Jan Cox Talk 2963


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Jan’s Daily Fresh Real News (to accompany this talk)

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March 10, 2003 © 2003: JAN COX

Recreationally, hormones’ favorite era of history is the pre civilized;
neurons do not yet have one; they currently spend their free time
trying to catch a glimpse of their own reflection — in man’s mind.
The drowning always cling to one another;
men and thoughts gather in bunches.
A demand for ransom can be a form of flattery;
a refusal to pay it, an even greater one.
One man could never seem to drink enough at night to get him over
the disappointment of waking up the next morning in bed with himself again.
One guy was so moody that his moods had moods,
and another man had such an extensive genetic background
that it was no wonder he was what he was,
and after all of his statements, the king of one state would always add:
“Hey, and I should know — I’m king,” and even though usually he did not know
what he was talking about, still, he was correct,
(in that inside the monarch’s private chamber, it doesn’t matter,
and outside, where his subjects are, it makes no difference — thus it all works out);
also: as civilization increases in an area,
a new theory can be worth more than eight old laws;
when it rains on city roads however,
all drivers will still hug the center line;
all meaningless safety is in the heart of the herd — the center of the collective —
in the shallows of man’s collective mind where even though
you may believe yourself drowning, it will not be fatal,
and there are multitudes on whom to grab and cling;
pigs won’t let sheep sink — whole herds cannot go under;
the common mind always bobs back to the cortical surface.
“Neurons who swim and drown in horror,
will be back swimming here tomorrow” —
as long as you mentally hang only with your kind
you’re never in danger of leaving your mind (translated:
stay where you are and always BE as you are — in your head).
The Personal columns in city papers are for those who have no personal life,
same as how Morality is for those lacking same,
and Religion for those with no idea what it means.
The unofficial motto of every city is: “Anyone Not From Here Is A Fool.”
As the realm became increasingly cosmopolitan,
the king instituted a monthly Blurt Out Day at court,
during which time the Assistant Royal Chief recently cupped his hands and yelled: “Only the civilized can be shocked — savages can only be killed!”
and the king rubbed his chin and thought: “I can go with that.”
Time devours all consequences — but not their parents;
only specific epochs can be terminated — which includes none of those spoken of.
Right up until the bloody end: tyrants will never admit that — anything’s-wrong,
(it’s snivelers who make the most noise while pretending to drown).
During a storm as he gazed out a window, a man saw lightning strike a tree,
ripping off all its bark, and setting the tree all aglow – and he thought to himself:
“Ah! but would same happen to my mind!”
In an apparent attempt to persuade the people that
unoriginal ideas are not necessarily inoperative,
the local reality of one land adopted from advertising, this as its official slogan:
“You’ve Tried The Rest — Now Try The Best.”
(Jane’s Registry Of Cliches has thus far been unable to establish with any certainty what, if anything, was thereby accomplished.)
The city (the ordinary area of the human mind) works in wondrous ways —
— its irrelevance to perform,
(or: if you can’t sell snipe sandwiches in Atlantis — get outta the business!)
And yet: one chap who: didn’t-know-which-way-to-go — never let that stop him —
you can’t! — not and thrive in the city, you can’t.
Two dogs were laying around the house talking and one said:
“A real advantage to being an animal is that no one will ever sue you for slander,”
to which the other immediately cautioned:
“Shhh! — don’t let the master hear you say that —
you know how progressive he is in his thinking.”
Being uncivilized in your behavior is a quite serious matter —
being so in your thinking (if you keep your yap shut) is not —
it is nothing that anyone else will even notice,
but if you are trying to achieve rebel status —
this becomes the most serious matter in your personal universe.
More concerning city highways:
if you’re waiting for a lift — don’t get run over;
if you’re waiting for a lift — you’ll GET run over,
and a father said to a son: “It’s best never to laugh at another man’s interests — unless of course — they’re ridiculous!”
and the lad asked: “But aren’t most men’s — ridiculous?!”
“Well yeah — why else would I bother to mention it.”
Note: fathers speak to their sons differently when in the city
than they do when away and out in the open.
Suggestion: ignore what yours says to you when he’s momentarily urbanized,
(all kings get disoriented in town).
Suggestion Número Dos: get out and stay out!
But here is how instruction proceeds in the city,
where was issued this educational directive:
“If you want to know how air planes fly — find a crashed one to study” —
never forget that it is in this neural locale wherein the well are fascinated by the ill,
the normal by the grotesque, and the live by the dead.
(“Wow!” they collectively cried: “Who WOULDN’T want to live THERE!”)
And one man personally exclaimed: “Ow! — my wings hurt,” and life said:
“You don’t have wings,” and the man replied: “They still hurt,”
and life said: “We’ve been through this before: you don’t have wings, gills, claws,
or any other such to hurt” and the man paused a moment — then yelled:
“Okay — my talk hurts.”
No one wants to live in a universe with limits –
yet city mind cannot imagine conditions otherwise;
only those who have escaped understand what escaping is –
everyone held captive talks about it,
but only those who experience it know what it actually is.
What you then never hear: “Ow! — my nothing hurts.”

The struggle to flee the city dream is the becoming of a neural detective —
having your brain get on its own case,
and whenever he would hear one man chide another:
“That’s no way to be!” — one man always thinks:
“That’s EVERY way to be — that’s another human you’re referring to!”
(Everyone who hears about this has their own opinion as to what it means.)

Illness is one thing: being ill,
being ill AND talking about it turns it into something else;
only sleepers who talk in their sleep are actually asleep,
(and The All Un-City, Certain Man Choir supportively sings us out:
“How Can That Be?! — That Surely Can’t Be! — But my, Glory Be! –
It Sure DO Be!”)