The Magic Agent on the move
by Jon Rappoport
October 20, 2015
While revising my novel, The Magic Agent, it occurred to me, for the 10,000th time, how much better fiction is at expressing certain truths than facts are.
The truths have to do with human beings, with the individual, with his multi-dimensional aspects.
You can suggest these dimensions, but you can’t nail them down, because they aren’t things, they aren’t precise territories, they aren’t covered by any of the spiritual teachings of planet Earth.
This doesn’t make them any less real. They are super-real. They exceed all convenient boundaries. They aren’t mere cultural or political artifacts. They embrace paradox. They accept contradiction. They’re mysterious. They’re anti-machine.
So I thought I’d offer a few quotes a character in the novel.
First and foremost, Ralph Renari, whom I’ve only begun to plumb. He’s far slipperier than a polished eel.
Renari spoke the following to a doctor at a California mental hospital where, for a time, he was locked up:
“Imagine a piece of sculpture in a museum, Doctor. It has 107 dimensions. In one of those dimensions, time has been crawling along a surface in precise small increments. But now time begins to skip ahead in longer leaps. And now it jumps from one dimension to another. We observe this. So, to avoid a very perplexing situation, we throw a sheet over the whole sculpture and prepare to walk away. And then we realize we are in the darkness.”
“The greatest spy in the world wants to enter the place where universes overlap and collide. Then he is sniffing on the Big Track.”
“Suppose, Doctor, you put out your hand and it is a paw, the paw of a jaguar. You don’t know that, but I do. I can see it very clearly. Your blindness is a chronic condition. It can never be cured. Unless—the President of the United States admits to every lie he ever told. Then your paw would go back to being a hand. This is an unlikely causal connection, but it exists. No one knows why. What will you do? What will I do? Will someone step forward and dedicate his life to making the President come clean? And right here and right now, how can you and I continue this conversation? We’re at an impasse. I know things you couldn’t possibly accept. On top of all this, I’m an agent. I’m an agent for a group that investigates dimensions and realms. I send back reports. I report what I see. You’re an interesting footnote in my work. You became a doctor to avoid coming to terms with how you operate in other dimensions. You’ve shrunk yourself down to the size of a small machine. You click and tick. Did you just see the wall behind you disappear? Turn around and look. For you, the wall is still there, but for me it’s gone. I’m going to walk through the empty space now. What will you tell your superiors when I don’t answer roll call? You’ll lie. And that’s the whole point, Doctor. I don’t have to lie.”
“The greatest invention of man is organization. Everything fans out from there. Consider the trafficking of heroin. You have the growers in the fields, the farmers. Then you have the people who take delivery of the poppy crop. They transport it to factories where it is processed. And from those factories, there is a sophisticated system, routes along which the product travels until it reaches the addict in the street. This is to say nothing of the bankers who launder the profits, and businessmen who set the global price. At first, there are many separate compartments in such an operation. I am speaking of more primitive times. But then, someone gets an idea. Why not create an umbrella for the entire apparatus? Why not oversee it all? Organization. The ultimate bosses may even allow the illusion of separate elements to remain. It is a useful cover. Eventually, it is the same, or it will be the same, in any industry. Someone will always want more organization. There is that drive, that obsession. That is why spying gets harder over time. There are more levels to discover. That is why spying itself organizes in wider ripples. Which organization will ultimately win? It’s an interesting question. I won’t be here to see the answer, but there will be an answer. One organization of some kind will run the world. Can you imagine the blowback? Do you think people are going to sit still for that? There is a point at which organization seeps into the consciousness of humans. They realize what it implies. The individual psyche operates on completely different principles. Open principles, which can be altered at the drop of a hat. Non-literal principles. That’s the key. Suppose the basis of all universes is metaphor, not fact? Have you considered this, Doctor? Suppose, when you go down far enough, when you’re forced to abandon your fixation on facts, you see them change their appearance? They turn into poetics. Not little sing-song rhythms and rhymes, but broad open wild endless lines that shatter all the smug assurances of the empty-suit mind. What will happen then, Doctor? What will you do? I could make you my patient, here and now, but why should I waste my time?”
“I was a President once, Doctor. It’s so long ago I don’t remember all the details. But as my first order of business, I brought in a universe that was right next door. I brought it in so people could see it and experience it. It caused quite a commotion. But I saw my duty clearly. End the con. Stop the false music. Otherwise, why bother to lead people? You would just be going around in circles.”
(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)
The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.
The conversation between Renari an the doctor is so good, so powerful. You have a way with words to open minds that is breathtaking.
Imagining a story is one thing, but writing a story is a whole different thing.
I wish I would have your talent to write scripts like you do. I would write hundreds of them. Unfortunately, these stories stay in my mind,,, they are sort of stuck there with no words comming out to translate my thoughts and make them lively and interesting like you do.
Magic is art, not just any old art. Magic is your art; your singular invented thing done after everything else, that is common or communal or should I say blasé has been obviously tried and failed to satisfy, a yearning heart, and one arrives back home to self and imagines. And suddenly there it is, right in front of you; the wonderful things you can do with your voice or make with your hands, your mind, your complete body.
The future and the present open and are not closed off to you anymore, and they await…and as a single soul alive here on planet earth in the year of the ‘Toilet Paper Emperor’, you begin to create.
Thought-forms; it is interesting that the artist takes more to the concept of thought-forms than the many; of the imagined or fictional, and I use the latter term for emphasis; than what are presented through the immitative arts. Or propagandic arts.
In fact I would say most never ask themselves were their thoughts come from…
Thought-forms are very important to the magician/artist; thought-Reiki is healing imagined first, before the actual.
One must see it complete in all its detail, every single symtom must be imagined and coming from its origin, the thought-form of illness visualized in order for one to heal.
Symtoms are never treated unless they are causing great discomfort. It the thought-form that is the importance. The symtom is the mind speaking.
Contrary to western medicine which treats only the symtom.
A bone break is break, regardless. But the mind is a powerful tool or fool.
“You have a lump in your groin, I’m sorry to say, we have to remove the testicle…come to to think it? We should think of the future and remove both of them… your testicles that is…just in case. Better to be safe than sorry! A good offence is the best defense! You’ll be as right as rain…soon. The lump wI’ll be gone.”
And so he thought of his voice changing and he would become a falsetto, able now to sing those difficult Timothy B. Schmit parts on his favourite songs of the the band the Eagles…”Love will keep us alive…”
With a positive thought-form he could understood how important men without balls were to the greater society at large.
We needed falsettos. We needed poiliticians, we needed men in ‘Heromen’ suits. Men in tight Pee-Wee Herman suits, with no balls. Roaming the country-side singing in a high pitched voices.
Or in the halls of justice or of law, Congress, even the President’s chair. Men with suits, and positive thought-forms making ball less political decisions for the rest of us.
And so he said “Doc…take-em.”
Six months latter as he stood in front of a mirror, looking at himself. He wondered.
His face became a hollow blank stare. His reflection a revenant of what he was…before.
From the waist down, he looked like a Ken doll. He was forced to put a heavy pair of winter socks rolled into each other down his pants to save himself from the humiliation, when going to his favorite bar. He stopped going to swimming pools and wearing tight speedos on his bicycle.
Dating was difficult to say the least.
His mother was comforting, his father wasn’t speaking to him anymore.
His voice had changed, it was, squeekier now…he could’nt sing those Eagles songs. He sounded like…he sounded like Pee-Wee Herman.
But he wasn’t alone. Out there, out in the streets, more and more men were sounding like Pee-Wee. He saw them, his saw the familiar sock bumps in their groins. He wasnt alone, they were all, all of them in this…together.
Ball less, soul less, falsettos, in Heromen suits, squeeking out Timothy B Schmit lyrics of old Eagles tunes in a Pee-Wee Herman’s voice, changing the culture and politics of a nation towards impotence and collective ball-lessness.
He had arrived. And he wasn’t alone anymore.