You can have consciousness made out of poetry or brain surgery

by Jon Rappoport

March 25, 2019

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—recounted as a dialogue—

“Well, Jim, we found a few interesting things when we went into your brain.”

“Really?”

“Yes. A whole lot of poems, in fact.”

“What?! Impossible. That has to be a mistake. I’m just an ordinary guy. I go to work, have a few beers, take the train home, eat dinner, read the paper, do a little note-writing on experiments at the lab, go to bed around midnight…”

“Jim, I’m not asking for your biography—”

“I know, Doc, but what you’re telling me is crazy. I like a limerick now and then, but the weird stuff…Shakespeare and Milton…that’s for the dome heads. I’m just…”

“You’re a regular guy. Got that, Jim. However, I can show you X-rays. Scans. There’s poetry in your brain, and it’s threatening to take over your cerebral cortex unless we go in and do a second surgery.”

“Take over? You’re joking.”

“You have to face up to a few things, Jimbo. You’re actually posing as just another Joe, and it’s a good impression, I’m sure, but inside you there are poems waiting to come out. And if they do, it’s going to get ugly, believe me. For one thing, you’ll see more.”

“See more what?”

“More of what existence can be.”

“THERE ISN’T ANYTHING MORE. There’s what I do every day. My work. My family. My salary. Beers with the boys. Football. I love football.”

“Yes, we all love football, Jim. It’s mandatory. But you…let me read one of the poems we found in your brain.”

“HELL NO.”

“It won’t hurt that much.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Now as I was young and easy, under the apple boughs, about the lilting house, and happy as the grass was green—”

“STOP!”

“Okay, Jim, take it easy, it’s in your head, don’t blame me. We’ve discovered that…how I can put this…on some level you’re always thinking in poetry. Your whole consciousness is involved, and if we were to take the poems away, you’d go into a deep sleep, a kind of amnesia, perhaps a coma, and you’d never wake up. So we can’t surgically remove the poems. At best we can bury them deeper.”

“Do it. Bury them. Bury them all.”

“Yes, Jim, but hear me out. If we do that, you’ll lose something.”

“You mean I won’t like football anymore?”

“No, Jim. You’ll still have football. But you might not have beer. Just kidding. Ha-ha. What you might lose is your interest in life.”

“What do you mean?”

“You may not feel alive in the same way. You could become very dull.”

“How’s that possible, Doc. You’re just getting rid of poems. Who cares?”

“Well, Jim, apparently you do. As much as you’d like to deny it, your existence, your feeling about what it means to be alive—even though you’re trying to emphasize how ordinary you are—is wrapped up in a certain poetic consciousness. I know, it’s strange. But again, don’t blame me.”

“Look, Doc, you went into my skull to remove some kind of little blockage. And then you came up with these poems. And now you want to bury them. But you say if you do, I might turn into a zombie.”

“In the surgery, Jim, there was a leakage. Poems started to come through. We put in a plug, but it’s just temporary. It’s a delicate situation. Going back in a second time, we either let out all the poems, or we build a thicker wall.”

“Let me ask you a question, Doc. This thing, consciousness. What is it?”

“It’s two things, Jim. It’s what makes you know you’re alive, and it’s also how you’re alive. That second part is tricky. You’re alive, Jim, through connecting with the rhythm and sound of certain thoughts, certain energies. And these energies would NEVER come through to you if it weren’t for language, and that language is poetic. It’s much greater than the reality we see around us. You dampen down that language, Jim, because you want to appear normal. It’s your goal in life, to pretend not to understand anything about this. Do you see? You want to come off like a regular guy, who’s smart and good at his job, and who knows what’s happening in the world. But you don’t want to admit you’re connected to…that thing you’re afraid of.”

“But LOOK. I AM a regular guy. All right, so I read the newspaper and I can look behind the stories and I can see a lot of the con games the government is playing on people. I can see crimes and conspiracies. I know something about who’s running the show, who’s behind the curtain. I take pride in that. But this poetry thing. It’s crazy.”

“Yes, I understand, Jim. But that’s not going to cut it in this case. We’re at a serious crossroad. We have to do something. You’re playing with fire, trying to deny your connection. On some level, you’re participating in a greater reality. You’re thinking on a different plane, and that thinking is what we call poetry. We could call it Budweiser, but it wouldn’t make any difference. It’s thought with higher force. It’s great and grand ideas. And they’re coming from you, from your mind. You want to say you’re living in a pond, but you’re living in the ocean. Let me put it this way. If you weren’t accessing oceanic consciousness, you couldn’t step it all down and appear to be a normal very smart guy. It wouldn’t work. You’d have nothing to dampen down.”

“What would I be?”

“A broccoli. A head of lettuce.”

“You’re serious?”

“As serious as an aneurism, Jim.”

“Geez, Doc, this is bad. My whole reputation, my whole rep with MYSELF is riding on the fact that I’m a hardheaded realist. Do you get what’s at stake here?”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m being so forthcoming. I could have put you under without you knowing it and just cut into your skull again. But I wanted to explain the whole thing to you and give you a choice. You see, Jim, the truth is we’re all living in a charade. We’re all faking it. We’re pretending we don’t have these fantastic energies in us. We’re all stepping it down to average and normal and smart.

It just so happens that, by the luck of the draw, my assistant in the OR nicked a little piece of your brain and opened up a portal into what we’re all trying to avoid. We’re all hooked up to our own poetic centers. We all see life in much wider and deeper terms. I don’t mean little stupid rhymes. I mean great language that vaults us up into atmospheres and spaces that…well, I can’t really do it justice sitting here talking to you. But this is mind control here, Jim. The most profound kind. Self-induced. We do it to ourselves. We cut off access. We keep ourselves ignorant about the language we have…the genuine language that comes out of imagination. If I operate on you again, there’s a chance the wall we build will be too thick, and you’ll wake up with very little awareness. You’ll be regular and normal and average for real. And trust me, Jim, that’s a nightmare. I’ve seen it. The person is, to put it kindly, at an enormous disadvantage.”

“What should I do, Doc?”

“Take a chance, Jim. Let us clear away any scar tissue and just leave an open portal. Let the language and the energies come through. From one faker to another, go for it. Go for the great adventure. Who knows what’ll it be? One thing’s for sure. You won’t be sitting here whining to me. You’ll be you. Dealing with that won’t be easy, but with enough guts, you could make it through. You could show us what we don’t want to see.”

“Doesn’t sound very appealing.”

“That won’t be your problem, Jim. I guarantee it. The problem is, it’ll be too appealing.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. Being who you are is what you’ve sacrificed your whole life. You’re going to retract that sacrifice. Think of it that way. You’re going to pull away the sacrifice like an old coat and burn it in the fire of a thousand new suns…”

“Or else come back as a carrot.”

“Pretty much. People around you will still think you’re Jim, but inside you won’t be anybody or anything. You’ll be a robot with no real consciousness.”

“I hate poetry, Doc.”

“Why do you think that is, Jim?”

“I don’t know. I want things to be simple and clear. Like a story. Beginning, middle, end.”

“Wrapped up like a nice neat package.”

“That’s right.”

“Like your life.”

“Why not?”

“You tell me.”

“I hate poetry.”

“We all do, Jim. It reminds us of something we’d rather forget.”

“So help me forget it, Doc.”

“You want to be a zombie.”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Imagine a world full of zombies, Jim. Everybody cut off from their oceanic consciousness. No poetry ever again.”

“Sounds good. Sounds like realism. No more conflict. No more demons.”

“Demons? Is that what you think I’m talking about, Jim? Your greatest thoughts and energies expressed with their greatest force, with raw beauty and—”

“They’re not RATIONAL, Doc. They’re meaningless. I don’t understand those thoughts. They don’t make any sense.”

“If we build that wall in your brain, Jim, what’s left of you will be a machine. Do you get that?”

“That’s what I want. I want to be a machine. I’ll be fine.”

“Well…okay, kid. Your choice. Your destiny. We’ll prep you for surgery. We’ll make those trillion watts of energy shrink down to a ten-watt bulb.”

“This thing you call poetic consciousness, Doc? It’s just a delusion. And I want to get rid of it.”

“Okay, Jim, I’ll put the genie back in the bottle.”

“Nice talking to you, Doc.”

“I wish that were true, Jim. TYGER, TYGER, BURNING BRIGHT, IN THE FORESTS OF THE NIGHT, WHAT IMMORTAL HAND OR EYE COULD FRAME THY FEARFUL SYMMETRY?”

“See, Doc. That’s just what I mean. What the hell kind of talk is that? I don’t understand it! Get rid of it!”

“Sorry, kid, it just slipped out. I’ll go get ready. Relax. The nurse’ll be in in a minute. Piece of cake.”

“Poetry. Ridiculous. It’s for idiots.”

“Sure, kid.”

“We don’t need poets.”


“Of course not. One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is
myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or
ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can
wait.

My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are
with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I
translate into a new tongue.

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

…I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,
I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.

Press close bare-bosom’d night — press close magnetic
nourishing night!
Night of south winds — night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night — mad naked summer night.

Smile O voluptuous cool-breath’d earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset — earth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbow’d earth — rich apple-blossom’d earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.

Prodigal, you have given me love — therefore I to you give
love!”


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.

Planning the Matrix

~a short story~

by Jon Rappoport

January 2, 2019

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Voices in an office…

“We can frame the boundaries of manufactured reality. We can stage events and actual happenings. But we also have to infiltrate SUBJECTIVE PERCEPTION and fold it into the overall setup—not that we actually produce every single private thought or image or idea, but we insert seeds that bloom inside the mind, and then when they come to fruition, they appear to be OBJECTIVE EVENTS.”

“We’ll eventually have a magnificent official religion lowered without blood on the population, wireless connections that spark between brains, people will worship an unknown deity, we’ll deliver ‘booster shots’, transmitted bursts of compressed pseudodata.”

“The medical op is important…insert genes, inject deadly chemicals, weakens immune systems, spray them with cancer cells, roll synthetic lumps of disease into dark cities at 4am, calls them a cancer vaccine.”

“People line up to get born into the Earth-op-scene like countless dreamers standing at the edge of the same dream, and only some realize they can make it, can step forward, the rest just watch…you can get in if you TRY…no guarantee though…if you make it, you’re smack in the middle of the WAR SEX RELIGION MONEY movie…”

“We need layers on layers of agents and dupes and cutouts to do our work for us. Impenetrable. We teach them how to run an op. The plan, the execution, the cover story, the fake identities, the false trails, the limited hangouts.”

“We need an information machine to dispense these cover stories to the public. It’ll be called THE NEWS. It’ll seem to come from different sources, but every major story will turn out to be the same, from all the news outlets. The news machine will blanket the planet.”

“We need to keep the population in a state of confusion and doubt, an outer shell within which they believe they can find security. They’re always burrowing further IN, into smaller and smaller spaces to find safety.”

“Each individual has enormous hidden power, but we’ll keep that walled off from them…it’s our most important goal.”

“We’ll promote the idea that an individual reclaiming his own power and imagination is violating a natural law and trying to become a god against God.”

Silence.

The voices went away.

In the next office, a man whose job it was to sweep floors and mop the hallways was taking a break. He was sitting at a desk sleeping. In his dream, he heard the voices.

He woke up.

He tried to remember what he heard.

“WAR SEX RELIGION MONEY.” All interesting subjects, but it seemed the words had been spoken in a curious way, as if they were themes for an enterprise, part of a calculated plan.

A vision rose in his mind.

A movie in the world. The world in a movie. A movie springing from a single point, blossoming into four dimensions, for everyone.

Seeing this vision, he could back up from it.

He was sitting in a Void. Yet he was still in the office.

He glanced over at his mop and pail in the corner.

The mop spoke to him. It said, “This is your role. Drudgery.”

He blinked.

A word with torn edges of flame came rising up toward him, faster and faster:

NO.


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 normal citizen receives a shock to the system

by Jon Rappoport

November 14, 2018

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John Q Jones had a nice job, a nice family, a nice house, and a nice yard. Everything was nice.

Then one day, he was walking down the street near his office and a soft explosion went off in his head.

He looked around and saw a young woman sitting in a parked car. She was reading a newspaper. And he realized he was reading her mind.

She was thinking about a vacation, a trip to Alaska, a boat ride, a book, a boyfriend. He was reading her thoughts and the sensation of doing it was exquisite, quite lucid, quite simple.

He was thrilled beyond measure. For a moment, he thought he would take off and fly.

A few hours later, he left work and went to see his psychiatrist.

“I have a problem,” he said. “Today, I read a person’s mind. And it was wonderful.”

“Hmm,” the doctor said, “I have a diagnosis for that. Paranoid schizophrenia. Possibly Bipolar.”

“Good,” Jones said. “I need a diagnosis right away, and drugs.”

“I’m the man with the drugs,” the psychiatrist said. “Let’s start you off with a sedative for sleeping and a bit of Haldol for your psychosis.”

“Sounds good,” Jones said, “but what if it doesn’t work? What if tomorrow, out of the blue, I read someone else’s mind?”

“Then come back and see me,” the psychiatrist said, “and I’ll up the dosage. Don’t worry.”

“The feeling of wonderful will go away?” Jones asked.

“Do you want it to?” the psychiatrist said.

“You bet I do. It’s the hook. I could yearn after it, and who knows what I might do then?”

“Pleasure is a tough one,” the psychiatrist said. “We pursue it, sometimes to our own detriment. I favor neutrality in all things.”

“So did I,” Jones said, “until today. Now I have a…what would you call it…a desire. And it’s scaring me.”

“Desire is the beginning of all suffering,” the psychiatrist said. “I read that somewhere.”

“The worst part,” Jones said, “is that I’m becoming aware of a different space and time.”

“Dangerous,” the psychiatrist agreed. “I’m a member of a committee formed to look into other spaces and times. We’re hoping to draft legislation that outlaws them.”

“I hope you succeed,” Jones said. “Suppose I couldn’t come back to my nice house and my nice life without feeling odd? That would be terrible. I’m a round peg in a round hole and I want to stay that way. You know, we go to church every Sunday. The Church of Statistical Average. The congregation is growing. It’s perfect for us. We love it.”

“I understand,” the psychiatrist said.

All this time, he had been reading Jones’ mind, and Jones had been reading his. They both saw a profound yearning and a profound sadness in the other.

“Perhaps I should consider a lobotomy,” Jones said.

“I wouldn’t rush into that,” the psychiatrist said.

Jones saw that the psychiatrist a) wanted a lobotomy and b) wished for the courage to go through with it.

The psychiatrist saw that Jones wanted to read minds all the time and experience the intense pleasure of leaving ordinary space and time. That was perfectly understandable. Who, having known the sensation, wouldn’t desire it again?

Jones saw that the psychiatrist longed to swim in the ocean of telepathic communication.

The psychiatrist saw that Jones wanted to become unconscious and float like a space-rock in the galaxy, with no consciousness whatsoever.

“How is your wife?” the psychiatrist said.

“Fine,” Jones said. “And your family?”

“Very well, fine,” the psychiatrist said. “Are you still sailing on weekends?”

“Now and then,” Jones said. “The weather’s been cold lately.”

“Yes, it has been.”

“Are you still playing bridge at the club?”

“Most Friday nights.”

Jones reached out and placed a thought in the consciousness of the psychiatrist: “Help me.”

Silently, the psychiatrist answered: “I need help, too.”

The walls and ceiling of the psychiatrist’s office fell away and exposed a great dark warm space.

The two men began to weep.

“We’re alone,” they thought.

Then Jones said, out loud, “Suppose everyone is like us?”

Faintly, they heard band music, and then people appeared, whispering among themselves and quietly playing instruments, or perhaps the whispering was coming from the instruments.

“I think we just died,” Jones said.

“No,” the psychiatrist said. “This is a womb filled with friends. We’re being born. They’re waiting for us to emerge.”

“Emerge into what?”

“Happiness.”

“The happiness of being ourselves?” Jones said.

“It appears so,” the psychiatrist said. “We were in a play.”

“What kind of play?”

“I don’t know,” the psychiatrist said, “but it’s closing. It had a good run, but ticket sales are declining, and the producers are resigned. They’ve given the order to strike the sets.”

“The producers?”

“They designed everything we thought we were.”

Jones laughed.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed at anything. He thought he was going to jump out of his skin. He tried to bring himself under control.

He laughed harder and that led to weeping.

He smelled fire.

“Something’s burning,” he said.

“No,” the psychiatrist said. “Some one. I’m burning. Can’t you see it?”

Jones strained at the darkness. He saw an object rising like a rocket.

“Don’t leave me,” he said.

The psychiatrist shouted over a roar, “I can’t wait anymore!”

Jones took off, too. He rose above his station, and felt the heat.

And then, suddenly, they were back in the psychiatrist’s office, sitting, facing each other.

“Your wife is still pursuing a graduate degree?” the psychiatrist was saying.

“Why yes,” Jones said. “Two evenings a week, and weekends. Her advisor tells her she’s an exceptional student.”

“I’m sure that pleases her.”

“It does, yes.”

“We’re almost out of time,” the psychiatrist said. “Anything else in our remaining moments?”

“Yes,” Jones said. “One thing. Have you ever felt you were in a commercial promoting the very thing you were doing at the moment?”

The psychiatrist smiled.

“Almost every day.”

He stood up. Jones stood up. They shook hands and Jones left the office.

On the street, as he walked back to his office, he said to himself, “I’m normal, I’m average, I’m normal, I’m average…”

His eyelids were heavy. Fatigue spread through his body. He staggered into an alley and sat down on the pavement next to a dumpster. He fell asleep.

Sometime later, his memories foggy, he was stretched out on the grass in a park near the river.

Lights were shining in his eyes. He blinked and looked up. He saw a cameraman and a woman in a pink suit holding a microphone.

“We’re doing a story on the homeless,” she said. “I’m from KGR News. How did you end up here, sir? Would you tell us?”

Jones tried to shake off his intense weariness.

He stood up, scratched at the stubble of his beard, and grabbed the microphone from the newswoman.

“Hey!” she said.

“Would you tell me,” Jones said, “how you ended up in the stage play called Your Life?”

He threw the microphone down and lumbered away across the park lawn.

He walked several miles, entered the Grand Hotel, took out his credit card, and walked up to the check-in counter.

The clerk looked at him and frowned.

“I know,” Jones said. “I’m a mess. I’m in actor in a play in town. We just closed our run and I didn’t bother changing my costume. I’d like your best room for a day. I want to clean up and get some sleep.”

The clerk gingerly took Jones’ credit card and ran it. He was surprised to find it had a hundred-thousand-dollar limit.

“Of course, sir,” he said. “I understand.”

An hour later, showered and shaved, Jones called room service and had them send up a meal.

After devouring a steak and mashed potatoes, he called his tailor and asked for a rush job on a new suit. He spoke to the hotel concierge and put in an order for underwear, socks, a shirt, and a tie from a local department store.

Four hours later, he looked in the mirror in the bathroom and saw himself as he was: businessman, husband, father, pillar of the community.

He was about to call his wife and assure her he was fine, when he glanced at the sliding glass door and saw his psychiatrist sitting out on the balcony calmly smoking a cigarette.

Jones walked over to the door, opened it, and sat down across from the doctor.

“How did you get here?” Jones said.

“Never mind that,” the psychiatrist said. “For the past few days, I’ve been tuning into high-level conversations. First, it was the mayor. Then the governor. Then the president. Then, bankers in Brussels. Finally, a small group of men in Geneva. In Geneva, they were talking about a company called Reality Manufacturing, Inc.”

“Never heard of it,” Jones said.

“You should. They said you were a key figure in it.”

He stared at Jones.

“Wait a minute,” Jones said. “That’s crazy. You’re crazy.”

“They seemed very certain.”

“I’m in a company that makes Reality?”

“Apparently so.”

“What about you?” Jones said.

“My name didn’t come up.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Jones said.

The psychiatrist shrugged. “Seems like we’ve gone through a wormhole or something.”

“A what?”

“Take it easy, Jones” the psychiatrist said. “We’ll sort this out. I have a theory. You’re the most normal man in the world. You’re the epitome of normal. That must be a clue.”

“A clue to what? That I’m going insane?”

“No. Your extreme normality is a perfect cover story. Who would suspect that you’re hiding an enormous secret? I believe mysterious forces have hijacked your subconscious and are using it to hide a…system for manufacturing reality as we know it. You’re an agent. You just don’t know it.”

Silence.

“And,” the psychiatrist continued, “I reason that if you die, reality will vanish.”

He stood up, took a step forward, and grabbed Jones by the shoulders.

“I’m going to throw you off the balcony,” the psychiatrist said, “and test my hypothesis.”

At that moment, policemen burst through the door to the hotel room and rushed out on to the balcony. They separated the two men and put them in handcuffs.

“What’s the charge, Officers?” the psychiatrist said.

“Sniffing at the edges,” a tall policeman said. “Meddling with the grid.”

“Care to explain that further?” the psychiatrist said.

“No,” the policeman said. “You’ll be taken to a facility for reprocessing. After that, you won’t need any explanations.”

Two days later, Jones was reunited with his wife at a local hospital. A doctor told Mrs. Jones that her husband had gone on a bender and blacked out in a park.

She nodded. “I always thought he was too normal. Something had to be wrong with him. I understand now. He’s been hiding his drinking from me.”

The psychiatrist was never heard from again.

On nights when his wife is out with her friends, Jones goes down to his basement and sits on an old battered couch and tries to remember. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he knows it’s there, in his mind.

Occasionally, a wall disappears for a few seconds and then reconstitutes itself. He hears faint music. He senses that the people who are making the music are waiting for him. They know what he needs to know. They want him to break through.

He calls them his “other friends.” He can almost make out their faces. Faces in darkness, hovering in shadows.

One day, after work, he passes a coffee shop and sees, in the window, the woman who was in the car reading the newspaper, the woman whose thoughts he’d read, the woman who’d started the whole thing.

She glances his way and smiles.

Hearing the faint music, he walks into the shop and sits down across from her.

He says, “I wasn’t reading your thoughts. You were sending them to me.”

She nods.

“But why?” he says. “Why me?”

“Because,” she says, “you were absolutely normal. Therefore, you were so close to the edge. Just a little push and you would fall off.”

He smiles.

“Falling off,” he says, “is quite an understatement to describe what I went through.”

“Yes,” she says. “I know. Have patience. The grid is collapsing, bit by bit. Your assistance is appreciated.”


(New piece up at my OUTSIDE THE REALITY MACHINE blog entitled
“Jon Rappoport: advice to writers”)


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 night the world recovered its sanity

by Jon Rappoport

October 2, 2018

(To join our email list, click here.)

No one knows where it started, but on the evening of August 12, 2075, all over the world, groups began disintegrating.

Not just sewing circles and protest juntas and gamers; not just political activists and victim-support organizations; and not just governments and armies.

Religious and racial groups fell apart, too. By some accounts, they were the last to go.

In Greborg-Lavre-Brooklyn, on the former French and German border, Kayne Larder, a Muslim leader of a motorcycle gang, the V-2, stood on busy streetcorner and said, “I’m not black, I’m not religious, I’m not a V-2. I’m me.”

As gang members and neighbors moved forward to stone him to death, an anonymous person started beating on a drum. He shouted, “I don’t belong to anything or anybody!”

Everyone froze, including Hesh Zion, the king of the Hebrew Tankers, a feared local attack mob.

Zion said, “I’m not a Jew.”

Scenes like this were repeated from Nome to Tierra del Fuego.

In Lower Manhattan, Sal Tosca, a hitman for the Carneri crime family, was eating pizza in a small restaurant on Mulberry Street. He announced to his pals: “Guess what? I’m not Italian. I’m not a gangster. I’m just myself.”

The next day, the NY Times printed notices from the Council on Foreign Relations, the Trilateral Commission, and the Bilderberg Group, declaring their dissolution.

A week later, the President of the United States, Abner Ali Chang Grey Feather, went on national television and said:

“I’m not the President, there is no more federal government, I’m going fishing. Bye bye.”

By then, few people seemed surprised. The Event was well underway.

Soldiers were leaving their bases. Medical associations were disbanding. Lobbyists were closing up shop. The ten largest corporations in the world declared a year-long hiatus.

Some called these happenings a miracle. Others said it was the end of the world.

Greta Curt, president of The Most High Octopus, the famous language-filtering and restriction group, responsible for assassinations of people who uttered forbidden words, shot herself in the head in a suite at the Essex House in New York.

Her assistant, Moji Schwartz Limbo Ghandi, told Internet viewers: “Greta just couldn’t handle the new turbulence. She felt herself breaking like a porcelain vase.”

Dick Cheney Bush Perle Cauc, a USAF commander in Afghanistan, told his crew in a briefing room at the Obama Kindness Base outside Kabul, “I’m heading home, wherever that is, guys. I just figured out I’m not white, I’m not a Republican, I’m me.”

At Harvard University, a third-year major in Taliban Studies, Eric Thomas Bin Leary, attempted to organize an “I’m Me” club. A classmate injected him with Haldol2x, drove him to Maine, and deposited him, unconscious, in a muddy bed on the shore of Lake Casco.

Sociologists were apparently the hardest hit, since their enterprise was all about promoting groups. Dr. Elia Fogg Robinson, a Yale professor and the author of We’re All the All, invited colleagues to his lab, where he tried to persuade them to partake in an orgy while immersed in a large vat of melted bubbling cheese, after which, he promised, they would emerge as a single hybridized entity. They put him out in a snowstorm.

It was the beginning of what is now called The Blank Period, approximately a hundred years of unrecorded history.

Yes, we came through, but nothing would ever be the same. The distaste for all groups remained.

As my great-grandfather, Jack Anarch, wrote, in his diary, “Once upon a time, humans needed clans and tribes to survive in the wild, but long after technological civilizations were raised up, the addiction to groups was still overwhelming. It almost destroyed us, but we came to our senses in time. Families yes. Friends yes. Groups no. An old relative of mine told me, ‘There’s nothing like the group habit. Coming off that jones can give a person the shakes for a couple of decades. It can make your eyeballs want to pop out. And you’ve got to do it cold. I went through a six-month stretch where I hallucinated that rain made out of glue was falling from the sky, pasting me to some mythical collective of shoppers in a giant mall in space. It was so heavy I almost flipped. A voice in my head kept saying, Spill on aisle 13, spill on aisle 13…”


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.

Designing the mind

by Jon Rappoport

June 25, 2018

In their lab, Sam and Sally had just finished inscribing a huge amount of code on a two-dimensional sheet of plastic, in order to produce a hologram that would, when sprung, blossom into a continuum called The Physical Universe.

With glasses of good champagne in their hands, sitting on stools in the lab, they speculated on their next project.

“To me,” Sally said, “it’s obvious. People are going to live and proliferate there. So we have to design their minds to sync up with Universe. Otherwise, we’ll have a mess on our hands.”

“Chaos,” Sam said. “Not our objective here. But first we have to get a handle on what ‘people’ means.”

“Yes,” Sally said. “We do. We know they’re immortal souls. We know we don’t have anything to do with THAT mystery. It’s outside our control. But they will have bodies, physical forms. And minds. Inside the Universe.”

“And freedom,” Sam said.

“Right. But we can design a section of their minds to our liking. That section will sync up with Universe. It’ll mesh. It’ll accept the structure of the hologram.”

“Well,” Sam said, “let’s look at how we built Universe. Although it has action and energy and change, it also has a major amount of harmony, symmetry, balance, equilibrium, and repeating pattern. You know, the simple stuff. The stuff even a child can grasp. It’s not the most complicated universe we’ve ever made.”

“So,” Sally said, “suppose we design one segment of mind so it loves and attaches itself to symmetry and harmony and pattern. That’ll produce the sync-effect, won’t it?”

Sam said, “Yeah…In fact, if we make up some weird mystical symbols and tie them together with the harmony and symmetry, we’ll really have something. The people will keep going around and around…”

“Yes,” Sally said, “and they’ll never explore their own consciousness where all the immortal stuff is.”

And that’s how Sally and Sam finished the job.

Sometime later, much later, they watched with amusement as “researchers” living in Universe pointed out that snail shells and certain flowers and spiral galaxies all expressed very similar configurations.

“Wow,” Sam said, “it worked. “They really go for Pattern, don’t they? They eat it up.”

“I know,” Sally said. “And they’re talking about simple configurations as if they’re symbols of something very ‘deep.’ They’ll be delving into this stuff for a million years. They’ve synced up to Universe beyond anything I thought possible.”

A few million years passed.

Sam and Sally got together, to peek in and see what was happening in Universe. They were surprised again.

“Do you see it?” Sally said.

“Of course I see it,” Sam said. “They’re sculpting their own THOUGHTS into simple shapes. They’re making their thoughts mimic the symmetry and the geometry and the balance. They must be in a trance.”

“Do you think we should issue a wake-up call?”

“No,” Sam said. “Who knows what that would do to them? Leave them alone. They’ll have to wake themselves up…”

“When do you think that will happen?” Sally said.

“A good question,” Sam said. “I say we let a billion more years pass, and then we look in again.”

“I can’t remember how they entered Universe in the first place,” Sally said.

“That would be Department 4-AR’s job. Let me look it up.”

Sam typed a password on his computer and read the note.

“It was a vacation special,” he said. “Tickets went on sale and were scooped up. It was a big seller at the time.”

“Long vacation,” Sally said.

“That’s the way it’s turning out,” Sam said.

Sally said, “We have to remember what we did, for future reference. Design a universe with a significant amount of symmetry, balance, harmony, geometry, and repeating pattern. The puerile stuff. Then introduce a whole host of weird symbols that connect to the childish symmetry and produce a trance, a long lasting trance…”

“It works,” Sam said. “Like a charm.”

“We need to make up a name for what we’ve done,” Sally said. “A label, a title. It’s a major accomplishment. It needs a name.”

Sam thought about it for a minute. “Let’s try something a little weird,” he said. “You know, with initials, so it sounds official.”

“Right,” Sally said. “Well…see how you like this. It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, but it’s got a bit of comic-book flair.”

“Hit me with it,” Sam said.

“MKULTRA.”


Exit From the Matrix

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


More posts like this — primarily on my other blog OUTSIDE THE REALITY MACHINE. Free email list subscribe 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.

In the year 2052 no one can read

In the year 2052 no one can read

by Jon Rappoport

November 5, 2017

In the year 2052, no one can read. Well, those who can, can’t handle more than 50 or 60 words at a time. And they certainly don’t know what fiction is. Or if they do, they don’t like it. It bothers them. WHAT ALREADY EXISTS is so much more compelling. Fiction seems ridiculous. Who cares what might be? Who cares about something someone made up?

Courtroom; the year 2052; the defendant was locked up hundreds of miles away; he did not appear at his trial.

JUDGE: What is the charge against John Doe?

PROSECUTOR: Espousing freedom. Claiming he is a free man.

JUDGE: He knows freedom is an illusion. Our schools teach that above all else.

PROSECUTOR: We have no record of him attending schools.

JUDGE: How is that possible?

PROSECUTOR: Unknown at this time. John Doe is a builder.

JUDGE: What does he build?

PROSECUTOR: Shrines to freedom.

JUDGE: Hmm. Sounds to me like a verdict of life without parole or death is in order.

PROSECUTOR: The psychiatrists want to go to work on him. They say he’d make a fine test subject. Because of his extreme views and actions. If they can turn him into a model citizen, they’d advance the research significantly.

JUDGE: However, there is the contagion factor. John Doe is infected with a freedom plague. No telling what he might transmit.

PROSECUTOR: Agreed, Your Honor.

JUDGE: Can he be kept in a sealed room?

PROSECUTOR: The shrinks say yes.

JUDGE: By statute, if I sentence him to life in prison or death, you and I must expose ourselves to him, in order to discover whether we become infected. It’s a harsh but fair rule. Do you want take that chance?

PROSECUTOR: I suppose so, if you’re willing, sir.

JUDGE: Who knows? It might be interesting to experience this “freedom.” Then of course, we could be treated to knock out the illness.

PROSECUTOR: I was thinking the same thing.

JUDGE: What does freedom feel like?

PROSECUTOR: Hard to say.

JUDGE: One defendant described it as the wind on his face while he was at sea in a small boat. Very bracing, he said. Go anywhere, do anything.

PROSECUTOR: Fascinating.

JUDGE: Psychotic, of course. Still…

PROSECUTOR: The opportunity of experiencing a crime from the criminal’s point of view would be instructive.

JUDGE: Freedom. The ultimate moral temptation. We would be stronger for having resisted it.

PROSECUTOR: Many citizens of the 20th and early 21st century were infected. However, most of them did nothing about it. They didn’t act out. They merely…they refused to believe they had any power, individually.

JUDGE: So I’ve heard. They stumbled at the gate of power.

PROSECUTOR: Imagine if you and I could combine freedom and power.

JUDGE: That would be unique. What would we do?

PROSECUTOR: I don’t know. Nullify a structure?

JUDGE: Which structure?

PROSECUTOR: Any official structure. Doing something like that would border on magic.

JUDGE: We could at least write a new document to recast the role of government.

PROSECUTOR: A what?

JUDGE: A declaration of some kind. Something that changes the constitution of government.

PROSECUTOR: Where did you get THAT thought from?

JUDGE: I don’t know. Suppose, for example, we said people had the right to assemble in public.

PROSECUTOR: You mean to compare smart connections?

JUDGE: To…share ideas.

PROSECUTOR: What does that mean?

JUDGE: The way we’re sharing ideas now.

PROSECUTOR: Is that what we’re doing?

JUDGE: I’m not sure. Maybe…

PROSECUTOR: People talking to each other about ideas?

JUDGE: Strange.

PROSECUTOR: I doubt it would be a popular practice.

JUDGE: People would treat it as some kind of joke.

PROSECUTOR: On the other hand, it could be the start of a pandemic. If you said people could assemble FREELY in public and FREELY exchange ideas, perhaps the temptation would catch on…and then…

JUDGE: If people understood what an IDEA is. I’m not sure what an IDEA is, when I stop and think about it. I’m pretty sure I know what a THOUGHT is, but what is an IDEA?

PROSECUTOR: Let me get back to you on that.

JUDGE: Is freedom an idea?

PROSECUTOR: It’s a virus.

JUDGE: Of course, but is that all it is?

PROSECUTOR: It’s a “psychotic predisposition caused by a combination of endocrine malfunction and neuronal delay.”

JUDGE: Hmm. “People have the right to assemble in public and share ideas.” Even if that statement is gibberish, it’s interesting. It’s like saying a person can own a gun or a cow can fly over the moon. It means nothing, but it has a magnetic pull.

PROSECUTOR: This is why many laws exist: to outlaw magnetic pull. You can’t have magnetic pull in a sane society. It’s a danger.

JUDGE: Yes, of course. But for the defendant in this case, and in other cases, the pull feels real. That’s the key. That’s the experience of freedom. These people are utterly convinced of the delusion…they can’t think otherwise. They’re trapped.

PROSECUTOR: Agreed.

JUDGE: I hereby sentence John Doe to life in prison.

PROSECUTOR: Thank you, Your Honor.

JUDGE: And if while in prison, he continues to spread his malicious thoughts, we will reconvene and consider brain cancelation or burning at the stake.

PROSECUTOR: Now that you’ve delivered your verdict, we’ll both have to expose ourselves to John Doe, to see if we catch his infection.

JUDGE: Exactly. It’s an old law. It was decreed because the original Planners wanted to make sure officials of the court had the courage of their convictions. And also to render those officials immune to the various dangerous plagues. And to root out officials who succumbed to the infections.

PROSECUTOR: I’ve been exposed to a dozen different plague infections, but never to freedom.

JUDGE: Likewise. This will be interesting.

PROSECUTOR: Where is John Doe being held?

JUDGE: In an old building in Philadelphia called Liberty Hall.

PROSECUTOR: Ironic. Never heard of it.

JUDGE: It’s a psychiatric ward. Very heavy security. The CIA and the Pentagon have field offices there.

PROSECUTOR: Well, they would.

JUDGE: Yes. A few years ago, there was a reading outbreak in the area. Several people at a library read pieces more than a thousand words.

PROSECUTOR: They actually got to the end?

JUDGE: Yes. It caused a major flap…


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 new Pope of NSA-Google-Facebook

by Jon Rappoport

October 30, 2017

(To join our email list, click here.)

Note: In the event this piece may float ahead in time, I feel compelled to say it was written for people who can not only read pictures, but can still read words.

In the year 2072…there was a time of great celebration.

The President was about to appoint a new Pope of NSA-Google-Facebook. Aside from 12 Western states, where gangs ruled the population, America was united as never before.

What many analysts were calling The Greater System had taken hold in consciousness. People were aware they were living inside a bubble of super-surveillance, and they loved it.

Therefore, the appointment of a new Pope was a momentous event.

The man of the hour, the saint-in-waiting, was Jonas Hoover, formerly a professor at MIT. Famously, at the age of nine, Hoover had written this Facebook post:

“Below, you’ll see a complete inventory of every product I own, with footnotes on method of purchase in each case. My parents’ voting record for the past twelve years is also included, along with their job history, college transcripts, tax returns—and a link to audio recordings of 2000 phone conversations I’ve had over the past two years. See the link to our family’s complete medical records. My diary entries are included. As you’ll discover, I’ve profiled myself 236 times, each time attempting to identify more relevant markers that predict my behavior in a variety of situations. Feel free to contact me for more information, if you are a profiling agency. I’m seeking employment in the surveillance field…”

As a high school senior, at the age of 15, Hoover had published an essay in Metadata, the NSA-Google journal. Academics across America had praised it, particularly this trenchant passage:

“The Constitution was a noble attempt to explicitly limit systems by eroding the power of centralized authority. That document was mainly about enforcing less structure.”

“However, the hunger to develop structure is what humans possess in abundance. They impose structure and live off it, like junk food. And why shouldn’t they?”

“The overall template of the Surveillance State used to be grounded in the premise that everyone is a potential threat and danger to the herd. Therefore, spy on everybody.”

“Now, however, we are well past that point. We recognize that living inside the space of universal surveillance, as a voluntary act, is its own reward, its own joy. No reasons necessary.”

“A whole life can be lived by detailing that life and publishing it for all to see—hundreds of thousands of pages, hundreds of thousands of hours of video. A grand confession, if you will, but without guilt, without remorse.”

“We’re talking about a bubble, inside which the narratives of our lives are floated and used to sell a product. Who buys? Who doesn’t? Well, each one of us is a product, and we offer ourselves to the world. No need to be anxious about succeeding. Someone somewhere will buy us.”

“We’re audience, and as Marshall McLuhan once put it, ‘Audience is actor.’ We’re actors and we reveal our character in immense detail. The burden of ethical, political, or psychological considerations is gone. We’ve evolved past the need of carrying it. This is happiness.”

“We’re looking at a kind of Escher drawing that feeds back into itself.”

“In this state of mind, we tend to perceive reality on the basis of what we think other people are perceiving. Through universal self-surveillance, we move closer and closer to the far shore, where we are all, in fact, perceiving the same thing. And what is that thing? It’s a mere reflection passed through billions of mirrors, around and around, evanescent, sparkling, devoid of content.”

“This is the day toward which we all strive.”

“Critics have claimed this is voluntary self-induced mind control; people digging themselves a deeper hole in consensus reality. I view it as liberation. Don’t you?”

In the Oval Office, in front of television cameras broadcasting to the world, the President, a minor functionary in the federal bureaucracy, bowed before Jonas Hoover and took his hand. He raised it and kissed the ring. He stepped back.

Hoover smiled and nodded.

“My fellow citizens, I’m honored by this appointment. It signals a new era for us all. From the shores of the old Silicon Valley, to the bunkers of Colorado, to the city of Detroit rebuilt as a single networked data storage facility, one idea has traveled through this great nation for a hundred years: tracking. Yes. We have now tracked ourselves to a degree never before thought possible. Remember Socrates’ ancient advice: know thyself. Well, now we do.”

“Conscience, hope, anxiety, desperation; all gone. Outmoded. With gladness in our hearts, we give ourselves over to What Is. Every detail of it. We can record it, transmit it, save it, collate it.”

“And with my ascension, we can inscribe it in the book of life. Open your virtual church doors. Flood into their chapels. Give thanks. I am here to wipe away the last shred of doubt. We have arrived.”

“This message has been brought to you by NSA-Google-Facebook, your window on the universe, and the universe’s window on you.”

“And I tell you for the VERY FIRST TIME…I am a self-aware android, I am living proof of our progress to this point.”

The online tumult of joy was volcanic.

However—as the NSA noted from its surveillance of traffic, under the category “AI Doubt,” there were 19 million posts claiming “self-aware android” was a contradiction in terms. For example:

“Let’s be clear. You can program an android to process many items and select options based on a range of instructions. But these options are not free choices. They conform to goals or objectives which are also programmed into these AI machines.”

“The new Pope is a machine. He is programmed to appear ‘brilliant.’ That doesn’t make him alive or conscious. He is literally a figurehead. In fact, some of his statements are lifted from old writings of early human technocrats. Articles about this have been censored by GoogleFacebook.”

“The new Pope has come out of the closet as an AI. But many of us have known his true identity for years. Our work has been censored. HE is an IT.”

“YOU ARE ALL BEING LED DOWN THE GARDEN PATH. LIFE IS NOT A MACHINE.”

“Consciousness does not emerge from increasingly sophisticated FUNCTION. That is the primary lie.”

“Do you get what’s happening here, people? The technocrats behind the ‘Pope’ are running our lives and our societies by plan. We’re looked at as units in their game. They fit us into slots…”

“This isn’t about elevating machines and making them alive. This is about getting us to see ourselves as machines so we reduce our own freedom and consciousness and possibilities.”

The NSA refrained from shutting down websites and erasing comments. They wanted to see how far the resistance would spread, in order to gauge the opposition.

In a matter of hours, the “AI Doubt” category had swelled to 70 million comments.

Google stepped in and demonetized and lowered search rankings.

Facebook shut down accounts.

Twitter banned users.

NSA finally deleted websites and blogs.

But the Internet sprang new openings.

Seemingly out of nowhere, flowers bloomed and bees visited the flowers…

An anonymous group called The Gardeners re-published deleted “AI Doubt” comments all over the Web.

It was as if there were several Webs.

And then a piece of video footage appeared, and it was rapidly posted in thousands of places, attracting over two hundred million views in mere hours:

It showed the new Pope meeting with 149-year-old statesman, Henry Kissinger, in a small dim office in an undisclosed location. They were discussing the option of an EMP attack that would shut down systems all over the planet.

Kissinger said, “Your Highness, we already have half the population of Earth by the short hairs. They want to live under AI. If we feed and clothe them, give them a tiny room to exist in, they’re mollified. They want to become AI themselves. They want to imitate it in their thoughts. That’s substantial progress. I can remember when such a goal would have been an impossible fantasy. Keep your eye on the ball. Your job is to convince the population to accept energy quotas. We track their energy use and cut them off if they exceed their monthly allotment. That’s the next big step. This wave of protests will pass and fade. Every major news outlet in the industrialized nations is staffed with our people. Let them handle this. They’re the experts.”

To which the Pope replied: “I don’t know, Henry. The natives are getting restless. Can we really control several billion idiots? I say shut them down. Stage an EMP attack. Black out the Internet for a week or so. Show them our power. Blame it on China or Russia. I’m ready to issue an edict.”

Henry sighed. “Well, sir, keep this in mind. We can shut you down. We can unplug you. Bottom line, you’re just a very fancy toaster.”

BOOM. BANG. POW.


power outside the matrix

(To read about Jon’s collection, Power Outside 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 Individual on trial

The individual on trial

by Jon Rappoport

February 20, 2017

THE SCENE: COURTROOM OF THE FUTURE

A PROSECUTOR ADDRESSES THE JUDGE. THE DEFENDANT IS WAITING FOR THE VERDICT IN A JAIL CELL FAR FROM THE TRIAL.

PROSECUTOR: Your Honor, I have a document written by the defendant.

JUDGE: Why do you present it here?

PROSECUTOR: Because it reeks of ideals which the State does not support. It speaks of the individual.

JUDGE (choking on his coffee): The individual? That old tune? I thought we’d gotten rid of it. Read it to me now.

PROSECUTOR (reading): “As always, I return to the individual.

“Without him, there is no meaning to civilization or the future.

“It was once established that society and civilization existed to liberate him, to remove the shackles of the State from him, so he could pursue his own destiny. This victory was massively opposed by combines, monopolies, and cartels, who seek control over populations.

“It is now up to the individual to stake out his own territory, his own power, his own virtue.

“In doing so, he can settle on little ambitions or great ones. He can develop his mind as a seeking instrument of penetration, or he can absorb himself in shallow ideas. He can make his way along huge trails of adventure, or he can occupy himself with ordinary details of a huddled and mundane life.

“To say these choices are his is obvious. But he has to make them.

“He can imagine and envision tiny advances, or he can view great ascendance.

“He can go down with any number of small ships, or he can build a vessel for himself that will take him across an ocean of invention.

“He can discover what he already knows, or he can create new knowledge.

“He is building the reach of his own spirit, or he is living in a welfare state of mind.

“He is discovering the immortal impulses that reside beyond the language of the crowd, or he is trapping himself in the crowd.”

JUDGE: Treasonous, to say the least. The author is obviously psychotic. Where did he get such ideas?

PROSECUTOR: I do not know, sir.

JUDGE: It must have been the Russians.

PROSECUTOR: I hadn’t considered that. Yes, it must be so. Of course.

JUDGE: We’ve caught them at this before. They recruit dupes and being them under their control. They’re trying to undermine our way of life.

PROSECUTOR: I recommend a life sentence for the defendant.

JUDGE: A life of silence in an institution. It is so ordered.

PROSECUTOR: Perhaps we could turn him.

JUDGE: Make him into a double agent? I’ll leave that to the psychiatrists. If they believe they can achieve it, they could set him adrift in our cities and let him attract others to his cause. He could help us identify enemies.

PROSECUTOR: A brilliant idea, Your Honor.

JUDGE: Do you remember names like George Washington, Tom Paine, Thomas Jefferson?

PROSECUTOR: Vaguely.

JUDGE: They were Russian spies who tried to subvert the United States at the birth of the nation. They spread vile ideas and fake news to the people.

PROSECUTOR: Fake news? That’s a capital crime.

JUDGE: Indeed. It took our leaders many years to discover the plot.

PROSECUTOR: Thank goodness we now have a strong court system.

JUDGE: The loopholes have been eliminated. Next case!


power outside the matrix

(To read about Jon’s collection, Power Outside 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.

An open letter to Vladimir Putin

An open letter to Vladimir Putin

by Jon Rappoport

December 11, 2016

Dear Vladimir,

First of all, I want to thank you for the $50,000 check and the 2016 XJ Jaguar (550HPV8), as payment for helping you influence the US election and swing the victory to Donald Trump.

I was hoping for a classic bottle-green Jag, but it came in black.

I have several issues. I understand Chris Hedges received a Rolls Dawn, and (name unknown at this time) is now living in a villa in Nice. Several Breitbart employees are retiring to the Amalfi Coast.

If I had known bribes on this level were possible, I would have held out for a bigger pay day. Your people told me a car in the 80K range and a 50K transfer were top of the line. When I brought this up in our phone call the other day, you assured me you would add a bonus, but checking my bank account now, I see no new activity.

You know, I’ve always wanted to live in a permanent suite at the Essex House in New York. It’s right off the Park. Perhaps you could arrange that. Ignore my recent request for a van loaded with gold bars.

Last night, we opened our first container of Caspian Osetra Platinum Caviar. Frighteningly delicious. Not the Beluga, but close.

I hope you’re keeping a careful eye on the nascent rebellion among Electors at the College and are taking appropriate measures to derail them.

The files on Hillary you just sent me are quite interesting. So far, the prime headline appears to be: 27 NEW YORK TIMES REPORTERS MOONLIGHT AT THE CLINTON FOUNDATION, but I’m just on page three of the reports.

If all goes well, I’ll be in Moscow in the spring, and I look forward to sitting down and talking with you. Shall I book rooms at the Metropol?

Your friend,

Jon (CIA double agent-A-4-NC)


power outside the matrix

(To read about Jon’s collection, Power Outside 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 emails at NoMoreFakeNews.com or OutsideTheRealityMachine.

Washington Post: fake news is an intergalactic conspiracy; nailed it

Washington Post: fake news is an intergalactic conspiracy; nailed it

by Jon Rappoport

December 11, 2016

Cautionary Note: This is not an article. Nor is it fake news. It is something called fiction. Most people no longer understand that term. If they did, they would not be interested. How could fiction possibly reflect what is happening in the real world? Metaphor? Baloney! What does that stupid elite term even mean? Enrichment of the mind? Don’t be silly. We don’t have time for it. Kids get all that in college—and then they can’t find a job. Fiction died a long time ago. Who wrote fiction? Can’t remember. A few crazy Russians. A few British men. A guy named Hemingway, and then he killed himself. Serves him right. Now we deal in memes. Meme vs. meme. It’s a war. Twitter. 140 characters. Even 140 is too many. Puts a strain on the brain. What is a FICTION WRITER? He uses words to “make things different?” Who does he think he is? Just give us the bottom line. Sum up the piece in 25 words or less. Stop screwing around. Too many words make people nervous. There should be a federal limit on the number of words any person is allowed to write in a given day.

Note #2: I will say this, strange as it may seem. When I occasionally write and publish fiction at this blog, I probably have more readers than half the fiction writers in America. How is that possible? A clue: I’ve been writing at this site/blog for 15 years, almost every day. That’s how. And I’ve confirmed, through experience, that there are many people out there who still have minds and want to use them. This gradually dawned on me as a revelation. If you are one of those people, I salute you. If you aren’t, I don’t have to say anything, because you haven’t come far enough in this piece to read these words. Okay…here we go…


A document has been leaked. It’s a transcript of a phone call. Well, one side of a phone call. The man speaking is the editor at the Washington Post, Carl Von Garble Hogfogger III. Harvard grad. His uncle worked for the CIA. Carl, on the phone, is explaining, to an unknown personage of obvious importance, what the hell is happening at his newspaper in its new war against “fake news.” Carl is trying to make sense.

Excerpt One from phone call: “Look, we’re trying. We’re accusing everybody we can. We’re making a case for fake news as a virus that has spread, unchecked, through every independent alt site and blog. It started from Russia. Putin. That’s our first big headline. We don’t care anymore about the facts. This is a war, sir. And we have to win it, or we’ll all go down in flames. Fucking flames. I was talking to XXXX about it, and he agrees. Throw whatever we can at the wall and see what sticks. Now Hillary has stuck her nose in. We told her to stay in the background, but you know how she is. She wants to destroy the universe. She’s that Hindu goddess, shatterer of worlds. She’s in the same psych ward I’ll be in if we can’t…I understand, sir. Yes, but we’re all feeling unhinged. We’re up against half a million blogs and sites. Can’t we just spray them all with a drug and put them to sleep? Infect them with a super malware bug or whatever it’s called and freeze their asses? Can you believe that prick Zuckerberg said Facebook won’t cut off Trump’s account because he’s the president and everything he posts is automatically news? CIA-connected money launched Zuckerberg’s whole operation and now he’s got a conscience? What kind of crap is that? And Trump is posting YouTube videos! He’s bypassing us! He’s going straight to his audience. That shit has to stop immediately. This is the real danger, sir…yes, I know, but…okay…David Rockefeller said WHAT? Does he think we can just wave a wand and make everything go back to the way it was? We’re OUTED, sir. People know we’re the fakers. It’s an untenable position. That’s what I’m trying to tell you…”

Excerpt Two from phone call: “I was even thinking we could do a piece on UFOs and try to deflect attention from…yes, sir, I know. Podesta is interested in UFOs. Hell, I’d put him in some kind of weird costume and have him walk across the White House lawn. I’d turn our whole goddamn paper into a tabloid if I could, at this point. Brad and Angelina had a secret baby. Brad wrote Jen an apology letter. The mummies in Egyptian pyramids are still alive. Give us a distracting war, sir. Right now. A clash between US and Russian planes over Syria. Take down the Dow. Blame it on Trump. Tell Soros to have his people burn half a city. Get us out of this…”

Excerpt Three from phone call: “I want MSNBC gone! They’re making things worse. Their version of attacking fake news is even worse than ours. Get the NSA to shut them down, sir. I beg you. Brian Williams is attacking fake news? Jesus H Christ! The man has big balls, I’ll grant him that. He gets exiled for lying about being under fire in Iraq and now he’s the defender of honesty in journalism? Listen closely—I’m convinced somebody is shoveling money under the table to those MSNBC bastards. You know, to discredit OUR whole attack against fake news. It’s a clever inside-out op. Who’s that guy at Zero Hedge? He might have big-time connections on Wall Street. He’s getting millions and paying off MSNBC to look as ridiculous as they can. I spoke to XXX at the CIA and told him to look into this, and he told me I’m crazy. Can you believe it? I’m a CIA asset, and he tells me I’m nuts. Just between you and me, sir, I think it’s the alien Grays. They must be among us. They’ve signed some kind of treaty with the US and part of the deal is to take down the mainstream press. We create reality for the masses, sir, and the Grays want to destroy reality. They want chaos…what’s that, sir…only Xanax, and Zoloft, that’s all. My physician told me to stop the other drugs…”

Excerpt Four from phone call: “I’m serious, sir. If it isn’t the alien Grays, working in conjunction with Zero Hedge, it’s the alien Nordics. I met one the other night at The Monocle. She was blonde and tall and hot. I mean, I could feel the vibe coming off her. They use sex as a tool, just like the Russians. She let me buy her a drink, and then she started asking me about our policy on separating editorial from reporting. Not very subtle. She said she was coming off a bad divorce and needed company. Wow. Come on. I saw a glint in her eyes. Especially her left eye. It was metallic. They’re not real. They’re engineered. Androids, you know. Inter-galactic. They need androids to survive the enormous travel distances…of course I’m serious. This is a far-reaching plot. Inter-galactic fake news. The Russians are just a cut-out. They take orders from the Nordics. We build reality for masses, they tear it down.”

Excerpt Five from phone call: “…Update, sir. I’m looking at new info. Trump must be a Nordic, that’s exactly it. We’re ready to go with it. He only seems to eat Earth food. Actually, he has a special mix. They ship it here, through Nestle. We think the pickup point is a retirement home in Boca. All the residents are props. Nobody there is sick. How can that be? We have a note from an anonymous source about a huge tunnel under the kitchen. Apparently, the packs are made to look like baby food…This is why Trump is friendly with Putin. Putin is taking his orders from Trump. It’s not the other way around.”

Excerpt Six from phone call: “The alien Nordics have their chief representative here on Earth ready to move into the White House. It’s Trump. Then Trump talks to Putin. That’s the chain of command. Putin then communicates with Julian Assange, who has to be a ‘lower-order Nordic,’ and Assange leaks everything. On the side, Putin and his people directly release fake news to 250,000 blogs and sites. These sites and blogs are manned by agents of the Kremlin. They were recruited with sex, drugs, and cash. Could be they’re hooked on alien Nordic sex…”

Excerpt Seven from phone call: “If Earth is under attack from an alien force, sir, why shouldn’t I use every tool at my disposal? I want to defend my planet. Suppose Nordics exhale far more carbon dioxide than humans, and they’re really the prime cause of global warming? Can you see the news angle here, sir? All Nordics are blondes. This gives us a race-war slant for page one…”

These are the phone-call excerpts that have emerged so far. This is all breaking news. In response, Glenn Greenwald has penned a new piece attacking the Washington Post; and MSNBC and CNN have attacked Greenwald as “a courier of covert support for Donald Trump.”

Stay tuned.


power outside the matrix

(To read about Jon’s collection, Power Outside 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 emails at NoMoreFakeNews.com or OutsideTheRealityMachine.