Translating a twenty-second dream
by Jon Rappoport
August 23, 2017
There are quick dreams, quick and full and rich and vivid. You believe you can recall and recount them when you wake up, but you can’t. They slip through your fingers.
But you can characterize them.
Here is one:
The Alpha Weekly, page 4, section 2. Entertainment. Stare at the page. Keep staring. As you do, you go down a few levels. That’s the way it works. Their world becomes your world. Down on this level, below the news, across the Western sky, I’m driving a wagon hitched to billboards and signs in purple stone and giant walking letters of a sandpapered alphabet. The rain is light, the fleecy craniums of old nagging generals clack on strings behind me, shrunken unto death. Ruby bells. Every sky-street has another language. On one they talk in gem and fur, with sidebar radiant nightclubs for announcements of bankruptcy. There is the animal blood alphabet, the evening-clothes orchestra language, the cave hollow tongue. Whole cosmologies. Now curving out to another road, a tusk meadow of dead winter where ancestors are buried, and giant brown leaves fall on the roofs of wet houses. Rain, a ferry comes across a foggy river. I’m turning left out by a billboard of peeled hair oil on to a street that runs straight to an old drive-in theater. The twenty percent skim they put in a cloth bag, and a runner takes it to a cottage behind the hot dog stand and hands it to a man in a cheap sports jacket. They stand and watch the movie, an epic of the slow South—Guernsey eyes, string ties, twisted cigars.
(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)
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 NoMoreFakeNews emails here or his free OutsideTheRealityMachine emails here.
Outside the Reality Machine 
“That’s how I think about it often when I’m seated in my little niche
juggling the Havas reports or untangling the cables from Chicago, London,
and Montreal. In between the rubber and silk markets and the Winnipeg
grains there oozes a little of the fizz and sizzle of the Faubourg
Montmartre. When the bonds go weak and spongy and the pivotals balk and the
volatiles effervesce, when the grain market slips and slides and the bulls
commence to roar, when every fucking calamity, every ad, every sport item
and fashion article, every boat arrival, every travelogue, every tag of
gossip has been punctuated, checked, revised, pegged and wrung through the
silver bracelets, when I hear the front page being hammered into whack and
see the frogs dancing around like drunken squibs, I think of Lucienne
sailing down the boulevard with her wings outstretched, a huge silver condor
suspended over the sluggish tide of traffic, a strange bird from the tips
of the Andes with a rose-white belly and a tenacious little knob. Sometimes
I walk home alone and I follow her through the dark streets, follow her
through the court of the Louvre, over the Pont des Arts, through the arcade,
through the fents and slits, the somnolence, the drugged whiteness, the
grill of the Luxembourg, the tangled boughs, the snores and groans, the
green slats, the strum and tinkle, the points of the stars, the spangles,
the jetties, the blue and white striped awnings that she brushed with the
tips of her wings.
“In the blue of an electric dawn the peanut shells look wan and crumpled;
along the beach at Montpamasse the waterlilies bend and break. When the tide
is on the ebb and only a few syphilitic mermaids are left stranded in the
muck, the Dome looks like a shooting gallery that’s been struck by a
cyclone. Everything is slowly dribbling back to the sewer. For about an hour
there is a death-like calm during which the vomit is mopped up. Suddenly the
trees begin to screech. From one end of the boulevard to the other a
demented song rises up. It is like the signal that announces the close of
the exchange. What hopes there were are swept up. The moment has come to
void the last bagful of urine. The day is sneaking in like a leper …
“One of the things to guard against when you work nights is not to break your
schedule; if you don’t get to bed before the birds begin to screech it’s
useless to go to bed at all. This morning, having nothing better to do, I
visited the Jardin des Plantes. Marvellous pelicans here from
Chapultepec and peacocks with studded fans that look at you with silly eyes.
Suddenly it began to rain […]”
—Henry Miller, Tropic of Capricorn
Powerful, Jon.
What many might see as a string of non sequiturs has on the contrary, an intriguing effect on me.
I have the oddest feeling that I’ve been there – but for the life of me I can’t recall where exactly.
“…and signs in purple stone
and giant walking letters
of a sandpapered alphabet.”
Nice Poetry, Both of you.