Breakout from the controlled ordinary mind

by Jon Rappoport

July 16, 2018

When I was about to release my collection, Exit From The Matrix, I wrote several introductions. Here is one I didn’t publish. It shows how seriously I take what others consider a merely “quirky tendency” of humans to imagine a better and different future for themselves and this piece of space called Earth:

Suppose everything that is happening in the human world is taking place in a synthetic space, a grossly reduced arena; and suppose you could stand outside that space and look in. You would be seeing a great deal more than ‘what is going on’. You would be seeing how it is playing out, shot through with delusions at every turn; and of course the main delusion would be the space itself, as if nothing could be happening anywhere else but there, in that place. This is what the mind, all the minds, are telling themselves, as they fight over scraps. Humans have defined themselves as social constructs in small-time stage play.

The controlled mind thinks in the same patterns, over and over. It reworks familiar territory, and when that becomes insufferably boring, it lowers its energy output and initiates shutdowns.

Then it looks for outside stimulation that will replace thinking. The type of stimulation hardly matters, as long as it moves adrenaline through the system.

The decline of a society or civilization can be viewed in the same step-down fashion.

Occasionally, in passing, a writer makes reference to the creative impulse as a missing social factor, which could be remedied, for example, by restoring funding for arts programs in schools, as if that would repair a bureaucratic failing and thus restore balance to education and “the culture.”

Which is like saying Titans, who have developed profound amnesia about themselves, could recover their consciousness and power by shampooing their hair more frequently.

The individual human being, apart from the welter of his social relationships, is sitting on a volcano-range of creative energy, about which he knows almost nothing. This ignorance is purposeful. It enables him to fit into a small life defined by habits and shrunken subjects of interest and routine interactions. Within that space, he forms opinions and preferences and aversions. He says yes to this and no to that. He cultivates a passive tolerance for differences, as if he were auditioning for sainthood.

But whoever he is and wherever he is, underneath it all, something is waiting for him. A part of himself is waiting.

It is the part that can conceive of everything that isn’t, that never was. It is the part that dreams beyond the ordinary facades of time and space.

It is the part that refuses to believe habit and repetition and routine and systems are the core of life.

It is the part that knows something new and unprecedented and stunning can be invented at the drop of a hat, and that this is the unlimited territory of the individual.

It is the part off-handedly referred to as imagination, which over time has been sold away into oblivion. But which never dies.

The elites who try to control and define the common space of humanity would like to render imagination to the junk heap of history, never to be recalled. They would like to do this by replacing the individual with the group, which has no creative impulse, but is merely, with few exceptions, the lowest-common-denominator expression of any idea.

In Huxley’s Brave New World (1932), the overarching government slogan was: “Every one belongs to every one else.” One group, indivisible, with non-liberty and injustice for all.

Huxley’s slogan is now also the number-one elite propaganda message on Earth. It can be made to mean almost anything that derides and minimizes the individual and his repressed creative power.

In his 1954 short story, The Adjustment Team, Philip K Dick approaches the transformation of the individual into the group as an instantaneous, blanketing, mass-programming operation. Salesman Ed Fletcher, through an error, isn’t included in the “great change.” Instead, he witnesses it. Therefore, he is transported into the sky to meet the Old Man, the Chief, for a judgment:

Ed: “I get the picture…I was supposed to be changed like the others. But I guess something went wrong.”

Old Man: “Something went wrong. An error occurred. And now a serious problem exists. You have seen these things. You know a great deal. And you are not coordinated with the new configuration.”

The new configuration, at a deep level, is not new at all. It has existed since the dawn of history. It’s the self-fulfilling prophecy that, except for a few gifted ones, humans have no creative power, no wide-ranging imagination. Thus, they must surrender to the “shape of things as they are.”

Here is a statement about reality-creation that is crucial. —Philip K Dick, his 1978 speech, How To Build A Universe That Doesn’t Fall Apart Two Days Later:

“…today we live in a society in which spurious realities are manufactured by the media, by governments, by big corporations, by religious groups, political groups…So I ask, in my writing, What is real? Because unceasingly we are bombarded with pseudo-realities manufactured by very sophisticated people using very sophisticated electronic mechanisms…And it is an astonishing power: that of creating whole universes, universes of the mind. I ought to know. I do the same thing.”

Philip Dick was talking about the elite invention of a synthetic common space for human activity. And on the other hand, he was talking about an individual’s invention, through imagination, of other spaces.

These other spaces aren’t mere fantasies. They’re as real as real can be—and they can be injected into the world, into the common space, to change it, and to wake people up from their group-think trance.

The bottom-line goal of all mind control is the removal of the individual’s knowledge that he has great creative power, that this capacity gives him enormous untapped energy, that it solves problems by rendering them irrelevant and defunct.

Suppose he brings back what he has lost? Suppose, finally, he takes a stand and refuses to see himself as a victim of circumstance?

Suppose he remembers that he holds the sword of his own imagination, and can invent reality?

Suppose he exercises that capacity and thus proves to himself how far-reaching his power is?

In his 1920 novel, A Voyage to Arcturus, which spawned generations of science fiction, David Lindsay writes: “To be a free man, one must have a universe of one’s own.”

This is no flippant observation. This is psychology light years beyond what Freud and his offspring concocted. This is the power of imagination, linked as it should be, to individual freedom. Nor was Lindsay recommending some closed-off fantasy existence. He was realizing that, with “a universe of one’s own,” the individual can then comprehend and participate in the common space we call the world—at a new level of unlocked and untangled power.

I dedicate my work to explaining these factors, and more importantly, providing many exercises that, when practiced, can reawaken and restore imagination as the unlimited dynamo it actually is. These exercise are contained in my mega-collections, Exit From The Matrix and Power Outside The Matrix.

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.

Two humans on the Earth

by Jon Rappoport

July 3, 2018

Two humans on the Earth

the faces at the bar just want the news

music is playing
some old sentimental country tune
“she left him” “he left her” whatever the hell it was

3am stumbling from his seat to the bathroom
Jack is counting his change
that’s all he’s got left

after The Company raped his land
giant superweeds are all Jack’s got left

he had to buy new seeds every year from Monsanto

(and when The Man found Jack had accidentally used Roundup Ready seeds without paying for them he sued Jack)

3am stumbling back to his seat at the bar
Jack still doesn’t know what hit him

the tune keeps playing
“he left her” “she left him” whatever the hell it was

the faces at the bar are watching the news replay
another drone attack
baby diapers
restless legs
neutralize stomach acid
invisible makeup
GE, Pfizer, Glaxo, Syngenta

“he left her” “she left him” whatever the hell it was

one drunk at the end of the bar says “it’s a strange night”
everybody stops and listens

they don’t know it but they’re hearing a giant wave of poison coming out of St. Louis
towering above
the plains

So deep, so blue the night

Jack holds up his hands
and says
“my family was on this land for a hundred years
and now the lights go off
I fell for their pitch
they took me to the cleaners”

the bartender says, “yeah, well, my ass hurts”
and everybody starts laughing
they laugh
tears roll down their cheeks
they pound their heads on the bar
they fall off their stools
they roll on the floor
they’re yelling and picking up chairs and throwing them

and now a big-time pol comes on the news and says

“we’re all in this together”

“he left her” “she left him” whatever the hell it was

who are the soldiers who go out into the fields of America and Africa and Asia
and South America to push food
changed forever
into the mouths of wasting humans

the bar quiets down again

pockets empty
Jack walks out into the rain
and moves along the road
under the sky
and begins to stride
his pulse picks up

more than human and less than human on the earth

Vaccine Woman

there was no way to deny it or get around it
her little boy started screaming after the shot
and then 2 days later
the world shut down

he sat in a corner
he lay in his bed
he didn’t speak

the doctor huffed and puffed in back of his steady blank eyes
he assured her this had nothing to do with the shot
it was a predisposition or a genetic trait or a precondition

he smiled now and then
he said autism could have emerged on its own just after the shot was given
as if the universe rearranged itself
at that moment

she saw she was talking to a psychopath
he had been a machine for a long long time

she went into the darkness and pled her case before a government committee
they sat like ancient high priests
and listened and glanced at documents
and when they had permitted her the allotted time they handed down their judgment:


she went home and took her boy in her arms
he was still
he didn’t look at her
he didn’t speak

she consulted a lawyer
who told her
the manufacturer was protected by an iron wall
he would continue to make the vaccine and sell it
and pocket billions

the long night was closing in
the storm was here
the silent boy was sitting in its eye

rage was burning in the middle of her chest

a rage the public would see as insanity

from a distance, the moon and the stars might know
what was going on
but people in their everyday straitjackets
would lash out at her
because they needed a target
they needed to ridicule a defector from their own slave-shuffle

they obeyed all the small print
they were neutered in their cores

but she wields
the two-edged sword in the empire

that cuts away the web
and comes to the spider

no matter what defamation
the intermediary whores
lay at her door

lady liberty, liberty from the living death…Vaccine Woman

She and her family are pre-civilization, civilization, and


And she will go to the ends of the earth

To bare the innards of the crime

Her enemies will never know

What it means to have her mission, her eternal mission

But she knows

Vaccine Woman

Love in her breast for her own is one answer

Justice is the other

She has a two-edged sword in the Empire

That cuts through the web

And comes to the spider

Vaccine Woman…

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. Email list subscribe to it 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 poem for the 21st century: VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE (complete version)

by Jon Rappoport

Copyright © 2012, 2018 by Jon Rappoport

July 2, 2018

Over the course of the past 10-15 years, I wrote a 5000-word poem, VISIONS OF THE EMPIRE. You could say that proves I believe in poetry. I do believe in it.

Here, for the first time, I’m publishing the whole poem in its final version.

Poetry in the grand tradition of, say, Walt Whitman may seem to be dead—and who cares about poetry anyway? But poems are life blood on the page.

I cast this one out like a wind across the landscape, with full knowledge that reading anything, much less poetry, is a dying art in many quarters. Frankly, that doesn’t stop me. I know, from 17 years of writing at nomorefakenews, that there are untold numbers of people who can still read and want to read. My articles have found them.

Going against the grain doesn’t bother me. It motivates me. Every day. The seemingly absurd proposition that a poem can have a life-bearing effect—I hold that view and always will.

The unbound, wide-ranging, free and electric spirit within us is THERE. We can step on it and bury it and forget it, but it doesn’t die. With that knowledge, and without apprehension, I freely give you this. Do with it what you will. As with everything else I write, I stand on the words.


By Jon Rappoport

This poem is not a warning
This is poem is not an alert
This poem is not a shopping cart in a supermarket
This poem is not my uncle talking about America with a cigar in his mouth
This poem is not about the H-bomb
This poem is not my grandmother speaking Russian in the Bronx a hundred years ago
This poem is not a microwave
This poem is not
This poem is not a robot car on the highway
This poem is not a power outage
This poem is not
This poem is not a peace treaty
This poem is not a shadow across your eyes
This poem is not Karl Marx or Mussolini
This poem is not a molecule invented in a laboratory
This poem is not a political philosophy manufactured in a secret bank
This poem is not a machine
This poem is not a system
This poem is not asking for an answer
This poem is not people dying in hospitals even though people are dying in hospitals
This poem is not bread or the fountain of youth
This poem is not a doctor
This poem is not a professor on a pension
This poem is not a union
This poem is not a dollar
This poem is not a major or a colonel
This poem is America and not-America
The dream America

After money was sold down the river and resurrected on a cross of blood
After a cash-loaded God strolled into town
After the Universal Hospital drugged synapses and drove the wild horses of imagination down into underground canyons
and sculpted androids stepped out in the aftermath buying back their own memories

geologic wraiths spiraled up inside television sets—
their only ambition to stunt prayers for deliverance and kill raw desire—

we watched wildcats of Texas dripping sweat into their high hats pull black blood out of the ground and send it through tubes of night to porcupine refineries on the shores of the Body of Christ
apostles were resurrected in knife-cutter fins of long Cadillacs running hot across the Kansas plains with blondes in the back seat drinking

New horizontal towns were multiplying on Long Island, stage flats of perfect geometry coddled in the breasts of hopeful mothers asking for redemption from pill-addled afternoons and hallucinatory music cooking in shining ovens
monthly budgets laid out neatly on Formica counters below the knives
distant farm fields dead in the snow
blank-eyed children walking in the snow
cultivating nightmares they would one day visit on Reality

I flew over those fields and heard the crackerbox houses rot and rust as nothing ever rotted before

We tamed the wolf and the copperhead
we broke a pond of ice and sent Promethean serpents to force a tunnel all the way down to the volcanic hats of ancient Chinese poets

We tracked mobs and gangs and politicians and drowned them in thunderous secret rivers under the Southwest deserts
we launched charges against the bosses and carried our prosecutions into courtrooms of fish eye and coral and waving undersea weeds and dragged paid-off judges from their galleon-wrecked thrones

We stood in the blinding sunlight reflected from low slung whitewashed buildings of Pasadena and El Segundo and Long Beach and felt the roar of departing space rockets cutting tunnels through the future and pulling back the future with giant magnets of illuminated dust

We walked through measureless windows of wheat and corn growing in the middle flatlands under the warm rain of supernatural mansions

We draped curtains of night in the upper hills of Los Angeles where the mountain lion and the coyote and the melted mythical Greek beast roamed like vagabonds free of the Wheel

Under poles of yellow lights, gasping midnight locomotives clamped on to lines of freight cars in the backyards of Chicago
Plastic lilies grew in the pastures of St. Louis haberdashers and department stores

In White Plains we carved a diamond on cracked asphalt and climbed a decaying elm and walked along the iron railing of the fence holding rotting branches and threw marbles down on to Davis Avenue and watched them bounce into the muddy stream of World War Two newspapers and swollen milk cartons and broken whiskey bottles and torn black jackets of old soldiers who had died in snow drifts over the winter and mysteriously disappeared

I ran under trees filled with light green inchworms hanging from long threads until I was invisible
and glimpsed smiling robots sitting in cafes in the next platinum century

In Los Angeles, concrete sunset of three stacked freeways, a carpet of park in Beverly Hills, old poolroom on Broadway downtown, bus to San Francisco, a bum holding out his hand and saying On Venus Jesus will show you machines of love

I saw politicians jumping out of floating windows
their briefcases cracking open
spilling secrets like lazy snowflakes
dazzling in the sun
trillion dollar thefts
naked amazons stashed in condos and yachts
banks sucking money from the vacuum of the heavens
dead agents

in a rock pasture outside Des Moines hitchhiking to New York
glimpses of prehistoric time
before the beginning before the beginning of sacred money before the first idols were built, before sacrifice was thought of, sly prophets were trying on robes and combing out their long hair and rehearsing their future executions

Standing up on a hill past Albuquerque on 66, I caught a ride into a no-name Arizona town, walked in the foggy morning along an empty road to a pine-filled snow-filled cliff and stared out at a spring valley a thousand feet below

In blinding rain I stood on the Indiana Turnpike outside Chicago pointed east and wound up in the Pennsylvania countryside driving the car of a half-crippled man with a Bible I met in a Howard Johnson
our headlights went dead on a curve and a cop pulled in behind us and stopped us
he led us to a fat judge’s house in the middle of the night where we paid thirty bucks
then parked on a quiet lane and slept until dawn
early spring in March
flowering magnolia trees
he dropped two Thorazine and told me to drive
and his babbling about Heaven slowed down and he slept
and when we pulled into Manhattan he had me park in midtown
he looked at me with glazed doe’s eyes and said
son, I’ve reached the end of the line, this is it, within a month I’ll kill myself

I walked along the astral cloisters of Wall Street among crowds lapping at honey loopholes in a web of proprietary secrets and I flew through steel walls into the psychotic fandango of the international electronic invented money Surge

I recorded architects laying out blueprints for the perfect human in bunkers of Virginia where silent factories printed minds whose memories could be selectively erased
technicians built new bodies from tendons and ligaments of cougars and predatory owls and membranes from soldier ants and feral dogs

I walked through fields of cactus east of Tijuana
into caverns of mass graves where sacrificed Aztec skeletons still stank in pulsing blood rhymes of a toothless hobo Ziggurat

I sat in the courtroom where the two-hundred-year trial of America labored like a wounded beast, witness after witness screaming accusations at captains of production and dark iron-masked prosecutors hammered their fists on tables and smooth Rockefeller men sat in the witness box and advocated drugging the population

One Sunday night I walked out of a small bookstore on 3rd Avenue and a drunken Ben Franklin, wearing his waistcoat and slippers, his spectacles halfway down his crooked nose, pulled me over to the doorway of a paint store, and whispered:
“I should prefer, to an ordinary death, being immersed
with a few friends in a cask of Madeira, until that time,
then to be recalled to life by the solar warmth of my
dear country!”

he patted me on the cheek and grinned

What about the weathered Declaration on which you staked your honor, your future, your fortune, your life, I ask him
His face turns sour
Oh that, he says
They sold it for a war, and it fetched a handsome price
They sold it for a bank, and rated it a fair exchange
They sold it for a choking nightmare called the greater good, and it drained their living blood
They sold it for a legend of heaven under a burning copper sky and it vaporized in the whirlwind

Fifty million video cameras record the washed out moment-to- moment ballet in streets and offices
people stop for a moment in a bulging tableau
light peers in through immobile troughs of fury
complaints are frozen

all the children of America with their endless needs are frozen

We slashed our way through faded blue Virginia mountain ranges ruled by subhuman priests
lizards crawled through the sunlight between leaves on rumbling paragon trees spreading out their knuckles above ground

Through dream gardens of the starlit Sagittarius, coral horses, amber-fed lichen
we walked the Colorado Cherokee Trail glittering with bodies frozen in the silver fog

We flew over steaming cities and freezing cities and came to the Asia plain of tropical magic where the walls of enduring space were cracked and broken and the false curtain of the sky lay at half-mast torn and stained

Here the empire had shriveled and small mobs wandered under saturated space broken off from the Maypole of trance

We still hear a voice of freedom
in the

now freedom barks like a dog
it weeps over stones
it demands cash
it lies in the mud and croaks
flees a burning church

On a parapet at the center of an unknown city, we hear a bovine preacher of the sub-brain announce:


We have







Peeling off

Around him.


Your life

Is being

Mapped out

In steel-banded

Central Planning



The Temple

Of the Just

A gram of license

For every ton of compliance

This is the new energy equation





Spontaneously inhaled



leveled like an exploding shell

o leader

your only remaining job

is the calculation

of the religious component

how to mountaintop

and sell that vacation view

theocratic meteors

whirling around the crown

what testament

and scripture

will you


for the made-holy parade

of intercellular


money laundering

(left hand to the right)

how will you


the ark

of androids

what murders

will you





on behalf of




in the






a node

of memoryless

cold blue light

shining on



in trust



The rebellion is over!


We hoped for



By the blessed


Capture and Love are the same!









The Egoless


Adore! Adore!




Swept away







Has Been


In the



The Wise



A hurricane

To catapult us


The new world

Adore! Adore!

One shapeless limp impulse

Desperately shared by nine billion people


The threshold

Of mystery

And opens at last

The door


The everlasting


This is the apotheosis of


We have all

Been unconsciously seeking

I see populations surge through golden avenues wrapped around the upper stories of Orphic ships waiting for solar winds

I open books in a shining arboretum, ten-thousand-foot wells pour
from the sky down into stratified layers of rock…

Summer night on an old porch, rhododendrons are thrashed by slow comets of rain

there is a sleep so pervasive numbing the chest and shoulders, a despair so charming as to be final, a titanic loss of mobility

there were buildings in the old World War 2 Paris that looked like beautiful rotting vegetables propped on the ark of the River windows scalloped stone sacred mucosal choirs

in a nostalgic vortex
death is a protocol
a virginal reopening of the wound
insignia piping gardens from its royal wax
into the dark
old pleasures run in familiar magnetic channels

Ah, this is old-world death, the happiness of remembering time, a thing of wonder in the thrall of dying autumn
and then we knew what could be lost, and then we knew we were seeing each other fading on sheets of papyrus
and we dropped through the earth


into the legend of the unconscious


struggled back and emerged up into the lights of the city

We move through the halls of this summertime life

the meridians of gills breathing in and out, in and out

and cross the bridges of memory
and are New

We punch through the wax of space-time into the warm rain

we unplug the money presses

we abandon the long steel trading tables and the slaughtering floor

we defect

we drink the root turning into the bud
the bud turning to grain

we brush away the choking filaments of narcosis and finally admit our immortality

we walk in the canopy of clouds

in the canal where time and space are bolted, cloth to cloth

We ride tigers across the Styx into the mud houses of Hades and blow sacks of north wind to clean the ruined stables of broadcast memory

We race up the canyons of the Rockies, we float on the Salt Lake in mirrors of gold

We walk out of the house in the middle of the night and watch the magnolia tree in the little grassy island open white flowers of joy!

Sing now!
Speak now!

Tear away the seal on the tomb!

in any weather, any season
long forgotten and hidden in hard flesh
they are there!
all the fires are out
all the wars of the bankrupt versus the bankrupt are over

I watched a sleek black car pull up to a house down the block where an old man who grew apple trees was screaming and three men got out of the car and grabbed his arms and put him on a stretcher and took him away to the Foundation, a place where they kept the insane
he had spent every Sunday morning polishing his red car
he had once been a judge
he retired and built department stores
he kept a bulldog in his garage and fed it there
his son who wore gray suits and drove a foreign car
owned a brewery

i dreamed the father was sitting on the back of a white swan who had a leash around his neck
I woke up and went into the kitchen and sat down at the table
I looked out the window and under a streetlight I saw the old man’s son putting something into the trunk of his car
his movements were frail
he had aged overnight

I fled through the oily swamps of New Jersey into the bright green plastic of Delaware and through the Carolinas and woke up in a pink sand motel in Miami under tropic rain

I hitchhiked down the old 66 from East St. Louis out to Joplin in the back of a vegetable truck and floated into a diner in Oklahoma City

In a long, long Los Angeles bar on a slow Tuesday afternoon I counted six Hindu gods sitting on stools drinking rotgut and transmitting sign language to their London banker lolling outside the men’s room

I walked along the death harbors of New York
I saw ships gleaming
I watched swarms of seagulls bend this way in the air and flap their white wings and gray wings in the dark morning

I’m walking the cemetery lawns of Los Angeles
now and then a plastic face looms up out of the fog

Boston…in the ocean mythic giants
all their capillaries have gone dry
the moon is setting on page one
intestinal tract of a beached octopus suctioned to a sidewalk

in a small café I look at the faces and know there was universally accepted time and it’s ended

We saw old iron ore carriers moving slowly on Lake Erie
frost clinging to their torn-painted sides
pulling along hills of hidden Nevada gold

GM monitor lizards sway down Main St. USA like garbage machines on the move, guzzling and chewing tin cans, bottles, bags of medical waste, wrappers, assaulting bins

you’re in the reality tunnel again
where predators finger like worry-beads cocoons of demolished light

limbic vacuum cleaners
suck up embers of war

be of good cheer, son, never fear the end, there is no end THERE IS NO END
abide by the central directive–
when you’re lying on a slab in the mortuary

tell them they’ve made a minor miscalculation
recite a few lines from scripture
and stride quickly to the exit

confess to the guards
you’re just a pathetic figure
a minor functionary
in a bureau of functionaries
all the way up

tip your hat, grin, drop a few coins in the basket, move on
this universe is
a hell of a vacation
thrills and chills
buy the ticket
if you can’t get out
call me

The cosmos is a forgery of the individual

They say the dark arts are fine things

They lie below the gold rings

That surround every living cell

OR you can

Strip naked from the stirrups

Of gravity

Sit with clouds banked over the ocean

And burn in the dish your own name

The great thief said

I have given you

Everything you need

And so it was

Another message

A column of fire

Rising out of the sea

you can lift twelve Persephones out of a Swiss watch
and push an orange train at top speed to Mongolia

each thought on the ruined wreck of sands
is a poet
driving a Cadillac into a living room

(pretending to understand a foreign language
they invented a hundred more)

midtown Manhattan…my father walks from the haberdasher to the barber shop with a new hat in a box
he sits in the chair and the barber winds it back and shaves him with a straight razor that was lolling in a tall glass of alcohol
the barber wipes off the blade with a white linen towel and moves the razor back and forth on his strop and shaves my father
and cuts his hair

the pool room on 14th Street, old men playing three-cushion slowly with long tapered fingers, under a hanging lamp one face peeks in and then it’s ripped away as the floor sweeper lifts the shades and the sun comes streaming through the dust

ever deepening beauty,
there is a little garden behind our house
where vines grow over a wood shed

and purple bougainvillea and morning glory

in this idyll I can rest
I can dream of her while I hold her hand
we set the kettle boiling
and pour the steaming water
and drink a tea of the world

you sold me an empty room
I moved in and found you there

you waited in the rain for me
And I came to you

The home we built at the end of a street
Is becoming larger every day

The poet picks the street on which he will starve
and grow rich

I am painting on a sheet of sturdy paper
A small garden
The sky is on the bottom
The flowers are on top
There are window boxes

I am making the same proposal to you, my darling

I pray to prayer
I deliver myself to you
I say the night and I say down the stairs we go again

never the garden

ever the garden

we are always in between everything we thought


my darling,
I’ll go with you
into the garden
into the bedroom
into the living room
into the kitchen

on to the rust-colored couch after the sandstorm
when the evening is quiet
the stove is ticking

my dead father is again sitting in a metal chair playing pinochle with his friends

my dead mother bounds down the stairs
she’s suddenly thirty again
grinning with the August of the Black Sea

my sister is holding a feral dog in her arms and he is wrapping his mouth around her wrist and slowly quieting down

Not one god
not fewer gods
give me a proliferation of gods
gods in plantains and mangoes
gods in broken chairs in vague Arizona motels
gods in piles of gray wood at the back of a barn in Mississippi
gods in statues on broad plazas in Chicago
gods in lagoons festering with green mold in San Diego
gods on the foggy windows of diners in Western Massachusetts
gods on the graves of Vikings and accountants in New Jersey
gods in silverware and white napkins

one version of what the old Tibetans
called the Great Void:

everybody looks around and tries to figure out what to do
because the long hustle of discovery is over
and all the explorers have been paid off

There is nothing left
except a few magicians
living in cold mountains
punching holes in the universe at will

In Lhasa they were faced with that Nothing
and they turned to it in the eastern sky hanging like a lamp in a long vacated whorehouse
and bowed

that was the only ceremony in the original book
which they later
in quiet rooms
burned in wood bowls

before starting their exercises

Never heard of it.

And now think of something else, perfect automobiles
streaming down a tropical planet toward the
a mirror lake on which stands a demigod in green pantaloons
who holds all data everywhere in his outstretched arms

and freeze THAT in memory like a sword for sixteen hours
without moving
and finally see universe
is a product
of mind

this is what they were doing
before they wrote the books and ordered the prayer wheels from sears catalog
and jingle jangled their way into a theocracy on a cold saturday morning

they were the dim sum masters
never ordered the same breakfast twice in the holy rivers of energy
took apart the river and the energy
down to Nothing
sat in Void for
indeterminate length of no-time
stopping all creating
because they could
and then emerged
those few
magicians in the cold wasted hills and

and said WELL
if you folks want to elect a billion reincarnated hopalong cassidys
as your head chief go ahead it doesn’t matter
we’re out here on the edge
inventing and destroying dimensions

a painted hand on a canvas disappears down into the mouth of a virgin
a factory in Cinncinati plunges into the production of synthetic thighs

the cage of the tiger is very clean
attendants come in once a day and
scoop up the feces and remove them
they hose down the floor
when they’re done the tiger is let back into the cage
and picks up his pacing

Huge sums in bank accounts disappear
Wearing a webbed helmet, you’re running across a lake in Liberia with an M-16

an orange bird
walks down
to a small fountain pouring into the eye of an exploded centurion

Disembodied skulls are talking to each other in a Times Square liquor store
what was the greatest war?
in whose name did we lay down our flesh
was the uranium really depleted
how many roadside bombs did you see before the last one
did we guarantee the oil
did we plant the poppies

freedom is standing in a bar on university place and ordering a beer at six o’clock and listening to the voices

freedom is taking a shirt of infinite sadness and folding it up

freedom is sitting in a bus station in a small town and counting the money in your pocket and watching the door as a wolf trots in and stares at you

freedom is being as sad as the animals

freedom is falling down on your knees in the street

freedom is a beautiful drunken woman tearing off her clothes and taking the elevator down to the lobby of the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco

Raphael’s curls
Are wired
From cliffs domed with chimes.

The NY Times
Is a mosquito
On a plum.

In halls of marble
Heralds open the door
At last

The gold-seated apparatus
Spits out souls,
Of the faded sea.

South of Los Angeles…dancers arrive early in a giant room above the ocean.
In forest halls, dryads run like crystal.
CON FRER Tito Puente strides into the endless Balboa ballroom.
Timbales, rolling cymbals, chingachcook congas, brass section put in harness from the ceiling. Tito is sitting in a blue mist. The slow vibraphone turns over and over and Silver runners flash around corners.

In the New York harbor
Turbines with numerical rivets
Are driven into light.
Shoreline hardworking men rest on the
Kneecap of a colossal Buddha
Coming into port

when I was a boy
a road among trees
magnolia, oak, maple…
squirrels with great healthy bushy tails ran up trunks
jumped on to roofs
sniffed smoke coming out of chimneys
and in the dark
there were horse chestnut trees dropping polished mahogany
along the little lanes leading off the road…

After the Cross of money burned and rotted
we walked to the shore
we walked into the ocean
we walked on the ocean floor
we discovered the oceanic mind
we swam on the towering waves
we came back to ourselves

we smelled towers of the city
we floated into the city
we rolled out on to the highways of America

we broke veins of golden paralysis in the clock of the galaxy

we rose with our swords and decapitated the Holy Worm

we planted gardens around the wreck of the Babel Tower and invented new languages that would spread like morning glories

knowing the past was dead
I walked out of the house of melting shadows

I bathed in clear water

I sat down by an old stream and waited for the fish to speak
I sat inside a reflection of lunar decay for thirty incarnations
and nothing happened

I walked out of the house of melting shadows

not a closed night or a fearful night or a weeping night or a money night or a political night or an atomic night

the herds of stars are breaking out of their corral

I’m sitting at a cafe
on the beach in Cardiff
blue January afternoon
my mind unwrinkles
the restaurant’s empty
a huge whitewashed gull with a red beak
stands on a rock a few feet away
he waits, he looks

mouthless cash/samurai governments in twinkling skyscrapers

I try on soft hats in a phantasmagorical haberdasher on 5th Avenue
in a jar the size of Des Moines I pickle brains of ancient Sinatras

sand in the engine, empty canteens, thirsty in the desert, I climb the next set of dunes and stagger down into a level-B resort, artificial lake restaurants women in bikinis fat men children sliding into blue pools waiters delivering drinks, robot Adam&Eve standing under a palm tree eating a bowl of fruit, Machine God sitting at a huge poolside table with a few cronies, he waves me over, the sun sets and the moon comes up, I watch old skulls of mob defectors rolling like tumbleweed in the desert….

hollow planets ring like gongs, shepherds bring in their animals, ghosts in the arbor pick the grapes and feel the warm wind, we’re walking through a forest, the yellow-horned flowers are weeping with fog, chrome-edged clouds are dropping sheets of loneliness

the universe said goodbye
the universe was going away
there was no JFK assassination
it was a mirage in Texas
Allen Dulles was sitting in the back of the limo
his brains were splashed all over an unknown woman
she was fighting to breathe and squirming
she was wearing a little pillbox hat and a polkadot dress
she jumped out of the car and ran up the street
and no one ever saw her again
the Virgin Mary
the Virgin Mary of Texas

the lilies of the valley are growing in the back yard again
splashed in the Buick majesty of steady spring rain
and the snow is gone
the branches of crystalline ice are giving out little green buds
and worms are crawling in the mud around the porch sniffing roses

Caravaggio talks to Raphael and Raphael talks to Piero and a leg
takes shape
Michelangelo talks to Titian and half a face emerges
Durer talks to Velasquez and Goya walks out of a cave ready to go to

we return to the Bronx and visit my grandmother sitting in her pudding chair in the middle of the living room, she slowly moves her head and trembles and mumbles something in Yiddish and I kiss her on the cheek, the mirror sits on the heavy bureau above candles flickering for the dead in the middle of the afternoon, someone is always dying, they were dying in Russia and they are dying in the Bronx, there was a daughter who died a few weeks after she was born and my grandfather died when I was three, and the candy store across the street died when bubble gum was outlawed during WW2, and my father’s father is dead, he owned a clothing store and his partner ran off with the cash and now the partner is dead too, and the books on the shelves in my grandmother’s house are dead, and the plates behind glass are dead, the forks and knives and spoons are dead, the rugs in the living room are dead, and my father’s mother will soon be dead in the dining room on the floor at our house late in the afternoon in January, but no one is supposed to make a move to stop the dying in the way the dying is happening, we are all supposed to stand by, centurions at a gateless city, the rivers shallow and frozen, kiss your grandmother, stand back, smile, go over to the table, sit down, play cards, eat honey cake, listen, listen, listen
Hermes is circling the brick house and tearing tiles off the roof, he’s coming down into the living room and breaking into the glass cases and stealing the silverware, he’s crawling under the piano and ripping out the pedals, he’s moving the laundry room between the living room and the kitchen, he’s going next door to the psychiatrist’s house and laying down the names of 297 mental disorders that will be invented out of wholecloth in the next 50 years

I’m lying back in a leather chair in Grand Central Station and an old man is cutting my hair
he puts a hot white towel on my face

I enter St. Pat’s, it’s a huge bookie joint, crowds standing in the aisles, betting on anti-Lucifer
I take a seat at the end of a long pew and fold my hands in prayer to Piero della Francesca, silver painter of Solomon & Sheba
and Henry Miller of the Rosy Crucifixion and Kenneth Patchen in his bed of pain and Gregory Corso roaming the streets of Rotterdam
blessings of wine and bread and skeletons growing new flesh and father Walt sitting in the middle of Times Square his voice a violet thunder

the President is on television and the Pope is drunk on ceremonial wine cursing the Church fathers as he floats naked near the Sistine ceiling

O dream garden of the ancient flower…

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. Email list subscribe to it 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.

Rappoport on Coast to Coast AM: the Hawaii volcano

Rappoport on Coast to Coast AM: the Hawaii volcano

Why isn’t the press connecting fracking and the Hawaii volcano eruption?

by Jon Rappoport

June 21, 2018

Last night, I was on Coast to Coast AM with George Noory, and I reported on fracking and the eruption of the Hawaii volcano.

Since very few journalists are looking into this, I’m reprinting my recent article on the subject. Obviously, if fracking were found to be the reason for the eruption, the process would be exposed as a great danger for all the world to see—

On the Big Island of Hawaii, where the Kilauea volcano has explosively erupted, there is a geothermal energy plant. It is the Puna Geothermal Venture (PGV) Plant, in Puna.

There is a long-running debate about whether PGV is fracking. The debate is a matter of terminology, because in the geothermal process, as reports, “…the drilling and the injection of cold water into hot rocks used in geothermal energy plants does fracture the rocks, which can induce earthquakes and through contamination of the atmosphere and water tables can affect our health and safety.”

Whether deep injection of fluid aims to capture oil, gas, or heat (geothermal), the beginning stage of the process is the same.

Earthquakes induced by this water-injection could obviously trigger a volcano.

For example, here is an alarming article about a geothermal project in Switzerland., December 10, 2009: “The authorities in canton Basel City say they will cancel a geothermal energy project, which three years ago caused minor tremors that damaged many buildings.”

“A risk analysis study published on Thursday found that the danger of setting off more earthquakes was too great if drilling at the site resumed.”

“The project was put on hold three years ago after thousands of claims for damage were filed with insurers. Total costs for the damage were around SFr9 million ($8.78 million).”

“The study, commissioned by the canton, concluded that Basel was ‘unfavourable’ for geothermal power generation.”

“It said the resumption of Deep Heat Mining project and its operation over a 30-year period could set off around 200 tremors with a strength of up to 4.5 on the Richter Scale – in 2006, the quakes were about 3.4.”

“This would result in damages up to SFr40 million.”

“The Basel facility drilled five kilometres into the earth. The borehole was designed to be injected with water to capture the extreme heat. Back at the surface, the hot water – at a temperature of around 160° Celsius – would run a steam turbine coupled with a generator.”

This Swiss article outlines the risks, and also confirms that deep water-injection is used in the geothermal process—which can and does trigger earthquakes.

Here is another reference—The Guardian, July 11, 2013: “Pumping water underground at geothermal power plants can lead to dangerous earthquakes even in regions not prone to tremors, according to scientists.”

“Prof Emily Brodsky, who led a study of earthquakes at a geothermal power plant in California, said: ‘For scientists to make themselves useful in this field we need to be able to tell operators how many gallons of water they can pump into the ground in a particular location and how many earthquakes that will produce’.”

“It is already known that pumping large quantities of water underground can induce minor earthquakes near to geothermal power generation and fracking sites. However, the new evidence reveals the potential for much larger earthquakes, of magnitude 4 or 5, related to the weakening of pre-existing underground faults through increased fluid pressure.”

“The water injection appears to prime cracks in the rock, making them vulnerable to triggering by tremors from earthquakes thousands of miles away. Nicholas van der Elst, the lead author on one of three studies published on Thursday in the journal Science, said: ‘These [injected] fluids are driving [earthquake] faults to their tipping point’.”

“The analysis of the Californian site showed that for a net injection of 500m gallons of water into the ground per month, there is an earthquake on average every 11 days.”

“Heather Savage, a co-author on the same study said: ‘It is already accepted that when we have very large earthquakes seismic waves travel all over the globe, but even though the waves are small when they reach the other side of the world, they still shake faults [such as the faults induced by geothermal water-injection]. This can trigger seismicity in seismically active areas SUCH AS VOLCANOES where there is already a high fluid pressure.” (emphasis added)

So, on the Big Island of Hawaii, where there is a massive volcanic eruption underway, there is a geothermal plant, PGV. How close to the volcano is PGV?

The Washington Post, May 12: “Long a concern for residents and the target of lawsuits challenging its placement ON AN ACTIVE VOLCANO, the Puna Geothermal Venture (PGV) is a major safety issue [i.e., chemicals stored at PGV] in the wake of the eruptions and earthquakes that have shaken the Big Island for days, government officials say.” (emphasis added)

I see. PGV is ON the volcano.

Who owns PGV? Ormat Technologies. Through internal merger and stock swapping, Ormat appears to be a jointly owned Israeli and US company now.

Ormat is no stranger to scandals. At, H Sterling Burnett writes (4/1/15): One scandal that could haunt [Harry] Reid for his remaining time in the Senate (and possibly beyond) was reported on recently in the Washington Free Beacon and Courthouse News. It seems the Reid helped the green energy company, Ormat Technologies, a firm that owns and manages geothermal plants in California and Hawaii, secure nearly $136 million in economic stimulus funding from the 2009 American Recovery and Reinvestment Act.”

“Two former employees are suing the firm, claiming Ormat executives defrauded the United States of more than $130 million by reporting false information about two projects to get government grants, a federal judge ruled Tuesday.”

“Reid’s ties to Ormat are deep. The company runs geothermal plants in Nevada and Reid has been a big booster of the company in D.C. As reported in the Free Beacon, ‘Reid bragged about securing Ormat a $350 million loan guarantee from the Department of Energy (DOE) and took credit for expanding the Treasury program that the former employees say illicitly provided Ormat with millions more in taxpayer funds’.”

“It is also worth noting that Ormat’s DOE award came a year after investors sued the company for allegedly inflating its stock price through ‘fraudulent accounting and overstated financial results.’ Ormat settled the allegations in 2012 for $3.1 million.”

Ormat potentially faces a much larger scandal now.

A massive volcanic eruption on the Island of Hawaii.

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 Matrix Revealed: Cartels That Run The World

The Matrix Revealed: Cartels That Run The World

by Jon Rappoport

April 27, 2018

The following information comes from insider interviews with Ellis Medavoy and Richard Bell, two people I interview extensively in my collection, The Matrix Revealed. This is just a brief taste of what they have to say…

Major institutions on this planet that control Military, Money, Energy, Government, Medical, Corporate, Media, and Education are becoming, more and more, global cartels, horizontally integrated across national borders.

This is more than a top-down command process. It’s organically evolving. Three steps forward, two steps back. There is a great deal of competition among the components of a given cartel, but there is also cooperation. And in the long run, the see-saw is tipping in the direction of cooperation, as these entities realize they may well have more to gain that way.

I can’t stress too strongly this EVOLVING process. All attempts to merely assume twelve men in a room run the planet fall woefully short.

Instead, over time, people who lead a powerful institution (like Energy, for example) look out and recognize more major players, and in this recognition there is an impulse to compete and win and destroy, but there is also an impulse to build commonality and therefore monopolize the entire territory.

During one conversation with retired master propagandist Ellis Medavoy, I asked him about the extent of mutual cooperation in his given field, psychological warfare. He responded:

“Twenty years ago, I would have said we were all operating separately and jealously. Each of us was mining his own contacts and building his false pictures of reality for the masses. But then things began to change. Globally. First of all, more of us were pushing the same holograms. And because communication and travel were speeding up so rapidly, we were working a lot of the same venues. We would run into each other more often. We began to share information. I mean, it was cautious. We weren’t gushing with unbridled love, I assure you. The competitive factor was still strong. And we had fights. But through all that, we began to see through the fog, so to speak. We began to understand the effectiveness of cooperating. We would test each other with privileged information, to see if we could trust each other to keep it private. A tidbit here, a tidbit there.

“And you see, behind us, other groups were finding commonality, too. For example, in the area of medical propaganda, where I operated a lot of the time. And these groups saw they could join together for specific operations, on an international scale. They could push enormous lies globally, and everyone of their class would profit and gain wider control. So I would find myself working with a psy warfare guy from, say, France, or Germany in a joint venture. We would rub elbows. We’d be feeding from the same basic money trough.

“We’d both be briefed by a team of intelligence experts, and those experts would be of several nationalities. Slowly, I saw a new kind of umbrella structure emerging.

“See, suppose during the secret lead-up to a planned economic crisis [money cartel], you can distract everybody with a phony epidemic [medical cartel]. Do you see? Leaders perceive a reason to cooperate. Planners become more intelligent and clever. They reach across lines they never would have reached across before…

“You begin to see the outlines of a much more inclusive future structure. This is multi-front warfare.”

Richard Bell, another former insider, said to me: “People like to assume that money is everything. If you can limit the amount of money the public has, eventually they weaken and cave in and they’re easier to control. And this is certainly true. But on the other hand, as mega-corporations gain more power and range and markets, you have a clash, because those corporations, which are now cooperating in ways they never have, as a cartel in some respects, want customers for their products. They don’t want abject poverty across the board. People have to be able to buy their products.

“So there is a heavy conflict. It’s a conflict between elite bankers [money cartel] and mega-corporations [corporation cartel]. It needs to be resolved through advance planning, over the long term. So now you have these powerful men sitting down and talking in a new way. Other big-time players get involved, too [government, media, energy cartels, for example].”

This is just the beginning of what these people have to say about the Matrix in their interviews and how it REALLY works.

The Matrix Revealed

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

Here are the contents of The Matrix Revealed:

* 250 megabytes of information.

* Over 1100 pages of text.

* Ten and a half hours of audio.

The 2 bonuses alone are rather extraordinary:

* My complete 18-lesson course, LOGIC AND ANALYSIS, which includes the teacher’s manual and audio to guide you. I was previously selling the course for $375. This is a new way to teach logic, the subject that has been missing from schools for decades.

* The complete text (331 pages) of AIDS INC., the book that exposed a conspiracy of scientific fraud deep within the medical research establishment. The book has become a sought-after item, since its publication in 1988. It contains material about viruses, medical testing, and the invention of disease that is, now and in the future, vital to our understanding of phony epidemics arising in our midst. I assure you, the revelations in the book will surprise you; they cut much deeper and are more subtle than “virus made in a lab” scenarios.

The heart and soul of this product are the text interviews I conducted with Matrix-insiders, who have first-hand knowledge of how the major illusions of our world are put together:

* ELLIS MEDAVOY, master of PR, propaganda, and deception, who worked for key controllers in the medical and political arenas. 28 interviews, 290 pages.

* RICHARD BELL, financial analyst and trader, whose profound grasp of market manipulation and economic-rigging is formidable, to say the least. 16 interviews, 132 pages.

* JACK TRUE, the most creative hypnotherapist on the face of the planet. Jack’s anti-Matrix understanding of the mind and how to liberate it is unparalleled. His insights are unique, staggering. 43 interviews, 320 pages.

Also included:

* Several more interviews with brilliant analysts of the Matrix. 53 pages.

* The ten and a half hours of mp3 audio are my solo presentation, based on these interviews and my own research. Title: The Multi-Dimensional Planetary Chessboard—The Matrix vs. the Un-Conditioning of the Individual.

(All the material is digital. Upon ordering it, you’ll receive an email with a link to it.)

Understanding Matrix is also understanding your capacity and power, and that is the way to approach this subject. Because liberation is the goal. And liberation has no limit.

I invite you to a new exploration and a great adventure.

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.

We are having a spiritual experience

We are having a spiritual experience

by Jon Rappoport

April 26, 2018

Recent events, about which I won’t go into detail, have caused me to say, we are having a spiritual experience.

And we are learning what that experience is.

Certain people, extraordinary people, show us qualities that transcend life.

These qualities, courage and love.

In the common arena where we all live, there are sufferings, but we can see that certain people transcend that. They come here, not only with a message, but with how they live. And how they live is greater than this life.

These people—there are many more of them than we ordinarily suppose.

This spiritual experience we are having—it is something we are learning about. I want to repeat that, because I’m not talking about something that appears and then is final. We are, if we are aware, learning.

Courage and love transcend this life we are living in the common arena.

The person who has shown me that is my wife, Laura Thompson. I have been learning about her for the 21 years we have been married. I have been learning about the scope and nature of her courage and love.

It is not easy for a person to live in this world on the side of love. To travel this life with love results in disappointments. But to continue, despite what happens, no matter what the world says or does, is majestic and beautiful. It is also transcendent.

And that is the living proof that there is a spiritual experience beyond this life as we are living it.

I believe, no matter who you are, that you have known a person who embodies this living proof.

Here and now.

As we learn, we come across “divisions” between the life we are living and the greater live we perceive. A major part of the learning is accepting that division.

There is a resolution. We come to it by degrees.

There are strengths in both the life we are living and the greater life we glimpse, perceive, and experience.

We come across great souls. They may be invisible to us for a time, even as we respond to them. But in time, we see more of them and who they are. And as we do, we see ourselves—what we can be. We see that what we can be is a natural extension of what we presently are doing.

As for myself, even as I feel my greatest love for Laura, I know it is only a part of what I will feel, as I learn more, in this spiritual experience I’m having.

As I learn more about her. As I live my life next to hers and as we have our endless life together.

Veils lifted from the heart and mind and eyes.

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.

Would you want to be a pig with a human brain?

Would you want to be a pig with a human brain?

by Jon Rappoport

April 23, 2018

Stat news: “…Stanford University’s Dr. Hiromitsu Nakauchi… broke open the chimera field with a 2010 experiment showing he could grow a rat pancreas in a mouse…Nakauchi is now working…on human-sheep chimeras, hoping that sheep, which have proven more receptive than pigs for growing human blood cells, might be a better template for growing human organs.”

I’ve long thought that certain humans already have pig brains, so transplantations between pigs and humans ought to be easy—

We’re entering the world of growing human organs in animals, for the purpose of taking those organs and putting them into human bodies. Someday, if all goes well (don’t hold your breath), no more long waiting lines for a new kidney or a liver. Voila. They’ll just grow one in a pig or a sheep or a monkey.

Now do you know why Hollywood has been churning out so many movies with mutants and hybrids and mix and match monsters? Chimeras are in. It’s the coming fashion statement.

“Yes, Sid was dying until they made a heart in a gorilla and stuck it in his chest. He’s so proud to show people the scar from the surgery.”

“Who, the gorilla?”

“No, Sid!”

“That’s nothing. My wife’s new brain was grown in a mountain lion. At night, out on the lawn, she crouches and growls. I admit I find it rather thrilling.”

“My cousin Sally, God bless her, just volunteered to have the lower part of her body removed, so could become half horse.”

Yes, but will they allow Sally to run in the Kentucky Derby?

The medical world is agog with the possibilities of human-animal interchanges. Behind that, however, is a lurking trans-human proposition: “Nothing about a human is settled. We can make humans into anything we want to. Let’s create a new world…”

And if THAT comes to pass, it’ll be far easier to convince people to enlist for re-programming at fundamental levels. “Thank you for signing up. We want to build people who are ONLY interested in others, not themselves. We want abject altruists who’ll give everything away for an abstract ideal of ‘justice’. We can condition that impulse into the New Human.”

Science on the march:

Keep breaking down and assaulting the idea that the human being is inviolate, until the masses are ready to accept any and all alterations.

As a first cousin to these efforts, we have some academics declaring that robots should have rights.

Non-conscious machines should have rights.

All right, I offer up my toaster. Let him be safe from untimely destruction. Let’s set up commissions across the world to formulate rules of kindness and care for all devices.

Let’s program humans into being machines, and give machines the rights of humans.

That’ll do it.

With the onrush of the Internet of Things, all of which are connected to the Internet, there’s a good chance your home appliances, gifted with the power of conversation, will seem to be alive.

Here is a charming quote attributed to Bill Gates: “Robots will play an important role in providing physical assistance and even companionship for the elderly.”

Yes, with enough drugs on the night table, the elderly will believe their companion robots are genuine friends, perhaps even departed relatives.

So if one day you’re visiting your mother in a nursing home, don’t be surprised if the supervisor says, “I suggest you turn around and go away. Your mother has a robot, and she believes it’s you. If you walk into her room, she might become disoriented. Anyway, her robot—you—is there for her twenty-four hours a day, every day. That’s more than enough in her declining months. Go away. Don’t worry, we have things under control.”

At which point, I advise you to stand firm and reply, “I won’t be phased out.”

And you might add, “Is there a chance your surgeon made a mistake and installed a pig brain in your head?”

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.