The Invisible Empire

by Jon Rappoport

July 7, 2021

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This article goes up against 50 thousand or a hundred thousand years of human conditioning. That means people will say, “I have no idea what you mean.” “You’re not saying THAT, are you?” “Everything about civilization contradicts what you’re suggesting.”

So be it.

“There is a living empire of The Poem. The Poem is what most people automatically reject as completely worthless and useless, pragmatically speaking—pragmatism being the only language they are pledged to speak, on pain of death. And yet there they are, in church, at funerals, reciting poems, when it counts. When they have to be MOVED.” (my notes for The Magician Awakes)

“The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age…”

“Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams.”

“I have dreamed of the green night with dazzled snows A kiss slowly rising to the eyes of the sea, The circulation of unknown saps, And the yellow and blue awakening of singing phosphorous!”

I know logic. And evidence. And investigation. I’ve been doing it for close to 40 years. But underneath it all, I’m doing it to expose the castle they, the insane ones, are building for us. The castle of their dead language and their tattered false logic and their iron bands of materialistic control; their newspeak and lab speak and germ speak and protection-racket speak and payoff speak and robot speak and techno-speak and data speak and modeling speak and squeeze-play speak and propaganda speak and mapping speak.

All the languages that are separate from LIFE.

When the printing press was invented, did people set about worshipping the little metal letters that allowed books to be published? When computers took hold, people DID set about worshipping them and the software and the processing capacity; and the mind-as-computer metaphors blossomed everywhere like cheap plastic flowers.

As social commentators never tire of pointing out, every new era creates its own story about how the universe works. These days, the story centers on “programs.” The planets and stars and galaxies must be responding to some set of instructions. And so are humans.

Taking this myth out to its conclusion, there is no room for LIFE. Or CONSCIOUSNESS.

The poets have always led the way. They burst through the layers of conditioned imprisonment and plant new seeds of time.

They take functional language, transform it, and shoot it up through the clouds.

They express what was inexpressible.

They destroy old crusted empires with a glance.

That centuries of education have failed to ignite billions of the young with poetry is no sign that this highest expression of consciousness is incomprehensible or an aberration.

Poetry isn’t a solution to a problem. It’s what the soul is always searching for. Searching for in a liquor store at 3AM, in an endless desert, in a brothel, drugged in front of a television set, at the moment two lovers pledge loyalty forever, when a coffin is lowered into a grave, when clouds of the mind suddenly clear away on the top of a mountain, when soldiers’ bodies arrive back on home soil, when boredom seems as if it has no end, when a firing squad points its guns, when a child comes out of the womb, when terrible circumstances rip away the foul rotting cover of smug indifference of the know-nothing who thinks he knows everything, when a father realizes what his child is seeing on the morning of a spring day in endless time, when a woman turns over in bed and looks at the man she loves.

Clamp down on The Poem, bury it, deny it, and the invention that supplants it is living death.

In this era, we call that invention Technocracy.

Every religion is frozen poetry. Somewhere, a poet was writing a ten-thousand-page poem, and the priests stepped in and took it and edited it, cut it, framed a piece of it, tore away the wild and free nature of it, and put it in a book—their book.

And this became a model for every large organization in the world: REDUCTION. Simplification. False maps. Making what is vitally electric into something that is dead.

Doctor: You know, I’ve failed you with all these pills. I’m trying to look into your SOUL. It’s like a block of stone. Let’s try something completely different. I’m going to give you a poem that can raise the dead. I want you to read it OUT LOUD six times a day for the next hundred days. Give it your all. Don’t hold back. Force it if you have to. If you feel shame and embarrassment, shove them aside. Read it as if you were the poet himself. Bring your voice to life! Here it is.

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea. (Dylan Thomas, Fern Hill)

THE PATIENT RESPONDS: Doctor, I can’t do that. I can’t read that out loud. I don’t even know what it means.

DOCTOR: I understand. You’re looking for a mechanical solution to your problem. But the problem is, YOU’VE become mechanical. That’s what’s driving you into oblivion. So every solution of the type you want makes things worse. You’re dead inside. No pill is going to fix that. You’re going to have to make a grand leap.

A poem, greater than any system or map or portrait of consciousness.

The lost language. The invisible empire. Over and above a hundred thousand years of human conditioning.

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

It’s the poets who destroy the old order of mechanical consciousness

Jul6

by Jon Rappoport

July 6, 2021

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“The greatest sum is no sum at all. It isn’t the addition of facts or numbers. There are mythic qualities in existence that come from us…myths greater than machines…and in order to give voice to the myths we need to go where poets go. We need to go there badly. For our own sake, we have to put that peculiar precision that splits a tiny particle into smaller and smaller pieces on the shelf…” (The Magician Awakes)

These days, people are rightly concerned about spying, snooping, tracking, hacking, profiling. The battle of privacy versus intrusion. The systems that look at other systems.

What kind of language is involved in computer spying and counter-spying and protection? You don’t have to be an expert to see it’s the language of the machine. It’s delineated in fine, very fine, and extra-fine shavings of detail. The Trojan Horse is now algorithmic.

The people who enter and work in that universe are committed to a meticulous process of move and counter-move. Programs above other programs. Look-ins which are processing the strategies of other look-ins.

The past, present, and future of language is involved. A civilization, to a significant extent, rides on what happens to words—not as detached entities, but as the expression of what we invent ourselves to be.

“It does not need that a poem should be long. Every word was once a poem.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

If freedom is placed in a modern context of privacy vs. no-privacy, the war is going to embroil us in a language of the machine. We’re going to touch that language, rub up against it in one way or another, use it, oppose some piece of it with another piece of it.

Children are going to grow up learning it and swimming in it and its effects.

In that way, the creeks and streams and rivers and oceans of machine interaction are going to power human thinking.

“…it is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there…” (William Carlos Williams)

Here’s a strange example. People will take a paragraph out of an author’s novel, extract every key word, and track down their possible references—and then try to reconstitute the paragraph as if it were lines of secret code. They’ll rebuild it by welding together those references.

Because mathematics consists of symbol-manipulation, and the symbols have very specific and tight meanings, there is a growing tendency to assume all language works this way.

It doesn’t.

Poetry doesn’t. But the poet, who was already on the far edge of credibility, is reintroduced as a symbol maker, a mathematician slipping a coded revolution into the matrix.

That might make an entertaining science fiction novel, but it has nothing to do with the energy or intent of a poem.

Poets may be unearthing hidden treasure, but the spoils of their war are everything mathematics isn’t. Every great poet destroys the old order. It’s for the reader to discover and see that, if he can.

The old order, which is always and forever fascism dressed up as “greatest good,” keeps resurfacing in the same pool of decay.

It’s the poets who know how to climb down into the muck and also fly above it, waking the dead parts of the psyche.

Whoever rules the dead, and with what royal purpose, remains constant: he rejects poetic consciousness that can fully restore the human being to life.

Poetry does more than reorder reality. It creates it from the beginning, from the first line on the page of the future.

Society, as it has been shaped, is the sum of illusions that prevent the individual from hearing the first line, even as it echoes in his mind.

This repression is a cooperative exchange in the marketplace. The individual agrees to deafen himself, in order to placate his inner forces.

“Time let me hail and climb, Golden in the heydays of his eyes. And honoured among wagons, I was prince of the apple towns, And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves Trail with daisies and barley Down the rivers of the windfall light.”

“Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table…”

“These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis…”

These aren’t instructions or code or habits to be performed, or political improvements. They’re grand intrusions on the commonplace labyrinth. They come in and explode.

As the consciousness of these things dwindles in the era of the machine and all its complications, as the matrix expands to include language-calculations designed to describe what the individual is and isn’t, a sea of metrics forms the illusion of progress.

Caught in nests of symbolic relation, we wait, “till human voices wake us and we drown.”

To the extent the poet is merely taken to be crazy, doom is settling like a shroud around our shoulders.

“…the willingness to give the response to the heroic…gets weaker and weaker in every democracy, as time goes on. Then men turn against the heroic appeal, with a sort of venom. They will only listen to the call of mediocrity wielding the insentient bullying power of mediocrity: which is evil.” (DH Lawrence)

But poets always come. They see doom and they use it as fuel for a new fire that ends one epoch and begins another. Who hears them? That is always the open question. We are already living in a new time, if we would recognize it.

“Poetry is the mother tongue of the human race.” (Johann Georg Hamann)

“[Poetry:] Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.” (Thomas Gray)

Imagine there were a million new and unknown languages waiting to be discovered. These tongues wouldn’t make things simpler. They wouldn’t make machines run more smoothly. They would lead us into worlds that had remained in the shadows because we had no way to express our perception of them. They would light up whole geographies of consciousness that had been dormant. Every compromise with reality would be exposed as a blatant enormous lie.

Every “thought-machine” would crumble. The absurdity of building bigger and bigger organizations as the grand solution to conflict would reveal itself so clearly, even android-humans would see it and wake up from their trance.

Here’s an excerpt from my unfinished manuscript, The Magician Awakes:

You sit there and tell me about your life, but after a while it occurs to you you’re talking in a blind language. You’re moving below other words you don’t give voice to.

You vaguely think, from time to time, the other words might be in Nature. But Nature is just one part of that expression. There are thousands of other Natures. And each one has a language that unlocks it and spreads it out in a different space and time.

Would you rather pull back in and settle on the words you use every day? Would you rather become an expert in those words, a king of those words, a ruler in that small place? Is that the beginning and end of what you want and where you’re going?

Because if it is, then we can end this discussion and all discussions. We can please ourselves with what we have. We can dodge and duck. We can inject ourselves with a satisfaction-drug and say there’s nothing else to do.

This is how a circumscribed life happens: through a story a person tells himself.

There is really only one universal solvent that will wash away that story: imagination.

The ultimate basis of all mind control is: whatever it takes to deny the true power of imagination.

The exact same thing can be said about the ultimate aim of political repression.

To understand, to get an idea about what imagination is capable of, you need to go to ART.

The creative center of the world.

“After the final no there comes a yes and on that yes the future of the world hangs.” Wallace Stevens

What would happen if the world were enveloped by art? And if we were the artists? And if we owed nothing to any hierarchy or external authority?

Art is a word that should be oceanic. It should shake and blow apart the boredom of the soul.

Art is what the individual invents when he is on fire and doesn’t care about concealing it. It’s what the individual does when he has thrown off the false front that is slowly strangling him.

Art is the end of mindless postponement. It’s what happens when you burn up the pretty and petty little obsessions. It emerges from the empty suit and empty machine of society that goes around and around and sucks away the vital bloodstream.

Art destroys the old order and the new order and the present order, with a glance.

Art spears the old apple on the point of a glittering sword and opens up the whole rotting crust that has attached itself to the tree of life.

It shrugs off the fake harmony of the living dead.

Fueled by liberated imagination, it is the revolution the psyche has been asking for.

Art unchained becomes titanic.

There are artists like Stravinsky, like Gaudi, like the composer Edgar Varese, like the often-reviled American writer Henry Miller, like Walt Whitman (who has been grotesquely co-opted into a Norman Rockwell-like prefect), like the several great Mexican muralists—Orozco, Rivera, Siqueiros—all of whom transmit the oceanic quality.

As in, The Flood.

There is a fear that, if such artists were unleashed to produce their work on a grand scale, they would indeed take over the world.

Our world, contrary to all consensus, is meant to be revolutionized by art, by imagination, right down to its core.

That this has not happened is no sign that the process is irrelevant. It is only a testament to the collective resistance.

Who knows how many such revolutions have been shunted aside and rejected, in favor of the consensus-shape we now think of as central and eternal?

We are living in a default structure, the one that has been left over after all the prior revolutions have been put to sleep.

But creation is not neutral.

It flows out into the atmosphere with all its subjective force.

It is the transformation we have been unconsciously hoping for, the revolution that would relentlessly make society over, that would eventually shatter the influence of all cartels and monopolies of physical and emotional and mental and spiritual experience.

Not because we wished it were so, but because we made it happen.

Prometheus, the artist who unchained humanity…

Through what mirror are we looking at ourselves in these ancient tales?

The Prometheus story makes absolutely no sense unless we acknowledge there is a reason for rebellion. But not just any rebellion. One man assaulting the supernatural mountain of the Olympians to steal fire, escape, and bring it back to man is more than audacious, if the Greek poets invented the pantheon of gods and their aerie in the first place.

In that case, the theft of fire is an acknowledgment that power is returned home.

“We invented the gods. Now we re-invent ourselves.”

Religion is frozen poetry. The poets began by writing outside the boundaries of the tribe, and the priests appointed themselves the sacking editors.

They hammered and cut and polished the wild free poems into tablets and catechisms and manuals of stern disapproval. They gathered up workers to build the temples where the new laws would be preached and taught. They established the penalties for defection. They staked an exclusive claim to revelation.

They established the false and synthetic universal centrality of myth disguised as revelation, and they sold it, and they enforced it, and they prepared a list of enemies who were threatening the Law of Laws.

And all that raw material, which they stole? It came from the poets. It came from the free and boundless creation of artists.

So Prometheus was setting the record straight. He was cracking the system like an egg. He was bringing imagination back where it belonged.

Of course, in the ancient myth, he paid a high price for his actions. But that’s merely more propaganda. The high priests write that retribution-ending on every story springing from freedom. They call the punishment by various names, and they naturally claim it is brought down by hammer from the Highest Authority. They work this angle with desperate devotion.

Prometheus was the liberator. He was the Chinese painters of the Dun Huang, the Yoruba bead artists, the Michelangelo of David, the Piero della Francesca of Legend of the True Cross, the Velazquez of The Maids of Honour, the Van Gogh of Irises and lamp-lit Arles, the Yeats of Song of the Wandering Aengus, the Dylan Thomas of Fern Hill, the Walt Whitman of The Open Road, the Henry Miller of Remember to Remember, the Orson Welles of Citizen Kane, the Lawrence Durrell of The Alexandria Quartet, the de Kooning of Gotham News.

He was Tesla and Rife.

Wherever individual human imagination was launched as the fire, Prometheus was there.

Of course, he wasn’t. He was the story we told ourselves about what we could do. That story is meant to remind us that all collective vision is a fraud. It may not begin that way, but sooner or later, it becomes a gargantuan slippage into narcosis of the soul.

Prometheus is the story we tell ourselves to remember the line between what the individual can learn and what he can create, and how many horses have been pulled up to that line and refuse to cross it and drink from the wells of imagination.

Prometheus is the story of a recapture of what we are. We may have buried the understanding deep in our psyches, but it is there. How many ways we try to refuse it!

We huddle in groups and pretend all progress flows from the mass. We diddle and fiddle with this limit and that limit. We adjust and make more room for the Average. We build machines to think at a higher level than we can. We watch theatrical spectacles of “new hybrid humans.” We proclaim healing virtues and forget about what the healing of the spirit might actually entail, what revolution, what vital energies, what leaps of imagination, what assertions of our inherent power.

We keep thinking of peace, when peace means, as defined by the “wise ones,” a death. Their peace is what is left over after the war of the creative human has been surrendered.

Their peace is syrup. Their peace is submission to some Glob of “universal consciousness.” Their peace is a column of grinning idiots guarding a self-appointed tower of learning. Their peace is the survival and organization of damaged goods. Their peace is: “if it is meant to happen, it will.” Their peace is: the universe decides, we oblige. Their peace is a cosmic junk-heap.

From this mob of castrati, Prometheus emerged, untangling himself from wet strands of delusion, resignation, and fear. He soared. He advanced. He took back our basic and vital character. He breathed crackling energy into bloodstreams.

From the Promethean perspective, Reality is waiting for imagination to revolutionize it down to its core.

Beyond systems. Beyond structures.

Energies churn in subterranean caverns. Where will those rivers run for the next thousand years or thousand incarnations?

What would create an internal revolution?

What would start the water wheels spinning and the torrents surfacing?

How would creation begin?

On that Promethean question rests the fate of every civilization, past, present, and future.

Every thread, atom, quark, and wavicle of this Reality is posturing, is imbued with the impression that “what already exists” is superior to what the individual can now invent. The causal chains of history seem to produce the present and the present seems to produce the future.

These are the grand deceptions. These are the illusions…

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

Jon Rappoport

Wormhole in the Museum Called Reality

Jun30

by Jon Rappoport

June 30, 2021

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

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

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

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

Holy crap.

They’re in there.

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

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

What do you want me to do? Charlie says.

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

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

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

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

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

Charlie asks him how he proposes to do that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are they eating, I asked him.

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

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

I asked him the obvious question about shrinkage.

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

They like your work, I said.

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

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

He blinked.

What?

Paint on the painting. See what happens.

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

He stood in front of the painting and said:

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

They all looked toward the sound of his voice.

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

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

They were nodding and saying yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We drank in silence for a while.

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

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

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

Yeah, he said, maybe.

A week later, he got back to work.

Universes. Some weird things happen in that area.

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

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

Jon Rappoport

The blockbuster movie called Reality

Jun28

by Jon Rappoport

June 28, 2021

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

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

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

Your perception of x dimensions is narrowing down to three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lights dim.

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

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

You think, “This is a hypnotic weapon.”

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

He waits, then moves on.

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

You’re shocked.

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

Incredible.

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

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

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

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

You walk toward larger buildings in the distance.

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

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

“You were reported missing,” he says.

“Missing from what?” you say.

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

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

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

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

You walk with the men to the car.

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

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

In the haze dance little creatures.

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

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

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

You hear faint music.

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

One of the uniformed men opens the car door.

You nod at him.

“My pleasure, sir,” he says.

The music fades away.

The scene shifts.

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

You’re home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You see pure space that…

Has been placed here. For you.

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

And you’re sitting in the theater again.

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

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

“Sir,” he says. “Please follow me.”

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

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

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

She drops a check in your hand.

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

She shrugs.

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

“And the rest of those people?”

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

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

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

“How do you do it?” you say.

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

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

She nods.

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

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

She looks into your eyes.

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

“Why do you do it?” you say.

“Do what?”

“Sell this trip.”

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

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

You take a deep breath and leave the theater.

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

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

You open it.

It’s a non-disclosure agreement.

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

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

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

Jon Rappoport

The realist vs. the artist

Apr8

by Jon Rappoport

April 8, 2021

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“All human accomplishment has the same origin, identically. Imagination is a force of nature. Is this not enough to make a person full of ecstasy? Imagination, imagination, imagination. It converts to actual. It sustains, it alters, it redeems!” (Saul Bellow, Henderson the Rain King)

“Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.” (Albert Einstein)

—You say reality is invented. I say it’s THERE already, and we have to deal with it.

What does “deal with it” mean?

Accept it.

What do you do after that?

Not my concern. Outside my realm of control.

You’re denying you can create something better than reality.

What do YOU do? You just write plays and put characters on a stage. It’s fake reality.

I should just take a camera out into the street and shoot what’s in front of me? That’s my limit? You think consciousness is a steady-state THING. It’s dynamic and alive. No matter how high you go, there’s always something more. Something new that can be created. There is no final state of consciousness.

Consciousness is: what I see. It’s what I think and react to, when I see what I see. That’s all.

So you have no choice. You’re in prison.

I didn’t say that.

That’s what you mean. —But imagination is the key that unlocks the prison cell.

Really? I say there’s no such thing as imagination. It’s a reconstruction of what already exists. You rearrange pieces. Realism makes sense. Everything else is fluff.

Translation: you accept What Is. You might complain, but you accept. You end up creating nothing.

What happens to the characters in one of your plays? They all have limits. Each consciousness is limited. They’re chess pieces on a board.

That’s what you see when you sit and watch a stage play?

What else is there to see?

Life. A different kind of life.

I doubt that. On one end, you have a very imperfect person. He’s making all the mistakes he can possibly make, and he damages his own life. On the other end, you have a perfect person, however you want to define that. And that’s what he is. Perfect. And so what?

Again, you think consciousness is a given—“it is what it is.” It doesn’t change. At best, it just solves problems. I see a stage play as a different universe. It sends clues to the audience. “Reality isn’t fixed.” “Look what can be done to reality.”

No. We’re all in this reality called Life on Earth. That’s what we’ve got. We have to deal with it in the best way we can.

So according to you, all the artists who’ve ever lived were just amusing themselves, distracting themselves.

Pretty much, yes.

And all the mystics who’ve ever had visions were just deluded.

Right.

Reality is something that’s stamped on all our minds.

Correct.

What happens when you change your mind, when you rebel against the stamp?

You find out you can’t move the mountain.

That’s your bottom line?

It’s everybody’s bottom line.

Or…you just lack the courage to make your best vision into fact in the world.

I don’t have a vision.

Why not?

I’m not built to have a vision.

How do you know that?

Through experience. I live, and live some more, and no vision shows up.

You have to imagine a vision.

Imagination is delusion.

You’re imagining yourself as you are, over and over. You’re constantly imagining an image of yourself as you think you are.

That’s an interesting statement, but I don’t believe it.

What would happen if you did believe it?

I’d be forced to go on a whole new voyage.

And?

You want me to give up what I have, on the chance that if I go out into the sea, I’ll find something better.

Yes—something more ALIVE.

And what would that be?

I don’t know. It would be your vision.

You want me to throw caution to the wind.

Yes.

That’s asking for a lot. In return for something highly doubtful.

Forget doubt. Doubt is easy.

I guess, if I have a vision, that’s what it is: Doubt.

What are you going to build on that foundation?

You want me to become a character in a play?

A larger character. Or the playwright.

Sounds like cheap pie in the sky.

You can’t build much on cheap pie in the sky. Or any cheap idea.

You think I’m being cheap.

Absolutely.

I’m “writing a bad play called Reality.”

Yes.

And there are better plays I could write.

Potentially, an infinite number.

The sky’s the limit?

Even the sky is a limit. If great, great sages are sitting there, in their illumined states of mind, sooner or later it occurs to them they can create something MORE. Buddha is sitting there, and one morning he says: I can create something more. And he does.

And in that scenario, if painters like Degas and Rembrandt and Piero della Francesca are still somewhere, painting, they’re going further than they’ve ever gone before.

Yes.

Why?

Because they imagine more, they want to keep inventing. They want to see more.

Whereas I’m busy deciding whether to order a salami sandwich or a pastrami sandwich.

Right.

I’m getting tested twice a month and taking the vaccine.

Right.

I closed my store and went out of business because the governor said I had to.

Right.

I could reinvent my future as a “champion for freedom.” Or whatever.

Right.

Suppose I believe in God?

Yes? And? Did God say STOP? Is that one of His Commandments? Did he say ACCEPT REALITY? Did he say DON’T IMAGINE SOMETHING BETTER? DON’T CREATE IT? Did he say LEAVE THE MONEY CHANGERS IN THE TEMPLE TO THEIR OWN DEVICES?

I don’t know.

I think you do know.

Imagining is just pretending.

If that’s the way you see it, then pretend.

What?

Pretend you have a vision of what you really want to create. Pretend you’ve imagined it.

Really?

Yes. If you think imagining is lying, then lie. Lie to yourself that you have a vision of a better future. If you think imagining is making up illusions, then make up an illusion of a vision, and follow it no matter what.

And if I think I have no imagination, then imagine I DO?

Yes. Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes to overthrow your idea that realism is all you have. Break the chains.

Suppose I can’t?

That’s what you keep imagining: “I can’t.” That’s your vision: “I can’t.”

So out of nowhere, I should just overthrow reality?

Yes, and shove in all your chips on that move.

Why did you show up at my door?

That’s what I do.

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

Jon Rappoport

A hundred years in the future: the joy during the lockdown

Sep25

by Jon Rappoport

September 25, 2020

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A dreamer dreams many things. In this case, he was merely walking from his living room to the kitchen, and a thought struck him, and he went AWAY for a few seconds, and a two-part dream laid itself out like a fresco…then folded up and disappeared. He shook his head and resumed walking to his kitchen to make coffee. Crazy, he thought. Where did THAT come from? He looked at his watch. Another day in lockdown.

PART ONE OF THE DREAM

On May 14, 2266, the New England Journal of Medicine and Psychology published a paper titled:

WHAT IS ‘A NEGATIVE CONSEQUENCE?’

A quote: “Brain research discovers common patterns of activity across a whole population. These patterns would be called ‘normal’. Exceptions would be classified as various categories of ‘disordered thought’. It’s assumed that only ‘harmonious and symmetrical’ brain patterns are positive and beneficial.”

A reader commented: “This assumption is grossly false. It’s a stunted version of aesthetics. Creative force always breaks out of these little geometries. So does every new idea. Increasingly, Earth culture is unable to understand this.”

—The reader receives a government notice and is summoned to a hearing. He’s interviewed by a virtual AI employee of the federal Department of Stat Research.

HOLOGRAPHIC i-FIGURE: “Are you all right during this epidemic lockdown? I see you live alone.”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“We want you to enjoy yourself. Are you watching learning programs?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like them.”

“Well, we have a report on you. It indicates an output difficult to measure or interpret. What can you tell us about this?

“I don’t know. I’m composing a symphony.”

“A symphony? What is that?”

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

“I find no extant orchestras in the country.”

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

“Why?”

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

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

“I suppose that means your instruments are limited.”

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

“That’s a gross oversimplification.”

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

“What is this symphony you’re composing?”

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

“It has a specific message?”

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

“Why have we not heard of you before?”

“I was doing illustrations for the Happiness Holos.”

“What happened?”

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

“The Happiness Holos are an essential social program.”

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

“Fuel for what fire?”

“The artist can use and transform any material.”

“Where did you hear such a thing?”

“Nowhere. I’ve experienced it many times.”

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

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

“Why not?”

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

“This is your idea of a joke?”

“Not at all.”

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

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

“No? Then what do you do?”

“I invent sound.”

“Preposterous.”

“Large masses of sound.”

“Absurd. According to what underlying pattern?”

“None. Check the Library of Structures. I doubt you’ll find my activity in the catalogs.”

“Only known structures and patterns are contained in the files.”

“I don’t invent through pattern.”

“No? How then?”

“I improvise.”

“And this term refers to?”

“Something done spontaneously.”

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

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

“You’re being flippant.”

“I assumed you’d eventually cite me. I’m just composing music during the lockdown.”

“There is no citation yet. You’re an anomaly. We investigate. We consider.”

“I’m afraid your and my idea of ‘consider’ are quite different.”

“Let me ask you this. When you are composing, do you ever believe you enter into a realm or area that could be called ‘non-material’? We’ve heard such claims before.”

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

“You’re deluded. And disordered.”

“If I could simply confess to that and be on my way, I’d be a happy man.”

“You live in a society. To keep the peace and maintain the Positive, science has discovered that thought should occur within certain parameters.”

“If you insist.”

“We want to study you. It’s a great honor to be called. You could help extend the boundaries of research…we register variation from the norm in your present thinking.”

“What present thinking?”

“What you’re thinking right now.”

“That was quick.”

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

“I’m starting the fourth movement.”

“Wait. What you’re doing is disruptive.”

“It’s because of how you set your frequencies.”

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

The i-figure went dark.

A thousand holographic government buildings froze and vanished.

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

—Back in his room at the edge of the city, he said, “I suppose that’s what they mean by a negative consequence.”

He sat down at his computer and turned it on. Before he went to the composing page, he had to click on a sunburst icon and read a government message for the day. It appeared:

“We want everyone to be happy during the lockdown. This is very important. Because much government function is being carried out by virtual assistants, we’ve encountered a disruption in service owing to a segment of Disorder entered into our Net. Please be patient. Repairs are underway. These are learning experiences for us. There is always a certain amount of disordered thought in the environment. Most of it is unintentional. We welcome the opportunity to study such examples. As a member of the educated class, we’re sure you can appreciate the research aspect of our work. Thank you for your patience. Food deliveries will be delayed by a factor of…two hours. Our latest figures indicate 2,147 new epidemic cases have been detected in your sector in the last 24 hours. Re-testing is underway. Please place your hand on the screen now…thank you. You may remove it. Just a moment…we’re unable to process your assay at this time. You’ll receive a message indicating your viral status as soon as the system is up and running again. End of message.”

The composer plugged a small module into the side of his computer. The screen went red. Black letters formed: DISEQUILIBRIUM. He pressed the send key.

The encrypted score of the first three movements of his symphony set out on a rapidly changing zig-zag journey to a series of caverns below cities in Belgium, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, America.

A program consisting of the synthesized instruments of a full orchestra read the score and began to broadcast the music to small groups of people sitting in the caverns…

PART TWO OF THE DREAM

In a government office, a Stat analyst read a note from his supervisor:

“The pandemic is having a positive effect on mass thought-patterns. We’re seeing a significant smoothing out of trends. With major focus on staying indoors, rapid testing, isolation, and official updates tuned to each population group, overall harmonization is expanding.”

“This gives us more time to focus on outliers and odd departures from the symmetrical norm. Attached you’ll find a story written by a man who has been living alone for the past 12 years. He’s a former scripter for the Department of Education series, ‘I Love School.’ He dropped out and began writing fiction. This in itself would be a red flag, but the content of his latest effort is quite problematical. Give it a read and send me your assessment.”

The analyst opened up the attachment, took several calming breaths, and dug in:

“You want to forget about the possibility that, buried under mind control, there is a very different human being? Suppose, for example, the psyche is equipped to see and use language itself in a way that’s foreign to us? Suppose this language sends signals to our endocrine systems, and our chemical and biological processes undergo a revolution?”

“Here is what an astronaut said in a closed room in Houston when he came back from a three-month voyage in space and emerged from his quarantine period. Here is what he told the men at the table.”

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

There was silence in the room.

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

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

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

But the ops chief held up his hand.

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

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

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

What would we have then?

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

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

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

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

Let’s cut out middlemen.

Instead of the standard blots, print out all sorts of complex shapes on a page and say, OK BOYS, THIS IS A LOST LANGUAGE. FIGURE OUT WHAT IT MEANS. WORK ON IT.

Then if you can nudge or inspire or bribe people to do that, they will work for a few years believing there is really something there, something that is embedded in the shapes, and they’ll dig in and try to decode it. A few more years and they might throw in the towel and say, “The hell with this, let’s just make it up. Let’s say each shape means whatever we imagine it to mean, and each shape can change its meaning from minute to minute.”

Then they start writing to each other with these shapes and thousands of others they make up—and gradually, they forget about the notion that they might be crazy. After that, glimpses and glints begin to surface in their minds. They don’t know what they are, but they feel they’re de-conditioning themselves from any language they previously knew. They’re out in open water. Their operational concept of Understanding is undergoing a revolution.

They realize how tightly they clung to their old basic notion of Meaning.

They drop that. They discard it in the garbage, because they’re fascinated with the glints and glimpses they’re getting. They want more glimpses. They’re inventing this language with no rules and no assigned structure.

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

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

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

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

You listen to what you play.

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

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

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

The spectrum of feeling and thought expands.

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

Your imagination is gearing up.

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

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

When you understand that expanded and exploded sentence, you can talk to an alien from Parsec-12. He can talk to you.

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

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

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

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

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

—The stat analyst leaned back in his chair. He prepared to gather his thoughts so he could write a report for his supervisor.

The author of the very strange piece he’d just read was obviously insane. Anyone could understand that. But what could the government learn about outlier thought patterns from the piece? During the comfort of the lockdown, most people were settling in, trying to relax, turning off their stray ideas, looking for the Positive, as the authorities had urged. But this man, whoever he was, had gone in the opposite direction. Why? And why had he chosen language as his jumping-off point? He was trying to attack everything that was harmonious and repetitive.

The analyst remembered something from his own past. A novel he had read as a child. A sea adventure. A sailor had stepped off his ship at a distant port and walked along a road toward a range of hills. It was a summer afternoon.

The analyst remembered that as the sailor walked on this road carrying his pack, a whole scene had opened up in his child’s mind, and he had put down the book. He saw those hills and he walked up to them, too, with the sailor. He walked ahead of the sailor and he saw a valley, and there was a city in the valley, and very tall buildings, and people on the streets.

Among these people, he moved slowly, listening to them talk. He couldn’t understand their language.

And then he could. He felt he was falling and flying at the same time.

Now, in his office, he did a search and discovered the man who had written the piece he was supposed to report on lived in Hartsdale, a small town 20 miles from his office.

He pinned on his federal badge, took an elevator down to the parking lot, slipped on a mask, got in his car, and drove out of the facility.

The roads were empty. A half-hour later, he parked at the end of a dirt road next to a small cottage.

He entered the cottage without knocking.

The rooms were empty.

Floor boards in the bedroom were stacked in a pile, and there was a hole in the floor. He saw a ladder.

He climbed down the ladder to a dark room. The floor was dirt.

He felt the walls and found a door.

He opened it. People were sitting in chairs. They glanced at him and made no moves.

There was music. They were listening to music.

He sat down in a chair. He had never heard music like this before.

It engulfed him.

He was back in the city in the valley. He walked the streets, and he knew this was just the beginning. It was where he went to depart from what he had been thinking about. It was the first difference, the breaking of a connection. Not only the absence of gravity, but the absence of the character of gravity.

He felt quite alone and quite complete. But not isolated.

There was nothing from his past he needed to share.

And nothing about the pandemic or the lockdown.

It occurred to him there was no danger at all. No pandemic.

The whole edifice of danger and all its sub-sections were like old faded photos.

He stood still in the city.

—end of the dream—

The man who just had this dream made his coffee in the kitchen and took it back into the living room. Another day of lockdown. He sat down on the couch and shook his head like duck who’d just jumped out of a pond up on to dry land. He took a sip of coffee and turned on the news. He felt himself relax.

He flipped from one channel to another.

“A person over 65 who has suffered from any one of several key illnesses must be vaccinated, as a precaution. All hospital and nursing home employees must be vaccinated. Travelers returning from the following locations must be vaccinated before re-entering the country…”

“Here at Driver Two Corp, all our people take the vaccine proudly. We want the community to know we’re in the lead in compliance. We support the Governor and his team of public health advisors. Our new contact tracing app has built in signals telling you when you’re at risk in certain neighborhoods. Visit our Facebook page and learn more.”

“Hi, I’m Dr. Julie Meng of the CDC. I want to tell you about a man named Carl. He refused the vaccine and infected his whole warehouse and we had to shut down the company. Right now, Carl is on a ventilator fighting for his life in a hospital…don’t be a Carl…”

“Did you know you can report certain people who actively refuse the vaccine? Go to our Facebook page and learn who you can report on and why…”

“At YYY Corp, all 32,000 of us want to salute the nation’s contact tracers who are working to keep all of us safe. We know you’re out there protecting us 24/7. So we’re cutting your insurance premiums by 15 percent across the board, for the next six months, as a gesture of thanks. Tracing leads to vaccinating, and that’s what we all need—immunity from the virus…”

“Leading our coverage this morning, the CDC has pinpointed three areas in Utah where vaccine refusal has climbed higher in recent weeks. Some estimates place it as high as ten percent. A breakaway church and its pastor have been blamed for spreading conspiracy theories. In accordance with federal conditions under which the COVID vaccine can be mandated, one of those areas has now been designated a ‘hot spot.’ Local border controls have been set up. Two clinics are prepared to receive people who have turned down the vaccine and are being placed in custody. We now go live to the ER at Buchen Hospital…”

“In Houston, a group calling itself COVID Truth has leaked a public-health list of local residents who have so far refused to take the vaccine. Utilizing Facebook posts, 90 names have been exposed. Of course, medical privacy is an issue, but the majority of local citizens seem to be siding with COVID Truth…”

“Today, three eastern states reached agreement limiting inter-state travel, deploying a wide-ranging series of highway checkpoints, where officers can demand certificates of immunity…”

The man heard a rising noise. He walked over to his window and looked outside. A few blocks away he saw crowds gathering. They were spreading out across his neighborhood. How was that possible? He noticed they weren’t wearing masks. They were standing close together.

The dream flashed through his mind again.

Without thinking, he grabbed his jacket and went outside to join them.

An hour later, he was threading his way through thousands of people. The crowds extended all the way to downtown.

So many people were holding signs that said FREEDOM.

Could this…?

A woman next to him was laughing. She looked at him and handed him a pair of binoculars. He took them and looked in the direction she was pointing.

Along the highway, thousands of motorcycle riders were coming into the city.

He took a deep breath and let it out.

“What’s happening to me?” he said without thinking.

“Nothing,” the woman said. “It’s all over. Their organization is gone.”

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

Jon Rappoport

Dispatches from the War: the trial of John Q Citizen

Aug21

by Jon Rappoport

August 21, 2020

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John Q found himself in a small courtroom. The lighting was dim. He’d been brought there to stand trial for a minor offense. He was trying to remember what it was. Not wearing his mask? Not keeping his distance? Breaking curfew? The judge was sitting behind a table on an elevated platform.

The judge began speaking—

You think you’ve been arrested because of some little item. You’re wrong. What we’re talking about here is reality. The picture frame and your place in the picture. Your life is INSIDE. That’s the deal. Whether you agreed to the terms is beside the point.

Once you’re inside the picture, you’re expected to take on all the duties of a law-abiding citizen. That’s your ID package. No exceptions. It doesn’t matter what the rules are, you follow them. You’re supposed to get a haircut and a shave, that’s what you do. You’re supposed to wear a suit, you wear a suit. You’re supposed to fall in line, you get in line and wait. If one day the crap hits the fan and everything goes blooey, you wait for orders.

Some days are sunny, sometimes it rains. You have other dreams, you ignore them. You’re carved down into a shape. You assume that shape. You live according to what that shape is supposed to do. You’re a CITIZEN. You aren’t anything else.

This is a one-time offer. Today we fine you. If you show up here again, we stick you in jail. You and all other citizens put together are a PATTERN. We don’t expect you to understand it, we just expect you to do your part.

What else do you think this IS? Stop testing the limits. The limits aren’t going to move. Everybody starts out thinking he’s a foreigner to reality. He’s taking a look-see. He’s checking out the situation. But that’s not the way it is. We’re here to make sure everyone gets the message. Once you’re in, you’re in.

We’re not interested in speculation. We’re interested in facts. We make the facts. Somebody has to. You didn’t wear a mask. We don’t care about the mask. Can’t you see that? We only care about the rule. Tomorrow we say don’t wear a mask. Then that’s the rule.

You’re shaved down and carved down to be a citizen who follows orders. That’s why you’re HERE—Earth, reality, America, whatever you want to call it. You don’t understand reality. We do. That’s the difference between you and us.

We thrive because you’re powerless. We want you to forget about power. You’re up against a whole lot of good citizens who believe they’re powerless. Get it? That’s their religion. It makes perfect sense to them.

Remember the Old Testament story of Joseph? During the seven-year famine, he was chief advisor to the Pharaoh. He sold back, to the people, part of the wheat he had already collected from them. Then finally, he distributed one more pile, in return for the people selling THEMSELVES to the Pharaoh. There is nothing new about our current arrangement.

What kind of show did you think we were running? I’m not just a petty bureaucrat. We know there is power. We know the individual secretly has power. We work to keep that fact away from him. We want to make him forget, to feel shame and guilt.

When we see he’s convinced he’s lost and we’ve won, we feel our own juice. We want to see him defeated. That’s our goal. That’s why we run things the way we do. Every citizen who gives up is a feather in our cap.

This is our movie, we’re the producers, and you’re in crowd scenes. That’s it. We don’t want you sticking out from the crowd or wandering off. Virus, no virus, epidemic, no epidemic, do you think we care about any of that? We only care about BEHAVIOR.

People above us in the pecking order wrote the script, and then other people sold it, and now we’re producing it. On a day to day basis. It’s our job and our calling. As long as you pretend you have no power, as long as you do whatever you need to do, in order to keep pretending, we’re good. We sell amnesia, and you’re the customer.

We don’t care whether you’re rich or poor, whether you work at some menial job, or you’re a high-brow, as long as you toe the line. You can salute whoever and whatever you want to—the flag, the country, the president, God, it doesn’t matter, as long as you stay in your place.

At some point in life, everyone gets a glimpse of the fact that reality is elastic. It’s invented. Our job is to make sure everyone shoves that moment down into his memory and below his memory into the dark and forgets about it.

If he bows down to Something he thinks is telling him that he can’t change reality, that it isn’t up to him, all the better. If he worships doom, all the better. If he believes he’s coming to a rational conclusion that reality is permanently fixed in place, all the better. If he believes inventing new reality is a sin, good. If he thinks real rebellion is impossible, good.

We want realists. A realist is a person who says, “What can I do? Nothing.” That person is a little fleck of gold in our account.

We’ve studied enough history to know the evidence is ABUNDANT: pushed down inside the individual is enormous creative power to invent new reality. We also know his hostile, vicious, rabid denial of that fact is a chronic disease. Have you ever thought about—

John Q Citizen clears his throat and says, “How much do I owe, Your Honor?”

“Two thousand dollars.”

“Where do I pay?”

“The clerk’s office down the hall.”

His eyes dull, Citizen turns and walks out of the court room.

As he’s about to place his hand on the knob of the door to the clerk’s office, a spontaneous question forms in his mind. He’s asked himself this question before, but never with such immediate clarity.

“What am I?”

He feels an explosion at the back of his head.

Suddenly, he looks around…makes up his mind, and then walks toward the entrance of the building.

He feels light on his feet. Alive.

However, before he can walk outside, he notices the scene around him has reshaped itself. He’s no longer in a courthouse. It’s a theater. He has a ticket in his hand.

He sees a door. He goes over and opens it. Moves inside, into warm darkness.

“Is this a good idea?” “Why did I do it?”

He can already feel a merging sensation. Electromagnetic fields are humming, even before the movie starts.

The theater is filled with people. John Q takes his seat. Crystal clear thoughts move through his head.

“Don’t forget where I came from. Don’t forget this is just a movie. Don’t fall asleep. The movie creates nostalgia for a place that doesn’t exist. Don’t surrender. I’m here to find out why the movie has power.”

The lights dim.

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

Suddenly, he’s looking at a huge pasture filled with flowers. The sky is a shocking blue. He can feel a breeze on his arms and face.

He thinks, “This is a hypnotic weapon.”

Now, the pasture fades away and he’s standing on an empty city street at night. It’s drizzling. He hears sirens in the distance. A disheveled beggar approaches and holds out his trembling hand. He waits, then moves on.

John Q looks at the wet shining pavement and snaps his fingers, to change it into a lawn. Nothing happens.

He’s shocked.

He waves his hand at a building. It doesn’t disappear.

Incredible.

He reaches into his pocket and feels a wallet. He walks over to a streetlight and opens it. There’s his picture on a plastic ID card. His name is under the picture, followed by a number code. On the reverse side of the card, below a plastic strip, is a thumbprint.

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

He remembers the address. He remembers a small cottage at the edge of an industrial town. There’s a pickup parked in the driveway.

It’s his truck. He knows it. But how can that be?

He walks toward larger buildings in the distance.

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

John pulls out his wallet and give it to him. The man looks at the ID card, at John Q, at the card again.

“You were reported missing,” he says.

“Missing from what?” John Q says.

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

“I’m fine,” John Q says. “I was…taking a short trip. I’m just out for some air.”

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

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

John walks with the men to the car.

Waves he’s never felt before are emanating from it.

Mentally, he tries to back up from them. For a moment, he’s in a haze.

He looks at the short man in the suit. The man is smiling.

Suddenly, the smile is transcendent. Tears fill John Q’s eyes.

John thinks, “They built this so I would be lost and they could find me. I’m supposed to be rescued. I’ve never been rescued before. I never knew what it meant.”

He hears faint music.

It grows louder. As he nears the car, he realizes he’s listening to a chorus and an orchestra. The rising theme is Victory.

One of the uniformed men opens the car door.

John nods at him.

“My pleasure, sir,” the uniformed man says.

The music fades away.

The scene shifts.

John Q is standing next to the pickup in his driveway alongside his cottage.

He’s home.

Think, he tells himself. What’s going on?

He recognizes his mind has sections. The first part registers this new reality.

The second part of his mind sees problems and solves them.

He was never aware of these two sectors of his mind before.

Where did they come from?

Now, as he walks into his cottage and instantly remembers the rooms and the objects in these rooms, a separate accompanying sensation of Familiarity, slightly out of phase, grows stronger.

He realizes, without knowing how, that he’s supposed to feel tremendous relief. This is what’s expected of him.

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

They keep coming back to it. The Familiar.

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

…In order to suggest he’s been here before. To suggest he belongs here.

As he looks around the cottage, he notices a third sector of his mind. He struggles to identify it.

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

Yes.

He keeps staring at the cottage and he sees space.

He sees pure space that…

…Has been placed here. For him.

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

And John Q is sitting in the theater again.

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

John feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns. It’s an usher.

“Sir,” he says. “Please follow me.”

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

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

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

She drops a check in John’s hand.

“What happened in there?” John says. “What happened?”

She shrugs.

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

“And the rest of those people?”

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

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

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

“How do you do it?” John says.

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

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

She nods.

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

John starts to answer and realizes he doesn’t know.

She looks into John’s eyes.

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

“Why do you do it?” John says.

“Do what?”

“THIS.”

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

John turns toward the exit. The sun is shining outside. People are walking past the doors.

He takes a deep breath and leaves the theater.

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

He notices he’s carrying a rolled up sheet of paper in his hand.

He opens it.

It’s a non-disclosure agreement. It has his signature on it.

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

He looks at the sheet of paper…

Makes up his mind…

…And it bursts into flames.

He looks behind him. The theater has vanished.

In its place sits a small stone building. Engraved over the door in gold letters: BOARD OF EDUCATION.

The door opens and young man walks out holding a large plastic bag. He comes up to John. He reaches into the bag and pulls out a thin envelope and hands it to John.

“It’s a mask,” the young man says. “Did you watch the news? We’re all supposed to wear them and hide behind them.”

He walks away.

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

Jon Rappoport

The power of viruses and the Power of You

Feb19

“I saw a horror movie and somehow it was the greatest experience of my life.”

by Jon Rappoport

February 18, 2020

(To join our email list, click here.)

In this article, I depart, for a moment, from the strategy of citing evidence in my coverage of the “China epidemic.” (For my series of articles on the “China epidemic,” click here.)

Instead, I want to make a few brief notes on the subject of power.

For many or most people, there is a kind of programming in the mind which urges the acceptance of viruses as powerful. This programming results in visceral emotional reactions toward microbes.

The collection of sensations would be something like: riding on a train heading toward a possible break in the tracks. Each person on board has been warned. No one is sure whether the tracks, a few miles in the distance, have actually been ripped apart. The train’s engineer in the cab isn’t stopping.

There is fear, of course. But there is also something else. An almost wild feeling. Where does it comes from? It comes from the realization that power is SOMEWHERE. Where? In the potential break in the tracks.

People don’t often experience a sensation of power. For that reason, they don’t want to minimize the importance of the tracks up ahead. They don’t want to throw away that feeling. At some level, they believe that, if they do throw it away, there will be no power anywhere. And THAT would provoke panic.

The idea that they might be coddling an ILLUSION—and the whole warning they received was a monstrous fabrication to begin with—well, this prospect is entirely out of the question. That couldn’t be, under any circumstances. That would be too, too much.

If you were so foolish as to approach such a person and suggest he could, first and foremost, look to his OWN power, he would stare at you as if you were speaking a language from another planet. To say that your advice, under the circumstances—the speeding train, the tracks, the warning—was inappropriate…this would be a vast understatement.

If a person, for whatever reason, believes he has no significant power, he searches for it elsewhere. If he can find a train, a warning, and danger, he’ll climb onboard. It’s far, far better than nothing.

In our society and present culture, of course, the thought that the individual has a great deal of inherent power, and a right to it, is on the wane. That ship, to go to another metaphor, is taking on lots and lots of water.

Typical sociopaths in high places, and their bootlickers, apply basic psychology they don’t teach in fifty-thousand-dollars-a-year colleges: People must be able to imagine power is SOMEWHERE. They don’t believe they have it themselves. So why not invoke images of power in a venue which results in a strange allegiance:

“I’ll see and feel power in a fearful threat to me. I’ll sign on and remain loyal, no matter what. I’ll cling to my threat, and I’ll feel rising fear and strange rising joy together.”

That’s the speeding train, the warning, the tracks.

That’s the virus.

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

Jon Rappoport

The Individual vs. The Staged Collective

Jan17

by Jon Rappoport

January 17, 2020

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“The individual sees how a machine is put together. He sees the pieces and the systems. Because he is creative, he doesn’t stop there. He doesn’t automatically believe in the machine and accept it as the final THING. He can invent a better machine—or no machine at all. He has the latent power to go outside the machine and invent in a different way. He can CREATE HIS OWN WORLD. It isn’t a bubble that separates him from the commonly shared world. It is inserted into the common world. It is built on different ideas. He is alive, his creative force is alive, and so what he builds will be alive, too. This is a kind of natural magic. A magic that is inherent in him. It surpasses the ordinary strictures of society. Am I talking about imagination? Absolutely. This is where it starts. This is where the new path originates. This is the dream and the vision. In my collection, Exit From The Matrix, I include a large set of imagination exercises that are designed to liberate that far-reaching quality of the individual. Does the quality have a limit? No. It isn’t a machine or a robot or a computer. It isn’t programmed. And that’s the whole point. The limitless nature of imagination wakes up the individual. He wakes up to infinity.” (Notes on Exit From The Matrix, Jon Rappoport)

Trumpets blare. In the night sky, spotlights roam. A great confusion of smoke and dust and fog, and emerging banners, carries the single message:

WE.

The great meltdown of all consciousness into a glob of utopian simplicity…

There are denizens among us.

They present themselves as the Normals.

Beyond all political objectives, there is a simple fact: those group-mind addicts who have given up their souls will rage against the faintest appearance of one who tries to keep his. And in this rage, the soulless ones will try to pull the other down to where they live.

And somehow, it all looks normal and proper and rational.

In the 1950s, before television had numbed minds and turned them into jelly, there was a growing sense of: the Individual versus the Corporate State.

Something needed to be done. People were fitting into slots. They were surrendering their lives in increasing numbers. They were carving away their own idiosyncrasies and their independent ideas.

But television, under the control of psyops experts, became, as the 1950s droned on, the facile barrel of a weapon:

“What’s important is the group. Conform. Give in. Bathe in the great belonging…”

Recognize that every message television imparts is a proxy, a fabrication, a simulacrum, an imitation of life one step removed.

When this medium also broadcasts words and images of belonging and the need to belong, it’s engaged in revolutionary social engineering.

Whether it’s the happy-happy suburban-lawn family in an ad for the wonders of a toxic pesticide, or the mob family going to the mattresses to fend off a rival, it’s fantasy time in the land of mind control.

Television has carried its mission forward. The consciousness of the Individual versus the State has turned into: love the State. Love the State as family.

In the only study I have been able to find, Wictionary partially surveys the scripts of all television shows from the year 2006, to analyze the words most frequently broadcast to viewers in America.

Out of 29,713,800 words, including the massively used “a,” “an,” “the,” “you,” “me,” and the like, the word “home” ranks 179 from the top. “Mom” is 218. “Together” is 222. “Family” is 250.

This usage reflects an unending psyop.

Are you with the family or not? Are you with the group, the collective, or not? Those are the blunt parameters.

“When you get right down to it, all you have is family.” “Our team is really a family.” “You’re deserting the family.” “You fight for the guy next to you.” “Our department is like a family.” “Here at Corporation X, we’re a family.”

The committee, the group, the company, the sector, the planet.

The goal? Submerge the individual.

Individual achievement, imagination, creative power? Not on the agenda. Something for the dustbin of history.

Aldous Huxley, Brave New World: “‘Ninety-six identical twins working ninety-six identical machines’! The voice was almost tremulous with enthusiasm. ‘You really know where you are. For the first time in history.’”

George Orwell, 1984: “The two aims of the Party are to conquer the whole surface of the earth and to extinguish once and for all the possibility of independent thought.”

The soap opera is the apotheosis of television. The long-running characters in Anytown are irreversibly enmeshed in one another’s lives. There’s no escape. There is only mind-numbing meddling.

“I’m just trying to help you realize we all love you (in chains).”

“Your father, rest his soul, would never have wanted you to do this to yourself…”

“How dare you set yourself apart from us. Who do you think you are?”

For some people, the collective “WE” has a fragrant scent—until they get down in the trenches with it. There they discover odd odors and postures and mutations. There they discover self-distorted creatures scurrying around celebrating their twistedness.

The night becomes long. The ideals melt. The level of intelligence required to inhabit this cave-like realm is lower than expected, much lower.

Hypnotic perceptions, which are the glue that holds the territory together, begin to crack and fall apart, and all that is left is a grim determination to see things through.

As the night moves into its latter stages, some participants come to know that all their activity is taking place in a chimerical universe.

It is as if reality has been constructed to yield up gibberish.

Whose idea was it to become deaf, dumb, and blind in the first place?

And then perhaps one person in the cave suddenly says: I EXIST.

That starts a cacophony of howling.

In the aftermath of the 1963 assassination of JFK and the 1995 bombing of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City, the covert theme was the same: a lone individual did this.

A lone individual, detached from the group, did this. “Lone individuals are people who left the fold. They wandered from the communal hearth. Therefore, they inevitably became killers.”

In 1995, after the Oklahoma City Bombing, President Bill Clinton made a speech to the nation. He rescued his presidency by essentially saying, “Come home to the government. We will protect you and save you.”

He framed the crime in those terms. The individual versus the collective.

The history of human struggle on this planet is about the individual emerging FROM the group, from the tribe, from the clan. The history of struggle is not about the individual surrendering and going back INTO group identity.

Going back is the psyop.

The intended psyop.

As the trumpets blare in the night sky, as the fog-ridden spotlights roam, as the banners emerge carrying the single message, WE, as people below are magnetically drawn to this show, a unpredicted thing happens:

Someone shouts: WHAT IS WE?

Other pick up the shout.

And the banners begin to catch fire and melt. They drip steel and wax and the false grinding of hypnotic dreams breaks its rhythm.

The whole sky-scene stutters like a great weapon losing its capacity to contain heat. The sky itself drips and caves inward and collapses, and the trumpets tail off and there is a new fresh silence.

The delusion, in pieces, is drifting away…

The cover: gone.

Behind it is The Individual.

What will he do now?

Will he seek to find his inherent power, the power he cast aside in his eagerness to join the collective?

Will he?

Or will he search for another staged melodrama designed to absorb him in an all-embracing WE?

Will he understand he has the power to create a new far-reaching reality of his own choosing, or will he, once again, submit to the idea that reality must be concocted by the Group?

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

Jon Rappoport

The depletion of human energy

Jan10

by Jon Rappoport

January 10, 2020

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Energy.

As in: energy depletion.

Without energy, the individual feels trapped. In that state, he seeks to conform, fit in, survive long enough to die of old age.

Body and mind deploy various feedback mechanisms to inform a person about his “available supply of energy,” and when these signals are taken as absolute truth, trouble comes.

“I can sense my energy is dwindling. So I have to…settle for less, or see a doctor, or give up, or accept that I’m getting older, or change my values, or tune up a victim-story, or join a group, or…”

On and on it goes.

In this twilight zone, the individual is unwilling to consider solutions that could restore his vitality. He’s already opted for a lower level of life.

In particular, he’s unwilling to explore the one aspect of his capability that works like magic: imagination.

That’s out. No dice. Preposterous. Absurd.

After all, imagination is just that spring rain he felt as a child, that unknown space that held all the promise in the world.

That was then; this is now.

Now is sober reflection. Now is routine. Now is habit. Now is empty.

Once upon a time, he read a science fiction novel and, at the end of it, he felt as if he were standing, triumphant, in deep space at the crossroad of a hundred solar systems.

Now he knows there is no such place. Now he is intelligent.

And now he has no energy.

The light that once flared is gone.

The idea that his own imagination could lead him to discoveries beyond anything he knows is fool’s gold.

Yes, once when he was twenty, he woke up in the middle of the night and walked to his window and looked out over a city and knew he was on the cusp of an endless future…but what can he do about that now? There is no returning.

So his imagination waits. It idles.

Yet…if he took a chance, if he began to dream again, if he started up the engine, if he considered offloading the interlocking systems that have become his daily life, what might happen?

What layers of dead thought might peel away?

What abiding convictions might dissolve?

What energies might be restored?

Is there a huge space beyond his common neurological impulses and rigid survival habits, where Vision can be played out on a vast scale?

Is there a different kind of life he can enter, crossing the threshold from tired knowledge into mystery?

Can he take a route around his stale reality after opening the door to his imagination?

There is, in fact, a silent channel that winds through the entire time-scale of the human race.

History does not officially record it, because history is written by winners for losers, and this channel has nothing to do with pedestrian notions of victory or defeat.

The route of imagination has no truck with conventional space or time. It invents its own, and eventually introduces them into the world.

How many stories are there about journeying knights who cross the boundary from ordinary events into a realm of magic?

The stories are messages…sent to ourselves, to remember. This place, this day, this moment is a platform from which to embark.

Adventure, with no end.

Imagination.

Energy.

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

Jon Rappoport

Jon Rappoport's Blog

NoMoreFakeNews.com

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