Writing about writing
by Jon Rappoport
July 29, 2016
(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)
Some days, there is nothing. You sit at the computer and you don’t find the tag-end you can pull, which will release a flow of words. But those can turn into the best days, because late in the afternoon or early in the evening, a spark comes and you’re off. You’re launched in a new direction, on a new course. You’re “in the tower,” that place from which you can say what had never been in your mind before. Gold coins are dropping. You’re electric again.
When you’ve had enough of those days, you know you’re a writer because you’ve endured the dry patches of desert. You’ve refused to give up. You can still topple false gods and grind them down and make soup out of the flour. You can see the slices of blue among the clouds, or you can turn away from the blue and welcome the coming storm. Nothing will stop you. You’re not crazy, you’re beyond crazy, on the other side. You’re rearranging the closets of reality, you’re burning the closets, you’re shoving in all your chips on spaces you yourself are inventing. You’re the riverboat gambler. You’re your own president. There is no sentimental attachment to the mob, the crowd, the mass, the group. You no longer look for the easy way out. You’ve left that in the dust.
The whole point of audience for the writer is the possibility that they will suddenly be brought up short. In your words, they’ll see a few drops of rain falling out of a sky that has no clouds. They’ll catch on. They’ll realize that invention is the joker in the deck—and they can remove that card and never bother to play the game at all. Because there is a new activity above the game.
When the poet follows one line with a massive leap into another line, and when the connection isn’t clear but somehow makes a startling amount of sense, the poet has demonstrated that he doesn’t care. He’s flying. That’s all. He’s flying and running with great giant strides. Into the gloom. Out of the gloom.
No theories apply. No rules are spinning their wheels. One page, 50 pages, a hundred pages, it doesn’t matter. The walls and ceiling, somewhere, are shattering. Somewhere in the world, on a street corner, where planes of the sky meet, a few people notice the stitching that holds them together, and it’s coming apart. The sky breaks open, and another sky sits behind it.
That is magic, and it doesn’t matter to the writer how many people realize it. That isn’t his preoccupation. If it were, he would never be able to pull off the feat.
How far can the writer go? There is no limit.
How far can imagination go?
These are the great days. Every day has possibility.
I came from a town with water wheels and rivers and mysterious old blackened factories sitting on the banks. It was your town, too. In the factories, reality was manufactured in uncountable and unconscionable ways. We ran along the banks and with our invisible pistols and rifles, we shot the products that slid down the ramps of the loading docks. We didn’t know what we were shooting, but we knew they were artifacts of the wizards of Is. They were populating the world with this Is and that Is and millions of Is. The wizards were in the business of mass production. They were telling us all about essences. They were sending us their physical and metaphysical messages about existence, about its composition and makeup and meaning and we were supposed to crawl up inside those shining objects and feel our way along them, in never-ending mazes. We shot them down with our invisible guns. We scorched them and rendered them useless. We moved according to our instincts. We ran and we flew.
The days were long, so long they never ended, and even now they are still stretching out past the horizon.
Some days, there is nothing. You sit at the computer and you don’t find the tag-end you can pull, which will release a flow of words. But those can turn into the best days, because late in the afternoon or early in the evening, a spark comes and you’re off. You’re launched in a new direction, on a new course. You’re “in the tower,” that place from which you can say what had never been in your mind before. Gold coins are dropping. You’re electric again.
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 
PRIMO MANE
I was there at the first hour on the first morning.
The air clear and about all, and never breathed before,
never seen and cool and soothing about my face.
And I looked up.
And the sun and the moon fell in love as I watched.
She sat, as a blushing pearl against Cerulean blue.
And I turned, and my father’s light shone into my eyes.
I walked along and watched it all wake, as if from a long and cold dark sleep.
Further on I saw eleven great birds in flight….
and wondered about their defiance of the ground and the air.
How had they separated themselves from all the rest?
That air first breathed deep, returned warm from my lungs
and caused a mist to drift about my mouth
I saw water on a pond.
And reeds along its shore, in new green,
ice as thin and clear as a glass pane on top.
And I looked through it,
as it were a window.
A fat trout flick his tail and disappeared into the black deep.
On I went in that first walk, and the warm sun on the back of my hands
….gentle, as a companion.
A touch, the first touch.
And sounds came to new ears, and I heard….
things above and beyond and beneath the ground,
in games and in their play, splashing around and chasing in the trees.
And it was all good.
And in those trees fruit hung, ripe and smelling sweet.
And of color and a wanting….
I plucked a thing from a branch and tasted it,
and taste was mine forever.
And bees drunk from the first nectar of flowers, fell on the ground, and righted themselves and drank again and again.
Great herds of beasts, sway danced together on a plain,
and crashed of the edge of it.
I watched them swim against the rushing waters of a river.
Then reach the other side.
I felt myself alone, only as one.
Wondering….and I thought.
Am I alone?
Am I the only one?
Is this all my intent, my invention?
An ache began in the middle of me.
At the very center of what I am
….from all of this, I saw and felt.
Both a longing, of not belonging.
And I knew not what it was.
Be of this place, and yet not part of it.
I was separated and split.
All were paired and with their companion.
And I stood alone and wondered; again.
Then further on I found another place;
a new discovery on ever turn.
More special, if one could say such a thing.
Than the rest of it.
As all was of equal weight of gold and shining.
And I felt at home here…
The trees and flowers sang in some harmony there,
enjoying each other’s company.
And the wild things were much different,
separate but yet the same.
The place it seemed, had been chosen out from all the rest.
I walked into to it….
a glade, and felt moss on my naked feet.
And I called it paradise.
And insects and birds and different kinds, filled this beautiful place.
A new sensation on every step.
I was amazed, and felt new and thrilling feelings….
and turning….turning,
and then I saw her.
Singing, and walking, and dancing and touching.
And I was taken, and understood I had a heart.
The aching stopped within me,
and I wished her to be near.
I yearned to hold her, and touch her skin.
and feel her new breath on my lips.
She danced a dance of a woman dance not aware of my looking.
She went down into a brook, and bathed herself.
I was happy for her….and felt a blush that I was looking on in such a way.
She sang a song of a lover, whose name was not known to her, but known oh so well to her beating heart.
And I wished to be that one;
her and me to live in this place.
And I was afraid that I might….
drown in all this.
I would be consumed and burnt up,
never be the same.
Never be this free again.
I moved to make a gesture to her;
my courage rose in me to make her, aware of my presence….
and then he entered….
and she saw him.
They raced and fell into each other,
wrapped around bodies, like cloth.
They were made of each other,
and they kissed and touched the other’s face.
And I felt shame to be looking at it all,
My passion turned in ….
darkness took me and made me its friend, and I turned myself into a snake.
And crawled away.
I went away from that place and became the shadow of the world.
Furry things, and wicked claws.
I become what I see.
And now I spend my time telling all about the details of it…
Imagination and new worlds and places as perfect, more perfect as this one.
I am over her now…I will never be over her now
I see her face in every woman’s face.
But I do dream sometimes of that first glance…
the instance, of beauty defined,
and the flint struck hard and the fire started.
I’m not a writer by any means, but there is nothing that wants to make me write more, than watching a powerful thunderstorm.
I like the sound of the pouring rain, the stunning and beautiful lightnings, and the incredible roar of the thunder.
I feel the sky is revolting against the stupidity of the world we live in. I feel it’s trying to tell us something. It feels to me like a warning. Take heed, stop the corruption or I will flood this planet