Imagination soars again

Imagination soars again

by Jon Rappoport

August 4, 2016

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

In life and in art, so many people believe that, if they use imagination at all, it should be in a cautious way, a limited way, a way that doesn’t stretch the boundaries too far.

This is looking through the wrong end of the telescope.

One understands how elastic and malleable reality is, to the degree he exercises his imagination to move past conventional limits and out into the wild blue.

In fact, reality is imagination that has been slowed to a crawl, coalesced, bundled up, named, labeled, and slipped into a coma.

The most ponderous reading I’ve ever done is in the area of Western metaphysical philosophy—and that subject is filled to the brim with ideas that move, if at all, at a snail’s pace—and there is a barely a mention of imagination in its entire history.

No surprise. Why? Because, if philosophers elevated imagination to its proper status, they would have to admit that all their absolutes were merely temporary stop-gaps on the ongoing road of infinite inventing. Such a confession would immediately put them out of work.

So these dragons of the abstract keep buttressing their concepts, keep digging impenetrable moats around them, keep shoring up the foundations, keep laying brick and iron—and yet, one painter, working somewhere in an isolated room, is upsetting the apple carts of whatever is supposedly nailed down and known about Universe and space and time. He is finding universes without end, in the midst of “stability.”

Civilization keeps sinking deeper into its own stagnant juices, looking to support more irrevocable absolutes—but the artist is cut loose from the whole struggle. He is a revolutionary inside every cell and nerve impulse.

He knows he, and what he is inventing, are endless. They don’t move or exist by virtue of any clock.

There is no birth or renewal without the artist.

In the same way, the future of every single human being depends on what he can imagine and invent. This fact cuts across all excuses and denials.


Exit From the Matrix


The world is always waiting for the next great flare-up of an individual’s life-force and creative impulse. This is the carrier wave, the frequency, the restless motion that moves souls.

There are some people who hear the word CREATE and wake up, as if a new flashing music has begun. This lone word makes them see something majestic and untamed and astonishing. They feel the sound of a Niagara approaching. CREATE is a word that should be oceanic. It should shake and blow apart the pillars of the smug boredom of the soul. CREATE is about what the individual does when he is on fire and doesn’t care about concealing it. It’s about what the individual invents when he has thrown off the false front that is slowly strangling him. CREATE is about the end of mindless postponement. It’s about what happens when you burn up the pretty and petty little obsessions. It’s about emerging from the empty suit and empty machine of society that goes around and around and sucks away the vital bloodstream.

In the soaring sky, in the muck of old rivers, in the garbage and detritus of fading civilizations, this force is always on the move, always transmuting delay into the new fire of what would otherwise never come about…

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.

8 comments on “Imagination soars again

  1. ….And this was forged by the cult on materialism, first driven by Catholic imposters that could not replicate “miracles” and then by the post French(/US) revolutionary Zionists (keepers of the fortress) that manufactured “unbreakable science” and their fascist interpretation of “morality”.

    Best
    OT

  2. Doug says:

    CREATE! Thanks Jon for the reminder.

  3. demetrius13 says:

    What’s not to love? Creating, seen in this light, becomes more majestic and vital than l ever imagined!

  4. newmediatechblogger says:

    Jon, imagination was central to thinkers such as Bruno, Fincino, and others who were indeed philosophers, though steeped in the esoteric traditions. Frances Yates covers this well. For a direct link from Bruno to Madison Avenue, you’d do well to review Eros and Magic in the Rennaissance but Ioan Couliano. It’s in your wheelhouse.

  5. Dominic Cook says:

    Mythopoeia by JRR Tolkien.

    To one [C.S. Lewis] who said that myths were lies and therefore worthless, even though ‘breathed through silver’.

    Philomythus to Misomythus

    You look at trees and label them just so,
    (for trees are ‘trees’, and growing is ‘to grow’);
    you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
    one of the many minor globes of Space:
    a star’s a star, some matter in a ball
    compelled to courses mathematical
    amid the regimented, cold, inane,
    where destined atoms are each moment slain.

    At bidding of a Will, to which we bend
    (and must), but only dimly apprehend,
    great processes march on, as Time unrolls
    from dark beginnings to uncertain goals;
    and as on page o’er-written without clue,
    with script and limning packed of various hue,
    an endless multitude of forms appear,
    some grim, some frail, some beautiful, some queer,
    each alien, except as kin from one
    remote Origo, gnat, man, stone, and sun.
    God made the petreous rocks, the arboreal trees,
    tellurian earth, and stellar stars, and these
    homuncular men, who walk upon the ground
    with nerves that tingle touched by light and sound.
    The movements of the sea, the wind in boughs,
    green grass, the large slow oddity of cows,
    thunder and lightning, birds that wheel and cry,
    slime crawling up from mud to live and die,
    these each are duly registered and print
    the brain’s contortions with a separate dint.
    Yet trees are not ‘trees’, until so named and seen
    and never were so named, tifi those had been
    who speech’s involuted breath unfurled,
    faint echo and dim picture of the world,
    but neither record nor a photograph,
    being divination, judgement, and a laugh
    response of those that felt astir within
    by deep monition movements that were kin
    to life and death of trees, of beasts, of stars:
    free captives undermining shadowy bars,
    digging the foreknown from experience
    and panning the vein of spirit out of sense.
    Great powers they slowly brought out of themselves
    and looking backward they beheld the elves
    that wrought on cunning forges in the mind,
    and light and dark on secret looms entwined.

    He sees no stars who does not see them first
    of living silver made that sudden burst
    to flame like flowers bencath an ancient song,
    whose very echo after-music long
    has since pursued. There is no firmament,
    only a void, unless a jewelled tent
    myth-woven and elf-pattemed; and no earth,
    unless the mother’s womb whence all have birth.
    The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
    but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
    and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
    Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
    Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
    and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
    his world-dominion by creative act:
    not his to worship the great Artefact,
    Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
    through whom is splintered from a single White
    to many hues, and endlessly combined
    in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
    Though all the crannies of the world we filled
    with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
    Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
    and sowed the seed of dragons, ’twas our right
    (used or misused). The right has not decayed.
    We make still by the law in which we’re made.

    Yes! ‘wish-fulfilment dreams’ we spin to cheat
    our timid hearts and ugly Fact defeat!
    Whence came the wish, and whence the power to dream,
    or some things fair and others ugly deem?
    All wishes are not idle, nor in vain
    fulfilment we devise — for pain is pain,
    not for itself to be desired, but ill;
    or else to strive or to subdue the will
    alike were graceless; and of Evil this
    alone is deadly certain: Evil is.

    Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
    that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
    that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
    though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
    weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
    hoped and believed in under Shadow’s sway.

    Blessed are the men of Noah’s race that build
    their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
    and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
    a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.

    Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme
    of things not found within recorded time.
    It is not they that have forgot the Night,
    or bid us flee to organized delight,
    in lotus-isles of economic bliss
    forswearing souls to gain a Circe-kiss
    (and counterfeit at that, machine-produced,
    bogus seduction of the twice-seduced).
    Such isles they saw afar, and ones more fair,
    and those that hear them yet may yet beware.
    They have seen Death and ultimate defeat,
    and yet they would not in despair retreat,
    but oft to victory have tuned the lyre
    and kindled hearts with legendary fire,
    illuminating Now and dark Hath-been
    with light of suns as yet by no man seen.

    I would that I might with the minstrels sing
    and stir the unseen with a throbbing string.
    I would be with the mariners of the deep
    that cut their slender planks on mountains steep
    and voyage upon a vague and wandering quest,
    for some have passed beyond the fabled West.
    I would with the beleaguered fools be told,
    that keep an inner fastness where their gold,
    impure and scanty, yet they loyally bring
    to mint in image blurred of distant king,
    or in fantastic banners weave the sheen
    heraldic emblems of a lord unseen.

    I will not walk with your progressive apes,
    erect and sapient. Before them gapes
    the dark abyss to which their progress tends
    if by God’s mercy progress ever ends,
    and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
    unfruitful course with changing of a name.
    I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
    denoting this and that by this and that,
    your world immutable wherein no part
    the little maker has with maker’s art.
    I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
    nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.

    In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
    from gazing upon everlasting Day
    to see the day illumined, and renew
    from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
    Then looking on the Blessed Land ’twill see
    that all is as it is, and yet made free:
    Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
    garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.
    Evil it will not see, for evil lies
    not in God’s picture but in crooked eyes,
    not in the source but in malicious choice,
    and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.
    In Paradise they look no more awry;
    and though they make anew, they make no lie.
    Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
    and poets shall have flames upon their head,
    and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
    there each shall choose for ever from the All.

  6. Dominic Cook says:

    From Mythopoeia by JRR Tolkien

    I will not walk with your progressive apes,
    erect and sapient. Before them gapes
    the dark abyss to which their progress tends
    if by God’s mercy progress ever ends,
    and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
    unfruitful course with changing of a name.
    I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
    denoting this and that by this and that,
    your world immutable wherein no part
    the little maker has with maker’s art.
    I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
    nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.

    In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
    from gazing upon everlasting Day
    to see the day illumined, and renew
    from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
    Then looking on the Blessed Land ’twill see
    that all is as it is, and yet made free:
    Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
    garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.
    Evil it will not see, for evil lies
    not in God’s picture but in crooked eyes,
    not in the source but in malicious choice,
    and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.
    In Paradise they look no more awry;
    and though they make anew, they make no lie.
    Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
    and poets shall have flames upon their head,
    and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
    there each shall choose for ever from the All.

  7. Dear Jon,

    If you were to send me your mailing address, I would respond with a sample of your so powerful and true words. I could not read it through for the energy, I live it. Thank you for letting your light shine.

    [Mara]

    Puerto Rico

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