by Jon Rappoport

April 14, 2014

(To join our email list, click here.)

I’ve had a number of requests to repost this piece. The kernel of it was born in a series of nights at the LA Factory Theater with director Scott Kelman. He ran an informal group called The Liars’ Club.

Each one of us would go up on the stage and tell, in the most convincing way we could, a giant lie about our past. A story.

And the strange thing was, after listening to a few of these stories, we lost the difference, we couldn’t figure out whether they were true or false.

One night, in fact, after I’d told a rather grisly tale, I rode home with a friend. She was angry with me. She said, “How could you have done that?”

I said, “Done what? We were all telling lies, right? Lies.”

She fumed in silence.

Then she said, “No, that wasn’t a lie. You really did that.”

OK, here’s the piece…

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

Is this a good idea?

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

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 an 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 trance 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. 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? 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 are the words Care and 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. They’re targeting your body. You feel a haze settle over you.

In the haze dance little creatures. They’re speaking. You try to hear what they’re saying.

Now you do. “Reality, reality, reality.”

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.

But 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?

You recognize your mind is now divided into two parts. The first part registers sensations from this reality. Feedback. These sensations are meant to be sorted, in order to answer the question: How Am I?

The second part of your mind is entirely devoted to perceiving problems and solving them. Everything at this level is organized to constitute problems.

You were never aware of these two sectors of your mind before.

Where did they come from?

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

You realize, without knowing how, that 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…electromagnetically induced fields. It’s stamped on every object in this space…

To suggest you’ve been here before. To suggest you belong here.

As you look around the cottage, you apprehend a third sector of your mind. You struggle to identify it.

It’s the fount of a different kind of perception.

Yes.

You keep staring at the cottage and you see space.

You see space that…

Has been placed here. For you.

It, too, is threaded with the Familiar.

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 into 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 fifth year by now. The fifth 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?”

“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.

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

She looks into your eyes.

“Go out to the street,” she says crisply. “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 agree to reveal or discuss, under penalty of law, nothing about its nature, substance, or duration…”

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

Jon Rappoport

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

~a short story~

by Jon Rappoport

April 12, 2014

(To join our email list, click here.)

The year was 2054. The artist, living on the edge of the city in a small room, picked up his messages and discovered one from the Bureau of Mind Management. It was an order to appear.

In an office on the 15^th floor of a virtual building, he sat in a chair surrounded by a ring of yellow tulips. A holographic interrogator materialized.

“We have a report on you,” the iFigure said. “It indicates an output difficult to measure or interpret. What can you tell us about this?”

“Well,” the artist said, “I’m composing a symphony.”

“A symphony? What is that?”

“It’s a piece of music written for a large orchestra.”

“I find no extant orchestras in the country.”

“That’s true,” the artist said. “Nevertheless, I’m composing.”

“Why?” the iFigure said.

“For that day when an orchestra may come into being.”

“Your thought impulses entered ranges we were not able to summarize.”

“I suppose that means your instruments are limited,” the artist said.

There was a pause.

“Your statement is incendiary,” the iFigure said. “It suggests we are imposing a restriction. As you well know, the science is settled on this point. We measure and interpret thought that contributes to an overall positive outcome, for the population at large.”

“I’m aware of that, yes,” the artist said. “But the science rests on certain assumptions. I would call it greatest good as a lowest common denominator.”

“What do you mean?” the iFigure said.

“You assume a certain mindset contributes to the consensus reality you favor. You legislate or permit a range of thought that will produce the consensus.”

“That’s a gross oversimplification.”

“It doesn’t describe the algorithms you employ,” the artist said, “but all in all I believe my summary is correct. You’re reality makers. You monitor thought-emissions, and when you find a departure from ‘combined averages,’ as you call them, you issue a citation.”

“What is this symphony you’re composing?” the iFigure said.

“It’s impossible to explain. It’s music.”

“It has a specific message?”

“No. If it did, I would write out the message and leave it at that.”

“Why have we not heard of you before?” said the iFigure.

“Because I was doing illustrations for the Happiness Holos.”

“What happened?”

“I became bored. A machine could make those pictures. So I decided to compose music.”

“The Happiness Holos are an essential social program.”

“Perhaps,” the artist said. “They encourage people to stay on the positive side of a fantasy-construct called Positive&Negative, which as you know is a State-sponsored theme. But what is superficially indicated by those two opposing sets is, in fact, fuel for the fire.”

“Fuel for what fire?”

“The creative fire. The artist can use and transform any material.”

“Where did you hear such a thing?” the iFigure said.

“Nowhere,” the artist said. “I’ve experienced it many times.”

“Your views are highly eccentric,” the iFigure said. “I will have to consult your childhood history to understand their roots.”

“I’m afraid that won’t do you any good.”

“Why not?”

“Because your version, the US Department of Psychology version of cause and effect, is propaganda for the masses.”

“This is your idea of a joke?” the iFigure said.

“Not at all.”

“When you compose this…symphony, how do you think?”

“It’s not thinking in the way you use the term,” the artist said.

“No? Then what do you do?”

“I invent sound.”

“Preposterous.”

“Large masses of sound.”

“Absurd. According to what underlying pattern?”

“None,” the artist said. “I assume you’re from The Library of Structures. You won’t find my activity in the catalogs.”

“All structures and patterns are contained in the files.”

“I doubt that,” the artist said. “But regardless, I don’t invent through pattern.”

“No?” the iFigure said. “How then?”

“I improvise.”

“And this term refers to?”

“Something done spontaneously,” the artist said.

“And you exceed prescribed ranges of thought in the process.”

“Perhaps. I would hope so. I don’t keep track.”

“You’re being flippant,” the iFigure said.

“I knew you’d cite me,” the artist said. “I’m just trying to enjoy myself until you pass sentence.”

“There is no sentence,” the iFigure said. “You’re an anomaly. We investigate. We consider. We direct resources. We question. We determine.”

“I’m afraid,” the artist said, “that your and my idea of ‘determine’ are quite different.”

“Let me ask you this,” the iFigure said. “When you are composing, do you ever believe you enter into a realm or area that could be called ‘non-material’?”

“Not if you’re referring to some fairyland. But all thought is basically non-material. The brain registers it after the fact. Thought, the real thing, doesn’t take place in the brain.”

“You’re deluded,” the iFigure said. “And disordered.”

“If I could simply confess to that and be on my way, I’d be a happy man. But I’m sure you have charges to attach.”

“You live in a society,” the iFigure said. “To keep the peace and maintain the Positive, from which all good things flow, science has discovered that thought should occur within certain parameters.”

“If you insist.”

“We want to study you. It’s a great honor to be called. You could help extend the boundaries of research.”

The artist was about to ask whether he had a choice, when a holographic webbing that looked curiously like a rainbow clamped him tight in his chair. The pressure increased.

“We register some variation from the norm in your present thinking,” the iFigure said.

“What present thinking?” the artist said.

“What you’re thinking right now.”

“That was quick.”

“The readouts are instantaneous…what are you doing?”

The artist took up from where he’d last left off, composing his symphony.

“I’m starting the third movement,” he said.

“Wait,” the iFigure said. His left arm sizzled and disappeared.

“This is the thunderstorm section,” the artist said.

The pressure of the rainbow around him relaxed.

The iFigure said, “What you’re doing is disruptive.”

“It’s because of how you set your frequencies,” the artist said.

He continued composing.

All along the major esplanade, and in the lake area, and in the industrial parks and residential high rises, virtual structures shattered like glass.

Then adjoining suburban towns blew away into the sky of the communal apparatus. The iFigure reminded the artist of one of those ancient neon signs, broken, buzzing, blinking. Finally, it went dark.

Ten thousand holographic government buildings started to explode, froze, and vanished.

The artist said to no one, “I’m just composing. Well, maybe not just.”

He was suddenly back in his room at the edge of the city. But now there was no edge and no city. The room felt like a vehicle traveling through space.

“I suppose this is what they mean by a negative consequence,” he said.

The room increased velocity and…jumped.

Jon Rappoport

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

The rebel artist vs. the android

~a short story~

by Jon Rappoport

March 21, 2014

www.nomorefakenews.com

On January 12, 2061, President Winston Smith made a quick campaign stop in the Northeast corridor to address the Coexistence Group in Gates Town.

The Coexistence Group was a remnant of the old coalition formed between Monsanto and organic farmers in the state formerly known as New Hampshire.

The President, dressed in a silk rainbow robe, donated to him by the Cosmic Guilders of Carpentry at the Foot of the Most Pleasant Rockefeller Estate, lit a candle at the Memorial of the Drifting Gene, to commemorate the inevitable triumph of genetically modified agriculture in America.

He then gave a short speech, during which he pointed out that all food products in America were now labeled GMO because of the Gene Drift, and although such labeling was redundant, it was “ritualistically correct,” because it signified the right of the consumer to know what he/she was eating.

A supper followed at the Inn of the Bill Melinda. The meal consisted of ceremonial gluten-free organic genetically modified soy-peanut burgers and GM whey cola.

During the supper, a local artist stood up from his seat, toasted the President, and suddenly asked, “What phase of brain programming do you now enjoy, Mr. President?”

A hundred Secret Service agents deployed in the room and at other locations in the Inn immediately drew their weapons. But the President waved them off with a smile.

“It’s all right,” President Smith said. “This citizen has every right to address his Commander-in-Chief.”

The President then offered these off-the cuff remarks:

“Actually, sir, there is no ‘I’ anymore or ‘you.’ There is only ‘we’ because the programming is common to us all, if we volunteer for it. And 67 percent of us do. We are all connected to the same Google/Kurzweil/NSA Plasma Cloud Formation. That, as you probably know, is the artificial superbrain.

“We receive input from it every second of every day. In other words, we are all obtaining correct answers, the same answers, to problems we face.

“Phase Four, which improves connectivity and reception, and takes in expanded subjects of interest and vital concern, is the current application. I, which is to say, we, participate in Phase Four.

“In Four, stress levels are reduced to a nine, on a scale from one to a hundred, where one is the lowest possible stress-count.

“We no longer need to take vacations, except for pilgrimages to sites where monuments celebrate our Nature Is All and Technology Is All and All Is One Everything religious faith.

“And you, sir,” the President continued. “Are you with a Program Phase?”

The artist burst out laughing.

“No, Mr. President. I’m a holdout.”

“Ah,” the President said, “an outlier. We perceive you’re an artist, your name is Diego Jose Siqueiros. Yes, the information is coming through. You formerly lived in the small city of Ashland in the Northwest corridor, and you received a number of commissions to build structures there.

“After twelve years, you designed and erected so many unique buildings, the city fathers feared that, if left to your own devices, you would ‘take over’ Ashland. In the interest of fairness and sharing, they ceased funding your work. You drifted down to the Los Angeles Complex, where you created a website called Versus the Moron. Eventually, you settled here in the Northeast.”

“That’s right, sir,” the artist said. “A question. Do you remember a time when you weren’t connected to the superbrain in any way?”

The President nodded. “We used to remember such a time, but no longer. Those memories became unproductive. Now we are here with the Program. We operate in it and with it.”

“So you don’t miss being free?” the artist asked.

“Oh, we are free, Mr. Siqueiros. We are free to obtain the right answers through the Program. Having correct data and valid conclusions is quite liberating. The sense of struggle is gone. Struggle is an ancient appendage which technocratic evolution makes extinct.”

“Sir,” the artist said, “I would enjoy debating that point. The superbrain claims to have right answers, but why should I believe it? But I’d rather talk about imagination and the creative life. The invention of unprecedented and unpredictable realities.”

“Oh,” the President said. “Another fancy from the past. We’ve discovered that all art and in fact all so-called unique creations of the ‘I’ are delusions. The superbrain can ‘create’ anything. It merely arranges and rearranges data in various configurations. It produces closed systems. For example, it can design a thousand buildings in less than a second.”

The artist frowned.

“No,” he said. “The superbrain spits out random shapes on command. That’s machine-life.”

“Machine-life?” the President said. “I’m receiving mild warnings now. That phrase is an RRT.”

“Meaning what?” the artist said.

“It’s a playful sub-sub category in the Program. RRT stands for rebellious rat tail. It indicates we are in the presence of a stubborn defective ‘I’ who is scorning the Group.”

“Mr. President,” the artist said. “Were you born of a human mother and father, or are you an artifact of the superbrain?”

The Secret Service agents in the room took a step forward.

The President’s face turned red. He rose from his chair.

“How dare you say that to me!” he shouted.

“Why? Because I’m blowing your cover?”

The artist then enunciated a long series of sounds. The declaration came out, as one attendee later put it, like a “gray river.”

“Emwgrtyonefiftyfruntsillgreenefsevenlenstayeightcricrimescene…”

Apparently, it was a code-trigger that had been hacked from the Program. And the code ran.

A loud hum filled the room.

A few seconds later, the President collapsed back into his seat. He flopped around like a doll and then went still. His eyes stared at nothing.

“As I expected,” the artist said. “He’s a four-D printout from the superbrain. An agent.”

A voice came from somewhere inside the President.

“Allen Dulles thirteen A seven branched MKULTRA…”

Silence.

Then a gentle man who manufactured a product called Organic Monsanto Cherry Vanilla With Roundup Cookies said:

“It’s all right, everybody. There’ll be another President along in a few minutes. I’m sure of it. He’ll appear. We’re all in this together. We’re in coexistence mode. Don’t worry. The superbrain says we’re all One. Unity. The Tao. Yin and Yang. Night and Day. Harmony.”

And the room burst into wild applause.

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. 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 emails at www.nomorefakenews.com

by Jon Rappoport

January 28, 2014

(To join our email list, click here.)

I’ve had a number of requests to repost this piece. The kernel of it was born in a series of nights at the LA Factory Theater with director Scott Kelman. He ran an informal group called The Liars’ Club.

Each one of us would go up on the stage and tell, in the most convincing way we could, a giant lie about our past. A story.

And the strange thing was, after listening to a few of these stories, we lost the difference, we couldn’t figure out whether they were true or false.

One night, in fact, after I’d told a rather grisly tale, I rode home with a friend. She was angry with me. She said, “How could you have done that?”

I said, “Done what? We were all telling lies, right? Lies.”

She fumed in silence.

Then she said, “No, that wasn’t a lie. You really did that.”

There is always a certain amount of whining and remorse as one enters the theater, after buying the ticket.

Is this a good idea?

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

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 an 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 trance 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. 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? 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 are the words CARE AND 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. They’re targeting your body. You feel a haze settle over you.

In the haze dance little creatures. They’re speaking. You try to hear what they’re saying.

Now you do. “Reality, reality, reality.”

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.

But 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 along side your cottage.

You’re home.

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

You recognize your mind is now divided into two parts. The first part registers sensations from this reality. Feedback. These sensations are meant to be sorted, in order to answer the question: HOW AM I?

The second part of your mind is entirely devoted to perceiving problems and solving them. Everything at this level is organized to constitute problems.

You were never aware of these two sectors of your mind before.

Where did they come from?

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

You realize, without knowing how, that 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…electromagnetically induced fields. It’s stamped on every object in this space…

To suggest you’ve been here before. To suggest you belong here.

As you look around the cottage, you apprehend a third sector of your mind. You struggle to identify it.

It’s the fount of a different kind of perception.

Yes.

You keep staring at the cottage and you see space.

You see space that…

Has been placed here. For you.

It, too, is threaded with the Familiar.

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 into 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 fifth year by now. The fifth 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?”

“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 crisply. “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 from your movie experience, you agree to reveal or discuss, under penalty of law, nothing about its nature, substance, or duration…”

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

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

Jon Rappoport

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

New World citizen on trial

~a short story~

by Jon Rappoport

January 11, 2014

NoMoreFakeNews.com

On May 17^th, 2036, in US Federal Court, David Palmer, a software engineer, appeared before Judge Rex Regis, on a charge of violating Section 249 of the Federal Workplace Code.

If found guilty, Palmer faced a sentence of six years in a US re-education facility.

Palmer was an employee of the National Trust, a corporation chartered and funded by the federal government’s Department of Citizen Employment.

In 2025, when a Congressional report was issued confirming that 67% of the American population was unemployed, the Department of Citizen Employment was established to create and mandate jobs across the nation.

Palmer was then assigned to work at the National Trust, a company tasked with improving surveillance standards in the transportation sector.

Eleven years later, an internal committee of his peers accused him of violating cooperative work rules and reported him to the FBI. Palmer was arrested at his home and placed on trial.

A portion of the trial transcript follows:

Judge Regis: Mr. Palmer, I understand you and seven colleagues were assigned a group project. Without disclosing the classified nature of this operation, describe it to me.

Palmer: Well, Your Honor, in general terms, we were to develop a sub-program to facilitate X-type of federal surveillance at Y-type transportation outlets.

Judge Regis: And you were to accomplish this as a group. The eight of you.

Palmer: Yes, sir.

Judge Regis: But you violated the federal standard of cooperation.

Palmer: I did.

Judge: And this is not the first time.

Palmer: No, sir.

Judge Regis: What happened, Mr. Palmer?

Palmer: Well, sir, one afternoon, I was walking home from work and the solution to the problem just popped into my mind. I saw the whole thing—how the sub-program we were tasked to design would work.

Judge Regis: And the next morning, you met with your seven co-workers and laid it out for them. Just like that.

Palmer: Yes, sir. That was my mistake.

Judge Regis: You overrode the mandate that this was supposed to be a group effort. You undermined the whole process. And how did your colleagues on the project feel?

Palmer: Deflated, sir. They were angry as well. They invoked the Minimization of Value complaint.

Judge Regis: In other words, you minimized their value as workers.

Palmer: Yes, sir.

Judge Regis: Which can be psychologically devastating.

Palmer: Correct.

Judge Regis: Two of your co-workers on the project are now on leave and are receiving intensive counseling in a government residential facility.

Palmer: So I understand.

Judge Regis: This case is clear-cut, Mr. Palmer. You caused injury to your colleagues. Now, I have some leeway in my sentencing options. Here is my offer. After lunch, when I render my decision, I’ll assign you to a re-education camp for one year instead of six. And I’ll rule out the most extreme treatment—electronic reprogramming. If you do something for me.

Palmer: Whatever it is, sir, I’ll do it. I don’t want the brain-repatterning.

Judge Regis: Right now, it’s just you and I in this room. But after lunch, there will be a crowd there in the gallery to hear my verdict. A few hundred government-paid bloggers, documentary film people, and other media support staff. I want them to hear you make an extended and passionate confession of your offense. I want it to be a model of self-criticism and humility. Your story will go out across the country and the world. I want the population to learn from your error.

Palmer: You have my word, Your Honor. I’ll explain in great detail how I violated the Group Standard and caused grievous psychological harm to my colleagues. I promise.

Judge Regis: Good, Mr. Palmer. We understand each other?

Palmer: Yes, sir. We do. And I’ll make a few references to recent studies that conclude group efforts far exceed individual initiative in terms of tangible results, in the workplace.

Judge Regis: That would be appropriate.

Palmer: I’ll also state that my crime was a subversion of the whole government program to grant useful employment to workers in America, since that program is based on groups and committees, without which full employment would never be achieved.

Judge Regis: In your confession, there is one more point I want you to cover.

Palmer: Yes, sir?

Judge Regis: State clearly that the “insight” you experienced, which was the solution to the problem your group had been tasked with, was an aberration that stemmed from you clinging to an outmoded idea that the individual is a vital element of society.

Palmer: Of course. I’ll say I gladly accept your verdict, because it will allow me to rid myself of this selfish delusion.

Judge Regis: You see, Mr. Palmer, it’s not solutions we seek, it’s a process by which solutions are found. And that process always refers to group collaboration and cooperative learning. This is a very, very important distinction.

Palmer: I’m not sure I understand, Your Honor.

Judge Regis: Excuse me?

Palmer: I’m trying, sir. I really am. I want to understand.

Judge Regis: Mr. Palmer, pay close attention. Anyone can come up with a solution to a problem. But society exists to facilitate the group-sharing that collectively gives birth to a solution. That’s the whole point.

Palmer: Whereas I keep reverting to the older discredited standard.

Judge Regis: Which is exactly why you are here before me today.

Palmer: It’s not the outcome we care about, it’s how the outcome is achieved.

Judge Regis: Correct. Are we on the same page?

Palmer: Yes, sir. If I come up with a solution to a problem, I demean the entire process. I stand outside the group. I injure others. I’m not employed by the State to prove how smart I am, I’m employed to work with others. This is what having a job means.

Judge Regis: Remember that.

Palmer: If I and other violators simply spewed out our solutions at work, we would seem to make the group unnecessary.

Judge Regis: And that must never happen.

Palmer: “We” is advanced form of “I.”

Judge Regis: Very good. Use that statement in your confession.

Palmer: I will, sir. And I’ll say it was suggested to me by my colleagues at work.

Judge Regis: Now you’re getting the idea.

Palmer: Solutions are a dime a dozen. Learning how to interact with others is the task before us.

Judge Regis: That task leads us to the next step in evolution.

Palmer: “Group, honor, and full employment.”

Judge Regis: Are you beginning to understand what that slogan means?

Palmer: Yes, sir, I am.

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. 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 emails at www.nomorefakenews.com

~a short story~

by Jon Rappoport

January 2, 2014

(To join our email list, click here.)

Introduction

You may have noticed that some websites, when they publish satire, label it as such. I indicate “short story” when it’s fiction.

Why? Because some people take things so literally they can’t recognize parody. For example, I wrote a piece about 150 MILLION Americans traveling to Mexico and then coming back across the border as immigrants and going on welfare—and people believed I was reporting a news story. On top of that, they got up on their hind legs and brayed: “It isn’t true!”

Wow.

Drugs? Brain damage? The education system? Or just plain tiny minds?

So…here’s a story about that:

You of course remember the Alice in Wonderland War. In 2056, a government historian brought suit against Midas Publishing for reprinting the ancient Lewis Carroll book.

The historian stated there was no Alice, there was no Mad Hatter, there was no tea party, and so on. He claimed that to assert the existence of these characters was an affront to the rational mind, the literal mind.

The literal mind, he insisted, was man’s highest achievement. He wrote: “A is A and can’t be otherwise. The fabrication of A as B or C is an attempt to confuse, subvert, and destroy civilization as we know it.”

The historian produced a manual printed by the National Security Agency. He cited a paragraph from the Introduction:

“In order for universal surveillance to succeed, the citizenry should say what they mean at all times. Metaphor, simile, joke, satire, parody—these constructions confuse algorithms established to detect potential terrorist activity. In general, fiction is a crime…”

The attorney for Midas Publishing countered with: “The literal mind is an idiot. It wouldn’t recognize a joke or a punchline if they were shoved down its throat. I hereby issue a call to all people everywhere to start lying, fabricating, making stuff up, telling jokes, all day, every day. Stop acting like good little androids. Screw The Man. Take him down. Have some fun for a change!”

Suddenly, it happened. People started enjoying themselves. The joke and the parody and mockery made a comeback. Did they ever. And NSA’s computers went nuts, exactly the way the literal mind collapses in the face of metaphor.

It was, ultimately, a revolution, and life as people knew it went right down the dumper.

Flash forward….

In the year, 2094, a document was uncovered in a copper mine in Southern California. It was sent to the Non-Federal Bureau of Non-Control, headquartered in the old buildings of the former and forgotten National Security Agency.

The document, undated, written by an unidentified painter, was read by the Chief of Unsystematic Uncoordinated Records.

The document:

“If you hand a person a fig and tell him it’s a plum, there is a chance he’ll see a plum.

“If you give a person a copy of Nabokov’s Lolita and explain its ‘themes,’ there is a chance that, as he reads it, he will find those themes and consider them the most important result of his reading.

“Instead of relying on his own imagination and perception, a person decides that what he is told is what he is looking at.

“So you point to a tree and say to a friend, ‘See that car?’

“Education tends to define what is there before a person can experience it on his own.

“I’m a painter. My education in art, before I ever laid a brush on canvas, was conducted by a few world-class morons who floated convincing theories about this and that. Somewhere along the line, I took over the process and ignored what they were saying.

“This eventually led me, on a long path, to the conclusion that imagination has no limits.

“A few minutes after that, I realized such an idea was not acceptable to most people. They preferred to be told what to see and what to know. They wanted confirmation of what they already assumed.

“Nevertheless, to the extent that I rely on anything beyond my work, I rely on other people’s imagination, in the sense that I’m painting what can only be accessed by imagination.

“Given what I believe, it would be foolish to tell people what to see in my paintings. I myself see many things, and what I see changes. I want it to be that way.

“I’m not trying to nail down a particular bounded reality. If that were my goal, I would manufacture shoes.

“From a rough societal perspective, I see imagination as an infinite series of platforms. The first burst of imagination somehow places people on platform number 1, which is beyond current consensus reality. They walk around on that platform for a while, and then it’s time for burst number 2, which creates a further platform, on which people stroll for a period of time. And then, burst 3. And so on and so forth. Forever.

“At no point does anyone lay down laws of perception. Nevertheless, there is a loose and congenial sharing of platforms.

“Of course, this is an ideal. Things don’t happen so smoothly.

“I have some peculiar ideas about language. In a way, I believe you can reach an endpoint with it. You obviously haven’t exhausted all the possibilities for, say, writing a poem. You can invent lines no one has ever come close to before. But you begin to experience the sensation of rearranging deck chairs, and then you know you need something more.

“You need a new kind of language, in which the letters or words or characters or pictographs are open. They carry no fixed meanings.

“Confronted with such a language, the reader employs imagination and imagination only.

“In terms of what we ordinarily expect from language, this seems quite absurd. It seems absurd until we try it out.

“At which point, imagination begins talking to imagination. Leaving systems behind, we are in new territory. The place is new, and how we will deal with being there is new…”

The Chief of Unsystematic Uncoordinated Records finished reading the document and laid it down on his desk.

He thought, “If only that painter knew millions of people now speak and write in those open languages. His assessment seems so obvious in hindsight. Of course we would follow this approach. What else could we do? Deteriorate? Give up? Imitate a consensus? Only a lunatic would opt for that.”

The odd and interesting thing is, we can have both. We can live in a consensus reality, with logic as our tool, and we can also imagine and invent our way out into endless new spaces, about which we presently know nothing.

The literal mind chafes at such a prospect. The literal mind begins to feel it’s going crazy. The literal mind lashes out like a spoiled child. It thinks it’s winning, but it’s losing.

And here is the capper. The literal mind, even if it claims it wants freedom and the end of the horrific Surveillance State, really wants to install its own tyranny. It wants to exchange one fascism for another.

The literal mind is just another machine.

And sooner or later, when it collapses and blows its circuits, it’s a good day in the universe.

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

Along with the Alice-in-Wonderland War, we all recall another famous turning point in our history—the 2061 Lenny Bruce case. Lenny, a volunteer in a Technocracy II experiment, was hooked up, brain to brain, with the Kurzweil super-computer at MIT, in the first public demonstration of Enhanced Human, a government-funded program.

But just before the connection was made, Lenny uttered, “Suppose what I’m thinking is a series of jokes? Suppose I don’t really mean what I think in a literal sense? Suppose when I think A I’m really meaning Z? Suppose I’m doing inside-out and upside down stuff?”

The experiment was halted at that point and Lenny was arrested by the FBI. He was put on trial for conspiracy to commit an act of terrorism, because, obviously, the whole technocratic premise would fail along all systems of brain-to-brain interaction, if other people took Lenny’s hint.

The bill of particulars against Lenny read, “A violation of the literal…an act of domestic terrorism”

And then, a hundred thousand Americans rioted at the Federal Building, and a few hundred of them broke into the courtroom and overwhelmed government troops and burned down the building and freed Lenny. Remember?

Jon Rappoport

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