Translating a twenty-second dream

Translating a twenty-second dream

by Jon Rappoport

August 23, 2017

There are quick dreams, quick and full and rich and vivid.  You believe you can recall and recount them when you wake up, but you can’t.  They slip through your fingers.

But you can characterize them.

Here is one:

The Alpha Weekly, page 4, section 2.  Entertainment.  Stare at the page.  Keep staring.  As you do, you go down a few levels.  That’s the way it works.  Their world becomes your world.  Down on this level, below the news, across the Western sky, I’m driving a wagon hitched to billboards and signs in purple stone and giant walking letters of a sandpapered alphabet.  The rain is light, the fleecy craniums of old nagging generals clack on strings behind me, shrunken unto death.  Ruby bells.  Every sky-street has another language.  On one they talk in gem and fur, with sidebar radiant nightclubs for announcements of bankruptcy.  There is the animal blood alphabet, the evening-clothes orchestra language, the cave hollow tongue.  Whole cosmologies.  Now curving out to another road, a tusk meadow of dead winter where ancestors are buried, and giant brown leaves fall on the roofs of wet houses.  Rain, a ferry comes across a foggy river.  I’m turning left out by a billboard of peeled hair oil on to a street that runs straight to an old drive-in theater.  The twenty percent skim they put in a cloth bag, and a runner takes it to a cottage behind the hot dog stand and hands it to a man in a cheap sports jacket. They stand and watch the movie, an epic of the slow South—Guernsey eyes, string ties, twisted cigars.


power outside the matrix

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, Power Outside 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.

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2 comments on “Translating a twenty-second dream

  1. Theodore says:

    “That’s how I think about it often when I’m seated in my little niche
    juggling the Havas reports or untangling the cables from Chicago, London,
    and Montreal. In between the rubber and silk markets and the Winnipeg
    grains there oozes a little of the fizz and sizzle of the Faubourg
    Montmartre. When the bonds go weak and spongy and the pivotals balk and the
    volatiles effervesce, when the grain market slips and slides and the bulls
    commence to roar, when every fucking calamity, every ad, every sport item
    and fashion article, every boat arrival, every travelogue, every tag of
    gossip has been punctuated, checked, revised, pegged and wrung through the
    silver bracelets, when I hear the front page being hammered into whack and
    see the frogs dancing around like drunken squibs, I think of Lucienne
    sailing down the boulevard with her wings outstretched, a huge silver condor
    suspended over the sluggish tide of traffic, a strange bird from the tips
    of the Andes with a rose-white belly and a tenacious little knob. Sometimes
    I walk home alone and I follow her through the dark streets, follow her
    through the court of the Louvre, over the Pont des Arts, through the arcade,
    through the fents and slits, the somnolence, the drugged whiteness, the
    grill of the Luxembourg, the tangled boughs, the snores and groans, the
    green slats, the strum and tinkle, the points of the stars, the spangles,
    the jetties, the blue and white striped awnings that she brushed with the
    tips of her wings.

    “In the blue of an electric dawn the peanut shells look wan and crumpled;
    along the beach at Montpamasse the waterlilies bend and break. When the tide
    is on the ebb and only a few syphilitic mermaids are left stranded in the
    muck, the Dome looks like a shooting gallery that’s been struck by a
    cyclone. Everything is slowly dribbling back to the sewer. For about an hour
    there is a death-like calm during which the vomit is mopped up. Suddenly the
    trees begin to screech. From one end of the boulevard to the other a
    demented song rises up. It is like the signal that announces the close of
    the exchange. What hopes there were are swept up. The moment has come to
    void the last bagful of urine. The day is sneaking in like a leper …

    “One of the things to guard against when you work nights is not to break your
    schedule; if you don’t get to bed before the birds begin to screech it’s
    useless to go to bed at all. This morning, having nothing better to do, I
    visited the Jardin des Plantes. Marvellous pelicans here from
    Chapultepec and peacocks with studded fans that look at you with silly eyes.
    Suddenly it began to rain […]”

    —Henry Miller, Tropic of Capricorn

  2. Larry says:

    Powerful, Jon.

    What many might see as a string of non sequiturs has on the contrary, an intriguing effect on me.

    I have the oddest feeling that I’ve been there – but for the life of me I can’t recall where exactly.

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