Not in our genes/the imagination machine

by Jon Rappoport

September 18, 2018

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I once had a geneticist tell me, “You know, we’re going to discover the genes for promiscuity, for anti-social behavior, for compassion, for obesity, hair-loss, anger, and fear. We’re going to discover the genes for everything.”

He said this with the kind of authority only a scientist can muster…based on no proof at all. Zero proof. It’s a talent, to be able to impart blather and make it sound like experimental evidence.

As a reporter for 30 years, I’ve spent much time exposing how medical, political, economic, and social realities are imposed on populations, on people. But here’s an odd question and and an even odder answer:

Who are “people?”

Answer: Most people are secret agents.

Their mission? To disguise—first and foremost, from themselves—the fact that they have enormous imagination and creative ability.

Achieving this concealment is on the order of blocking out the sun.

It is a complex task of deception. The pretense is multi-layered. One line of defense goes like this: I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT. ME? I’M JUST AN ORDINARY PERSON.

Yes, an ordinary person cast in a role in a stage play.

Let’s say I’m the director. “Okay, I’ve cast you in the role.. Now I want you to assume all the characteristics of an average guy. You understand? I don’t want any leaks or cracks. You character has to be bulletproof. You grasp what is ordinary, and you are totally ignorant when it comes to what is extraordinary. Got it? MOST OF ALL, YOUR CHARACTER MUST BE DEVOID OF IMAGINATION. Do you think you can handle that?”

People do handle it all the time, and they do it beautifully. Brilliantly.

They have their lines down cold. No matter what you throw at them, they can fend it off and leave the impression, for you and for themselves, that they don’t know anything about imagination.

For them, imagination is a car in a garage under a thousand tons of concrete and steel. They will never drive it.

They can walk and talk, they can accomplish tasks, they can be entertained, they can have fun, they can even think and solve problems, but they can’t create anything. That’s their gig. Their role.

There are a whole lot of people who believe ordinary humans are ordinary because it’s in their genes; some people are dealt good genes and some aren’t. This is completely false. It’s not a question of genes.

Genes are a story that’s told to keep everyone in the dark.

The real and true story is about imagination. When you think about it, the ability to cast one’s self in the role of “ordinary human” is a fantastic act of imagination. It’s strange, because, essentially, a human being is using his imagination TO DENY HE HAS ANY IMAGINATION. He’s creating the role. He’s imagining that role and fitting himself into it.

Why in the world would he do that?

Well, there are lots of answers to that question, but the real proof comes when a person you would never think had any imagination whatsoever emerges from the swamp and becomes intensely creative. I’ve seen that many times, and it’s extraordinary.

He was playing the role of Ordinary Person in the stage play…and then he was gone from that play and that role…and he was quite, quite different.

And from that point on, his life was never the same.

I’ve been painting for 50 years now. I’ve had some interesting experiences with people who look at my work. The work isn’t realistic at all. My paintings are what people like to call abstract. I’m not sure what that means, except the paintings don’t look like what you see on the street or in your living room.

Once, a man gazed at some paintings of mine in my studio and said, “I have no idea what this is. It doesn’t make any sense to me at all.”

He was an intelligent fellow, but he was completely put off by the pictures. For some reason, I suddenly felt I could get him to understand.

So I said, “I’m going to try a little experiment with you, okay? Will you play along for a minute? Imagine you do understand the paintings.”

It was a moment, and everything happened to be poised in the right way.

He turned away from me and looked at the paintings again.

He started perspiring. Within a few seconds, his face was covered in sweat.

He grinned and started laughing.

He turned back to me.

“How did you know?” he said.

I just shook my head.

Essentially, he was asking me how I knew he could offload his act as ordinary person and plug into his imagination all of a sudden.

This moment had nothing to do with my work. It had everything to do with him dropping his hold on the fictional role in which his comprehension was narrowly set in stone.

He had just imagined his way out of that role. He imagined he could understand something entirely foreign to him…and so he could.

This man was a chemist. For 40-some-odd years he had pretended he could only navigate within a range of information…and all of a sudden he pretended he could step outside that range. And it worked like a charm.

A bubble of enclosed reality burst.

It isn’t just that people enter the stage play by inventing roles in which they have no imagination. No, the PLAY ITSELF has this central theme. The play is all about life without imagination. The whole drama moves forward on that basis.

If that cover story is blown, and all the secret agents emerge out of their cocoons, well, then, we would really have something.

We would have, among other things, an endless proliferation of realities, and freedom will then have true meaning…


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.

America on trial

by Jon Rappoport

August 13, 2018

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These words—Socialism and Globalism—are a mystery to most people. What do they mean? Why do they matter?

They matter because, behind the mask, they indicate massive centralized power at the top of the food chain. They aren’t “movements on behalf of the people.” They aren’t “humanitarian solutions to our problems.”

The massive power I refer to consists of governments, mega-corporations, banks, foundations, and technocrats working together, colluding, cooperating, planning a future of control over the world population.

Before he was killed in the shoot-down of Korean Airlines Flight 007 (1983), Congressman Larry McDonald stated: “The drive of the Rockefellers and their allies is to create a one-world government combining supercapitalism and Communism under the same tent, all under their control… Do I mean conspiracy? Yes, I do. I am convinced there is such a plot, international in scope, generations old in planning, and incredibly evil in intent.”

Rep. Louis T. McFadden, Congressional Record, 72nd Congress, 1st session, June 10, 1932; McFadden served as Chairman of the United States House Committee on Banking and Currency: “Mr. Chairman, when the Federal Reserve Act was passed the people of the United States did not perceive that a world system was being set up here which would make the savings of an American school-teacher available to a narcotic-drug vendor in Macao. They did not perceive that the United States was to be lowered to the position of a coolie country which has nothing but raw materials and heavy goods for export. That Russia was destined to supply man power and that this country was to supply financial power to an international superstate—a superstate controlled by International bankers and international industrialists acting together to enslave the world for their own pleasure.”

THAT is Socialism/Globalism. It isn’t a revolution by and for “the downtrodden.”

To get a flavor of what would happen to the United States under such a system, read on:

SCENE: COURTROOM OF THE FUTURE

THE ROOM IS EMPTY, EXCEPT FOR THE PROSECUTOR AND THE JUDGE.

Prosecutor: Your Honor, is there a representative of America here today?

Judge: No need to look for one. We can proceed.

Prosecutor: Very well. I wish to say that the country known as America was always a fiction.

Judge: Why?

Prosecutor: Because borders are artificial and arbitrary.

Judge: Indeed. Who set them? It was all rubbish.

Prosecutor: Second, why should any separate nation have the right to exist? We now understand we are all one planet, one nation if you will.

Judge: I appreciate you bringing that up. It’s been decades since anyone with half a brain believed we could carve up planet Earth into separate sovereign countries. With one planet, under one leadership, there can be no more wars.

Prosecutor: And third, the fiction called America was designed to maximize individual freedom and the individual’s control over his own life. This is an unworkable and heinous concept. It led to massive inequalities. Now, every citizen is equal and contributes to the whole.

Judge: Of course. I work for you, you work for me, and we work for everyone. “Everyone all together”—that is our framework. Worldwide production of goods and services, and their allotted consumption, are regulated from Brussels. No one stands out.

Prosecutor: Our global leaders in Brussels are unidentified. No names or pictures are released. The cult of personality is finished.

Judge: After all, if you are using the awesome power of artificial intelligence to regulate the actions of seven billion people, why do you need to become known and famous? You’re doing basic organization. You’re a manager, a technologist.

Prosecutor: This thing called America had a document called the Constitution. Jurists constantly referred to it. Over time, it became an annoyance and a major impediment to progress. How can you pay legal homage to centuries-old concepts when conditions are constantly changing and improving? The human mind itself is evolving.

Judge: Putting the Constitution in mothballs was a major victory for us.

Prosecutor: America eventually reached a point where many “special needs groups” made their demands known. That was a signal more extensive government services were required. Why even call the country America? We were a social-justice construct, part of a global phenomenon.

Judge: In order to fulfill needs properly, the great corporations and government had to close ranks and merge. There was no other way. Thank goodness, it was the end of the free market and capitalism and all that clap-trap. Small businesses went the way of the dodo bird. Every person now has a job, and that job is performed under the aegis of the government-corporate nexus, as a civil employee, in service to EVERYONE.

Prosecutor: Sir, I petition this court to officially declare America defunct.

Judge: Motion granted.

Prosecutor: I further request that, since we have progressed far beyond the point of thinking of ourselves as a separate nation, there is no need to mark this occasion with a ceremony. It would be counter-productive. The former capital, Washington DC, is already shorn of its monuments and is basically a National Security Agency data-storage facility. Let us merely notify Brussels that a verdict has been rendered. They will enter it in their computers and that will be the end of it.

Judge: I agree. It is so ordered. Thank you for your service.

Prosecutor: This is my last case. I’ve just received a notice that I’m being assigned as a first-tier manager at the new Utah public works complex.

Judge: Congratulations. What are they building there in Utah?

Prosecutor: A huge training facility for UN peacekeepers. It’s a ten-year project. Quite remarkable. It will house several hundred thousand people from all over the world.

Judge: Marvelous. We must keep the peace…

—end of courtroom scene—-

You could say this scenario is science fiction. And for the moment, it is. But for how long? If you’re old enough, think back to what life was like in America 35 years ago, 50 years ago. And then think about what life in America is like now. Tremendous changes have taken place, on many fronts. If a person living in the US 50 years ago were suddenly rocketed into 2018, he would be staggered by what he saw and heard.

This is how the future happens. To the people living through it, the changes, year by year, seem incremental. But they aren’t.

Unless the freedom and primacy of the individual survive, the courtroom scene above could happen—and most people would take it in stride.

Make no mistake about it, the individual IS the target. He is the unpredictable wild card in the deck. The technocratic planners know their algorithms don’t work when there are too many independent individuals. So they must make them willing “units” on the planetary chessboard.

I write for the individual. I always have, and I always will.

My daily articles, at bottom, are meant to educate and empower the individual; and my three Matrix collections are a much further leap in that direction.

The fundamental power of the individual is creative. This power is rarely, if ever, tapped in the education system. Why? Because the power is all about the individual being able to create the future he most profoundly desires.

Many, many individuals doing just that would crack the foundations of the Globalist/Socialist plan.

Individual creative power IS the vaunted “philosopher’s stone” the ancient alchemists were seeking; that power IS the goal of centuries of struggle to liberate the individual from monarch and priest-class tyrannies; that power is what the founding of the American Republic was all about.

Because that power is what freedom is for.

Freedom is the platform and the space from which the individual launches his best and deepest vision.

He makes that vision fact in the world.

Some of these individual visions tap into vast reservoirs of energy that defy and surpass the so called natural laws of physics…

The implied Abundance is so huge it cracks the current reality egg and brings us into a quite different future.

How many individuals can handle that? We will see. We do know that the Collective can’t handle it at all. The Collective is a complete fiction based on the pretense of unanimity and the consent to be “taken care of” by Those Who Rule.


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 individual vs. the reality machine

by Jon Rappoport

July 31, 2018

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Technocratic mystics believe (or pretend to believe) that hooking up brains to a super-computer Cloud will bring on a miracle:

Humans will have instantaneous access to truth, facts, and bottom lines on any subject under the sun. The connection will be automatic.

Putting aside the vast neurological problems in achieving this fantastical hookup, the whole assumption is cockeyed, because censorship is actually the guiding principle.

“We will tell you everything you need to know and exclude everything we decide you shouldn’t think about.”

In other words, the brain-Cloud hookup is major media to the nth degree. Piles of nonsense, deception, omission, lies, and official stories. Mind control.

No need for tech giants like Google and Facebook to de-list, hide, and warn about “dangerous information.” It will be erased.

If that’s a miracle, it’s diabolical.

The brain-Cloud connection would constitute a Reality Machine in action, turning out reams of fabricated falsities, thereby building a landscape of perception which is a self-referential bubble.

You would see the shapes of a society that has been created for you.

Estimates of the approaching power of computers are based on their capacity to process information; nothing more. It’s absurd to infer a computer that can process faster than the human brain will be possessed of greater truth. Is a plane whose payload is bombs more truthful than a Piper Cub?

No, something else is going on here. The preposterous “utopia” of brain-computer merge is a front and a cover for the agenda of turning humans into machines. In that regard, the brain would be the Holy Grail. Make it into a slave that produces a chosen reality of perception and thought…

At that point, the individual would go the way of the dinosaur. Which is the whole point of technocracy.

As I keep saying, in any plan that seeks to encompass the whole human race, the individual is the wild card. He has the capacity to see through false realities; and more than that, he can, on his own, invent new unforeseen realities of startling dimensions. This power may be latent, but it is there.

Some 50 years after my collaboration with an extraordinary healer in New York, Richard Jenkins—whom I write about in my book, The Secret Behind Secret Societies—I assembled my collection, Exit From The Matrix. It contains many imagination exercises designed to acquaint individuals with more of this latent power, first-hand.

Life on Earth has been distorted through many lenses over time; and the latest of these lenses involves the promotion of technology to impart the idea that humans can “evolve to a higher stage” by merging their brains with computers.

This is a sham.

Computers can offer us many things; but deeper perception of the truth by automatic reflex, and increased creative power via stimulus-response, are not on the list.

The rejection of that future is a cardinal necessity.

Technocracy is failed mind control

Whether we know it or not, like it or not, want it or not, we are engaged in a struggle, and that struggle concerns the individual human spirit—understanding it, experiencing it, defending it against attacks.

The spirit isn’t some vague ghost or apparition. It’s front and center, even in this blind world. It animates action. It has great power. It defies reduction.

The spirit proliferates thought and vision. It doesn’t settle for simplistic harmonies. It isn’t a happy-happy rainbow. It isn’t a child’s fairy tale.

You aren’t a brain.

If you were your brain, freedom wouldn’t exist and we could all pack it up and go home and forget about life and the future.

Therefore, no super brain computer is going to supply you with freedom. It’s going to enforce automatic reflexes based on somebody’s algorithms.

Technocracy is all about “best answer.” It’s a fairy tale in which all humans go along with a master plan—people submitting to a program about how to perceive reality. This complex program is devised to hide the fact that the individual can invent new reality on a radical scale.

That is how the projection of mass reality is achieved: by spreading amnesia about the capacity of every individual human to create without limit.

Technocracy is a mirror of that amnesia.

Technocracy is a surrender to that amnesia. It’s a blockbuster movie loaded with special effects that hide its paucity of real ideas.

Our response depends on our understanding and conviction about what we are. Free and intensely creative beings, or sub-machines connected to the Big Machine.


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.

Engineering perception for “the new world”

by Jon Rappoport

July 19, 2018

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The primary feature of The Group is: its members look at events in accordance with what they think other members are seeing.

It’s like passing around an unknown object, from hand to hand, and describing it as you believe everyone else will describe it.

You are always listening for “an echo effect” before it happens.

And you claim the echo effect is what you perceive.

High-IQ idiots will tell you this is the only way society can operate. They no longer know what it means to see things as they actually see them. And when they vaguely sniff out a free individual, they recoil in horror.

In the early days of the American Republic, as the two-party system developed, certain men saw the movement toward collectivism.

In phase one, it was evolving into polarized opposition. It was an engineered A versus B, with each side saying whatever it could, in order to win popular support.

And beyond that, it was a PRETENSE of polarized opposition. Behind the scenes, both parties, and the men who owned them, were simply building up the power of centralized government—and figuring out how to appeal to the population on the basis of “shared consensus” and “the greatest good for the greatest number.”

In other words: “how can we get the masses to think they’re all perceiving the same thing, the thing we want them to perceive?”

John Adams, in the early days of the Republic, saw it correctly and saw it exactly:

“There is nothing which I dread so much as a division of the republic into two great parties, each arranged under its leader, and concerting [organizing] measures in opposition to each other. This, in my humble opinion, is to be dreaded as the greatest political evil under our Constitution.”

Even more tellingly, George Washington laid the system bare as he struggled to extricate himself from it: “…party disputes are now carried to such a length, and truth is so enveloped in mist and false representation, that it is extremely difficult to know through which channel to seek it [truth]. This difficulty, to one [a person], who is of no party, and whose sole wish is to pursue with undeviating steps a path which would lead this country to respectability, wealth, and happiness, is exceedingly to be lamented.”

Thomas Jefferson, who on a number of occasions registered his acceptance of political parties as inevitable and natural, broke ranks in this very personal assessment: “I never submitted the whole system of my opinions to the creed of any party of men…where I was capable of thinking for myself. Such an addiction [to a party] is the last degradation of a free and moral agent. If I could not go to heaven but with a party, I would not go at all.”

One of the great tools of modern collectivism is political correctness.

—All political correctness is based on a crooked notion of greatest good, AKA least harm, to the greatest number of people.

It’s an effort to convince people to limit their own actions and words, based on what effect they might have on others.

These others are nudged and engineered into being on the premise that they will be victims, who are disturbed by a potentially infinite number of actions and words.

These victims will perceive harm to themselves before it happens.

They will register a possible future “echo effect” now.

As lambs to the slaughter, they will provide a justification for limited collectivist thought and existence.

“The demands of the machine are insatiable. The danger of shaking men out of the soporific results of mechanized knowledge is similar to that of attempting to arouse a drunken man or one who has taken an overdose of sleeping tablets. The necessary violent measures will be disliked. We have had university professors threatened with the loss of their positions for less than this.” (Harold Innis, 1947)

Note the word “mechanized” in the above quote. It’s no longer used to describe education. Instead, we have “systems.” Or “patterns.” Or “programs.”

These newer terms aren’t given a negative connotation. Indeed, they’re offered as heralds of a new and better world.

In this re-framing, we all need systems. The more the better.

The Surveillance State is also, of course a system. It’s based on the premise that ALL freedom has to be monitored and tracked

Meanwhile, modern “democratic” elites have redefined freedom. This is at the heart of what they’re doing.

They want freedom to mean “doing the right thing for the greatest good of the greatest number of people.” Never mind that such a re-framing is a complete non-sequitur. In the social engineering game, the op goes this way: “Every person would use his freedom to do the right thing; therefore, coercing people to do it is part of freedom.”

It’s Orwellian. It makes no sense. But that’s what’s on the table. “Let’s eliminate the ‘choice’ part of freedom and go directly to what a free person would do and make that into ideal and necessary behavior.”

The Surveillance State classifies those who disagree as threats.

Asserting freedom as a pure and independent value raises a red flag.

Over the past 65 years, a tremendous amount of propaganda has been devoted to redefining freedom as “what freedom should lead to.” Behavior. Brainwashed college students are essentially taught: “Forget the free part of freedom. Let’s go right to the question of what freedom should produce. That’s why we’re here. That’s what we’re going to learn. It’s a short-cut. We’re going to tell you what any decent and correct human being would do with his freedom, so you can do it.”

The recent MIT experiments to induce “false memories” in rats, as well as the DARPA research aimed at inserting images directly into the visual cortex, reveal a direction important brain research is taking. Change perception, if necessary, to make people do the right thing.

Any individual who enlists in the collectivist future does so by entering a trance. The aim of hypnosis is a collective definition of The Good. This was exactly the pattern that Plato laid out in The Republic. For him, The Good was the highest Form in the ultimate dimension where all ideas existed in a perfected state. The ruling Philosopher Kings had exclusive and intimate and superior knowledge of The Good.

Thought experiment: Write down a definition of “the greatest good for the greatest number,” and then, in your life, for a few days or so, base all your actions on it. Exclude all other considerations. You’ll find yourself in an altered state, and you’ll also notice you’re, in essence, hypnotizing yourself. You’re narrowing your focus, space, and thought.

You’re referring all your behavior to a central and single idea. You’re systematizing yourself.

This is the principle of reduction of consciousness.

In this civilization, reduction is increasingly touted as “an answer.” Simplifying thought is said to equal insight. Freely proliferating consciousness is highly suspect.

Here is a brief fragment from my unpublished work, The Magician Awakes:

John Q opened his eyes after the surgery. He saw a floral pattern hanging in mid-air, and inscribed along every stem and stylized petal were rows of refrigerated thoughts.

Major Kelsen walked into the hospital room with a big grin on his face. ‘We’ve done it,’ he said. ‘John Q, you now have an auxiliary mind. It’s better than the original. You’re in on the ground floor.’

John Q struggled to speak, but his mouth was a dry desert and the wind was picking up in his cerebral cortex.

‘No need to track you anymore, kid,’ the Major said. ‘You’re free. You’re the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution now. You’re immune.’

John Q could feel himself radiating with low-level happiness. It was bleeding from his pores. He was sensing INCLUSION.

Belsen hovered over him with a mirror.

‘Look at yourself, son. Do you even recognize who you are? Do you remember who you were? Those constructs are both fading. You’re in the moment. You’re the animal you were meant to be, finally. The President wants to see you. This is big-time.’

John Q suddenly saw a gold-crested falcon sitting on Belsen’s shoulder. It was looking straight at him. ‘I come in before the opening credits,’ it said.

Belsen blinked. ‘See, John Q, we don’t want you to think you’re a slave. That would be stupid and wrong. We want to make you proud. We’ve eliminated some complexity that was in your way, that’s all. We’ve boiled down your PROCESS. Your enemies are now the people who want to make things complicated.’

John Q needed sleep. But Belsen was getting through. WHY PROLIFERATE THINKING? Wasn’t the key simplification? Of course. It had to be. If you had a dish called the truth, you could serve it on a single plate. Why had it ever seemed otherwise?

He took inventory. He could still see the floral pattern. The thoughts that lay frozen along its stems and petals? They were now faces of all the people he’d ever known, ever met. Yes. And THEY all knew something he hadn’t, until now: they knew the truth was simple and available. He was joining them. He was, finally, linked to them. Their secret was open to him. He’d been let in.

They’d figured out how to attain REDUCTION. It didn’t really matter, he realized, what the mind’s content was. All that mattered was that simplicity had been achieved.

THIS was what everyone else was so proud of. This was what he’d never grasped.

Belsen smiled. ‘Go to sleep, kid,’ he said. ‘We nailed it. The worst is over.’

John Q closed his eyes. He dozed. He dreamed that men were stationed at the outskirts of his mind pushing walls in toward him. As they moved, he felt better. Step by step.

Thank you, he said. Thank you for taking this burden away. I’m all summaries now. I’m a chosen one.

Then, sounds came into him. Tearing fabric. Splitting threads. Stone breaking.

A man walked out of an old brown door. He said, ‘John Q, synaptic circuits we installed are cracking. It’s not working.’

John Q felt a new delight flood his body. He remembered he was a publisher of books. Now, in one blasting stroke, he had access to every line in every book he’d ever printed.

He was awake in the hospital room. Light was filling the space and it exploded, and he was hurled through a wall, and he was outside, in the city, in the open air at high noon. He was soaring under clouds, above the buildings, flying, complicated, alive, hearing wild lines burning in an unknown language, his hospital gown tearing away from his body.

Then he heard: YOU’RE BETRAYING US ALL!

He looked below. A crowd was gathering in the street. They were trying to magnetize him and pull him down. They were screaming.

Even at this height, he could recognize some of their faces. He had seen them at parades, at celebrations of the One Joy, singing and reciting oaths of the simplification…

‘Have I got a problem?’ he said to the sky.

But he kept on flying, higher and higher, and the pull against his free motion faded…


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.

Breakout from the controlled ordinary mind

by Jon Rappoport

July 16, 2018

When I was about to release my collection, Exit From The Matrix, I wrote several introductions. Here is one I didn’t publish. It shows how seriously I take what others consider a merely “quirky tendency” of humans to imagine a better and different future for themselves and this piece of space called Earth:

Suppose everything that is happening in the human world is taking place in a synthetic space, a grossly reduced arena; and suppose you could stand outside that space and look in. You would be seeing a great deal more than ‘what is going on’. You would be seeing how it is playing out, shot through with delusions at every turn; and of course the main delusion would be the space itself, as if nothing could be happening anywhere else but there, in that place. This is what the mind, all the minds, are telling themselves, as they fight over scraps. Humans have defined themselves as social constructs in small-time stage play.

The controlled mind thinks in the same patterns, over and over. It reworks familiar territory, and when that becomes insufferably boring, it lowers its energy output and initiates shutdowns.

Then it looks for outside stimulation that will replace thinking. The type of stimulation hardly matters, as long as it moves adrenaline through the system.

The decline of a society or civilization can be viewed in the same step-down fashion.

Occasionally, in passing, a writer makes reference to the creative impulse as a missing social factor, which could be remedied, for example, by restoring funding for arts programs in schools, as if that would repair a bureaucratic failing and thus restore balance to education and “the culture.”

Which is like saying Titans, who have developed profound amnesia about themselves, could recover their consciousness and power by shampooing their hair more frequently.

The individual human being, apart from the welter of his social relationships, is sitting on a volcano-range of creative energy, about which he knows almost nothing. This ignorance is purposeful. It enables him to fit into a small life defined by habits and shrunken subjects of interest and routine interactions. Within that space, he forms opinions and preferences and aversions. He says yes to this and no to that. He cultivates a passive tolerance for differences, as if he were auditioning for sainthood.

But whoever he is and wherever he is, underneath it all, something is waiting for him. A part of himself is waiting.

It is the part that can conceive of everything that isn’t, that never was. It is the part that dreams beyond the ordinary facades of time and space.

It is the part that refuses to believe habit and repetition and routine and systems are the core of life.

It is the part that knows something new and unprecedented and stunning can be invented at the drop of a hat, and that this is the unlimited territory of the individual.

It is the part off-handedly referred to as imagination, which over time has been sold away into oblivion. But which never dies.

The elites who try to control and define the common space of humanity would like to render imagination to the junk heap of history, never to be recalled. They would like to do this by replacing the individual with the group, which has no creative impulse, but is merely, with few exceptions, the lowest-common-denominator expression of any idea.

In Huxley’s Brave New World (1932), the overarching government slogan was: “Every one belongs to every one else.” One group, indivisible, with non-liberty and injustice for all.

Huxley’s slogan is now also the number-one elite propaganda message on Earth. It can be made to mean almost anything that derides and minimizes the individual and his repressed creative power.

In his 1954 short story, The Adjustment Team, Philip K Dick approaches the transformation of the individual into the group as an instantaneous, blanketing, mass-programming operation. Salesman Ed Fletcher, through an error, isn’t included in the “great change.” Instead, he witnesses it. Therefore, he is transported into the sky to meet the Old Man, the Chief, for a judgment:

Ed: “I get the picture…I was supposed to be changed like the others. But I guess something went wrong.”

Old Man: “Something went wrong. An error occurred. And now a serious problem exists. You have seen these things. You know a great deal. And you are not coordinated with the new configuration.”

The new configuration, at a deep level, is not new at all. It has existed since the dawn of history. It’s the self-fulfilling prophecy that, except for a few gifted ones, humans have no creative power, no wide-ranging imagination. Thus, they must surrender to the “shape of things as they are.”

Here is a statement about reality-creation that is crucial. —Philip K Dick, his 1978 speech, How To Build A Universe That Doesn’t Fall Apart Two Days Later:

“…today we live in a society in which spurious realities are manufactured by the media, by governments, by big corporations, by religious groups, political groups…So I ask, in my writing, What is real? Because unceasingly we are bombarded with pseudo-realities manufactured by very sophisticated people using very sophisticated electronic mechanisms…And it is an astonishing power: that of creating whole universes, universes of the mind. I ought to know. I do the same thing.”

Philip Dick was talking about the elite invention of a synthetic common space for human activity. And on the other hand, he was talking about an individual’s invention, through imagination, of other spaces.

These other spaces aren’t mere fantasies. They’re as real as real can be—and they can be injected into the world, into the common space, to change it, and to wake people up from their group-think trance.

The bottom-line goal of all mind control is the removal of the individual’s knowledge that he has great creative power, that this capacity gives him enormous untapped energy, that it solves problems by rendering them irrelevant and defunct.

Suppose he brings back what he has lost? Suppose, finally, he takes a stand and refuses to see himself as a victim of circumstance?

Suppose he remembers that he holds the sword of his own imagination, and can invent reality?

Suppose he exercises that capacity and thus proves to himself how far-reaching his power is?

In his 1920 novel, A Voyage to Arcturus, which spawned generations of science fiction, David Lindsay writes: “To be a free man, one must have a universe of one’s own.”

This is no flippant observation. This is psychology light years beyond what Freud and his offspring concocted. This is the power of imagination, linked as it should be, to individual freedom. Nor was Lindsay recommending some closed-off fantasy existence. He was realizing that, with “a universe of one’s own,” the individual can then comprehend and participate in the common space we call the world—at a new level of unlocked and untangled power.

I dedicate my work to explaining these factors, and more importantly, providing many exercises that, when practiced, can reawaken and restore imagination as the unlimited dynamo it actually is. These exercise are contained in my mega-collections, Exit From The Matrix and Power Outside The Matrix.


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.

Two humans on the Earth

by Jon Rappoport

July 3, 2018

Two humans on the Earth

the faces at the bar just want the news

music is playing
some old sentimental country tune
“she left him” “he left her” whatever the hell it was

3am stumbling from his seat to the bathroom
Jack is counting his change
that’s all he’s got left

after The Company raped his land
giant superweeds are all Jack’s got left

he had to buy new seeds every year from Monsanto

(and when The Man found Jack had accidentally used Roundup Ready seeds without paying for them he sued Jack)

3am stumbling back to his seat at the bar
Jack still doesn’t know what hit him

the tune keeps playing
“he left her” “she left him” whatever the hell it was

the faces at the bar are watching the news replay
another drone attack
baby diapers
restless legs
neutralize stomach acid
invisible makeup
GE, Pfizer, Glaxo, Syngenta

“he left her” “she left him” whatever the hell it was

one drunk at the end of the bar says “it’s a strange night”
everybody stops and listens

they don’t know it but they’re hearing a giant wave of poison coming out of St. Louis
towering above
the plains

So deep, so blue the night

Jack holds up his hands
and says
“my family was on this land for a hundred years
and now the lights go off
I fell for their pitch
they took me to the cleaners”

the bartender says, “yeah, well, my ass hurts”
and everybody starts laughing
they laugh
&laugh
tears roll down their cheeks
they pound their heads on the bar
they fall off their stools
they roll on the floor
they’re yelling and picking up chairs and throwing them

and now a big-time pol comes on the news and says

“we’re all in this together”

“he left her” “she left him” whatever the hell it was

who are the soldiers who go out into the fields of America and Africa and Asia
and South America to push food
changed forever
into the mouths of wasting humans

the bar quiets down again

pockets empty
Jack walks out into the rain
and moves along the road
under the sky
and begins to stride
his pulse picks up

more than human and less than human on the earth


Vaccine Woman

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

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

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

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

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

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

no

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

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

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

rage was burning in the middle of her chest

a rage the public would see as insanity

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

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

but she wields
the two-edged sword in the empire

that cuts away the web
and comes to the spider

no matter what defamation
the intermediary whores
lay at her door

lady liberty, liberty from the living death…Vaccine Woman

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

Post-civilization

And she will go to the ends of the earth

To bare the innards of the crime

Her enemies will never know

What it means to have her mission, her eternal mission

But she knows

Vaccine Woman

Love in her breast for her own is one answer

Justice is the other

She has a two-edged sword in the Empire

That cuts through the web

And comes to the spider

Vaccine Woman…


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. Email list subscribe to it here.


Jon Rappoport

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

A poem for the 21st century: VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE (complete version)

by Jon Rappoport

Copyright © 2012, 2018 by Jon Rappoport

July 2, 2018

(To join our email list, click here.)

Over the course of the past 10-15 years, I wrote a 5000-word poem, VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE. You could say that proves I believe in poetry. I do believe in it.

Here, for the first time, I’m publishing the whole poem in its final version.

Poetry in the grand tradition of, say, Walt Whitman may seem to be dead—and who cares about poetry anyway? But poems are life blood on the page.

I cast this one out like a wind across the landscape, with full knowledge that reading anything, much less poetry, is a dying art in many quarters. Frankly, that doesn’t stop me. I know, from 17 years of writing at nomorefakenews, that there are untold numbers of people who can still read and want to read. My articles have found them.

Going against the grain doesn’t bother me. It motivates me. Every day. The seemingly absurd proposition that a poem can have a life-bearing effect—I hold that view and always will.

The unbound, wide-ranging, free and electric spirit within us is THERE. We can step on it and bury it and forget it, but it doesn’t die. With that knowledge, and without apprehension, I freely give you this. Do with it what you will. As with everything else I write, I stand on the words.


VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE

By Jon Rappoport

This poem is not a warning
This is poem is not an alert
This poem is not a shopping cart in a supermarket
This poem is not my uncle talking about America with a cigar in his mouth
This poem is not about the H-bomb
This poem is not my grandmother speaking Russian in the Bronx a hundred years ago
This poem is not a microwave
This poem is not
This poem is not a robot car on the highway
This poem is not a power outage
This poem is not
This poem is not a peace treaty
This poem is not a shadow across your eyes
This poem is not Karl Marx or Mussolini
This poem is not a molecule invented in a laboratory
This poem is not a political philosophy manufactured in a secret bank
This poem is not a machine
This poem is not a system
This poem is not asking for an answer
This poem is not people dying in hospitals even though people are dying in hospitals
This poem is not bread or the fountain of youth
This poem is not a doctor
This poem is not a professor on a pension
This poem is not a union
This poem is not a dollar
This poem is not a major or a colonel
This poem is America and not-America
The dream America

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

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

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

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

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

We tamed the wolf and the copperhead
we broke a pond of ice and sent Promethean serpents to force a tunnel all the way down to the volcanic hats of ancient Chinese poets

We tracked mobs and gangs and politicians and drowned them in thunderous secret rivers under the Southwest deserts
we launched charges against the bosses and carried our prosecutions into courtrooms of fish eye and coral and waving undersea weeds and dragged paid-off judges from their galleon-wrecked thrones

We stood in the blinding sunlight reflected from low slung whitewashed buildings of Pasadena and El Segundo and Long Beach and felt the roar of departing space rockets cutting tunnels through the future and pulling back the future with giant magnets of illuminated dust

We walked through measureless windows of wheat and corn growing in the middle flatlands under the warm rain of supernatural mansions

We draped curtains of night in the upper hills of Los Angeles where the mountain lion and the coyote and the melted mythical Greek beast roamed like vagabonds free of the Wheel

Under poles of yellow lights, gasping midnight locomotives clamped on to lines of freight cars in the backyards of Chicago
Plastic lilies grew in the pastures of St. Louis haberdashers and department stores

In White Plains we carved a diamond on cracked asphalt and climbed a decaying elm and walked along the iron railing of the fence holding rotting branches and threw marbles down on to Davis Avenue and watched them bounce into the muddy stream of World War Two newspapers and swollen milk cartons and broken whiskey bottles and torn black jackets of old soldiers who had died in snow drifts over the winter and mysteriously disappeared

I ran under trees filled with light green inchworms hanging from long threads until I was invisible
and glimpsed smiling robots sitting in cafes in the next platinum century

In Los Angeles, concrete sunset of three stacked freeways, a carpet of park in Beverly Hills, old poolroom on Broadway downtown, bus to San Francisco, a bum holding out his hand and saying On Venus Jesus will show you machines of love

I saw politicians jumping out of floating windows
their briefcases cracking open
spilling secrets like lazy snowflakes
dazzling in the sun
trillion dollar thefts
naked amazons stashed in condos and yachts
banks sucking money from the vacuum of the heavens
dead agents

in a rock pasture outside Des Moines hitchhiking to New York
glimpses of prehistoric time
before the beginning before the beginning of sacred money before the first idols were built, before sacrifice was thought of, sly prophets were trying on robes and combing out their long hair and rehearsing their future executions

Standing up on a hill past Albuquerque on 66, I caught a ride into a no-name Arizona town, walked in the foggy morning along an empty road to a pine-filled snow-filled cliff and stared out at a spring valley a thousand feet below

In blinding rain I stood on the Indiana Turnpike outside Chicago pointed east and wound up in the Pennsylvania countryside driving the car of a half-crippled man with a Bible I met in a Howard Johnson
our headlights went dead on a curve and a cop pulled in behind us and stopped us
he led us to a fat judge’s house in the middle of the night where we paid thirty bucks
then parked on a quiet lane and slept until dawn
early spring in March
flowering magnolia trees
he dropped two Thorazine and told me to drive
and his babbling about Heaven slowed down and he slept
and when we pulled into Manhattan he had me park in midtown
he looked at me with glazed doe’s eyes and said
son, I’ve reached the end of the line, this is it, within a month I’ll kill myself

I walked along the astral cloisters of Wall Street among crowds lapping at honey loopholes in a web of proprietary secrets and I flew through steel walls into the psychotic fandango of the international electronic invented money Surge

I recorded architects laying out blueprints for the perfect human in bunkers of Virginia where silent factories printed minds whose memories could be selectively erased
technicians built new bodies from tendons and ligaments of cougars and predatory owls and membranes from soldier ants and feral dogs

I walked through fields of cactus east of Tijuana
into caverns of mass graves where sacrificed Aztec skeletons still stank in pulsing blood rhymes of a toothless hobo Ziggurat

I sat in the courtroom where the two-hundred-year trial of America labored like a wounded beast, witness after witness screaming accusations at captains of production and dark iron-masked prosecutors hammered their fists on tables and smooth Rockefeller men sat in the witness box and advocated drugging the population

One Sunday night I walked out of a small bookstore on 3rd Avenue and a drunken Ben Franklin, wearing his waistcoat and slippers, his spectacles halfway down his crooked nose, pulled me over to the doorway of a paint store, and whispered:
“I should prefer, to an ordinary death, being immersed
with a few friends in a cask of Madeira, until that time,
then to be recalled to life by the solar warmth of my
dear country!”

he patted me on the cheek and grinned

What about the weathered Declaration on which you staked your honor, your future, your fortune, your life, I ask him
His face turns sour
Oh that, he says
They sold it for a war, and it fetched a handsome price
They sold it for a bank, and rated it a fair exchange
They sold it for a choking nightmare called the greater good, and it drained their living blood
They sold it for a legend of heaven under a burning copper sky and it vaporized in the whirlwind

Fifty million video cameras record the washed out moment-to- moment ballet in streets and offices
people stop for a moment in a bulging tableau
light peers in through immobile troughs of fury
complaints are frozen

all the children of America with their endless needs are frozen

We slashed our way through faded blue Virginia mountain ranges ruled by subhuman priests
lizards crawled through the sunlight between leaves on rumbling paragon trees spreading out their knuckles above ground

Through dream gardens of the starlit Sagittarius, coral horses, amber-fed lichen
we walked the Colorado Cherokee Trail glittering with bodies frozen in the silver fog

We flew over steaming cities and freezing cities and came to the Asia plain of tropical magic where the walls of enduring space were cracked and broken and the false curtain of the sky lay at half-mast torn and stained

Here the empire had shriveled and small mobs wandered under saturated space broken off from the Maypole of trance

We still hear a voice of freedom
in the
aether

now freedom barks like a dog
it weeps over stones
it demands cash
it lies in the mud and croaks
flees a burning church

On a parapet at the center of an unknown city, we hear a bovine preacher of the sub-brain announce:

ADORE! ADORE!

We have

A

New

God

And

Time

Is

Peeling off

Around him.

ADORE! ADORE!

Your life

Is being

Mapped out

In steel-banded

Central Planning

Operating

From

The Temple

Of the Just

A gram of license

For every ton of compliance

This is the new energy equation

One

Glittering

Breath

Of

Spontaneously inhaled

Stolen

Money

leveled like an exploding shell

o leader

your only remaining job

is the calculation

of the religious component

how to mountaintop

and sell that vacation view

theocratic meteors

whirling around the crown

what testament

and scripture

will you

invent

for the made-holy parade

of intercellular

electronic

money laundering

(left hand to the right)

how will you

market

the ark

of androids

what murders

will you

recast

as

sacrifices

made

on behalf of

the

rising

membership

in the

temple

of

those

seeking

justice

a node

of memoryless

cold blue light

shining on

citizens

entranced

in trust

Adore!

Adore!

The rebellion is over!

Everything

We hoped for

Granted!

Now

By the blessed

Eye

Capture and Love are the same!

Their

Separation

Was

Our

Sin

We

Surrender

To

The Egoless

Cage

Adore! Adore!

All

Objections

Are

Swept away

This

Is

Our

Day

Our

Hope

Has Been

Justified

In the

Temperament

Of

The Wise

Who

Unleash

A hurricane

To catapult us

Into

The new world

Adore! Adore!

One shapeless limp impulse

Desperately shared by nine billion people

Dissolves

The threshold

Of mystery

And opens at last

The door

To

The everlasting

Life

This is the apotheosis of

What

We have all

Been unconsciously seeking

I see populations surge through golden avenues wrapped around the upper stories of Orphic ships waiting for solar winds

I open books in a shining arboretum, ten-thousand-foot wells pour
from the sky down into stratified layers of rock…

Summer night on an old porch, rhododendrons are thrashed by slow comets of rain

there is a sleep so pervasive numbing the chest and shoulders, a despair so charming as to be final, a titanic loss of mobility

there were buildings in the old World War 2 Paris that looked like beautiful rotting vegetables propped on the ark of the River windows scalloped stone sacred mucosal choirs

in a nostalgic vortex
death is a protocol
a virginal reopening of the wound
insignia piping gardens from its royal wax
into the dark
old pleasures run in familiar magnetic channels

Ah, this is old-world death, the happiness of remembering time, a thing of wonder in the thrall of dying autumn
and then we knew what could be lost, and then we knew we were seeing each other fading on sheets of papyrus
and we dropped through the earth

flaming

into the legend of the unconscious

and

struggled back and emerged up into the lights of the city

We move through the halls of this summertime life

the meridians of gills breathing in and out, in and out

and cross the bridges of memory
and are New

We punch through the wax of space-time into the warm rain

we unplug the money presses

we abandon the long steel trading tables and the slaughtering floor

we defect

we drink the root turning into the bud
the bud turning to grain

we brush away the choking filaments of narcosis and finally admit our immortality

we walk in the canopy of clouds

in the canal where time and space are bolted, cloth to cloth

We ride tigers across the Styx into the mud houses of Hades and blow sacks of north wind to clean the ruined stables of broadcast memory

We race up the canyons of the Rockies, we float on the Salt Lake in mirrors of gold

We walk out of the house in the middle of the night and watch the magnolia tree in the little grassy island open white flowers of joy!

Sing now!
Speak now!

Tear away the seal on the tomb!

MAGICIANS!
MASTERS OF TIME!
in any weather, any season
long forgotten and hidden in hard flesh
they are there!
all the fires are out
all the wars of the bankrupt versus the bankrupt are over

I watched a sleek black car pull up to a house down the block where an old man who grew apple trees was screaming and three men got out of the car and grabbed his arms and put him on a stretcher and took him away to the Foundation, a place where they kept the insane
he had spent every Sunday morning polishing his red car
he had once been a judge
he retired and built department stores
he kept a bulldog in his garage and fed it there
his son who wore gray suits and drove a foreign car
owned a brewery

i dreamed the father was sitting on the back of a white swan who had a leash around his neck
I woke up and went into the kitchen and sat down at the table
I looked out the window and under a streetlight I saw the old man’s son putting something into the trunk of his car
his movements were frail
he had aged overnight

I fled through the oily swamps of New Jersey into the bright green plastic of Delaware and through the Carolinas and woke up in a pink sand motel in Miami under tropic rain

I hitchhiked down the old 66 from East St. Louis out to Joplin in the back of a vegetable truck and floated into a diner in Oklahoma City

In a long, long Los Angeles bar on a slow Tuesday afternoon I counted six Hindu gods sitting on stools drinking rotgut and transmitting sign language to their London banker lolling outside the men’s room

I walked along the death harbors of New York
I saw ships gleaming
I watched swarms of seagulls bend this way in the air and flap their white wings and gray wings in the dark morning

I’m walking the cemetery lawns of Los Angeles
now and then a plastic face looms up out of the fog

Boston…in the ocean mythic giants
all their capillaries have gone dry
the moon is setting on page one
intestinal tract of a beached octopus suctioned to a sidewalk

in a small café I look at the faces and know there was universally accepted time and it’s ended

We saw old iron ore carriers moving slowly on Lake Erie
frost clinging to their torn-painted sides
pulling along hills of hidden Nevada gold

GM monitor lizards sway down Main St. USA like garbage machines on the move, guzzling and chewing tin cans, bottles, bags of medical waste, wrappers, assaulting bins

you’re in the reality tunnel again
where predators finger like worry-beads cocoons of demolished light

limbic vacuum cleaners
suck up embers of war

be of good cheer, son, never fear the end, there is no end THERE IS NO END
abide by the central directive–
when you’re lying on a slab in the mortuary
STAND UP

tell them they’ve made a minor miscalculation
recite a few lines from scripture
and stride quickly to the exit

confess to the guards
you’re just a pathetic figure
a minor functionary
in a bureau of functionaries
all the way up

tip your hat, grin, drop a few coins in the basket, move on
this universe is
a hell of a vacation
thrills and chills
buy the ticket
if you can’t get out
call me

The cosmos is a forgery of the individual

They say the dark arts are fine things

They lie below the gold rings

That surround every living cell

OR you can

Strip naked from the stirrups

Of gravity

Sit with clouds banked over the ocean

And burn in the dish your own name

The great thief said

I have given you

Everything you need

And so it was

Another message

A column of fire

Rising out of the sea

you can lift twelve Persephones out of a Swiss watch
and push an orange train at top speed to Mongolia

each thought on the ruined wreck of sands
is a poet
driving a Cadillac into a living room

(pretending to understand a foreign language
they invented a hundred more)

midtown Manhattan…my father walks from the haberdasher to the barber shop with a new hat in a box
he sits in the chair and the barber winds it back and shaves him with a straight razor that was lolling in a tall glass of alcohol
the barber wipes off the blade with a white linen towel and moves the razor back and forth on his strop and shaves my father
and cuts his hair

the pool room on 14th Street, old men playing three-cushion slowly with long tapered fingers, under a hanging lamp one face peeks in and then it’s ripped away as the floor sweeper lifts the shades and the sun comes streaming through the dust

ever deepening beauty,
there is a little garden behind our house
where vines grow over a wood shed

and purple bougainvillea and morning glory

in this idyll I can rest
I can dream of her while I hold her hand
we set the kettle boiling
and pour the steaming water
and drink a tea of the world

you sold me an empty room
I moved in and found you there

you waited in the rain for me
And I came to you

The home we built at the end of a street
Is becoming larger every day

The poet picks the street on which he will starve
and grow rich

I am painting on a sheet of sturdy paper
A small garden
The sky is on the bottom
The flowers are on top
There are window boxes

I am making the same proposal to you, my darling

I pray to prayer
I deliver myself to you
I say the night and I say down the stairs we go again

never the garden

ever the garden

we are always in between everything we thought

always

my darling,
I’ll go with you
into the garden
into the bedroom
into the living room
into the kitchen

on to the rust-colored couch after the sandstorm
when the evening is quiet
the stove is ticking

my dead father is again sitting in a metal chair playing pinochle with his friends

my dead mother bounds down the stairs
she’s suddenly thirty again
grinning with the August of the Black Sea

my sister is holding a feral dog in her arms and he is wrapping his mouth around her wrist and slowly quieting down

Not one god
not fewer gods
give me a proliferation of gods
gods in plantains and mangoes
gods in broken chairs in vague Arizona motels
gods in piles of gray wood at the back of a barn in Mississippi
gods in statues on broad plazas in Chicago
gods in lagoons festering with green mold in San Diego
gods on the foggy windows of diners in Western Massachusetts
gods on the graves of Vikings and accountants in New Jersey
gods in silverware and white napkins

one version of what the old Tibetans
called the Great Void:

everybody looks around and tries to figure out what to do
because the long hustle of discovery is over
and all the explorers have been paid off

There is nothing left
except a few magicians
living in cold mountains
punching holes in the universe at will

In Lhasa they were faced with that Nothing
and they turned to it in the eastern sky hanging like a lamp in a long vacated whorehouse
and bowed

that was the only ceremony in the original book
which they later
in quiet rooms
burned in wood bowls

before starting their exercises

Worship?
Decay?
Never heard of it.

And now think of something else, perfect automobiles
streaming down a tropical planet toward the
a mirror lake on which stands a demigod in green pantaloons
who holds all data everywhere in his outstretched arms

and freeze THAT in memory like a sword for sixteen hours
without moving
and finally see universe
is a product
of mind

this is what they were doing
before they wrote the books and ordered the prayer wheels from sears catalog
and jingle jangled their way into a theocracy on a cold saturday morning

they were the dim sum masters
never ordered the same breakfast twice in the holy rivers of energy
took apart the river and the energy
too
down to Nothing
sat in Void for
indeterminate length of no-time
stopping all creating
because they could
and then emerged
those few
magicians in the cold wasted hills and

and said WELL
if you folks want to elect a billion reincarnated hopalong cassidys
as your head chief go ahead it doesn’t matter
we’re out here on the edge
inventing and destroying dimensions

a painted hand on a canvas disappears down into the mouth of a virgin
a factory in Cinncinati plunges into the production of synthetic thighs

the cage of the tiger is very clean
attendants come in once a day and
scoop up the feces and remove them
they hose down the floor
when they’re done the tiger is let back into the cage
and picks up his pacing

Huge sums in bank accounts disappear
Wearing a webbed helmet, you’re running across a lake in Liberia with an M-16

an orange bird
walks down
to a small fountain pouring into the eye of an exploded centurion

Disembodied skulls are talking to each other in a Times Square liquor store
what was the greatest war?
in whose name did we lay down our flesh
was the uranium really depleted
how many roadside bombs did you see before the last one
did we guarantee the oil
did we plant the poppies

freedom is standing in a bar on university place and ordering a beer at six o’clock and listening to the voices

freedom is taking a shirt of infinite sadness and folding it up

freedom is sitting in a bus station in a small town and counting the money in your pocket and watching the door as a wolf trots in and stares at you

freedom is being as sad as the animals

freedom is falling down on your knees in the street

freedom is a beautiful drunken woman tearing off her clothes and taking the elevator down to the lobby of the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco

Raphael’s curls
Are wired
From cliffs domed with chimes.

The NY Times
Is a mosquito
On a plum.

In halls of marble
Heralds open the door
Spring
At last

The gold-seated apparatus
Spits out souls,
Tourniquet
Of the faded sea.

South of Los Angeles…dancers arrive early in a giant room above the ocean.
In forest halls, dryads run like crystal.
CON FRER Tito Puente strides into the endless Balboa ballroom.
Timbales, rolling cymbals, chingachcook congas, brass section put in harness from the ceiling. Tito is sitting in a blue mist. The slow vibraphone turns over and over and Silver runners flash around corners.

In the New York harbor
Turbines with numerical rivets
Are driven into light.
Shoreline hardworking men rest on the
Kneecap of a colossal Buddha
Coming into port

when I was a boy
a road among trees
magnolia, oak, maple…
squirrels with great healthy bushy tails ran up trunks
jumped on to roofs
sniffed smoke coming out of chimneys
and in the dark
there were horse chestnut trees dropping polished mahogany
along the little lanes leading off the road…

After the Cross of money burned and rotted
we walked to the shore
we walked into the ocean
we walked on the ocean floor
we discovered the oceanic mind
we swam on the towering waves
we came back to ourselves

we smelled towers of the city
we floated into the city
we rolled out on to the highways of America

we broke veins of golden paralysis in the clock of the galaxy

we rose with our swords and decapitated the Holy Worm

we planted gardens around the wreck of the Babel Tower and invented new languages that would spread like morning glories

knowing the past was dead
I walked out of the house of melting shadows

I bathed in clear water

I sat down by an old stream and waited for the fish to speak
I sat inside a reflection of lunar decay for thirty incarnations
and nothing happened

I walked out of the house of melting shadows

not a closed night or a fearful night or a weeping night or a money night or a political night or an atomic night

the herds of stars are breaking out of their corral

I’m sitting at a cafe
on the beach in Cardiff
blue January afternoon
my mind unwrinkles
the restaurant’s empty
a huge whitewashed gull with a red beak
stands on a rock a few feet away
he waits, he looks

mouthless cash/samurai governments in twinkling skyscrapers

I try on soft hats in a phantasmagorical haberdasher on 5th Avenue
in a jar the size of Des Moines I pickle brains of ancient Sinatras

sand in the engine, empty canteens, thirsty in the desert, I climb the next set of dunes and stagger down into a level-B resort, artificial lake restaurants women in bikinis fat men children sliding into blue pools waiters delivering drinks, robot Adam&Eve standing under a palm tree eating a bowl of fruit, Machine God sitting at a huge poolside table with a few cronies, he waves me over, the sun sets and the moon comes up, I watch old skulls of mob defectors rolling like tumbleweed in the desert….

hollow planets ring like gongs, shepherds bring in their animals, ghosts in the arbor pick the grapes and feel the warm wind, we’re walking through a forest, the yellow-horned flowers are weeping with fog, chrome-edged clouds are dropping sheets of loneliness

the universe said goodbye
the universe was going away
there was no JFK assassination
it was a mirage in Texas
Allen Dulles was sitting in the back of the limo
his brains were splashed all over an unknown woman
she was fighting to breathe and squirming
she was wearing a little pillbox hat and a polkadot dress
she jumped out of the car and ran up the street
and no one ever saw her again
the Virgin Mary
the Virgin Mary of Texas

the lilies of the valley are growing in the back yard again
splashed in the Buick majesty of steady spring rain
and the snow is gone
the branches of crystalline ice are giving out little green buds
and worms are crawling in the mud around the porch sniffing roses

Caravaggio talks to Raphael and Raphael talks to Piero and a leg
takes shape
Michelangelo talks to Titian and half a face emerges
Durer talks to Velasquez and Goya walks out of a cave ready to go to
work

we return to the Bronx and visit my grandmother sitting in her pudding chair in the middle of the living room, she slowly moves her head and trembles and mumbles something in Yiddish and I kiss her on the cheek, the mirror sits on the heavy bureau above candles flickering for the dead in the middle of the afternoon, someone is always dying, they were dying in Russia and they are dying in the Bronx, there was a daughter who died a few weeks after she was born and my grandfather died when I was three, and the candy store across the street died when bubble gum was outlawed during WW2, and my father’s father is dead, he owned a clothing store and his partner ran off with the cash and now the partner is dead too, and the books on the shelves in my grandmother’s house are dead, and the plates behind glass are dead, the forks and knives and spoons are dead, the rugs in the living room are dead, and my father’s mother will soon be dead in the dining room on the floor at our house late in the afternoon in January, but no one is supposed to make a move to stop the dying in the way the dying is happening, we are all supposed to stand by, centurions at a gateless city, the rivers shallow and frozen, kiss your grandmother, stand back, smile, go over to the table, sit down, play cards, eat honey cake, listen, listen, listen
Hermes is circling the brick house and tearing tiles off the roof, he’s coming down into the living room and breaking into the glass cases and stealing the silverware, he’s crawling under the piano and ripping out the pedals, he’s moving the laundry room between the living room and the kitchen, he’s going next door to the psychiatrist’s house and laying down the names of 297 mental disorders that will be invented out of wholecloth in the next 50 years

I’m lying back in a leather chair in Grand Central Station and an old man is cutting my hair
he puts a hot white towel on my face

I enter St. Pat’s, it’s a huge bookie joint, crowds standing in the aisles, betting on anti-Lucifer
I take a seat at the end of a long pew and fold my hands in prayer to Piero della Francesca, silver painter of Solomon & Sheba
and Henry Miller of the Rosy Crucifixion and Kenneth Patchen in his bed of pain and Gregory Corso roaming the streets of Rotterdam
blessings of wine and bread and skeletons growing new flesh and father Walt sitting in the middle of Times Square his voice a violet thunder

the President is on television and the Pope is drunk on ceremonial wine cursing the Church fathers as he floats naked near the Sistine ceiling

O dream garden of the ancient flower…


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. Email list subscribe to it 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.

Rappoport on Coast to Coast AM: the Hawaii volcano

Rappoport on Coast to Coast AM: the Hawaii volcano

Why isn’t the press connecting fracking and the Hawaii volcano eruption?

by Jon Rappoport

June 21, 2018

Last night, I was on Coast to Coast AM with George Noory, and I reported on fracking and the eruption of the Hawaii volcano.

Since very few journalists are looking into this, I’m reprinting my recent article on the subject. Obviously, if fracking were found to be the reason for the eruption, the process would be exposed as a great danger for all the world to see—

On the Big Island of Hawaii, where the Kilauea volcano has explosively erupted, there is a geothermal energy plant. It is the Puna Geothermal Venture (PGV) Plant, in Puna.

There is a long-running debate about whether PGV is fracking. The debate is a matter of terminology, because in the geothermal process, as hawaiifracking.com reports, “…the drilling and the injection of cold water into hot rocks used in geothermal energy plants does fracture the rocks, which can induce earthquakes and through contamination of the atmosphere and water tables can affect our health and safety.”

Whether deep injection of fluid aims to capture oil, gas, or heat (geothermal), the beginning stage of the process is the same.

Earthquakes induced by this water-injection could obviously trigger a volcano.

For example, here is an alarming article about a geothermal project in Switzerland. Swissinfo.ch, December 10, 2009: “The authorities in canton Basel City say they will cancel a geothermal energy project, which three years ago caused minor tremors that damaged many buildings.”

“A risk analysis study published on Thursday found that the danger of setting off more earthquakes was too great if drilling at the site resumed.”

“The project was put on hold three years ago after thousands of claims for damage were filed with insurers. Total costs for the damage were around SFr9 million ($8.78 million).”

“The study, commissioned by the canton, concluded that Basel was ‘unfavourable’ for geothermal power generation.”

“It said the resumption of Deep Heat Mining project and its operation over a 30-year period could set off around 200 tremors with a strength of up to 4.5 on the Richter Scale – in 2006, the quakes were about 3.4.”

“This would result in damages up to SFr40 million.”

“The Basel facility drilled five kilometres into the earth. The borehole was designed to be injected with water to capture the extreme heat. Back at the surface, the hot water – at a temperature of around 160° Celsius – would run a steam turbine coupled with a generator.”

This Swiss article outlines the risks, and also confirms that deep water-injection is used in the geothermal process—which can and does trigger earthquakes.

Here is another reference—The Guardian, July 11, 2013: “Pumping water underground at geothermal power plants can lead to dangerous earthquakes even in regions not prone to tremors, according to scientists.”

“Prof Emily Brodsky, who led a study of earthquakes at a geothermal power plant in California, said: ‘For scientists to make themselves useful in this field we need to be able to tell operators how many gallons of water they can pump into the ground in a particular location and how many earthquakes that will produce’.”

“It is already known that pumping large quantities of water underground can induce minor earthquakes near to geothermal power generation and fracking sites. However, the new evidence reveals the potential for much larger earthquakes, of magnitude 4 or 5, related to the weakening of pre-existing underground faults through increased fluid pressure.”

“The water injection appears to prime cracks in the rock, making them vulnerable to triggering by tremors from earthquakes thousands of miles away. Nicholas van der Elst, the lead author on one of three studies published on Thursday in the journal Science, said: ‘These [injected] fluids are driving [earthquake] faults to their tipping point’.”

“The analysis of the Californian site showed that for a net injection of 500m gallons of water into the ground per month, there is an earthquake on average every 11 days.”

“Heather Savage, a co-author on the same study said: ‘It is already accepted that when we have very large earthquakes seismic waves travel all over the globe, but even though the waves are small when they reach the other side of the world, they still shake faults [such as the faults induced by geothermal water-injection]. This can trigger seismicity in seismically active areas SUCH AS VOLCANOES where there is already a high fluid pressure.” (emphasis added)

So, on the Big Island of Hawaii, where there is a massive volcanic eruption underway, there is a geothermal plant, PGV. How close to the volcano is PGV?

The Washington Post, May 12: “Long a concern for residents and the target of lawsuits challenging its placement ON AN ACTIVE VOLCANO, the Puna Geothermal Venture (PGV) is a major safety issue [i.e., chemicals stored at PGV] in the wake of the eruptions and earthquakes that have shaken the Big Island for days, government officials say.” (emphasis added)

I see. PGV is ON the volcano.

Who owns PGV? Ormat Technologies. Through internal merger and stock swapping, Ormat appears to be a jointly owned Israeli and US company now.

Ormat is no stranger to scandals. At blog.heartland.org, H Sterling Burnett writes (4/1/15): One scandal that could haunt [Harry] Reid for his remaining time in the Senate (and possibly beyond) was reported on recently in the Washington Free Beacon and Courthouse News. It seems the Reid helped the green energy company, Ormat Technologies, a firm that owns and manages geothermal plants in California and Hawaii, secure nearly $136 million in economic stimulus funding from the 2009 American Recovery and Reinvestment Act.”

“Two former employees are suing the firm, claiming Ormat executives defrauded the United States of more than $130 million by reporting false information about two projects to get government grants, a federal judge ruled Tuesday.”

“Reid’s ties to Ormat are deep. The company runs geothermal plants in Nevada and Reid has been a big booster of the company in D.C. As reported in the Free Beacon, ‘Reid bragged about securing Ormat a $350 million loan guarantee from the Department of Energy (DOE) and took credit for expanding the Treasury program that the former employees say illicitly provided Ormat with millions more in taxpayer funds’.”

“It is also worth noting that Ormat’s DOE award came a year after investors sued the company for allegedly inflating its stock price through ‘fraudulent accounting and overstated financial results.’ Ormat settled the allegations in 2012 for $3.1 million.”

Ormat potentially faces a much larger scandal now.

A massive volcanic eruption on the Island of Hawaii.


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.

We are having a spiritual experience

We are having a spiritual experience

by Jon Rappoport

April 26, 2018

Recent events, about which I won’t go into detail, have caused me to say, we are having a spiritual experience.

And we are learning what that experience is.

Certain people, extraordinary people, show us qualities that transcend life.

These qualities, courage and love.

In the common arena where we all live, there are sufferings, but we can see that certain people transcend that. They come here, not only with a message, but with how they live. And how they live is greater than this life.

These people—there are many more of them than we ordinarily suppose.

This spiritual experience we are having—it is something we are learning about. I want to repeat that, because I’m not talking about something that appears and then is final. We are, if we are aware, learning.

Courage and love transcend this life we are living in the common arena.

The person who has shown me that is my wife, Laura Thompson. I have been learning about her for the 21 years we have been married. I have been learning about the scope and nature of her courage and love.

It is not easy for a person to live in this world on the side of love. To travel this life with love results in disappointments. But to continue, despite what happens, no matter what the world says or does, is majestic and beautiful. It is also transcendent.

And that is the living proof that there is a spiritual experience beyond this life as we are living it.

I believe, no matter who you are, that you have known a person who embodies this living proof.

Here and now.

As we learn, we come across “divisions” between the life we are living and the greater live we perceive. A major part of the learning is accepting that division.

There is a resolution. We come to it by degrees.

There are strengths in both the life we are living and the greater life we glimpse, perceive, and experience.

We come across great souls. They may be invisible to us for a time, even as we respond to them. But in time, we see more of them and who they are. And as we do, we see ourselves—what we can be. We see that what we can be is a natural extension of what we presently are doing.

As for myself, even as I feel my greatest love for Laura, I know it is only a part of what I will feel, as I learn more, in this spiritual experience I’m having.

As I learn more about her. As I live my life next to hers and as we have our endless life together.

Veils lifted from the heart and mind and eyes.

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.

Would you want to be a pig with a human brain?

Would you want to be a pig with a human brain?

by Jon Rappoport

April 23, 2018

Stat news: “…Stanford University’s Dr. Hiromitsu Nakauchi… broke open the chimera field with a 2010 experiment showing he could grow a rat pancreas in a mouse…Nakauchi is now working…on human-sheep chimeras, hoping that sheep, which have proven more receptive than pigs for growing human blood cells, might be a better template for growing human organs.”

I’ve long thought that certain humans already have pig brains, so transplantations between pigs and humans ought to be easy—

We’re entering the world of growing human organs in animals, for the purpose of taking those organs and putting them into human bodies. Someday, if all goes well (don’t hold your breath), no more long waiting lines for a new kidney or a liver. Voila. They’ll just grow one in a pig or a sheep or a monkey.

Now do you know why Hollywood has been churning out so many movies with mutants and hybrids and mix and match monsters? Chimeras are in. It’s the coming fashion statement.

“Yes, Sid was dying until they made a heart in a gorilla and stuck it in his chest. He’s so proud to show people the scar from the surgery.”

“Who, the gorilla?”

“No, Sid!”

“That’s nothing. My wife’s new brain was grown in a mountain lion. At night, out on the lawn, she crouches and growls. I admit I find it rather thrilling.”

“My cousin Sally, God bless her, just volunteered to have the lower part of her body removed, so could become half horse.”

Yes, but will they allow Sally to run in the Kentucky Derby?

The medical world is agog with the possibilities of human-animal interchanges. Behind that, however, is a lurking trans-human proposition: “Nothing about a human is settled. We can make humans into anything we want to. Let’s create a new world…”

And if THAT comes to pass, it’ll be far easier to convince people to enlist for re-programming at fundamental levels. “Thank you for signing up. We want to build people who are ONLY interested in others, not themselves. We want abject altruists who’ll give everything away for an abstract ideal of ‘justice’. We can condition that impulse into the New Human.”

Science on the march:

Keep breaking down and assaulting the idea that the human being is inviolate, until the masses are ready to accept any and all alterations.

As a first cousin to these efforts, we have some academics declaring that robots should have rights.

Non-conscious machines should have rights.

All right, I offer up my toaster. Let him be safe from untimely destruction. Let’s set up commissions across the world to formulate rules of kindness and care for all devices.

Let’s program humans into being machines, and give machines the rights of humans.

That’ll do it.

With the onrush of the Internet of Things, all of which are connected to the Internet, there’s a good chance your home appliances, gifted with the power of conversation, will seem to be alive.

Here is a charming quote attributed to Bill Gates: “Robots will play an important role in providing physical assistance and even companionship for the elderly.”

Yes, with enough drugs on the night table, the elderly will believe their companion robots are genuine friends, perhaps even departed relatives.

So if one day you’re visiting your mother in a nursing home, don’t be surprised if the supervisor says, “I suggest you turn around and go away. Your mother has a robot, and she believes it’s you. If you walk into her room, she might become disoriented. Anyway, her robot—you—is there for her twenty-four hours a day, every day. That’s more than enough in her declining months. Go away. Don’t worry, we have things under control.”

At which point, I advise you to stand firm and reply, “I won’t be phased out.”

And you might add, “Is there a chance your surgeon made a mistake and installed a pig brain in your head?”


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.