagination.

Imagination isn’t about content, Jim. It isn’t about answers. It’s about creating answers to questions that will never be asked. It’s about putting something there that wasn’t there before.

This stumps most people at the gate. They want content. They don’t want power, they want what power can bring without lifting a finger.

So, Jim, they choose model B over model A and find themselves, after a time, back where they started, because both models came out of the same machine.

We’re talking about the literal mind, Jimmy. The literal mind believes that every solution to a problem is an advance. The literal mind doesn’t notice that some problems require a jump to another landscape.

So Jim, I herewith give you a metaphor. I’m not suggesting you try this. I’m suggesting you imagine this.

If you could get a person to sit still long enough, and if you could do a very long-form interview about his life and past and present, he might, after maybe a hundred sit-downs, shake loose enough material to reframe his entire view of reality.

Everything would depend on how good an interviewer you were. Everything. (And this would be nothing like therapy.)

But…the whole interview process could be based on the interviewee inventing, wholesale, a life and a past he never had. Never had!

During a hundred sit-downs, he would imagine and invent and improvise thousands of details of a life that never was.

“So where did you live as a child?”

“We had an apartment above a hardware store in Ashton, Kansas. The kitchen doubled as my little sister’s bedroom. She slept on a small cot next to the refrigerator. Every night, she peeked over the window sill and watched soldiers standing outside a bar across the street drinking beer and talking and laughing. She collected soldier toys. She kept them in a cardboard box under the cot. She’d wake up in the middle of the night and sit on the floor and turn on the stove burners for illumination and play with the toys. Put them in lines and columns…”

Never happened, Jim. No Ashton, no hardware store, no apartment, no sister, no soldiers, no cot, no toys.

A whole past invented out of whole cloth. Years, decades. Imagined.

Continuing the metaphor: Would you invent such a life so you could step into it, or would you invent it for some other reason?

The answer, Jimmy, is: it depends. Some people would invent a life they actually want to take on, and others wouldn’t.

But in either case, the value of the process (the interview) would be that it widens the scope and power of imagination itself. That’s the damn point.

And with that change, the life you have will look and feel different.

Everything might seem the same on the surface, Jim, but events and possibilities would be more elastic, more like the wet clay the sculptor uses.

In fact, the fundamental particles of existence would be Possibility. They’d replace atoms and neutrons and quarks and wavicles. They’d replace the playing and replaying of set sequences of emotions. New emotions, which have no names, would emerge.

The physical body would get healthier, as if it had been waiting for this to happen.

Emotional programming would disintegrate.

Watch a soap opera for a few years, Jimmy, if you can bear it. You’ll come to see the characters go through the same changes over and over. They wring out the same emotional ups and downs and ins and outs. On and on. It’s a farcical symphony.

People hit the same chords. They reach the end and go back to the beginning. They play the same notes. They deliver the same sequences of frequencies.

This, we’re told, is life.

Yes, a very small corner of it. It’s interesting. For a while. Then the grooves wear out. The B sets in. Boredom.

We haven’t employed imagination intensely enough.

When we do, new roads appear.

Our bodies and minds are musical instruments ready and willing to experience 60 trillion-plus emotions, not 12.

Jim, this isn’t Western philosophy or Eastern philosophy or any philosophy from the past. This isn’t about religion. This isn’t about a system or a structure. This isn’t about solving a problem.

Jimmy, you want to say you have all the CONTENT it’s necessary to have. I know you do. You’re the king of your own castle.

You don’t want someone to shove content down your throat.

But if what content isn’t the issue? What if content is beside the point, in this case?

What if you can imagine and create endless content and substance and even knowledge?

What if, through imagination, there’s NO limit on the amount and kind of content you can create?

What if all cultural fairy tales and myths of cultures are a way of externalizing possibilities that really proceed from inside us?

See, Jim? It’s not exactly what you thought, is it? It’s not something you engineer. I’m not arguing with you about your specialty. Your specialty is systems and programs. I’m talking about something else.

I’m talking about that 60 trillion.

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

“Excuse me, are you a robot in the Surveillance State?”

Jul11

“Excuse me, are you a robot in the Surveillance State?”

by Jon Rappoport

July 11, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

“President Barack Obama has ordered federal employees to report suspicious actions of their colleagues based on behavioral profiling techniques that are not scientifically proven to work, according to experts and government documents.” (McClatchey News)

In 1959, two friends of mine, Carl and Michael, staged a spy experiment at the small Ithaca, New York, airport. They were students at Cornell University.

Michael was coming in on a little commercial plane from New York late at night.

In the one-room terminal, Carl waited for him and paced around, wearing a British raincoat and sunglasses. Occasionally, he’d look at his watch and glance out at the airstrip.

Finally, the plane arrived.

Michael, also wearing a British raincoat, descended the steps from the plane, and Carl walked out to meet him on the tarmac. They stood, head to head, for a few minutes, talking to each other. They gestured toward the terminal.

Security personnel arrested them.

On suspicion of seeming suspicious.

Which was the point of the experiment.

Since America is now a spy state, where everyone is expected to snoop and snitch on everyone, why not play the game?

A hundred college students walk into a large coffee shop and sit down.

They starting passing notes to each other. (1950s spy-iconography)

A few of these students approach the counter, ask for the manager, and when he appears, inform him that the waiters/waitresses are doing suspicious things: staring; avoiding eye contact; lingering too long at tables while taking orders.

This little stage play is repeated every day, until media pick up on the story.

A few hundred college students gather in front of a government building. As employees come out at the end of the day, the students pull out cell phones and pretend to make calls. They talk loudly, mentioning that they’re seeing suspicious activity from government workers.

Repeat daily, until media pick up on the story.

In a small town, a hundred parents bake cookies in the shape of guns. They give them to their kids to take to school on the same day.

Repeat every day until the literal robot-minds of school officials implode.

I think everyone in the US should have a screen saver with a picture of a gun on it.

Five hundred students hold a birthday party and picnic in a park. They all wear very large badges hanging from their necks: “CITIZEN SPY.” They pretend to make phone calls, reporting suspicious activity, while pointing at other people in the park. It’s sure to garner some attention, after two or three days.

What? You might be arrested for these activities? Oh, I see. Yes. The entire country is on lockdown. That’s right. We can’t interfere with federal and state agencies doing their jobs, 24/7, to protect us. From ourselves.

A website. Secular Confessions. People are invited to confess their own “suspicious activity.” In detail. You can add, as a bonus, a section for Thought Crimes.

“I thought about plotting the overthrow of Monsanto. I confess. I’m guilty, and I want expiation if not excommunication…”

“I considered masturbating when DHS tanks rolled through my town. I don’t know why. I was suddenly gripped by an uncontrollable impulse…”

“During work today at USDA, where I inspect samples of wheat, I started feeling that I was a suspicious character. I thought about lifting the whole building in one hand and turning it upside down and dropping it on Henry Kissinger’s head…I’m a very bad person.”

Let’s all confess.

I personally am suspicious (it should be “suspect,” shouldn’t it?) because I have a lingering obsession about the Bill of Rights. I’ve tried to purge it from my consciousness in favor of the far more cogent, “we’re all in this together,” but I can’t. I need re-education.

And I have strange thoughts when I drive through an intersection outfitted with video cameras…I want to burn those cameras in a bonfire. I want to see thousands of those cameras burn together. Why does that image produce such unalloyed joy? Something must be wrong with me. Right?

I’m guilty of another thought crime. I want to see Russ Tice, a long-time employee of the intelligence community, featured on page one of the New York Times. I want to see his assertion that the NSA was spying on Obama in 2004 plastered in a giant headline across the top of the page.

I want to see Chris Matthews, up to his Obama-tingling legs in muck, working in a giant industrial pig farm in Mexico. This thought surely marks me as a danger to the State. I must be plotting something. I just don’t know what it is yet.

I’m reporting Brian Williams, Scott Pelley, and Dianne Sawyer as suspicious characters engaged in a mass hypnosis operation. I want action. It must stop. Every night, these morons appear in millions of homes and frame the news in terms even Mickey Mouse could see through.

I want the Reality Manufacturing Company to cease doing business at once.

I’m suspicious, you’re suspicious, we’re all suspicious. Let’s form a new nation based on that irrefutable premise. Let’s quit piddling around. Let’s be SUSPICIOUS.

Stop smiling. Start looking at things sideways. Squint. Learn how to growl convincingly like a dog. Screw Labor Day. It should be Suspicion Day.

Paint on the back of your shirt: WE ARE ALL NSA.

Get into it.

WE’RE ALL NSA, WE’RE ALL SUSPICIOUS, WE’RE ALL SPYING, WE’RE ALL GUILTY.

Go for the home-run ball.

It’s a game. I can spy on you faster than you can spy on me.

“Are you saying your neighbor is a suspicious character because he’s spying on you?”

“No, he’s suspicious because he isn’t spying on me enough.”

CONFESS. REPORT.

“My neighbor is growing Chinese cabbage on her front lawn.”

“Chinese? Thanks. We’ll get right on it. You just earned a gold star, Ms. Good Citizen.”

This is the era of the busybody. The scum rises to the top.

That old lady who lives down the block and peeks between her curtains at whatever is going on outside? She’s beginning to feel like King Kong. The world is catching up to her at last.

It’s the time of the literal mind, which operates blind to context. In the middle of a conversation, a phrase like “they should be shot” or “I’d like to blow the whole thing to kingdom come” surfaces…and certain faces register a pause, a flinch. Hmm. “That might be dangerous. He shouldn’t have said that…”

One of my favorite media glosses is: “…understandably nervous in the wake of…”

This is used to justify grand-slam law-enforcement officers reacting to harmless events and innocent civilians.

There is always a prior event that can used to rationalize a robot response.

“Understandably nervous in the wake of the Great Flood, officials took a man named Noah into custody today, after he let two rabbits and two hamsters loose in his garden…”

The real objective of the War on Terror is the creation of literal minds, entrained to think in lowest-common-denominator terms.

“There will be no metaphors, no distinctions. Automatons forever.”

The literal mind lives, every day of its existence, guilty of obstruction of justice. It functions at the level of an insect, and delivers far less.

This is what the Surveillance State is meant to induce.

Operant conditioning is based on the premise that humans are nothing more, in their native state, than programmed biological machines. Therefore, replacing one program with another is perfectly apt. (See Scott Noble’s film Human Resources: Social Engineering in the 20th Century (posted at YouTube)).

When I was five years old, in 1943, I went to a nursery school around the corner from our apartment in New York. The first day I was there, a teacher gave me preliminary instructions. I can’t remember the specifics, although I do recall they were inane. I replied, “Okay.”

She froze. Then she smiled one of those big fake smiles. “No,” she said. “We don’t say ‘okay.’ We say ‘all right.’”

From that moment on, I remained on guard, because I knew I was in an alien environment.

I soon learned that the goal of this school was socialization. Pretended harmony.

Say the proper thing. Share and care. Be polite. Don’t be frank, be earnest. Smile. Achtung.

For the rest of the term, I observed this strange cockeyed little world. I said little. I was from another planet, called 19^th Street, and I wanted to understand how these lunatics at the school were operating.

On the last day of imprisonment, as we were all assembled in the yard, the head gooney bird approached me and thanked me for my “cooperation.” She thought I had surrendered.

I don’t remember whether a politeness-certificate was involved, but I did recognize this was a wild misunderstanding on her part.

Homogenized America is now moving to a new level: wherever you see cream separating, report it to the authorities and they’ll shake and stir.

See anything, say everything.

To any literal minds who may be reading this article by accident: don’t worry your pretty little heads; there’s a flower growing over there; report it; report the breeze, the summer, the moon; and don’t forget the most important thing of all…

Pick up the phone and dial DHS and say, “I want to turn in the federal government. They’re committing crimes.”

You’ll be right, every day.

What’s left of the idea of a Republic is a memory. Now, the people in charge want to take the final step and turn it into a Pavlovacracy.

They want the Matrix to report to the Matrix.

The most pernicious advocates of the New Age preach that, in order to pass into next phase of evolution, humans must purify their thoughts, dispensing with all negativity. Otherwise, they’ll be left behind the iron gate of the past to suffer great pain and turmoil.

This is a quite adequate description of what the Surveillance State is doing.

Self-flagellation is making a comeback. You watch. Just as people show up at police stations and confess to crimes they haven’t committed, we’re going to see a wave of demented souls reporting on themselves for “suspicious behavior.”

It’s a natural offshoot for the class of those whose aspire to victim status, but don’t possess authentic qualifications.

I welcome the phenomenon. It’s exactly what the Surveillance State deserves for inventing a new category of immolation: clogged-up phone lines and email boxes.

“I want to report that I said something I shouldn’t have said…”

“Excuse me?”

“No, really. I’m a suspicious person. I need to be on some kind of list.”

In the 13^th century, people started walking around in long lines, beating themselves with whips. By the 14^th century, the Roman Church became so exasperated it excommunicated all flagellants en masse.

Too much bad press. Original sin was fine, but people were taking it to a whole new level.

It’s going to happen again in the Surveillance State. Get your popcorn ready. Go to work, Dr. Phil.

Jon Rappoport

The museum called Reality

Jul9

The museum called Reality

by Jon Rappoport

July 9, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

You stroll through an art museum.

Many rooms, many paintings.

You come upon a large landscape. Fields, cottages, hills, valleys, mountains rising in the background.

While other people move past it with a glance, you walk closer.

It’s lovely.

There, in the lower left-hand corner, you see the beginning of a narrow trail among a stand of pines. You wish you could…

A man is suddenly standing next to you. He’s smiling.

“Go ahead,” he says. “You can do it.”

Absurd. And yet…

You wonder.

“All it takes is conviction,” he says.

You look closer at that trail. Beyond the trees, there is a small cabin. It’s perfect.

And then…you’re walking along the trail. You can feel the soft earth under your shoes. You can smell the pines.

You walk faster, and in a few minutes you arrive at the cabin.

The door is ajar.

You enter.

One room. A bed, a small table, a chair, a fireplace.

On the mantle, there is a book bound in cracked leather. You walk over, pick it up, and open it.

You see drawings of a city. Crowded streets, people sitting in sidewalk cafes, cars, tall buildings. You can hear the noise on the streets.

It’s the kind of city you’d like to visit. There you would be free, unattached. You would walk and live as an unknown person. You would be a stranger, but no one would know that.

The cabin is gone. You’re exiting a ground-floor apartment in the city. You’re emerging on to a street with a briefcase in your hand.

You open the briefcase. In it are several file folders.

You see a sheaf of papers. They seem to be a report. The name of the author…you sense it’s your name.

You’ve been living in this place long enough to have a job. You think about it for a few seconds, and you realize you know where your office is. It’s up the street and over three blocks.

Suddenly, you’re sitting in that office. You look out the window. You’re above the street by at least a dozen floors.

A woman walks in and sets down a cup of coffee on your desk.

She lays a key next to the coffee.

“This is the one you wanted,” she says. “I did a little research and found out it used to be a freight elevator.”

She walks out.

You pick up the key and examine it. It’s made of gray metal. There is a circle inscribed in it, and inside the circle is a square.

You stand up and walk out of the office, along a corridor, and through an exit. There on your left is a large set of double doors.

You insert the key into a hole above a shelf and the doors open. You step in.

The doors close and you feel the elevator descend.

After a minute, it stops and opens. You step out. The doors close behind you.

You’re standing in a small room. On the walls, you see drawings and inscriptions, pictographs. Maps. Labyrinths. You see five, six, and eight-pointed stars. Animals. Circles containing squares. Other geometric figures. Numbers. Faces.

You turn back to the elevator. You look but you can’t find a place to insert the key. You try to pry the doors apart, but they won’t budge.

…Now, you feel as if you’ve been standing in that room for a very long time. You have memories of trying to decipher the drawings on the walls. You have memories of having almost succeeded, only to be stymied.

It seems you have a long history of having tried to decode secrets.

You’re an expert in these matters, but you haven’t made it to the end.

A man is standing next to you. He’s smiling. His face is familiar.

“I only encouraged you,” he says. “I’m no magician. I just gave you a little push. You supplied the conviction. That’s the main thing you have to understand.”

What does he mean?

A vague memory becomes sharper.

You were walking, a long time ago, in a museum. Yes.

And then you entered…something. And now you’re here.

Without thinking, you say, “But there’s a rule against being bigger.”

He nods as if he understands perfectly.

“If I were to exit this place, this whole place,” you say, “I would be bigger. That’s not permitted. It’s a sign of…”

“Excessive pride,” he says.

“Yes,” you say.

“It indicates you’re trying to become something you aren’t. You’re trying to be better than everyone else. Which is a criminal offense.”

You think about his words. They ring false. They spell out a rule, but who made the rule?

“Everybody who is here,” you say, “is smaller than they want to be?”

He smiles again. “That depends on what you mean by ‘want.’”

Yes, there is some kind of distinction to be made. You almost grasp it.

You say, “In this place, ‘bigger’ means ‘god.’ But who decided that?”

Then you realize you had a chain wrapped around your neck.

You reach up, and you can feel where the chain was. There is still an ache there.

The man is waiting. He’s looking at you.

“Why are you doing this?” you say.

“Doing what?”

He shakes his head.

He slowly fades out.

He was some kind of artifact. He was a construct that appeared out of your own voice and your own thoughts.

You made him.

You made him out of the scent of pines trees and the sound of water running through the forest and clouds and a desire whose substance you can’t quite fathom.

You examine…a sense that you are betraying other people. That thought is made out of old scratchy sentiments and a fascination with the idea of being like everyone else. Being like everyone else is an adventure. It’s an exploration for its own sake…

It can become a life, a holy crusade.

But it’s not your life or your crusade.

There is a soft explosion just behind your head.

As you feel an impulse that is going to lift you off the floor, you stare at the wall and you imprint a paragraph of text into the stone.

And then…

You’re back in the museum.

You’re standing in front of the painting of the pine trees and the trail and the cabin and the fields and the mountains and the sky.

You’re trembling with relief.

A museum guard steps over to you.

“Are you all right, sir?” he says.

“Yes,” you say. “Yes, I’m fine.”

He nods.

You look into his eyes, and you see the small room just outside the elevator. That room is inside him.

“How about you?” you say.

His face flushes.

“Have a nice day,” he says.

“You, too.”

He starts to turn away, but then he doesn’t.

“Do you come to the museum often?” he says.

“I like the paintings,” you say. “I’m here several times a week. It’s a fine place.”

“Yes,” he says. “It is. I’ve wanted this job for a long time.”

“Why?”

“I’m protecting something important. I watch the people moving through the rooms and looking at the paintings. I feel they’re learning…”

You nod.

He walks away.

You continue to walk through the museum.

There are many paintings. Many entrances.

Jon Rappoport

Last-minute thoughts for July 4: light at the end of the tunnel

Jul5

Last-minute thoughts for July 4: the light at the end of the tunnel

by Jon Rappoport

July 5, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

For 95% of the population, if you give them hope they eat it like candy and forget it an hour later. Then they want more. They’re hooked on the hope machine.

They somehow believe Hope is Action.

They are the fearful, the submissive, and the delicate.

They have an endless capacity for self-delusion.

Hoping for hope is what elects presidents, one after another. Whereas, what would happen if enough of us refrained from voting for either of the two major criminals campaigning on behalf of the double-headed Washington crime family?

On election day we would crash the system by withdrawing our consent, the consent of the governed.

We wouldn’t be hoping for hope.

“Today, the American people registered an astonishing 13% turnout and loudly expressed their no-confidence in government. Washington is lying in electoral ruins.”

If the live audience for one of those half-cocked presidential television debates roared with derisive laughter at every turn, they would sink the whole charade, in front of millions of viewers.

“…a better day ahead for all Americans…”

Laughter cracks like thunder through the hall.

It bounces off the walls and runs up and down the aisle. It invades people all over the America in their homes. Despite themselves, they begin chortling.

Pretty soon, they’re rolling off the couch and hitting the floor. They call other people to make sure they’re watching the debate, but they can’t talk. They can only shriek with laughter.

The whole country bursts its androidal bubble. Waking up from the big trance.

I’m sure you know about movements in states to nullify federal laws on the grounds they’re constitutionally illegal. Ultimately, this is a form of corrosive laughter.

Decentralization of illegitimate power should be a laughing matter. It should stage parades with surreal floats. It should walk along sidewalks with crazy signs. It should bellow from billboards. It should come blasting out of churches.

You want to make a difference? Organize a hundred parents in your town and have them make guns out of pink cookie dough and give them to their kids, to take to school. It’s a start. It stimulates the dormant absurdity-center of the brain. It screws with the robots in charge of things.

I want to hear what a million people standing in the Washington Mall laughing at the federal government sounds like. I really do.

When was the last time you laughed so hard you thought you were going to die? Remember how that feels? Reality explodes. Which is the whole point.

Last week, I was watching the news—a form of self-torture I try to avoid. I can’t even remember what the item was. It was some kind of baroque political jive. I went into hysteria-land all of a sudden. It was one of those laughing-weeping blow-ups out of nowhere. I ended up with my head on my knees.

I don’t know about you, but I need that once a day. I really do.

This isn’t the red pill or the blue pill. It’s the crap-in-your-pants pill.

A few years ago, it happened to me in the Vatican. We were there to see Michelangelo’s ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. Have you ever gone? The room is like a steam bath. It’s hot and humid. You’ve got these people, who’ve come from all over the world, and they’re sitting on benches around the periphery and standing—and they’re all looking up.

It only takes a few minutes to realize Michelangelo wasn’t a happy camper lying on that scaffold. On most of the panels, he did fast cartoons. Now and then he’d bear down and execute an immortal face. But most of the time he was aching and grumbling and wondering how he’d let himself get roped into the commission.

This struck my funny bone. I held it in until we got out of the room and were walking back toward the entrance. Then I started laughing. A few people saw me and didn’t like it. Too late. That made me laugh harder. The whole thing, the whole edifice of the Church, with its specialized access to God through licensed priests, was now bleeding into my laugh-center. I was a goner.

It took me a hundred yards along the carpeted corridors to calm down. But then I was at the counter where they sell prints of the Michelangelo—horrifically bad prints—and I was in stitches again.

Wait a minute. What about the millions and millions of people around the world—the billions—who are in chains of one kind or another, who are starving and dying, who are fighting manipulated wars, who are suffering…

The point is, that’s all coming from centralized criminal power. It’s no joke. But when you start to decentralize, when you think about it and find ways to DO it, the whole frame of the Matrix wobbles, the whole arch of consensus bullshit reality and the media that promote it do become a matter for laughter.

And not just a giggle or two. I’m talking about immortal laughter that wipes them off the face of the Earth. I’m talking about a natural and repressed impulse that, unless it’s exercised to the fullest, can turn around and ruin your well-being and take you down.

The Matrix is a joke because it’s designed to stand in for your own power to create reality. That’s the biggest joke of all. If I were the king of that most insane of all human endeavors—”mental health”—I would rewrite the books and point out that Sanity is, in fact, solely defined as: being able to comprehend the biggest joke of all…and that’s all Sanity is.

If you can’t access your imagination, you can’t laugh. Simple.

And you’re dead.

So, for Independence Day, this is a call to remember that most profound of kiddie tales: The Emperor’s New Clothes.

He’s so naked in so many different ways. When millions of people see it and know it and point it out and respond to it and laugh at it, we have a different kind of revolution.

We’re no longer sucking pipe on the Hope Machine.

We now live in a society where people feel they’re entitled to complain: “I can’t laugh!” As if this rates sympathetic notice.

Not only must we find a way to laugh, we must find a way to make it penetrate to the depth of the Matrix itself. We must find a way to expose the whole joke at the bottom of the despicable power system, so it dies, so it stands naked and decapitated.

This kind of comedy isn’t a light brush-off. It isn’t a modest chuckle. It’s a typhoon that attacks the ship and blows enough holes in it to make it sink.

Sink it.

Every human was once a child who knew how to laugh at lunatic buttoned-up eyes-straight-ahead deadly Reality. Then we became card-carrying members of that buttoned-up farce.

We lost our way. We died and forgot.

It’s time for a resurrection. And an insurrection.

I have absolutely no doubt that some readers will to choose to misunderstand what I’m saying here. So be it.

They’ll claim I’m some sort of gooney Rainbow man. That will definitely make me laugh. Definitely.

So anyway…the war on drugs and the war on cancer and the war on terror and all the other phony wars are efforts to make people fear danger.

Brian (“I’m just a boy scout on a bike with a newspaper route”) Williams; Scott (“I’m not a licensed doctor but I’m performing brain surgery on you”) Pelley; and Dianne (“don’t cry for me, America, I’m weeping for all of us”) Sawyer are beaming this fear at the population every night.

Underneath it all, they’re worried that you’ll see through the scam and start laughing at them. The whole stench-ridden corpus of the news will then collapse in slime and dust.

In other words, danger is the cover story they sell to keep a lid on the massive impulse to ridicule entrenched power into the ground.

This strategy mirrors how many people talk to themselves: “Things are too dangerous and serious to laugh at. I have to march forward with my eyes locked on the next automaton in line.”

Laughter is a trigger for Decentralization of life.

Laughter seems impotent only to the people who can’t laugh.

My advice: shun those people. Their minds are swamped with Literal Reality. If they hear the world is their oyster, they’re down in the sand on the beach digging for the one that will change everything for them.

Don’t think so? I recently wrote a piece about 150 MILLION Americans going to Mexico, swimming back to the US, and becoming instant welfare millionaires. There were readers who were convinced this was a news story.

Satire? Parody? Never heard of it. Because they can’t laugh. They don’t believe in the concept. They’re against it.

Defeating laughter is, in fact, their bottom-line cause. They’re the Matrix People.

Jon Rappoport

Surveillance State: 1st step to creating a single universal mind

Jul3

Surveillance State: first step to creating a single universal mind

by Jon Rappoport

July 3, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

“Technical barriers to grafting one person’s head onto another person’s body can now be overcome, says Dr. Sergio Canavero, a member of the Turin Advanced Neuromodulation Group.” (Quartz.com July 2)

So…imagine we were living in that kind of society 50 years up the road. We might get something like the following:

Finally…

Your job at the Central General Corporation brings you a longed-for special perk.

You can sign up and get on the list for a new mind.

The technical description of the surgery is over your head, but the basics are thrilling.

Two solid improvements are speed and accuracy. You will think 20 times faster, and your rate of mistakes will drop to .01%. Your IQ will rise by a minimum of 50 points.

There is also an automatic signal when a problem you’re working on won’t resolve. Your left ear lobe burns. This informs you that, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to come to a useful conclusion.

You’ll save a great deal of time.

The new mind you’re getting contains several basic elements:

157,893 generalizations (or premises) deemed to be truthful;

a deductive logic program that is ironclad;

and an instantly accessible technical library adjusted to your job.

The library automatically generates, collates, and summarizes the best available information re the problem you’re working on, in line with the previously installed generalizations (premises) and the logic program.

For an additional fee, you can opt for a social program that will enable you to shift out of work-mode and communicate effectively with colleagues, friends, and family.

The left-ear-lobe burn signal will go live whenever social conversations touch on controversial issues. This is your cue to back away and seek other company.

Your new mind will be monitored 24/7 from a combined NSA-DHS node that ensures proper functioning. If repairs are needed, a partial shutdown will deploy. Corrections will normally take less than three hours.

There is also a bullpen function. Persistent questions for which there is no available answer; personal reflections and contemplations; and any instance of social, political, financial, or existential claustrophobia will all be funneled to a dead space where they will linger and progressively fade.

A tiny but important Grand Slam Package will translate any thoughts once deemed to be creative into a sludge-mesh, where the velocity of transmission will slow to one synaptic flash per hour. In other words, you’ll achieve close to a zero rate on imagination.

At the perimeter of your new mind is the Cattle Farm. Slow moving, meaningless, and random tautologies circulate there, efficiently blocking exit from the space of consciousness.

You’re centered where you’re most needed, where you can perform usefully and swiftly.

The most delicate aspect of the new-mind surgery involves connecting programmed thought-impulses with neurotransmitters and hormones.

Throughout the day, you’ll think thoughts that trigger a carefully groomed and modulated pleasure-quotient. The overall effect will stimulate you to conclude you are satisfied.

A leak-proof algorithm will regulate the interplay of this satisfaction with the delight of being able to think faster. The consequent sum will define that elusive quality called happiness.

Thought-forms called Border Collies will continuously roam the space of your mind and organize stray electrical effects, bringing them into symmetrical globular wholes. These wholes will automatically constitute your “aesthetic sense.”

At night, while you sleep, regions of mind unreachable by the surgery will naturally expend extraordinary energies of outrage, resentment, resistance, and pure hatred. This is quite normal.

Scooper Drones will siphon off those energies and their attendant emotional wildfires into Sponge Wardens at seven key National Institutes of Health laboratories, where researchers will utilize them to build Strategic “Arab Spring” Platforms.

NASA is preparing to launch the Platforms. They will circle the Earth and beam wide-spectrum rage at key sites where wars, revolutions, and inciting events are deemed necessary to update mega-corporate healing enterprises.

Further specific information on these corporate operations is, at present, classified.

But know you are contributing to a higher-order resolution of planetary conflict.

It’s estimated that, with your new mind in tow, you’ll require full overhauls every three years. During these periods of hospitalization, you’ll experience total shutdown.

Your families, friends, and co-workers will be notified in advance.

As an historical note of interest, you recall, I’m sure, the so-called spying, the so-called Surveillance State, back in the old days. Yes?

Most people didn’t realize the program was the first attempt to create a single Universal Mind.

It’s about feedback:

When people know their every action and thought is monitored and watched, they naturally decide to change their thoughts, trim them down, make them more simple and lucid…so there is no misunderstanding.

You see?

The Surveillance State was really the first crude new-mind surgery that we have today.

But now we can guarantee the result. The science has advanced majestically. The surgery is extremely specific and comprehensive.

Fifty years ago, people didn’t understand why the NSA and other organizations were spying on everybody all the time. It wasn’t merely to stop terrorist attacks. So why?

Now it’s all clear. It was step one in a lengthy process of coordinating and manufacturing all minds to move as One.

Central Planning for Planet Earth must restructure brains so they perform, in various ways, to produce what we call The Whole X.

What is The Whole X? It’s the meshing of all human thought and function that will indeed produce the greatest good for the greatest number.

Whole X is the plan from above.

It calculates every move and every thought-pattern the billions of Earth inhabitants undertake, during every hour of every day.

Whole X dispenses justice and goods and services and sustainability from Nome to Tierra Del Fuego.

How can these four elements be parceled out unless, at the level of mind, the rational processes of every human are coordinated?

Yes, we’ve come a long way from Spy Headquarters. That was then; this is now.

We’ve walked the path from the Bill of Rights to the Bill of the Mind.

Use your gifts wisely.

To those who lament the loss of freedom, privacy, and imagination, consider that those qualities led us to the brink of extinction. We turned the corner and found enduring peace in our time.

For more information, log on to The Church of Absolute Inescapable Unity.

Jon Rappoport

The most frequently used words on television

Jul1

The most frequently used words on television

by Jon Rappoport

July 1, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

Propaganda is the art of selling people a reality they would never choose on their own.

One of the profound and simple tricks of propaganda is selling people what they already have.

However, if they don’t know they already have it, if they don’t realize the sale is unnecessary, they won’t recognize the sleight-of-hand operation.

And the payoff is, they’ll accept a synthetic substitute for the real thing.

If a person really doesn’t understand he has freedom, he may, for example, buy the idea that freedom means serving others.

No. Freedom and serving others are two different things.

And there are all sorts of ways freedom can be packaged and sold that add up to slavery.

In the only study I’ve been able to find, Wictionary surveys the scripts of all television shows in the year 2006, to analyze the words most frequently broadcast to viewers in America.

Out of 29,713,800 words, including the massively used “a,” “an,” “the,” “you,” “me,” and the like, the word “home” ranks 179 from the top. “Mom” is 218. “Together” is 222. “Family” is 250.

If you think this is hardly surprising, that’s because you’ve been relentlessly bombarded with propaganda about family for years.

“In the end, all we have is family” “Family is the most important thing.” “Our team is really like a family.” “Our company is a family.”

Well, take a step back.

Newsflash: Everyone is born into a family. It may be wonderful, it may be terrible, it may be just okay, it may be whole or broken, but it’s a family.

For nearly all of human history, people have managed to deal with their families without needing to raise flags and pennants and banners elevating the concept to the highest peak of the highest mountain.

In the same way that protecting a baby with a stroller that looks like Patton tank is excessive, the ideal of family has been pushed beyond any rational boundary.

And there is a reason for this. If you want to embed and entangle an individual in a group or collective, and train him to think it’s inevitable, what better way than to start with the family.

It’s operant conditioning.

Television promotes family as a monitor on the independence of the individual. Fathers and mothers operate as cautionary and commanding figures in the landscape.

“Don’t do that. Don’t go over there. Be careful. Don’t move away from town. Don’t take a chance. Stop dreaming. Why can’t you be like everybody else?”

“Take the safe path. Think as the family thinks.”

It’s mandatory for a politician to campaign with family. Put them up on the stage, convey the impression they’re all in perfect sync.

Government has become a surrogate parent. It gives and it takes. It dispenses gifts, but it also makes arbitrary rules. Remind you of anybody?

“We love you and need you and we have freebies for you, but don’t go against the family.”

Only an utter dolt would fail to recognize the warning signs in that sort of arrangement.

If you survey the range of broadcast television, you’ll find endless examples of family as infernal “concerned” meddler in the decisions of its members. It’s goo a mile wide and deep. Artificial empathy as a cover for control.

“We care about you. We don’t want you to go down a dangerous road. We want to protect you. Who were you talking to on the phone?”

What emerges is a portrait of family members as people eternally mired in problems, struggling to operate under a very low ceiling of achievement and power.

If America is a family of 300 million people, then naturally the parents will need to keep track of all the children. It’s called the Surveillance State.

“We’re just looking out for you. It’s for your own good.”

Edward Snowden becomes the wayward child who wandered from hearth and home.

Daddy and Mommy will teach him a lesson.

When a shooter goes off in an Aurora theater or a Sandy Hook school, the television audience watches the event on television as if it’s a gruesome episode in a soap opera about…family.

James Holmes and Adam Lanza are outcast sons of America who became sick and twisted.

You’re either part of the family or you’re a killer.

If you think I’m exaggerating or rejecting the very human emotions of sympathy, grief, and shock, I’m just describing how these events are presented by media. I’m pointing out the subliminal messages, which are all gross distortions and exaggerations.

America is not one family.

It never was.

We’re not “all in this together.”

That’s a myth and a fairy tale.

The myth is promoted miles beyond any truth, for a reason:

To elevate the collective and demean the free and independent individual.

I grew up in a family. I grew up with friends. I know what it’s like to feel close to people. And I’m old enough to have seen the shift take place, when these experiences of mine and yours were parlayed into a “universal togetherness.” The myth. The legend.

It’s a construct. It’s a psyop.

People I was close to laughed when the transition took place. It was a joke for us, just another sales job.

It was a synthetic piece of friendly fascism laid over the truly authentic experiences of living.

Most people never discover what they’re capable of or what they really want, because they remain in the constricted bosom of the group. Spinning this as a Great Unity is cruel. It isn’t “spiritual.”

It sells well, because it panders to people who’ve sacrificed their freedom many times over.

If you believe our recent presidents have been dispensing some new and elevated philosophy—Clinton (“I feel your pain”), Bush (“no child left behind”), Obama (“we’re all in this together”)—you need a mental laxative.

And Hillary (“it takes a village”) in 2016? More of the same.

These hustlers care about populations as much as the CIA MKULTRA chiefs cared about mental health. The presidents won office and acclaim because millions of minds had been seeded with engineered brain-dead propaganda about Universality.

Hope does not reside with the group. The group, if it has any genuine worth, exists to force leaders to reinstate individual freedom.

When the people have lost contact with what individual freedom means and what it is for, puppet dictators arise and take the reins. They delight in committing crimes.

Now there’s a family. The crime family.

Theft, extortion, murder.

Under the flag of love.

Contrary to experts, people don’t need to be taught what love is. They know. They know it in the womb.

In tribes, societies, and civilizations…people settling their differences? Learning to cooperate on basic values? Of course. But for that, no high-flying psyop-prophets are needed.

The prophets have an age-old strategy. Sell back to people what they already have, dressed up in high-flying sentiments.

Suckers, fool’s gold, hollow intimacy. A movie about reality in which the free and independent individual is sacrificed.

Jon Rappoport

Psychological trigger: what’s behind the official rage against leakers?

Jun24

Psychological trigger: what’s behind the official rage against leakers?

by Jon Rappoport
June 24, 2013
www.nomorefakenews.com

Technocrats, who are obsessed with designing the future for all of us, are Globalists in sheep’s clothing.

Their plans coincide with the intention to direct the world’s economic and political activity from a central-management locus.

“For the greatest good of the greatest number.”

However, there is a glitch. And it is permanent. It appears suddenly, here and there, and it’s the kind of variable that won’t surrender to any sort of programming.

It’s so odd, even the population at large doesn’t notice it.

It’s the “unpredictable function.”

Behavior and thought that fit no pattern.

To go even further, it’s not really a function at all, except from the point of view of the technocrats who are trying to map it.

It’s the result of imagination deployed in such a way that the user experiences “cracks” between items of consensus reality. These cracks are emotions, thoughts, and sensations that are new.

There is no way to assess what such experience might lead to.

No map of behavior or prediction about where it’s going will be accurate or complete.

All maps count on the fact that people keep thinking and feeling along the same paths.

Most people do stay in the same worn grooves. They have no idea they can leave these paths or venture down new ones.

But such people are not all people.

Down through history, artists have imagined their way into non-consensus realities. This is not a trivial circumstance. It is a case of asymmetrical “cause and effect”—which is to say, unknown cause.

Unanticipated social and political response to tyranny can develop from this asymmetry.

The response comes from the root of a person: his creative faculty.

We look back on technical innovations of the past and conclude they are smooth transitions and accretions that are only the result of step-by-step improvements in science. But this is wrong. There are always unexplained gaps that are crucial.

When Gutenberg looked at an old screw press that was used to produce wine and oil, and then realized that other technical processes could be joined to make a printing press for books, he was “in a gap.”

He was changing the world with that inexplicable insight.

Of course, from our vantage point, it’s easy to break down any innovation and place it in context, among a serial and unbroken accumulation of knowledge, but that is an illusion.

At the center, there is always a human innovator with his imagination. From his penetration between the stones of consensus reality, he brings back an idea. He brings back something new.

His insight is unrecorded, because there is nothing to record. There is only what he subsequently does with the insight. The rest is invisible.

The true account of our history, its major turning points, is rife with these leaps and gaps.

What technocrats of the modern age hope to do is translate the gaps into detectable processes, which can be described as brain activity at a micro level.

The technocrats are of a religious faith in their ability to achieve this result.

But each time they claim to make a breakthrough, they discover, much to their disappointment, that their goal recedes further into the distance. What they discover implies more ignorance, not less.

For every assertion that consciousness is basically a passive process occurring at the level of brain, more unexplained human behavior arises.

The mad prophet of technocracy, Ray Kurzweil, now the director of engineering at Google, is famous for comparing creative capacity to chess.

Pointing out that computers have defeated human chess champions, Kurzweil goes on to conclude that all human activity assumed to be creative will soon be found to be replicable by software programs and algorithms.

Everything we once ascribed to the creative faculty will surrender to computers that can do it better.

But Kurzweil and his colleagues are wrong.

The “unpredictable function” will remain.

Bringing all this down to the human response to tyranny, the implication is vivid. No one can predict how humans who are willing to deploy their imagination will innovate. No one can say how humans, self-propelled by imagination and courage and a riverboat gambler’s sense of adventure, will turn tyranny on its head.

Tyranny, at the core, is a mechanical organization of life. Imagination isn’t organization. It’s beyond that myth. It will always be beyond that myth.

Strange but true, the overwhelming numbers of humans on Earth are really in the camp of the technocrats. That is to say, they believe that everything ailing our civilization stems from a “bad program.” They believe that some kind of better program will save us all.

Which is exactly what the technocrats assert.

But the real answer to fascism is beyond programs. That is what people find so hard to swallow. They fear the absence of determinism. They want assured process and assured result.

They want pattern. They want symmetry.

However, at bottom, that is not what human life is. Life happens in the gaps, the leaps. In inexplicable creativity.

The creative act is not organized. It isn’t symmetrical or harmonious. It isn’t a mere mimicry of natural laws.

After the fact, many artists will explain their work by referring to nature. But that stems from the fact that these artists don’t understand what they are doing, or how it involves traveling beyond systems.

Imagination is as plain as the nose on your face, when that nose and that face are liberated from the matrix of pedestrian cause and effect.

The creative faculty is liberated.

That is ultimately why fascism and tyranny are ill-equipped to handle their asymmetrical nemesis.

Fascism is organization carried to an extreme. It can’t escape what it is. It tries to reduce and eradicate imaginative penetrations between the stolid pillars of consensus reality. It tries to plug the leaks.

But creative energy appears in unlikely places and with unexpected force.

Technocracy is an approach married to the premise that all human actions can be understood, patterned, placed in context, and mathematically described.

But the creative act deals with contexts as computers deal with data. It shifts them, breaks them apart, reformulates them. It goes even further. It discards them and invents new ones, as desired.

And it can operate without any context whatsoever.

That is the unspoken cardinal sin listed by the Great Church of the Information Age.

A great deal of the official rage against leakers of classified data stems from a basic frustration: the best systems in the world aren’t perfect.

This is the technocrat’s nightmare: “The system has holes. It’s incomplete. It can be picked apart. No matter how well we design it, someone wants to hack it.”

Of course someone does. Because someone doesn’t like air-tight life, which is no life at all.

Build a perfect labyrinth with hundreds of interlocking paths, and someone is going to come along with a lawnmower and cut a new path right out of the prison.

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

Heroes, fake hope, and real hope in the Matrix

Jun22

Heroes, fake hope, and real hope in the Matrix

by Jon Rappoport

June 22, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

The occasion for this article is the controversy swirling around Edward Snowden, who recently exposed secret programs of the National Security Agency.

It’s about one corner of that controversy: should we accept him as a hero even if the possibility exists that he isn’t?

The Matrix is designed to stimulate certain emotions.

For example: “We had a hero. Then he was taken down. Now we will feel sadness, desolation, and eventually nostalgia for what might have been.”

For example: “We have a hero. Let’s not look too closely at what he is. Now we will feel hope, a joy at his victories, and a confirmation of our deepest dreams.”

In both examples, the vast majority of people are an Audience. They experience a vicarious sequence of emotions, by proxy.

Proxy equals passivity at the core of consciousness. It is in that deep passivity that the labyrinthine Matrix maintains its hold.

And to disturb the passivity in any way brings out complaints and protests. Their ultimate translation is: “Don’t bother me, I’m sleeping. I’m the Audience.”

Understand that we’re not talking about a person who, inspired by a hero, takes stock, and then swings into powerful action. No, we’re talking about spectatorship.

True inspiration leads to action.

The Matrix is about a round of feelings that dead-end.

Whereas real hope rides on the back of action.

But for most people, action is out of the question, because they can’t imagine what it would be. Nor can they find within themselves a profound and stirring desire that ignites imagination.

Working in toward the center of themselves from either desire or imagination, they draw a blank. The motor spins, but there is no traction, no signal that takes them out into the world.

They settle for fake hope, and when the source of that hope (a hero) is impugned, they boil and rage. Then they stifle those feelings.

They settle on: “Don’t bother me, I’m sleeping.”

If you tell them the world is being run by criminals, they say you are promoting futility. But what they really mean is, their pipe dreams that keep them in a hopeful state of suspended animation are being disturbed.

They are in a quiet war with themselves over the question: Can I create something powerful and meaningful?

Up until now, the only thing they’ve been able to create is a reaction against anyone who intrudes on their core trance-sleep.

But I’m the exact opposite of a pessimist. I know, as in KNOW, that the INDIVIDUAL has freedom and power. Because, when all is said and done, that’s who he is.

And who he is can never be eradicated.

The requirement that significant and sweeping change for the better must happen in the next six months is the fantasy of a self-entitled child. It is the whine and the complaint of a person who has already given up, but refuses to admit it.

Short-term battles for a good world were lost a long time ago. The long-term battle never ends. It is going on right now.

Groups begging at the door of entrenched power for crumbs are going nowhere. That is no revolution. That is no liberation.

It’s a pathetic stage play.

Every individual is free, whether he wants to be or not. This freedom isn’t given to him or made legal by any mechanism.

Freedom is something you take because it is yours. You don’t ask for it. You don’t wait for it. You don’t long for it. You don’t inquire about it.

Neither do you interfere with the freedom of another.

With these two facts established, your life is your own. Your life is yours to invent. If you don’t invent it, it becomes a habit, a routine. It becomes an occasion for false hope, with which you can entertain yourself forever.

Freedom isn’t just a steady-state hum. It is the opportunity to imagine without limit and then create futures and realities that would otherwise never exist.

It is the opportunity for endless and deep and high and wide Desire, which you can fulfill by making it fact in the world.

To deny these things in the service of some other aspiration leads back to the core trance and the big sleep, by whatever name.

All entrenched and monopolistic power is a crime. Its opposite is decentralization, the nemesis of kings, monarchs, and fascists.

To understand how decentralizing can be accomplished is not merely to understand a program or a system. The understanding comes through unchained imagining, and then uncompromising action based on it.

“But I can’t!”

Then you stay in the trance, the land of false hope, the worship of heroes, the need for nostalgia.

This is neither unfair nor fair, neither just nor unjust. It simply is.

Infiltrated through the culture, there are many so-called spiritual teachings and maxims that excuse and even glorify the human need for passivity. These teachings (propaganda) have their roots in ancient societies that were built on the injustice of a rigid caste system.

These teachings were imported into modern civilization to soften the blow sustained by the widening separation between the haves and the have-nots.

“If it was meant to be, it will happen. Otherwise, it won’t.”

“The universe will tell you what to do. Wait for its message.”

“Remove desire from your life. It’s the source of suffering.”

“Live your life by accepting what is.”

“Happiness is achieved by being satisfied with what you already have.”

“Above all: patience.”

The popularity of these and other similar teachings are a testament to the big sleep.

The elevation of so-called heroes, at a distance, is merely another strategy to extend that sleep.

“But we need heroes.”

Nothing I’m writing here refutes that. If we need heroes, it’s to inspire action. ACTION.

Otherwise, people elevate heroes as a reason to a) hope and b) then do nothing.

The elites of this world are perverse artists who paint reality for us. Understanding that, we can become our own artists of reality.

What does that entail? We’ll never know until we start painting. Then things will become clear.

In the battle to decentralize entrenched fascist power, there are already answers and strategies out there. There are thousands more answers that remain to be imagined and created by free, powerful, independent and intensely creative people.

The future is unshaped space and time. You can either shape it or let it shape you.

The latter decision is usually undertaken on an unconscious basis, replete with excuses, denials, complaints, maudlin sentiment, false hope, nostalgia, and hero-worship. It’s a cover story for an op of personal surrender.

Jon Rappoport

The unspoken qualifications for president of the United States

Jun6

The unspoken qualifications for president of the United States

by Jon Rappoport

June 6, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

An announcement: This is satire.

After writing about 150 million Americans going to Mexico, swimming back across the Rio Grande, applying for benefits as immigrants, and becoming instant millionaires…some people believed I was reporting (or misreporting) a fact.

But satire can be more real than reality. (Many things, as it turns out, are more real than reality.)

Television, for example.

Anyway, the period between the election of a president and his inauguration is a fascinating one, because that’s when the shiny new commander-in-chief learns the score.

He knows certain secrets already, but people of importance fill him in on the rest.

In President Obama’s case, he had questions.

On a fall afternoon in 2008, comfortably ensconced in a Virginia cave 600 feet below the Langley headquarters of the CIA, in a room that was soundproofed a dozen different ways, Obama sucked on a non-filtered Camel, sipped brandy, and said:

“Look, Mark, or whatever your real name is, I get the fact that I’m deliriously happy with Michelle. That’s been explained to me. We’re the perfect couple. I get the fact that I’m working for ‘the bankers,’ and I get that I’ll be launching a few military actions and stringing out operations in Iraq and Afghanistan. They already filled me in on that. But what about jobs?”

Mark, an Ivy League prunehead from an old Boston family, stood up and started pacing.

“Barack, the jobs thing is tricky. We don’t want jobs to come back. We want to make people believe they will come back and are coming back. We can manage the statistics on it. That’s no problem. But we need you to be the blue-sky guy for a bit. We need you to sell it. We need you to dazzle the rubes with a brand of bullshit that soars like music.”

“Well,” the new president said, “that’s what I do. That’s why I’m here. Don’t worry about it.”

Mark shook his head. “No, you don’t understand. We’ve already calculated that your gloss is going to wear out in about a year. We know it. The public trance is going to fade.”

“You’ve calculated? What does that mean?”

“It means we have algorithms. We have gnomes from MIT who do the math for us. They don’t miss. You’re going to sound like a broken record in a year. And it’s going to go downhill from there, for the rest of your terms in the White House.”

“Terms?”

“This is a twofer, Barack. You serve until 2016. It’s in the bag.”

Obama smiled. “First time I’ve heard that.”

“Take it to the bank,” Mark said. “Unless you really screw up, in which case, we’ll wrap you in scandals that’ll make your head spin.”

“Hey Mark,” Barack said, “give me a teleprompter and I’m Jesus, Abe Lincoln, and the Oxy stain-remover guy all rolled up into one. I do speeches. I excel. I can paint paradise for a blind guy and force him to tears.”

Mark sighed. He’d been through this with Bush and Clinton. Presidents always had false perceptions of their own skills. You manipulate the press, surround them with fawning androids, fake the election results when necessary, put these clowns into office, and all of a sudden they develop new layers on their already swollen egos.

“Barack,” he said. “You’re going to do freebies. That’s your ace in the hole.”

“What?”

“We have the timetable. It’s all programmed. What’s that phrase you love? ‘We’re all in this together.’ You’re going to hit that like a pinata. And goodies are going to come tumbling out. We want at least fifteen million Americans on disability by the first year of your second term.”

“I’m going to give away the farm?” Obama said.

“The farm, the tractor, the pickup, and the house. You’re going to give away the moon and Mars. If it’s nailed down, you’re going to pry it up and hand it out. That’s your mandate. You’re the freebie president. You’re Santa Claus and Johnny Appleseed.”

“Wow,” Barack said. “I had no idea.”

“It’s easy. We’ll take you along step by step. You’re going to put America in such a deep hole it’ll never get out.”

“What about the corporations and the banks?” Obama said.

Mark stared at him for a few seconds. “Let me make this crystal clear, Barack. The banks and corporations GET freebies. Massive freebies. They aren’t presents you GIVE away. The corporations aren’t America. They don’t go down in the hole with the people. They’re free floating. They run the show.”

“Got it.”

“Good.”

“No, really. I’ve got it,” Barack said. “But listen, I’ve been meaning to ask somebody about the surgery.”

Mark smiled. “A brilliant piece of work.”

Barack nodded. “That’s what they kept telling me, but I never understood what it was for.”

“Right,” Mark said. “Well, that’s part of this briefing. The boys from the clinic in Freeport put a liquid chip in your left arm. It’s not a chip, actually. It’s a a cluster of nanoparticles. I don’t know the tech side of it. But it allows us to shut you down.”

Silence.

More silence.

“Excuse me?”

“Shut you down. For a second, a minute, a day, a month, a year. Or permanently. Let me put it this way. We could close you out, ship you to the Hollywood Wax Museum, prop you up in a display, and no one would know you’re the president. You’d stand there for decades and never move or blink. Suspended animation.”

Barack felt beads of sweat on his forehead. He felt he was standing in a blazing desert.

He took a gulp of his brandy.

“You’re…serious?” he said. “Is this a joke?”

“Try wandering off the reservation and you’ll find out,” Mark said. “In 1992, Bill Clinton started talking about having a porn star cut to look like Marilyn Monroe. He was going to install her in a room in the White House. Bill was obsessed with John Kennedy. He wanted to be JFK.”

Barack’s hands were trembling. “So…what did you do?” he said.

“We eventually put together an android at Los Alamos. A girl. We named her Monica Lewinsky. Created a complete legend and back story for her, including a family. Do I need to spell out the rest?”

Barack shook his head.

“But you see,” Mark said, “that was just a light tap on the head for Bill. We could have gone much heavier on him…if we wanted to.”

Obama sat there for a long time and didn’t say anything.

Then he stood up.

“I have a serious question for you, Mark,” he said. “It’s major.”

Mark nodded. “I already know what it is,” he said. “You suspect something. We haven’t been able to blot out all the leakage. You won’t be the first president to ask the big question.”

They stood there looking at each other.

“You want to know,” Mark said, “whether you’re the ‘real’ Barack Obama.”

Barack took a deep breath and let it out. Now, sweat was running down his cheeks.

“In a way,” Mark said, “that’s a moot point. Does it actually matter? But because you’re the president-elect, I’ll give you an answer. You’re the third Barack Obama. The other two didn’t pan out. Don’t ask me about the real one. There are many things you’re not privy to.”

Barack, without thinking, said, “BUT I REMEMBER MY WHOLE LIFE.”

“Well, of course you do.” Mark said. “You think we’re a bunch of amateurs?”

Mark looked at his watch. “I’m late for a meeting,” he said. “The fifth Chris Matthews is becoming unhinged. He’s talking about a tingle up his leg when he thinks about you. We need to see whether he needs an upgrade or a replacement.”

The room began to melt and dissolve.

Obama woke up in Jeffrey Katzenberg’s house in Los Angeles. He was lying on a large bed inside an ivy-colored cloud of memories.

He stopped himself from screaming.

He rolled over and reached out to the night table for his cigarettes. They weren’t there. His thumb touched something that slithered and made a crinkling sound.

A small voice said, “We’re all in this together.”

Obama quickly drew back his hand.

He suddenly realized he was holding his cell phone. He brought it up in front of his face and punched in a number.

A voice he knew immediately answered.

“Yes, Mr. President, I’m here.”

“Give the farm away,” Obama said. “I want thirty million Americans on disability by next month! I want a new secret bank bailout plan on my desk tomorrow afternoon. Tell Bernanke to Q up five trillion dollars right away.”

“Mr. President,” the voice said. “Bernanke will have to check with the City of London. Remember, they tell you what to do.”

Pause.

“Yes,” Obama said. “I momentarily forgot. I’ve had a tough night. Ask Bernanke then. Call it a request.”

“Yes sir. Right away. Do you need more sleep?”

Obama lay in the dark and thought about it.

“I do,” he said. “Without any damn dreams.”

“Hold on a second. I’ll key the transmission.”

Obama waited.

He felt a surge of warm energy in his left arm. He closed his eyes.

…He remembered a rainy afternoon in Chicago. A pretty afternoon in the spring. He was walking along a path in Lincoln Park, and there was a boy sitting with his mother on a bench. She was stroking the boy’s face and smiling. He didn’t know why they were sitting there in the rain. He stopped walking and looked at them. The mother glanced up and waved at him, as if she knew him. Suddenly, Barack felt as if he could run in the rain. He could run for miles. He could run right out of Chicago on to the old 66 and keep going all the way down to St. Louis. He could hop on a raft and float on the great Mississippi down to New Orleans. He could walk through the French Quarter and no one would recognize him. He could check into a little hotel and forget. He could float out the window and drift, drift, drift, and become lost in the stars.

He could escape.

He could merge with the dust of space and disappear.

Then the President slept.

…But the promise of no dreams did not come true. He was suddenly back in the cave under Langley talking with Mark again.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Barack said. “If you had your people make me, build me to your specs, then why are you worrying about whether I’ll go rogue?”

“Yes,” Mark said. “That’s the other question the presidents ask. First of all, there’s merely the matter of the damage you could do in your position. Suppose a wild surmise came into your head and you held a televised press conference, and told the world you were working for the banks and the corporations. Suppose you laid it out. Suppose you told the people who’s really running this country. Suppose you made them believe the truth. The president is always only one move away from doing that. And then there’s a metaphysical slant to this whole deal. It’s a bit more esoteric. But it’s vital. You see, Barack, every particle of matter and energy in this universe, no matter how it’s reworked, no matter what configuration it’s shaped into, strives for more. Every particle wants to be alive, more and more alive. Do you know what that means? Every particle of energy wants to be free. So even though we built you, there is an irrepressible urge within you for freedom. That makes you dangerous. The programming we installed only goes so far. We have to achieve total control with threats, backed up with the supreme willingness to act on those threats.”

Barack thought about that. He nodded.

“What about you, Mark?” he said. “Do you want to be free?”

Mark looked up at the ceiling and said nothing. Barack watched his face tighten into a grimace of ancient hatred.

“I have my moments,” Mark said quietly. “But they pass. I’m serving the Good. And you are, too.”

The lights in the room slowly dimmed.

When the room was dark, Barack finally said:

“All right. I’m ready to be the forty-fourth president of the United States.”

“Yes, sir,” Mark immediately said. “I wish you every success in the challenges that lie ahead. These are perilous times. I have faith that you’ll navigate the deep waters with exemplary common sense and wisdom, and bring honor to the tradition of your Office.”

Somewhere in the distance, a cymbal crashed and a marching band started up.

Somewhere, in a small town, a parade began. People sat in the stands with flags. The band marched down the center of the street. The sun shone overhead.

In the center of the music, laughter began.

It slowly spread, engulfing the tune.

Then it took over the street.

People looked to see where it was coming from. But they couldn’t find it. The laughter climbed up the walls of the small brick buildings, it cannoned out into the countryside, into the pastures, the fields, the farms. It shot up into the sky. It turned the blue air into the green of money and the gold of livelihoods lost.

Tunnels of sacking laughing wind blew that money and gold all the way into digitized numbers crawling across the sausage hands of the men who run America.

Jon Rappoport

The covert op to destroy the word “freedom”

Jun5

The covert op to destroy the word “freedom”

By Jon Rappoport

June 5, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

These days, “freedom” mainly refers to fairy-tale mass movements.

We’re supposed to believe it happens this way: A bunch of students sitting in a cafe suddenly go to their cell phones, pop over to Facebook, and say, “Hey, wanna be free?” And a Republic is born. Poof.

The evil dictator grabs a suitcase full of gold bars, wires half a billion dollars from the State treasury to his private account, makes a dash for the airport, and flees to Paris.

In the other popular version, rugged freedom fighters emerge from the forest with copies of John Locke tucked in their luggage, storm the capitol, engage the national police, and after a prolonged battle, pin a copy of the Bill of Rights on the dictator’s riddled corpse.

Or something like that.

But even in the preposterous fairy tales, nothing much is said about freedom of the individual. No, it’s all about the right to vote for a new candidate. Free elections. Democracy.

In other words, the people can now select a president who is sold out to the same people who backed the dictator. Maybe a slightly different group of bankers gets into the act.

The independent individual? Never heard of him. No such thing.

What’s important is the president of a country like America, thousands of miles away, can stand up on his hind legs and say, “We support freedom around the world.”

When you stop and think about it, this bait and switch works because of the impact the word FREEDOM has on the minds of the population.

Say it and they stand up and salute. It doesn’t matter how far the word is being twisted. As long as the people like it and respond to it, you could be referring to a mass slaughter.

And if, by chance, the people don’t like a mass movement that trumpets freedom, because they recognize a deception, the media will call it freedom 24/7 anyway, because they’re paid to.

Political leaders who preach and teach about the need for “mass freedom movements” are never part of those groups. That tells you how deep the public trance can go. Relatively few people say, “Look, the president isn’t with the group. He’s separate. So how can he tell us what to think, what to do?”

It’s like a 400-pound man making diet recommendations.

Next, we have the mixing and churning of the words “freedom” and “rights.”

“I have the right to freebies. If I get them, I’m free. That’s what freedom means.”

Or: “I have freedom, which means rights, and I have the right to get freebies.”

These are actual modern definitions of freedom. Many people understand freedom in these terms and only these terms.

Here’s an example: people in poor countries have a right to food; they have a right to eat, not to starve; how can you be free if you’re starving?

That is very convincing to those who can’t think their way out of a wet paper bag.

A correct analysis would go this way: people in Uganda are starving. They have no right to food. This isn’t about food aid to Uganda. That isn’t a right, and it doesn’t solve the problem. People in Uganda have a right to fertile land, because it was stolen from them by their government and by mega-corporations and bankers. The theft was a crime. If we focus on the right to eat, then we end up supporting food aid from the outside as the big solution, and this plays directly into the hands of the thieves who stole the land. The thieves keep the land. The people of Uganda get a handout. And nothing is solved.

But that’s too on-target. It exposes the criminals. Therefore, these criminals relentlessly promote food aid as the altruistic thing to do, because it will keep them hidden and in control.

Mega-criminals twist the meaning of freedom to suit their purposes, and they succeed because they appear to be humanitarians. They are humanitarians in the same way that Stalin was a generous loving papa.

Potentially, there is a real Bill of Rights waiting for the people of Uganda. But they will have to make it happen. And that battle, that revolution will make the degree of difficulty of the American Revolution look like a Sunday picnic on the Charles River.

Should the US government assist the people of Uganda in a true revolution for true freedom? That’s asking a psychopath (the US government) to change its basic mindset because it’s the right thing to do.

Finally, we have this twist. Freedom doesn’t exist at all. If it did, it would only pertain to the individual, and since The Individual is a mythical construct with no meaning, freedom is also a myth.

“This is a breakthrough in understanding,” say many academics. “Based on this discovery, we can realize our destiny by equally sharing everything with everybody.”

Never mind the massive non-logic in that assessment. It’s not an attempt at reasoning. It’s propaganda disguised as advanced insight.

Who will decide who “everybody” is? Who will decide precisely what “equally sharing” means? Who will decide what “everything” amounts to? Who will run the show? Somebody has to.

The answers and the commands aren’t going to drop down from the sky.

Of the last few presidents, you could argue about which one most extensively strangled the original meaning of freedom. I’d pick Obama in that contest. Bush and Clinton are right up there. Obama voices more lofty pretensions (while acting as Monsanto’s man in Washington and taking on the role of Dr. Drone-Strike).

Elite players far higher on the food chain than American presidents have made their choice. They believe freedom doesn’t exist, except for themselves. To them, the masses are wild animals who merely act out their impulses. Leaders who can substitute new mind programming for old programming must act decisively and make satisfied androids out of the animals.

Meanwhile, to quote from a recent article of mine:

The independent individual who is an artist of reality sees one genuine emotion after another parlayed into flashes of cheap sentiment.

He doesn’t surrender.

The artist is able to spot the Collective. He opposes it.

This opposition can’t be settled and resolved with some absurd “rainbow philosophy” that pretends to include everybody. It can’t be dismissed or merged in a melting lump of happy-happy cosmic cheese.

Those pseudo-philosophers who speak about consciousness as if it were one all-embracing ocean, within which we are merely tiny and ineffectual drops of water, have already developed a convenient amnesia about the artist.

Down through time, in the face of every system devised by the priest-class and the issuers of money, the artist has said no.

He has asserted his power.

This is the natural mantle worn by the person who invents, imagines, improvises, creates: power.

The artist not only sees, with great clarity, the brain-dead gatherings of Collectives; he not only sees how they are built; he not only sees how they import and twist the highest ideals to flesh out their slave-programs and objectives; he not only rejects all this; he creates something entirely different.

The artist proliferates. He doesn’t reduce.

The artist isn’t looking for the “one thing” that will unite us all under a banner of harmony. He knows all such harmonies produce mass hypnosis.

The artist rebels. In rebelling, he reveals the uniqueness of the individual. He doesn’t pay lip service to this uniqueness. He demonstrates it.

Whether in art, science, philosophy, healing, or any other field of human endeavor, the person who lives by and through imagination creates new realities. As the artist, he challenges the status quo on every level.

Humanity on this planet has been undergoing a transformation into one ten-billion-member cult. You can find its leaders just by listening to their voices and their sentiments. They all come from the same manual.

Today, we have “the Global outlook.” This is the silky cover for drawing in populations to a perverse dream of unity for all.

“We will harmonize the world.”

This is exactly the kind of program the artist has always rejected.

The artist says: there are are an infinity of worlds.

When that message is lost, we lose what we are and enter into amnesia.

ROBOT OR FREE?

Jon Rappoport

Jon Rappoport's Blog

NoMoreFakeNews.com

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