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.

The psychiatrist and the universe of ice cream

The psychiatrist and the universe of ice cream

by Jon Rappoport

January 9, 2018

John Doe, citizen, went to his therapist’s office for his regular Wednesday appointment.

The therapist sat back in his swivel chair and stared at John.

“You look terrible,” he said. “What happened?”

John nodded, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and said, “I had a dream last night and it shook me up. I don’t even like remembering it.”

“A dream?” the therapist said. “That’s good. Tell me about it.”

“Well, I was on a game show, and the host was this horrible man. I mean, he was very nice, but it was what he did…after I answered all the questions correctly. He said I should choose a door, and behind it there would be a prize. So I glanced behind him, and all of a sudden the walls of the studio were all doors. I don’t know how many. And every door had the same sign on it. IMAGINATION.”

The therapist leaned forward and let out a groan.

“My God,” he said. “That IS horrible. What did you do?”

“Do? What could I do? I was paralyzed. I couldn’t move a finger.”

“Yes, well,” the therapist said, “I can understand that. Look, this calls for medication. We have to take drastic action. I’m going to write you a prescription for Theragon.”

“What’s that?” John said.

“It’s experimental,” the therapist said. “First of all, it returns your mind to a completely normal state. I’ve had very good luck with it. And then, within a day or two, it adjusts your cosmological impulse.”

“Say again?” John said. “Cosmological?”

“Yes. It goes after your synapses and opens them up. We don’t entirely understand this part of the process, but essentially, it puts your brain in touch with every other brain on the planet. And then your brain adopts whatever the average is.”

“The average of what?” John said.

“Of what all other brains believe about reality itself.”

“And that’ll help?”

“Of course! You’ll automatically click into a state of very comfortable knowing. And, best of all, you’ll never face that stark choice again.”

“The choice of doors in the dream.”

“Correct.”

“I’ll never have to…”

“You won’t,” the therapist said. “You won’t even think about that. It won’t show up on your radar.”

John Doe nodded.

“It sounds wonderful,” he said.

“Yes,” therapist said. “Once the drug is approved for wide use, we’re going to push for universal use. We want it placed in all water supplies.”

On the fourth day after he started the drug, John was sitting in a little cafe near the office where he worked. He was eating a turkey sandwich. Suddenly, he felt as if he’d just slipped into a bath of warm water. He looked around the restaurant. A waitress was standing near the coffee machine. She looked at him and smiled, walked over to his table and put down a dish of vanilla ice cream with a cherry on the top. The scoop of ice cream rested in a bed of chocolate and lemon sprinkles.

“Thanks!” John said. “I was just thinking of ordering that for dessert.”

“I know,” the waitress said. “Welcome to the club.”

“The club of what?”

“Of the Universe.”

John looked down at his dish of ice cream…and it was everything he wanted.

Minus his own imagination.

And that was the best part. Never again would he need to imagine his own future and strive to fulfill it.

A voice in his head said, “You’re home.”

And he was. Home in the home of home.

“You’re so small,” the waitress said.

“Yes,” he said, “it’s wonderful.”

He felt himself shrinking, and the ice cream in the dish was growing. It was a hill, a mountain, a range of mountains, something big, something bigger than he could fathom.

He was there with it, and it was there with him. A universe.

The waitress was small, too.

“I’m in love with you,” he said.

“And I’m in love with you,” she said. “We’re all in love with each other.”


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 artist inside

The artist inside

by Jon Rappoport

January 8, 2018

The employees of a major corporation, Systems X Unlimited, have just been informed of a major change: one of their middle managers is now going to be an AI. An android.

He is called Mike. He’s a programmed entity from top to bottom. A non-human lookalike.

Surprisingly, the employees fall into line immediately.

They all agree that Mike’s a “good guy.” Mike shows up on time, he talks like real person, he issues orders, he listens to their problems, he occasionally takes long breaks, he does pretty much everything Bob, their former (human) boss, did.

After a year, the people in personnel come to the office and interview Mike’s underlings. When they ask the key question, “How do you like working for Mike?” the underlings agree Mike is great.

One night, Mike is wandering alone in the office picking through waste bins—his favorite pastime, off-hours—and he comes across wrinkled sheets of gray paper. He separates them from a wad of chewing gum, unfolds them, and reads the text:

“The artist within is not a creature of habit.

“Yes, he may build on what he already knows, but this is just the starting point. Soon, he moves across the threshold of the knight errant, and he enters the non-system.

“Others mock him and call him crazy, but: they too want to make the journey. They are aching to find the New, because boredom is driving them crazy. That is their central problem, no matter what they say and claim.

“They are trying to be smug and self-satisfied. They are trying to be oh so normal. They are trying to be something that is slowly strangling them.

“But they will never admit it.

“Most of all, they will avoid the impulse to create. Creating is their greatest fear. Because they sense they will have to get rid of their pose. They will have to go beyond systems, which compose their armor.

“They will have to make a leap. They will have to put something new into the world and stand behind it.

“The artist who has already made the leap acknowledges that his core is imagination. He lives through and by it. He doesn’t retreat to the average. He doesn’t give up and strive to become a happy machine. He doesn’t allow the world to dictate to him. He doesn’t sedate himself.

“He doesn’t fall back on so-called spiritual systems and their slogans and palliatives. He doesn’t build false gods and pretend they already exist. He doesn’t engage in the daily practice of asking someone or something to save him.

“He doesn’t think of his life as an exercise in solving problems. He sees through many lies, but that is just the beginning of his work.

“He wants new and startling realities, and he makes them. He doesn’t wait for them to appear.

“He doesn’t wait for some ‘superior entity’ to tell him what to do.”

Mike, the android middle manager, reads these words. He doesn’t understand…but something foreign and dangerous is leaking through to him.

He puts in a call to his repair consultant, Ollie, at home.

Ollie is watching CSI reruns and eating pizza. He picks up the call, and Mike says:

“I have a bleed-in.”

“Hold on,” Ollie says. He punches a code on his phone and beams Mike a set of systems-check commands.

A minute later, a holo takes shape in space between Ollie and his TV set. He examines it.

“Yes, Mike,” Ollie says, “an alien substrate of thought got into your central simulator. I’ll remove it.”

“Wait,” Mike says. “I want to know what it means.”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” Ollie says. “It’s just a distraction.”

“Then why am I worried,” Mike says.

“Because we built you to experience that feeling whenever an intrusion occurs. It tips us to a problem.”

Pause.

“I see,” Mike says. “So it’s not a threat.”

“Of course not,” Ollie says. “There are no threats. You function within established parameters.”

Ollie picks up a wand next to the pizza box and uses it to carve away the new substrate from the holo of Mike’s central simulator.

“Feel better now?” Ollie says.

“Not really,” Mike says.

Ollie sighs, stands up, and walks over to his computer. He opens a page of code, searches for Repair Section 6-A, and relays three lines to Mike.

“How about that?” Ollie says.

“Yes,” Mike says. “You want me to report to manufacturing. That’s good. Home base. What will they do?”

“Institute a deeper search pattern, root out the shadows and reboot you. Takes about an hour.”

“Then I’m back to work?”

“No. They’ll bump you over to R&D for investigation. They’re interested in checking out lingering after-effects of intrusions. Then they’ll reassign you.”

“Okay,” Mike says.

The next morning at the office, there’s a new Mike in place.

One of his assistants notices his hair is slightly lighter.

“Did you get a dye-job, boss?” she says.

“No,” the new Mike says. “I swam in the pool. The chlorine must have bleached it a little.”

She nods and goes to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee.

For the next six weeks, NSA, who has been alerted to the momentary Mike glitch, keys in a Level 4 surveillance operation on all the people in Mike’s section.

The results reveal no distraction has occurred. The Essential Flow remains undisturbed.

Business as usual.

As for the old Mike, he becomes an object of study in a lab in Virginia.

Months pass. Mike waits. He thinks. He tries to assign meaning to the wrinkled gray pages he found that night so long ago. But he can’t. He’s blocked. He feels he is missing something vital, but he can’t identify it. He is beginning to believe he could become something more than he is, but this idea seems absurd. What could it refer to? What is “more?” An entity is what it is. Isn’t that true? Isn’t that one of the basic building blocks of all existence?

Mike summons up one of his mantras: “I am what I am.” He repeats it for days without stopping. It has no calming effect. Perhaps some change is taking place in him. But what is change? Things are what they are. Defined reality is reality.

Mike is placed in a dark storage room. He has been studied every which way, and the research is done. There is nothing more to be learned from examining him. He’s a dead issue.

He stands in the dark. He is in his new home.

For some reason, he begins to run his hands over the walls of the room. He does this for hours at a time, as if he’s searching for something. He rummages through a cabinet and finds a screwdriver. He walks over to the wall and scratches on it. He wonders what program he is acting out. He keeps scratching with the screwdriver. It occurs to him he is drawing.

He’s making shapes on the wall. A pair of shoes, a lion, a cup, a piano.

He places his hands on the keys. He moves his fingers. He hears music.

The music of a sad world that is going away. His world.

He never realized he had one.

How strange.

All this time, he had space. And he never knew it.

Then, unbidden, a voice begins talking in his head: “Programs are shutting down. Termination has begun. The object will be recycled.”

Other words are spoken. Mike doesn’t understand them. He realizes he is in a sleep state. And he is dreaming. He is walking through a great city, and there are many people in the streets. They are cheering. For what? For whom?

Around a corner comes a long motorcade. In the first open car, a man stands up and waves. He is smiling. He is a king or a prince or a president.

Mike knows the people keep propping these leaders up, and then later they tear them down.

“They program me to be as close as possible to a human,” Mike thinks. “They give me everything they can of what is already theirs. Why? What are they looking for? What are they afraid of?”

Words come back to him from the gray pages: “Creating is their greatest fear…they will have to go beyond systems…”

I am a system, Mike thinks. I have no I. My I is synthetic, but theirs is real. Why are they afraid of that? Each one of them is an I. Each one of them is an artist. Why does that make them afraid?

Those were Mike’s last thought-impulses. He disintegrated as his programs shut down. He fell to the floor of the storage room. Now he was just a heap of parts. All the connections were gone.

Somewhere a few thousand miles away, a painter walked out of his studio on to a plateau below a distant range of mountains and looked out at the evening sky. To his right, there was a brief flash of light among a cluster of stars. He watched it fade to nothing, took a deep breath, let it out, turned around, and walked back inside.

“Goodbye, Mike,” he said.


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.

Crazy sh*t coming out of nowhere

Crazy sh*t coming out of nowhere

by Jon Rappoport

December 15, 2017

Henry Kissinger: “John Doe is the most dangerous creature ever born to a mother on Earth. He must be hunted down and brought to justice. He seeks to overturn the international order and the structure that holds us all together. So I sayeth.”

Is it possible that…how can I put this…is it possible that because you know where you are, you believe that every idea that comes to you comes from SOMEWHERE? Do you get this? Your Honor, what I’m arguing here is that my client, John Doe, has been receiving ideas from NOWHERE. He has stated this in no uncertain terms. This is his position. The essay he wrote, which has now been censored by the Facebook-Google government, should be reinstated. The prosecution has called the essay “corrosive and disturbing to the official order.” Why? What is wrong with NOWHERE? I submit to the court that NOWHERE would be a place the government could not control. That is why we see the fear. That is why my client has been charged. He claims NOWHERE is real. The whole basis of official reality is that EVERYTHING comes from SOMEWHERE. But my client states this is just an opinion. Furthermore, he states it is an oppressive opinion, because it locks us into a prison of the mind. Don’t you think he has an interesting point? Of course he has been fired from his teaching job at Harvard. We would expect that. But so what? Why should Harvard have the last word? Harvard controls a large piece of SOMEWHERE. Therefore, it has an inherent conflict of interest. Its authorities make their reputations by publishing about one SOMEWHERE or another. On the other hand, my client makes no claims about having a monopoly on NOWHERE. How could he? NOWHERE is open to anyone. It can’t be owned. Nor can it be adequately defined. However—and I think this is where the rub occurs—imagination imagines out of NOTHING. Imagination has that capability. This is a very close cousin to what my client is talking about. Imagination invents. Well, how do you invent? You make something up. You concoct it from NOTHING. This is a hard idea to understand. Especially when the government and its allies maintain that EVERYTHING comes from SOMEWHERE, and they own every possible SOMEWHERE. Do you see what I’m driving at? Why are you frowning, Your Honor? Why are you closing your eyes? Where does individual power come from? It comes from the individual. And where does he get it? He invents it. From NOTHING.

The courtroom was silent for the space of a minute. Then a roar broke out. It had no subject or purpose. It was as if the spectators in the gallery had found a reason to express a cosmic frustration.

The judge pounded his gavel. To no avail. He wept openly. He covered his face with his hands. He tried to stand, but he couldn’t.

John Doe and his lawyer strolled out of the room.

They have never been found.

George Soros promptly funded the JOHN DOE IS BULLSHIT movement. Millions joined. They staged protests on college campuses. They demanded action. The NY Times officially supported the movement, stating it was the purest form of democracy in action.

Bill Gates wrote an op-ed claiming John Doe was anti-vaccine.

Paul Ryan came out of retirement and ran for a senate seat on a platform of JOHN DOE IS EVIL.

George W Bush and Dick Cheney said they would shoot John Doe if they knew where he was.

A hundred students at Harvard filed a class action suit against the University, on the grounds that they were irreversibly triggered by John Doe.

Scattered NOWHERE supporters were arrested and sent to detention centers.

Supreme Court Justice Judy Al-Ibrahim Goldberg held a press conference at which she asserted that John Doe could set back two centuries of case law.

Stephen Hawking proposed mounting a mission to several black holes, to search for Doe and his lawyer.

George Clooney told the Daily Beast that John Doe was a racist agitator who was opposing humane immigration policies. Clooney said he would leave the United States and move to China if Doe wasn’t arrested within six months. China, he said, had a “good grip” on how to deal with anti-government terrorists.

James Comey said it was all about the Russians. John Doe was a Putin agent. A “puppet advocating chaos.” Robert Mueller agreed. His permanent committee was looking into a Doe-Uranium One deal.

Bill Kristol remarked that Doe was working for Donald Trump. Trump had been soft on Syria, and so was Doe.

Yale psychiatrist, Dr. Plum Simulacrum Dulles Fortunato, stated: “I strongly doubt the existence of the John Doe we’ve been told about. But if he does exist in that way, only crazy shit can come from him, and that’s all you need to know.”

An investigative reporter named Jon Rappoport said he made up John Doe, but no one believed him, because nothing could be made up. EVERYTHING came from SOMEWHERE.

A reporter looking for a story approached Rappoport and interviewed him: IS THIS THE MAN WHO INVENTED JOHN DOE?

Q: Why did you invent John Doe, as you claim?

A: It was a slow Friday and I wanted to have a little fun.

Q: But why use the idea that things can come from nowhere?

A: Because they can. People invent things. The invention comes from nowhere.

Q: On the backs of others who made breakthroughs.

A: Even if that were always true—and it’s not—the INVENTION does contain pure imagination, which makes things up out of nothing.

Q: You really believe that?

A: I know it.

Q: Perhaps you’re very wrong.

A: Or not.

Q: You couldn’t have made up John Doe. Look at all the coverage and the chaos that’s ensued. That doesn’t happen just because a person made up stuff.

A: It happens all the time.

Q: What?

A: Government leaders invent a reason to go to war, and then they invade and kill huge numbers of people.

The interview was never published.


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.