If hidden technology were exposed for all to see

by Jon Rappoport

April 19, 2019

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Note: I have couched this piece in FICTION, which is a convenient way to pinpoint hidden trends…

While the cathedral of Notre Dame burned and grabbed headlines all over the world, a little noticed development took place along the Texas-Mexico border in a town called Twin. A reporter for the Twin Clarion wrote the following:

“In a heavily guarded Twin facility belonging to Two Border Oil, Inc., a massive leak of information occurred. Letters, emails, memos, and studies made their way ‘out the door’. These documents, taken together, spell out an unmistakable series of developments in the energy sector: new cutting edge forms of energy have been successfully tested and confirmed. A Border Oil executive (name blacked out) stated, in a memo to his seniors: ‘It now appears certain that the age of energy decentralization is upon us. Within the next several years, we will be able to produce small highly efficient “energy packs” at shockingly low prices. These packs will enable any person anywhere on the planet to power personal devices, without the use of oil. Obviously, we must do everything possible to prevent this revolution. The technological breakthrough would necessitate the reorganization of society along lines of extreme decentralization. The population of the planet is not prepared. Traditional political and economic structures would collapse. We would see the emergence of a new type of system—not capitalistic as we know it, and not socialistic. The individual would be empowered at a level never before seen. The collective energy grid would be superseded and made obsolete within a decade. The mechanics (physics) of this breakthrough are not totally understood—but it is clear that the tests of the technology are overwhelmingly positive and repeatable. At one point it was thought that a community of companies could control all the relevant patents, but this promise has faded. The engineering for the “new energy” is rather simple. Its method would quickly sweep across the planet and be absorbed. Our only alternative is to continue to keep the whole development secret. I enclose expert testimonies and test results for your inspection, so you can confirm what I and others already know. Our research has brought us across a bridge into a future we cannot control, predict, or fully fathom…’”

The Twin reporter continued: “A high-ranking scientist who works at a European energy company replied: ‘I’m quite sure I understand the breakthrough you’re referring to, and I can say that this is not the only one of great magnitude in the energy field. There are several others—each one different, and each one offering the same promise: the availability of small and cheap energy devices that would make The Individual self-sufficient. We are at a highly dangerous crossroad…’”

The Twin reporter: “A quite different memo has surfaced…this one appears to have been written by a senior public relations executive for a company located in England—‘Our efforts to squelch knowledge of several key energy breakthroughs have foundered on the rocks. We have somehow been outflanked. We set up a number of false fronts, inventors of technology who were actually on our payroll, who were destined to fail, who were intentional fakers. We thought that, in this way, we could discredit the whole alternative energy movement, but this has not been the case. Instead, interest in new forms of energy has increased. There is now a popular sentiment in favor of true decentralized energy platforms. We are retrenching our position. It’s possible we can predict new energy breakthroughs, but couch these estimates in terms of huge production costs, thereby making it seem that actual practical usage is decades away. We have analysts and reporters primed in this direction, should we choose it as our next step…”

A professor at Harvard offers his analysis in the leaked documents: “Self-sufficient energy usage (SSEU) will take focus away from national governments. Imagine these governments flailing at each other in their usual manner, but in the absence of interest and concern on the part of the citizenry. Politicians would look like sheer buffoons. It would be on the order of doctors insisting on expensive and quite risky surgery, when ingesting a small harmless food pill would cure the condition and thus make the surgery appear to be an absolutely insane solution for a problem that no longer exists…”

An opinion is put forward by a leader in the American Socialist Party: “Even if these estimates of SSEU are correct, the consequences would contradict and destroy every principle we have attempted to ingrain in the population. Untold numbers of individuals who can own and regulate their own energy will obviate the need for collective answers and programs…Even though SSEU will improve the condition of the environment, the very notion of individuals in charge of their own separate destinies will wreak psychological havoc in ways we as yet barely understand. We must stand for The Group, no matter what lurks over the horizon…”

All in all, the titanic leaks coming out of Big Oil sketch a campaign that is desperately trying to turn back the clock, framing civilization’s problems as they may have existed 50 years ago, thus requiring old centralized and authoritarian responses that no longer apply. It’s really a form of time travel—an attempt to force everyone to move backwards and be what they once were, not what they are now, or could be tomorrow…

The Twin reporter concludes: “I have in my possession a memo written by a research physicist at a Midwestern US oil company. It suggests the most radical position of all in this deeply shocking situation. The physicist states: ‘It appears that a variety of approaches produce technologies that run cars, buses, trains, planes, localized electrical grids, and home energy devices—for pennies. In other words, a great deal depends on the mindset of the isolated lone inventor. He can, as it were, come up with a description of a tiny particle no one has ever heard of, develop mathematics that describes its motion and other characteristics, and eventually discover (or invent) energy technology that actually works in a revolutionary manner. All these different scientific approaches seem to contradict each other, but clearly they don’t. In some way, they are complementary. How is this possible? We need to rethink our fundamentals about consciousness itself…’”


The Matrix Revealed

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, The Matrix Revealed, 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.

A Fable of Modern Medicine

by Jon Rappoport

April 17, 2019

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Note: This is a fictional look at what, in a half-sane world, would come to pass. The Starfield review, which I cite, is quite real.

Today, on July 4, in celebration of the founding of this country, a mass of medical doctors has suddenly stepped forward to make a stunning statement. This group numbers in the hundreds, if not thousands (the final tally is not yet in). Here are some of the highlights of their joint communication, which is intended for every citizen of the United States—

“The pricing of medical drugs is a shameful fact of life. Companies are routinely placing profits over saving lives. This practice must cease.”

“Many hundreds of these drugs are both unnecessary and harmful. We cite, among other studies and analyses, a review, “Is US Health Really the Best in the World?”, published in the Journal of the American Medical Association on July 26, 2000, authored by the late Dr. Barbara Starfield, who, at the time, was a revered public health expert at the Johns Hopkins School of Public Health. Dr. Starfield concluded that, each year in the US, medical drugs kill 106,000 people. The medical system as a whole kills 225,000 Americans per year. This latter figure extrapolates to 2.25 million deaths per decade, laid at the door of modern medical practice. No systematic attempt has been made to remedy this ongoing tragedy or establish culpability.”

“Thousands of unnecessary surgeries take place every year. This practice must cease. It is not only intrusive; it causes great harm.”

“Driven by sheer profits, a massive propaganda campaign has been blanketing the country. The goal of the campaign is to cover up the fact that building the immune system of every individual is the prime mission of medical help—and that effort is not medical at all. It involves clean nutritious food, clean air and water, exercise, and other basics of living.”

“We regret to inform the public that immunization through vaccines is a severely flawed program, involving the injection of toxic chemicals and a variety of germs. Not only does this not produce immunity from disease and illness, it gravely harms the body. It must be stopped. This will take a massive re-education program. We are prepared to help.”

“Why are we, as a group, stepping forward? Because we have reached the boiling point. Because we are guilty. Because we have violated our sacred oaths. Because we have awakened from the trance produced by our education and training. When we follow correct guidelines, we can produce much good in the area of crisis/trauma care. But in our day to day work, we deal with many other factors, and here we are woefully deficient. Supported and backed by medical boards and governments, we have become excessively prideful and dishonest. What is a return to honesty doing for us? Already, law enforcement officials are hunting our group down and attempting to prosecute us for speaking out. But this will not work. We are too many. We are resolute. We refuse to do more harm. This refusal is not criminal or insane; it is necessary…”

Following the issuance of this statement, state and federal attorneys general have denounced these doctors and promised to “bring them to justice.” Medical authorities have begun an internal hunt to root out “radicals.” But this huge group of doctors have signed their statement. They are out in the open. What they ask for is the help of the public in avoiding drastic consequences.

In another section of their statement, the dissenting physicians demand this: “Executives and scientists who work for pharmaceutical companies must share the blame; they must be charged with crimes and tried in courts before juries…”

Perhaps most shocking—this group of defecting medical doctors is growing larger. Buoyed by the presence of colleagues who are exposing the truth, new physicians are coming on board. They are demanding the rejection of state laws aimed at forcing vaccinations on young schoolchildren…


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.

You can have consciousness made out of poetry or brain surgery

by Jon Rappoport

March 25, 2019

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—recounted as a dialogue—

“Well, Jim, we found a few interesting things when we went into your brain.”

“Really?”

“Yes. A whole lot of poems, in fact.”

“What?! Impossible. That has to be a mistake. I’m just an ordinary guy. I go to work, have a few beers, take the train home, eat dinner, read the paper, do a little note-writing on experiments at the lab, go to bed around midnight…”

“Jim, I’m not asking for your biography—”

“I know, Doc, but what you’re telling me is crazy. I like a limerick now and then, but the weird stuff…Shakespeare and Milton…that’s for the dome heads. I’m just…”

“You’re a regular guy. Got that, Jim. However, I can show you X-rays. Scans. There’s poetry in your brain, and it’s threatening to take over your cerebral cortex unless we go in and do a second surgery.”

“Take over? You’re joking.”

“You have to face up to a few things, Jimbo. You’re actually posing as just another Joe, and it’s a good impression, I’m sure, but inside you there are poems waiting to come out. And if they do, it’s going to get ugly, believe me. For one thing, you’ll see more.”

“See more what?”

“More of what existence can be.”

“THERE ISN’T ANYTHING MORE. There’s what I do every day. My work. My family. My salary. Beers with the boys. Football. I love football.”

“Yes, we all love football, Jim. It’s mandatory. But you…let me read one of the poems we found in your brain.”

“HELL NO.”

“It won’t hurt that much.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Now as I was young and easy, under the apple boughs, about the lilting house, and happy as the grass was green—”

“STOP!”

“Okay, Jim, take it easy, it’s in your head, don’t blame me. We’ve discovered that…how I can put this…on some level you’re always thinking in poetry. Your whole consciousness is involved, and if we were to take the poems away, you’d go into a deep sleep, a kind of amnesia, perhaps a coma, and you’d never wake up. So we can’t surgically remove the poems. At best we can bury them deeper.”

“Do it. Bury them. Bury them all.”

“Yes, Jim, but hear me out. If we do that, you’ll lose something.”

“You mean I won’t like football anymore?”

“No, Jim. You’ll still have football. But you might not have beer. Just kidding. Ha-ha. What you might lose is your interest in life.”

“What do you mean?”

“You may not feel alive in the same way. You could become very dull.”

“How’s that possible, Doc. You’re just getting rid of poems. Who cares?”

“Well, Jim, apparently you do. As much as you’d like to deny it, your existence, your feeling about what it means to be alive—even though you’re trying to emphasize how ordinary you are—is wrapped up in a certain poetic consciousness. I know, it’s strange. But again, don’t blame me.”

“Look, Doc, you went into my skull to remove some kind of little blockage. And then you came up with these poems. And now you want to bury them. But you say if you do, I might turn into a zombie.”

“In the surgery, Jim, there was a leakage. Poems started to come through. We put in a plug, but it’s just temporary. It’s a delicate situation. Going back in a second time, we either let out all the poems, or we build a thicker wall.”

“Let me ask you a question, Doc. This thing, consciousness. What is it?”

“It’s two things, Jim. It’s what makes you know you’re alive, and it’s also how you’re alive. That second part is tricky. You’re alive, Jim, through connecting with the rhythm and sound of certain thoughts, certain energies. And these energies would NEVER come through to you if it weren’t for language, and that language is poetic. It’s much greater than the reality we see around us. You dampen down that language, Jim, because you want to appear normal. It’s your goal in life, to pretend not to understand anything about this. Do you see? You want to come off like a regular guy, who’s smart and good at his job, and who knows what’s happening in the world. But you don’t want to admit you’re connected to…that thing you’re afraid of.”

“But LOOK. I AM a regular guy. All right, so I read the newspaper and I can look behind the stories and I can see a lot of the con games the government is playing on people. I can see crimes and conspiracies. I know something about who’s running the show, who’s behind the curtain. I take pride in that. But this poetry thing. It’s crazy.”

“Yes, I understand, Jim. But that’s not going to cut it in this case. We’re at a serious crossroad. We have to do something. You’re playing with fire, trying to deny your connection. On some level, you’re participating in a greater reality. You’re thinking on a different plane, and that thinking is what we call poetry. We could call it Budweiser, but it wouldn’t make any difference. It’s thought with higher force. It’s great and grand ideas. And they’re coming from you, from your mind. You want to say you’re living in a pond, but you’re living in the ocean. Let me put it this way. If you weren’t accessing oceanic consciousness, you couldn’t step it all down and appear to be a normal very smart guy. It wouldn’t work. You’d have nothing to dampen down.”

“What would I be?”

“A broccoli. A head of lettuce.”

“You’re serious?”

“As serious as an aneurism, Jim.”

“Geez, Doc, this is bad. My whole reputation, my whole rep with MYSELF is riding on the fact that I’m a hardheaded realist. Do you get what’s at stake here?”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m being so forthcoming. I could have put you under without you knowing it and just cut into your skull again. But I wanted to explain the whole thing to you and give you a choice. You see, Jim, the truth is we’re all living in a charade. We’re all faking it. We’re pretending we don’t have these fantastic energies in us. We’re all stepping it down to average and normal and smart.

It just so happens that, by the luck of the draw, my assistant in the OR nicked a little piece of your brain and opened up a portal into what we’re all trying to avoid. We’re all hooked up to our own poetic centers. We all see life in much wider and deeper terms. I don’t mean little stupid rhymes. I mean great language that vaults us up into atmospheres and spaces that…well, I can’t really do it justice sitting here talking to you. But this is mind control here, Jim. The most profound kind. Self-induced. We do it to ourselves. We cut off access. We keep ourselves ignorant about the language we have…the genuine language that comes out of imagination. If I operate on you again, there’s a chance the wall we build will be too thick, and you’ll wake up with very little awareness. You’ll be regular and normal and average for real. And trust me, Jim, that’s a nightmare. I’ve seen it. The person is, to put it kindly, at an enormous disadvantage.”

“What should I do, Doc?”

“Take a chance, Jim. Let us clear away any scar tissue and just leave an open portal. Let the language and the energies come through. From one faker to another, go for it. Go for the great adventure. Who knows what’ll it be? One thing’s for sure. You won’t be sitting here whining to me. You’ll be you. Dealing with that won’t be easy, but with enough guts, you could make it through. You could show us what we don’t want to see.”

“Doesn’t sound very appealing.”

“That won’t be your problem, Jim. I guarantee it. The problem is, it’ll be too appealing.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way. Being who you are is what you’ve sacrificed your whole life. You’re going to retract that sacrifice. Think of it that way. You’re going to pull away the sacrifice like an old coat and burn it in the fire of a thousand new suns…”

“Or else come back as a carrot.”

“Pretty much. People around you will still think you’re Jim, but inside you won’t be anybody or anything. You’ll be a robot with no real consciousness.”

“I hate poetry, Doc.”

“Why do you think that is, Jim?”

“I don’t know. I want things to be simple and clear. Like a story. Beginning, middle, end.”

“Wrapped up like a nice neat package.”

“That’s right.”

“Like your life.”

“Why not?”

“You tell me.”

“I hate poetry.”

“We all do, Jim. It reminds us of something we’d rather forget.”

“So help me forget it, Doc.”

“You want to be a zombie.”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Imagine a world full of zombies, Jim. Everybody cut off from their oceanic consciousness. No poetry ever again.”

“Sounds good. Sounds like realism. No more conflict. No more demons.”

“Demons? Is that what you think I’m talking about, Jim? Your greatest thoughts and energies expressed with their greatest force, with raw beauty and—”

“They’re not RATIONAL, Doc. They’re meaningless. I don’t understand those thoughts. They don’t make any sense.”

“If we build that wall in your brain, Jim, what’s left of you will be a machine. Do you get that?”

“That’s what I want. I want to be a machine. I’ll be fine.”

“Well…okay, kid. Your choice. Your destiny. We’ll prep you for surgery. We’ll make those trillion watts of energy shrink down to a ten-watt bulb.”

“This thing you call poetic consciousness, Doc? It’s just a delusion. And I want to get rid of it.”

“Okay, Jim, I’ll put the genie back in the bottle.”

“Nice talking to you, Doc.”

“I wish that were true, Jim. TYGER, TYGER, BURNING BRIGHT, IN THE FORESTS OF THE NIGHT, WHAT IMMORTAL HAND OR EYE COULD FRAME THY FEARFUL SYMMETRY?”

“See, Doc. That’s just what I mean. What the hell kind of talk is that? I don’t understand it! Get rid of it!”

“Sorry, kid, it just slipped out. I’ll go get ready. Relax. The nurse’ll be in in a minute. Piece of cake.”

“Poetry. Ridiculous. It’s for idiots.”

“Sure, kid.”

“We don’t need poets.”


“Of course not. One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is
myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or
ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can
wait.

My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are
with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I
translate into a new tongue.

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

…I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,
I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.

Press close bare-bosom’d night — press close magnetic
nourishing night!
Night of south winds — night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night — mad naked summer night.

Smile O voluptuous cool-breath’d earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset — earth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbow’d earth — rich apple-blossom’d earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.

Prodigal, you have given me love — therefore I to you give
love!”


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.

Planning the Matrix

~a short story~

by Jon Rappoport

January 2, 2019

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Voices in an office…

“We can frame the boundaries of manufactured reality. We can stage events and actual happenings. But we also have to infiltrate SUBJECTIVE PERCEPTION and fold it into the overall setup—not that we actually produce every single private thought or image or idea, but we insert seeds that bloom inside the mind, and then when they come to fruition, they appear to be OBJECTIVE EVENTS.”

“We’ll eventually have a magnificent official religion lowered without blood on the population, wireless connections that spark between brains, people will worship an unknown deity, we’ll deliver ‘booster shots’, transmitted bursts of compressed pseudodata.”

“The medical op is important…insert genes, inject deadly chemicals, weakens immune systems, spray them with cancer cells, roll synthetic lumps of disease into dark cities at 4am, calls them a cancer vaccine.”

“People line up to get born into the Earth-op-scene like countless dreamers standing at the edge of the same dream, and only some realize they can make it, can step forward, the rest just watch…you can get in if you TRY…no guarantee though…if you make it, you’re smack in the middle of the WAR SEX RELIGION MONEY movie…”

“We need layers on layers of agents and dupes and cutouts to do our work for us. Impenetrable. We teach them how to run an op. The plan, the execution, the cover story, the fake identities, the false trails, the limited hangouts.”

“We need an information machine to dispense these cover stories to the public. It’ll be called THE NEWS. It’ll seem to come from different sources, but every major story will turn out to be the same, from all the news outlets. The news machine will blanket the planet.”

“We need to keep the population in a state of confusion and doubt, an outer shell within which they believe they can find security. They’re always burrowing further IN, into smaller and smaller spaces to find safety.”

“Each individual has enormous hidden power, but we’ll keep that walled off from them…it’s our most important goal.”

“We’ll promote the idea that an individual reclaiming his own power and imagination is violating a natural law and trying to become a god against God.”

Silence.

The voices went away.

In the next office, a man whose job it was to sweep floors and mop the hallways was taking a break. He was sitting at a desk sleeping. In his dream, he heard the voices.

He woke up.

He tried to remember what he heard.

“WAR SEX RELIGION MONEY.” All interesting subjects, but it seemed the words had been spoken in a curious way, as if they were themes for an enterprise, part of a calculated plan.

A vision rose in his mind.

A movie in the world. The world in a movie. A movie springing from a single point, blossoming into four dimensions, for everyone.

Seeing this vision, he could back up from it.

He was sitting in a Void. Yet he was still in the office.

He glanced over at his mop and pail in the corner.

The mop spoke to him. It said, “This is your role. Drudgery.”

He blinked.

A word with torn edges of flame came rising up toward him, faster and faster:

NO.


The Matrix Revealed

(To read about Jon’s mega-collection, The Matrix Revealed, 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 normal citizen receives a shock to the system

by Jon Rappoport

November 14, 2018

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John Q Jones had a nice job, a nice family, a nice house, and a nice yard. Everything was nice.

Then one day, he was walking down the street near his office and a soft explosion went off in his head.

He looked around and saw a young woman sitting in a parked car. She was reading a newspaper. And he realized he was reading her mind.

She was thinking about a vacation, a trip to Alaska, a boat ride, a book, a boyfriend. He was reading her thoughts and the sensation of doing it was exquisite, quite lucid, quite simple.

He was thrilled beyond measure. For a moment, he thought he would take off and fly.

A few hours later, he left work and went to see his psychiatrist.

“I have a problem,” he said. “Today, I read a person’s mind. And it was wonderful.”

“Hmm,” the doctor said, “I have a diagnosis for that. Paranoid schizophrenia. Possibly Bipolar.”

“Good,” Jones said. “I need a diagnosis right away, and drugs.”

“I’m the man with the drugs,” the psychiatrist said. “Let’s start you off with a sedative for sleeping and a bit of Haldol for your psychosis.”

“Sounds good,” Jones said, “but what if it doesn’t work? What if tomorrow, out of the blue, I read someone else’s mind?”

“Then come back and see me,” the psychiatrist said, “and I’ll up the dosage. Don’t worry.”

“The feeling of wonderful will go away?” Jones asked.

“Do you want it to?” the psychiatrist said.

“You bet I do. It’s the hook. I could yearn after it, and who knows what I might do then?”

“Pleasure is a tough one,” the psychiatrist said. “We pursue it, sometimes to our own detriment. I favor neutrality in all things.”

“So did I,” Jones said, “until today. Now I have a…what would you call it…a desire. And it’s scaring me.”

“Desire is the beginning of all suffering,” the psychiatrist said. “I read that somewhere.”

“The worst part,” Jones said, “is that I’m becoming aware of a different space and time.”

“Dangerous,” the psychiatrist agreed. “I’m a member of a committee formed to look into other spaces and times. We’re hoping to draft legislation that outlaws them.”

“I hope you succeed,” Jones said. “Suppose I couldn’t come back to my nice house and my nice life without feeling odd? That would be terrible. I’m a round peg in a round hole and I want to stay that way. You know, we go to church every Sunday. The Church of Statistical Average. The congregation is growing. It’s perfect for us. We love it.”

“I understand,” the psychiatrist said.

All this time, he had been reading Jones’ mind, and Jones had been reading his. They both saw a profound yearning and a profound sadness in the other.

“Perhaps I should consider a lobotomy,” Jones said.

“I wouldn’t rush into that,” the psychiatrist said.

Jones saw that the psychiatrist a) wanted a lobotomy and b) wished for the courage to go through with it.

The psychiatrist saw that Jones wanted to read minds all the time and experience the intense pleasure of leaving ordinary space and time. That was perfectly understandable. Who, having known the sensation, wouldn’t desire it again?

Jones saw that the psychiatrist longed to swim in the ocean of telepathic communication.

The psychiatrist saw that Jones wanted to become unconscious and float like a space-rock in the galaxy, with no consciousness whatsoever.

“How is your wife?” the psychiatrist said.

“Fine,” Jones said. “And your family?”

“Very well, fine,” the psychiatrist said. “Are you still sailing on weekends?”

“Now and then,” Jones said. “The weather’s been cold lately.”

“Yes, it has been.”

“Are you still playing bridge at the club?”

“Most Friday nights.”

Jones reached out and placed a thought in the consciousness of the psychiatrist: “Help me.”

Silently, the psychiatrist answered: “I need help, too.”

The walls and ceiling of the psychiatrist’s office fell away and exposed a great dark warm space.

The two men began to weep.

“We’re alone,” they thought.

Then Jones said, out loud, “Suppose everyone is like us?”

Faintly, they heard band music, and then people appeared, whispering among themselves and quietly playing instruments, or perhaps the whispering was coming from the instruments.

“I think we just died,” Jones said.

“No,” the psychiatrist said. “This is a womb filled with friends. We’re being born. They’re waiting for us to emerge.”

“Emerge into what?”

“Happiness.”

“The happiness of being ourselves?” Jones said.

“It appears so,” the psychiatrist said. “We were in a play.”

“What kind of play?”

“I don’t know,” the psychiatrist said, “but it’s closing. It had a good run, but ticket sales are declining, and the producers are resigned. They’ve given the order to strike the sets.”

“The producers?”

“They designed everything we thought we were.”

Jones laughed.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed at anything. He thought he was going to jump out of his skin. He tried to bring himself under control.

He laughed harder and that led to weeping.

He smelled fire.

“Something’s burning,” he said.

“No,” the psychiatrist said. “Some one. I’m burning. Can’t you see it?”

Jones strained at the darkness. He saw an object rising like a rocket.

“Don’t leave me,” he said.

The psychiatrist shouted over a roar, “I can’t wait anymore!”

Jones took off, too. He rose above his station, and felt the heat.

And then, suddenly, they were back in the psychiatrist’s office, sitting, facing each other.

“Your wife is still pursuing a graduate degree?” the psychiatrist was saying.

“Why yes,” Jones said. “Two evenings a week, and weekends. Her advisor tells her she’s an exceptional student.”

“I’m sure that pleases her.”

“It does, yes.”

“We’re almost out of time,” the psychiatrist said. “Anything else in our remaining moments?”

“Yes,” Jones said. “One thing. Have you ever felt you were in a commercial promoting the very thing you were doing at the moment?”

The psychiatrist smiled.

“Almost every day.”

He stood up. Jones stood up. They shook hands and Jones left the office.

On the street, as he walked back to his office, he said to himself, “I’m normal, I’m average, I’m normal, I’m average…”

His eyelids were heavy. Fatigue spread through his body. He staggered into an alley and sat down on the pavement next to a dumpster. He fell asleep.

Sometime later, his memories foggy, he was stretched out on the grass in a park near the river.

Lights were shining in his eyes. He blinked and looked up. He saw a cameraman and a woman in a pink suit holding a microphone.

“We’re doing a story on the homeless,” she said. “I’m from KGR News. How did you end up here, sir? Would you tell us?”

Jones tried to shake off his intense weariness.

He stood up, scratched at the stubble of his beard, and grabbed the microphone from the newswoman.

“Hey!” she said.

“Would you tell me,” Jones said, “how you ended up in the stage play called Your Life?”

He threw the microphone down and lumbered away across the park lawn.

He walked several miles, entered the Grand Hotel, took out his credit card, and walked up to the check-in counter.

The clerk looked at him and frowned.

“I know,” Jones said. “I’m a mess. I’m in actor in a play in town. We just closed our run and I didn’t bother changing my costume. I’d like your best room for a day. I want to clean up and get some sleep.”

The clerk gingerly took Jones’ credit card and ran it. He was surprised to find it had a hundred-thousand-dollar limit.

“Of course, sir,” he said. “I understand.”

An hour later, showered and shaved, Jones called room service and had them send up a meal.

After devouring a steak and mashed potatoes, he called his tailor and asked for a rush job on a new suit. He spoke to the hotel concierge and put in an order for underwear, socks, a shirt, and a tie from a local department store.

Four hours later, he looked in the mirror in the bathroom and saw himself as he was: businessman, husband, father, pillar of the community.

He was about to call his wife and assure her he was fine, when he glanced at the sliding glass door and saw his psychiatrist sitting out on the balcony calmly smoking a cigarette.

Jones walked over to the door, opened it, and sat down across from the doctor.

“How did you get here?” Jones said.

“Never mind that,” the psychiatrist said. “For the past few days, I’ve been tuning into high-level conversations. First, it was the mayor. Then the governor. Then the president. Then, bankers in Brussels. Finally, a small group of men in Geneva. In Geneva, they were talking about a company called Reality Manufacturing, Inc.”

“Never heard of it,” Jones said.

“You should. They said you were a key figure in it.”

He stared at Jones.

“Wait a minute,” Jones said. “That’s crazy. You’re crazy.”

“They seemed very certain.”

“I’m in a company that makes Reality?”

“Apparently so.”

“What about you?” Jones said.

“My name didn’t come up.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Jones said.

The psychiatrist shrugged. “Seems like we’ve gone through a wormhole or something.”

“A what?”

“Take it easy, Jones” the psychiatrist said. “We’ll sort this out. I have a theory. You’re the most normal man in the world. You’re the epitome of normal. That must be a clue.”

“A clue to what? That I’m going insane?”

“No. Your extreme normality is a perfect cover story. Who would suspect that you’re hiding an enormous secret? I believe mysterious forces have hijacked your subconscious and are using it to hide a…system for manufacturing reality as we know it. You’re an agent. You just don’t know it.”

Silence.

“And,” the psychiatrist continued, “I reason that if you die, reality will vanish.”

He stood up, took a step forward, and grabbed Jones by the shoulders.

“I’m going to throw you off the balcony,” the psychiatrist said, “and test my hypothesis.”

At that moment, policemen burst through the door to the hotel room and rushed out on to the balcony. They separated the two men and put them in handcuffs.

“What’s the charge, Officers?” the psychiatrist said.

“Sniffing at the edges,” a tall policeman said. “Meddling with the grid.”

“Care to explain that further?” the psychiatrist said.

“No,” the policeman said. “You’ll be taken to a facility for reprocessing. After that, you won’t need any explanations.”

Two days later, Jones was reunited with his wife at a local hospital. A doctor told Mrs. Jones that her husband had gone on a bender and blacked out in a park.

She nodded. “I always thought he was too normal. Something had to be wrong with him. I understand now. He’s been hiding his drinking from me.”

The psychiatrist was never heard from again.

On nights when his wife is out with her friends, Jones goes down to his basement and sits on an old battered couch and tries to remember. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but he knows it’s there, in his mind.

Occasionally, a wall disappears for a few seconds and then reconstitutes itself. He hears faint music. He senses that the people who are making the music are waiting for him. They know what he needs to know. They want him to break through.

He calls them his “other friends.” He can almost make out their faces. Faces in darkness, hovering in shadows.

One day, after work, he passes a coffee shop and sees, in the window, the woman who was in the car reading the newspaper, the woman whose thoughts he’d read, the woman who’d started the whole thing.

She glances his way and smiles.

Hearing the faint music, he walks into the shop and sits down across from her.

He says, “I wasn’t reading your thoughts. You were sending them to me.”

She nods.

“But why?” he says. “Why me?”

“Because,” she says, “you were absolutely normal. Therefore, you were so close to the edge. Just a little push and you would fall off.”

He smiles.

“Falling off,” he says, “is quite an understatement to describe what I went through.”

“Yes,” she says. “I know. Have patience. The grid is collapsing, bit by bit. Your assistance is appreciated.”


(New piece up at my OUTSIDE THE REALITY MACHINE blog entitled
“Jon Rappoport: advice to writers”)


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.

The night the world recovered its sanity

by Jon Rappoport

October 2, 2018

(To join our email list, click here.)

No one knows where it started, but on the evening of August 12, 2075, all over the world, groups began disintegrating.

Not just sewing circles and protest juntas and gamers; not just political activists and victim-support organizations; and not just governments and armies.

Religious and racial groups fell apart, too. By some accounts, they were the last to go.

In Greborg-Lavre-Brooklyn, on the former French and German border, Kayne Larder, a Muslim leader of a motorcycle gang, the V-2, stood on busy streetcorner and said, “I’m not black, I’m not religious, I’m not a V-2. I’m me.”

As gang members and neighbors moved forward to stone him to death, an anonymous person started beating on a drum. He shouted, “I don’t belong to anything or anybody!”

Everyone froze, including Hesh Zion, the king of the Hebrew Tankers, a feared local attack mob.

Zion said, “I’m not a Jew.”

Scenes like this were repeated from Nome to Tierra del Fuego.

In Lower Manhattan, Sal Tosca, a hitman for the Carneri crime family, was eating pizza in a small restaurant on Mulberry Street. He announced to his pals: “Guess what? I’m not Italian. I’m not a gangster. I’m just myself.”

The next day, the NY Times printed notices from the Council on Foreign Relations, the Trilateral Commission, and the Bilderberg Group, declaring their dissolution.

A week later, the President of the United States, Abner Ali Chang Grey Feather, went on national television and said:

“I’m not the President, there is no more federal government, I’m going fishing. Bye bye.”

By then, few people seemed surprised. The Event was well underway.

Soldiers were leaving their bases. Medical associations were disbanding. Lobbyists were closing up shop. The ten largest corporations in the world declared a year-long hiatus.

Some called these happenings a miracle. Others said it was the end of the world.

Greta Curt, president of The Most High Octopus, the famous language-filtering and restriction group, responsible for assassinations of people who uttered forbidden words, shot herself in the head in a suite at the Essex House in New York.

Her assistant, Moji Schwartz Limbo Ghandi, told Internet viewers: “Greta just couldn’t handle the new turbulence. She felt herself breaking like a porcelain vase.”

Dick Cheney Bush Perle Cauc, a USAF commander in Afghanistan, told his crew in a briefing room at the Obama Kindness Base outside Kabul, “I’m heading home, wherever that is, guys. I just figured out I’m not white, I’m not a Republican, I’m me.”

At Harvard University, a third-year major in Taliban Studies, Eric Thomas Bin Leary, attempted to organize an “I’m Me” club. A classmate injected him with Haldol2x, drove him to Maine, and deposited him, unconscious, in a muddy bed on the shore of Lake Casco.

Sociologists were apparently the hardest hit, since their enterprise was all about promoting groups. Dr. Elia Fogg Robinson, a Yale professor and the author of We’re All the All, invited colleagues to his lab, where he tried to persuade them to partake in an orgy while immersed in a large vat of melted bubbling cheese, after which, he promised, they would emerge as a single hybridized entity. They put him out in a snowstorm.

It was the beginning of what is now called The Blank Period, approximately a hundred years of unrecorded history.

Yes, we came through, but nothing would ever be the same. The distaste for all groups remained.

As my great-grandfather, Jack Anarch, wrote, in his diary, “Once upon a time, humans needed clans and tribes to survive in the wild, but long after technological civilizations were raised up, the addiction to groups was still overwhelming. It almost destroyed us, but we came to our senses in time. Families yes. Friends yes. Groups no. An old relative of mine told me, ‘There’s nothing like the group habit. Coming off that jones can give a person the shakes for a couple of decades. It can make your eyeballs want to pop out. And you’ve got to do it cold. I went through a six-month stretch where I hallucinated that rain made out of glue was falling from the sky, pasting me to some mythical collective of shoppers in a giant mall in space. It was so heavy I almost flipped. A voice in my head kept saying, Spill on aisle 13, spill on aisle 13…”


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.

Designing the mind

by Jon Rappoport

June 25, 2018

In their lab, Sam and Sally had just finished inscribing a huge amount of code on a two-dimensional sheet of plastic, in order to produce a hologram that would, when sprung, blossom into a continuum called The Physical Universe.

With glasses of good champagne in their hands, sitting on stools in the lab, they speculated on their next project.

“To me,” Sally said, “it’s obvious. People are going to live and proliferate there. So we have to design their minds to sync up with Universe. Otherwise, we’ll have a mess on our hands.”

“Chaos,” Sam said. “Not our objective here. But first we have to get a handle on what ‘people’ means.”

“Yes,” Sally said. “We do. We know they’re immortal souls. We know we don’t have anything to do with THAT mystery. It’s outside our control. But they will have bodies, physical forms. And minds. Inside the Universe.”

“And freedom,” Sam said.

“Right. But we can design a section of their minds to our liking. That section will sync up with Universe. It’ll mesh. It’ll accept the structure of the hologram.”

“Well,” Sam said, “let’s look at how we built Universe. Although it has action and energy and change, it also has a major amount of harmony, symmetry, balance, equilibrium, and repeating pattern. You know, the simple stuff. The stuff even a child can grasp. It’s not the most complicated universe we’ve ever made.”

“So,” Sally said, “suppose we design one segment of mind so it loves and attaches itself to symmetry and harmony and pattern. That’ll produce the sync-effect, won’t it?”

Sam said, “Yeah…In fact, if we make up some weird mystical symbols and tie them together with the harmony and symmetry, we’ll really have something. The people will keep going around and around…”

“Yes,” Sally said, “and they’ll never explore their own consciousness where all the immortal stuff is.”

And that’s how Sally and Sam finished the job.

Sometime later, much later, they watched with amusement as “researchers” living in Universe pointed out that snail shells and certain flowers and spiral galaxies all expressed very similar configurations.

“Wow,” Sam said, “it worked. “They really go for Pattern, don’t they? They eat it up.”

“I know,” Sally said. “And they’re talking about simple configurations as if they’re symbols of something very ‘deep.’ They’ll be delving into this stuff for a million years. They’ve synced up to Universe beyond anything I thought possible.”

A few million years passed.

Sam and Sally got together, to peek in and see what was happening in Universe. They were surprised again.

“Do you see it?” Sally said.

“Of course I see it,” Sam said. “They’re sculpting their own THOUGHTS into simple shapes. They’re making their thoughts mimic the symmetry and the geometry and the balance. They must be in a trance.”

“Do you think we should issue a wake-up call?”

“No,” Sam said. “Who knows what that would do to them? Leave them alone. They’ll have to wake themselves up…”

“When do you think that will happen?” Sally said.

“A good question,” Sam said. “I say we let a billion more years pass, and then we look in again.”

“I can’t remember how they entered Universe in the first place,” Sally said.

“That would be Department 4-AR’s job. Let me look it up.”

Sam typed a password on his computer and read the note.

“It was a vacation special,” he said. “Tickets went on sale and were scooped up. It was a big seller at the time.”

“Long vacation,” Sally said.

“That’s the way it’s turning out,” Sam said.

Sally said, “We have to remember what we did, for future reference. Design a universe with a significant amount of symmetry, balance, harmony, geometry, and repeating pattern. The puerile stuff. Then introduce a whole host of weird symbols that connect to the childish symmetry and produce a trance, a long lasting trance…”

“It works,” Sam said. “Like a charm.”

“We need to make up a name for what we’ve done,” Sally said. “A label, a title. It’s a major accomplishment. It needs a name.”

Sam thought about it for a minute. “Let’s try something a little weird,” he said. “You know, with initials, so it sounds official.”

“Right,” Sally said. “Well…see how you like this. It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, but it’s got a bit of comic-book flair.”

“Hit me with it,” Sam said.

“MKULTRA.”


Exit From the Matrix

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


More posts like this — primarily on my other blog OUTSIDE THE REALITY MACHINE. Free email list subscribe 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.