AFTER LIFE

AUGUST 3, 2011. Fred passed away at home, at the age of 92.

A moment later, he found himself sitting in a prison cell. The walls were gray stone. He was sitting on a cot. He found himself thinking about his conspiracy library at home, a vast collection of over 5,000 books.

Fred had mastered the knowledge of secrets. During his life, he’d written many articles for small journals and sites about the inner workings of elites on planet Earth.

Fred had also come to know that these elites essentially manufactured reality for the eight billion inhabitants of the world. He understood this, and he also understood that the answer, the response, was to create one’s own reality.

Fred felt very comfortable in his understanding.

But now he was in a cell. He took this to be a station in Limbo.

He waited for some hours, and then a man wearing a gray suit walked up to the bars of the cell. Fred felt something odd. He quickly realized the man was really an android.

“You’re in an in-between place,” the android said.

“You’re manufactured, aren’t you?” Fred said.

The android nodded.

“That’s right. It’s quite a sophisticated process. I’m, you might say, an inch away from being human. But it’s a very important inch. You’re here because you stopped short.”

“Stopped short?” Fred said.

“During your life, you came to a peak of understanding. But you didn’t take the most important step. You didn’t imagine and create your own reality.”

“Well,” Fred said, “I understood that was what was necessary. It was very clear to me.”

“Yes, but you didn’t actually DO it.”

Fred thought about that. Briefly.

“I don’t believe I should be incarcerated for that,” he said. “After all, I grasped the idea of it. Very few people reach that stage.”

The android nodded.

“You’re using comprehension,” he said, “as a substitute for DOING.”

The android stared at Fred.

“I reject that argument,” Fred said.

“You can reject it all you want to. It makes no difference. I’m just telling you why you’re where you are. You have an opportunity that’s closed off to me. I can’t do what you can. And yet you sit there and remain as you are.”

In the next second, Fred saw the walls and bars of the prison cell vanish. He was now sitting alone in a vast studio. Light poured in through high windows. He looked for a door. There was none. But there were hundreds of blank canvases leaning against the walls, and on a very long table lay open boxes containing tubes of paints and brushes.

The android was gone.

Fred sat and paced for hours. He wondered whether anyone lived here, but how could that be? There were no doors.

He stretched out on the floor and tried to sleep, but he couldn’t.

It took him another few hours to realize he was being given the opportunity to paint.

Why should I, he thought. What would that prove? I already know what I know. That’s quite enough.

Fred half-expected those thoughts to trigger a change in the studio, but nothing happened. Nothing at all.

Fred lived in the studio for twelve years.

He didn’t paint. He deeply resented the fact that this choice was being forced on him.

Finally, one afternoon, after a short nap, Fred woke up and saw there was a door in the wall. He stood up and walked over to it. He hesitated for a long time.

He finally opened it. And he saw:

Nothing.

Literally, nothing.

It was a colorless shapeless spaceless nothing.

Well, he thought, I can walk into this…nothing, or I can stay in the studio and paint.

Fred is still standing there. He’s thinking.

No one can predict what will happen.

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

IN THE SHRINK’S OFFICE

AUGUST 3, 2011. John Doe, citizen, went to his therapist’s office for his regular Wednesday appointment.

The therapist sat back in his swivel chair and stared at John.

“You look terrible,” he said. “What happened?”

John nodded, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and said, “I had a dream last night and it shook me up. I don’t even like remembering it.”

“A dream?” the therapist said. “That’s good. Tell me about it.”

“Well, I was on a game show, and the host was this horrible man. I mean, he was very nice, but it was what what he did…after I answered all the questions correctly. He said I should choose a door, and behind it there would be a prize. So I glanced behind him, and all of a sudden the walls of the studio were all doors. I don’t know how many. And every door had the same sign on it. IMAGINATION.”

The therapist leaned forward and let out a groan.

“My God,” he said. “That IS horrible. What did you do?”

“Do? What could I do? I was paralyzed. I couldn’t move a finger.”

“Yes, well,” the therapist said, “I can understand that. Look, this calls for medication. We have to take drastic action. I’m going to write you a prescription for Theragon.”

“What’s that?” John said.

“It’s experimental,” the therapist said. “First of all, it returns your mind to a completely normal state. I’ve had very good luck with it. And then, within a day or two, it adjusts your cosmological impulse.”

“Say again?” John said. “Cosmological?”

“Yes. It goes after your synapses and opens them up. We don’t entirely understand this part of the process, but essentially, it puts your brain in touch with every other brain on the planet. And then your brain adopts whatever the average is.”

“The average of what?” John said.

“Of what all other brains believe about reality itself.”

“And that’ll help?”

“Of course! You’ll automatically click into a state of very comfortable knowing. And, best of all, you’ll never face that stark choice again.”

“The choice of doors in the dream.”

“Correct.”

“I’ll never have to…”

“You won’t,” the therapist said. “You won’t even think about that. It won’t show up on your radar.”

John Doe nodded.

“It sounds wonderful,” he said.

“Yes,” therapist said. “Once the drug is approved for wide use, we’re going to push for universal use. We want it placed in all water supplies.”

On the fourth day after he started the drug. John was sitting in a little cafe near the office where he worked. He was eating a turkey sandwich. Suddenly, he felt as if he’d just slipped into a bath of warm water. He looked around the restaurant. A waitress was standing near the coffee machine. She looked at him and smiled, walked over to his table and put down a dish of vanilla ice cream with a cherry on the top. The scoop of ice cream rested in a bed of chocolate and lemon sprinkles.

“Thanks!” John said. “I was just thinking of ordering that for dessert.”

“I know,” the waitress said. “Welcome to the club.”

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

THE BIG DIG

AUGUST 2, 2011. An archeology professor finally put it together.

He knew where it was.

On a Thursday afternoon, he went to his bank in Brooklyn with a Glock 19 in his coat pocket.

After strolling into the vault where his safety deposit box was, accompanied by a teller, he took out the gun and told her to close the vault door.

She said, “I can’t. I don’t know how.”

The professor took out his cell and made a call to the bank manager and told him he was holding the teller hostage, and he demanded the manager shut the vault door.

After a few minutes, it swung closed, and the professor and the teller were alone.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not going to hurt you. I just need a little privacy for a few minutes.”

He paced around the room looking at the floor. He saw a patch of worn concrete near the far wall.

“You’ve been having trouble with that, haven’t you?” he said.

She nodded. “Yes, it tends to crumble. We don’t know why.”

The professor put his foot on the patch. It started to give way.

“It’s soft,” he said.

He stomped on it, hard, three times.

It collapsed with a roar.

There was now a round hole, and a short staircase.

He went down the stairs and found himself in a tiny stone cave. On a shelf, there was a large volume bound in what looked like calfskin. He opened the book.

The handwriting was Sanskrit.

He read the opening words out loud, translating into English.

“I am the poet. It’s raining outside and so I’m starting a long poem. It will have all manner of ideas in it, because sometimes I like ideas. Retribution, for instance. A thing I’ve invented called karma. Then there is also my invention called God, and a condition of ultimate and final and bizarre knowing I made up in which a person melts into a clarified butter of All Consciousness, and thus finds the end of the road which I call Enlightenment, after which there is no more action, only existing. And what else? Salvation. A minor idea I cooked up last year. And what was that other idea I concocted while I was drunk last week? Dharma, I called it. Truth, wasn’t that what I said it meant? The final truth. After which there is no need for more truth. And heaven, a hypnotic spot in the woods with unappetizing songs. Yes. So I’ll fold all these ideas into one long poem, and who knows who’ll read it and what they’ll do with it? But I should say, at the outset, that I don’t intend for any of this to be taken seriously, any more seriously than, say, a great storm in the sky. I’m a poet. I always stand at the beginning of things, which is to say I imagine what hasn’t been imagined before, like any good poet. I invent on a fresh tablet or page. I’m ALWAYS beginning. I’m always beginning, with every line. I may use, but I don’t rely on, what I’ve already written. I don’t rely on lives I’ve lived in the past. I don’t care what other people think reality is. I may write about all sorts of higher powers, but that’s just a conceit of image, you might say. It’s a way of carving a territory that wasn’t around before. It’s a poem. I write many poems. Thousands and thousands of them.”

The professor smiled and nodded.

He thought, I may catch a little hell, but so what?

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

THE INVENTION THAT WASN’T THERE

AUGUST 1, 2011. Martin Frxx was working on a grant from the National Foundation for Progress. In his studio in a small town in Ohio, he was building something made out of stones and fire.

However, quite soon the stones and fire, as he put it, changed places. This was a remarkable occurrence. Frxx hadn’t planned things that way, but he accepted them.

When two examiners from the Foundation came to his studio to check his progress, they stood in front of his work table and shook their heads.

“There’s nothing there,” said the first examiner.

“And if there were,” said the second, “I’m sure it wouldn’t be symmetrical.”

Frxx scratched his head.

“I’m not following either of you,” he said. “There it is.”

“There is what?” the first examiner said.

“A Frxx plus.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a mirror of myself. But it’s different.”

“Try that again,” the first examiner said.

Frxx cleared his throat. He spoke for a few minutes. But as far as the examiners were concerned, nothing came out of his mouth.

They frowned at each other and left the studio.

Frxx recognized he had a problem. He sat down and wrote a letter to the Foundation:

“…I must caution you that your two examiners who visited me today have changed. They may not know it, and you may not observe it, but they are imbued with something new. How long it will take them to understand what has happened is anybody’s guess. A year? Ten years? Thirty years? The fact that they saw nothing on my work table is evidence of what I can only call a profound distinction. No one can come away from that essential bifurcation and remain unaffected…”

A week later, an older man came to visit Frxx. He said he wasn’t from the Foundation, he was an inspector attached to “Intell Central.”

Frxx welcomed him.

The man stood before the work table and said, “I don’t see anything, either, but I admit the possibility that something is there.”

Frxx nodded. “That’s an improvement,” he said.

“Can you describe it?” the inspector said.

Frxx shook his head.

“I don’t have the language for it. Any words I might use would be misleading. You would infer the wrong thing.”

The inspector said, “Can it be sold?”

“Well,” Frxx said, “I suppose it could, in a general sense, but what it actually is can’t enter the market. It has no place there. It only operates in the territory of the mind.”

“How so?”

“It changes interior reality.”

“In what way?”

“It introduces a new kind of thought. Not a new thought. A new kind.”

“Then,” the inspector said, “it should be destroyed.”

“Why?”

“It’s destabilizing.”

Frzz nodded. This was true.

“You could try to destroy it,” he said, “but I don’t think you’ll succeed.”

“Oh, we’ll succeed,” the inspector said. “We’ll take the back-door approach. We’ll fortify all present kinds of thought. Build them up to such fearsome strength that they’ll continue to dominate and construct things as they are.”

Frxx considered this.

“It’s not the first time you’ve come across an invention like mine,” he said.

The inspector smiled.

“Heavens no. It’s happened thirty or forty times in the last decade. That’s why I don’t dismiss you out of hand.”

“If you don’t mind,” Frxx said, “I’d like to know how you fortify all the existing kinds of thought.”

“Certainly,” the inspector said. “We spray a unique substance in the atmosphere. You might say it’s OUR invention. It multiplies the power of EXISTENCE. And you can take that at any level. The EXISTENCE of objects, of Nature, of people, of society, of information, of energy, of universe. Most of all, universe. And of pattern behind universe. Ultimate pattern. It increases the power of all these elements.”

“Ultimate pattern?”

“Yes. We know what that is, and we fortify it.”

“And as a result?” Frxx said.

“Every person on the face of the Earth increases his attachment to EXISTENCE at ALL LEVELS. And increases his desire to explore and feel and understand EXISTENCE.”

“And this works?” Frxx said.

“Look around you,” the inspector said. “How many people really care about anything else?”

“So,” Frxx said, “you know then that there is something else. A different KIND of something else.”

“Yes, and your invention promotes it. It promotes imagination.”

The inspector shook his head and walked out of the studio.

Frxx stood at his window for a while. He realized the inspector was right. His invention was…a silent whisper that reminded a person he had the power to invent, well, universes. Along side which, this universe and everything it contained or implied was only one EXISTENCE. And probably a mild one at that.

The invention of radically different kinds of universes was possible. And so was the invention of Xs that weren’t really universes or systems at all. What they were he had no words for.

Frxx sat down at his table and opened his notebook. He began to write. His first sentence was:

THE COSMOS IS A FORGERY OF THE INDIVIDUAL.

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

A THESIS BASED ON SEVERAL EXPERIMENTS

AN INTRODUCTION

JULY 30, 2011. This is just a prelude to a much wider discussion.

I have written articles about new types of languages, and I will make another stab at it here.

[…]

[Link to full article.]

JON REQUESTS INFORMATION

JULY 28, 2011. Long-time readers out there will recall that, in the old days, I used to send out email newsletters every Friday. They were for paid subscribers.

After a computer crash and several changes of hosting groups, they were gone. I’m looking for them now.

We’ve retrieved some from several sources, including my CD product called INFOMONSTER, but there are many others.

If you have saved the newsletters (or some of them), please contact me at:

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

As always, I appreciate your help.

Jon

www.nomorefakenews.com

ENTERTAINMENT MAGIC

JULY 27, 2011. No, I’m not talking about movies or television. I’m talking about people who search out material that is supposedly about magic—and then sit back and watch it AS IF it were a movie at the multiplex.

It’s all part of the ever-increasing wave of spectatorship that dominates the world.

Whereas, in fact, magic is something you DO.

It can even be described by a loose equation.

Magic=the intense deployment of imagination over a long and sustained period of time which, as a side effect, yields up paranormal abilities.

But historical research does not offer that equation to scholars interested in magic. Instead, it’s all about rituals and ceremonies, arcane symbols and initiations, costumes and hats, myths, fairy tales, and legends. In other words, entertainment.

Something viewed from a comfortable distance. Something weird.

In fact, magic is about future. Future imported into the present.

The permanent commitment to normal perception of normal reality is the basic refutation of the possibility of magic, and that’s interesting, because it tells us what stands between a person and the paranormal.

A game.

“I can see normal reality and only normal reality in a normal way forever—so now prove to me that magic exists.”

“I’ll sit in a wheelchair if I have to, to avoid climbing the mountain and reaching the top—so now prove to me there is a top in the clouds.”

It’s a game.

And most people know how to play it well.

As well as they know how to avoid deploying their imagination.

Even artists know how to downplay their imaginations.

The exclusion of imagination is like starving people circling a table laid out with a feast and never picking up a single morsel off a plate. You could even shove their faces into the food and they’d refuse to open their mouths.

“I have no TALENT for eating.”

“I’ve forgotten how to eat.”

“Do I use a fork?”

“Is there a manual I can consult?”

And finally:

“Let someone else eat for me. I’ll watch them. I’ll enjoy it.”

Entertainment.

It turns out that civilization isn’t principally sustained by people coping, on and on, with normal reality. It’s sustained by bursts of imagination.

And that creates a problem, because if .00000001 of one percent of the people live through and by imagination, everyone else stagnates.

And then it doesn’t really matter what system is promoted as the very best system. The decline sharpens.

The counter-weight to elite control and fascism disintegrates.

Suppose a director created a movie which, somehow, miraculously, by its very nature, made every member of the audience leave the theater with the IRRESISTIBLE impulse to make his own movie, come hell or high water.

Then you would really have something.

Well, there are many movies like that, if you subtract the word “irresistible.” There is much art like that.

The tonnage of inspiration art brings to the table is shocking.

And so is the force of resistance against it.

And if you open up the definition of art to mean the invention of new realities, you can see how widely the refusal extends.

The force of it, though, is really nothing more than an indifferent shrug. Which, as a painter once said to me, vanished completely the first time he laid a brush to a canvas. In one second, his life transformed.

That’s magic.

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefaknews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

DR. ANDREW WAKEFIELD MY GUEST

ON RADIO NEXT WEDNESDAY

7PM ET

www.ProgressiveRadioNetwork.com

JULY 22, 2011. This promises to be an explosive interview. Dr. Wakefield produced a firestorm 13 years ago, when he published findings on children who had developed very serious problems following MMR (measles, mumps, rubella) vaccination.

The whole of England was captured by the story, and parents began to suspect the vaccine was connected to autism.

The establishment struck back.

Eventually, the medical journal that published Wakefield’s findings, Lancet, retracted his paper, Wakefield’s license to practice medicine was revoked, and he was widely accused of fraud.

Now, we have the suggestion that Wakefield’s findings were actually predated by similar discoveries made by two other doctors (they are also frauds?), as well as accusations that an element within Rupert Murdoch’s media empire went after Wakefield, in order to preserve the reputation of vaccines in England.

The Wakefield chapter in the history of vaccines is not yet done. It may, in fact, have many more pages.

Tune in Wednesday, July 27, at 7pm Eastern Time.

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

LOGIC AND PSYCHIATRY

JULY 19, 2011. First, an appeal to long-time readers. Back in the day, I offered a product called INFOMONSTER. It was a CD that contained miles of my work. I need it now for a project in the making. If you have one, please contact me at qjrconsulting@gmail.com

Okay.

One of the basic rules of logic is: define your terms. This particularly applies to science. We can talk all day, but if we don’t know what the basic words and terms mean, we’re hopelessly lost.

To get rigorous, a further step is needed when it comes to scientific definition: how did you arrive at it? Where did the definition come from? What experiments were done to support it?

IF YOU ARE A SCIENTIFIC PROPAGANDIST, which is a whole other game, involving deception—you often have to PRETEND to have clear and good definitions of terms.

That’s your job. You’re not doing science, you’re persuading people. You’re trying to slip vague terms past them. You’re claiming these terms are very useful. You’re claiming they represent breakthroughs.

In short, you’re saying non-science is science.

Think about this. In the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual), which is the bible of the psychiatric profession, there are 297 separate mental disorders, each one with its own name and definition.

The DSM is offered as a highly useful map. But where does it lead?

As I’ve explained and documented in prior articles (click here and here and here), not one of these 297 disorders is diagnosed by a biological or chemical test of any kind. No such tests exist.

Instead, lists of behaviors form the basis for the disorder-labels, which are hashed out by committee.

This would be comparable to physicists sitting down in a room and deciding, by debate, whether electrons are real.

So, in psychiatry, we have a new kind of language, and this language claims to be science.

We have 297 new terms, which are used in very strange ways.

They are said to refer to actual mental (brain) malfunctions, and yet there is no proof offered.

Bipolar. Clinical depression. ADHD. ADD. Oppositional Defiance Disorder. Labels—but no unambiguous diagnostic tests.

So how does the propagandist proceed? He uses the fact that people experience quite real suffering, confusion, and pain, and he implies that the 297 mental-disorder labels a) cover the waterfront of human anguish and b) break up the territory of that anguish into distinct sub-areas.

By doing this, he achieves a bonanza for the profession of psychiatry. It works.

A parent will say, “My child lacks focus. He can’t concentrate. He fidgets all the time. There is something wrong. I’m upset, I can’t figure out what to do with him.”

On this foundation of fact, the propagandist builds a little castle in the air called ADHD. And the parent accepts the term as a real designation for her child, because it seems to provide an answer in four quick letters: ADHD. And those letters are pronounced by a licensed “professional” with great surety.

But on looking closer, we see that “ADHD” is a stretching of language. It is a term that claims to be science, and yet no scientific proof is offered. It is supposed to be shining a spotlight on the activity of the brain, but there is no common-denominator brain malfunction among all the millions of children diagnosed with ADHD.

ADHD is promoted as a discrete and real THING, but there is no evidence that such a thing exists at all.

I have pointed this out many times to parents, and the usual response is, “But if ADHD isn’t real, then why is my child out of control?”

This response testifies to the power and success of the propaganda. The parent can’t even imagine that her child’s difficulty could exist UNLESS IT HAS A NAME, A TITLE, A LABEL.

It’s as if a person can’t believe he owns a car unless he thinks of it as a VW or a Honda or a Chevy. Without one of those labels, the car doesn’t exist.

Consider this statement: Many years ago, after much trial and error, humans finally learned how to fly. Planes were built. They got off the ground. This is the way science works. Through experiments. In the same way, scientists have, so far, discovered 297 mental disorders. These disorders are caused by brain malfunctions, and they all have names.

A completely false analogy.

But once you have the 297 mental-disorder labels in your pocket, you can then work backwards and analyze human behavior and apply those labels to aspects of it.

And once you do that, people want to hold on to those labels. They want to wear them. They want “the treatment,” but just as important, they want to know what label they fit into.

Which of these statements do you think a parent would accept more readily?

One: Your child’s ADHD may actually be caused by a serious nutritional deficit, which can be remedied.

Two: Your child doesn’t have ADHD, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Nobody has ADHD. It doesn’t exist. Your child may well have a nutritional deficit, and this can be corrected.

Obviously, One is the preferred statement. It keeps the label. That label has acquired great value.

It has great value, in concrete terms, for pharmaceutical companies, too, because they can sell a drug to “treat the label.” For every one of the 297 labels, there are several drugs.

The label has great value for the psychiatrist, as well, because he can make a diagnosis. He can then write the prescription that leads to the drug. If he couldn’t do these two things, he would be out of business.

“What do you do for a living?”

“People come to my office and I apply labels to them. The labels are fictions. I then use those fictions to dispense drugs.”

To close the circle of propaganda, you would have something like this: “Well, some serious charges are being brought against psychiatry here. I think we need an expert opinion. Let’s talk to a professional in the field, a psychiatrist, and see what he thinks.”

Which is, of course, how the low-IQ major media operate.

This is the living equivalent of what, in logic, is called a circular argument. First, self-appointed authorities invent and apply the labels. Second, to confirm these labels are based on anything real, reporters consult the same authorities, who offer arrogant assurance they’re doing actual science.

Media consider this a valid way to do journalism.

If it’s valid, my uncle’s pet parakeet is flying to the moon in a model airplane.

JON RAPPOPORT

An investigative reporter for 30 years, Jon is the author of an 18-lesson course, LOGIC AND ANALYSIS. To learn more about the course, click here.

Jon is the associate producer on a film in progress, American Addict, detailing the effects of pharmaceuticals on the US population.

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

NEW STRATEGY IN THE NUTRITION WARS!

JULY 19, 2011. Well, well. We might just have something here!

A few days ago, I wrote a piece (link) detailing the current threat to nutritional supplements posed by:

the FDA NIDA Guidelines 2011,

the Food Safety Modernization Act 2011,

and the new Dick Durbin bill now in committee (S.1310 – Dietary Supplement Labeling Bill 2011).

I suggested strategies. One was: contact nutritional companies you do business with as a customer, and demand action on their part.

These companies are apparently convinced everything is all right and their trade organizations and lobbyists are doing a swell job representing them in Washington.

So one reader took me up on my suggestion. She called a supplement company and had an unpleasant conversation with a rep, who told her, guess what?

These matters are handled by nutritional trade organizations, and the Durbin bill is no threat, and she, the customer, is succumbing to scare tactics.

Really?

So my suggestion to her (and to you) is this: call your favorite nutritional company, and if you get such bland assurances, write an OPEN LETTER TO THAT NUTRITIONAL COMPANY and email it out far and wide and post it somewhere. In the letter, demand that the company explain exactly HOW AND WHY new FDA regulations, the Food Safety Law, and the Durbin bill are NO THREAT to them or us. Get it?

I have a feeling this would stir some action and finally open up the can of worms that has been festering under the surface.

As in: let’s drag the debate out in the open. Let’s put cards on the table. You bring your experts, I’ll bring mine.

Because you see, as far as I can tell, the main problem here is that the immediate targets of the FDA, Durbin, and the new Food Safety law—WHICH ARE THE NUTRITIONAL COMPANIES—don’t see this as a problem. Or don’t want to.

And as long as those companies are resting secure in their illusory nook, our side in the war is going to be at a major disadvantage.

Now, if you follow my advice, email me with specifics and details. I want to know how it’s working.

Click here for my prior article on the subject.

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com