All work is Art by Jon Rappoport | Forum

All work is Art

by Jon Rappoport

October 28, 2015

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

“Why does the world have to be the way it is? It doesn’t. There is no rule about that. Nor is there is a rule that says a person’s life has to be what it already is. Daring to shoot for the stars is more real than anything around you. The dedicated artists who went all out, who were more reckless by far than their contemporaries—they are more important than all the prophets who ever lived.” (The Magician Awakes, Jon Rappoport)

It may be petty work. It may be boring work, repetitive work. In that case, it is petty, boring, repetitive Art.

All work, even when assigned to the letter by a boss, is invented by the person doing it, whether he knows it or not, whether he admits it or not.

All invention is some kind of Art.

It rises up and causes a conflagration, or it sits there like a dead afternoon in a cellar, but it’s Art.

There are endless reasons for exercising great caution in what one invents, but they are all a robot’s reasons. They infuse a sense of monotony. They are reasons for enlisting as a card-carrying member of Society. Sooner or later, the member’s hopeful expectations are broken.

He can spend the rest of his life picking up the pieces and trying to put them back together, or he can move on with a new idea that has fire in it.

If he does the latter, he enters a new territory, a new world. It has no mandatory language, no tired meanings. He becomes a different kind of soul. He becomes more of what he actually is. He flies, he crashes and burns, he flies again, and so on, because he is learning a species of knowledge that has no standard text.

If just one person does this, the world is not completely lost. If enough people do this, the planetary egg cracks, and something new emerges.

There is no cosmic rescue operation descending from the outside. That is a dud floated by persons who are too lazy and incurious to discover a flame within themselves.

Yes, I’m talking metaphysics here, in a way, but not the kind that has a structure and an organized tradition and a renowned reputation and a “perfect master.” This metaphysics is the moment that can be taken by anyone; seized, held, felt, expressed, projected, flown-with as an instrument of navigation into spaces unknown and uncharted—but always on the cusp of recognition and always longed-for.

This is not normal or average perception. This is not a matter of translating something realer than real into “citizen-language” for the masses. This is not a laboratory exercise. This is not a subject for those who cling to a brand of fully intentional ignorance and wear it like a badge, while drowning, bit by bit, in their own boredom.