Magician Awakes

Magician awakes

by Jon Rappoport

August 19, 2016

These are brief excerpts from my work-in-progress, The Magician Awakes:

“A person’s life is an art form, and that is magic. He might persist in saying, ‘But what I really want to do is levitate a chair’. If he keeps expanding the art form that is his life, perhaps, one day, as a matter of course, as a side effect, he will levitate a chair. Or maybe the idea will stop being a concern to him at all.”

“Curl your index finger this way, look up at the ceiling, wiggle your hips four times, and purse your lips—this is what most people would want if they were studying magic: a formula. Something handed down from ancient times. If you told them they ‘had a place’ and needed to find it, they would like that, too. They’d walk around the yard trying to find the spot where they ought to stand, hoping they would feel different there. They’d do almost anything that didn’t directly involve themselves.”

“Consider two streams of cause and effect. The first one is composed of daily actions. Ordinary actions. A leads to B, B to C, C to D, and so on. The second stream has the same pattern, but is composed of events that are happening ‘behind the curtain’. Secret events. From the second series, you would learn something new. But in neither case would you be learning magic. Magic involves breaking the chain of cause and effect.”

“Magic is the opposite of being passive. Being passive is powerful medicine. It is not only addicting, it’s cumulative. And people program themselves to believe in a passive state of mind. To have a conviction about it, while denying they’re in that state. Passivity has a crude brilliance. It’s the best thing people can offer up. It’s their best piece of inner architecture.”

“There is a whole list of emotions people can use to cement their status as passive. Each emotion has the illusion of power and permanence. ‘I can’t do anything about what I’m feeling’.”

“A person says, ‘I want to remain exactly as I am, but I also want to do magic’. Where is that going to lead? It’s even stronger: ‘I absolute demand that I remain exactly as I am, but I also want to do magic.’ That’s like saying, ‘I want to run a mile in under four minutes while I sit in this chair, and nobody is going to get me out of this chair’.”


Exit From the Matrix


“People have symbols and images of their current lives. These symbols exist in their mental landscape: a yard, a fence, a house, a family, a job, a car, a vacation, and so on. Their mental activity consists of going around from symbol to symbol, and then, arriving back at the beginning, doing it again. Day after day, year after year. If you tell them to replace these symbols with others, how is that going to work out? Replace? No. They need to embark on some new action, which will become important enough to them so that, eventually, the whole merry-go-round of symbols fades away into obscurity. That doesn’t mean they desert their families. It means they launch something new and thrilling. Tinkering with symbols has no effect.”

“The physical body, the whole physical apparatus that the immortal YOU inhabits, is waiting for you to live through and by imagination. If you do, it shifts gears and enters a new level(s) of energy.”

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at NoMoreFakeNews.com or OutsideTheRealityMachine.

Why not poems

The why not poems

by Jon Rappoport

August 17, 2016

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)

Crisscrossing America several times, I wrote poems.  Fragments.  It was not anything I saw.  It was what I made out of what I might have seen, could have seen, remembered, knew, didn’t know, dreamed here and there, because on journeys the inventions are always more powerful than the landscapes, and if you want to record THAT, you write poems, you look at them, you turn them upside down, you arrange them like postcards, and the pleasure you derive is far greater than the view through windows, or on mountains, or next to rivers, unless you’re selling real estate.

 

O little tune,

Little tune,

out of Chicago and Des Moines and the East St. Louis train station at 4 in the morning and Joplin where it was spring in winter and the hills above LA and the dead little cheap nightclubs in the afternoon in Santa Monica on Broadway and in 1961 Paul an old boulevardier cranky con man from New York I played cards with suddenly appeared walking out of a tunnel on the edge of San Francisco one afternoon as I was getting off a bus completely impossible…

 

We dropped great looping clouds on the gangster sentinels of Chicago and heard their machine guns roar in the empty deserted streets

 

 

wildcats of Texas dripping sweat into their high hats pulling black blood out of the ground and sending it through tubes of night to porcupine refineries on the shores of Corpus Christi

 

 

New horizontal towns were multiplying on Long Island, stage flats of perfect symmetry coddled in the breasts of hopeful mothers asking for redemption from pill-addled afternoons and hallucinatory music cooking in shining ovens

budgets laid out neatly on Formica counters below the knives

distant farm fields dead in the snow

blank-eyed children walking in the snow

 

 

We stood in the blinding sunlight reflected from low slung whitewashed buildings of Pasadena and El Segundo and Long Beach and felt the roar of departing space rockets cutting tunnels through the future and pulling back the future with giant magnets of illuminated dust

 

 

We walked through measureless windows of wheat and corn growing in the middle flatlands under the warm rain of supernatural mansions

 

 

Draped curtains of night in the upper Mulholland hills of Los Angeles where the mountain lion and the coyote and the mythical Greek beast roamed like penniless vagabonds, free of the Wheel, free from selling themselves…

 

 

Under poles of yellow lights, gasping midnight locomotives clamped on to lines of freight cars in the backyards of Chicago/ Plastic lilies grew in the pastures of St. Louis haberdashers and department stores

 

 

In Los Angeles, concrete sunset of three stacked freeways, a carpet of park in Beverly Hills, old poolroom on Broadway downtown, bus to San Francisco, a bum holding out his hand and saying On Venus Jesus will show you machines of love

 

 

Standing up on a hill past Albuquerque on 66, I caught a ride into into a no-name Arizona town, walked in the foggy morning along an empty road to a snow-filled cliff and stared out at a spring valley a thousand feet below

—this was before television—

 

 

In blinding rain I stood on the Indiana Turnpike outside Chicago pointed east and wound up in the Pennsylvania countryside driving the car of a half-crippled man with a Bible I met in a Howard Johnson

our headlights went dead on a curve and a cop pulled in behind us and stopped us

he led us to a fat judge’s house in the middle of the night where we paid thirty bucks

then parked on a quiet lane and slept until dawn

early spring in March

flowering magnolia trees

he dropped two Thorazine and told me to drive

and his babbling about Heaven slowed down and he slept

and when we pulled into Manhattan he had me park in midtown

he looked at me with glazed doe’s eyes and said

I’m crooked, son, I’ve reached the end of the line, this is it, I’ll kill myself within a month

 

 

Wall Street towers in astral cloisters of Fat Zero

rabid missionaries shooting their cuffs

loopholes

Fly through steel walls into the psychotic fandango of the international money Surge

 

 

We walked through fields of cactus east of Tijuana, into caverns of mass graves, sacrificed Aztec skeletons still stank in creek of toothless hobo Ziggurat

 

 

faded blue Florida lagoons

lizards crawled in the sunlight between leaves on rumbling death-grip paragon trees spreading out their brass knuckles

 

 

In Arlington, graves of the missing

who had been torn in the bellows of the blood wind and later their children scattered and beached on winter islands

haggard lighthouse

foothill driftwood

shuttered herds of sheep turned away from the water

 

 

in the prehistoric hills of Western Massachusetts

a woman tiger struggles to her feet and stands

LILITH!  The exiled one!  LILITH! The charmed of the lonely!  LILITH! The warm heart and the cold mind!  She stands and breathes torrents of fragrant heat

she remembers

she remembers she was born without prior cause, without permission

she remembers

that

she redeposited the extracted sluice of language back into the river

and the petrified river ran again

she saw vividly what lay between things

she sprang the active force

she pushed over the tower

she stood the baby up on two legs

she performed acts reserved by the Sky Lunatic for himself

she said anyone could do these things

she sat in gutters with the lowest of men and broke bread

she said “whose blood is in my blood runs the risk of igniting the sun”

she stood on the white field

turned the dials of the sun, brought down the curtain of night, unhinged the canopy of stars, blew the scent of wild apples into the wasteland, held the moon in a cup of sand, tore away the trance

LILITH!

 

 

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…

 

 

In Elmsford, I watched a sleek black car pull up to a house down the block where an old man who grew apple trees was screaming and three men got out of the car and grabbed his arms and put him on a stretcher and took him away to the Foundation, a place where they kept the insane

he had spent every Sunday morning polishing his red car

he had once been a judge

he retired and built department stores

he kept a dog in his garage and fed it there

his son wore gray suits and drove a foreign car

owned a brewery

 

on the stretcher, the old man looked at his wristwatch and held up one finger

and there was an explosion in the distance

a new war had begun

 

 

In a long, long Los Angeles bar on a slow Tuesday afternoon I counted six Hindu gods sitting on stools drinking rotgut and transmitting sign language to their Boston banker lolling outside the men’s room

 

 

Malibu…in the oceanographic mythic giants all the capillaries have gone dry

the moon is setting on page one

tides of political sing-song are swaying in the intestinal tract of a beached octopus suctioned to a sidewalk

 

 

be of good cheer, son, never fear the end, there is no end  THERE IS NO END

abide by the central directive–

when you’re lying on a slab in the mortuary

STAND UP

 

tell them they’ve made a minor miscalculation

recite a few lines from scripture

and stride quickly to the exit

 

confess to the guards

you’re just a pathetic figure

a minor functionary

in a bureau of functionaries

all the way up

 

tip your hat, grin, drop a few coins in the basket, move on

 

 

(Hermes) the great thief said

 

I have given you

 

Everything you need

 

And so it was

 

Another message

 

A column of fire

 

Rising out of the sea

 

 

midtown Manhattan…my father walks from the haberdasher to the barber shop with a new hat in a box

he sits in the chair and the barber winds it back and shaves him with a straight razor that was lolling in a tall glass of alcohol

the barber wipes off the alcohol with a white linen towel and moves the razor back and forth on his strop

and then he shaves my father

then he cuts his hair

 

 

purple shadows on 7th Avenue, dark pool room, old men playing three-cushion slowly, with long tapered fingers, Daumier Hals faces, and then those faces are ripped away as the floor sweeper lifts the shades and the sun comes streaming through the dust

 

 

San Diego…I am making the same proposal to you, my darling,

 

I pray to prayer

I deliver myself to you

I say the night and I say down the stairs we go again

 

never the garden

 

ever the garden

 

 

we are always in between everything we thought

 

always

 

 

my darling,

I’ll go with you

into the garden

into the bedroom

into the living room

into the kitchen

 

 

on to the rust-colored couch after the storm

when the evening is quiet

the stove is ticking

the cats are roaming the lawns

 

 

it doesn’t   matter    if you…

walking in a park in a city…

in the summer

in the middle of the afternoon    are thinking of

what you want

as long as what you want

 

could be in the park

 

and then you only have to walk with the chance

 

of it happening in the next few minutes

and       if it happens

you’ll be ready   and this is the egg cracking

you’re therefore in a foreign city

A FOREIGN CITY

where you always wanted to be

 

 

of all the sliding cities

New York

there you are

Lilith

you refused to sign a pact with the sky manager and be born as half of the Adamic prince

 

You took the flood and made it into a tree

you walk through buildings on cold nights and turn toward the window and pour logic from a pitcher

I wander out of the bedroom half-asleep and sit down and wait for your call

You’re in Chicago talking to a group of salesmen about time

and a secret television station beyond reproach


power outside the matrix


South of Los Angeles…dancers arrive early in a giant room above the ocean.

In forest halls, dryads run like crystal.

CON FRER Tito Puente strides into the endless Balboa ballroom.

Timbales, rolling cymbals, chingachcook congas.  Brass section put in harness from the ceiling.  Tito is sitting in a blue mist.  The slow vibraphone turns over and over.

Silver runners flash around corners.

 

 

White Plains…

road among trees

magnolia, oak, maple…

squirrels with great healthy bushy tails run up trunks

jump on to roofs

sniff smoke coming out of chimneys

grab mahogany from horse chestnut trees

 

we walked to the shore

we walked into the ocean

we walked on the ocean floor

we discovered the oceanic mind

we swam on the towering waves

we came back to ourselves

 

we smelled towers of the city

we floated into the city

we rolled out on to the highways of America

 

 

we walked out of the house of melting shadows

 

we saw the invisible bright April open road that runs across morbid rusting highways…

 

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.

Necessary poems

Because poems

by Jon Rappoport

August 12, 2016

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)

I’ve been entranced by one kind of poetry or another since I was 11.  I started writing it when I was 17.  Poems can’t be classified.  If you want to say there are types, they are infinite, which defeats the whole idea of cataloging them.

Poems SUGGEST.  They refer to what isn’t there.  But now it is.  That’s the underlying point, and it quite startling to know a poem can do that.

But of course, you have to be willing to receive suggestions of what isn’t but then is.  You have to shake off the predisposition to want language to do certain things but then stop at the boundary.  That is a fixation, a form of hypnosis, the limitation-complex.

Reality is a fraud.  It’s what is left over after all other options have been exhausted.  I’m not only talking about the content of reality, but also the position of it, the front-and-center of it.  Yes, you need to deal with it, and cleverly, but hypnotic attachment to it is religious.  If it weren’t, why would you keep dreaming of extraordinary things while you’re asleep?  Why wouldn’t you dream of walking down to the corner to buy a cup of coffee and a newspaper?

Here I’m publishing three poems.  The first one was published by The Massachusetts Review in 1966. It was written after an intense period of reading William Blake’s short poems.  The second one I wrote today.  The third one is a brief excerpt from a very long poem, Visions of the Empire, which I finished in 2013.  I’m currently revising it.

First poem:

Burned flowers of the field

My noon is over, growing old

Everything I have is finally sold

Sewed designs for men with money

Thinking it was duty

To watch them lead the world to war

From my little field of beauty

 

Second poem:

Because night has no name in caverns of sky plantations of stars…

This is what Hermes said in a loud wand voice over and over

As he walked the length of a broken down bar

In Times Square

And the drunks in their stools lifted their heads

As if they were poets

 

Waiting to join an army

Of long sword

The army they’d deserted a thousand years ago

On a spring morning when they stopped shining with green lanterns of diamond-throated Merlin birds in the high clouds


power outside the matrix


Third poem:

one version of what the old Tibetans

called the Great Void:

 

everybody looks around and tries to figure out what to do

because the long hustle of discovery is over

and all the explorers have been paid off

 

There is nothing left

except a few magicians

living in cold mountains

punching holes in the universe at will

 

In Lhasa they were indeed faced with that Nothing

and they turned to it in the eastern sky hanging like a lamp in a long vacated whorehouse

and bowed

 

that was the only ceremony in the original book

which they later

in quiet rooms

burned in wood bowls

 

before starting their exercises

 

Worship?

Decay?

Never heard of it.

 

 

And now think of something else, perfect automobiles

         streaming down a tropical planet toward the

      mirror lake on which stands a demigod in green pantaloons

who holds All Data in his outstretched arms

 

and freeze THAT in memory like a sword for sixteen hours

without moving

and finally see universe

is a product

of mind

 

this is what they were doing

before they wrote the books and ordered the prayer wheels from sears catalog

and jingle jangled their way into a theocracy on a cold saturday morning

 

they were the dim sum masters

never ordered the same breakfast twice in the holy rivers of energy

took apart the river and the energy

too

down to Nothing

sat in Void for

indeterminate length of no-time

stopping all creating

because they could

and then emerged

those few

magicians in the cold wasted hills and

 

and said WELL

if you folks want to elect a billion reincarnated hopalong cassidys

as your head chief go ahead it doesn’t matter

we’re out here on the edge

inventing and destroying dimensions like porcelain plates

 

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at NoMoreFakeNews.com or OutsideTheRealityMachine.

They had rivers

They had rivers

by Jon Rappoport

August 12, 2016

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From The Matrix, click here.)

“I have had experiences with forgotten or imagined languages. They provoke rather than explain. They immediately impart sensations—for example, of flying. At one point, in my studio, I was painting characters from these languages on large pieces of cardboard. The characters spoke to me.” (The Magician Awakes, Jon Rappoport)

They had rivers. They had mountains. They had cities and gold and the things men strove for all along, before the Blank Period, when time stopped and memory faded, when some sort of attack occurred—if that was, in fact, what happened. No one knew. But they emerged on the other side with a different language, a different kind of language. It connected with itself on so many levels, it was impossible to map. The petty little obsessed sentences were all gone, or they been absorbed in other organic structures.

The language they were now speaking penetrated every object in the landscape. It didn’t ask for meaning or analysis. It didn’t ask for opinion. What opinion should be forwarded about shadow and light? A few lines of speech were enough to lift a person off the ground. Was this philosophy? Spiritual teaching? There was no teaching. Everyone who remained was imbued with words and sentences that acted for themselves.

People knew how to speak in a way that caused them to fly. There was no need for hope or information.

Over the door of a small shop in a town a few miles from the city, there was a sign: I WILL BE BOUGHT AND I WILL BE SOLD. The shopkeeper, who was entirely without products on his shelves, told people who asked: “This sentence is past history, all of it.” It rained stars at night, and the world was destroyed, and in the morning the world was back again.

When a person spoke a feeling, it tended to move out into the air and float, and it might join the air. What existed was being updated.

People sometimes felt they were moving into the past, and sometimes the future.

Words spoken could also, now and then, pulse outward and make a hole in the sky. Another sky behind it would reveal itself. This had a performance aspect.

In the city, the great machines that underlay structures continued to run. Most people said the machines were weeping. But not with sadness or joy. This weeping was considered a reaction to a mystery, which went unexplained.

The people assumed they were now living in an age of magic.

If you could fly a thousand feet above the ground, that was surely some kind of magic, and if you could fly a thousand miles above the Earth, you were unhooked and alone as no one had ever been alone, and in this state both freedom and power blossomed to a wild degree.

There were words to describe this state, but they tended to provoke the experience rather than characterize it.

One day, a man spontaneously traveled so far into the past he arrived at a place called the United States of America, and he found himself in an office sitting across from a government leader, who said, “We want to know how you do it.”

The man picked up on the peculiar United States language and answered, “There is no how. It happens.”

To which the leader replied, “We don’t believe that. We could keep you here.”

“I doubt that,” the man said.

“Then we could kill you,” the government leader said.

“Perhaps,” the man said, “but we survive death.”

The man marveled at this strange language he was now speaking. It was so definite and bounded. It was an interesting tool.


Exit From the Matrix


The leader was uncomfortable. He squirmed in his chair. He jumped up on a table and started dancing. He fell off on to the carpet and rolled into a corner and turned into a large screen, on which all the memories of his life rushed past.

He appeared not to be there anymore.

“Are you here?” the man said.

No answer.

The room disappeared.

The man began speaking his own language again and…

Woke up in his own bed.

His wife, next to him, half-asleep, mumbled a brief question, which roughly translates as: where have you been and how was it and did you have any idea you were going there before you went there and it doesn’t matter and the river has new fish in it and some of us are now jumping in and floating so fast we leave altogether and come back at about the same time we left or even before we left.

He said yes, one of the many different words for yes, which caused their bed and their house to move to the top of a high hill, from which they now, sitting up, could watch the end of the nightly rain of stars.

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at NoMoreFakeNews.com or OutsideTheRealityMachine.

The artist within

The artist within

by Jon Rappoport

August 11, 2016

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)

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 and is thrown back in his chair. 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 file 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.


power outside the matrix


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

Other words were 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.

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at NoMoreFakeNews.com or OutsideTheRealityMachine.

Writing about writing

Writing about writing

by Jon Rappoport

July 29, 2016

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside The Matrix, click here.)

Some days, there is nothing. You sit at the computer and you don’t find the tag-end you can pull, which will release a flow of words. But those can turn into the best days, because late in the afternoon or early in the evening, a spark comes and you’re off. You’re launched in a new direction, on a new course. You’re “in the tower,” that place from which you can say what had never been in your mind before. Gold coins are dropping. You’re electric again.

When you’ve had enough of those days, you know you’re a writer because you’ve endured the dry patches of desert. You’ve refused to give up. You can still topple false gods and grind them down and make soup out of the flour. You can see the slices of blue among the clouds, or you can turn away from the blue and welcome the coming storm. Nothing will stop you. You’re not crazy, you’re beyond crazy, on the other side. You’re rearranging the closets of reality, you’re burning the closets, you’re shoving in all your chips on spaces you yourself are inventing. You’re the riverboat gambler. You’re your own president. There is no sentimental attachment to the mob, the crowd, the mass, the group. You no longer look for the easy way out. You’ve left that in the dust.

The whole point of audience for the writer is the possibility that they will suddenly be brought up short. In your words, they’ll see a few drops of rain falling out of a sky that has no clouds. They’ll catch on. They’ll realize that invention is the joker in the deck—and they can remove that card and never bother to play the game at all. Because there is a new activity above the game.

When the poet follows one line with a massive leap into another line, and when the connection isn’t clear but somehow makes a startling amount of sense, the poet has demonstrated that he doesn’t care. He’s flying. That’s all. He’s flying and running with great giant strides. Into the gloom. Out of the gloom.

No theories apply. No rules are spinning their wheels. One page, 50 pages, a hundred pages, it doesn’t matter. The walls and ceiling, somewhere, are shattering. Somewhere in the world, on a street corner, where planes of the sky meet, a few people notice the stitching that holds them together, and it’s coming apart. The sky breaks open, and another sky sits behind it.

That is magic, and it doesn’t matter to the writer how many people realize it. That isn’t his preoccupation. If it were, he would never be able to pull off the feat.

How far can the writer go? There is no limit.

How far can imagination go?

These are the great days. Every day has possibility.


power outside the matrix


I came from a town with water wheels and rivers and mysterious old blackened factories sitting on the banks. It was your town, too. In the factories, reality was manufactured in uncountable and unconscionable ways. We ran along the banks and with our invisible pistols and rifles, we shot the products that slid down the ramps of the loading docks. We didn’t know what we were shooting, but we knew they were artifacts of the wizards of Is. They were populating the world with this Is and that Is and millions of Is. The wizards were in the business of mass production. They were telling us all about essences. They were sending us their physical and metaphysical messages about existence, about its composition and makeup and meaning and we were supposed to crawl up inside those shining objects and feel our way along them, in never-ending mazes. We shot them down with our invisible guns. We scorched them and rendered them useless. We moved according to our instincts. We ran and we flew.

The days were long, so long they never ended, and even now they are still stretching out past the horizon.

Some days, there is nothing. You sit at the computer and you don’t find the tag-end you can pull, which will release a flow of words. But those can turn into the best days, because late in the afternoon or early in the evening, a spark comes and you’re off. You’re launched in a new direction, on a new course. You’re “in the tower,” that place from which you can say what had never been in your mind before. Gold coins are dropping. You’re electric again.

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at NoMoreFakeNews.com or OutsideTheRealityMachine.

Why is art such a problem?

Why is art such a problem?

by Jon Rappoport

June 10, 2016

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Exit From The Matrix, click here.)

The year was 2066. There were no more show trials condemning traitors. It was over. A haze had settled in. People wanted a respite. They wanted to count their free money and free goods.

Memory, which had been out as a trend, was back in again. People were digging up old possessions, even books and letters.

The Department of Pacification estimated that, worldwide, there were 360 million individuals who resisted attachment to groups of any kind. For the moment, no one cared. Erasing the individual was proving harder than planned.

At Harvard, a professor of fine art found a piece of writing he claimed had been done by a former student, after the war in Asia. He could make no sense of it, but he posted it on the University Machine Press, as a curiosity.

No one responded to it. After all, the art studios on campus were empty. Most students and teachers considered art a form of insanity, and an ancient one at that.

This was the professor’s “find.” Author, unknown:

“I was just looking a wonderful Paul Klee painting on the cover of an old record album of Ravel pieces. Art is such a problem for some people because it doesn’t mirror the ‘the real world.’ The real world is their obsession. They stick to it like gum sticks to a sidewalk. It’s apparently their comfort and their refuge from stray thoughts that might take them out beyond the space of their minds. Beyond the machine of Normal. Art is their nemesis. It threatens their home base. Life has no answer for art. Nature is art, but it doesn’t seem to inspire most people to take a clue and look for other art. No, much better to stay where they are, in a fictional existence. Now, we are getting to the core of the collectivism that has flourished since the dawn of time. Deep in the mind there is a block of steel, a great piece of nothing that weighs a ton. It means nothing and it says nothing. It’s just there. It’s the key reference. Art takes a bludgeon to the block. It shatters it in an instant. It opens all doors and windows. It lets in light, the kind of light, for example, in Van Gogh, which does not occur in nature. Ravel does not occur in nature. Neither does Klee or Matisse or Matta or Degas or Bonnard. What keeps a human being locked up in his collective fantasies? What keeps him from leaving the reality machine in the dust? I’ll give you some kind of answer: he will not stand alone. That’s an answer. He would prefer to think “all of us together” will build a much better world. This will not happen, because a single better world is still a single world, and artists make millions of new worlds. That’s the whole point. That’s what art does. Millions of new and different spaces and worlds. Other than that, what we are left with is the reality machine. It spits out a line of existence in an unending spool. For everyone. By destroying that fictitious and presumptuous “everyone,” we open up the possibility of more artists coming into being. I have written that each one of us is an artist of reality. That’s not quite accurate. Each one of us can choose to be an artist of reality. Or not. The “not” is stale and old and decaying and fixed and robotic. It’s an empty suit, eventually. It has no quality except a certain vague durability. A strange cartoon quality. It’s a front. A ruse. A con. Reality is a con. An old story with the same ending. A tune that never leaves the same key. We are on a planet that promotes a dozen or so basic fairy tales of transcendence. These religious stories are supposed to be the antidote to the reality machine, but they’re merely a different section of the machine. The tales have been sold for a few hundred thousand years, in one form or another. Strain to tell the tales, believe them. From the point of view of the machine, what the artist does is unthinkable. It makes no sense. It’s impossible. Therefore, let’s have more impossibles. Many more. Worlds that could not, but do, exist. And proliferate. And if nothing is ever the same, so much the better. At some point, this will happen. What I’m advocating here will happen. It might take a hundred years, a thousand years, ten thousand years, but the reality machine will entropically disintegrate at a faster clip and burn out. The horse led to the water will drink. The bull will shed his horns and pick up a paint brush. The little sheep will sit down at the piano and play strange songs. The marriage of the mind and machine will crack. The rain itself will sound like a symphony in many keys and registers. Waiting for it, however, is no marvelous badge of honor. Your badges of honor are your paintings. Every single one of them. Your home will accommodate itself to the paintings. It’ll stretch and bend and turn right and left to make room for what the paintings are saying in their unknown language. Even the old masters, as they’re called, went past the familiar. How did people look at Master Rembrandt once upon a time? They couldn’t and wouldn’t believe him. He was an outcast. He wasn’t seen as a realist. Far from it. Now, it’s easy. The subconscious has digested him. He’s all right. He fits. The faces make sense. The same with Velazquez. Goya. A museum is designed as a place that won’t let the paintings take over. That’s the way you build one. Like a fortress with a moat. Like a mind with its own moat. Perhaps it would help to think of art as the launch of an intergalactic voyage. What’s out there? Data have been accumulated, but all in all no one knows, after a certain distance. Who wants to go? Who wants to find out? But of course the comparison breaks down quickly, because the artist invents what hasn’t been there before. It’s more than not knowing. It’s not having done it yet. He is the initiator, the beginning. Is that the problem? A refusal to be “first?” Art was always based on open space. Space that could never be occupied because it was invented. Art was never really a tradition. It was always breaking tradition. Art in the memory is a series of revered golden ages—but each age is actually breaking out of the last one. So none of them were golden at the time, only in retrospect. Giotto was a rebel. Michelangelo was a rebel. Piero was a rebel. Van Eyk was a rebel. Vermeer was a rebel…”


Exit From the Matrix


Finally, one day, an anonymous person responded to the post. He wrote: “I agree, because in agreeing I don’t have to enlist in an idea dreamed up by someone else. I don’t have to tune in to someone else’s mind and stay there. Do you know what I mean? I can make my own art.”

Within a month, 400,000 people posted: “I know what you mean.”

Another person wrote: “I know what you mean. And none of us needs to meet each other. Now is not the right time. But there will be a right time. For now, our job is simply inventing millions of new worlds.”

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.