Reality man
by Jon Rappoport
April 6, 2015
Balanced mind man
Equilibrium man
Symmetry man
Harmony man
Fact fact man
Tuned up to reality man
Don’t know anything outside the borders man
Slave man
Sees only with his eyes man
Claims ignorance man
That through the darker night
The old fat knowledge man might suddenly stand up on his two legs and sing
Crashing the sky
Sweeping away church prison hospital army barracks school temple bank
That the bewildered data addict pushing ciphers into his veins and riding the swales of factoid poisonous blood pernicious might suddenly draw a blank on his whole existence
Saying where the fuck am I
What space-time is this
What crazy ward have they put me into, what moon has taken out my eyes, what Thing has given me my crimson blood back
What city of the future am I walking in/along what avenues and docks and long boulevards
That the food is good and the drink is good and the time is good and my two soulless eyes are buried and gone and my hands are making new things in the studio of a summer afternoon
That through the darker night
This happens
on the back of a tiger
…And you are the tiger on the soft forest floor padding
Agents of the State moving door to door hunting you
but you’re long gone
Recomposed
Put back together
As you once were
Tapping with your claws on the windowpane of the western frontier
Thousands of cicada bicycles thrashing in green trees
Balanced mind man
Equilibrium man
Symmetry man
Harmony man
Fact fact man
Tuned up to reality man
Don’t know anything outside the borders man
Slave man
Sees only with his eyes man
Claims ignorance man
Gone
Vanished
Disappeared
Sickness
Driven out of the body
Jon Rappoport
The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at NoMoreFakeNews.com or OutsideTheRealityMachine.
Outside the Reality Machine 
Happenin’, man! 🙂
no post.
Jon. sometimes, you write too well for me. I have a hard time following your thoughts.
I do not really understand your post I have tried some “translating sites” but none of them seem to make any sense in French.
So far, what I think you meant, is that a sort of a zombie had a sudden illumining moment to what the world could be… and it transformed him forever. And that when things get darker, the sleeping giant finally wakes-up.
Waking up to this miserable world we live in, sparkles and stimulates our imagination to be able to create a better life for ourselves.
I believe that we can master our own reality.
I believe that we are all artists.
I believe that if enough people would use their imagination, we could easily turn this world around.
Love this.
I think you understood it perfectly, From Québec. Reading poetry in a second language would be confusing. My grandfather was French Candadian, came to the US in 1918 at the age of 10. Of 13 children, he was the one his mother chose to stay home and learn in French. He never learned to read English at all.
I get the feeling a lot of people out there have “drawn a blank on their whole existence.”
They just haven’t figured out that they need to imagine something new to fill it back up with.
“I think you understood it perfectly,” (Karmic Spiel)
Well thank you, that is a relief for me. And you’re right, poetry is almost impossible to translate. You should have seen what the “free” internet translation came out with . It was hilarious, nothing made sense.
Some days I’m fact man.
And then it’s in the pit with the sandman.
I like it when I’m groovy man.
Today its cynic man.
And then he left her, she left him, somethin like than.
Then you look outside and the planes are high…and then your shake your fist at it man.
I was father man.
I been further man.
ARTISTOMISTO man.
I’ve all the above…man.
I’m surreal man.
This not fuckin real man.
I’m tall lean and lanky man.
I like a little hanky panky spanky man.
BRB…Time to take to the garbage man.
And he left her, or she left him.
I think it was something like that man.
Now I’m an old man.
A grandfather man.
I’m sick and tiredman.
And the song keeps playing, he left her, she left him man.
“ARTISTOMISTO man”.
Hahahah! Michael, you’re just too funny!
How is your “rebirth artist” man doing?
I hope better than my “soap opera writer” man is doing … lol
Sometimes, I feel like there is no words to describe what my imagination comes out with.
It’s a very weird feeling, something like an orator rendered speechless.
Rebirth or not to rebirth.
Metaphorical vagina.
The tunnel…not again!
Squeeezing
tightening
Breath
Breathe
Exit.
Blood, water, yuck what this thing attached to my beelly button.
Help, help…heelp.
Help me if you can I feeling doowwwwnnn.
But i
But I do…
Do like to paint.
and draw.
Translation pleS4E.
BRB
(Water sounds. Humming) “He left her and she left..him…shit.
Rebirth… pains.
Are like birth pains.
Sometimes ya get um…
Sometimes ya don’t.
LOL. Extremely funny as usual, but very explicit about what you are going trough. At least for you, it’s a rebirth, so you know a bit what it feels like.
But for me, it’s a (first) birth as a writer.
Can you imagine how I feel with all these weird people in the delivery room, surrounding me as I come out of the wound? All these crazy characters from my casting, glaring at me and wondering whether I am for real or just insane:
– The half blind commissioner who can’t tell white from black.
– The fortunetelling lady scrutinizing her crystal ball, looking for the circus of weirdos to come to town.
– The artist painter, anticipating the painting of the century.
– The lawyer eager to see if he will be an honest lawyer or just the regular kind.
– The religious rapturist nut, hoping for the second coming of God.
– The doctor hiding his needles in his back pocket.
– The anchor worried to be called a liar.
– The cop already enjoying my arrest.
– The short memory waitress, willing to help educate people, but always screwing up the facts.
– And all the other characters foreseing some glorious roles for themselves.
See what I am stuck up with here?
What did I get myself into? What did I board on? The Titanic or what?
From the Atlantic ocean, this is the song that is buzzing in my head:
“They left me… I left them”… or whatever!
@ Q
“Can you imagine how I feel with all these weird people in the delivery room, surrounding me as I come out of the wound? All these crazy characters from my casting, glaring at me and wondering whether I am for real or just insane:”
Name me one sane artist?
You are insane by the measure of this society..to have got this far and still have a heart that is not frozen.
“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”
― Jiddu Krishnamurti
To have arrived at this place and not have jumped from a high spot, or cut, shot, hanged or drugged the life out of your self, by your means or the systems means…is to be insane. One needs to cross over to the place we’re so-called ‘normals'(which is the real insanity) are afraid to go.
Artists are really Shaman…magic people. They think magically, they imagine, and conjure and wish new realities into existence.
Don’t let them get you. You will be one of two things to them, always. A present for their friends to open at dinner parties; despised and a danger to what they believe.
Forge on…bend like a reed, grasshopper. Lol. Put the harlequin suit on, and the three pointed hat and play the role to the hilt…what other role is there for for us. An artist is a good part to be in this play.
I had a conversation with my dog the other week…as I was having the conversation, someone walked past and saw me talking to the dog, they laughed and said “You better be careful he might start talking back to you” I exclaimed rather seriously “but he does talk back to me, doesn’t your dog”.
He got this really serious look on his face, for what seemed like an endless period of time. You know those static moments that stop time, in an eerie quietness. Not sure of whither, I was really having a conversation or being possibly funny, or maybe sarcastic. Or…maybe I was fucked. His reality had been invaded by me at that moment, now I looked dangerous. For a prolonged period of time he stood looking, like a deer caught in the headlights…as both the dog and I stared back at his interruption…he had tried to ridicule what I consider normal. A conversation with my little friend. *We speak in dog*
If you are going to worry about what they think Q, they will have you believing your some charity case, or a mental patient…what was that old adage they would bark at me “To be an artist, is to sleep in straw.
Keep the faith Q.
Don’t worry Michael, I’ll keep the faith. I’m a hard headed woman. I never give up easily. It’s just that sometimes, the mountain seems so high and abrupt. It makes you wonder.
I could add some more on the subject, but I will do it in the new post “Every night you write”, because your comment on that post has something to do with what I have to say.
And yes, artists are all considered crazy in this world we live in.
Keep speaking dog to your dog, They are man best friends. I don’t have a dog. In Québec, it’s hard to rent a place if you have pets. Most landlords don’t want them around.