The cosmic bathroom

The cosmic bathroom

by Jon Rappoport

August 20, 2017

The author of a fragment of a novel was finally located in a boarding house in Landsville, Massachusetts.

The federal search had been underway for almost a year.

The author was brought to the US Court of Metaphors for a bench trial before an anonymous Judge.

The first order of business was a reading of the fragment, which had originally been found in a public bathroom in a Zesty, Arizona, gas station:

“I’m waiting for B in the men’s room off the main lobby at Grand Central, wondering whether he’ll show and if he does whether anything will get done, because we have a deal and money is supposed to change hands, so meanwhile I’m standing in front of the mirror at the sink alongside several characters who suddenly look to me like cops in disguise, you know, they’d usually wear cheap suits but today they’ve got on T-shirt, sweatshirt, hood, gloves, canvas work pants, boots, and the whole deal feels like a pinch, I’m just the go-between with a phone number and a name, but all of a sudden I could be in the middle of something else, has that ever happened to you, you started out with a simple job and before you knew it the mob or some lunatic was getting his hands into the grease and you’re standing there and you’re visible and the people around you did their business and they’re gone and then the heels rolled in and picked you up because that’s all they had, and you’re down, you can’t figure your way out, you’re in the shitter, you see the outlines but it’s too late, I’m sweating there in front of the mirror and I can’t see my face anymore, I’m just a blank, a non-entity, and the house is going to come down on my head…

“There he is. B is standing just inside the door. He’s looking around. He walks up next to me at the sink counter. He looks at my reflection in the mirror. He waits. He looks at his watch. Why? Is he waiting for an explosion? He says, ‘I have the details. Well, these details will rip some new holes in the FABRIC. You know what I mean?’

“I don’t know what he means.

“’This,’ he says, looking around the bathroom, ‘is all a prop.’

“I’ve been here before. Somebody said this was a prop and then I disappeared into another life and lived it up to this point, and now here is somebody else saying the same thing, and I’m disappearing, bit by bit.

“I walked under the great arch of the Vrimes Building and counted my lucky stars that I’d come this far: Aies, Capt, Lun, Brei, Fan, Si…

“Inside the lobby, crowds surged. A voice through a speaker announced:

“’Here is the latest news release from the New York Vrimes. The Russian president, Donald Trump, has been accused of interfering in the US election and aiding now-US president, Vlad Putin, in his victory over Elizabeth Warren Clinton. According to the Federal Bureau of Central Intelligence, the hacked emails from the Democratic National Committee were passed on to Julian Snowden, who published them online. These emails referred to DNC efforts to defeat Democratic candidate Colonel Karl Sanders in the Primaries. Twelve US Senators, members of the Antifa Caucus, state that US President Putin must be impeached or otherwise taken from office and replaced with Elizabeth Clinton, a full-fledged Cherokee Indian.’

“I walked into the office of a Vrimes editor and laid a folder of documents on his desk.

“’These are records of a clandestine group called American Chaos,’ I said. ‘They’ve been promoting violent political revolution for the past ten years. You’ll notice, in the membership list, reference to Gorge Sores, a billionaire. He now owns a seven percent stake in your newspaper.’

“A small fat man, the editor shrugged and nodded. ‘That’s all old news,’ he said. ‘We’ve covered it, I’m sure. Not interested. You’ve been here before. Don’t you remember? Why do you keep trying to peddle your interdimensional nonsense? We’ve checked you out. You’re a forty-two-year-old indigent ex-electrician. You live on a government subsidy. You reside in a small room in a house on Staten Island. You’ve been there for twenty years.’

“I looked out his window and saw the sun setting. Where was the hologram of the giant Lieutenant in the sky, the beloved protector? Where was our Cop?

“The editor smirked. ‘He’s on vacation. It’s a test run. What happens when the soul is naked?’

“’I’ll tell you what happens. Crime in the streets. Political anarchy. It happened five years ago for two days. They had to bring in shock troops.’

“’Yes, but maybe this time it’ll be different. The conditioning is cumulative. At least, that’s the theory.’

“Back in my room on Staten Island, I did my exercises as I watched small gangs of kids run down the street and smash car windows. I did the turnarounds and the projections and the field crackings. Pretty soon, the gangs dissipated. Silence returned. I brought in night clouds, and it rained hard.

“In the morning, I put on my god robes and walked out to the street and waited. Slowly, people emerged from their apartments and came toward me, walking and crawling. A few of them were weeping. They dropped money in my iron box. I mumbled a few random incantations, picked up the box, and hopped on a bus to the ferry.

“C was waiting at the dock in Manhattan. He slipped a roll of bills into my robe pocket. On Manhattan, I was just a dressed up freak. We had breakfast in a small diner and he filled me in on last night’s activities. Aside from numerous small incidents, the only real disruption was a fire in the Tammany Hotel on Broadway. A dozen or so guests and staff died.

“We took the subway up to the Metropolitan. The main exhibit was the old Reality Machine. To me it was just a giant typewriter. Turns out pages. I can’t remember how many novels I’ve written. The next one, I’m told, is the best one. But that’s all just a front for making money. You pick a pseudonym, you go into a closet, you come out with a story. People can swallow it. They forget you wrote it before.

“In the ancient Egypt cellar, we picked up a tail. She was young and naked for a second, and then she was wearing a pale gray suit.”

After the reading of the fragment, the Judge said to the author, “Did you mean those words literally? Were you trying to make a point?”

The author said, “I meant them literally and I didn’t mean them literally, Your Honor. They’re real and not real. That makes the words super-real.”

The Judge shook his head. “What kind of garbage is that? Either you intended a factual account, in which case you were deluded, and we will sentence you to rehabilitative treatment, or you meant the words as metaphor, in which case you’ve violated Section 12 of the Author’s Act, which prohibits the use of one group of words to refer to another group of words: metaphor. In that case, we would sentence you to hard labor as re-education in the physical facts of life.”

The author shrugged.

“Have it any way you want to, sir. I don’t make these distinctions.”

“Well,” the Judge said, “do you believe you’re an interdimensional traveler?”

“I change my beliefs like socks. Depends on the day, the time, the situation.”

“No,” the Judge said. “That’s obfuscation. This court doesn’t accept that. It’s A or B. Never both.”

“Again, have it your way, Your Honor.”

“Let me ask you a question. Do you do conjuring? Do you practice magic?”

“All the time. I imagine what I want to be real. Imagining makes it real. Then I make it real and not real.”

“More nonsense. I’m hereby diagnosing you with Globular Metaphor Syndrome. Two years hard labor at the Federal Superfund Site in Mexico Los Angeles.”

“Okay. But I have one request. I assume my case will be reported in the New York Times. I would like to offer a quote for the story.”

“Well, yes. I’m an associate editor at the Times. Give me your quote and I’ll see what I can do.”

“The only thing that isn’t a metaphor is the State. It’s a collection of people who gave away their capacity to think in non-prescribed ways. They come together to form a society based on that surrender. They give up, and then they rule. That’s the formula. They’re machines. Machine isn’t metaphor. It’s literal. The machine is for people who don’t understand language.”

The Judge frowned.

“We don’t print that kind of idiocy. We stick to facts. Case closed.”

The author vanished. Again.

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

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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 29^th 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.