Jan Cox Talk 0887

That Man Can Be More Conscious, Doesn’t Mean He Should Be

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News Item Gallery = jcap 1991-05-27 -0887
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Summary

#887 * Oct 28, 1991 * – 1:00
Notes by  TK

Kyroot to :18. That man can he more conscious (the mere thought of being more conscious, effects same in the mind, but not for any useful length of time) does not mean that he should be. But the Nervous System is nevertheless arranged in ordinary man to take it just that way; i.e., that can = should (with all the attendant futile pursuit cum guilt).

The Neural Revolutionist, when struck with the realization of his limited consciousness, instead of condemnation and guilt he marvels at the miracle that is his life…then forgets it. Connection to thinking is only “domesticated” when you have its attention (just like dogs and cats). Man’s mind gambols thru the entire range of past, or the future, thru the entire range of simultaneously existing multiple time zones of the Nervous System; thus the Right Now is all but ignored (and small wonder).


The News

Several times a year — just to be on the safe side — this one guy’d check with local travel agents to see if any trips had been booked in his name.

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Revolutionist Jurisprudence Update: The defense of the past is unjustified.

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To save his valuable time, whenever he’d get a new book this one chap would immediately place a page-marker well into the work.

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Only the ordinary mind will work with never a promise of payment.

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He says he figures that early on in life somebody painted the word “orphanage” on his back since so much of what he thinks seems to be ideas someone left on his doorstep.

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Whatever’s going on right now is never of much interest to most.

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Two doors down from the map shop, a man said that he now finds that in certain areas he can understand things better if he doesn’t think about them. (He displayed no signs of desiring a response to this observation.)

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There was this one reality that’d let getting started pass for success. (What a sweet thing to do.)

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No variety is sufficient unless it is greater than the variety that proceeded it.

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Signing himself as a concerned viewer, a chap writes to say that my referral to ordinary people as ordinary — he finds personally offensive.

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This one realm said, “Hold all my calls.” Which nicely managed to strangle any who got in too close.

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And since today did arrive as scheduled, I’ll tell you about another ole man who told his kid, “going off on a ‘mystical quest’ with a joy buzzer strikes me as a problematic thing to do — problematic and fun, but probably problematic all the same.” After a momentary pause the kid asked, “Aren’t you going to add, ‘But I could be wrong’?” and El Old-O replied, “Is that really necessary?!!”

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One obvious advantage of admitting you feel guilty as opposed to wetting your pants in public is the savings in cleaning bills.

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Only the revolutionist can name his universe; others can name their galaxy or solar system but only the revolutionist can name his universe.

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You could look upon it like this: Ordinary thinking doesn’t really even deal in facts, but in things that kinda resemble facts.

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The mayor of this one city says he’s waited a year before bringing back up the subject of the number of his constituents who complain about the sloppiness of the garbage collectors; he says he thought allowing a good solid twelve months to pass might give both he and us time to discern some metaphorical message in this otherwise meaningless lesson in civic logic and insanity.

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Upstairs from where they store the permanent records of the hog scores, a fellow leaned forward in his chair and said that if we are to consider our ordinary minds as a kind of incendiary device then he now looks on his old one as a disposable lighter.

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One reality told its young apprentice, “If you can make all the creatures scream real loud all at the same time you can do your own horror movie.”

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Standing just off to the side, this chap noted that even though he understood the unacknowledged basis for court etiquette he wasn’t going to be the first to mention it.

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One guy stores all despair on the ceiling.

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During his mid afternoon coffee break, one of the newer park philosophers told a circle of kids near the pond that while there was no doubt of the buses being pedestrian and predictable, he believes that the routes have a mind of their own.

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A central myth of one neighboring universe says that the day still lies ahead wherein the mighty battle will be ultimately fought between the actors and the action.

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The collective achievements of man can certainly be interesting, but their significance to the revolutionist is no greater than is his number of livers to his ordinary thinking.

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Squirrels are not simply tree rats, (at least that’s the message they want me to send along. ….[Same, for your thoughts — that is, that’s what they want me to tell you about them].)

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A suggestion from a viewer: “I believe your show might get more popular if you would quote more dead people, and like that.”

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Once he could afford it, the warrior-king of this one tribe had the word, “subtle” surgically removed from his vocabulary.

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The more complex becomes the secondary world, the greater sophistication necessary to appear patently foolish. (This is certainly not to infer that it is impossible; it just requires a slight bit more of effort, that’s all.)

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Every year this one man would try to die, at least once.

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A man who undertakes to revise and rewrite himself — let me start that again: A revolutionist who undertakes to revise and rewrite himself embarks on a kind of suicide via cheap, digital watch.

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Some things can only be understood by those who understand them.

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One man told his son, “Anytime you’re thinking how silly someone else’s interests are, ask yourself this: If they would avail themselves of my wisdom and listen to me — what would I have them doing instead?”

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A reality that wouldn’t instantly turn on you for no apparent reason is only half a reality. …(Hey, cheer up, Bunk-O, you don’t know what bad news is!)

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One man’s finger would only bleed when he cut it, and his head bruised only when he hit it: if it ain’t broke — don’t break it.

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True, revolutionist variety can move in all possible directions, hence it is not only possible to see, everything connected, but also, everything un-connected.

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Cheer up call for the day — (somewhere): a man that ain’t got no family ain’t got to attend no reunion. (Lexicologist’s commentary, volume 3: “There is no need to include profanity in a statement unless it is needed. [CF., page 224, paragraph 3].”)

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At times when he didn’t know what to say next, this one guy… Hey, is this a Y or a D … does it say guy or god? When he didn’t know what to say this one guy, or god’d fool everybody and just shut up.

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A certain neural bundle in our audience, who says he’s considerably younger than me, says he’s going to wait until the copyright’s run out, then claim he wrote all the Kyroots. He points out that there’s nothing I can do about this since I’ll be dead for sure by then. (He wants to know if I mind him doing this.)

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It is indeed a strange land wherein the comments on a thing are inseparable and co-dependent. This is the land in which thinking man lives and flourishes.

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Trying to make life look bad by your own descriptions is one of the few games with a guaranteed outcome. (One brother said he just “loved” assurances, while the other said his heart belonged to “warranties,” and in her sports minded wisdom their mother slapped the finality out of both of them.)

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Whenever this other reality wanted to make its creatures really “feel bad,” it’d make ’em feel bad. (Such is the nature of a reality “out of control” — which is the middle name of most of them.)

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One guy’s brain played a game it called, “Go Figure.”

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After hearing the idea that, “He whose cause is just is thrice armed,” a chap pondered, “Then how well equipped could that make a man with no argument?!!” (Note: It is possible that those not involved in conflict, or in preparation to be so, might not receive the same attention from life. [File this under whatever sensation you see fit.])

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Right in the middle of the convention the man climbed up on a chair and loudly proclaimed, “Were it not for sissies — fiction would never get writ.” (Someone reported that as they were taking him out he further muttered, in fact, revolutionist consider even non-fiction as cat food” … [Allah only knows what that means].)

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More people around here pretend that they feel badder than they actually do.

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The news reports coming in from the city, one rebel summarized as, “Something bid, something small, and a whole lot in between.”

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In a land where the words are not in conflict the people are perishing from an initial inertia.

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Sleeping with neural noises you wouldn’t dance with in public continues to be well populated city hobby. (And a viewer writes: “Why is it that so many of your subtle notations regarding the workings of the human intellect at first strike me as ridiculous, then soon, as most pertinent? Is this some kind of trick? Some form of delayed hypnosis? Or am I beginning to get somewhere finally? I do hope this letter makes some sense to you, but if it doesn’t just remember — my brain made me write it. Sincerely,” etc.)

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Nothing exists unless it has a name — (and some things have too many.)

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Another benefit of being a revolutionist is that nobody else knows what the benefits are.

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From the literary calendar of may-bee events comes this item: The final statement on the, discernment, interpretation and acceptance of the obvious could still be written in your lifetime. (And all the head squirrels shouted — “so watch it!!”)

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After hearing of the latest idea being debated among the court’s intellectual dilettantes that, “less is more,” the king, wiping one drop of sweat from his lip, said to a minister, “I trust I am safe in assuming that the author of this notion is not in a position of authority in our Office of Tax Collections.” (The queen bees in many neural hives have little natural tolerance for philosophies that sting. … [Hey, asked a kid in the audience, “Is that some kind of moral or something that you’re trying to slip in on us amateur viewers?”] The youngsters in many situations have little native inclination for a series of epilogues.)

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One man’s unfailing advice to himself-o: “The danger with being serious is you begin to believe it yourself.” …(He says that in his next lifetime he’ll be taking up the question of just what is “danger.”)

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Whenever this one fellow would speak a witticism followed by an equally penetrating, “P.S.” he’d say, there’s nothing like the old intellectual, One Two.” And the numbers sequence injected, “except for the old Three Four, and the old Five Six, and like that ………………….. Ellipses Onward.

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A respectable thinker is a sycophant to himself.

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And a member of the family added, “Plus it’s not as much fun.”

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While traveling around, surveying some of his handiwork, this one reality, after some specific notice of his talking creatures, turned and said to his chauffeur, “What did I ever do to make them act so seriously?!!!”

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A man writes to say that he appreciates the fact that he doesn’t have to think about our program any more than he does.

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News item to keep under your chapeau: more men think reality’s watching them than it is. (From one non-respectable view, this is not all that big a secret; still all and all, no one much likes to hear about it.)

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