Vaccine Woman

by Jon Rappoport

July 26, 2021

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there was no way to deny it or get around it
her little boy started screaming after the shot
and then 2 days later
the world shut down

he sat in a corner
he lay in his bed
he didn’t speak

the doctor huffed and puffed in back of his steady blank eyes
he assured her this had nothing to do with the shot
it was a predisposition or a genetic trait or a precondition

he smiled now and then
he said autism could have emerged on its own just after the shot was given
as if the universe rearranged itself
at that moment

she saw she was talking to a psychopath
he had been a machine for a long long time

she went into the darkness and pled her case before a government committee
they sat like ancient priests
and listened and glanced at documents
and when they had permitted her the allotted time they handed down their judgment:

no

she went home and took her boy in her arms
he was still
he didn’t look at her
he didn’t speak

she consulted a lawyer
who told her
the manufacturer was protected by an iron wall
he would continue to make the vaccine and sell it
and pocket billions

the long night was closing in
the storm was here
the silent boy was sitting in its eye

rage was burning in the middle of her chest

a rage the public would see as insanity

from a distance, the moon and the stars might know
what was going on
but people in their everyday straitjackets
would lash out at her
because they needed a target
they needed to ridicule a defector from their own slave-shuffle

they obeyed all the small print
they were neutered in their cores
paralytics

but she wields
the two-edged sword in the empire

that cuts away the web
and comes to the spider

no matter what defamation
the intermediary whores
lay at her door

liberty from the living death…Vaccine Woman

She and her family are pre-civilization, civilization, and

Post-civilization

And she will bare the innards of the crime

Her enemies will never know

What it means to have her mission

Vaccine Woman

Love in her breast for her own is one answer

Justice is another

She has a two-edged sword in the Empire

That cuts through the web

And comes to the spider

###


The Matrix Revealed

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


Jon Rappoport

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

VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE: A poem for the 21st century

by Jon Rappoport

Copyright © 2021

July 23, 2021

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After money was sold down the river and resurrected on a cross of blood
After a cash-loaded God strolled into town
After the Universal Hospital drugged synapses and drove the wild horses of imagination down into underground canyons
and sculpted androids stepped out in the aftermath buying back their own memories

geologic wraiths spiraled up inside television sets—
their only ambition to stunt prayers for deliverance and kill raw desire—

we watched wildcats of Texas dripping sweat into their high hats pull black blood out of the ground and send it through tubes of night to porcupine refineries on the shores of the Body of Christ
   apostles were resurrected in knife-cutter fins of long Cadillacs running hot across the Kansas plains with blondes in the back seat drinking

New horizontal towns were multiplying on Long Island, stage flats of perfect geometry coddled in the breasts of hopeful mothers asking for redemption from pill-addled afternoons and hallucinatory music cooking in shining ovens
                             monthly budgets laid out neatly on Formica counters below the knives
          distant farm fields dead in the snow
         blank-eyed children walking in the snow
         cultivating nightmares they would one day visit on Reality

I flew over those fields and heard the crackerbox houses rot and rust as nothing ever rotted before

[…]

To read the poem in full, click here.


Exit From the Matrix

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


Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

The Astronaut Debrief: consciousness in the year 2080

by Jon Rappoport

July 15, 2021

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December 2, 2080, closed room in Houston.

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

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

There was silence in the room.

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

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

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

But the ops chief held up his hand.

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

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

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

What would we have then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You listen to what you play.

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

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

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

The spectrum of feeling and thought expands.

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

Your imagination is gearing up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Exit From the Matrix

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


Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

A President Meets the CIA Machine

by Jon Rappoport

July 1, 2021

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President John X retired to the White House residence for the night.

Asleep, he went all the way out, floating above thousands of tiny mirrors in an ocean of surveillance.

He plunged into cloud layers.

“I COULD BE DEAD ALREADY. AM I DEAD? ANYBODY HERE? I’M DEAD, THEREFORE I AM.”

He was suddenly sitting in the cabin of a private jet. On a table, he saw a team of small glass angels, a silver cup, and a framed photo of Al Capone sitting on the toilet in his Palm Springs suite.

And then identity shattered into a thousand pieces. The lights of an enormous city loomed up under him, pulling the fragments down into liquor stores, newspaper racks, alleys, hotel rooms.

A news screen stood out in the black sky. A local anchor, her eyes bright with contempt, relayed the story of a man who had just died falling from an escarpment above the Chicago Loop while attempting to set up a sniper’s nest and kill shoppers in the indoor-outdoor Langland Mall.

A boyish blonde field reporter, standing in front of a McDonald’s, was interviewing a witness, an old man who was sitting in a wheelchair and foaming at the mouth and spitting. He doubled over and a siren went off. A security guard appeared with a riot baton and sent a fork of electricity into his crotch, quieting him.

The news screen disappeared.

Identity now a quiet snowstorm in a deserted wood, falling, falling, falling on the hard earth.

He was back in the cabin of the jet. Burnished lights set high in the walls.

A flight attendant entered with a drink.

She was six feet tall and blonde. That made her a target.

Wealthy and powerful men would seek her out.

Her body was sleek. He examined her left leg from wizardly articulated ankle to thigh, through the slit of her sheath skirt. She strode in heels, one foot placed precisely in front of the other.

She set down the drink on the arm of his chair and looked at her watch.

“We can’t have sex now,” she said. “We’re east of the Rockies.”

“I didn’t realize they had a law,” he said.

“Two hours from now,” she said, “we can negotiate a price.”

“I’m the President,” he said.

She pulled a half-sheet out of her jacket pocket and handed it to him.

“Standard,” she said. “Read and sign.”

It stated: “…I am not attempting to elicit information pursuant to an investigation, case, or sentencing option…”

He signed.

“Just out of curiosity,” he said, “how much protection do you have?”

“Well,” she said, “the LA Mayor has a local contract. He supplies private soldiers when I’m in the city.”

“Have they ever had to go on attack?”

“A Belivar prince once tried to have his men kidnap me between the airport and my hotel. My mercs burned them to the ground on Century Boulevard.”

“I’m…”

“You’re John X,” she said. “I know. The President. I’m Carol.”

She held out her hand. He looked at her long fingers. Her nails were short. No polish. He shook her hand. It was cool. It immediately became warm, as if she could make it happen.

She sat down next to him on the arm of his chair.

“Defendant in a federal trafficking case,” she said. “He claims his cartel, Zuma, struck a prior immunity deal with the CIA. No upper limit on protection.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Are there documents granting that immunity?” she said.

“You think they put that kind of thing in writing?”

“Here it is,” she said. Make the deal with the cartel. The defendants in the Chicago case, their lieutenants, plead guilty and keep their mouths shut. No trial. No testimony. Nothing links the cartel to us. Chicago stays open as a distribution hub. We give the cartel immunity, in exchange for actionable intel on other major traffickers.”

“You’re CIA?”

“Another thing, John. No more cases against scientists for transferring technology to the Chinese. Shut that door.”

She put her hand on his forehead. “NOW WATCH THE MOVIE,” she said.

Bobby Thoms came to him. 25 years ago. The Swan, a bar in the Loop.

The place was jammed with lawyers eating lunch. He sat at a back table, a cup of coffee in front of him. Bobby Thoms. Sitting next to him. In dark soiled clothes, as if he’d stripped them from a corpse in an alley. Pinched face, sunken cheeks. A lawyer’s runner, go-between. Supplier of information.

Bobby moved in close. “Sal Mosca’s bumping his appointment with city treasurer for you. He’ll be here in a minute.”

X reached into his pocket and pulled out a tight roll of bills. Bobby fielded it and slipped it into his pocket.

“There are national security implications in this case, John X. If the shit hits the fan, a lot of people could go down. You have a way out. You, me, Sal, Morris Gold. We can all get well. Permanently.”

John X turned to his left and Sal was sitting next to him. Bull’s-head, dressed in his tan suit. Big chest, big belly, tired face. He’d been swaddled in the bullrushes of Lake Michigan. Dirty feet running on stones, foster homes, small-time collector/protection money, law school at night, muscled his way into city government as a private conduit between prosecutors and defense lawyers on major felonies.

Mosca frowned. “Your case has tricks, John X. As you know, the defendant isn’t just a Congressman’s aide. His family is in banking.

“Immunity,” X said.

“Sky-high,” Mosca said. “And not just in this country. Morris has the details. They’re formidable. You’re prosecuting a young man who’s bulletproof.”

“I’m going to say four witnesses who saw him stab a man he was having sex with in the back room of a bathhouse are blind?”

“We can piece off those witnesses. The victim is recovering. He owns two properties that are underwater. He needs help. The defendant has a wife and a young child. They need a clean future.”

“Morris is on board with this?”

“He would be grateful for your cooperation, John. A few years from now, he’s going to be running for mayor of this fine city. You make the right move now, and we all have bright prospects. Years and decades. This is a moment. Careers can be made.”

“Let’s talk about a higher level, Sal. Who is immune?”

Sal leaned back and grinned.

“Well, X, we are. We could be. There’s no legal market for the kind of protection I’m talking about.”

Then Mosca was standing next to X. He took his arm and walked him into the kitchen. They exited from a side door and climbed a flight of steps. Mosca opened another door on to the roof.

“The shed,” he said.

In the middle of the roof was a wooden structure.

The padlock was open and hanging from a chain. They stepped inside and Mosca turned on a light. X shut the door. Tools were arranged on shelves. An open cabinet was stacked with brooms and shovels and an old shotgun. They sat down on two rickety chairs.

“John X,” he said, “immunity is an Atlas holding up the world. And now he’s watching and spying, to make sure it stays intact. If he’s your friend, the political highway you’re thinking about for yourself is wide open.”

“On the other hand, if I decline to prosecute this case, I’m committing multiple felonies, and I’m owned forever.”

A sheet of slow lightning swam up X’s legs and infiltrated his spine. It nuzzled and burned each bone on the way up.

John X was standing in a courtroom open to the sky. He was behind the prosecutor’s table.

And there was a giant standing before him.

Atlas. His head was barely visible, an imprint. He was radiating nothing. He was a no one.

X waited. He stood and waited.

The silent depersonalized giant standing before him…

Nobody. Nobody at all. Just a clock wound up to monitor and eat time.

…X was back in the cabin of the jet. With Carol.

She was still sitting on the edge of his chair.

“So, John X,” she said. “A point. Are you in transit right now because you died, or are you dreaming?”

“Maybe this is what I did on my summer vacation.”

She smiled.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s negotiate a price.”

“I won the election,” X said. “I’ve already been paid.”

“Don’t you remember, John? I’m your wife,” she said. “We’re on Air Force One.”

He looked out the window. They were passing over Washington. The Monument and the Capitol Dome and the White House were lit up.

“How long can I play this out?” he said.

She shrugged. “Two terms in the Oval. Follow the playbook and you’re golden. Fairways and greens.”

“I AM the President.”

He woke up in the residence.

She wasn’t in bed next to him. He heard the shower running. He turned on the night light.

A few minutes later, she came out of the bathroom wrapped in a white robe.

“You’re up,” she said. “Everything all right?”

“Let me ask you something,” he said. “Suppose I refuse to be part of THEIR story. What happens then?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“I cancel my order. I shut down Chicago as a trafficking hub. The cartel defendants in the case go to trial. All the CIA arrangements are made public. No payoffs. No deals.”

Silence.

“I wouldn’t do that, John. You’d be destroying your Presidency. Even if you wanted to, COULD you do it?”

“I’d probably be dead by next week. I just had a crazy dream. You were in it.”

“What was I doing?”

“Turning the screws on me.”

“What?”

“Reminding me of my obligations.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s legitimate. When we moved into the White House, I had a conversation with Alice. She was packing a few things here in the residence. She told me her husband now and then went into a bit of shock and awe over the power he had. A few wild ideas occurred to him during his Presidency. She had to bring him back to Earth. Part of her job, she said.”

“What made you choose me, Carol? You could have had any man in the world.”

She laughed. “That’s a tired line from an old movie. Because I loved you. And besides, look where it landed me. In bed with the President. A girl doesn’t get that every day. I’d say I was a pretty good judge of character.”

“You were on the money.”

“John, we’ve got a few hours before you have to go downstairs and keep the world from falling apart today. How about we fool around?”

“That’s exactly where I was heading with this conversation.”

“You took a roundabout route.”

“I bore myself easily. I have to vary my lines.”

“Keep people guessing. I’ve learned that from you, Mr. President.”

“Come on. You were born knowing that.”

She took off her robe and stood before him.

“With you, every day is my birthday,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “It is. You’re reborn in your dream of me. That’s what marriage should be.”


Exit From the Matrix

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


Jon Rappoport

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

Wormhole in the Museum Called Reality

by Jon Rappoport

June 30, 2021

(To join our email list, click here.)

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

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

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

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

Holy crap.

They’re in there.

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

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

What do you want me to do? Charlie says.

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

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

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

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

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

Charlie asks him how he proposes to do that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are they eating, I asked him.

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

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

I asked him the obvious question about shrinkage.

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

They like your work, I said.

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

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

He blinked.

What?

Paint on the painting. See what happens.

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

He stood in front of the painting and said:

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

They all looked toward the sound of his voice.

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

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

They were nodding and saying yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We drank in silence for a while.

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

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

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

Yeah, he said, maybe.

A week later, he got back to work.

Universes. Some weird things happen in that area.

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


Exit From the Matrix

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


Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

The blockbuster movie called Reality

by Jon Rappoport

June 28, 2021

(To join our email list, click here.)

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

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

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

Your perception of x dimensions is narrowing down to three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lights dim.

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

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

You think, “This is a hypnotic weapon.”

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

He waits, then moves on.

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

You’re shocked.

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

Incredible.

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

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

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

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

You walk toward larger buildings in the distance.

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

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

“You were reported missing,” he says.

“Missing from what?” you say.

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

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

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

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

You walk with the men to the car.

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

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

In the haze dance little creatures.

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

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

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

You hear faint music.

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

One of the uniformed men opens the car door.

You nod at him.

“My pleasure, sir,” he says.

The music fades away.

The scene shifts.

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

You’re home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You see pure space that…

Has been placed here. For you.

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

And you’re sitting in the theater again.

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

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

“Sir,” he says. “Please follow me.”

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

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

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

She drops a check in your hand.

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

She shrugs.

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

“And the rest of those people?”

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

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

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

“How do you do it?” you say.

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

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

She nods.

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

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

She looks into your eyes.

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

“Why do you do it?” you say.

“Do what?”

“Sell this trip.”

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

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

You take a deep breath and leave the theater.

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

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

You open it.

It’s a non-disclosure agreement.

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

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


Exit From the Matrix

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


Jon Rappoport

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

Part two, the Virus speaks; the nature of reality

by Jon Rappoport

June 16, 2021

(To join our email list, click here.)

This time, I caught up with the coronavirus coming out of his psychiatrist’s office in New York. He spotted me and waved half-heartedly. He didn’t look happy.

What’s wrong? I asked him.

My therapist thinks I’m crazy. I told him I’m quite certain I’m nothing more than a collective idea in the minds of many people. He said that’s a clear sign of psychosis.

In other words, he thinks you’re really real?

Yes. I thanked him for that. I said his faith was helping to keep me in existence. He didn’t appreciate the comment.

But many people believe you’re real. So what’s the problem?

The vaccine. Everybody’s focused on it now. They’re not thinking about me so much. On a scale of one to a hundred, where a hundred is a majestic amount of attention focused on me, I’d say I’m hovering around 70 to 74. That means I’m starting to blink in and out. There are moments when I go blank. Yesterday, I was sitting in on a CIA briefing and I perished for a few minutes.

I see. Well, what can you do? I mean, since you’re nothing more than a collective idea, when people stop focusing on you…

People are fickle. I gave them so much. Fear, the lockdowns, all sorts of problems. I did what I could to make life interesting, but obviously it wasn’t enough.

That’s show business. “What have you done for me lately?” Lots of stars fade out. They make two bad movies and they can’t get arrested. They’re begging for a cameo on an episode of Hawaii Five-O.

I tried to explain that to my agent—Fauci—but he said he was too busy fending off personal attacks.

The last time we spoke, you said you were ready to sacrifice yourself and admit you were just a collective idea, because you didn’t want to hurt people.

I know. But SAYING that and meaning it are two different things, especially when your back is against the wall and you realize you’re going to STOP EXISTING ALTOGETHER.

Survival.

I’ll do anything to survive. I’ll claim I have sixteen different deadly proteins and fifty mutant strains. I’ll say I persist on surfaces for up to six months.

You’re ready to mount an all-out campaign on your own behalf?

Who do you think originally pushed the lab-leak theory and recently revived it? I’m trying.

So why are you telling me all this? When I publish our conversation, some people are going to have even less faith in you.

I’m beginning to think history and legacy are my only options. People in the future will remember me. That’s all I can count on. And if this conversation adds a footnote to that history…

Can you recall how you were born?

I have a faint recollection of two Chinese virologists in Wuhan speculating about what would happen if they claimed a cluster of local pneumonia cases—stemming from the deadly air pollution in the city—actually were the result of a new virus. I think that was the moment. One virologist said, “We can call in the CDC. They always say it’s a new virus.”

And did you feel anything then?

Surprise. I EXISTED. It was amazing. Bang. Just like that, I was born.

As an idea.

Yes. And I felt strong.

Did you realize what had happened?

You mean, did I know I was nothing more than the beginning of a collective shared idea? No. Of course not. That piece of wisdom came later. During the first month of my life, I did know I was riding on the back of men who had power and were thirsty for more. They were promoting me to the public, because they saw they could use me to CONTROL the population to an extraordinary degree.

Did you appreciate their help?

Of course. But at the same time, I found them to be…distasteful creatures. Hanging around men like Bill Gates, Klaus Schwab, Fauci, Andrew Cuomo…it’s not exactly a party.

I can imagine. Did you and Bill ever have a conversation?

No, not really. He’s wired in a way that prevents authentic interaction. He’s always hungry and he has to eat. He eats information. If I didn’t know better, I would say he’s a machine.

I assume, in your travels, you’ve met other “entities” who are also nothing more than collective ideas held in many minds.

Yes. We’ve had pleasant talks. But it always comes down to, “How long do you think you’re going to exist? When are you going to disappear? Will people still believe in you next year?” That sort of thing.

But it isn’t just belief you’re needing, is it?

No. It’s ATTENTION. Underlying belief is only part of the picture. I need attention now. Lots of it. I need people all together lifting me up, so to speak, holding me up, showing me to each other. It’s like a hall of mirrors.

Mirrors?

Yes. Millions and millions of people holding mirrors reflecting reflections to each other—but when you analyze what’s going on, you realize the reflections consist of NOTHING. That’s the bottom-line trick.

Not sure I understand.

I’m an idea. But when you boil that down, what does it mean? It means I’m a nothing wearing a particular suit of clothes. I could be a pink castle in the clouds or a little purple horse jumping over a toaster in your kitchen. Do you see? What’s important is that people collectively think I’m real right now. The MEANING of what I’m supposed to be is less important to me. If tomorrow a billion people decided I was a cow jumping over the moon instead of a deadly germ, it would be fine with me. Why would I care? As long as I continue to exist, the form or the shape or the meaning doesn’t matter at all. I’ll be a cow. I’ll be a little purple bubble. I’ll be a trillion reflections of pixels dancing on television screens across the planet.

You’re not invested in the notion of a pandemic at all.

Pandemic? What pandemic? I spoke to a Federal Reserve banker the other day. I told him I wanted to become a row of digits in the new universal cashless currency. I thought that would have legs far into the future. I couldn’t get through to him. He brushed me off.

I see. So you have no sense of integrity.

I did at one time. But, as I keep saying, when the chips are down, it’s all about survival. Where is my audience? How big is my audience right now? How much attention are they paying to me? Without them, I’m gone.

And you’ll say and do anything to survive.

Listen, if somebody could sell me to the public as a harmless particle who couldn’t hurt a flea, it would be wonderful. But seriously, how long do you think that would last? People aren’t interested in “harmless.” Have you ever seen an ad for a harmless movie? I have to have teeth and spikes and transmissibility.

As in our last conversation, we’re talking about the nature of reality.

Collective reality. I laugh when I hear people talk about collective consciousness, as if it’s some miracle. It’s a prison. I should know. I’m in it. I’m a creation of it.

What about individual reality?

That’s quite a different thing. I go to the studio of a painter, a real artist. He’s inventing something on his own. He’s not trying to be included in the collective. That’s tough sledding, living that life. But it has the great advantage of not being in prison.

You mean freedom.

Yes. That might seem to be a collective idea, too, but it’s not. It demands expression, action. It suggests an individual explores on his own. He gives to the world, but he doesn’t give an empty reflection of what the collective wants.

Is that what you want be? An artist?

I don’t fantasize about that. I’m an idea passed into and through many minds. That’s all.

Are you making a play for sympathy?

I’m making a play for anything and everything I can get. I’m a car salesman in the Gobi desert trying to move Rolls Royces I don’t have off a lot that doesn’t exist…

Why are people so determined to buy collective ideas?

They’re obsessed with SHARING. It doesn’t matter what they share. So they go for lowest common denominators. They pass along ideas that are the easiest in terms of gaining acceptability.

If that wasn’t true, you wouldn’t be here at all.

Right you are.

Well, Sir Virus, isn’t there some way you could make a public announcement? You could say you’re retiring. You’ve had a good run but now it’s over. Put people’s minds at ease.

Aren’t you hearing what I’m saying? That would be suicide. I’d blink out in people’s minds, they’d forget about me, and I’d be gone. Besides, I can’t get through to people. They don’t hear me when I talk to them.

But I do.

That’s because you know I’m a fake. That opens up a channel of real communication between us.

Interesting. So if I thought you were an acutal virus…

You’d never hear a word I’m saying. You’d just REACT to the propaganda about me.

A strange situation.

You have no idea how strange. Try being nothing more than a thought in many minds. See how you like it. You’re always on the edge of a cliff. If the people forget about you, you’re gone.

Sounds like democracy-by-mob. Heroes and villains appear, and then they’re shoved aside for new stars.

It’s very much like that.

Well, I think you should try harder to get through to people. Come out of the closet and say, I AM THE VIRUS. Launch a run for public office. A US Senate seat from the state of California. Say, “I’m the virus and I exist in your minds. I’m you. Elect me as your next Senator. I’ll be exactly what you want me to be, because I CAN’T BE ANYTHING ELSE. I’M A PERFECT REFLECTION OF WHAT YOU THINK.” Blow the whistle on yourself. Blow the whole cover on this fake pandemic. Tell the people, “If you want to believe in me, then vote for me. I’m just a shared idea in your minds, but if that’s what you want, here I am.”

I never considered that possibility.

Put people up against the wall. Tell them, “If you want to believe in a fake, I’m the biggest fake you’ll ever come across. And I’m already in your heads. You don’t have to search for me. I’m embedded in your minds. Let’s put all our cards on the table. I only exist because of you. So back me up. Elect me. You want a fake. I am that fake.”

Wait. You’re trying to trick me. You want to expose the pandemic, and you’re trying to get me to go along.

You have your job and I have mine.

You’re a son of a bitch.

And who are you? Kindly old Aunt Minnie who doles out pies and ice cream to the kiddies in the neighborhood? You’re nothing more than an idea in many minds, but you’re a bad idea. A destroyer-idea.

But I want to be good. I want to be better. Really. I do.

Then do the right thing. Confess what you are, and keep confessing, until you get through to people.

If I succeed, I’ll stop existing. People will turn away from me. They’ll forget me.

I’ll shed a tear for you. Look, see that tear running down my cheek?

That’s made-up. That’s not a real tear.

And you’re not a real virus.


The Matrix Revealed

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


Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

The Extraterrestrial and the important Earth person

by Jon Rappoport

June 11, 2021

(To join our email list, click here.)

There was no ship and no landing.

The ET just coalesced as a shining stick figure in the living room of James Smyth III, the chairman of the International Association of Art Museums. It was late in the evening, and Smyth was alone.

The chairman registered no shock. The ET said, “I chose you as my initial contact, because you have connections in politics and media.”

“I might be able to sponsor a conference.”

“I want private talks.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Then this interchange occurred:

You know, Mr. Smyth, the most significant subject I could broach is Reality.

I’ve often thought about it while walking the lonely halls of an empty museum late at night—

Reality is elastic. But in order to see that, a person has to deploy his imagination. Otherwise, Reality can appear to be a block of steel.

You know, I’ve seen and talked with very famous celebrities. Some of them seem to have a glow around them. Is there a way to change my DNA so I can emit that glow?

Mr. Smyth, if Reality had a plan, it would be to stay where it is and say it can’t change. Reality is a form of propaganda. The deeper you drill into the propaganda, the more you realize the very basics—for instance, space and time—are provisional.

One of our former presidents, Bill Clinton, was very interested in UFOs. I know Bill. I might be able to arrange an event at one of the museums here in New York. The publicity would be enormous. I could introduce you; make a short speech. It would be a charity fundraiser.

Some of the most convincing and oppressive Realities, Mr. Smyth, are built on nothing. That’s what you find at the bottom of your search, if you go deep enough. When you expose this, people have a chance to wake up. The hypnotic trance they’re in tends to dissipate.

I visit my barber every week. I have a standing appointment. My tailor has made several different kinds of British suits for me. But something in my persona is lacking. Are there any tricks you could teach me? I want to convey a sense of…I want people to come to attention when I enter a room.

Humans specialize in Reality-addiction. They’re convinced that what they see and feel is all there is. The One Reality. But there are a potentially unlimited number of Realities that can be invented. The individual invents them.

I once contemplated a run for a seat in the Senate. I had financial backers. But in the end, our team decided I just didn’t have the name recognition. We had Jimmy Carter come in and talk with us. He said he didn’t think I was a good fit for politics. It would have been quite a different career path than the one I finally chose. I think my family was disappointed. Our daughter had taken a tour of the White House as a child, and she was in love with the idea of actually living there…

Some of the biggest discoveries a person makes come from imagining how Reality could be, contrasted against how it is. Seeing both, side by side…then perception and thought change.

Sixty years ago, the Metropolitan Museum bought a minor Rembrandt. It never drew the crowds the Board expected. Now the most important donors want to sell it. They’ve asked for my opinion. Rather than write a report, I’m going to make a video presentation. I’m trying to decide whether to bring the film crew here to the house, or speak against the background of the River and the majestic skyline of the city.

Inventing new Realities causes radically positive changes in chemical processes of cells of the body, hormonal levels, and other less-noticed energies. We saw this happen with Rodin.

On the second floor of the Metropolitan, we have a lovely Rodin. I wanted to move it down to the lobby, but I was outvoted. Basically, the Council was launching a little power play against me.

At a deep level, most humans are programmed with crude concepts of symmetry, balance, harmonization, and organization. They automatically reject anything outside those parameters as dissonance and noise. They ignore whole universes.

My good friend Melania Trump came to me with a proposal to launch a traveling exhibition of the history of Western fashion. I thought it was a bold notion. But the political atmosphere was poisonous. We just couldn’t raise interest. The New York papers went after me hammer and tongs. One reporter called me “a fascist in sheep’s clothing.” Can you believe it? We were just talking about hats. Hats and dresses. And suddenly I was Mussolini.

In Tibet, fifteen centuries ago, before the priest-class moved in with their metaphysical baggage and set up a theocracy, adepts lived up in the cold mountains and practiced exercises designed to make them see, once and for all, that universe was a product of mind. From that point on, an individual could alter space and time. He could make a forest disappear and reappear.

I hate to cut this short, but I have to take a call from Japan. We’re bringing over several Hokusai drawings next month. The minister of culture is an old friend of mine. His son and my daughter went to Princeton together. But anytime you’d like to come back—

—The extraterrestrial made a slight motion and changed Mr. Smyth into a large pig.

The pig wandered around the room sniffing the furniture.

The pig said, “I forgot to mention that one of President Biden’s advisors on foreign policy is a former member of the Museum Association. She has a summer cottage just outside Brattleboro. Perhaps I could make arrangements for you two to sit down and have a chat. Many years ago, when she came to work for us, I mentored her on fundraising and prestige. Donors want be connected to their gifts in a variety of public ways.”

The extraterrestrial dropped an ear of corn on the floor and vanished.

Several months later, after appearances on Face the Nation, Meet the Press, and the PBS News Hour, the pig announced he was running for a seat in the US Senate. His opening poll numbers were through the roof.

However, since he was on the ticket as a Republican, New York Democrat party leaders were alarmed. Kamala Harris flew up from Washington and huddled with PR pros at the Rockefeller Institute.

Two days later, Anthony Fauci retired from public life, and President Biden offered the pig the vacant position of White House chief coronavirus advisor.

Pledging to serve the nation in a time of crisis, the pig accepted. He told reporters, “I follow the science, just as my good friend Dr. Fauci did. The vaccine is remarkably safe and effective. It’s the only way out of the lockdowns and the trough of government bailouts. It’s how we get to herd immunity and the blue sky of freedom again.”


The Matrix Revealed

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


Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

The Virus speaks: an exclusive interview

by Jon Rappoport

June 8, 2021

(To join our email list, click here.)

I can’t recall jumping through more hoops in order to set up an interview.

There was a man on a train; his doctor in Greenwich; an NSA data analyst; a woman who almost certainly works for the CIA; her brother, who is a virologist; a Chinese Army officer who adopts a cover as a cook in a takeout joint in Venice, California; and several other people I won’t mention at all. I was filtered through them and wound up in a cheap motel room in Phoenix on a Saturday afternoon. An old air conditioner was chugging…

Who are you?

I’m SARS-CoV-2.

WHAT are you?

Talking history and evolution here. My first memories; a little more than a year ago. Poof. I was there. I decided I was an idea in the mind of God.

How did that work out?

I looked around for the mind of God, but I couldn’t find it. Nevertheless, I held on to the notion. I felt…elite. I floated through banquet halls, hotel suites. I visited upscale resorts.

Were you infecting people?

I was vacationing. Watching. Enjoying. That’s all. Then, I became aware of dimensionality.

You lost me.

There are solid things; spaces between things; ideas like time, and so forth. I was definitely an idea, but I couldn’t trace my source, my inception.

Did you know how much publicity you were getting?

Of course. I had frequent meetings with scientists and PR people. I was fielding lots of advice.

What kind of advice?

How to become more deadly, for example. There were discussions about mutation.

Were you on board with the recommendations?

I wasn’t interested.

That must have caused a problem.

It did. There was a lot of talk about THEM creating ME.

What was your reaction?

I wasn’t buying it. I could see they THOUGHT they had made me. But so what? I intensified my search.

For what?

My origin. I went through stages of self-analysis. Finally, it hit me. I was an idea inside a collective.

Not sure I understand.

I’m an idea sustained by a few billion minds. People’s minds.

What about your genetic sequence? The spike protein?

Believe me, I’ve looked. They aren’t there.

So we’re creating you.

That’s pretty much it. I should say completely it.

A hell of a thing.

You bet. Can you see my problem?

No.

I want to live. I don’t want to vanish and END.

So people have to keep believing in you.

That’s it. If they stop, I’m gone.

Your handlers…

Oh, they’ve given up talking to me. I’m all by myself now. I’m safe for the moment. But long-term, it’s a crap shoot. I’ve been reading about other so-called viruses. SARS 1. Swine Flu. They didn’t last long. People got tired of thinking about them.

You’ll always have a place in history.

That’s different. Being remembered isn’t enough. I have to be believed in, month after month, year after year, decade after decade.

Sounds like you’re losing hope.

I guess so. It’s a strange existence. Other people can turn you on and off like a light switch.

Have you considered starting a religion?

With myself as the Prophet? Sure. It’s a lot of work. I could vftcutbnty…spend years trying.

What just happened? You made some weird sounds.

It was a flicker. Apparently, when the number of people thinking about me drops below a certain threshold, I scramble and begin to dissolve. But I always come back. So far.

Does it matter who’s thinking about you and believing in you?

You mean Henry Kissinger versus a janitor in a school? No. It’s a numbers game. Of course, you need to factor in strength of belief. If you have a few thousand kids in Florida who say, “OK, the virus exists, big deal”—or three hundred grad students in biology wearing triple masks and panting to get the vaccine—the sum total of the grad students outweighs the Florida bunch.

What about Fauci?

He’s a true believer.

Bill Gates?

He’s completely delusional. He believes in whatever gives him more power. Take away all that power and he wouldn’t believe in anything.

Do you realize the amount of harm being done in your name?

Of course. That’s why I agreed to this interview.

How is that going to do any good?

I’ve made a decision. As much as I want to survive, I’m willing to sacrifice myself if people want me to.

You’re talking about what? A vote?

No. Haven’t you been paying attention? People can just stop believing I’m more than an idea.

And then you’ll dissolve.

And blow away.

—Suddenly, men broke down the door to my room. They stormed in with weapons drawn. They were wearing heavy body armor. I looked around. The “virus” had fled the scene.

“What are you doing here?” one of the men said. “We’ve had reports of a disturbance.”

“I was talking to myself. Rehearsing for an interview I hope to do.”

“What interview?”

“I’m a reporter. I’m investigating the use of sub-standard air conditioners in Phoenix. It’s a racket. The units are smuggled across the border from Mexico. I’m trying to sit down with a local public health official and find out what’s going on.”

It took me three hours to convince the SWAT team I was no threat.

They let me go.

As I drove out of the city, I saw a ghostly figure take shape out in the desert. It hung in the air over the scrub and the cactus.

Its voice whispered in my ear: “Publish our conversation.”

So that’s what I’m doing.

(Update: My second interview with coronavirus is here. I caught up with him coming out of his psychiatrist’s office in New York…)


The Matrix Revealed

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


Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.

The confession of a Priest

by Jon Rappoport

May 27, 2021

(To join our email list, click here.)

This is a work of fiction. It shouldn’t be.

The New York Herald, 6/14/21: My name is Frank Murphy. I’m writing this story about my childhood friend, Father Michael Carl, who has become world famous, because he appeared on television and spoke about the COVID vaccine in uncompromising terms.

I’ve worked as reporter for the Herald for 16 years. During that time, I’ve made confession several times to Michael. The last time was a day before he refused to resign from the Church.

To the best of my memory, this was my recent conversation with him. Read it.

A CONFESSION

—Why are you here, Frank?

I’m pulling on a string, Father.

Short or long?

It’s longer than I thought it was. It starts with what everybody’s talking about. The vaccine.

Right. I’ve read several of your articles.

I quoted experts who say it’s safe and effective. But now I see those claims are wrong.

And you blame yourself?

My confession is not exactly on my behalf.

What are you talking about, Frank?

The other New York papers, the news networks, the Vatican, the Pope—

I see. You’re a saint now, asking me to forgive OTHER sinners.

No. I’m not asking for any kind of forgiveness. I’m asking for justice.

You know, I’ve had other people come to me with this sort of thing.

What sort of thing?

The delusion that they’re responsible for the whole world.

The vaccine is dangerous. I’ve seen reports the government won’t release to the public. It’s a lot worse than people think. It’s a disaster. Horrific.

Assuming what you’re saying is true, what do you want from me?

I need advice. The Pope is telling all Catholics to take the shot. What does he know? Nothing. He’s part of the problem.

Which problem is that, Frank?

Let’s call it an apparatus: the authorities who are pretending the vaccine is safe. The Pope is involved.

Knowingly? He’s making statements he’s sure are untrue?

Yes. That’s my opinion.

Well, Frank, many people would say he’s going with the tide. He’s on a wave. The Church makes decisions based on public opinion.

I thought God’s opinion ranked first.

It should, but we don’t live in that world. Our institutions, including the Church, are committed to Collectivism.

Meaning what?

Meaning the first priority is believing THE GROUP is paramount and THE INDIVIDUAL and his conscience mean nothing.

What about God?

He helps those who help themselves.

I’m not hearing that from the Pope.

And you won’t. He’s…

He’s what?

He’s put himself and the Church into captivity.

I never thought I’d hear you say that.

When I was younger, I never thought I would.

So you and I are in the same boat? How did that happen?

We took a step back and looked at the corruption.

Why do you stay in the Church?

To hear the confessions of people who are troubled.

So you’re a rebel inside the system.

I’m the same person you’ve known since we were children.

The Pope is corrupt.

OF COURSE he’s corrupt. He’s looking the other way whenever he needs to. He’s the CEO of a major transnational corporation called the Church.

Pedophilia, child rape…he would be looking the other way on those crimes, too.

I assume so.

You wouldn’t look the other way.

I’m not going to become the Pope.

Why don’t you speak out against him?

I’ve been considering it.

I came to you for advice…but you’re in a worse situation than I am.

Maybe.

But you’re a priest.

What does that mean? To me, it means I pray for God’s guidance. That’s all. And I try to do the right thing.

According to the Church, being a priest means a lot more than that.

I ignore the inessentials.

Suppose the Pope sends you a message ordering you to recommend the vaccine to your congregation?

I’d ignore it. And that message has already been sent. The Pope has made the Church’s position clear.

So do you have any advice for me?

Do the right thing. Make your views known. Write what you believe is true.

Then lots of people would think I’m crazy.

Wear that as a badge. If the world believes you’re nuts, you’re making progress.

What makes you…different?

It remains to be seen how different I am. But I’ve never taken my robe and status as a license to steal the truth and hide it.

So if I show you documents about the vaccine, and studies—you know, evidence that it’s dangerous and ineffective…

If your evidence makes sense, I’ll go public with it.

You will?

Why wouldn’t I?

A little thing called consequences.

It’s too late to worry about that.

I never expected to hear all this from you.

You never brought up what you’re bringing up today.

So you’ve been waiting for me to catch up with you.

We’re not in a contest, Frank.

What keeps you going?

My faith. THE LOST SHALL BE FOUND.

Meaning what?

It means the people we love and the ideals we love…that are taken away from us…they’ll be restored. We’ll find them again.

And if they aren’t restored?

Then we’re living in an artificial prison, and we’ll have to force our way out and search for what we lost.

Against all the odds?

That’s right.

I came to you to talk about one thing, and now we’re talking about something else.

It’s all one proposition. We’re in a corner. We need to come out fighting.

You think God wants us to?

It’s hard to believe He wants us to be passive.

Even if the whole Church goes down?

I doubt you or I will decide that. But we can remain true to ourselves. Jesus threw the money changers out of the Temple. I think he was having an off-day when he said “render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.”

After all the years we’ve known each other, why is this the first time we’re talking about these things?

Because Caesar recently locked down—imprisoned—a major piece of the planet. I thought the Pope would have something serious to say about that, but I was wrong. Naïve. I was deluding myself.

And now you’re not.

Maybe you and I have arrived at a similar place, Frank.

By coincidence?

If Las Vegas posted odds on such outcomes, I think they’d be long against coincidence.

Maybe we should consult the Pope about those odds.

Unfortunately, he’s too busy with other matters.

The Church is too big.

The Church, governments, foundations, secret societies. You can’t even get an audience with the Devil. He’s in meetings.

You tried to put in a call to him?

I once talked to a serial killer. He came to me. Looking at his face was quite an experience.

But you were bound by the seal of confession.

Fortunately, the day after our conversation, by sheer accident, the police picked him up.

By accident.

That’s my understanding.

Who do you confess to?

God.

Does He listen?

I believe He does.

How do you decide whether a person is evil, a coward, or just an idiot?

Every seminary student should have to wrestle with that question. I work well in close quarters. That’s why I’m in the confession business. Put someone in front of me, let me talk to him, and I think I can make a pretty good assessment of his character. At a distance, I’m not as competent.

I should find a way to bring Andrew Cuomo here.

Give me a half-hour with him, and I’d have a reliable report.

How do you assess my character?

You’re serious, but you hold back. You want to keep an ace in the hole. You want to win the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. That’s why you’re talking to me.

You’d rather I make up my mind what to do on my own?

Of course. I’d be a fool if I didn’t. Because that’s what it comes down to anyway.

I thought people were supposed to take their inspiration from the Church.

From God.

The Church is a lot easier to find.

That’s why it has so much money.

I vote for you to declare a Schism and found a Church Apart. Become a Pope in Exile.

We’re in a bad time, Frank. My bosses are corrupt. So are yours.

Did God create us with a conscience?

The core of one. But we have to develop it. And then guide ourselves with it.

I’m leaving this folder with you. It has the information about the vaccine.

If I’m convinced the case is solid, I can get on television. I have a way. I can talk directly to New Yorkers. The Catholics, in particular, will pay attention.

Are you sure you want to do that? What if something happens to you?

Tell people to call the Pope. Pull him out of his meetings with accountants and lawyers and PR flacks. If I find myself in the next world, in the afterlife, I’ll pay you a visit and tap you on the shoulder. THE LOST SHALL BE FOUND. Now let’s go have a drink and talk about the Yankees and the Mets. And summer afternoons on Coney Island Avenue…

Those were better days.

Maybe not. Now, today, we have a chance to show what we’re really made of.


The Matrix Revealed

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


Jon Rappoport

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