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Jan’s Daily Fresh Real News (to accompany this talk)
THE CURE FOR EVERYTHING IS FOUND –
BUT THOSE NOT INTERESTED
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June 16, 2003 © 2003: JAN COX
During the recent literary festival at the Dry Waller’s Hall
a youngish chap revealed that he’d brought up to date a favorite axiom.
(to wit): “A rolling stone gathers no liabilities,”
which he says he intends to put into practice in his personal life just as soon as
he has the strength and is sure it will not jeopardize his ability to get a car loan.
Conventional knowledge serves multiple purposes, its primary:
acting as a dictionary of man’s indices of intangibles;
how can you know that you know what your thoughts say you know about things
they made up unless they remind you when necessary that you indeed know them.
(Conventional Knowledge: not to be confused with city permissible, mental incest.)
Today’s Time Saver Tip.
Anything that easily seems almost not worth mentioning
is likely to be absolutely not worth mentioning.
Being aware when to shut up is not a talent needed by ordinary minds.
Whenever he wanted a really good laugh this one man would
lock the doors,
close the shades,
take the phone off the hook,
then sit and stare at his collection of books.
(If he continues, the day may come when he can accomplish the same
by simply looking in a mirror at his eyes.)
A Psychological Curiosity From Another World.
On one planet, by way of explaining whatever subject is brought up,
the speaking creatures will say:
“Blah de blah, de blah blah blah;
blah de blah, de blah blah blah;
blah de blah, de blah blah blah, ” rather than:
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
(No wonder we’re so far behind here, huh?!)
In another land is a religion which says that after you die, even if you go to the, bad-place, you can still get out if you have learned how to, hot-wire-dead-excuses.
Just being-alive will cause you to think,
but not enough to understand what it means to — be alive.
Drugs serve a multitude of purposes (for instance):
ingesting them makes giving criticism easier, and taking it, harder.
Drugs: your friend — use ‘em, or lose ‘em —
and if you’re normal — you can’t abuse ‘em.
(Hey! — what d’ya think the mind runs on!)
Though unsure what could be done about it,
the king of one land eventually concluded that the problem with rituals
is their repetition — the very thing so enjoyed by the people.
An alien visitor to Earth, after doing a survey of human knowledge thought:
“So – they only deal in notes and outlines.”
Being a nervous system rebel means being able to think in real time;
success in total secession from the city is being able to mentally distinguish — flawlessly — between real things and made up ones.
In urban ponds your fishing possibilities are either: be a sucker, or sucker bait.
Only the certain man’s thoughts do not pimp for themselves,
ergo is he not interested in whether you find them attractive or not.
One man says he knows for a sweet certainty that things are not nearly as far away
as they seem to most people;
he says he cannot prove this — but notes he does not need to.
“When you know where things are — that’s all that matters, no?!”
Note: There is even a reality wherein things known never have to be proven,
(and it is not far away).
When the cry goes out in the city: “The conflict has commenced!” — rest assured — somewhere — the fun has begun.
The question is not: How can ordinary men’s thinking be so confined,
fixed and predictable, but rather: To live ordinary lives — how could it be otherwise?!
To normal people, there are simply too many things to think about —
leastwise thoroughly — sanely — and all in one lifetime —
leastwise that’s what they say.
In response to a son’s question, a father said the following:
“While no dictionary satisfying definition can be given for one who devotes his life to that specialized pursuit, yet still appreciates life in the city, here’s an off the books one:
He is like a man with many hobbies — but only one love.”
An ordinary man loves what he thinks of,
while the certain man, neurally independent of the city,
thinks of what he loves;
what could be more reasonable and satisfying than that.
One guy in the city’s Fourth Ward says he’d ‘bout admit that life ain’t all that bad —
IF it weren’t for the cumbersome features of its spatial nature — oops!
he just changed it: if it weren’t for the annoyances of its temporal side,
(guess he never considered where these two sources of problems originated, huh?!)
If you only think of life in personal terms,
life will always seem too…..too…..well, too personal.
(If you knew how often life smiled a smile of satisfaction regarding the follies-of-man, you might then realize that there ARE no, follies-of-man.)
Just after noon, in city park, in the area homesteaded by speakers,
one unrolled his private soap box,
triumphantly mounted same,
and with several introductory, though off-the-rack gestures,
declared to the ad hoc assembly:
“Thank you for this opportunity:
what I have to say today is this:
The pump that furnishes the creative juices to man runs off the sweat from the brow of the most mundane among us,”
and a piece of an office taking this in said: “That reminds me.”
All along the bustling, apparently ever expanding borders of the city’s second reality, forever are men’s minds glued.
Circumstances serve sundry purposes, a principal one is allowing men’s thoughts
to hold a picture of reality that is made up events in their lives
which they have taken personally:
thus can isolated occurrences be accepted as rules —
and as always, vice versa — and no mind being the better for it.
Studying the body will not explain man’s intangible, inner self,
nor will it explain man’s culture (which comes exclusively from his mental self),
yet studying his mind will not explain his mind,
and neither will studying his culture explain his mind — so:
an interesting challenge, no?!
A man who follows any philosophy, religion, culture or teaching of any kind
may be a nice, civilized person,
but he is a dunce.
Being able to think and not trying to think your way to the truth of things
is having an aphrodisiac while in prison.