Universes for everybody, don’t wait, act now

Universes for everybody, don’t wait, act now!

by Jon Rappoport

February 5, 2017

Here are several ads from an interdimensional newspaper that might prove informative:

A UNIVERSE FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY! Do you want to pass on your genes to millions of future generations? Of course you do! Why else would you be alive? In our universe, we supply a government that forbids gene waste and enforces endless generational procreation. Square dancing, ping-pong tournaments, celebrity-look-alike performers on weekends.

COLLECTIVE GOO UNIVERSE FOR ADDLED MINDS! Be part of the Great Doofus! Delete thinking! Experience the thrill of melting down in 24/7 love with the All One Thingo! At first you’ll feel icy winds whipping through your separated soul on the plains of cruel choice. But then, at the last moment, in the deepest well of desperation, a radiant Whatever will clutch your sacred yearning and shoot you up on to on a cloud of honey, and transport you to a fortress where our patented pink ooze floods your being and you realize this is your home forever! Soft rock piped in, lake of marshmallows, electro-massage units. One and two bedroom apts.

NATURE IS NATURE UNIVERSE! Hunt for 60,000 years, merge with the environment, hear the roots grow; climb trees, live near Al Gore, jog with Prince Charles, bathe in snow, chant in monotone, blow up evil machines in distant cities. Exclusive Gaia tweets. Become utterly convinced there is nothing else! Raise children as primates!

AT LAST! THE SOULMATE UNIVERSE! Let us design your agonizing quest for the other half of yourself. You met a stranger for 18 seconds in a hotel bar? He’s here! Receive your initiation rites in the Oprah Palace and journey out on to the landscape of despair. Lifetimes of near-synchronicity…and just-misses…and then….but we can’t give away the glorious ending. You know you want it, so let us build this low to mid-range IQ universe with billions of extras and millions of planets. Herbal wraps, hot stones; vegan paramedics on call.

KING OF THE HILL UNIVERSE. You can be in charge. You can be the boss of bosses. Commit untold numbers of acts that would be considered capital crimes with special circumstances in other universes. Live in a Palace all others are denied. They’ll worship you from afar, night and day. But your identity will remain a mystery. Henchmen will oversee the building of great cathedrals in your (generic) name. It’s a kick!

VICTIMS PLUS! Have you been inventing a story of oppression that’s somehow never been accorded its proper due? Well, in our universe, we bring in the sheep and put bows on their necks! This your place! All the tables are turned. For once (and forever), you get what you deserve! Lavish benefits! Learn the necromancy of bureaucratic interactions. Work the system as it’s never been worked before! Choose from a catalog of disorders. Full insurance coverage extended to family members.

THE END OF IMAGINATION UNIVERSE! Have you finally reached the end of your tether? We have attractive life paths for trillions of serial incarnations. You’ll go with science, you’ll go with money, you’ll go with pills. We have it all. Our calibrated partial-amnesia treatments will saddle you with just enough doubt to make you wonder whether you’re doing the right thing…and yet, in the end, you’ll submit to a mysterious Greater Pattern. Geometric homilies, frog boiled slowly; we’ll keep you hopping! Try our new on-and-off paranoia option. Inquire about liability. Ask yourself if the End of Imagination Universe is right for you.

And a small classified ad: “Universe invention=You. For details, send $16.95 and self-addressed stamped envelope to PO Box 43920518-A, Altoona, Pennsylvania.

Coda:

“Insanity—to have to construct a picture of one’s life, by making inquiries of others.” –Philip K Dick

“It is sometimes possible to change the attitudes of millions but impossible to change the attitude of one man.” –Edward Bernays


Exit From the Matrix

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


HEY!

Bargain prices.

We’ll shave down your perceptual field so you can fit in with eight trillion-trillion androids.

You’ll never miss what you can’t see.

Hi, I’m Tom Smith. I’ve lived here, in Universe 2-A-46, for many incarnations, and I want to tell you it’s the most fun place you can imagine—especially when you can’t imagine any other universe!

Know what I mean?

On a scale from 1 to 10, your creative impulse will be coming in at about .005. That’ll cement you right into the limited spectrum, where all the action is.

Now I know you’ve tried other universes, but this one has unique advantages. First of all, you’re a shareholder! That’s right! You’ll own .00000000000000000000009 of a point in the whole set up.

So you’ll feel the satisfaction of genuine participation.

Next, you’ll actually get down on your knees and pray to this Universe. I know, it sounds odd, but don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. There’s a special hum you sense when you’re subjugating yourself to a “higher essence.”

Jack Boardhead writes in and says: “It’s a soft jolt unlike any other I’ve ever experienced.”

Thanks, Jack. My regards to the wife and kids. I understand Cindi starts online community college in the fall. Kudos!

Yes, folks, there really is a sense of family in this universe. People liking people. We’re all in this together. Since you’re a stakeholder, you’ll be in touch with us at the home office, and we’ll be using your testimonials to sign up new residents. There’s room for everybody! If there’s one thing we’ve got, it’s space!

So act now. Buy one ticket, get one free. Plus, as a bonus, the food processor, the set of cups and saucers, the booster narcosis meds, and the exercise pool. And since this is Tuesday, we have a special! Cemetery plots for the whole family, and storm windows! Automatic pre-diagnosis of Bipolar and free drugs for the first year!

How’s that for share and care?

Operators are standing by, so call now. If your last name begins with S, free tickets to Sea World!

Note: Once a year, we present our lottery/charity altruism draw. Name a friend or family member, and if you win, we’ll surround him with 3-D holographic heavenly hosts, and outfit him with a convincing Lost-Prophet-Returns scenario/cover story/legend. He preaches, he’s rejected, but in the fullness of time, he becomes a demi-god. Do a favor for someone you love. It feels good!

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.

Harry has the game

Harry has the game

by Jon Rappoport

February 1, 2017

The story, as it was handed down through several crooked and straight and adoring and addled relatives, took off at Ellis Island in 1899.  A baby in swaddling clothes, with a purple silk scarf wrapped around his neck, came, in the arms of his mother, to a florid drunken Irishman or a florid drunken Italian, who said his Russian first name was too difficult to pronounce, and Harry would do, and it was written in the book.  But he was a quiet boy, as it turned out, and the name didn’t fit.

At eleven, living in the Bronx, he watched his father collapse and die of a brain tumor in the apartment.  The doctor had said the tumor formed from tension, when Harry’s father’s partner—the two men owned a small department store in Brooklyn—ran off with all the money, and the business had to close down.

Harry then became the breadwinner for his mother and sister.  He quit school.

One day, he was sitting on the curb, staring out at nothing, wondering how he could possibly support the family, when an older boy sat down next to him and told him he worked for a charity agency.  They could teach him to stand up for himself.

Harry found a job sweeping floors in a restaurant.  This somehow led to a job sweeping floors in a firm in Manhattan that made ties and scarves.

—I hated the goddamn job, Harry said.  But then they sent me out every day to buy sandwiches and coffee for twelve people, and I made a deal for a discount with the deli owner, so I got to keep the excess.  I put it in the bank.  I felt the edge.  I learned to shoot pool, and I was a natural, so I could pick up a few bucks there, too.  I hustled the old men in a joint near work.  Their hustle was talking to me about their troubles in life.  Through trial and error, I figured out how to give a spot.  Three balls, six balls in a game of fifty.  Handicaps.  One day, I ran thirty balls, and then nobody wanted to play me anymore.  But I didn’t care.  I was good.  I was on to something that no one else could imagine.  That was the way I saw it.  I could put myself in a certain frame of mind.  Blank.  Focused.  I could see patterns on the table.  The stick in my hands was a weapon. It was protection.  It was better than the world.  I had an idea that dropped down out of the sky.  I could go to bed with it every night.  Lying there, I could see two racks, three racks unfold, shot by shot.  I could build them into a machine.  One day in the pool room, I was playing a kid from Brooklyn.  There was no money involved.  I ran sixty-two balls.  Everyone gathered around the table and watched.  When I was through, they applauded.  One old man came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder.  His eyes were misty.  He told me he had never seen anything like that in his life.  I felt a fire in my legs.  I was very calm, though.  I was at peace.  It was all inside.  Private.  I was playing out what I saw.  The future.  I knew I could run a hundred balls, two hundred balls. New people began showing up.  Joe Martin, who was supposed to be the best hustler in the Bronx, came in one night and played me for fifty dollars, which was a large sum then.  I ran eighty-seven balls.  After I won, he went out, and a few hours later he brought back Tom Castellano, who was the best straight pool player in the city.  I ran ninety-four balls and Tom laid down his stick and quit.  He was a gentleman.  He paid me fifty dollars and bought me a drink in a bar around the corner.  He said, “You can see the whole thing stretching out, can’t you?”  I told him I could.  He said it was best feeling he ever had, seeing it, when he was on.  A month after that, Ginger Michaels, the national straight pool champion, showed up in the room.  He was a short stocky man with a friendly smile.  We played for a hundred dollars.  A hundred balls.  I broke with a safety, and he ran sixty balls.  I took over and ran a hundred balls.  But I wanted to keep going.  In another hour or so, I had run two hundred balls.  I was looking two or three racks ahead.  I could see it all working out.  By midnight, I had run four hundred twenty balls.  I wasn’t tired at all.  There was no strain.  By three in the morning, I had run seven hundred balls.  There was a very large crowd in the place.  Most of them were standing.  I felt I could go on forever.  There was nothing in the way.  The balls weren’t an obstacle.  They weren’t thinking.  They were doing what they were supposed to do.  I wasn’t up against a challenge anymore.  Even time, if there was time, was on my side.  I saw a fork in the road.  I could stop because there was no reason to keep playing, or I could just keep going without a reason.  I chose the second fork.  So by dawn, I had run just over a thousand balls.  The place was very quiet.  I could tell the people felt they were floating.  They watched me, they watched the table, and they floated.  We weren’t in New York anymore.  We were in that room, and that room was where it was.  Between shots, I glanced at a bottle of beer an old man was holding.  It was breathing, very slowly.  Everything and everyone was breathing slowly.  Except me.  I was in the future.  My game was in the present and future.  The shots were in the present, but the game was in the future.  The future had nothing in it except the game.  I’m still there.  I can’t say how many balls in a row I’ve made.  I’ve lost track.  It doesn’t matter.  People come and go.  I keep on going.  Between racks, thoughts drift in.  They don’t bother me.  I just watch them and read them.  “How many minds need to agree before a proposition is accepted?  Suppose the answer is none?”  “An idea whose time has come—that is a fiction.  There is no such time.”  I keep playing.  I don’t know how many days and nights have passed.  I don’t know if there are nights and days anymore.  I don’t know if the world still exists in the same way.  Maybe I’ve made twenty thousand balls in a row.  It doesn’t matter.  I feel no need to miss.  Suppose the world is changing?  Suppose it’s changing because I keep on playing?  Suppose I’m going beyond certain unspoken rules?  And when I do, the world reshapes.  Things happen in a subterranean place and they drift up to the surface.  I keep on playing.


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 emails at NoMoreFakeNews.com or OutsideTheRealityMachine.

The bureaucracy of the mind

The bureaucracy of the mind

by Jon Rappoport

January 21, 2017

These are notes I made in preparation for my collection, Exit From The Matrix. The collection contains an extensive series of imagination exercises designed to increase creative power, and expand the possibilities of a person’s open future.

“Excessive organization of the mind obstructs creativity.”

“A creative future is dynamic. Excessive organization blocks that, in the same way that a bureaucracy stifles innovation with volumes of regulations and restrictions.”

“The bureaucratic mind is complacent. Nothing interesting and adventurous is going to happen. Exciting possibilities are going to be filtered through a maze of rules and ultimately discarded.”

“The moment of change and insight is the moment when the individual sees he can create his own future. At that instant, the bureaucracy of the mind is suspended without pay.”

“The mental bureaucracy starts out as an impulse to maintain security. But ‘protecting one’s future from harm’ eventually becomes so extensive an operation that the future itself dissolves. There is no future. There is only the present, repeating itself.”

“The sign that a bureaucracy of the mind has taken over? The individual keeps shrinking his aims and desires.”

“Eventually, every large bureaucracy is maintained to protect special interests. A bureaucracy of the mind protects the individual from exploring his deepest desires.”

“The movement called Surrealism took apart the bureaucracy of the mind. Surrealism was, of course, too much for most people. They recoiled in fear and loathing. They saw their own ‘apparatus’ being dismantled.”

“Space and time are functions of imagination. It’s not the other way around.”

“Before it was corrupted and altered and organized, the purpose of original Zen was dissolving the bureaucracy of the mind.”

“Logic and imagination aren’t opposites. The complement each other. Logic is all about learning how to walk on the ground. Imagination is about flying.”

“Independent I plus independent I can make a powerful We. But bureaucratic I plus bureaucratic I makes a blind structure.”

“No problem is ever solved by shrinking your vision of the future you want. The problem just festers across the mind’s bureaucracy, and the buck is passed from department to department.”

“Most people are consumed by, or surrender to, organization as the first order of business. That’s backwards. What is the proper degree of organization? The minimum required to implement the vision of what the individual most deeply desires. Anything beyond that is self-fulfilling obstruction.”

“As in government, the bureaucracy of the mind wants to control the range of possible solutions to a problem. No solution must create blowback on the bureaucracy—which is to say, no solution must expose the bureaucracy’s workings as counter-productive and utterly conventional and useless.”

“The origin of power is in the imagination.”


Exit From the Matrix


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.

25 quotes on the power of imagination

25 quotes on the power of imagination

by Jon Rappoport

January 9, 2017

I wrote these notes after releasing my second collection, Exit From The Matrix. This collection contains over 50 imagination exercises designed to increase an individual’s creative power:

“Consciousness wants to create new consciousness, and it can. Imagination is how it does it. If there were some ultimate state of consciousness, imagination would always be able to play another card and take it further.”

“If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, we’ve flattered reality enough. It doesn’t need any more. Reality needs a massive injection of imagination.”

“Imagination can be used to invent a better shade of nail polish or a universe. In a society devoted to nail polish, imagination is not to blame.”

“Imagination has extraordinary equanimity. It is just as happy to entertain and embody two conflicting realities as it is to spool out one uniform reality.”

“You can create the same thing over and over, and eventually you’ll be about as alive as a table. Inject imagination into the mix, and everything suddenly changes. You can go anywhere you want to. You can build worlds.”

“The lowest common denominator of consensus implies an absence of imagination. Everyone agrees; everyone is bored; everyone is obedient. On the opposite end of the spectrum, there are massive floods of unique individual creation, and that sought-after thing called abundance is as natural as the sun rising in the morning.”

“Sitting around in a cosmic bus station waiting for reality is what reality is. Everything else is imagination.”

“There are those who believe life is a museum. You walk through the rooms, find one painting, stroll into it and take up permanent residence. But the museum is endless. And if you were a painter, you’d never decide to live inside one of your canvases forever. You’d keep on painting.”

“Traveling to places one has never seen is far different from creating something that never existed before.”

“The relentless and obsessive search for all those things on which we can agree is a confession of bankruptcy. Instead, build one new thing.”

“We re-learn to live through and by imagination, and then we enter and invent new space and time. But space and time aren’t the superior forces. They operate and come into being at the tap of imagination.”

“With imagination, one can solve a problem. More importantly, one can skip ahead of the problem and render it null and void.”

“You can enter imagination as if were an infinitely fluid medium, or you can give it sharp lines and edges. You can balance left and right, or you can tilt it eighty degrees to the right. You can do anything you want to. You can put a million pink quarks in a bowl and turn the bowl upside down in the sky. It’s Tuesday or it’s Thursday. It’s raining. The sun is out. It’s raining and the sun is out.”

“There are a billion murals on a billion walls, and the person chooses one and falls down before it and devotes himself to it. He spends a thousand years trying to decipher it. So be it. Eventually, he’ll wind his way out of the labyrinth. Then he’ll enter another labyrinth and undergo the same process. He’ll do this on and on and on, and finally he’ll see that he can imagine his own labyrinth. So he does. He invents many labyrinths. Then one day, it’ll occur to him that he can imagine whatever he wants to. It doesn’t have to be labyrinth.”

“What feeds back to you from the product of your imagination is far less important than the fact that you imagined it. People love to ensnare themselves in what they have imagined. They try to inject meaning into it, so much meaning that they become tied up in useless interpretations. They are the ‘product people’. Dreams, paintings, collections of ideas and thoughts—they are obsessed with what they have invented. Just look at what you’ve created it, enjoy it, revel in it, and go on to create something else. This is the path.”

“You can imagine a cosmos that is a forgery of, and a substitute for, the individual. In fact, historically, people have done that on a continuous basis. It’s called organized religion.”

“Imagination isn’t a system. It might invent systems, but it is non-material. It’s a capacity. It feels no compulsion to imitate reality. It makes realities. Its scope is limited only by a person’s imagining of how far imagination can go.”

“The universe isn’t a temple. It’s an amusement park invented by perverse jokers. Stop bowing and groveling.”

“I’m not breaking a system into parts. I’m not trying to teach a person how to tie his shoes. I’m talking about the proliferation of endless new worlds, not seen through a porthole, but imagined and invented.”

“There are no solemn, sober jokes—except the universe. That’s the hook. That’s what drags people in. A joke without a laugh called universe.”


Exit From the Matrix

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


“The EXPRESSION of imagination is the key. Instead of thoughts circling around aimlessly, you have projection out into the world. You make something that has never been made before.”

“Imagination is larger than any universe. It needs no sanction from the world or from other worlds. It is not some secret form of physics. It is not religion. It is not cosmology. It is not any one picture of anything. It’s what you invent.”

“It’s interesting to remember an earlier time when you had more imagination at your disposal. You might find an array of feelings you appreciate more than the feelings you’re feeling now. You might realize imagination stimulated those feelings and brought them into view.”

“The deployment of imagination unlocks hidden energies. A power, sought after and never found in other endeavors, appears.”

“A metaphor for imagination might be warp drive. You skip ahead in space by huge leaps. It’s not 1,2,3; it’s 1,2, and then suddenly four thousand. You’re not working by serial cause and effect.”

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.

Being a victim or being free

Being a victim or being free

Notes on the prevailing insanity

by Jon Rappoport

January 3, 2017

“A person who considers himself a hardline victim can always give you a reason explaining why he is a victim and why he’s unable to free himself.  If you told him his reason is actually an obstacle in his own path, he’d deny it.  If you told him he could be free, he’d deny it.  If you helped him, he’d find a way to turn that help into failure.  That’s what a victim is.  Even a peasant under the brutal rule of an oligarch can conceive of revolution.  That’s not being a victim.  That’s the seed of freedom.”

“For many people, the possibility of provoking change for the better is a horror show waiting to happen.  They back away, as if an electric charge just hit their skin.  Better to sit in the dark and take potshots.  Better to bathe in comprehensive cynicism forever.  What do these cynics really want?  They want a comfortable place from which they can look at life, one step removed, and develop their role as a spectator.  That’s safe.  That’s good.  Watch the passing parade.  Remain invisible.  That turns out to be their definition of freedom.”

“People say the Constitution had some good ideas in it, but the men who wrote it were slaveholders, and therefore this fact negates everything in the document.  That’s the easy way out.  That’s the preference for not thinking.  That’s college education.  That’s considered deep insight.  That’s the ship of fools.  If the Constitution had some good ideas in it, let’s take them and put them where they belong.  At the head of the line.  Freedom, severely limited government, no unreasonable search and seizure.  An idea can stand on its own.  But people need to be able to CONSIDER an idea.  Think about it.  Think about what it means, what its implications are.  If they can’t, they’re cooked.  They’re already losing active brain cells.  Most likely, they’re just making noises to indicate they want something for nothing.  Something for nothing is their Constitution.  That’s the best they have.  That’s another picture of what it means to be a victim.”

“Freedom starts with the discovery that you can make choices.  Where did that discovery originate?  It’s obvious.  The first humans knew it.  So it’s been around forever.  The struggle to gain freedom, on a firm political basis—that took a long, long time.  That has a history.  The socialists and Globalists and Communists and pickled-brained professors who inhabit today’s colleges in teaching positions don’t want to touch that history.  Their precious careers would be on the line if they did.  So colleges are dead.  Being dead is part of the prevailing culture.  Overthrowing that culture is a very good idea.  But why would anyone pay a fortune for the privilege of attending a college in order to overthrow its culture?  That’s self-defeating.”

“Those words, ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’, are referring to whom?  Some group?  Of course not.  They refer to the individual.  And therein lie the seeds of a perpetual revolution.  Because society itself implies a great amount of organization which keeps narrowing liberty.  Billionaires always talk about ‘giving something back’.  But how many of them would launch a series of colleges based on the study and practice of individual freedom and the self-accountability that comes with it?  Such an idea isn’t on their radar.  They may be lions when it comes to operating in the free market, but when it comes to going up against the prevailing culture, they’re lambs.  Or they’re suddenly socialists, which means they’re all about building a system that protects their money at the expense of everyone else.  They’ve learned the lessons of cowardice and hypocrisy.  They should open schools based on those values.”


Exit From the Matrix

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


“Standing up with your own ideas and principles and living them out is a natural outcome of freedom and making choices.  Compulsively assessing your chances of winning, making all sorts of calculations—this isn’t part of the deal.  It never was.  Obsessively making those calculations is hedging your bets.  You keep watering down your vision until it’s a little leaking boat and all you think about is how to bail out.”

“If your best idea about the future you’re going to pursue seems extreme, chances are it’s extreme relative to the prevailing culture.  What else would you expect?  That difference, that contrast produces friction, and it gives you an edge of toughness.  Nothing wrong with that.  Nothing at all.”

“The second half of the 20th century had a hidden theme: the retreat back into various fundamentalisms, none of which supported individual freedom.  It was all about ‘going tribal’.  It was a search for lost energy and a desire to find it in a more primitive group.  But the energy was lost in the first place because individuals backed away from the realization that they were free and had the capacity to imagine and pursue a self-made destiny.  This realization was the culmination of a centuries-long struggle to enthrone freedom beyond the reach of governments and oligarchs and priests.  It was too much for many people.  They looked for something else.  They’re still looking.”

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.

A new language beyond any Matrix

A new language beyond any Matrix

by Jon Rappoport

December 25, 2016

Note: This is one of the most important articles I’ve written about what is potentially available outside the reality machine.

Anyone who reads science fiction eventually comes across a story about an alien who lands on Earth and falls into the hands of the US government.

The military holds him in a facility, while scientists try to figure out how to communicate with him. They run all sorts of tests, of course, and they bring in experts.

The solution sometimes occurs in the form of higher mathematics, “the universal language.” Equations on a page, and the alien perks up.

I’ve never read one of these stories that satisfied me. The “breakthrough” always seemed too easy. Suppose the alien was so different he spoke a vastly strange kind of language based on principles that would, if we discovered them, make absolutely no sense to us?

His language would be absolutely meaningless, no matter which way we turned it.

Our language tends to fall into two basic categories. The subject plus action-verb plus object sentence. Or the “sentences of being.”

Jones broke the stone. Action.

Jones is a man. Being.

Two structures.

There is the little-known work of philosopher/linguist Ernest Fenollosa, the author of The Chinese Written Character as a Medium of Poetry. Fenollosa analyzed modern Chinese words back to older pictographs that minimized nouns. Instead, these pictographs, at one time, presented a view of reality that was far more dynamic and shifting, in which action was the main event. The subject and object were themselves of lesser importance, and were related to one another by their mutual participation in that action. “To be” verbs—is, are, am—were just dead ducks.

Suppose we had a language in which every noun is also a verb, in the sense that it throws off rays and curves and vectors of action and energy.

What would we have then?

We might, at the extreme, have an endless supply of dynamic universes.

We would be communicating with each other in a way that instantly gave birth to possibilities beyond current meanings embedded in our style of speaking and writing. The implications of each word of text would jump and leap. Instead of peeling off layers to get at the precise definition of a word, we could also automatically proliferate the word and the definition.

Language, created by consciousness, feeds back to consciousness. And this feedback informs our way of viewing reality. The structure of language becomes, in a true sense, a monitor on what we can see and what we can’t see. What we can imagine and what we can’t imagine.

But suppose a psychologist, running one of those old inkblot Rorschach tests, told the patient: “Guess what? There’s nothing wrong with you. Forget all that nonsense. Look at these shapes and imagine anything you want to. Tell me what you invent. Then I’ll do the same. Pretty soon we’ll be speaking a different language, and we’ll levitate out of this worn-out reality…”

Having supper at a restaurant, you’re not likely to have your companion say, “Looking at this piece of salmon, I see a shoot-out between a twelve-legged insect and a flock of flying goats.” But it might relieve the predictable monotony.

Let’s cut out middlemen: therapeutic evaluators, test givers, interpreters, system junkies.

Instead of the standard inkblots, print out all sorts of complex shapes on a page and say, OK boys, THIS IS A LOST LANGUAGE. FIGURE OUT WHAT IT MEANS. WORK ON IT.

Then if you can nudge or inspire or bribe people to do that, they will work for a few years on believing there is really something there, something that is embedded in the shapes, and they’ll dig in and try to “decode” it. A few more years and they might throw in the towel and say, “The hell with this, let’s just make it up. Let’s say each shape means whatever we imagine it to mean, and each shape can change its meaning from minute to minute.”

Then they start writing to each other with these shapes and thousands of others they make up—and gradually, they forget about the notion that they might be crazy. After that, glimpses and glints begin to surface in their minds. They don’t know what they are, but they feel they’re de-conditioning themselves from any language they previously knew. They’re out in open water. Their operational concept of Understanding is undergoing a revolution.

They realize how tightly they clung to their old basic notion of Meaning.

They drop that, because they’re fascinated with the glints and glimpses they’re getting. They want more glimpses. They’re inventing this language with no rules and no assigned structure.

They’re experiencing sensations of flying and soaring. These sensations are feeding back into their body processes and into their minds. The hard wiring is giving way.

You could say they’re training for an encounter with an intelligence that’s completely alien to Earth.

There are analogues to what I’m discussing here. For example, microtonal music. You tune a piano so that, altogether, 88 keys display the range of sounds contained within just one octave of a conventional piano. Going from the lowest note to the highest on the microtonal piano, you hear thin slices and graduations of notes that cover, all told, no more ground than one octave of a normal piano.

You sit at the microtonal piano and you play. And play. And play.

You listen to what you play.

At first, it’s repugnant. It’s not only dissonant, it’s absurdly muddy.

But after a few months of playing that piano every day, you begin to hear something. It comes through. And the sensations it brings might remind you of places you’ve been, experiences you’ve had. But they go further, into a void where new sensations and meanings you can’t name are possible, are happening. Are real. Eventually, super-real.

These sensations flood your endocrine system, and new proportions and sequences of hormones are produced. You experience feelings you’d forgotten or never had before.

The spectrum of feeling and thought expands.

Your whole notion of what you can experience and understand changes.

Your imagination is gearing up.

You never seriously considered there could be seven comprehensible sounds between any two keys on an ordinary piano. Now, you’re not only hearing them, they make sense. They convey emotion.

This would be like saying that, between each word in the sentence, “I want to go outside,” there are seven other words, and every one of them is an action verb.


Exit From the Matrix

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


When you understand that expanded and exploded sentence, perhaps then you can talk to a captured alien from Parsec-12. He can talk to you.

After your first conversation, when you walk out of the facility where he’s under heavy guard, take the elevator down to the parking lot, and drive through the gate, you look at the desert and you see things you never saw before.

You understand why magic was hard to do. It was all supposed to be taking place in a tight reality of unbreakable connections. But now those connections have snapped. The landscape, any landscape, is much more inclusive and malleable.

You’re reminded things were this way once. And now processes in your body open up. There is a reason for them to change. They secrete information and energy that have been dormant for a long time. Dormant, because there was no use for them.

The cells in your nervous system wake up to a remarkable degree. They’ve been waiting for this moment. They turn down the volume on the perverted game show called Life they’ve been glued to for 40 years. They project rays in all directions. Your physical aliveness shifts up exponentially.

Through the walls of the holding facility behind you, you can see the alien. He’s nodding at you. Yes, he’s thinking. You’re getting the message.

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 Proposition in Astral Locale 27-B

The Proposition in Astral Locale 27-B

A short story

(Copyright © 2016 by Jon Rappoport)

December 14, 2016

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. He felt velvet hands and suctioned fingers slide along him, and he grew cold in the submarine depths.

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 archangels; 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.

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

The dreamer was back in the cabin of the jet. The 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. Burton 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?”

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 Judge Hirsch 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.”

He heard 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? How do they arrive at that status?”

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 travels higher than faith. Because faith’s been misappropriated. Faith 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…”

“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 theoretical 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 it 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.

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.


power outside the matrix

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


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.

I heard the long faraway crashing sound again.

…if we begin to speak words that are alive, there would be no machine that could interpret our meaning.

…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 coming in 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. We’re in a scene-shifter locale. Things change. You have a speech to give, before the King.”

“The what?”

“He and his cartel people just moved into the White House. They’re shipping big weight out of the Rose Garden. No more cover stories.”

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.