by Jon Rappoport
June 13, 2022
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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.
(To read about Jon’s collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)
To read Jon’s articles on Substack, 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.
Your writing is a blue patch of sky in the dark clouds. Thank you! This is what happens for me when I paint!
Wow. Were you a beat poet in another life? You had me rolling across and up and down America with that rant, Jon… searching for ‘IT’.
The winds of, change, enjoy the view Jon! As for the room, the universe’s of gold dust you have steadfastly sprinkled upon us, Jon, thank you. Jon’s thought streamings, his finger prints are pure gold dust.
“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… a spark comes and you’re off.”
For someone who is a writer (a real one, not a Dark Sider writing-whore PR hack or the like)…
Writing is like breathing. It’s part of your heart beat. You just got to do it.
When you aren’t writing… you feel short of breath. Time to get in touch with Your Muse and tap into the Collective Unconscious where an infinity of ideas are located. It They had an actual place to be.
Real writers write because They have something of value to say. Something of value to share. Something that must be voiced out to Universe so that it can take root wherever and in such ways as a seed is carried by the wind to seek a place to grow and flourish.
It doesn’t matter if a writer gets on the New York Times best seller list or not. What is more important is that if a writer puts something out there and it resonates and takes root in the heart and mind of some other valuable soul out there… even if it’s just one. The writer has done the job.
You never know when or how or why a certain thought will take root. And you never know where that thought will go next, in either the writer or the reader. And all the Nexts’ that follow, forever.
Writing is a voicing of Consciousness. And Consciousness is what all of Life springs forth from… and IS. Trying to articulate things that can be described… and things that can’t be described… and doing so in a way that adds value to Universe.
The words might come easy. The words might come hard. But the words… come. In their own way and in their own time.
A Writer is a spark that can feed spirits and souls. Or a writer can kill the spirit and damn the soul. It’s all about the heart and soul of the Writer. And what is the thread of Consciousness that They seek to manifest.
We are all writers in one way or another. Some do it with words. Some do it with deeds. Some write with things other than words. Some write solely with their heart.
We can’t help ourselves. We are all Conscious. We are all alive.
We all must write. Some how, some way.
Writing is The Heartbeat of Our Soul.