Physics, the cosmos, and perception

Physics, the cosmos, and perception

by Jon Rappoport

April 13, 2018

Whenever physicists and spin-off commentators start talking about Quantum Theory, they always come back to the question about perception:

How much of what we perceive with our eyes, our minds, our instruments is really there, and how much depends on how we are looking at it, or the fact that we are looking at it?

This question fascinates people.  It should.

Perception itself is shaped by imagination.

In case you hadn’t noticed, more and more scientific emphasis is being placed on genetics, DNA, the workings of the brain, as a way of explaining the “function” of the human being at every level.

However, most levels aren’t even touched by this exploration.

A person whose imagination is asleep wouldn’t know that.

If you want to use the world “evolution,” then say that the next stage of evolution involves the human being living by and through imagination.

When I make this point, I’m sometimes asked, “But what would we imagine?”  That’s like an acting student telling his coach, “You want me to improvise this role?  What should I spontaneously improvise?”

People are heavily invested in What Is.  They are so heavily invested they don’t want to take their eye off that ball.  They want to stay with What Is all the way into the grave.  They have taught themselves to believe this is what they’re supposed to do.  This is life.  This is what it means.  Which is like saying, “I’m blind to 99.9 percent of What Could Be, because I’ve sold out to What Is.”

If the universe could talk, it would say, “I’m playing a massive joke on you.  I’m sitting here with all my titanic mass and energy and I’m convincing you that What Is is your best play.  I’m giving you the very best reason to stay with What Is.  But I’m just one work of art out of a possible infinite number of works of art.  And here’s the kicker.  You can create your own.”

Some people are inspired by that idea, and some people don’t want to hear it.

For most people, let’s face it, the devotion to What Is is a religion.  It sums up their lives and concerns and actions and thoughts.

Here is a note I made in preparation for my first collection, The Matrix Revealed:

“Conditioning is focused on planting false realities.  But that program would have no chance of succeeding unless people were already married to the notion that there is a single and final reality.  That’s the key.  If you break through and understand that delusion, you enter a whole different territory.  You go from thinking you’re in a museum that has only one painting to realizing the museum has a thousand paintings—and then you wake up even more, and you see that you could be a painter.”


Exit From the Matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From 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.

My experience with a forgotten language

My experience with a forgotten language

by Jon Rappoport

March 20, 2018

I have great respect for any well-formed language—for its ability to engender the use of logic, for its capacity to embody grand leaps of poetry and imagination.

I’ve also had experiences with what could be called forgotten languages of vastly different kinds.

In 1995, I was living and painting in a small studio in Los Angeles. I was painting rows of black shapes on large pieces of board (4 feet by 2 feet). I was improvising these shapes. I had no plan or system in mind.

One day, I was lying on my bed looking at several of the boards leaning against the opposite wall. Suddenly, and for a few moments, the shapes spoke to me. The effect was tremendous.

They didn’t speak in words. They conveyed immediate sensations of flying. Flying in upper reaches.

Afterwards, I gave the experience some thought.

A language which communicates direct feelings and sensations. No intermediary translation necessary or possible. Not words into feelings, but feelings without filtering…

Suppose there are languages which—if a person can deal with them—keep pumping through DIFFERENT AND CHANGING sensations and feelings. But each burst is undeniable and vivid.

Each “painted shape” is a changeling. It never broadcasts the same thing twice.

But at every moment, it’s powerful and clear.

The shape doesn’t give you literal or metaphorical meaning. It gives you experience.

You’re flying. You’re running through a desert. You’re swimming in a boundless ocean. These experiences are somehow transmitted.

This makes no sense, in terms of languages with which we are familiar.

How is this possible?

Perhaps, in my case, as the painter, it’s because I was spontaneously improvising the shapes. The “in the moment” factor was outside any system. Outside any consensus.

In certain types of Zen painting (black and white) where the artist delivers “abstract” lines and strokes and shapes to the paper, something about these brush strokes is alive. You don’t need to know what “they represent.” They don’t represent anything. They don’t refer. They don’t symbolize. They ARE.

Is this mystical? No. It’s more real than real.

Why were certain Zen painters engaged in improvisation? Because their whole effort involved offloading preconceptions and metaphysical baggage. They had a philosophy of “no philosophy.” And yet they were very much about action. There was no passivity in them.

Most “civilized” people would reject this kind of painting, because they find no obvious meaning in it. These civilized ones would say, “I have stacks of ideas and thoughts and systems and meanings and references in my mind. I want what I look at to engage with these meanings in some way. If not, I conclude I’m looking at something senseless.”

Is the direct experience of love senseless because it can’t be accurately described in words? Judging by people’s reactions, it wouldn’t seem so.

My experiences with “forgotten languages” suggests, to me, that we have untapped areas of potential connection and understanding which go beyond all conventional expectations.

This has nothing to do with brains or computers. It has to do with innate dormant faculties.

For me, a faculty was awakened for a few moments, by paintings I’d made.

The closest analogy I can think of is the “language” of music. I listen to the same symphony a dozen times. Each time my experience is different. And vivid and immediate. If I’m in the moment, I’m not making all sorts of references to the English language in order to interpret what I’m hearing. The meaning is coming through directly.

This kind of musical experience happens to untold numbers of people every day. No one doubts its power. And yet, there are no words to define it.

We accept the unexplained when we are hearing it. But we’re reluctant to accept it when we see it (painting). Why? Because we’re conditioned to believe seeing is all about “the ordinary” and “realism.”

It isn’t. It doesn’t have to be.

Seeing doesn’t have to be a shackle that binds us permanently to “things as they are.”

“Things as they are and must be” is a program of the reality machine.

“Things as they are” is a platform we can all share. We can remain grounded in it and yet also experience fantastically exhilarating “exits” into other realms.

Many other experiences await us.


Exit From the Matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From 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.

Physics, free will, and imagination

Physics, free will, and imagination

by Jon Rappoport

March 19, 2018

PART ONE: Conventional physicists will tell you that none of the components of the universe (atoms, electrons, photons, quarks, wavicles) exhibits freedom.

The particles don’t contain anything that could be called freedom.

Physicists will also tell you that everything in the universe, including human bodies and brains, is made up of these very same particles and nothing else.

They will tell you that mind is simply and only the brain.

Therefore, nowhere in body, brain, or mind is there any quality that makes freedom possible.

Freedom=the power of an individual to choose A rather B; to decide to do something or not do it; to invent a possibility and then follow it with action.

According to conventional physics, there is no freedom. It’s not possible. It’s a fantasy.

That’s the consensus of the conventional physicists. Contrary to every impulse, awareness, or thought you might have about your freedom, you’re wrong. You’re absolutely deluded.

Aside from the majestic absurdity of the physicists’ position, you should also know that, in the partnership between government and science, there is no limit on what programming will be tried on citizens—because, since key persons in that elite partnership are convinced that freedom is an illusion, it doesn’t matter what they do to us.

It’s just replacing one deterministic program with another.

That’s their view, and I hope you understand it.

If you pushed them into a corner, they would assert that the entire history of the struggle to attain freedom for the individual, against top-down tyrannies, was a meaningless enterprise—because, according to their “findings,” freedom never existed at any time, anywhere. It could never exist. Life is only unconscious particles moving through space and time.

But we, who know how ridiculous that story is, need to admit something:

Since is freedom is quite real, it exists outside the fabric of the physical. Freedom is non-material.

And this is a bolt of lightning. It is, when viewed properly, an inspiration of the first order.

It opens up limitless territory.

If individual freedom is that huge and that profound, then what does that say about the potential of the individual?

The most important covert ops are aimed at rejecting this potential, at making us believe we are dues-paying card-carrying members of Automatic Predetermined Life.

That’s the materialistic op. That’s the “Spiritual CIA.”

That’s the issue which will decide our future.

How much freedom and, therefore, power will we admit we have?

What fake shrunken stories will we sell ourselves, in order to slip back into the materialistic cocoon?

The philosophy and “science” of materialism is about far more than the intellectual discussion of what humans are and aren’t. It’s about you. It’s about what you’re capable of, once you offload the imposed limits of this “normal” civilization.

Getting the picture?

And how does a person begin to think about a stunningly expanded notion of his own freedom? Not by consulting “things as they are.” Instead, he uses the faculty which has been downplayed as a plaything for children—when in fact it is a limitless faculty:

IMAGINATION.

PART TWO: You’re in a tower, that place from which you can write what had never been in your mind before.

You can topple false gods and grind them down and make soup out of the flour. You’re rearranging the closets of reality. You’re the riverboat gambler. There is no sentimental attachment to the mob, the crowd, the mass, the group.

The whole point of readers is the possibility that they’ll 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 not 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 ordinary but somehow makes a startling amount of sense, the poet has demonstrated, in a very specific way, that he’s flying. He’s flying and running with great giant strides. Out of the gloom.

One page, 50 pages, 100 pages, it doesn’t matter. The walls and ceiling, somewhere, are shattering. It’s as if, 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.

He came from a town with water wheels and a river and mysterious old blackened factories sitting on the banks. In the factories, reality was manufactured in uncountable and unconscionable ways. The products slid down the ramps of the loading docks. They were artifacts of the wizards of Is. The wizards were populating the world with this Is and that Is and millions of Is. They were in the business of telling him all about essences. They were sending him their physical and metaphysical messages about existence, about its composition and makeup and meaning and he was supposed to crawl up inside those shining objects and feel his way along them. But he found his inherent power to reject them. By going beyond them.

The writer invented another world, and the reader saw that.

The reader said, “Maybe I can do that, too.”

PART THREE: These are notes I made while preparing my collection, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX

“The ancient practice of magic, the occult, the ceremonial, the transcendent relies on, and refers back to imagination. The seeker—without him knowing it—was nudged into engaging with his own imagination.”

“That was the key. But the engagement was concealed. Therefore, the experiences and effects were spotty and unreliable. The direct road is knowing you are imagining and inventing and creating.”

“The one exception in ancient times was Tibet. There the practitioners were consciously creating reality. I’m updating their practices with dozens of my own imagination exercises. None of these exercises requires some metaphysical belief in a system or a religion.”

“Creative power is the bottom line. With enough imagination- practice comes an unending series of insights, unique to each individual.”

Invent a better reality.


Exit From the Matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From 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.

The four thousand universes of Paul Klee

The four thousand universes of Paul Klee

by Jon Rappoport

March 12, 2018

Well, maybe there were more. Who knows, if you count both the paintings and the drawings.

I do admire the way Klee operated. He would lay out six or seven blank canvases, work on the first one until he had nothing left to say, go on to the second canvas, do the same thing, and so on, until he returned to the first canvas—at which point he had a whole different set of ideas—so he would add to the first canvas. Around and around he would go, until he was satisfied with all six universes, at which point he would give titles to the paintings…and those titles might have nothing to do with them.

He was both disciplined and free, serious and fanciful. Acute and loose. Realistic and fantastical. He enjoyed himself.

I like his fish, swimming across the canvas, occasionally looking to the side at the viewer. He could be a cartoonist when he wanted to be. He could paint nothing more than a sketch. He could make a canvas dense with color. He could be cold or warm. He could be a caricaturist, a satirist, a romantic.

Klee: “Everything vanishes around me, and works are born as if out of the void. Ripe, graphic fruits fall off.”

To some, Klee was a child. But he wasn’t. He was a mature man looking at the works of children and building them up, on his canvases, into something elegant tinged with happiness.

He satisfied himself. This is unusual. Whatever he was reaching for, he found a way to paint that affirmed his own pleasure. At the same time, he avoided cloying self-indulgence. This, too, is unusual.

In his heart and soul, he was a rebel. But he didn’t take his rebellion to a point of destruction. He was always finding another way to express worlds he preferred to this one.

This is, perhaps, why very few people care about him anymore. He was free in a way that is mysterious to minds now.

It does no good to look briefly at his paintings. At a museum, you need to stop and give each painting a few minutes—and after a while you begin to see what he was doing—although you can’t give it a name. You may not like most of his work, but some paintings will stay with you, as if they were already sitting there in your imagination and he knew that and gave you back a piece of your own subconscious reverie.

“Remember this?” he says. And you do.

You stop, transfixed. You say to yourself, “I thought about this once.”

In the early 1960s, I wandered through the Metropolitan Museum and the Museum of Modern Art in New York many, many, many times. I usually went on weekday afternoons, after teaching school, when there were few people in my second homes.

This is was how I educated myself about painting and sculpture. I looked at Egyptian statues and florid French romantic paintings; I looked at Cezanne and Van Gogh; I looked at Rodin; I looked at early and late Picasso; I looked at Klee and de Kooning and Pollock; I looked at Goya and van Eyck; I looked at Bonnard and Corot; I looked at the masters and would-be masters of every period of Western art.

Every day I had different favorites. Claims of one painter or another defacing and corrupting the meaning of beauty meant nothing to me; I was interested in the work. I didn’t care about Picasso’s distortion of a female face. I didn’t care about de Kooning’s massive disruptions of traditional space. I wasn’t coming from a particular school, and since I was grasping the whole sweep of painting across centuries, I wasn’t bothered by what was happening to art in the 20th century. Picasso was never going to unseat and replace Piero della Francesca. Matisse was never going to blot out Vermeer. Pollock was never going to erase the memory of Renoir. They—past and present—were all there, in the museums, and there they would stay.

To me, this was a minor miracle. The museums were alive.

There was something else. All the paintings in all the rooms spoke of art that had not yet been done. There were glimpses and hints. The paintings said: “There is a future but we don’t know what it is.”

If you want to know about creative impulse and creative force, go to museums. Go early and often. Go alone. Wander from room to room and LOOK at what is hanging on the walls. Gradually, you’ll give up some of your hidebound rules and prejudices. You’ll immerse yourself. You’ll find glorious details in paintings you don’t like. You’ll see the play of hundreds of imaginations at work. Committed imaginations belonging to people who, against all odds, invented worlds upon worlds.

What is it about color, about line, about space? You’ll find out.

We live in a physical world of space, energy, and time. Painters make their own worlds that embody these aspects.

There are untold numbers of books and articles about the Coming Age, in which we glimpse some secret embedded in consciousness, which, if teased out, could change our destiny.

This secret may refer a new energy, or to guidance from unusual beings, or to the “unfolding” of a plan, or to a journey we are on which we must know more about—the variations are endless.

No matter what shape this secret takes, it needs to be discovered. It’s there, we just haven’t found it yet in its fullness.

We must keep looking, researching, introspecting, digging.

SOMETHING crucial is there, like an inner diamond buried in outer mud.

There is another principle, which has been given short shrift in history, which is often ignored or cast to the side, because it focuses on the “I” rather than the “We.”

This other principle does not presuppose a grand plan or a map. It doesn’t demand referring to ancient wisdom or the felicitous arrival of a new state of mind.

It doesn’t ask us to attach ourselves to a larger picture that is already there.

It isn’t a gift that arrives on our doorstep.

It doesn’t require a person to be in a certain state of consciousness before taking action.

For these reasons, people generally prefer to avoid this principle.

It is the Creative Principle.

It states: YOU INVENT REALITY. YOU CAN INVENT REALITY.

And naturally, that reality is connected to what you profoundly WANT.

What you want is unique to you. It isn’t the outcome of a group decision.

To put it another way, you are an artist of reality.

In this (unlimited) territory, you launch. You create. You don’t need to obtain permission. You don’t need to wait for a sign or signal.

You don’t look for a secret that tells you what to do or how to do it.

If you have guiding ideas, they are your own.

The Creative Principle offloads a great deal of stifling baggage people morbidly associate with ACTION.

Here is an excerpt from an essay I wrote, “Occult Man and His Search for His True Nature”:

Now we come to the threshold of a shift into another dimension of experience. Regardless of how long the journey has taken so far, now Occult Man begins to examine his very role as the searcher. The seeker. The discoverer.

Is the whole paradigm of questioner-question-answer able to yield up the effect of finding his true nature?

At every turn, it seems as if he’s been looking for some sort of content or material or information that will unlock the door.

All along, he has been searching for some kind of reality that is already there. A deeper reality, a more elevated reality. Concealed, out of view. Hidden.

Which is why he is Occult Man. Because of the way he has been proceeding.

But suppose…there is no such hidden reality which is his true nature? Suppose that is the cosmic joke.

And suppose, instead, he is the maker of realities.

Suppose that is his true nature.

Suppose that is the secret.

And, most interesting, suppose every question about existence he has ever had will yield up answers once he becomes a maker of realities.

Suppose every self-deception and cynical conclusion about his life he has ever entertained is a cover for: refusing to see he is a maker of realities.

Suppose, most importantly, inventing realities that are closest to his deepest desires, and making those realities into fact in the world, is what he has truly wanted all along.

—end of excerpt—

The Creative Principle.

Flesh clean abundant air blowing in through every door and window.

A new start.

A new life.


Exit From the Matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From 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.

When poems destroy the reality machine

When poems destroy the reality machine

by Jon Rappoport

February 26, 2018

Poems.  The threat of poems.

A literal mind wants literal reality.  It wants language laid down like a perfect grid over the world as it is.  If you give a literal human something else, he suddenly pulls up his horse, jumps off, and runs back in the direction he came from.  He’s stage-struck, and not happy at all about his little jaunt in the high country.

People say they want to experience what is outside the reality machine, but when you give it to them they object.  ‘That’s not what I meant.’  They actually want something that looks and sounds and feels like ordinary reality.  They want the method and the system of ordinary reality with a few odd tidbits thrown in.  If you move to another arena of harmonics and dissonance, where the interstitial connections radically change—poetry—they balk.  They wanted to go in orbit around the Earth, all the time looking down on it, and you took them to an X frontier on an unfamiliar shore where the moon was moored in the dock.

 

 

Shivering in the green water,

Wriggling in the net of desperate oxygen,

Rolling prisoners,

Foam falling from their bodies…

 

Summer nights

I sat on the front porch with my mother

Rhododendrons were thrashed by slow comets of rain

 

These are the letters of my ancient fathers,

And these are the letters of the roses

Blowing across the rolling apparatus

That moves the sun,

Shining through old windows

On silent men.

 

Now they shake off the rime

And stagger up from their trench.

 

They form a many-rayed subconscious moon,

Wavering in the tides.

 

They enter a sleeping shepherd boy near his flock,

To repair the damage of centuries.

 

glittering garbage

of fantastic dream

 

 

on its way to a factory

 

on the antediluvian shores of a breastfed paradise

 

 

I have no arduous duty in the

library at Alexandria

I’m there

 

to

 

 

expose

shatter

 

the vanishing point architecture of eternity

 

 

My friends, do not be befuddled by what you invent

Focus on your power to invent it

And as for others, when they show you reality as they want you to see it,

Do not consider this a mystery

Call on the friendly forces to help you remember your own power

I see those words embedded between the lines of the Constitution

 

My friend has built a golden conveyance in his dreams

By which he can traverse universes of his own making

He knows exactly what he’s doing

 

At one point along the Great Golden there is a clearing where a blanket of mist is riding from the ground into sky docks of green colleges

Where they teach the lost books of Alexandria

The friendly books of charming magic

Open to all

There were those days

When persons of good will breathed clean air and shared their obvious discoveries

 

My friend is one

And now he is building again

He has turned the key of imagination in Fate and opened the grasses of the uncharted future

 

—At its core, the reality machine is the state of mind that produces and accepts ordinary language as the end-all and be-all—

 

Because ordinary language continues to spool out and re-invent a conventional (psychological and spiritual) status quo.

 

You can take any event and describe it from 1000 viewpoints, but if every one of those viewpoints embraces and deploys ordinary “realistic” language, what do you have?  You have 1000 pieces of the physiology of the elephant in the room.  It’s the same elephant.  He has always been there.  He is “things as they are” and “the WAY things are.”

 

The same WAY.  The same connections, the same references and self-referential blocks of substance.  Deck chairs on the Titanic.  Do you want them facing east?  West?  Do you want them in pairs?

 

Poetry travels a different road.  A million roads.  The basic interstitial tissue is of vastly different forces.  We are no longer talking about surface distinctions.  The underlying vectors and sensations and combinations give rise to universes.

 

These invented universes are magic.  Magic is not compounds of ordinary elements given a twist.

 

Language tells us how to see and what to see.  If the language is ordinary, we come back to the same perceptions in the same bin.

 

give me a proliferation of gods

gods in plantains and mangoes

gods in broken chairs in Arizona motels

gods in piles of gray wood at the back of a barn in Mississippi

gods in statues on broad plazas in Brazilia

gods on the foggy windows of diners in Western Massachusetts

 

 

 

Before money was sold down the river and resurrected on a cross of blood

before a cash-loaded god strolled into town

before the Universal Hospital drugged synapses and drove the wild horses of imagination down into underground canyons

before sculpted androids stepped out in the aftermath buying back their own memories

 

I was a walker in the golden circus

And out of the Hudson I saw geologic mob wraiths spiral up with shrunken desiccated wings

and I set fire to their falcon heads against the blue sky

 

 

I see populations surge through golden avenues wrapped around the upper stories of Orphic ships waiting for solar winds

 

I open books in a shining arboretum, ten-thousand-foot wells pour

from the sky down into stratified layers of rock…

 

Summer night on an old porch, rhododendrons are thrashed by slow comets of rain, there is a sleep so pervasive numbing the chest and shoulders, a despair so charming as to be final, a titanic loss of mobility, then the arrow shifts and points in a different direction, the light in the candle stops wavering for a second at the fulcrum

a memory:

there were buildings in the old World War 2 Paris that looked like beautiful rotting vegetables propped on the ark of the River

and below windows

scalloped stone sacred mucosal choirs

 

in a nostalgic vortex

death is a protocol

a virginal reopening of the wound

insignia piping gardens from its royal wax

into the dark

old pleasures run in familiar magnetic channels

 

Ah, this is old-world death, the happiness of remembering time, a thing of wonder in the thrall of dying autumn

and then we knew what could be lost, and then we knew we were seeing each other fading on sheets of papyrus

and we dropped through the earth

 

flaming

 

into the legend of the unconscious

 

 

and

 

struggled back and emerged up into the lights of the city

 

Now we move through the halls of this summertime life

 

the meridians of gills breathing in and out, in and out

 

and cross the bridges of memory

and are new

 

 

We punch through the wax of space-time into the warm rain

 

we unplug the money presses

 

we abandon the long steel trading tables and the slaughtering floor

 

we defect

 

we drink the root turning into the bud

the bud turning to grain

 

we brush away the choking filaments of narcosis and finally admit our immortality

 

we walk in the canopy of clouds

 

in the canal where time and space are bolted, cloth to cloth

 

We ride tigers across the Styx into the mud houses of Hades and blow sacks of north wind to clean the ruined stables of broadcast memory

 

We race up the canyons of the Rockies, we float on the Salt Lake in mirrors of gold

 

We walk out of the house in the middle of the night and watch the magnolia tree in the little grassy island open white flowers of joy!

 

Sing now!

Speak now!

 

Tear away the seal on the tomb!

 

MAGICIANS!

MASTERS OF TIME!

in any weather, any season

long forgotten and hidden in hard flesh

they are there

no one is sitting with bags of gold

no one is bringing a new book of laws

all the fires are out

all the wars of the bankrupt versus the bankrupt in whatever dimension are over, the bodies are buried, the corpses are rotting

time is new…


Exit From the Matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From 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.

Consciousness isn’t a box of chocolates for the soul

Consciousness isn’t a box of chocolates for the soul

by Jon Rappoport

January 17, 2018

I’ve long had a bone to pick with so-called New Age versions of consciousness, because they tend to lead to passivity.

The word “consciousness” is a kind of convenience, a general reference to the fact that the individual is conscious, aware.

He is not “partaking” of a thing called consciousness.

It is an irreducible fact that the individual is aware. Whether that means he is aware he is reading these words right now, or he is aware that a particular Chinese farmer named Li Po is pausing to drink water as he tills a field on the edge of the Gobi desert, six thousand miles away, the individual is aware.

This fact is not an artifact created by the brain. The brain is composed of tiny particles that are not aware on their own, in the view of conventional physicists. Yet those same scientists assert that this organ in the skull somehow gives rise to you being conscious. Dead end.

Nor is consciousness a steady state or a field. Those ideas, again, are mere conveniences, vague metaphors that stand in for the fact that THE INDIVIDUAL IS AWARE. The individual isn’t “plugging into” something called consciousness. He IS conscious.

The individual can be more conscious or less conscious, but in either case he isn’t “entering” “collective consciousness” or “cosmic consciousness.” If he is aware, somehow, of what is happening at a specific spot in someone else’s mind or on the far side of the moon, then that is what he is conscious of. He isn’t becoming aware of these realities because he walked through a door called “higher consciousness.”

A person who believes, like an article of religious faith, he is “partaking” of a “larger reality” called “consciousness” tends to go passive. He becomes disposed to staying in what he supposes is a “better place.”

A person who knows he is conscious tends to opt for action. And hopefully, creative action.

You could picture the-individual-being-conscious as the platform or the bedrock from which he imagines, creates, invents. Invents his desired future. Some misguided people believes this means he becomes self-absorbed and no longer cares about the world. This is not necessarily the case at all.

Charlie Chaplin once did a ballet routine in a movie. After the scene was shot, someone asked him where he’d learned to dance like that. Chaplin stared at him. “I’m an actor,” he said. Chaplin had invented himself as a dancer for the moment.

Humans can invent themselves in many roles. This is an aspect of their creative power. Which is unlimited.

In my collection, Exit From the Matrix, I include over 50 imagination exercises I developed, for the express purpose of deepening the individual’s access to his own creativity.

As for the technocrats’ vaunted Singularity, where the brain, hooked up to a super-computer, leaps into a new level of consciousness, this is more unsupported New Age drivel. Even assuming the hookup somehow works, the only thing the human brain would gain is more data and processing power—which doesn’t equal consciousness


Exit From the Matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From 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.

More on why I named my site NoMoreFakeNews in 2001

More on why I named my site NoMoreFakeNews in 2001

by Jon Rappoport

January 17, 2018

“Watching a puppet show where humans earnestly take on the roles of the puppets, in their lives, might be depressing. But if you’re looking at it from a place outside the reality machine, it has an entertaining aspect. It deserves a category on awards programs: ‘best imitation of non-human behavior by humans’.” (The Underground, Jon Rappoport)

In 2001, I made a decision to start a website. I came up with several names, none of which impressed me or my wife. Then, as a lark, I said: NoMoreFakeNews. It seemed to fit.

As I’ve previously written, I’d already had a great deal of experience taking apart lies of the medical cartel. All those lies had been promoted without let-up in the mainstream press. They were fake news.

But I’d had a recent experience with government that also impressed me. And of course, government embodies fake news.

I’d been invited by a Nevada state legislator to testify in front of two committees considering “childhood problems.” The first was over-the-counter drugs.

In small room in a building in Carson City, I explained that cortisone medications could have harmful effects. I held up a box of one of the drugs and detailed the packaging—pretty colors, childish fonts, a general cartoonish look designed to appeal to kids. An angry councilwoman stopped me when I started talking about the drug’s manufacturer. She admitted she owned stock in the company, but nevertheless, she said, I was out of bounds, because I was bringing up corporate and commercial factors that had no place in the hearing. I grinned and couldn’t stop grinning. I said corporate factors were definitely relevant in a government hearing. I couldn’t believe this idiot councilwoman was trying to hold me back, while at the same time baldly confessing she owned stock in the company I was excoriating. I was reminded of conversations I’d had with magazine editors, to whom I’d pitched story ideas. They, too, were quite protective of “territories where no reporter should tread.” Fake news was their forte.

In the second committee hearing, I sat in a larger room with more legislators. The subject was recent school shootings, and what could be done to prevent them. I would be allowed to speak for a few minutes about the tendency of some psychiatric drugs to push children over the edge into extreme violence. The legislator who’d invited me leaned over and told me the only conclusions the committee would draw from the hearing were: there was a need for better security at schools, as well as a need for “better observation of child behavior before violence erupted.” My testimony would be tolerated and then completely ignored. While people were chatting in groups before the committee was called to order, in walked the Attorney General of Nevada. Immediately, a circle of fawning government employees gathered around her. She was smiling and in a good mood. She began telling stories, and her admirers smiled and laughed on cue. She relayed a quick anecdote about President Bill Clinton recently visiting Nevada. Her listeners’ faces immediately shifted into Awe. I was a guest at a puppet show. There was a pecking order. At the bottom, the legislators. Above them, the state Attorney General. Far above her, the living god, President Bill Clinton. These levels of status were unshakable and automatic. It was interesting being in a fake room with fake people. Reporters would duly relay the conclusions of the committee in their fake stories the next day. The whole procedure was happening in a scene that could have been included in Orwell’s Animal Farm.

After the hearing, I went to my hotel room, tried to estimate how many hours and how much money were wasted in a year of pre-packaged committee hearings in Nevada, and gave up.

I’d seen, up close, other ways people made a fake living, but this one was new to me at the time. Take instructions on how to vote from party leaders, pretend to listen to testimony, cast votes, forget the whole thing, and do it again the next day with a new hearing on a new subject.

I could call it tribal behavior, but tribes have a lot more energy than politicians. No, this was an animated cartoon. The participants had learned how to chitter and jabber and look earnest and show concern—and get elected.

This was fakery at the level of personality. As in: carving it to fit a mold of the most superficial type. Animal Farm? More like a Disney zoo. Perform on little artificial islands for the spectators.

Then, on the side, pocket a few payoffs and favors from slightly more agile players. Six bananas, five apples, a stack of hay, and perhaps, one day, a cottage next to an artificial lake.

Very instructive.

And these people make decisions and no-decisions that affect lives.

Who in his right mind wouldn’t name a site NoMoreFakeNews?


The Matrix Revealed

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, The Matrix Revealed, 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.