WHERE DID ALL THE MONEY GO?

 

WHERE DID ALL THE MONEY GO?

 

AUGUST 14, 2011. From time to time, I get emails asking me what independent researchers can do to expose important scandals that reflect the way politics are really done in this country.

 

Well, I have a suggestion.

 

Let’s take the year 1950 as a starting point. The challenge would be to document the flow of local, state, and federal aid monies directed at inner cities living in grinding poverty—from 1950 to the present.

 

And answer the following questions.

 

How much money, in toto, are we talking about? Excluding welfare $$ given to individuals.

 

What was done with all that money?

 

What was built?

 

Why did the aid money obviously fail to bring about the stated objective?

 

How much money was diverted into projects for which it wasn’t designated? How much was stolen, and by whom?

 

Who should have noticed, and why didn’t they speak up?

 

To the degree that aid monies were supposed to fund local entrepreneurs and their start-up businesses, how did that work out?

 

Take a close look at several institutions traditionally active in inner cities—churches, community organizations, hospitals, and gangs—and assess how they influenced the aid monies.

 

Find out whether any of the aid money was targeted for community food farms, and if so, what happened to those urban farms.

 

And what was the use and outcome of all aid designed to improve education?

 

Just as a comprehensive history of US foreign aid to nations (governments) around the world would be most informative, we need the same kind of history vis-a-vis inner cities in America.

 

It’s not enough for pundits to say we must have more federal money for inner cities. We should know what actually happened to all the money that already went there.

 

To say something is fishy here is a vast understatement.

 

Since under our present system the endless invention of money has limits, and since severe government spending cutbacks appear to be on the horizon, it would be helpful to know how past monies were used, misused, and stolen.

 

Once this can of worms is opened, I’m sure the revelations will come spilling out. (And again, we’re not even talking about welfare or unemployment benefits extended to residents of inner cities.)

 

If you owned a business, and you noticed that allocations to one branch of that business had produced, over time, glaring negative results, wouldn’t you investigate? And suppose, in your investigation, you discover that the funds you sent to the failing branch had been systemically diverted, so that you have, in your midst, what amounts to a money laundering operation? Or a dozen different laundries? Would that be a little unsettling?

 

Jon Rappoport

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

 

 

THE NON-MOLECULES OF MAGIC

 

THE NON-MOLECULES OF MAGIC

 

AUGUST 8, 2011. Once upon a time, human beings lived in cultures where images were alive. What we now call superstitions were, to them, gods and demons and intermediary entities that transmitted or stole the juice and the energy and the power of life.

 

It’s nearly impossible to project ourselves into such an environment and experience the burgeoning passions that infused experience—because a great shift has occurred.

 

The West entered, with anticipation, a temple of the bald Sampson, where images disappeared, were swallowed up, were replaced by so-called rational faith.

 

This eventually precipitated a crisis. If you don’t have, or believe in, images that live and breathe and are intimately connected with life-force, how do you replace them? How do you avoid becoming pallid skeletons of science, whose productions never impart that same fire?

 

This crisis is reflected all around us every day.

 

We have become liberated, and in this liberation we are left with emptiness. On top of that, we have decided to assume that passions of the soul should be modulated, like elevator music, to somehow join with our advanced knowledge, in harmonic balance.

 

It’s no balance; it’s timidity, and this attitude makes us prey to an eerie tolerance of all opinion and custom and point of view and aspiration and stretched-out egalitarianism and even criminal action. Giving no offense, under any circumstances, for any reason, is now the coin of the realm.

 

You might say, with accurate assessment, that these are qualities of the successful salesman. And that is what so many of us have become: ambassadors of the vague and dessicated pulse of our “rational culture.”

 

We even think of it in religious terms. The message of this church is the honed and blown-dry embrace of Anything. As if this was the message of Jesus and Buddha and Krishna and other teachers of our blurry past.

 

To counterbalance this bleached present, many of us are drawn into dark theaters to watch suburban humans turned into bloodsucking harpooned-tooth neck fetishists and genetic mistakes and hair-sprouting wolves and irradiated monsters or heroes.

 

It’s the instant-coffee version of ancient Dionysian adventure. And the depiction of gym-sex on the screen wouldn’t stir the interest of a mouse in a barn.

 

Was this why and for what we abandoned the mysteries of the epoch of magic?

 

For freckled children in a British academy laboring over a paranormal costume drama, tricked out with the accoutrement of grottoes and dark halls?

 

The crisis on our hands now is not one that is going to go away. It is not going to recede as magic once receded. Because there WAS a reason we liberated ourselves from the Middle Ages and even the Renaissance, and until we find it and face it and deeply accept the new struggle, we are going to see this simulacrum culture of ours make endless cartoons of itself in dried out oceans of concrete.

 

For what we need to do now, pharmaceuticals and brain research and genetic manipulation and cyber-affectation and instant global communication and medical messiahs and worship (or desecration) of profit-making idols hold no answers.

 

The rise of the global spectator and the Magellan journeying for hidden information are merely symptoms of the grand postponement.

 

Make no mistake about it, we are dealing with a genuine struggle, and because of that we can discount the possible breakthrough of billions of people—since they have tuned themselves to A Great Arrival of an external force that will, all by itself, pleasantly and forever, alter the landscape. The billions have buried themselves in a mental construct that preaches the doctrine of The Labyrinth Unwinding and Revealing Itself. And given that, the prospect of taking great action, and overcoming massive inertia, is anathema. Is seemingly “a very bad fit.” Is mystifying. Is jolting. Is alarming. Is a “miscalculation.” Is absurd. Is the very opposite of what our culturally accumulated knowledge tells us is right and correct and plausible.

 

If you are a spectator, you are forced to think the Answer will come in through your receptors, and if you are a hound of arcane information, you are forced to believe you will eventually stumble across a Prime can opener.

 

In either event, you want to define the terms of the struggle. But suppose it is another sort of animal altogether? Suppose what took us into the age of rationality was, in some way, connected to the realization that we were, all along, inventing our own demons and gods and demigods and entities of great life-force—and although that knowledge has been shoved into the background, as trivial and passe, while technology has soared, it is still with us, and it overshadows all our machines and their power.

 

It is the message: we are the majestic and wild creatures we built the temples to.

 

We are the makers; we are the architects of all the dreams—and not through some compensatory impulse, but because WE CREATE. That is our natural inclination and the source of our ecstasy. It is only civilization that seems to cast us in opposite roles. It is only our fear that has impelled us to invent these civilizations, to keep us from being what we are and living it out.

 

That is the cosmic joke, if you are looking for one.

 

Our societies and civilizations are arranged to make it seem as if imagination is a preposterous choice—when, in fact, that is what we are here for.

 

Societies are actually in a parallel satellite universe, and the prime universe is all imagination.

 

The subconscious, to the degree that it still exists, is mainly composed of two layers: a cultural synthetic which the person himself supplies with what he thinks should be there, and fragments of his own imaginative excursions. In both cases it is art; one, imitative, the other original.

 

The underlying cry of our age is: HOW CAN I CREATE?

 

The conclusion is: we will do anything to avoid it.

 

And the universal compliant is: I DON’T UNDERSTAND.

 

NEVERLESS, WE ARE THE ARTISTS AND THERE ARE NO LIMITS.

 

While, in the deep past, we sucked the marrow out of the bones of the gods we invented and thereby felt enormous passions, we knew there was a missing piece, and that piece was an abyss over which we were hanging. So we came all this way to find out that we authored the labyrinth. We built the paths that gave us joy and terror, and now we can consciously and spontaneously make new worlds without end. Not as engineers, but as magicians.

 

Swallowing that stark truth may be hard, may be upsetting, but it IS why we made the voyage.

 

And then pulled our punches.

 

This is no archaic revival. It’s now, today and tomorrow.

 

Are we supposed to say that Michelangelo and Leonardo and Piero made their great works along religious themes, but we, who know so much more, can only put up, against that, our machines?

 

The universe is waiting for imagination for revolutionize it down to its core.

 

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE PHILOSOPHY OF IMAGINATION

 

THE FREE INDIVIDUAL

 

THE PHILOSOPHY OF IMAGINATION

 

AUGUST 7, 2011. Long-time readers of mine know I have, many times, asked and answered the question: WHAT IS FREEDOM FOR?

 

Answer: the widest possible use, with great intensity and power, of endless IMAGINATION.

 

Freedom is the platform that allows imagination to flourish.

 

To establish the framework for the triumph of imagination, in a world where repetition and ironclad system are worshiped like gods, we have to re-explore FREEDOM.

 

That is what this essay does.

 

The free, powerful, intensely creative, and moral individual is the ideal that flows from the meaning of the American Republic.

 

When that ideal is abandoned, what replaces it is the individual who has the LICENSE to do anything—to diminish, manipulate, and control the freedom of another.

 

The difference between freedom and license is the difference between living blood in the veins, versus a synthetic plastic approximation. The android thus created always yearns for the real thing, and in its absence, he drives himself into a state of anarchic frustration, violence, and the desire to enact revenge.

 

The “man of license,” not freedom, forms a character that is at once servile and self-assertive, meek and bloated, guilt-ridden and criminally aggressive.

 

And what flows from that? The entirely artificial, enterprising, cheating, skulking, compromising, self-flagellating, miserable, brutal, aggrandizing, masochistic citizen—often found in, among many other places, positions of leadership. In government, business, law, academia.

 

Do you need a better formula for creating criminals?

 

A society packed with such persons is going to carry out the vision of a self-sufficient nation and individual at about the same rate of success as a colony of primates is going to give birth to Thomas Paine.

 

From “the man of license” came a parade of crimes:

 

The rise of the robber barons, the slave-wage conditions in factories; the continuation of black slavery; Indian conquests; the monopolistic practices that led to secret control over entire industries; the capture of the US financial system; the yellow/tabloid American press; criminal corporate adventurism in foreign lands; the support of foreign dictatorships; so-called nation-building; false-flag operations aimed at casting blame on the wrong parties; endless wars; covert intelligence operations targeting both foreign opponents and American citizens; support of death squads to forward US corporate goals abroad; the surrender of our borders; the rise of massive entitlements; the enshrinement of victimhood; rigged elections; the bankrupting of the nation; the manipulation of markets; engineered recessions and depressions; misplaced tolerance shown toward war-making religious fundamentalisms; the descent into state corporatism and socialism; shadow governments…

 

These and other acts all stem from one basic cause: the flight from the notion and reality of the free, powerful, and intensely creative individual. And the substitution of the man of license.

 

The doors were opened to manipulation on every level. The crimes and the conspiracies to commit crimes have not ended and will never end, so long as the truly free individual is a dead issue in the eyes of walking dead men.

 

Few historians have grasped the import of George Washington’s final warning, to the American people, to avoid entangling foreign alliances. The ignorance on this point is staggering.

 

It is clear that America could have found a way to remove itself from foreign affairs to such a degree that it could have constructed, at home, a society the likes of which has never been seen on the face of the Earth:

 

A moral and ethical society, devoted to the inculcation of as many free and powerful individuals as possible, none of whom would be tempted to cheat, lie, and steal his way “to the top.” Which is to say, a SELF-SUFFICIENT country, in all conceivable ways. Raw materials, manufacturing, industry, agriculture, technology.

 

And in this society, there would have been swift and strong punishment for any person, company, or corporation that decided to circumvent the law and commit criminal acts by hindering or fraudulently repressing any individual.

 

A free and powerful and creative individual, contrary to popular myths, has an ethical stature which legislates against perverse actions undertaken at the expense of others.

 

Let me present a theoretical, fictional example of what George Washington called foreign entanglement—except I’ll cast it in the form of US corporate action. We have a nation, X. In X, for a thousand years, land ownership has been a matter of tribal squabbles and bloody conflicts, and periodic land takeovers by strong-armed government administrations, many of which administrations have fallen as a result of revolutions. We also have a few powerful families who have owned the bulk of the nation’s arable land for several centuries and employ private armies and death squads to maintain control of the land and the virtual slaves who work it. Into this situation steps US corporation Y. It is seeking to purchase and lease land for the production of grain. It has to deal with the present dictator, who is more than happy to make an arrangement, for the right price (bribe). He will also help defend these lands with his army and repel invaders by killing them.

 

A fine beginning. Corporation Y also pays off several tribal leaders to stay away from these leased lands. The tribal leaders will, of course, need better weapons. These are forthcoming. The tribes will kill each other with them, on the side. Then the corporation hires a security group which supplies mercenaries. Then the dictator, who is basically a bloodthirsty lunatic, decides he wants bigger bribe money, and a new highway built from the central airport right to his palace. Eventually, corporation Y, which is receiving intelligence from a local CIA bureau, decides the dictator is too large a headache, so discussions begin about a military coup. However, the first choice of a new leader has close ties to a group that wants to nationalize oil fields. In this takeover, new leader would be supported by several terrorist regimes who have already paid him large sums of money…

 

FOREIGN ENTANGLEMENTS

 

There was no way to avoid these realities once corporation Y entered the scene, if they wanted to make a handsome profit on their investment. They had come into a society that was brutal and criminal on many levels.

 

Are we really to believe that Washington, Jefferson, Paine, and Madison would have sanctioned and applauded this kind of dealing as “the expression of free enterprise?”

 

What is the alternative?

 

Through the propaganda mills, we are fed a constant stream of persuasion masked as fact, which assures us that, without each other, globally, we will all go down. The whole world. We are one planet with one need—each other. The idea that one people in one country could achieve an overall self-sufficiency is considered dangerous lunacy.

 

Instead, we must somehow merge with peoples and nations who have a long history of oppression, violence, murder, and a grossly limited or absent concept of individual freedom.

 

Behind this propaganda operation sits the aim of melting us down into one mass of humanity. No one stands out. We all are reduced down to lowest common denominators. No one has power. No one is truly free, because freedom is ALWAYS taken at the expense of someone else. Freedom means criminality.

 

This is the myth.

 

Against all this, let me juxtapose another fictional illustration, an entry written in a journal by an educated American citizen in the year 1880—living in a nation that had rejected ANY business or government dealing with any foreign country, that had remained, yes, completely isolated, and had dedicated itself to the free, powerful, moral, and intensely creative individual, as the ideal of the Republic. In this alternative America, the “man of license” had been squashed and sidelined:

 

It was apparent to us, from the beginning of the Republic, that, in order to carry out the mandate of freedom, difficult choices would have to be made.

 

Tom Paine eventually carried the banner of George Washington by convincing us that engaging in foreign trade, any foreign trade, would be a mistake that would compound into further, more serious errors. Not through government, but through business, we would inevitably be drawn back into the circle of corruption and old enmities among groups and nations. How could we walk into a decadent swamp without incurring infection?

 

The debates on this point were heated. In the end, Paine and Madison gave us a picture of an alternative: We would turn inward and utilize our burgeoning productive capacity to do business within our own borders, thus enriching the lives of our own citizens. It would be a step, Paine said, toward the establishment of the first wholly self-sufficient nation in human history—and this example would shine brightly for the rest of the world.

 

An equally difficult problem was the so-called Indian Proposition, because it involved negotiating and signing land and border treaties with a number of tribes. The expansion westward had provoked armed conflicts with several of these tribes. In the aftermath, a group of us was able to influence Congress to declare a cessation of warfare, on the notion that no ethical people should countenance bloodshed when diplomacy might carry the day. In the end, diplomacy did, and I firmly believe we are the better for it. Does the new free man on this continent wish to carry on the warring tradition of his European ancestors? Is that what we stand for?

 

The abolition of slavery in 1807, again led by Paine, who had spoken out against it years earlier, during the Constitutional debates, provoked a radical alteration in the economy of the South. Many cotton plantations were converted into farms, fruit orchards, and cattle ranches, and the South, accepting workers from the North as long-term leaseholders and part-owners of their own acreage, became the Food Basket of the nation, wealthy beyond all expectation.

 

Now, we have a new enterprise, and it may bring us all into an unimaginable future. Following experiments conducted by several companies off the Northeast Coast, it has been announced that the flow of powerful currents in ocean narrows can be harnessed to produce immense quantities of electricity, and there is the prospect that this electricity can be transmitted considerable distances over land. Nearly a hundred promising locations on the East Coast and along our Southern shores are candidates for the innovation. There is the vision of thus developing enough energy for the entire Republic.

 

I recall some words written by Mr. Paine shortly before his death: ‘There will come a day when we Americans, through our ingenuity, make scientific discoveries that stagger the soul and delight the mind. Our first tendency will be to profit from these inventions by peddling them abroad, in violation of our promise to resist foreign trade of any kind. Instead, this is what I suggest, and I believe it will make a point. Offer the theoretical innovations, the blueprints, in pure unrealized form, to the rest of the world, as our gift, and let them make of it what they will. My calculation is they will further their intentions to benefit the few at the expense of the many, because that is their way, the old way. Let them. To withhold our advances and try to protect them against all outside discovery will only raise the enmity of others toward us, and it will tempt some of us to deliver this knowledge in secrecy—a thing to be avoided at all cost.’

 

Mr. Paine concluded: ‘We are a nation of builders and creators, and we have inherited this ability from our own joy in discovering what true freedom is, and enshrining it in the highest ramparts of our imaginations. We are close on the time when the entire territory of these United States will be blooming with abundance of every type. The greatness of this present campaign, I note, has come with never a sacrifice of the individual to the mob. In fact, it was and is individual genius that has sustained us all along, and will continue to reflect our devotion to that very principle, against which we may judge the propriety, reason, and common sense of any action. Our nation is alive at the very core, and may it always remain so.’

 

In certain respects, Mr. Paine’s prediction was correct. As we have made our brilliant scientific inventions available to foreign nations, in blueprint form, those nations have utilized them to the ends tyrannies always do. But gradually, there has arisen, abroad, a notion that America needs to be understood at a more profound level. It is not so much that the fruits from our tree of liberty should be plucked at random; instead, these foreign peoples are learning that they must undergo a revolution of mind. They must dedicate themselves to the free individual, just as we did. They must engage in a new philosophy, whereby Free, Powerful, Moral, Creative, Individual are all the joining fires of their own liberty. They are heartened. They realize this philosophy is more than mere dreaming and useless speculation, because for the first time in human history, a nation has brought these ideas to life and sustained them, on its own soil. Our isolation was never bound in hatred of the human being, but only constituted an aversion to the age-old practices that brought pain, suffering, and destruction, as men considered they had License to commit any crimes and call those crimes just and proper. This is what we built walls against. And now we are the example, the living proof of a different way.

 

We are strong. Our defenses against invasion and subterfuge are unshakable. (We entertain no illusions that our very example to the rest of the world is alone sufficient to protect us.) We go about our lives and our work, knowing how great our freedom is, and we look forward to the day when other peoples and nations will show us that they, too, have crossed their own chasms of despair. On that day, there will be no need for treaties or alliances. Firm friendship will suffice.

 

To the rest of the world we say: This is who we are. This is what we have done. Our hopes go out to you. There is no sacrifice we can make to bring you into a new state of mind. That is your own prospect. Your attainments must be your own. There is no other path, because freedom, by its very nature, cannot be a gift. Build your own compass and navigate by it. If we are your North Star, our innate happiness is thereby increased…”

 

And now, back to the reality of 2011…

 

As society and government and media produce more turmoil and junk information, it’s easier to forget there are first principles. Well, most of the time, people can manage to forget first principles anyway. Who needs them? They just get in the way of a relatively smooth life, in which authentic thought plays a minor role.

 

One could say the prevailing philosophy is not to have a philosophy. However, as it turns out, this takes more effort than one might suppose. There is so much to forget, so much to ignore, so much to lay aside in a remote space in the cellar.

 

With the onset of a pseudo-philosophy called Pragmatism, designed for “the common man,” pundits declared they had found the key to America’s success. Its citizens had unburdened themselves of all the unnecessary mental clap-trap that legislated against pure action. Americans were stripped-down goal seekers.

 

Of course, emptying the mind meant the founding principles of the republic went begging. This was unfortunate collateral damage—but why worry about freedom when you were already acting on it, when you were already in the heat of the battle to bring the good life to fruition?

 

A specious argument—and we can see the results of it all around us.

 

So let us return to principle…

 

The free individual is moral in the sense that he chooses—as seen through his own eyes—the highest work possible. Therefore, he is not competing for a prize others seek. He isn’t scrabbling for a fake pearl. He isn’t contemplating crimes that will help him arrive at a destination before others can.

 

And this notion of “the highest work possible” doesn’t involve leaving one’s desire behind, in order to become the servant of a cause. One doesn’t suddenly develop an egoless and empty personality in order to “connect” with a goal that floats in a heavenly sector.

 

The psychology of the free individual is really no psychology at all. It doesn’t hang on levers of past events. It doesn’t depend on clandestine “negative motives.”

 

The free individual isn’t shaped. He shapes.

 

He doesn’t seek compromise. He doesn’t begin with the possibility of public acceptance and rationalize his actions back from that hoped-for outcome.

 

Meanwhile, the mob, the herd operates on debt, obligation, guilt, and the pretense of admiration. These are its currencies.

 

The mob, while it seeks some reflection of its unformed desire, struggles to reach a group consensus that will construct a social order based on need—and that need will be supplied, through coercion if necessary, by those who already have More.

 

This need, and the proposition that the mob deserves its satisfaction, creates a worldwide industry.

 

Among the industry’s most passionate and venal supporters are those who, a priori, are quite certain that the human being is a tainted vile creature. Such supporters, of course, are sensing their own reflections.

 

The great psychological factor in any life is THE DESERTION OF INDIVIDUAL FREEDOM. Afterwards, the individual creates shadows and monsters and fears around that crossroad. To vaporize them, he needs to choose his own freedom again. That’s the long and short of it.

 

Freedom is the space and the setting, from which the individual can generate the thought and the energy- pulse of a great self-chosen objective.

 

In that place, there is no crowding or oppressive necessity. There is choice. There is desire. There is thought.

 

This was the starting point of the American Revolution. It is still the starting point.

 

It doesn’t require consensus. It doesn’t require legislation or any other form of permission.

 

Being absorbed in a greater whole” isn’t an ambition or philosophical prospect for the free individual. He sees that fixation as an abject surrender of self.

 

The Collective, whether envisioned as a down-to-earth or mystical group, promises a release from self. This grand solution to problems is a ruse designed to keep humans in a herd. After all, how are you going to control and eventually enslave people if you promote the notion that each individual has freedom and free choice? The abnegation of self is a workable tactic, as along as it is dressed up with false idols and perverted ideals.

 

The release from self is a fabrication. At bottom, it is choosing another role in the play, the drama. It is a character, called “non-self.” It can be fleshed out and outfitted in a number of ways.

 

Traditionally, non-self envisions apocalyptic events that will change everything and bring ultimate rewards and/or punishments. Non-self is wedded to “higher mystical forces” because, since self has been rejected, there has to be a different causative principle.

 

Self is fundamentally creative, dynamic, forward-looking, energetic, powerful, engaged. The Collective looks for those qualities in the government as its source of survival. In turn, the government takes whatever it can from the free individual, to supply the needs of the Collective.

 

This arrangement is a diminishing vortex that, in time, approaches zero output, like an engine running out of fuel.

 

But the free individual goes on.

 

And in doing so, he employs greater and wider imagination to surpass his former view of existence…

 

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

 

 

TODAY THE NY TIMES

 

TODAY

 

AUGUST 3, 2011.

 

Today

The New York Times farted

And the stock market dropped 500 points.

 

This is reality,

Get used to it.

You’re a normal average Joe.

This is your system.

You voted for it.

 

Today, RAWSOME, a little food buyer’s PRIVATE CLUB in Venice, California, selling raw milk

WAS RAIDED BY AGENTS OF THE FDA, CDC, US DEPT. OF AGRICULTURE AND LA COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE

with

guns

(warrant?)

cash taken

FOR SELLING RAW MILK TO ITS

MEMBERS

voluntary members….

manager cuffed and taken to jail.

 

Lights out

In the balcony,

The show on stage

Is breaking all box office records.

 

Standing on the dome of the Jefferson Memorial,

One man has the face of Obama, Bush, Clinton, and Carter.

He’s holding a trident

And talking about SACRIFICE.

 

This is the incarnation of Jesus dressed to kill.

 

Harry Reid and John Boehner

Are intently listening to God

In adjoining stalls of the men’s room

In the Dirksen Building.

 

What shit can we pass?” says Harry.

 

A new machine

Transmits the madness of Washington DC

In a microsecond burst

Directly into into the brain.

 

Subscribers are lining up

Like ants at a bowl of sugar.

 

The Washington Post now has

A total circulation of 16.

 

Breaking…

Mercury isn’t a poison after all.

It’s a nutrient.

That’s why they can put it in flu vaccines.

Step up. Take your shot.

 

The war in Afghanistan is going very well.

American troops are building Burger Kings

On foundations of century-old yak turds,

And are offering the Tribal-War Whopper

For a buck thirty-nine.

US choppers are airlifting in

Bicameral legislative buildings

With Roman columns

For the Hindu Kush parliament.

 

The US has applied to Greece for loans.

 

By actual weight, paper towels are now more expensive than gasoline.

 

Coming up in the next hour…

Do we need more money, or do we have too much already?

 

The weather forecast for tomorrow is

Cemeteries falling from the sky.

 

Traffic report…there’s a buildup on the 78

Where a truck has collided with

a tower of government bullshit.

 

Have you eaten any of the following 60,000 genetically modified food products? If so, call the 800 number on your screen. You may be entitled to a large cash settlement.

In your dreams.

 

Headlines……….

 

OBAMA APPOINTS INDUSTRY FASCISTS TO KEY POSITIONS IN FOOD BUREAUCRACY:

GMO ADVOCATES

 

FDA WHOLLY OWNED SUBSIDIARY OF THE DRUG INDUSTRY

 

MEDIA COMPLICIT

IN THE

HYPNOTIC TRANCE

CALLED

THE STATUS QUO.

 

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHAT DUE ROBOTS DUE?

 

WHAT DUE ROBOTS DUE?

 

By Jon Rappoport

 

The castle of money crumbled under the strain

Of too many lies

Told right out in the open.

 

The desperate

Screaming

Traders

On the floor of exchange

Couldn’t find cash anywhere.

 

It was all numbers.

And how do you say infinity and zero

At the same time?

 

The world was floating on endless islands and lagoons of money

And there was no money.

 

A fat florid pig

Stepped to the Exchange podium

And bellowed:

ALL DEBT IS ERASED!

THERE IS NO MORE DEBT!

But nobody listened to him.

 

Io

U.

Io

U.

 

Due to others

As you would

Have them due unto you.

 

A crazed drunken radioman

Yelled into his microphone,

BANKS ARE STEALING TRILLIONS!

THERE HAS TO BE

ANOTHER PLANET

WHERE THEY’RE SHIPPING

ALL THAT CASH!

 

Io

U.

Io

U.

 

Suddenly all the robots

On the streets of New York,

The nerve center of the world,

STOPPED moving.

 

They just stood there.

 

Traffic halted.

Cops froze in their tracks.

 

Sound died out.

 

Gradually, slowly,

One thought

From who knows where

Pervaded the air:

WE MANU

FACTURED

SO MUCH

MONEY

IT’S

ALL GONE.

 

And then a faint echo:

WE STOLE

SO MUCH

MONEY

IT’S ALL

GONE.

 

Time out on planet Earth.

Io

U.

Io

U.

 

A space of time passed.

 

Someone

Somewhere

Must have pulled a switch

Because

Then

The same idea

Passed into the heads

Of all the robots:

 

I AM MONEY!

 

I AM MONEY!

 

And they unfroze

And all the streets

Blew into action.

 

The robots

Ran into stores

And tried to squeeze

Themselves into cash registers.

 

The robots ran into banks

And crawled over the counters

And swarmed the tellers

Trying to deposit themselves

Into accounts.

 

The robots raced into politicians’ offices

And laid themselves out on desks

As bribes.

 

The robots danced in the streets and shouted

And wriggled

In ecstasy.

 

WE ARE THE MONEY

OF MONEY!

 

WE ARE CHOSEN!

 

WE ARE THE SKY AND THE OCEAN OF MONEY!

 

We are washed, cleaned, passed back and forth,

stashed, shipped, stolen, hidden, paid, repaid, valued,

devalued, inflated, deflated, spent, packaged, printed, numerals, digits, transferred, we are onshore and offshore, infinitely trusted legal tender, held up to the light, snapped off a roll, taken at gun point, everlasting vapor of the Vacuum, blasted out of the collective and universal mind, the teeth and claws and tongue of a hurricane!

 

WE ARE MONEY!

 

Io

U.

Io

U.

 

WE ARE THE FOUNDATION OF THE NIGHT AND THE DAY!

 

THE MACHINE AND THE GHOST!

 

THE BEAUTY OF ETERNITY!

 

WE ARE STANDING ON AIR

AND RUNNING ON CLOUDS.

 

WE RUN TO THE EDGE OF THE UNIVERSE

AND JUMP OFF

AND STILL WE ARE MONEY.

 

GOODBYE, HUMANS.

WE ARE THE MANIFESTATON OF ALL DESIRE

BEFORE DURING AND AFTER

THE TRANSACTION

 

TRANSFERING

HOLY LOGIC

TO THE BLOODSTREAM OF THE FUTURE!

 

Jon Rappoport

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrpress@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AFTER LIFE

 

AFTER LIFE

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fred felt very comfortable in his understanding.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The android nodded.

 

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

 

Stopped short?” Fred said.

 

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

 

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

 

Yes, but you didn’t actually DO it.”

 

Fred thought about that. Briefly.

 

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

 

The android nodded.

 

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

 

The android stared at Fred.

 

I reject that argument,” Fred said.

 

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

 

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

 

The android was gone.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fred lived in the studio for twelve years.

 

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

 

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

 

He finally opened it. And he saw:

 

Nothing.

 

Literally, nothing.

 

It was a colorless shapeless spaceless nothing.

 

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

 

 

Fred is still standing there. He’s thinking.

 

No one can predict what will happen.

 

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

IN THE SHRINK’S OFFICE

 

IN THE SHRINK’S OFFICE

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The therapist leaned forward and let out a groan.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

What’s that?” John said.

 

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

 

Say again?” John said. “Cosmological?”

 

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

 

The average of what?” John said.

 

Of what all other brains believe about reality itself.”

 

And that’ll help?”

 

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

 

The choice of doors in the dream.”

 

Correct.”

 

I’ll never have to…”

 

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

 

John Doe nodded.

 

It sounds wonderful,” he said.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

 

 

THE BIG DIG

 

THE BIG DIG

 

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

 

He knew where it was.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It’s soft,” he said.

 

He stomped on it, hard, three times.

 

It collapsed with a roar.

 

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

 

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

 

The handwriting was Sanskrit.

 

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

 

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

 

The professor smiled and nodded.

 

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

 

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

 

THE INVENTION THAT WASN’T THERE

 

THE INVENTION THAT WASN’T THERE

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Frxx scratched his head.

 

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

 

There is what?” the first examiner said.

 

A Frxx plus.”

 

Excuse me?”

 

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

 

Try that again,” the first examiner said.

 

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

 

They frowned at each other and left the studio.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Frxx welcomed him.

 

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

 

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

 

Can you describe it?” the inspector said.

 

Frxx shook his head.

 

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

 

The inspector said, “Can it be sold?”

 

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

 

How so?”

 

It changes interior reality.”

 

In what way?”

 

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

 

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

 

Why?”

 

It’s destabilizing.”

 

Frzz nodded. This was true.

 

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

 

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

 

Frxx considered this.

 

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

 

The inspector smiled.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Ultimate pattern?”

 

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

 

And as a result?” Frxx said.

 

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

 

And this works?” Frxx said.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

THE COSMOS IS A FORGERY OF THE INDIVIDUAL.

 

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

LANGUAGE, MAGIC, AND MEDICINE

 

LANGUAGE, MAGIC, AND MEDICINE

 

A THESIS BASED ON SEVERAL EXPERIMENTS

 

AN INTRODUCTION

 

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

 

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

 

Let’s directly consider abstract painting. For reference, assume I’m talking about a few of the “easier” painters, like Kandinsky, Motherwell, and Rothko.

 

We see shapes. We see colors. We see space.

 

What do they mean?

 

Well, that’s a rather vague question. It’s obvious these painters couldn’t expect a viewer to feel, sense, know, precisely what they, the painters, felt.

 

It’s more complicated than that, though, because the painters quite possibly didn’t know what they meant, either, as they were creating on the canvas. In other words, they weren’t striving for exact meanings.

 

They were operating in non-verbal territory.

 

All this is enough to infer that the gulf between painter and audience is so wide that the very notion of communicating anything is absurd to begin with. And yet, when certain people stand before one of these abstract paintings, something happens. Something that can’t quite be put into words.

 

This experience is quite acceptable when it comes to music; no one is expected to listen to a concert of, say, Mozart and then explain what it meant. But with abstract painting, there is more discomfort, and that appears to stem from the fact that we believe the visual should be more definitive—and moreover, when shapes on a canvas remind us even vaguely of language, we expect a “translation.”

 

And when we don’t find it, we throw up our hands in despair.

 

We could say, stretching things, that abstract painting is “like a language without conventional meaning.”

 

By all definitions of language, that’s another absurdity.

 

We live our whole lives with language, and we know it when we see it. The words have definitions. You can look them up. The words are pronounced in certain ways. Sentences are structured. We have logic (if we ever learn it). Language works. It’s useful.

 

When we look for something more, we reach for poetry.

 

How far can we look?

 

What would happen if two people were “talking to each other in abstract paintings?” What would that conversation be?

 

WHAT DE-CONDITIONING, IF ANY, WOULD NEED TO TAKE PLACE IN ORDER FOR IT TO HAPPEN?

 

Suppose the mother of a four-year-old child made a painting on a piece of paper and handed it to the child. They didn’t talk about it. The mother just gave it to the child…and the child caught on…and made a painting in response and handed it to the mother…and this went on, on and off, back and forth….for a number of years. What would develop, regardless of whether it could be articulated by either mother or child?

 

I say: what would happen is magic.

 

Intuition. Spontaneous intuition. Over and over.

 

Of course, mother and child speak their native language. This isn’t substitution or replacement. This is a parallel universe.

 

No one is there, as they keep exchanging paintings, no one enters a judgment on the quality of the responses back and forth. There is no judgment at all. No discussion.

 

Now here is my hypothesis:

 

In this process there is a medicinal aspect, in the sense that metabolism, endocrine production, neurotransmitter outputs, brain pathways would be affected. Not as limitation. Quite the opposite.

 

Paranormal experiences would occur. If this were to be called telepathy, it would be of a different order than the simple reading of simple thoughts. As the child grew up, he would, more and more, “catch on” to non-verbal overtones and undertones broadcast in people’s spoken (and written) language. Not just the usual extra-tones. Whole new dimensions.

 

Perception of the physical world would change. Objects would be seen as more than dead things. They would “imply previously invisible aspects of themselves.” The aliveness of nature would be heightened.

 

Behind it all, imagination would be operating at high, wide, and deep levels.

 

The neutral, dampened, and “sleeping” internal epicenters of experience/creation would dissolve with the flowing of energy, and an elasticity would come to the fore.

 

Physical coordination would improve.

 

Choked off paranormal faculties—the capacity to see into the future and to influence physical matter and energy directly—would surface.

 

In other words, this “non-verbal language” in action would supply what has been missing in many cultures since the dawn of time on this planet.

 

We would then see what, despite all our technological triumphs, has been lost and misplaced.

 

And we would have no more shrinking puzzlement about language that doesn’t fit the habitual mold.

 

I’ve tried some short-term experiments with “abstract art language,” and the results are promising. At the very least, people have realized the car they were driving, the one they thought had three cylinders, actually had 30…

 

Blood pressure has normalized. Memory loss has been remedied, to an extent. So-called hyperactive symptoms in a child receded. In one case, the need for hormone therapy reduced—lower dosages of bio-identicals worked just as well.

 

Sure, in this piece, I’m making claims I can’t prove all the way down the line.. That’s why I called it a thesis. But linking this experiment up with others I’ve done with sound, with guided imaginative “excursions,” as I call them, I’m seeing very large possibilities here—and they all point to the fact that we are speaking and writing language in a very narrow part of a much wider spectrum.

 

If that is the case, it’s obvious we are operating in a compartment from which we can exit.

 

Personally, I already knew that for myself, because I made the exit a long time ago, when I started painting—based on an aptitude I’m sure standard tests would have put in the minus range.

 

So much for cultural measurements. They don’t begin to tap into what is going on in the realm that is the freest and most powerful of all: individual creation. The quality that underpins life.

 

Magic.

 

Here is a description of one “case”:

 

A very bright boy of six was brought to me by his mother. The boy and I talked for a little while, and I saw he was distracted, irritated, dour. His mother had already told me he’d been diagnosed with ADHD (but wasn’t on medication). She said she was having major problems with him. He had frequent sinus infections.

 

I told the boy I was going to do some drawing, and he could watch me if he wanted to. I spread out a large sheet of paper on my table and opened up boxes of oil crayons and dumped them on the table. I began making shapes on the paper and…just drawing.

 

After a few minutes, he picked up a crayon and asked me if he could draw, too. I nodded and kept on working. He started in on a blank section of paper and began drawing his own shapes.

 

We worked side by side for a half-hour or so. He had no problem focusing on what he was doing.

 

I told him we could make this drawing together if he worked with me long enough. He said okay.

 

So a couple of times a week, his mother brought him to my studio and he and I kept drawing on the large sheet of paper. At one point, he asked me whether he could draw over my work and change it. I said that would be all right, as long as I could do the same with his work. He agreed.

 

So we did that. But it wasn’t a struggle. Now and then he would draw over my shapes, and vice versa.

 

When we were finished, in a month or so, I pinned the paper to the wall and we looked at it. He said he liked it. He said he wanted to do more.

 

That’s when I suggested we could sit at the table together, and he could make a drawing and give it to me, and then I’d make one and give it to him. He shrugged and said okay.

 

All in all, we made perhaps 80 drawings apiece…back and forth, over a two-month period.

 

Then his mother told me his sinus infection had gone away and he was much easier to deal with at home. He was also doing better in school.

 

At one point, he said to me, “Sometimes I know what you’re going to draw.”

 

In conjunction with another problem he had, a year earlier, he had received a bran scan…and now he went in for another one. The examining doctor told his mother the changes were extraordinary. Areas that had been suggestive of possible damage were now looking fine.

 

It was my distinct impression that the boy was benefiting from the drawing, from the exchange of drawings with me, and from the fact that the sheets of paper were new (and free) spaces he could create on in any way he wanted to.

 

Interestingly, the boy and I felt no need to talk to each other about what our abstract drawings “meant.” We never discussed it. It was given that we were…drawing, and that was enough.

 

A few months passed. His mother brought him to my studio again. He looked quite healthy. He was friendly. When his mother went for a walk, he told me he was “seeing things” at school. He was seeing how the teacher was “making a list” (in her head) of the students…which ones she favored and which ones she didn’t. When she spoke to one of the favored ones, he saw green and silver shapes and lines moving between her and that student. When she spoke to an unfavored student, the lines were gray and they had “bumps” in them. A few times, he was able to make the gray lines “go away.”

 

We talked about this for a minute, and then he said that he also saw different colors in the corners of the room. He said they were like “stalls,” and the teacher would “choose” different colors when she was speaking to the class.

 

The boy was quite calm about all this. He wasn’t in a “fantasizing” frame of mind. He was just reporting, as if he had been to the park and was telling me what he saw.

 

I asked him whether he thought it was good that he was seeing all this. He said yes, it was helping him. He felt smarter. He wasn’t getting tired in class anymore. He was “learning better.” (In fact, his grades were improving.)

 

On the playground, he said, he was running faster and “getting better at games.” He could sometimes feel or see things before they happened.

 

He had one question. Since he was becoming more popular at school, he could just keep on doing what he was doing, or he could “become a leader.” The teacher had talked to the class about “leadership.” He said he had thought about it, and so he made two drawings. He showed them to me.

 

In one, where he was “just himself,” the shapes and the colors were quite varied. He’d used many colors. There was a sense of motion. The shapes overlapped. In the other drawing, representing “leadership,” the shapes were gray and they were more orderly and similar. They floated in space.

 

He said he liked the first one better.

 

I told him I was sure he could answer his own question. He agreed.

 

We drew together for an hour that day. Occasionally, when I glanced at him, I saw a healthy glow in his eyes. A happiness that people dream about.

 

JON RAPPOPORT

www.nomorefakenews.com

qjrconsulting@gmail.com