The dominance of the cartoon in a declining civilization

by Jon Rappoport

October 1, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

Here is the function of a cartoon: it can extol and pay lip service to qualities like freedom and imagination and courage…and yet these assertions mean nothing because, well, it’s only a cartoon talking.

The most obvious examples are television news anchors and mainstream pundits. They automatically diminish the power and the authenticity of whatever they refer to.

There are many other cartoons. You’ve met them and seen them.

The whole society is embracing the Disney view of reality. Of course, the wars we engage in deliver real bullets and bombs and people die, but that’s mitigated by the fact that, for most of populace, it’s happening on television and not up close and personal.

There is another version of the talking cartoon: the utopian.

He is spinning delightful visions of collective paradise, in which a widespread transformation of consciousness is linking us all together with rainbow special effects.

The utopian cartoons seem to be quite eloquent, but if you take the time to break down their assertions, you find the generalities fall apart in your hands.

Sometimes you can watch a cartoon espousing individual freedom arguing with a cartoon who urges collective unity. This is quite a treat, like eating several flavors of popcorn at the same time.

The cartoon isn’t merely one level removed from life. It’s a composite of many layers piled on top of a distant memory of the real thing.

Viewed from one angle, the Matrix is a machine that manufactures endless numbers of talking cartoons.

Public relations comes into play here as well, because that craft involves calculating the public response. You don’t talk until you believe you can predict the reaction, and then you tailor your words to elicit it.

Cartoon-speak. It’s devoid of life, but its purveyors say, “So what?” It’s Pavlovian. It’s looking for dogs who drool when the bell rings, expecting food.

We have cartoon Presidents. Eventually, they all sound like their programming is wearing out. Then it’s time for a new election and a new leader.

In 1958, writer and painter Brion Gysin invented what he called the “cutup.” Using newspapers, scissors, glue and tape, he cut articles into pieces and arbitrarily rearranged the words. These days, if you Google “cutup machine,” you’ll find several random generators into which you can paste text and have the rearranging done in seconds.

To illustrate the cartoon nature of Presidents, here is a typical canned statement about war from Obama, followed by its cutup, and then one from Bush and its cutup. I recommend cutups as a way of getting a grip on the true nature of cartoons and the operations of cartoon-speak and public relations:

Obama quote: “When we send our young men and women into harm’s way, we have a solemn obligation not to fudge the numbers or shade the truth about why they’re going, to care for their families while they’re gone, to tend to the soldiers upon their return, and to never ever go to war without enough troops to win the war, secure the peace, and earn the respect of the world.”

Same Obama quote, cut up: “When war never gone about solemn our peace to to going to and the enough upon for numbers harm’s the win and while the have we secure ever to why obligation young and war the to fudge women respect troops their their or way world the to they’re truth a send the go tend they’re not men earn without soldiers care the into of to return families shade we”

Two interesting and telling phrases emerge in the cutup: “fudge women respect” and “they’re not men.” I didn’t insert them. They appeared after the random generator rearranged the quote. “Families shade we” is also suggestive of complete unconcern about the relatives of troops. Then there’s the ominous “harm’s the win.”

And now, on to Bush:

Bush quote: “A commander in chief sends America’s sons and daughters into battle in a foreign land only after the greatest care and a lot of prayer. We ask a lot of those who wear our uniform. We ask them to leave their loved ones, to travel great distances, to risk injury, even to be prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice of their lives. They are dedicated. They are honorable. They represent the best of our country, and we are grateful. To all the men and women in our military, every sailor, every soldier, every airman, every Coast Guardsman, every Marine, I say this: Your mission is defined. The objectives are clear. Your goal is just. You have my full confidence, and you will have every tool you need to carry out your duty.”

Same Bush quote, cut up: “A a to the are commander lot make men clear in of the and Your chief those ultimate women goal sends who sacrifice in is America’s wear of our just sons our their military You and uniform lives every have daughters We They sailor my into ask are every full battle them dedicated soldier confidence in to They every and a leave are airman you foreign their honorable every will land loved They Coast have only ones represent Guardsman every after to the every tool the travel best Marine you greatest great of I need care distances our say to and to country this carry a risk and Your out lot injury we mission your of even are is duty prayer to grateful defined We be To The ask prepared all objectives”

The phrase “airman you foreign” jumps out. There is also the slightly more cryptic “Your out lot injury we mission.”

Understand, of course, that these wars are all undertaken for very different reasons than those given.

In the Matrix, it’s standard operating procedure to abstract cartoons from actual values and present the fakes as if they’re the real thing. This puts communication on a level where meaning doesn’t matter. It’s all phony, as if Scrooge McDuck is reciting the Declaration of Independence or Mickey Mouse is citing grave consequences of the federal government shutdown.

I once asked a national television reporter how it felt to interview politicians. His answer: “It’s like being in a fantasy theme park. The politician knows that I know he’s spouting nonsense, but he doesn’t care, as long as I go along with the ruse and pretend it’s real.”

For a glimpse behind the cartoon, here is a statement George W Bush made in 1989, to the Midland Reporter Telegram, five years before he won his first election and became governor of Texas: “You know, I could run for governor and all this but I’m basically a media creation. I’ve never really done anything. I’ve worked for my dad. I worked in the oil industry. But that’s not the kind of profile you have to have to get elected to public office.”

When I write about consensus reality, and I often do, I’m referring, among other things, to its cartoon-nature, and the acceptance of information which is supposed to be coming from live sources, but which is actually emanating from PR personae and roles.

You can search a slew of articles I wrote a couple of years ago on the Magic Theater. This was a project I developed in which people would spontaneously act out roles in conversation with each other.

During the two live seminars I held in San Diego, I noticed that the attendees frequently fell into cartoons. That is, they not only spoke in their roles (king, doctor, CIA agent, intergalactic cop, etc.), but, without planning to, they naturally imbued those roles with all the madcap qualities of cartoon characters.

People know what’s going on.

One of the jobs of artists is to expose the ubiquitous scam.

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

Spiritual fascism

by Jon Rappoport

September 30, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

Year by year, I continue to make my case for the independent individual—one might even say the lone individual, except that this phrase has been co-opted to mean an assassin, a killer.

Which tells us where society is heading.

On every possible front, the psyop is about discrediting the individual and elevating the group and the collective.

Because I’m 75 years old, I’ve been around long enough to see the tectonic shift, among so-called intellectuals, from admiring and praising the individual to celebrating some sort of spiritual unity that makes us all into One Cosmic Glob.

For example: “There is really no separation between us. That’s an illusion. Finally, we are one consciousness.”

I dispute this. I reject it completely.

This, yes, insanity arises from a basic confusion and blind spot about the creative power (of the individual), which has no boundaries.

It is quite possible to imagine and create and invent a perception that we are all one consciousness and to experience the fullness of the perception. It is not an illusion. It is quite real.

But one can also un-create that perception.

In fact, in the early spiritual exercises of Tibetan tantric students and adepts, this on-off creation was a significant component. It was done, consciously, as a merging and un-merging with Nature. It was PRACTICED on a daily basis.

In early Tibet, a truly unique culture that was soon dismantled and destroyed by theocratic leaders, the individual was recognized as an staggeringly powerful artist.

Rather than assume there was one final highest reality we all share, it was understood that the individual could and did invent realities without limit.

Presuming to understand a final reality for all of us was considered absurd.

It is also a form of fascism. Spiritual fascism.

Once you embark on a road of imagination and creating, all bets are off. All preconceptions about what you must do, make, think, assume, and believe are yesterday’s news.

The individual is no longer “dangerous or deluded or separated from his brothers and sisters by ego” or any of the other debilitating formulations that have been offered to convince we are all One.

Here and now you or I can sit and invent the perception that, yes, we are all one consciousness…and then dispense with that perception. In either case, I’m doing it. You’re doing it. You’re creating a perception.

That’s what artists do, what they’ve always done. Somehow, in this cheesy spiritually fascist web of confusion, the fact has been lost.

People occasionally write to me and say the artist has no function in this society. Well, I’m not talking about function. Function is for machines.

Machines aren’t free.

This society is supposed to exist to allow the individual to flourish, but waiting for that to happen will put you on the track to nowhere.

Society is heading for more and more collectivism. Economically, politically, spiritually.

Here is a bottom line. People in this world believe in what they create, except they’re not aware of what they’re creating.

They think, instead, they’re seeing what’s already there.

This missing link explains a great deal.

People are playing a shell game with themselves. They’re placing the pea inside a particular shell, and then they’re turning over the shell and finding the pea.

Then they exclaim, “Look what I found!”

NO. They didn’t find it. They put it there to begin with.

They created a reality and then denied they created it.

This would be like a painter spending six months making a huge work in his studio and then saying…”It’s a miracle. I walked into the studio today and I found this painting leaning against the wall. Astonishing!”

Yes, you can conceive of (create) all of humanity and stars and galaxies as One Consciousness if you want to. You can do that. You can also do something else. In either case, you did it. And you can undo it.

The clue you should take from that exercise is: you have an extraordinary capacity to create “content.”

Dictators and fascists tell you what content you should create, and on top of that, they say you didn’t create the content at all. It was always there.

I could write a science fiction story that goes this way: One day, the guy next door, who is a painter, lugs one of his large canvases into your house and hangs it on the wall. He has a big grin on his face. He’s positively serene. He’s producing great GENEROSITY out of every pore. He says, “Look at this! This is what reality really is. Do you see? It shows that we’re all one great consciousness. And the funny thing is, I didn’t paint this. It just appeared on a blank canvas. I saw it this morning when I went into my studio! Now, listen. You should believe in this painting, too. You really should. This is the higher reality…”

Yes, I could write this science fiction story. Except it’s already happening, every day.

Jon Rappoport

The author of two explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED and EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 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

Went to college, got the T-shirt and $150,000 debt

by Jon Rappoport

September 26, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

Yes, a whole lot of boys and girls are paying $150,000 for a T-shirt. Now that’s a sales job. We’re not talking about about a purse that costs three grand or a $500 bottle of bitter champagne or 10 grand for a vacation cruise that gives you a solid case of dysentery.

This is a really sublime con. And I have a solution for it.

The student enrolls in what I simply call The Course.

He goes to the library once a week and checks out a stack of books. Any books. For four hours a day, five days a week, for six years, you chain him to a table in a quiet room at home.

There’s a thick notebook on the table and pencils. And the books. No computer. No phone. No videos. No music. No nothing. You walk out and close the door.

That’s it.

The rest is up to him.

During his six years, the student might read and/or write about television, space travel, the process of elephants giving birth, soldier ants, the CIA, God, the suppression of bubblegum sales during World War 2, an analysis of photographs of desert mirages, Jesus, the Rockefellers, malaria, ghosts, football, worship of idols in ancient Polynesia, the evolution of the hot dog, syphilis, leprosy, plutonium, Plato, gastric ulcers, Middle East wars, building houses out of rubber tires, the Federal Reserve, cell phone radiation…

Or he might do nothing.

It’s his choice.

Nobody teaches him anything. Nobody checks up on him. Nobody encourages him. Nobody guides him. Nobody tests him or grades him or graduates him.

“This is the first and last time I’ll be speaking to you about The Course. You’re going to start today. Good luck.”

I’ll put that up against any liberal arts curriculum in America.

And of course, it has a Zen component. Silence. Inevitable confusion. Resentment. The need for answers which never come. Frustration. Choice.

And it’s free. No T-shirt, no student loans, no government interference, no administration, no brainwashing, no social agenda, no sense of entitlement, no hype.

There’s a chance the student may actually become interested in something ON HIS OWN.

If not, so be it. He has no one to blame.

“I guess I’m not curious about what I don’t know. I’m a robot. So I’ll just go to the nearest programming center and sign up. They can make me over into whatever they need. No problem.”

In case you haven’t noticed, our society has become obsessed, at every possible level, with meddling in other people business. I’m not talking about honest prosecution of crimes. I’m talking about downright interference.

“Don’t you think you should be doing THIS?” Shouldn’t you stop doing THAT?” “Don’t you care about what your grandmother THINKS?”

The Course is meddle-free. So even if a student comes out of his six years with nothing, at least he know what’s it’s like to exist, for four hours a day, in a non-meddling space.

And his parents get the message as well.

“I just want to take Jimmy some tea and cookies while he’s studying.”

“Hold on, Martha, don’t you remember when we signed the contract, it said no interruptions? If you walk in there, they can come and shoot you. And I believe they will. They were very emphatic on that point.”

“I want to make sure he’s all right.”

“Here…let me read from their leaflet: ‘You as the parent may experience a grinding need to walk in on your precious little doofus while he’s doing The Course. Recognize this comes from your craven fear of being alone with nothing but your own thoughts. You’re assuredly deranged. Should you ignore this warning, your child will be only too happy to report you, we will take you out, and it won’t be pretty…’”

I believe The Course is an idea whose time has come.

Bonus: you can ignore the towers of absolute crap the government shovels about education.

The Course is stark and uncompromising. Beauty comes in many forms.

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

The CIA man and his mind-controlled prop

~a short story~

by Jon Rappoport

September 16, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

He could hardly believe his new life. It was a like a dream unrolling on a carpet.

Yes, there were occasional glitches, and repairs had to be done now and then—his handler called them “refreshers”—but things were so very beautiful.

In his former life he thought he’d understood the term “juice,” but he hadn’t had a clue. Real juice was when doors opened you didn’t even know were closed. As you strode down hallways to meeting rooms, reality was quickly cast up like stage flats to accommodate your objectives and even your moods.

Now, ten years into this second existence, an aide brought him a recording. It was a message from his CIA man. His handler. The accompanying brief note read:

“Congratulations on your tenth anniversary. I want you to listen to what I told you at your lowest point, that night in the lab, at the very beginning of our adventure, just to remind you how far you’ve come. ONWARD!”

The recording would be rather disturbing, but he had to hear it. He needed it for comparison. He needed to understand how the best of all possible worlds could crumble. There were no absolute guarantees.

Keep on the straight and narrow. Stay with the agenda.

He put in his earpiece, sat back, and took it all in:

“Well, I’m looking at a sad case sitting in front of me, once a prof at some top Ivy joint, but now a puddle of withering wet flesh in the steam bath of the psyche, the two of us here sitting side by side with towels wrapped around our naked bodies in the heat coming out of the walls and the floor. Listen, Doc, the point is, everything you learned in your forty fifty years was funneling into an artificial personality, get what I mean, and when that blew away in the wind, which yes we had some role in bringing about, you were left with nothing, but don’t try to come at me with whining and recrimination because I can still save you and this isn’t over, you’re useful even in your present demented state, you’ve got circuits we can deploy, plug into, to broadcast messages out into the general public, and this may not be what you imagined your life was going to be, but it’s better than than the Void.

“There are hearings coming up on the war, and we can use you there too, to testify about who did what to who and who didn’t, we’ll feed you the data, we’ll install the bricks and you’ll lay them out on the table for the committee in a convincing way, and we’ll pay you for that, we’ll set you up in a nice hotel in DC with some people to take care of you, to watch over you, and you’ll forget about your problems.

“Reporters will come to you for statements and cash will flow, maybe you’ll even marry one of our models, she’ll make you feel like a top-flight man of the world, you’ll be a bon vivant after a while as you get used to your new status, you’ll put yourself back together again, step by step, think of it as rehab, a long rehab after surgery, a new time.

“We’ll pipe these messages through your brain stem, you won’t even feel it after a while, it’ll seem like a warm breeze blowing through your head, trees in the glen, sailboats in the harbor, cafes at sunset, new friends. You’ll wonder how you ever put up with that university and all those stale domeheads, you’ll be the simulacrum of a player in our cartoon.

“You want to hurt somebody you’ll be able to do it with impunity, nobody’ll touch you in the afterglow, we’ll give you look-ins from our spying machinery, homes, offices, ships at sea, we’ve got the whole show cordoned off, we’ve got the power…Doc, I can rebuild the framework for you, I can run you for public office, I can hook you up to watch missile attacks, we can delete your files and lay in new ones, eradicate every little nasty thing you’ve ever done, Operation Clean Slate, you’re bad you’re good, you’re whatever you want to be, neurologically speaking, you’re a high-functioning android, a siphon, but you have to let go of the residuals, dump those tag ends of your former life, you can drive yourself crazy with that stuff, try to imagine what it means to have a government inside a government behind you, working for you.

“You’ll be a star on the horizon making book on a new century, we can create a whole legend for you, backfill your past…and now you’ll show up in the middle of night to handle a client who’s caught in the middle of an op, bail him out, he’s grateful to you for the rest of his life, he talks about you to his friends, your name spreads like wildfire, you’re a fixer, other people want your game, see, it’s yours, you own it, you make up the rules as you go along, you move mountains, you’re immune, the sweat that comes out of your pores immediately turns into the news.

“You’re the king of the hill. As long as you’re ours.”

Yes, he remembered how he felt that night so long ago, desperate, at his wit’s end. They knew he’d cheated on his wife, knew he was a fraud as a professor, that he’d plagiarized other men’s work, that he’d blackmailed a colleague to get him to withdraw his name from an application for tenure so HE could sit in that endowed chair instead.

But at his darkest, his CIA man had offered him hope. And not just hope. Brilliant victory. And the ability to radiate a synthetic aura that matched and called forth the deepest dreams of a corrupt city at the heart of global power.

How they accomplished this supernatural feat he’d never understand, but they succeeded.

Wherever he went now, people, insiders, looked at him with special recognition. They were seeing their own perverse desires realized. He had that magical effect.

And his CIA man fed him timely and acute information to which few others were privy, so when he spoke of issues and problems and crises, he was already in tomorrow, while others were swimming in yesterday.

Now, he turned off the recording and smiled. Yes, this was a life he could never have dreamed of, because he didn’t know it existed, but here he was, playing it out.

A man he’d never seen before strolled into his office.

The door closed from the outside. They were alone.

“You’ve listened to the recording?” he man said.

WHO WAS HE? HOW DID HE GET PAST THE GUARDS?

Suddenly nervous, he said, “Yes. I’ve listened to it.”

“Then know this. Your handler just died in a car crash on the New Jersey Turnpike. He’s gone. I’m your new man. He had, shall we say, a special affection for you. I don’t. I have new rules.”

DIED? NEW RULES?

The man continued, “We’re putting you ‘on the slide,’ as we say. Your ratings are going to go into sharp decline. Nothing personal. You were up, now you’re down. You’ll end up looking battered. Scandals. Reverses. Bad publicity.”

“But wait! What have I done? My man is dead?”

“A few hours ago, yes. You haven’t done anything. Listen to me. You have a choice. You can take what’s going to happen to you personally, or you can roll with the punches. Make it easy on yourself. You’re not the centerpiece. We have larger issues.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m a decision maker!”

“Sure. It seems that way. But don’t forget who’s in charge here. Ten years from now, if you behave yourself, you’ll have your own foundation. You’ll win back all your friends. You’ll still be working for us, but the agenda will shift slightly.”

The CIA man looked at him. There was no respect in his gaze. He was making an assessment.

The President of the United States felt paralyzed.

He could already sense his aura slipping away.

Without thinking, he blurted out, “I’m a drug addict who’s been cut off!”

“Exactly, Mr. President,” the CIA man said. “That’s a proper analogy. Begin to wean yourself immediately.”

Again the President spoke without thinking. “Tell me what you did to me at the beginning! I’ve never known. How did you make all this happen?”

The CIA man nodded, as if other men had asked him the question before.

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “The technology was only a piece of the equation. You see, it was your need. We found it in you. Your need was great.”

The summation hit him like a blow to the belly.

He had participated in his own re-invention. The obvious reason was there all along. His craven NEED for what this new life could give him.

“This…what you’re describing…would be very difficult,” the President said. He heard the whining tone in his voice. “I’d be playing without backup. I’d be ALONE.”

“Yes,” the CIA man said. “You’ll be navigating in the dark, in a boat with a broken engine. It’s a test of courage.”

The President was silent for a long time.

“Suppose I choose to expose you,” he said.

The CIA man nodded.

“Let me put it this way,” he said. “We plan for contingencies. That one is in our book.”

The President felt the room tilt. A woman who looked like his mother walked out of the wall in front of him. She pointed a long finger.

“You’ll behave, son,” she said. “Or you won’t get any candy and I’ll whip you before you go to bed.”

The President was really an arrested child. He huddled inside himself in his chair and thought about open skies and open roads, and how he had left them behind, a long time ago, and instead had chosen fear as his brother-in-arms.

Here and now, he wanted to say that had been his great mistake, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He forced himself to smile. He believed his smile was charming.

“I’ll work with you,” he said.

“Of course you will,” the CIA man said.

The Oval Office righted itself and the woman who looked like his mother disappeared.

The President heard phrases like echoes:

“Make war when we say war, make peace when we say so.” “There are no lies, only advantages.” “Build what we tell you to and they will love you.” “You’re the most important man in the world.”

“You’re not really from the CIA, are you?” the President said.

“Well, ‘CIA’ is a general term,” the man said. “But no. Let’s say we’re a deeper organization.”

The President felt he might explode.

“Who’s running this goddamn country?” he said.

“All you have to know is who’s running you.”

“I’m a front man.”

“You’re a hub cap on the wheel of a car at the back of the parade.”

The President felt a yearning to return to his earlier years as a professor. Then, he’d only been a small-time criminal. Now…he didn’t know what he was. Why did his handler have to come in here and interrupt his life? Why couldn’t they operate at a distance and help him preserve the illusion that he was a leader?

Finally, summoning up the remainder of his energy, the President said, “Look, whoever you are. I’m an actor. Do you understand? I’m playing my role. That’s what you want me for. So don’t show up like this. It ruins my concentration. I need to do what I do well. Everything is riding on the way I perform. This is my gift.”

The other man nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ll leave you alone. But stay with your role, as you call it, for the rest of your term. Stay in character. Don’t rock the boat.”

The President watched the man morph. It took almost a full minute. What was left was the First Lady. She stood there staring at him.

“What did you say, dear?” she said.

“Oh…nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”

She looked at her watch.

“We have to dress for dinner,” she said.

“Of course,” he said.

“Now,” she said.

She took him by the arm. She guided him toward the door.

For some reason, he tried to remember the day he married her.

He couldn’t.

He tried to remember where he’d first met her.

He couldn’t.

As if she were reading his mind, she said, “I’ll always be here. I was always here.”

He realized it was easier to accept what she was saying then try to untangle what couldn’t be undone.

“I’m a player,” he said. “I’ll go with this to the end of line. No one and nothing will budge me. I’ve got a hundred dollars that says I’ll outlast you.”

She grinned.

“You’re on,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter who or what you are,” he said. “When you’re gone I’ll still be here.”

As they walked out of the Oval Office, he heard faint music. Somewhere in the White House, a band was rehearsing Hail to the Chief.

I’m the President, he thought. They’ll never be able to take that from me.

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

Priests in white coats kill a baby of the State

~a short story~

by Jon Rappoport

September 14, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

I’m writing this on June 24, 2036.

Right now I have the dubious status of being the most wanted man in America. Number one on the FBI’s list.

Let them try to find me. I’m buried deep.

You all know the sensational story of Baby Joe and the Serenity Hospital in Tenafly, New Jersey. That is, you know what the press is reporting non-stop.

I’m here to correct the story. I’m here to talk to all the sleeping citizens in their homes and the bureaucrats and the police and the doctors and the lunatics in Congress and the parents who are taking orders from the State and the reporters who are selling themselves out every day of their lives and following the party line and the teachers who are trying to sound like doctors and the killers at the FDA and the DHS robots…

Here is what really happened at the hospital.

On June 1, at three in afternoon, after the mother of Joe had been in labor for an hour or so, the doctor gave her a shot and let her float. Then he delivered Joe, who started crying. A nurse calmed him down. They put Joe on his mother’s belly and she reached for him and took him in her arms.

A new doctor walked into the room and held up a syringe and said he was going to give Joe a shot. The Hepatitis B vaccine.

There was no argument, contrary to what the Times wrote. The mother said, “I only have sex with my husband, and I’m not an IV drug user.” Those were her words.

She said this because the Hepatitis B vaccine is supposed to prevent Hepatitis, which comes through sexual transmission and IV drug use.

The doctor said, “It’s mandatory. Your baby has to have the vaccine. And I can already see he has a problem. His head is lolling a little. His eyes are unfocused.”

This was a lie. The baby’s eyes were closed. His head wasn’t lolling, it was cradled in his mother’s arms.

The mother did not then sit up in bed. She didn’t threaten a lawsuit. She didn’t argue. She just said, “No vaccine.” Again, the Times was wrong.

The doctor said, “I can’t release the baby from the hospital until he has the shot. If you won’t give your permission, I’ll have to notify Child Services. They’ll send someone over. You don’t want that.”

He stepped over to the mother and bent down and looked at the baby. He said to the mother, “You and the baby are in our care. We have to do what’s best for both of you.”

She said, “Joe is mine.” She didn’t tell the doctor not to touch Joe. The Times misreported that, too.

The doctor said, “You’re covered under national insurance. The rules say we decide what’s best for the baby. If you refuse treatment, you can be deleted from the program. You’ll be uninsured.”

Once more, the mother said, “No vaccine.”

The doctor said, “I’ll have to call Child Services, and they’ll bring the police with them.”

Now, the mother sat up in bed. She tried to shake off the effects of the pain killer. She said, “The government doesn’t own my baby.”

The doctor said, “No, but we control its medical treatment. You have to go along with this. And if you refuse, then the State does take custody of the baby. Then the State decides everything that happens to the baby.”

The mother said, “They can’t own my boy.”

A nurse standing next to the doctor said, “They can. They will. And a judge will back that up.”

I was standing in the room. That’s how I know everything that was being said.

And I acted on it.

I said to the doctor, “Back away.”

He looked at me. He said to his nurse, “Call security.”

She took out her cell and pressed a button.

The doctor said to me, “You realize this baby has to come to the hospital every three months for the next six years, for checkups? I’ll be here. If I say he’s depressed, I’ll put him on an anti-psychotic, or any drug I choose. If I say he has ADHD, I’ll give him some kind of amphetamine. I’m the one who decides.”

I walked over to the doctor and grabbed him by the throat.

I didn’t punch him. I didn’t try to strangle him. I just put him under control for the moment. I said, “Don’t move.”

He didn’t move.

Then I kneed him hard in the groin. He yelled and I let go of his throat. He doubled over and fell on the floor.

There was a second nurse in the room. She laughed and said, “Damn!”

So this was the situation. The mother was still holding Joe. She was looking at me. Her expression, understandably, was one of shock. The baby was all right. He wasn’t crying. He was lying with his head on his mother’s chest.

The second doctor, who had delivered Joe, backed up against the wall. He was afraid. The nurse who’d signaled for security bent down to help the doctor who was on the floor. The nurse who laughed stood near the bed and just smiled.

The nurse who was bending down helping the doctor on the floor looked up at me and said, “You’re going to the psych ward.”

“No I’m not,” I said.

“You’re a terrorist,” she said.

I didn’t bother to reply to that.

The nurse who was smiling took a step toward me. She said, “By the time this baby is four years old, he’s going to have sixty shots. The vaccines have poison in them. Aluminum, mercury, formaldehyde, foreign genes. I’m not going to do this anymore.”

She didn’t say, as the Times reported, that she was going to help me get out of the hospital. She didn’t say, “I’m a rebel.” I know she’s in the hospital psyche ward, as I write this. I’m sure they’ve drugged her.

Then, before I realized what was happening, the nurse who was helping the doctor on the floor, picked up the syringe, walked over to Joe and injected him with the vaccine. It happened fast. The baby screamed.

I walked out of the room. I made it to the elevator before security arrived. I got off in the lobby and was in the street when I heard alarm bells ringing.

I caught a taxi and rode a few miles north in the city. Then I took a subway east and…that’s all you need to know about my escape route.

The press has reported that Joe died because I attacked him. The mother was taken into “protective custody,” so we won’t be hearing from her.

I’m now wanted for murder. The press is stating I’m an investigator for a “militia-style” anti-vaccine group called Stop Injection.

DHS has labeled me a domestic terrorist. If I’m caught, I could spend the rest of my life in prison. The vice-president of the United States has said I should be shot if I resist arrest.

This tells you how hard the government is protecting the pharmaceutical industry. Now that vaccines are mandated for every child by federal law, we’re a nation under the gun and the needle.

The government will do whatever it takes to inject poison into children. They don’t care about the truth. They’re covering up the actual rates of injury and death from vaccinations. They’re labeling these injuries with various disease names.

They’re even using tax dollars to fund research into finding the germs that “cause” these diseases, when they know it’s the vaccines.

The sun may be shining where you are, and it may be a beautiful day, but we’re all living in a concentration camp, where doctors inject poison into every child.

If you believe what I’m saying is true, the government and its media allies will call you a primitive savage or a religious nut. That’s how they keep the population under control.

There is no way out of this except by active resistance.

I have files with me. Every week or so, I’ll be releasing portions of them. Evidence that the State has been lying to you about vaccines. Evidence that the human damage and destruction is much, much greater than you imagine.

The government has banned many independent reports and books about vaccines and taken them out of circulation.

I see there are rumors about whether I’m still in the country or have fled to another nation and secretly applied for political asylum. Let me set the record straight. In this world, as it exists now, no nation would grant me protection.

I could steal secrets about US war plans or about surveillance of private citizens or rigged elections, and I’d be able to live in some distant place and avoid extradition. But when it comes to titanic medical crimes, there is no safe haven.

You should visit a kindergarten or elementary school at your earliest convenience. Notice the burgeoning enrollments in special ed units. Many of these children have suffered vaccine damage, as well as the toxic effects of psychiatric drugs and “ordinary” medicines.

Even in conventional normal classes, schools have vastly simplified lesson-plans, because the children can’t handle the usual material. They, too, many of them, are dealing with neurological damage.

The state-sanctioned daily “periods of silence” for meditation are now longer. This is an attempt to avoid the burden of trying to teach physically compromised children how to read, write, and do arithmetic. The “social interaction studies” are gaining as well. Sitting, talking, sharing—this postpones the moment when the teacher actually has to embark on substantive instruction.

Everything possible is being done to prevent an individual child from having to stand on his own merit—and reveal his educational deficiencies.

Last year’s outbreak of pertussis among thousands of children in Indiana? The State suppressed a report revealing upwards of 80% of those children had been vaccinated against pertussis—the real cause of the outbreak was the vaccine.

A hundred thousand people in Southern India suddenly developed paralysis last summer, as health workers were injected 14 million residents with the Gates-Buffet polio vaccine. This, too, was shut out of the press.

There is much, much more.

I only ask that you examine the information I’ll be releasing shortly. Then you can make up your own minds.

My files are divided into four sections:

unpublished drug-company studies that document maiming and death in an extraordinary number of children who were given vaccines in clinical trials;

company and FDA data analyzing intended and unintended toxic ingredients in several dozen vaccines;

unpublished government statistics on outbreaks and epidemics caused by vaccines;

drug-company memos documenting over 50 refusals to carry out studies comparing the health of vaccinated and unvaccinated children.

The holocaust is here. It has been here for some time.

Now, in June of 2036, the President has just announced he is calling on DHS to make sure mandatory vaccination is enforced to the fullest. This means you’ll be seeing agents in your cities and towns. In your schools.

In addition to that, a combined CDC/World Health Organization “crisis group” is moving into 30 major cities to monitor vaccination sites and guarantee they are adequately staffed.

There remain three questions. How did Joe die in the hospital? How did I obtain all these secret files? Who am I?

I came by the files through a government whistleblower you’ve never heard of. He was researching this subject for a book on his own. He gave up and passed his work to me. I took it because I wanted to learn the truth and the facts.

I have some medical training. I have a license as a physician’s assistant. I obtained a job at Serenity Hospital so I could investigate reports of extreme vaccine damage there. I belong to no group.

The Times articles were correct on one point. Joe’s body was cremated within two hours of his death. There can only be one reason for that. Hospital officials wanted to avoid a coroner’s investigation that would show the Hepatitis B vaccine killed him.

He was a healthy baby. I was in the room. I saw that.

Who are the real terrorists here?

As a child, I incurred damage as a result of vaccines and medical drugs. You probably did, too, because all Americans are forcibly enrolled in the national health insurance plan at birth.

This is a system that extends from cradle to grave. That’s the whole point. Imagine a long, long line of millions and millions of people trudging through life, receiving 40 or 50 diagnoses of diseases and disorders as they go. With each drug prescription, they develop new symptoms, and these symptoms are then called diseases, requiring more toxic treatments.

It’s controlled life in half-light, and it moves inexorably toward the cemetery.

Is a population like this even going to be able to think about the political condition in which they find themselves?

There was a turning point in the first decade of the 21^st century. The Congress, under tremendous pressure, without considering that they were supposed to represent the people, passed into law the skeleton of the present government health insurance plan.

It was hailed as a humanitarian victory.

But people in power knew what it really was. And they didn’t care.

People above them in the food chain not only knew what it was, they insisted on it. They intended to use this heinous system as an instrument of control.

And now, in 2036, here we are.

Essentially, the country is on lockdown. We live in a medical police state.

It’s called good science. It’s called greatest good for the greatest number. It’s called enlightened democracy.

Perhaps you read about the recent death of the oldest serving US Senator, Nancy Reid. One of the architects of the original vote that brought national healthcare into being, she died at a California rest home, when she leaped from the balcony of her 19^th floor suite.

For the last years of her life, she was living in a psychotic state, having been driven mad by a cocktail of psychiatric drugs that cause motor brain damage and several rounds of “preventive” chemotherapy, which did, in fact, prevent the cells of her body from reproducing.

One more casualty in the war that never ends.

The United States is party to an international treaty that forbids the use of chemical weapons. What I’m describing in this message…I wish I could go back into the past and alert the people of, say, 2013, who were watching their government debate a proposed attack on a country called Syria, based on a charge that the president of that country deployed chemical weapons on his people.

The debate took place at the time when the US medical system was killing, at minimum, 225,000 Americans every year, like clockwork, with its medicines.

What kind of ignorance and brainwashing did it take, then, to make the people of the United States overlook the fact that this was sustained chemical warfare at home, on themselves.

Legal, praised, heralded chemical warfare.

Delivered by needles, by pills.

Every hour of every day.

Jon Rappoport

The author of two explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED and EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 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

“What concerns all of us at this time”

by Jon Rappoport

September 13, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

Right now, of course, it’s the war on Syria. Last month, it was something else. And next month, it’ll be something else.

We’re looking at one op after another, one crime after another, one cover-up after another, one threat, one psyop after another. It never ends.

To a significant degree, all these operations are just that, planned moves. And they do concern all of us, because the scope of the operations is vast.

However, on another level, these ops are designed for the purpose of engaging all of us so that we’ll keep thinking in terms of the group (“all of us”)…and never think about anything else.

If you can tune up the population to keep thinking about the group, the collective, you’ve got them.

Hence, the title of this piece: “What concerns all of us at this time.”

But what about: what concerns NONE of us at this time.

What about that?

What about what doesn’t even exist at this time?

What about what has yet to be imagined and created?

Who handles that?

What department do you contact to find out about THAT?

Well, you can consult DARPA or any number of think-tanks or the CIA, but again, these blueprints of the future involve all of us.

I’m talking about something else:

That discredited and stepped-on and discounted faculty of the individual called imagination which, by the way, is not a container holding shielded secrets, but is instead a capability of invention.

Everything mind control ever was, is, or will be, is ultimately aimed at producing amnesia about that capability. Therefore, when you bring up the subject of imagination, most people just shake their heads and move on. They are clueless about their own astonishing power.

Being ignorant, they are easy marks. They can be cajoled into spending their whole lives thinking about “what concerns us most at this time.”

When I put together my two mega-collections, The Matrix Revealed and Exit From the Matrix, I was cognizant of this. But I also knew there were people out there who were looking for something else, something beyond group concerns that could trap them forever— concerns that build a wall between them and their own creative power.

Creative power—this “little selfish preoccupation,” as it’s been called—is the difference between night and day, civilization and chaos, desire fulfilled and victimhood, life-force and walking death, deception and insight, fierce joy and a sinkhole in which the same emotions go around and around and around.

The reason behind the reason I write about fraud and crime and conspiracy in public life is: I want to expose how reality is being built for us. How perverse designers are constructing a collective mural of existence.

Understanding that, one can begin to see how he can create other realities—without end.

It’s as if we’re living in a huge room with no ceiling and yet we’re behaving as if there is a ceiling 10 feet high. The “10- feet high” is the result of amnesia about our own imaginations.

The purpose of the collective is destruction of imagination.

But imagination can never be destroyed. All individuals can do is force themselves to stay asleep about it.

Or decide to wake up.

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

by Jon Rappoport

September 10, 2013

(To join our email list, click here.)

“Well,” Jimmy’s teacher said, “we’re trying to emphasize cooperation. But Jimmy has another agenda. He apparently wants to stay separate from the other children.”

“Yes,” the principal said. “It’s matter of psychology. You see, separateness breeds conflict. On a larger scale, this is why nations have wars.”

“Agreed,” said the school superintendent. “We want each child to see the reflection of himself in the other children. And we want him to see the reflection of everyone else in himself.”

“You lost me there,” Jimmy’s father said. He was trying to remain calm.

A week ago, Jimmy, six years old, was sitting in class drawing. The teacher had taped a sketch of a face on the blackboard. She was taking the students through a step-by-step process aimed at getting them to reproduce the face in their notebooks.

She walked up and down the rows, and when she came to Jimmy, she saw he was drawing a very different face. It wasn’t bland. It was the face of a woman laughing. The face was floating among trees in a forest.

She stopped. The drawing looked very real.

“Jimmy,” she said, “this isn’t the face we’re all working on.”

He looked up at her.

“I know,” he said.

“So why are you doing this other one?”

He shrugged.

She said, “When we’re done, we’re all going to put our drawings on the blackboard and see what they look like. But your face will be different.”

“So?” he said.

She felt a wave of anger sweep through her. She controlled it.

“The other children will be confused when they see your face,” she said.

Jimmy shrugged again.

“I won’t put your face on the blackboard,” the teacher said.

“Okay,” Jimmy said.

After class, the teacher went to the principal and they sat down and looked through Jimmy’s file. They noticed that Jimmy had once worn an unusual T-shirt to school. It had a photo of a crown on it.

Another child had asked the gym teacher what the crown was.

Now, sitting in the meeting with the teacher, the principal, and the superintendent, Jimmy’s father said, “Jimmy just likes crowns. I don’t know why.”

“Well,” the teacher said, “a crown is a symbol of monarchy. One ruler over all the people.”

The principal said, “That other child felt confused when she saw the T-shirt. Confusion is an indicator that the communal spirit has been , well, interrupted.”

The superintendent said, “A crown can also have religious connotations.”

“Look,” Jimmy’s father said, “we were at a garage sale. Jimmy saw the T-shirt and liked it. So I bought it for him.”

“You let him wear a T-shirt from a garage sale?” the teacher said.

“We washed it first,” Jimmy’s father said.

“The point is,” the superintendent said, “we’re trying to foster a spirit of unity among the children. I’m sure you can see the value of that. Separateness is the problem. It means a child thinks he’s more important than the others. It’s a behavioral problem. The child can’t understand that we’re all One.”

“What does that mean?” Jimmy’s father said.

“It means the higher reality is Oneness.”

“I still don’t understand,” Jimmy’s father said.

The superintendent frowned.

“Jimmy drew a face that was very different. It wasn’t part of the lesson. Not only that, the face was disturbing.”

“Why?” Jimmy’s father said.

“Because it didn’t relate.”

“Didn’t relate to what?” Jimmy’s father said.

“To what children think about when they have a spirit of unity and when they share that spirit.”

“That’s interesting,” Jimmy’s father said. “So there is this spirit of unity, and children can share it. And when they do, they stop thinking about certain other things.”

“That’s one of way of putting it,” the superintendent said. “Do you teach Jimmy drawing at home?”

“No,” Jimmy’s father said. “He draws by himself. He likes it.”

“But,” the teacher said, “something must be going on at home.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Jimmy’s father said.

“You’re teaching him something at home.”

“Not really. I read to him.”

“What do you read?”

“The Wizard of Oz. Alice in Wonderland.”

Ah,” said the principal, “I see.”

“What do you see?” Jimmy’s father said.

“The boy doesn’t understand the text. It’s too advanced. So he substitutes his own images and ideas while you’re reading to him. And this takes him…away.”

“Away?”

“Yes. Into his own thoughts.”

“Actually, he does understand the books. I explain things when he has questions. But what’s wrong with his own thoughts?”

The principal said, “They’re…random. He fixates on those thoughts. And that takes him into a private world. When he comes to class, he’s still there. He can’t really perceive his classmates. He can’t see that he and they are One. He’s drifting. He’s isolated. It means he’s selfish. He doesn’t accept our curriculum. He doesn’t agree with it. He won’t develop a communal understanding.”

Jimmy’s father said, “I don’t think he’s selfish. And he can read. He can write, too. He has a notebook. He writes in it.”

“That notebook,” the superintendent said, “could be revealing.”

“What?” Jimmy’s father said.

“Yes. It could show that he’s…”

“Using his imagination?” Jimmy’s father said.

“Imagination,” said the teacher, “is a general word. It covers a very large territory. You see, Jimmy is using his imagination to remove himself from the energy of the class. There is an energy, you know. It’s universal. It’s everywhere. We have a choice. We can connect with it, or we can reject it.”

“An energy,” Jimmy’s father said. “What happens when we connect with it?”

The teacher smiled.

“We move into higher consciousness. We all share in that consciousness. We suddenly understand how futile our separate lives are. Instead of believing we have separate minds, we see that we’re tapping into one greater mind.”

Jimmy’s father nodded.

“And this is very important to you,” he said.

“Yes,” the principal said. “There are many implications. For example, suppose a great leader arose in our midst. A leader who is the expression of that greater mind. And then suppose we were all living little separate lives. We wouldn’t recognize the leader. He would go unnoticed. That would be a tragedy.”

The teacher said, “It’s quite possible Jimmy has ADHD. A chemical brain imbalance. He should be referred to a psychiatrist for diagnosis.”

“But above and beyond that,” the principal said, “this is about a principle of interaction. The merging of, how shall I put it, individualistic traits into a higher arc.”

“Arc?” Jimmy’s father said.

“That’s right. The arc of unity. All civilizations have sought it. We’re finally on the road to achieving it.”

“Through education,” Jimmy’s father said.

“The enlightenment of young minds,” the teacher said. “We adults can only talk about these things and try to implement them. We’ve been conditioned to accept individuality as an ideal. But through the children, we can imbue a whole line of generations with non-separation.”

“Post-conflict awareness,” the superintendent said. “Society will finally grow up. For most of human history, our species has relied on a myth we told. We told it to ourselves. The myth of the individual. But now, because we have the technological means to make life supportable for everyone on the planet, we can dispense with that myth. It was necessary for a time. But now it’s outmoded.”

“So,” Jimmy’s father said, “my son really isn’t an individual.”

“Correct,” the teacher said. “He just thinks he is.”

“And what happens if he keeps thinking he is?”

“Well,” the principal said, “I’m afraid he’ll become greedy and selfish. He’ll become combative. He’ll put his own needs ahead of everyone else’s. His behavior will become ego-driven.”

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

“Let me put it this way,” the superintendent said. “The shape of a society starts from a spiritual level. And on that level, a person can conceive of his life as distinct and unique, or he can realize that he is the manifestation of an energy that incorporates all of us. This energy is everywhere. It’s universal. Your son is a disconnected piece of energy that needs to reconnect.”

“So…” Jimmy’s father said, “what do you want me to do?”

“Well,” the superintendent said, “let’s have him see a psychiatrist for an interview. Let’s see what a professional can discover. Also, talk to your boy. Tell him that he needs to give us a chance to do what we do.”

“All right,” Jimmy’s father said. “I think I understand. I want to thank you for taking the time to give me a picture of what’s going on. I appreciate it.”

“Will you try to help us?” the teacher said.

“Jimmy’s father said, “I’m going to take Jimmy out of the system and home school him.”

Everything stopped.

There was a long silence in the room.

The superintendent said, “Home schooling breeds terrorists.”

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.