Why isn’t every person acting as a shaper and artist of reality?
Why do people rearrange their pasts to omit that self-realization?
The ‘chip’ in the brain is: the non-creative.
The blind spot in the mind is the uncreative.
The false piece of consciousness is: ‘I don’t create.’
So-called Realists want people to pay total attention to What Is, and exclude all other impulses. This is their absurd game. They double down and triple down on it every day.
The realists have very convincing arguments. For example: “I’m your surgeon. You have a life-threatening blood clot, and I’m going in there to try to fix it in the next ten minutes. Do you want me to be a dreamer who fantasizes about mountains in the sky, or do you want me to know how to restore your blood flow before you don’t have enough oxygen to survive? After the surgery, when you wake up, maybe you’ll realize that nuts and bolts reality is what you should be focusing on from here on out, because that’s what I applied to save your life.”
THAT kind of argument.
How many people will refuse THAT kind of invitation and say, “When I wake up from the surgery, I want a pad and pencil, so I can continue writing my 10,000-page poem that spills over and drenches every realistic trap that tries to lock up my mind. A glass of orange juice would be nice as well. And please have the nurse open the curtain in my room so I can see the hills and the river and the old stone skyscrapers…”
Consciousness is not a stable structure. It’s not a structure at all. Therefore, as I’ve been writing, there are no maps. The pundits who claim there are, are kidding themselves. They want to soar and fly, but instead they’re peering through lenses at little shapes and thought-forms in drops of water in a vast unending ocean. And I don’t mean a Collective ocean. Let’s drop that pose.
Every individual soul wearing a physical form has that ocean of consciousness. It spills over edges of time and science and ‘realism’ and money and trinkets and possessions and the news. And yet it isn’t abstract at all. It’s not another realm where everything is pure and organized and perfect. That’s just a cover story. That’s conditioning, training, puerile education, and the out-of-control desire to control everything that moves. That’s one of the versions of the big sleep. That’s all the boring sermons you ever slept through. That’s a contraction of the mind trying to hold things rigidly in place—until the body responds with tremors.
Because THE SPONTANEOUS CREATIVE is trying to break out.
That’s more real than any realism.
The tech freaks and domeheads can try to analyze spontaneous Creative Force from now to forever, and they’ll never make a single inroad. Instead, they’ll just say, “Computers can compose poetry, and they can defeat humans at chess, so turn the universe over to us.”
I don’t think so.
Every religious organization in the world can say to its flock, “We have the pipeline to God, he is present with us in OUR temple, WE have the book that tells you what HE said. Get to HIM through US.” As if an individual soul wearing a physical form with an unending ocean of consciousness who believes in God can’t get through on his own, because it’s just too complicated or hard or it’s Tuesday or it’s raining or the Pope has all the phone lines locked up or a bottle of wine at the liquor store isn’t the bottle of wine with special symbolic portent, or you need a small enclave that’s gained nation-status surrounded by Swiss Guards to rate a look-in from the Deity, or the flock has to be in one place on Sunday singing a hymn, or the night is too long, or the worm can turn in the right direction only when the cliché-ridden minister delivers his candy corn from the pulpit, and the words have to be read from the sacred Book after 169 translations have passed through the hands of writers, most of whom couldn’t get arrested during a riot at a literary convention. Fortunate is the Church who lucked into a real poet who breathed life into its bible.
Because, as I’ve written, every religion starts out as a poem. A poet is working on a million-word Niagara that nothing to do with organized religion, and priests come in and steal it and look it over and edit it down and chop it up and pick the useful lines and insert volleys of vapid warnings and make THAT version THE WORD.
Today’s cutting-edge medical researchers are their own priest class. They, too, are editing and reducing, using genetic tools and nanoparticles they want to infuse with the ability to deliver calcifying messages to the human brain.
The real human experiment? To see what happens when 7 billion souls wearing physical forms bottle up infinity inside themselves and live shoulder to shoulder. They didn’t need to run that experiment. I could have told them before they started what would happen, and it’s what we’re seeing right now, what we’ve been seeing for the last year, the last 5000 years.
When I say THE POEM, I mean what happens in reverse, when the infinities emerge.
An ocean of consciousness turns stagnant if it isn’t EXPRESSED. CREATIVELY.
Just as freedom turns sour.
Just as an individual, decaying from the inside, decides to wave the flag of realism and say we’re all made out of atoms and we’re all doomed. Because he wants to make “the smart choice,” as if we’re operating a contest and the winner gets a new car. There are no points and scoreboards when we’re talking about infinity.
Neither is endless consciousness a placid summer sea on which you float on your back, while you wait for the big ship of Cheese to come along and pull you into a giant collective glob with all other souls.
Consciousness wants the electricity and dynamo of endless creating.
That Force which everyone has felt at one moment or another and then tried to kill off.
It doesn’t die.
And that’s today’s news. And tomorrow’s, too.
And that’s the reason behind the reason I’ve been exposing the machinations of the medical cartel for the past 40 years. By attacking and poisoning and altering the body and brain, they’re in essence attempting to cut people off from the connection to their own dynamic consciousness. And turn them into “REALISTS.”
Reprinted with permission from Jon Rappoport’s blog.