David vs. AI supercomputer Goliath

David vs. AI supercomputer Goliath

by Jon Rappoport

October 10, 2017

You can call this an editorial or a “think-piece.” It is about the present and near future. It is about the mightiest of information ops. It is about The Collective.

This is not an article focusing on the Vegas shooting, or on any other mass shooting. This is about how modern propaganda is done. I’m talking about the propaganda that is floated during and after major events—events that magnetize the public and elicit millions of responses online in comments sections, videos, articles, call-ins to talk shows and podcasts.

Giant modern computers have the ability to suck up every scrap of online information. They can analyze the information and then decide what people AREN’T BELIEVING AND AREN’T BUYING.

A major covert op is underway? An official scenario (an extended lie) is being presented to the people? Let’s see what the people are saying about it. Let’s analyze a zillion-zillion bits of online information and see where the propaganda isn’t working.

Then, analysts can come in and do a fix. They can construct new scenarios (lies) and float them and see how well they sell.

Here are a couple of wake-up calls in that regard, from the IBM site promoting the heavy of heavies, the super-duper computer called Watson. Watson can:

“Uncover insights from structured and unstructured data: Analyze text to extract meta-data from content such as concepts, entities, keywords, categories, relations and semantic roles.”

“Understand sentiment and emotion: Returns both overall sentiment and emotion for a document, and targeted sentiment and emotion towards keywords in the text for deeper analysis.”

This is the mission of modern artificial intelligence. Suck up, digest, analyze enormous amounts of information and imply ways of changing public perception.

In a major covert op, there is a great deal of official disinformation and contradiction. Things are not as they seem. On the whole, how is the public reacting to all the official disinfo? Call in AI. Call in the supercomputers. Ask them.

Then, when the answers appear, adjust the ongoing propaganda to fill in the holes and minimize the disbelief. Then, do another massive search and see how the new lies are selling. And so and so forth. In real time.

In the old days, an agency would mount an op, carry it out, and then do after-reports to assess the success or failure of the mission.

Part of that assessment: did our propaganda lies sell well? What were the problems, if any? What can we learn for next time?

That was horse-and-buggy stuff.

Now AI Goliath can make that assessment.

And now, independent media are working against Goliath the AI Computer and its analysis of public perception.

Goliath can defeat human opponents in chess and Jeopardy, but can it defeat independent media?

The game is afoot. The future is open.

The backers and users of Goliath believe they can increase the subtlety and nuance of AI to a point at which all the “clunky” interpretations are gone. Instead, AI will behave and think like a god who understands humans down to their fingertips.

I reject that. I believe humans will always have deeper inner-resources than machines.

No matter how well machines evaluate human responses, there is always more that cannot be anticipated.

In the ancient story, David was smarter than Goliath, who relied on his brute strength to win the day.

The father of modern PR, Edward Bernays, stated: “It is sometimes possible to change the attitudes of millions but impossible to change the attitude of one man.”

You can scoop up, ingest, and analyze data from 600 million people in the blink of an eye, but when you draw conclusions from those data, you ignore the independent individual and what he can think, investigate, discover, and infer.

He is the ace in the deck. He is where the algorithms stop. He is where the hypnotic disposition doesn’t live. He is where group-think fades out.

This is why the independent individual is all-important.

There is a new fictional TV series, The Wisdom of the Crowd. A super team with supercomputers and software and algorithms solves crimes. Part of the effort (which can obviously pay off) involves fielding reports from many people, a few of whom might have seen the perpetrator or witnesses. But the second aspect of the effort is murky: ask a question to the world online, such as, “Where is the missing child?” Then scoop up the millions of answers, apply an algorithm to these answers, “average” them out, and you’ll come up with something much closer to the truth than if you consulted just one investigator or a few investigators.

This is ludicrous. It assumes a wisdom The Group doesn’t have. It is another Goliath operation.

Goliath is an illusion. He is empty. He is either The Group or he speaks to The Group. In both cases, the individual is absent from the equation.

This remains the problem for all AI reality. It falls short. It can’t gobble up and swallow the mind and imagination of an independent individual.

In my work over the past 30 years, I have seen this “flaw” play out over and over again. The Group fails; the individual wins.

At a cost of billions (or trillions) of dollars, people are programmed to believe the opposite.

Why? Because they actually know or sense the power of the individual. That’s what they have to be “programmed out of.”

That’s called a clue.

Reality points to the pre-eminence of the individual. Massive illusion puffs up and promotes The Group.


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.

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I Am the President

I Am the President

by Jon Rappoport

Copyright © 2017 by Jon Rappoport

“Today, in a Chicago courtroom, famous mob lawyer John Q broke down during the defense of his client, and as one observer put it, ‘he began speaking in tongues.’ The judge called a halt to the proceeding, and security guards hauled Q off to a local hospital for treatment…”

JOHN Q: It’s good to be here in the Oval Office, my fellow Americans. It feels like sugar. Or ice cream. Or a good shot of Irish whiskey. I’m your leader now. We’re going to do great things together. We’re going to take the game to a whole new level. The Reality we’re all used to is going away. A new one is floating in. I know that. I’ve been there. And THERE has a certain kind of beauty, like a graphic novel or a comic book. Isn’t that what we all want?

PSYCHIATRIST: All right, John Q. I know who you are. Do you understand? Follow me here. You’re a well-known attorney who defends major traffickers. You win most, you lose a few. So what could the problem be? Sounds like you’re doing well.

JOHN Q: I have a parallel life.

PSYCHIATRIST: Really.

JOHN Q: For instance, right now, I’m the President, and I’m talking to another shrink about my problems.

PSYCHIATRIST: Interesting. Tell me about this other shrink…

(cut to)

SHRINK: You actually claim you’re the President.

JOHN Q: We’re sitting here in the Oval Office, aren’t we?

SHRINK: You are. I’m somewhere else.

JOHN Q: I didn’t ask for this. I’m a victim.

SHRINK: Maybe you’re a machine.

JOHN Q: A piece of artificial intelligence.

SHRINK: Yes.

JOHN Q: I’m not feeling that.

SHRINK: Tell me a story, John Q. Any story. Let’s try to unravel this mess.

JOHN Q: Let’s see.

He went all the way out, floating above thousands of tiny mirrors in an ocean of surveillance.

He plunged into deeper layers where avid machinery was spinning. Squeaky fingers slid along him, and he grew cold in the submarine depths.

I’M PUSHING ALL THE SOLACE BUTTONS AND WANDERING THROUGH A BIG-TIME FOREST OF VEGAS OVER AND UNDER ON MY LIFE EXPECTANCY. I COULD BE DEAD ALREADY. HARD TO SAY.

What did the Design want with him?

The chill passed.

“Better,” he thought, luxuriating in a) dark baronial calm, b) uterine perfection, c) summer childhood bedroom closet.

He was suddenly in the cabin of a private jet. On a table, he saw a team of small glass angels, a China cup worn yellow, and a framed photo of Al Capone sitting on the toilet in his Palm Springs suite.

And then identity shattered into a thousand pieces. The lights of an enormous city loomed up under him, pulling the fragments down into liquor stores, newspaper racks, dark alleys, hotel rooms.

A news screen stood out in the black sky. A local anchor, her eyes bright with contempt, relayed the story of a man who had just died falling from an escarpment above the Chicago Loop while attempting to set up a sniper’s nest and kill shoppers in the indoor-outdoor Langland Mall.

A boyish blonde field reporter, standing in front of a McDonald’s, was interviewing a witness, an old man who was sitting in a wheelchair and foaming at the mouth and spitting. He doubled over and a siren went off. A security guard appeared with a riot baton and sent a fork of electricity into his crotch, quieting him.

The news screen disappeared.

I’M SEEING CHILLY RED BLOOD. MORE OR LESS SHAPELESS. IF IT HAD A VOICE AND TRIED TO TALK TO ME AND I HAD A GUN I’D SHOOT IT.

Identity now a quiet snowstorm in a deserted wood, falling, falling, falling on the hard earth. Relief.

He was back in the cabin of the jet. Comfort of burnished yellow-brown lights set high in the cabin walls.

A flight attendant entered with a drink.

She was six feet tall and blonde. That made her a target.

Wealthy and powerful men would seek her out.

Her body was sleek. He examined her left leg from wizardly articulated ankle to thigh, through the slit of her sheath skirt. She strode in heels, one foot placed precisely in front of the other.

She set down the drink on the arm of his chair and looked at her watch.

“We can’t have sex now,” she said. “We’re east of the Rockies.”

“I didn’t realize they had a law,” he said.

“Two hours from now,” she said, “we can negotiate a price.”

“I’m an attorney,” he said.

She pulled a half-sheet out of her jacket pocket and handed it to him.

“Standard,” she said. “Read and sign.”

It stated: “…I am not attempting to elicit information pursuant to an investigation, case, or sentencing option…

He signed.

“Just out of curiosity,” he said, “how much protection do you have?”

“Well,” she said, “the LA Mayor has a local contract. He supplies private soldiers when I’m in the city.”

“Have they ever had to go on attack?”

“A Belivar prince once tried to have his men kidnap me between the airport and my hotel. The mercs burned them to the ground on Century Boulevard.”

“I’m…”

“You’re John Q,” she said. “I know. I’m Carol.”

She held out her hand. He looked at her long fingers. Her nails were short. No polish. He shook her hand. It was cool. It immediately became warm, as if she could make it happen.

She sat down next to him on the arm of his chair.

“Defendant in a federal trafficking case,” she said. “He claims his cartel, Zuma, struck an immunity deal with the CIA. No prosecutions, clean truck routes from Mexico up through LA, all the way to a central distribution hub in Chicago.”

“In return for what?”

“Actionable intell on other Mexican cartels.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Stored documents granting that immunity.”

“Documents? You think they put that kind of thing in writing?”

OK I MUST BE DEAD. WHAT ELSE WOULD EXPLAIN THIS SENSE OF EXHILARATION? BUT MAYBE I’M A DEAD FISH BEING HELD OUT AS BAIT. FOR WHOM? FOR WHAT? TIRED STREAM, AN OLD FART DIPPING HIS LINE IN BRACKISH WATERS. HUNT&FISH MAG IS REALLY THE WORD OF GOD GIVEN TO MAN. I SEE MY OLD COTTAGE. OTHER PEOPLE ARE LIVING THERE. WHEN? NOW? MUCH LATER? THEY’VE TAKEN IT OVER. THUGS.

He closed his eyes.

Now, Bobby Thoms came to him. The Swan, a bar in the Loop.

The place was jammed with lawyers eating breakfast and waiting for the shape-up in the parking lot. Minor cases were assigned by a clerk at the Farofax processing facility.

Q grabbed a stool at the end of the counter and ordered coffee. The bartender poured him a cup and set it down in front of him.

Bobby Thoms. Sitting next to him. In dark soiled clothes, as if he’d stripped them from a corpse in an alley. Pinched face, sunken cheeks. A lawyer’s runner, go-between. Supplier of information.

Bobby moved in close.

“I can get you in to see Sal today. His appointment secretary’ll bump the city treasurer for you.”

Q reached into his pocket and pulled out a tight roll of hundreds. Bobby fielded it and slipped it into his pocket.

“What’s up?” Q said.

Bobby nodded. “There are national security implications in this case, John Q. If the shit hits the fan, the president’s administration in Mexico could go down.”

A grinding roar from a long way off.

“Sorry,” Q said. “I can’t help you.”

Bobby frowned. “Why not?”

“Somebody’s coming.”

“What?”

The roar accelerated. The bar sped down to the size of a dot of blood on a handkerchief.

“Get me to Mosca’s office,” John Q shouted.

Sal Mosca conducted his business in a warehouse in Evanston, a few blocks away from the Registrar-DHS complex.

In the center of the lobby, there was a single desk. Video cameras on the walls caught the action from a dozen angles.

John Q waited in line, and when his turn came, he handed the security guard a copy of his cert card and said he had an appointment with Mr. Mosca.

The guard looked down at his pad, nodded, and handed Q a red slip. Q stuck it to his jacket, walked over to the elevator bank, and waited.

A door opened. A tall slam in a dark suit stood against the back wall. He was holding a blade down at his side. He nodded. Q got in. The guard peeled off the red slip.

They rode up to the 7th floor. The door opened, and two more guards in dark suits stood there. Q stepped out.

One of them frisked him. The other one backed away and watched.

They sandwiched Q and walked him down a seashell curving carpeted hallway to a mesh gate. It slid open and they passed through into a small room. Mosca’s secretary, Jenny, sat behind a table.

“Hello, John Q,” she said.

“Jenny.”

Q knew her from the county courts, the early days. Cases adjudicated in offices, fines pieced off among the sharers. During the heavy shortages, lawyers took dinners as bribes.

Jenny made a fist and rapped her knuckles once on the table. Q took an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket and placed it in front of her. She picked it up, looked inside, counted the bills, and nodded.

The two security men guided Q across the room to a door. One of them opened it and moved ahead, into Mosca’s office.

Q followed. The other guard shut the door and stood in front of it.

The office was large with no windows. The walls were dull dented metal. The only pieces of furniture were a long white couch and two scarred wooden folding chairs. Bull’s-head Mosca, dressed in his tan suit, sat on the couch. Q stayed standing.

Mosca. Big chest, big belly, cheap shoes. Tired face, but tight skin. He’d been swaddled in the bullrushes of Lake Michigan. Dirty feet running on stones, foster homes, small-time collector/protection money, law school at night, muscled his way into city government as a private conduit for defense lawyers on major felonies.

Mosca frowned. “This case has tricks.”

“Immunity,” Q said.

“Because,” Mosca said, “if it turns out Zuma has a deal with the feds to ship big weight up through Los Angeles into Chicago, and it’s exposed, that torpedoes everybody.”

“But do confirming documents exist?”

“What happened to you?” Mosca said.

“Let’s talk about immunity at a higher level, Sal. Who is immune? Is God?”

Sal leaned back and grinned.

“Well, Q, understand I’m only a low man on the totem pole. I don’t have many details.”

Then Mosca was standing next to me. He took my arm and walked me to the right, into a kitchen that hadn’t been there before. We exited from a side door and climbed a short flight of steps. He opened another door on to the roof.

“The shed,” he said.

In the middle of the roof was a wooden structure.

The padlock was open and hanging from a chain. We stepped inside and Mosca turned on a light. I shut the door. Tools were arranged on shelves. An open cabinet was stacked with brooms and shovels and an old shotgun. We sat down on two rickety chairs.

“John Q,” he said, “immunity is an Atlas holding up the world. And now he’s watching and spying, to make sure it stays intact.”

A canyon opened up under me. Another Earth, like this one. I caught a glimpse and it shut down, closed its mouth.

“Q,” Mosca said, “I’m a bit player. I move a few crumbs here, a few crumbs there…”

“Sal, I appreciate your honesty. I’m appointing you to head up the FBI.”

“Morris Gold’s office,” I said.

I stepped out of a car. Bobby Thoms, who was driving, also got out. He handed the keys to a parking robot and strolled off toward the American Airlines sports book. I crossed the sidewalk and stopped in front of a cast-iron door. I rang the bell. I was standing under a video camera.

A voice said, “Name, please.”

I held up my cert card.

“Packing any weapons?” the voice said.

“No.”

“Just a minute.”

They were running a body scan. I waited.

“What case does this pertain to?” the voice said.

“Not a case.”

“And?”

“Here for a consult.”

The door buzzed. I opened it and walked in.

I was in a pitch-black space.

As my eyes adjusted, the lights slowly rose to dim. I was inside a wire cage.

The same disembodied voice said, “Where did you attend law school?”

“University of Michigan.”

“Your thesis adviser’s name?”

“Professor Morris Gold.”

“And the title of the thesis?”

Currents in Pre-Trial Hearings.”

The grid in front of me clicked and moved from left to right. I stepped through.

I was standing in a foyer. The carpet under my shoes was thick.

A tall heavy-set man appeared from my right. “Go,” he said. He opened a door and we were facing an open elevator. He motioned and I stepped in ahead of him. He followed and the door closed. We ascended silently for a few seconds. The elevator came to a smooth stop. The door opened. A short man in a very expensive dark suit stood there. His head was clean shaven and he wore a pair of sunglasses high on his forehead.

“They’re for the light,” Morris said. “I have a condition.” He stuck out a meaty paw and I shook it. He smiled.

I walked with him down a hallway into a corner office.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. His two-ton oak desk sat in the center of the room. There were hunting prints and paintings of horses and cottages on blue walls.

He didn’t offer me a seat. I stood. He stood.

“John Q,” he said. “Are you trying to stir up trouble because you’re in transit? Because you were scooped up? Nothing worse than a sore loser. What can I do for you after all this time?”

His eyes were cold.

I framed my question. “Is a deity in on the fix?” I said.

“You want to know the upper limit on immunity?” he said. “I’ve worked cases where the issue was raised. The courts have always blurred distinctions.”

“You have wide experience in these cases?” I said.

Gold walked back behind his desk and sat down.

“You tell people,” he said, “they’re committing heresy, they buy it, depending who’s doing public relations for you.”

“But what is immunity actually?” I said.

“Listen,” Gold said. “You were a smart boy in law school. Now you’re

loitering.”

“It’s probably a fetish on my part. A little tour of old friends.”

He laughed. “Sentimental journey, right? Did you know the configuration of the Surveillance State is an Atlas holding up the world? When you really see the whole architecture? And the documents you’re looking for are probably hidden, along with at least a million other docs, inside a bead of sweat on Atlas’ forehead.”

“Then I guess I want him,” I said. “Morris, you’re going to be my Attorney General.”

A sheet of slow lightning swam up my legs and infiltrated my spine. It nuzzled and burned, on the way up, each bone.

At the top of the channel, I reached out and removed the top of Morris’ skull. It came away clean and out rolled a small creek of dusty tears.

I was standing in a courtroom open to the sky. I was behind the prosecution table.

And there was a giant standing before me.

I was facing him in the dock. His head was barely visible, an imprint behind a cloudbank. He was radiating nothing. He was a no one.

I was already searching for my opening.

Translating incomprehensible text into silent sounds, rehearsing them.

I began talking, suddenly believing every syllable would break open a wound in his cartilage and penetrate to organs.

Every case I’d ever tried had been a symptom, and every verdict a palliative. This one was the kernel.

I spoke and I heard a sound of upper crashing, at long, long distance.

A slow fall.

There was a crowd in the courtroom.

Could I wake up in my office on Michigan Avenue and realize I was still handling cases in superior court, that I was late for an arraignment, that I was defending a Zuma trafficker out of Mexico City…

I waited. I stood and waited.

The silent depersonalized giant standing before me…the exemplar of no-dream.

Nobody. Nobody at all. Just a clock on the wall wound up to eat time. Perhaps he was Google.

I heard the long faraway crashing sound again.

…I was back in the cabin of the jet. With Carol.

She was still sitting on the edge of the chair.

“So, John Q,” she said. “Are you in transit because you died, or are you dreaming?”

“This is what I did on my summer vacation,” I said.

She smiled.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s negotiate a price.”

“Who won the election?” I said.

“I’m your wife,” she said. “We’re on Air Force One.”

I looked out the window. We were passing over Washington. The Monument and the Capitol Dome and the White House were lit up.

“How long can I play this out?” I said.

She shrugged. “Hard to say. God and his cartel people just moved into the White House. They’re shipping big weight out of the Rose Garden. No more cover stories.”

SHRINK: I see. So you’re the President, John Q.

JOHN Q: It appears so.

SHRINK: That’s it?

JOHN Q: No. I’m talking to another psychiatrist at the moment. Hold on.

PSYCHIATRIST: Are you finished with the other shrink?

JOHN Q: For the moment.

PSYCHIATRIST: I have an idea. Suppose I did everything in my power to make you the actual President. You’re a perfect psychotic. Maybe we need a man like that in the White House. It’s a long shot, but perhaps you could take the whole country to another level. A departure from the usual kind of corruption. Assuming you believe in parallel worlds, try to convince the people they’re all living in a complete illusion. They could be ready for that. Don’t you sense the population is worn out and worn down to a nub? Don’t try to restore their sanity. Go the other way. Drive them over the edge. Into utter madness, because who knows what lies on the other side of that? Do you see?

JOHN Q: How would you help make me President?

PSYCHIATRIST: I build up that other world of yours to a much higher pitch, a much higher degree of surety in your own mind, so you can go out there and sell it to the masses.

JOHN Q: And they’ll elect me?

PSYCHIATRIST: Think of all the incredible fairy tales they’ve bought. Why should they reject what you have to say? And maybe you’re right. Maybe this other world exists, and we can all go there. Wouldn’t that be fantastic?

JOHN Q: You’re crazier than I am.

PSYCHIATRIST: Let’s just say I’m plucking you out of the morass of your own story. I’m an opportunist. In my view, opportunism is sanity. That’s all sanity is. This is what we’ve come to.

JOHN Q: And what would you want in return?

PSYCHIATRIST: I run as your Vice-Presidential candidate. I’m your seal of approval. A bona fide professional who backs you up. Together, we push the trend of everyone going insane and take it to its natural conclusion. And you and that sex bot of yours get to live in the White House.

JOHN Q: You think she’s an AI?

PSYCHIATRIST: Who knows? You’ll have fun finding out.

JOHN Q: Maybe she’s the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met.

PSYCHIATRIST: Whatever floats your boat.

JOHN Q: Perhaps I’ll become the first inter-dimensional president of the United States.

PSYCHIATRIST: Perhaps you won’t be the first.


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.

Are you known or unknown?

Are you known or unknown?

by Jon Rappoport

September 3, 2017

This is the story of someone I knew a long time ago.

Perhaps you know someone who has the same story.

He was exceptionally bright. He spent hours and days in the library, searching sources for information about how the world really operates and who is behind the curtain.

He discovered secrets, and he remembered everything he discovered. He was able to assemble large amounts of data and organize them into connected wholes.

With all of this research, he did…nothing.

Every few months he would come to see me, and we would talk about paths he could take.

Finally, I asked him, “Do you want to be known or unknown?”

It was a question he couldn’t answer.

He would deflect the question and talk about other people. He would talk about history. He would talk about powerful elites. He would talk about civilizations that had risen and fallen.

But he never made up his mind about the question.

The last time I saw him, he was working for a think-tank as an outside consultant. He wasn’t happy. He was using a very small amount of his knowledge and skill to do his job.

The idea of stepping out of the shadows into the light was too much. For him, putting his knowledge into the world was fraught with mystery. He didn’t know how to take the first steps.

“I can’t imagine it,” he said.

We talked about limitations, because he saw himself beset with them. That was the theme of his ongoing story. He told it well. He made a convincing case. Not to me. To himself.

All in all, he was starring in his own myth about remaining unknown.

He saw that my patience was running out. But he was convinced his myth was so complicated and had so many parts, he had to divulge all of it.

I could see, though, that the story would never end. He would keep manufacturing it as long as he needed to—whatever it took, so he could remain unknown.

In that sense, he was quite creative. He could imagine many, many things, as long as they didn’t involve him launching some enterprise in the world that would make him visible.

This wasn’t the tale of Sisyphus pushing a great rock up the hill, only to have it come back down again, forcing him to start over. This was an eternal musing that would keep him from away from the rock and the hill altogether.

The thing was—and I caught an occasional glimpse while he was talking—he knew that once he began to push the rock, it wouldn’t come back down. He could see himself reaching the summit. That was troubling to him. That was too much.

That would cut him off from the postponement which had become so familiar and comfortable.

He was an artist of postponement. It was his forte.

I’m sure his colleagues didn’t see him this way at all. As far as they were concerned, he was a bright hard-working consultant. He turned in good reports. He gave good advice. He understood their questions and problems, and he had solutions.

But in his own thoughts, in his private world, he kept spinning out a story that had no end.

His myth of eternal indecision was his most prized possession.

He had two lives. In one he was entirely acceptable to the people he knew. In the other, he could see events of the world inscribed and painted on a curtain that was hiding the truth behind it.

How many people exist in this fashion? And what would happen if they stepped forward and made some part of that truth known?

Muscle and bone truth, blood truth, brain truth, knowledge truth, soul truth, creative truth.

I’ll finish this with two short excerpts from a work-in-progress, The Magician Awakes:

“You had a dream. Last night, while you were sleeping, the world was the same, but you were joined with yourself. You were enacting a vast plan. You could only glimpse it, but you knew it would stand. It was a sunlit and moonlit thing. It would let people know they could become known. They could be more than the world. There would be no more trouble about that. That question would be gone.”

“All the men with their medals and citations eventually begin to fade. The past is no longer known. The thought of resting on their laurels is less appealing to them. What about now? What about stepping out of the wilderness of memories and testing the voice, to see what it can do? If it wobbles a bit at the beginning, pay no attention. The voice never goes away. It breaks through the envelope of amnesia and inherits a space it was made for. A space larger than time. Then all bets are off.”


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.

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.

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.


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.

Transport

Transport

by Jon Rappoport

August 4, 2017

They took him to a place underground. That was all he knew until he met the doctor in a sterile room.

The doctor said, “This will be painless, and then you’ll feel better. Much better.”

He said, “How many times do we have to go through this, Doctor?”

“What? I’ve never seen you before.”

“No, Doctor. We met in ancient Egypt, in Greece, Mesopotamia, in Spain during the purge, in Berlin. Don’t you remember? The trick is, I have many minds. You dull one and I grow four more. You block my capacity to think along one channel, I have a dozen others. They run like rivers. I set them in motion. You can fuck with me, but you can’t change the basics. Do you get it? You’re a two-dimensional dupe, and I’m growing like weeds. Our meetings have become a failed ritual. You see? I’m tapped in, you’re tapped out.”

The doctor turned into the front page of a newspaper, and blood tricked from the words. He developed creases and folds and angles and fluttered in a breeze. He collapsed on the floor and lay there, flat.

The man walked out of the room.

He flew over a massive city of towers and looked down at crowds struggling to ascend staircases to an empty sky.

He left them behind and went on his way…

Doom

O shroud

Lifted from silver shores

Quaking souls

Time is gone


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.

I’m Putin, I’m the US president

I’m Putin, I’m the US president

I am Russia, hear me roar, I sit in the White House

by Jon Rappoport

July 18, 2017

Note: In the following fantasy, I’m quoting an actual NY Times article that reveals an astonishing Clinton-Putin connection via a uranium deal…

I’m anticipating an apocalyptic Congressional hearing, where the truth comes out. Perhaps Maxine Waters is talking, or Nancy Pelosi—you know, people who can no longer control what is coming out of their mouths—

“There is no doubt that Russia colluded with Trump to swing the election to him, so he’s not the real president, Hillary Clinton is the real president (brain short-circuit occurs)…on April 23, 2015, the NY Times ran a story under the headline: Cash Flowed to Clinton Foundation Amid Russian Uranium Deal. I quote the Times: ‘The sale gave the Russians control of one-fifth of all uranium production capacity in the United States’.”

“Trump is the enemy. His people talked with Russians. Russians talked with them (brain short-circuit)…I quote the Times: ‘But the untold story behind that story is one that involves not just the Russian president, but also a former American president [Bill Clinton] and a woman [Hillary Clinton] who would like to be the next one’.”

“Trump is Russian. He worked for the KGB for a decade (brain short-circuit)…I quote the Times: ‘At the heart of the tale are several men, leaders of the Canadian mining industry, who have been major donors to the charitable endeavors of former President Bill Clinton and his family. Members of that group built, financed and eventually sold off to the Russians a company that would become known as Uranium One’.”

“Trump is a cousin of Lenin and Karl Marx. He was a boyhood pal of Stalin (brain short-circuit)…I quote the Times: ‘Frank Giustra…a mining financier, has donated $31.3 million to the foundation run by former President Bill Clinton…Since [US] uranium is considered a strategic asset, with implications for national security, the deal [to sell Uranium One and US uranium to Putin] had to be approved by a committee composed of representatives from a number of United States government agencies. Among the agencies that eventually signed off was the State Department, then headed by Mr. Clinton’s wife, Hillary Rodham Clinton’.”

“Trump helped overthrow the Czar in Russia and establish the center of worldwide Communism (brain short-circuit)…I quote the Times: ‘As the Russians gradually assumed control of Uranium One in three separate transactions from 2009 to 2013, Canadian records show, a flow of cash made its way to the Clinton Foundation. Uranium One’s chairman used his family foundation to make four donations totaling $2.35 million. Those contributions were not publicly disclosed by the Clintons, despite an agreement Mrs. Clinton had struck with the Obama White House to publicly identify all donors. Other people with ties to the company made donations as well’.”

“Trump is from Jupiter. The Jupiterians have a long–standing treaty with Putin. Trump’s father is from Jupiter (brain short-circuit)…I quote from the Times: ‘And shortly after the Russians announced their intention to acquire a majority stake in Uranium One, Mr. Clinton received $500,000 for a Moscow speech from a Russian investment bank with links to the Kremlin that was promoting Uranium One stock’.”

CNN would report this apocalyptic Congressional hearing thusly: “President Trump was exposed as a KGB agent from Jupiter. According to several sources who spoke off the record because they work for federal agencies, a British former MI-6 agent has documents proving Mr. Trump’s birth on Jupiter…”

CNN commentator Chris Cuomo would follow up: “We, the media, can have access to the Trump-Jupiter documents. You, the public, are not permitted to read them. We read them and tell you what they mean. So keep your mouths shut and keep looking at the screen, keep looking at me and I will tell you what these documents mean.”


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.