Jan Cox Talk 0851

Ordinary Hobbies Can Be Restrictive to Revolutionary Thought

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Summary

#851 Aug 5, 1991 – 1:00 
Notes by TK

Kyroot to :18. The Secondary Level World is the result of collectivized thinking. All civilized activity directly serves Life’s interests. To understand this changes the way the individual intellect works or monitors itself. All hobbies Life does not punish a man for are legitimate, directly serving Life’s aims…and serve to remove a man one more step from his uncouth, feral Primary Level World self. But ordinary hobbies remove a Real Revolutionist a step away from potential escape of 3-d limited thought; it is thereby restrictive, harmful, whereas it is beneficial to the ordinary man.

There is a connection between displacement of Secondary Level World thinking and the necessity that everything be divided into two-s, with an indistinct, unnoted something-else always left over. E.g., polls, where pro, con and undecided categories are tallied, but where the follow-up, always focuses on the pro/con rather than the undecided category (where the only real raw data for new info exists).


The News

The good revolutionist glue requires that the user already be half sticky.

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Whenever he was about to start a new novel, this one man would first take a blank sheet of paper and type on it “The End,” then lay it aside…(just so he’d know it’d end well).

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Two men in a raincoat can get just as wet as one.

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Always vote for the man with the most cliches.

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One day this one reality told its little creatures, “You won’t believe what I’m gonna do next!” and one guy thought, “Hell, I don’t believe what you last did.”

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Looking up from his book, a kid asked, “This writer says ‘The best humor is always unconscious.’ What gives?” And the ole man replied, “Many men suspect there’s another level to that which makes them laugh, but they don’t know what it is, so — what the hell — they call it ‘unconscious.'”

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One man would agree to being shot only if it were outside a prestigious address.

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One god’s reality for the year became “Hey, don’t ask me!”

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One man kept all the good thoughts he had on Sundays (his day off) in a special file.

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The mail this morning disgorged a card from a viewer who suggests that if we ever want a good new name for the show, we might call it “Kyroots, Or, The Re-Awakening Of Language.”

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Neural kings must sit ‘top shaky thrones or else the land will stagnate.

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One ole man had this to say to the kid: “Lad, a dictionary is your friend; if, however, it is your best friend, then you probably have more problems than you do words.

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Calling down the “complete and total wrath of Captain Irony” won’t do you the least bit of good… (Who the hell d’ya think’s gonna notice!)

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It appears that he had set up his equipment so that one thought would automatically trigger another one. (His mother said he had done it early on, so’s to save time for later.)

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This one chap has decided that the mysterious face he sometimes sees in his breakfast window in the morning could be his own: He says he knows this explanation is ludicrous, but that anything’s better than just silently sitting there with oatmeal on your face. …(You may recall we’ve already noted that “The secondary world looks after its own,” and even when the concern overwhelms the demand, it still provides physical homes and hospitals to fulfill its obligation to the uncertain.)

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In living, finite realities there are always progressions, but no beginnings.

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Even as many passengers in Secondary Class continued to believe that the ship was — or at least, should be — sinking, a certain stowaway, who was secretly acting as his own ballast and crow’s nest, sang to himself this old, non-extant sea chanty, which succinctly comments on the contrary possibility of what the steerage crowd believes (sang he): “Oh, the world of the mind can save your behind.”

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“Remember,” cautioned one reality, “there are seven steps to captivity, but only seven to freedom.”

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One of the afternoon-shift speakers over in the city park had this to say, one afternoon: “If a wheel believes itself to be on a magnificent journey, it’s never satisfied unless it’s turning.” …(And to everyone in the crowd who nodded their agreement, an organizer from the W. B. A. — the Worry, Booze, and Anger Union — handed a business card and application.)

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Men’s interest in biographies is the hope that others have done better; in gossip, that they’ve done worse.

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Another viewer writes: “Dear Kyroot: If, in some subtle, unexpected fashion, all these entities you speak of — the ole man and the kid, gods and kings, the primary and secondary worlds, Mary and the Lamb, the city and the revolutionist camp, squirrels and trees, and the lightning and the goo — if all these things are actually unnoted manifestations of our own, internal, mental world, then how — how do you explain my Uncle Floyd?”

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In some bouncy and robust kingdoms there is a surreptitious Minister Of Contusion Calculations — so, while the people always enjoy receiving such, they do not know they’re being tabulated.

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One certain kid refused to listen to his ole man’s stories of human horrors and atrocities, and the elder pressed him, saying, “But how will you learn of the crudeness of man?” and the child replied, “Having you here trying to tell me such tales.”

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Addendum to my recent comments regarding a certain reality who sent out cards to each of his little creatures as soon as they were born: It turns out he’d send a few of them another one around their fortieth birthday, which says: “You can still ‘come as you are.'”

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The ordinary, measured progress of man could be defined as: The Secondary’s attempt to distance itself as far as possible from the Primary, at whatever cost.

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Then there was this one god who’d let anybody in his heaven who’d sign a statement absolving the Big Guy from any responsibility for their just finished life.

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One guy didn’t like anybody as much as he did himself — what a self!

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The king scratched his chin, looked pensively off into the distance and said, “It is possible that I am wrong,” and the entire court rose up, exclaiming, “No, Sire, it’s not possible,” and he said, “You’re right.”

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One ole sorehead’s fatherly advice to his little burr-rated nipper: “Never trust anyone who’ll accept your explanation.”

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One fellow found life so enjoyable that he said he’d consider coming back — if they invited him.

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Some good news and bad: The guy who so incessantly insisted that he had invented prepositions has passed away.

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“Since you’re the kid and I’m the ole man, I’m gonna call you ‘kid,’ and tell you some ole man stuff,” said the ole man. “Like this: If you did answer all your critics, you wouldn’t have any critics, and then where would you be?”

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Ordinary attempts at acting serve to highlight the difference between real emotion, and human emotion.

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(Here-we-go-again-time?): Hormones start fun, hormones can finish it.

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As the king primed the knights for their latest adventure, he declared, “Who might finally say ‘I’m wrong’ might as well stay at home.”

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Why might you think that World-Class-Tyrants and Guys-Who-Love-To-Dance-Forward-With-A-Passion are so inapt to make conciliatory noises when they step on your feet? …(Only those who got into the Ballroom free are inclined to complain about the brutality and laxness of the bouncers.
…[Everyone got in free.])

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One man wouldn’t hold extremely hot objects if it was uncomfortable.

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In one reality they define genius as: “The most excellent ability to get in unparalleled trouble.”

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One family’s motto was: Being sane’s no big thang.

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The city definition of any word is never the same as the revolutionist’s; even when they’re the same — they’re not the same.

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Then there was this one reality that’d tell people damn-near anything to get ’em to stay.

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Automotive Tip For The Week: If you talk to yourself, you won’t have to go over to city park and listen to those ragamuffin philosophers rant and cant; and — those of you who survive in a three-dimensional reality can, on alternate weeks, take the antipodal approach.

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“If,” began the kid to the ole man, “The presence of one thing — like ignorance — indicates the absence of another — like knowledge — where does that leave our relationship?”
…(Several years back, during that heavy rainy period we had just before the Cantaloupe Festival, one ole man told me that sometimes he thinks the kid is on the edge of getting “way too smart for him”; …and then he grinned like a possum on codeine.)

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In a reality described by the limits of its dimensions (such as yours), everything has its shape. (And don’t be too sure that this excludes thoughts.)

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While this order of diagnosis will not be made from linear examinations: The perceived ills of the secondary world are, in fact, its vital signs.

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If you don’t like to dance backwards and be dipped — where you gonna go?!

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If you can prove you’re right in a secondary arena, it doesn’t matter whether you were right, or not. …(Radical’s Bedtime Moral: Shut the hell up in there!)

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Whenever this one man was cornered into near-admissions that he “didn’t know what he was doing,” he’d merely say, “The pertinent documents are filed away, in storage, out of state.” (And believe it or not — he was telling the truth.)

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One guy’s parents deserted him literally, but that alone proved insufficient.

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One reformed ole sorehead, over at the weekly meeting of the R.O.S.H. Association, during their “Let’s Be Positive Time,” when it came his turn, thought for a sec, then said, “Even a sinking ship is going somewhere.”

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One guy privately named his own most pleasing thoughts as The Poison That Satisfies.

Quoting from a letter we received: “I have come to the conclusion that there is a difference between ‘disliking someone and thinking they could change’ and ‘just disliking them.'” (He goes on to attribute, in part, our show as the basis of his new assumption, but I am disinclined to assist in the airing of such views. …[Reminder to the Internal Memo Desk: “Free publicity” is not actually free if it costs anything.])

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A certain experienced city elder instructed his children in these words: “The quality of mercy is not strained as it comes from the factory.”

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Shortcut cue in Micro-Psychology: Authors with the same name know the same thing. …(Well, sure, it’s improbable, but that makes it at least half probable.)

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Whenever he wanted to have neat, tidy thoughts, this one chap would listen to baroque music and try to think in a seventeenth century manner; then, when he wanted to be less restricted, he would play contemporary works while letting his mind roam free and unfettered. (Truth to tell — most of the time, he couldn’t tell the difference.)

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A man in the city says that the one thing experience does do to you is make you wish you could learn from it.

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One city-struck kid admired, “Boy! Dead guys sure did write some neat stuff.”

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Update From The Squirrels On A Mortal Proverb: “Uncertainty is the mother of all invention; in fact, hell! — it’s the origins of you humans’ distinct world.”

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Everything’s an allegory to a man with no place to go.

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Trying to explain something that doesn’t yet exist to another person is akin to encouraging them to become something that does not yet exist.

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As it turned out, some of those who worked at the camp actually owned it.

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