Matrixology: fact vs. fiction

by Jon Rappoport

September 2, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was in the first three seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked at me silently.

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

“Does it matter?” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

She nodded.

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

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

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

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

I multiplied.

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

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

Then I felt I was alone for a long time.

Days, weeks, months.

Or perhaps only for a few minutes.

I was all alone.

I was the singular.

And she. She was the many.

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

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

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

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

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

The doctor walked in.

“Bored with who?” he said.

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

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

“Yes. I am.”

He smiled.

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

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

He stared down at his shoes.

“What’s the matter?” I said.

He shook his head and looked back up at me.

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

The room darkened.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she was.

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

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

“For how long?” I said.

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

“No,” I said. “I don’t mind.”

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

That was how it started.

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

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

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

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

Jon Rappoport

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

Why do they try so hard to end freedom?

By Jon Rappoport

August 26, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

I have several answers to that question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Freedom is out; the collective is in.

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

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

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

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

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

Jon Rappoport

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

It’s the poets who destroy the old order

by Jon Rappoport

August 19, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

“[Poetry] should strike the Reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost as a Remembrance…” (John Keats)

“And then your life, the life you are telling me about, becomes a short story that had force only because it was viewed from a particular slant, your slant, which you found within the one language you speak…” (The Magician Awakes)

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

Call this an article of faith.

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

And at the same time, the people who are spying and tracking are trying to hide their own secrets. They’re doing double duty. Just off the top of your head, what would you think of a person who was doing everything he could to assemble the particulars of your life while he was concealing the details of his?

And suppose his wealth and access were, say, a few hundred billion times greater than yours?

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

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

I’m interested in all this because the past, present, and future of language is involved. A civilization, to a significant extent, rides on what happens to words—not as detached entities, but as the expression of what we invent ourselves to be.

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

These aren’t minor matters. Imagine what victory in a war means when the survivors, on both sides, emerge with battered minds, bodies, and souls. The experience of war makes them see the future in different terms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But of course, it doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Whoever rules these dead, and how, with what tricks and subterfuge, the royal purpose remains constant: the rejection of poetic consciousness that can fully restore the human being to the life that is his.

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

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

This repression is a cooperative exchange in the marketplace. The individual agrees to deafen himself, in order to placate inner forces he fears. Forces that ultimately don’t exist. The whole operation is a chimera.

It’s the poets who destroy the old order.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The drowning comes because the voices are speaking and singing in a key that is one small mathematical preoccupation in the infinite spectrum of imagination.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The dim apprehension of what is called “paranormal” would blow up and become part of every-day experience. But most of all, our aesthetic sense would expand in every direction, and we would be able to see how rock-bottom consensus reality is merely a fragment of material for making poetry.

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

“You sit there and tell me about your life, but after a while it occurs to me you’re talking in a blind language. You’re moving above other words you don’t give voice to. There’s another language running in your head, a language you haven’t found yet. It’s there, but you don’t want to look at it.

“You vaguely think, from time to time, it might be in Nature. You might find it there. But Nature is just one part of that expression. If the existence of Nature is so clear to you, consider that there are thousands of other Natures. And each one has a language that unlocks it and spreads it out in a different space and time.

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

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

“But suppose these thousands of unknown languages, which no people on earth speak, are sitting like gigantic clouds and then moving slowly through our minds. Suppose each one of those languages can wake us up to new KINDS of experience—experience we perhaps once had but lost.

“And then your life, the life you are telling me about, becomes a short story that had force only because it was viewed from a particular slant, your slant, which you found within the one language you speak. Do you see?

“You’re battling within that one language and you’re finding your story in it. You’ve achieved something. I’m not asking you to throw it away by the side of the road. I’m suggesting that this same life can be told from thousands of angles in other languages, and those tongues are much different, much wider, and through them you see a far bigger life…and you can’t then avoid it, you can’t go back, you don’t want to avoid it…”

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

Why must art imitate reality?

By Jon Rappoport

August 17, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

Well, of course, it doesn’t have to, but that’s what most people are looking for. An imitation of reality.

Surrealism, for example, is crazy by conventional standards. Which is its whole point: who set up the conventional standards?

Once you open up that question, all bets are off.

What happens if I write a short play in which Edward Snowden is a dictator in a police state, and the NSA are revolutionaries battling for freedom?

Is that stage play “illegal?” Could reversing roles actually indict the NSA to a greater degree and make its crimes more vivid?

“No! You’re twisting everything! Stick to the facts! You’re soiling the reputation of Edward Snowden!”

Is that what I’m doing? Of course not. But “the reality people” are offended.

The notion that inversion or metaphor could be more powerful than fact is impossible for them to conceive.

Satire? Never heard of it.

The truth is, in every person there is a force of imagination waiting to make a prison break. That force feels great joy in overturning reality. But most people lock it up behind bars. And having locked it up, they don’t want to be reminded of it.

Art reminds them.

Art is a thorn.

“Don’t bother me. I’m accepting reality. I’m a loyal foot-soldier in the army of What Is.”

Such a person is conning himself, but he doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about it at all. But a child does. A child is ready to stage little improvisational plays at the drop of a hat. New roles, new stories. For him, reality is soft and elastic.

A child is prepared to torpedo any consensus in the service of inventing something spontaneous.

Eventually, he learns this a taboo. It isn’t part of the adult universe. If he’s going to use his imagination at all, it must be for the purpose of strengthening What Is.

His parents and teachers are there to help him with this effort.

But somewhere down deep, they all know this is collaborating with the enemy. It’s betraying the core of consciousness.

Awareness is only one part of consciousness. The greater part is imagination/creation. It needs no factual foundation. It needs no sanction.

Art makes realities, worlds, universes. In doing so, it jettisons rules. It makes up its own rules, or dispenses with rules altogether.

If more artists understood this, if more people became artists, society would undergo a remarkable transformation. It wouldn’t turn into a new consensus; it would evolve into millions of side-by-side original creations. What that would look like, how it would operate, is unknown. We’ve never seen a society like that on planet Earth.

But there would be no more need for war.

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

Why people fear art

by Jon Rappoport

August 10, 2013

www.nomorefakenews.com

When I say art, I don’t mean movies in which alien machines attack shopping malls.

Remember novels, poems, plays, paintings?

Art.

In the last 20 years, more and more people have become obsessed with Pattern. Finding it in events, information, energy, everything.

Obvious Pattern, hidden Pattern, secret Pattern, symbolic Pattern.

On top of that, governments search for patterns in their trillions of pieces of surveilled data.

The discovery, for example, that a flower and snail and a galaxy reveal identical mathematics is taken to indicate something sacred. Only a decline in IQ can explain such a conclusion.

One may as well fall into a worshipful trance because windows, tables, and moving vans reveal rectangles.

Art, however, isn’t based on pattern. And that becomes a problem. It stops the puerile mind in its tracks.

College literature professors deconstruct novels into “political power relationships based on oppression.” Never mind what the author was actually doing. The professors will make proper corrections. They’ll tune up their students to see Marx’s critique of capitalism in everything from Kafka’s Metamorphosis to War and Peace to Hamlet.

Pattern.

But art refutes pattern. It drops it by the side of the road. It communicates something far more complex, something that has no easy label.

People try to put art through a meat grinder of one fundamentalism or another.

Maybe they’d like to try that with the subject of love. They’d arrive at the same dead-end.

If all art has a message, it’s this: manipulation/control is a thief in the night; it steals life-force from everything it touches; without it, life and consciousness rise to new levels, and this experience is the gateway into the great unpredictable unknown, which people yearn for.

The unknown. Frontier. Adventure. New ideas. The end of grinding boredom. Art.

Art destroys the lowest common denominator, and that act is now considered a sin, because governments and their allied corporate partners are dedicated, under the false flag of “humanity,” to creating a dead sea-level commonality for all. A welfare-state of the mind and soul.

Great painters like Velasquez and Gorky, great poets like Hart Crane and Yeats, can’t be translated down into simple terms. Neither can the human mind. Unless coercion and surrender are the best political ideas the human race can offer.

People fear art because they fear mystery that doesn’t resolve into solutions. They sense that art is describing a reality in which imagination triumphs and therefore dissolves the context of repetitive daily life.

People want endless repetition. It soothes them like a drug. It confirms their rigorous conviction that options are limited and the game is simple and small.

Shrunken individuals, shrunken thoughts, shrunken desires, shrunken joy, shrunken creation, shrunken satisfaction, shrunken perception. The modern lie: “we are all the same.”

Art refutes all that with a thunderbolt.

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