The Individual vs. the fake Collective
Oct17 by Jon Rappoport
The Individual vs. the Staged Collective
by Jon Rappoport
October 17, 2017
Trumpets blare. In the night sky, spotlights roam. A great confusion of smoke and dust and fog, and emerging banners, carrying the single message:
The great meltdown of all consciousness into a glob of utopian simplicity…
There are denizens among us.
They present themselves as the Normals.
Beyond all political objectives, there is a simple fact: those group-mind addicts who have given up their souls will rage against the faintest appearance of one who tries to keep his. And in this rage, the soulless ones will try to pull the other down to where they live.
And somehow, it all looks normal and proper and rational.
In the 1950s, before television had numbed minds and turned them into jelly, there was a growing sense of: the Individual versus the Corporate State.
Something needed to be done. People were fitting into slots. They were surrendering their lives in increasing numbers. They were carving away their own idiosyncrasies and their independent ideas.
But television, under the control of psyops experts, became, as the 1950s droned on, the facile barrel of a weapon:
“What’s important is the group. Conform. Give in. Bathe in the great belonging…”
Recognize that every message television imparts is a proxy, a fabrication, a simulacrum, an imitation of life one step removed.
When this medium also broadcasts words and images of belonging and the need to belong, it’s engaged in revolutionary social engineering.
Whether it’s the happy-happy suburban-lawn family in an ad for the wonders of a toxic pesticide, or the mob family going to the mattresses to fend off a rival, it’s fantasy time in the land of mind control.
Television has carried its mission forward. The consciousness of the Individual versus the State has turned into: love the State. Love the State as family.
In the only study I have been able to find, Wictionary partially surveys the scripts of all television shows from the year 2006, to analyze the words most frequently broadcast to viewers in America.
Out of 29,713,800 words, including the massively used “a,” “an,” “the,” “you,” “me,” and the like, the word “home” ranks 179 from the top. “Mom” is 218. “Together” is 222. “Family” is 250.
This usage reflects an unending psyop.
Are you with the family or not? Are you with the group, the collective, or not? Those are the blunt parameters.
“When you get right down to it, all you have is family.” “Our team is really a family.” “You’re deserting the family.” “You fight for the guy next to you.” “Our department is like a family.” “Here at Corporation X, we’re a family.”
The committee, the group, the company, the sector, the planet.
The goal? Submerge the individual.
Individual achievement, imagination, creative power? Not on the agenda. Something for the dustbin of history.
Aldous Huxley, Brave New World: “‘Ninety-six identical twins working ninety-six identical machines’! The voice was almost tremulous with enthusiasm. ‘You really know where you are. For the first time in history.’”
George Orwell, 1984: “The two aims of the Party are to conquer the whole surface of the earth and to extinguish once and for all the possibility of independent thought.”
The soap opera is the apotheosis of television. The long-running characters in Anytown are irreversibly enmeshed in one another’s lives. There’s no escape. There is only mind-numbing meddling.
“I’m just trying to help you realize we all love you (in chains).”
“Your father, rest his soul, would never have wanted you to do this to yourself…”
“How dare you set yourself apart from us. Who do you think you are?”
For some people, the collective “WE” has a fragrant scent—until they get down in the trenches with it. There they discover odd odors and postures and mutations. There they discover self-distorted creatures scurrying around celebrating their twistedness.
The night becomes long. The ideals melt. The level of intelligence required to inhabit this cave-like realm is lower than expected, much lower.
Hypnotic perceptions, which are the glue that holds the territory together, begin to crack and fall apart, and all that is left is a grim determination to see things through.
As the night moves into its latter stages, some participants come to know that all their activity is taking place in a chimerical universe.
It is as if reality has been constructed to yield up gibberish.
Whose idea was it to become deaf, dumb, and blind in the first place?
And then perhaps one person in the cave suddenly says: I EXIST.
That starts a cacophony of howling.
In the aftermath of the 1963 assassination of JFK and the 1995 bombing of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City, the covert theme was the same: a lone individual did this.
A lone individual, detached from the group, did this. “Lone individuals are people who left the fold. They wandered from the communal hearth. Therefore, they inevitably became killers.”
In 1995, after the Oklahoma City Bombing, President Bill Clinton made a speech to the nation. He rescued his presidency by essentially saying, “Come home to the government. We will protect you and save you.”
He framed the crime in those terms. The individual versus the collective.
The history of human struggle on this planet is about the individual emerging FROM the group, from the tribe, from the clan. The history of struggle is not about the individual surrendering and going back INTO group identity.
Going back is the psyop.
The intended psyop.
As the trumpets blare in the night sky, as the fog-ridden spotlights roam, as the banners emerge carrying the single message, WE, as people below are magnetically drawn to this show, a unpredicted thing happens:
Someone shouts: WHAT IS WE?
Other pick up the shout.
And the banners begin to catch fire and melt. They drip steel and wax and the false grinding of hypnotic dreams breaks its rhythm.
The whole sky-scene stutters like a great weapon losing its capacity to contain heat. The sky itself drips and caves inward and collapses, and the trumpets tail off and there is a new fresh silence.
The delusion, in pieces, is drifting away…
The cover: gone.
Behind it is The Individual.
What will he do now?
Will he seek to find his inherent power, the power he cast aside in his eagerness to join the collective?
Or will he search for another staged melodrama designed to absorb him in an all-embracing WE?