Was Hermes the first stand-up comedian?
by Jon Rappoport
August 30, 2016
(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From The Matrix, click here.)
The Greek trickster god, the god of wit, poetry, boundaries (dissolved), guide of souls into the afterlife, Hermes may have been the first comedian in the history of myths.
His basic joke was about space-time. As in, it’s an illusion.
“Two guys walked into a universe. And they couldn’t get out.”
But Hermes could. He thought it was funny.
“The whole thing’s a con, folks. Don’t you get it?”
“See this door? It leads to another cosmos. Doesn’t anybody want to check it out?”
Hermes could be called the god of everything paranormal. Of course, for him, these abilities were entirely routine. The struggles of humans were absurd—and yet Hermes displayed a generosity of spirit toward humans. He was the lighter side of Prometheus. Without the whole business about being chained to a rock and having birds peck out his liver. Hermes was always on the move. He flew through walls, buildings, cliffs. He rearranged the objects of ordinary reality for fun, to confound the rubes.
“I’m sure I left that comb on the night table. And now it’s at the bottom of the pool. How did that happen?”
He was always delivering the gift and possibility of expanded perception.
“Just open your eyes a little wider, and you’ll see this whole set-up is a farce. There are no boundaries. The distance between you and Mt. Olympus is just a step or two.”
Even though his advice went unheeded, for the most part, he didn’t despair. He was up-beat, optimistic, forward-looking. If he seemed cruel, because he made a joke of the so-called human condition, there was much to be learned, if you grasped the punch lines.
As big as things might seem, they’re very small, given what we could comprehend.
Two brief quotes from my work-in-progress, The Magician Awakes:
“You think new space and time is going to come to you on a silver platter? You think the normal world is going to move aside by itself and let in the fresh air of a new life? The magic has always been right in front of us. It is imagination. Imagination is not a tyrant. It doesn’t impose its will. It’s always ready. It just needs a tap, and then it responds…”
“At the very bottom of every rabbit hole, there is you, with all your power. That’s the first and last card in the deck. That’s the end of waiting. That’s the reality and the dream together.”
I turned up the last card in the deck
And it was me
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 
I’ve been bumping around this universe without changing paradigms. It’s like I can see heaven, of course I can see heaven but Hermes takes a stroll with Persephone, then I’m on foot heading underground, I write underground poetry. I wrote a poem about it once. I am going to post it because of a dream I had this morning about presenting something even though I was already late and had nothing prepared.I have written other responses to your posts and others posts but only posted a couple (because their so long ) and when I have, they’re not very intelligent, nor will this one be. But oh well. Deeper and deeper it gets stupider and stupider but according to my dream it would be ok with my audience If there were any audience left here. Anyway your post reminded me of something. The last card, game over unless you want to use the same deck. Were not using decks we’re changing plains in mid flight I suppose. It will just work. It always does. Fool proof.
In this poem Mercury wears a black spade on his lapel and he’s sad. he has set out for the underworld to bring good news and cheer and leaves broken hearted. In some heavenly place exactly the same face on a twin of the entity watches and recommends giving up the struggle.
A mind not engaged in battles is enchanted in a good way. This fricken being a messenger thing really sucks when all the messages are secrets you hid from yourself as your going through the door. Anyway at least I’m done writing. Here is my poem. It’s not like Mercury was involved in a battle but the morons in Hades were fighting each other over him.
MASSIVE STARLIGHT
Liquid Silver
…filling up the sky,
the galaxy is
home to your aspirations.
Interactive as a
stimulus, respective
of a sphere of anomalous surgents.
It has avenues that are in you
and others that go through you
or come toward you.
Mercury walked off the stage.
After he delivered Hades
message with a squirt of derision.
Black spades on his label.
In his greatest hour he shined,
then he went home and cried.
Not really, he had no home
never stood still
after the battle for his soul,
I stood with him.
You know I love you brother,
Come home.
@Kathy
“A mind not engaged in battles is enchanted in a good way.” KAYCEE
…what a lovely line, the space it creates in me in its reading is profound. And you say you not intelligent, possum. Hears one for you…I usually gives them to Jon, but it seems he is getting too much attention from the one-liners next door when he claims he is writing for them.
gLASS bOTTLES bABIES:
Glass bottle babies and dummy tits, empty pots craving dirt and a plant. A squeaky rusty pram through wet coal smoke. Something else is breathing in this room other than just me.
A daydream in the woods and walking through dampness.
Moss filled places, and within themselves more alive than what can be seen here.
The path leads on and past a gate, always a gate. And I dream on tall grass, blades loaded with water, sharp, wet soggy socks against my shins. The Normans came and left behind some cruelty to guard it…what they had sacked locally they took with them. The tortured ruin and the old ones talk of those bleak times still to this day. They were cruel masters.
Red on the carpet and the supple red of that chaise, eyes lift to fix on the painting.
Guanyin…ah my Guanyin,
the child in your arms. The child of mercy, child of light.
Why did you stay so long?
My lemon tree reaches, and the leaves get larger the more that it stretches. The shadow side and the artery chewed by that dam slug.
I went insane yesterday, just for a while to see what all the fuss was about…I rather liked being a cuckoo; all the formal pretention dropped and a more sincere and boisterous loose-cannonist takes hold. It is a freer freedom.
And they flood to me like moths to a flame. I love crazy, and crazy loves crazy, its so huggable, and there’s nothing like having a whizz in alley against a corporate wall with one of them; and the suit walks by and has that look , like you just pissed on a cathedral …I handed him a century note. You should have seen his eyes; the light. It was like looking into the sun. I hated to tell him, it was just paper with a number on it.
The intruder pushes up and past green fruit, seven heads, and late to a season. A invitation lost or not given… forgotten in a translation. And in an eagerness supplant the expected ones, those who were invited. The shiny faced open, the slave is a aglow in musty yellow and flyspeck black. Racing on towards conclusion and the many obstacles that block the late bloom, of a wanton dreamer. In Autumn’s cool, and before winters glass. The false beginning, and some will bear their greatness near the end rather than the start.
The grass grows and I can hear it, quietly… silent, and unrelenting. Moving up, reaching for a indebted late summer light, its best already spent. Not enough time now; melancholy setting in for the season of despair. And lines will soon rule that sky, and pull down a grey cold prison upon us.
I saw my father in a dream once, I’d never met him and told him so
One second here.
Now there…
A different place, felt, shifted. Feeling like an alien.
And then I am in the other, the non ordinary and confused sometimes, but mainly never understood.
They tell me that I’m mad and running circles round and round the sun.