Jan Cox Talk 3153

Consciousness Makes Up Myths to Exhort the Lower Nervous System

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Summary

5/28/04:
Notes by TK

The nature of myths. Why are myths not merely of quotidian dimension? Myths are brain-created stories of heroic proportions. Consciousness has had enough experience with the lower parts of the brain, so that it is affected by unconscious messages of bodily distress. Also it is known that to some degree the cerebellum can affect the non-conscious functioning. There is an open line between the two, allowing communication.

It would seem that there’s no reason that consciousness can’t, once it’s informed, effect healing upon body impairment or distress. Yet faced with the reality of its relative impotence, consciousness makes up myths and invokes external divine intervention in an attempt to exhort the lower functioning to do its duty: to effect a natural—a non-technological—cure. (44:06) #3153

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

CHANGING YOUR MIND IN PRISON
IS LIKE CHANGING YOUR SOCKS
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A Hole-In-One For The Neural High Steppers
MAY 28, 2004 © 2004: JAN COX

One ole man after years of showering his kid with instructive stories of his
past exploits, sat the lad down and said:
“Now that you’re old enough to wear your hair sideways
you’re old enough to know that I just made up all that stuff I told you happened to me,” the nipper calmly flipped his locks forward and replied:
“That’s okay Pop: I just made up listening to it.”
One man pondered:
“What was the point to anything before anyone asked about it?”

A self appointed metaphysical sage in city park recently declared that
people from other planets don’t have to go to the bathroom:
“That’s why they’re from other planets,” he added.
Something that may at first sound strange to the ordinary mind
can often be rehabilitated by showing how it can apparently prove itself.
Upon hearing this, one man shook his head and said: “Only in the city!”
“What?” asked another.
“Everything!” he replied.

When mental activity is made thing-specific,
polarities can seem to trade places —
thus can a pelican be turned into a dead fish,
(and one man’s cortex snorted:
“Don’t think I don’t know who you’re really talking about!”)

Nothing knows-what-it-is until a man says what it is.
(“Bravo for me,” said Nothing.)

Combination Caution & Cerebral Traffic News.
It wouldn’t hurt to consider that all offers of liberating information may be:
For A Limited Time Only.
(“Based I assume on how long I can maintain this open intersection,”
said an unnaturally non partisan synapse.)

Institutional authority helps keep one from having to think.
(Cows just love the crack of the whip.
[And several of one man’s neurons took exception to this comment.])

A changed mind is not a new mind;
ergo the certain man’s complete lack of interest in conversion.

In the super market (keeping his distance from the Ready Made aisle)
a guy confided that he had named his own mental operations: Fruit Loops,
“Because,” he said, “it doesn’t make any sense — and is therefore most appropriate.”
Trying to appear to others as honest about yourself is no evidence at all
that you have a real self and are an actual man — indeed: just the opposite.
(A woman lurking in a stack of paper towels added [rather testily]
that all we need now is a Lite version of Nutra-Sweet [and we won’t bother to note what any neurons might have to say in response to that one.])

Nobody likes to hear it said that there are still a few people who do not know
what is going on.
(“I wonder why?”)

A man noted: “The great fun of being part of a mob is that you can scream, and
break things with anonymity,”
“Hey — I want in on that,” cried a neuron,
“Are you kidding me — where do you think I learned it!”

The will of a gentleman of some success and wealth in the city
revealed his bequeathment of a sizable sum to his alma mater’s library,
but with the proviso that no future treatment of his life could ever be housed there under: Bad Fiction,
(noting that he had quite enough of that while alive.)

Criticism of man strikes the ordinary as near erotic — approaching the divine.

Prisons love a happy prisoner —
but are perfectly satisfied with whatever kind you are.

The All Encompassing.
Regardless what prison proverbs profess: Men only preach to the converted:
sheep can hear only bleating;
prisoners, the sounds of confinement.

One guy had what he called his: “Little Proposal” which was that:
everyone who has achieved Enlightenment should wiggle their eyebrows
every time they have an enlightened thought as a way of recognizing one another.

Those who arrive with manure will accept some when they leave.

Knowing-what’s-going-on is the only philosophy-of-life that is
greaseless and odorless.

Men seem destined to forever believe mankind to be mad:
what type of madness be this?

Is there anything to which men will not take exception?

On another world, one of the inhabitants one day stood and declared:
“I have come to the conclusion that all of my personal thinking abilities are directly tied to my hormones,” and his fellow citizens were so surprised at this public confession that in the center of the city they set a mighty marble base on which they stood a grand statue of nothing in honor of his realization.
(Among some the planet is known casually as: Totalus Sarcasticus.)

The ordinary would find it quite difficult to remain so without being serious.
(For filing under: T.S.T.L. [To Say The Least.])

Only a dead man is truly free — and even he’s not
if some ordinary person is able to point out his condition.

Herds adore a cheerful cow — but in the long run: a herd is a herd is a herd.

A man without a hero might actually be a man.

At precisely noon on his twenty first birdday, the kid of one old sorehead
was handed a fake gold watch (well it looked fake), and told by his elder
that the essence of the gift was carried in the inscription on its back (which read): “Here’s To The Day When You Shall Know The Truth
And The Truth Will Make You Think: ‘So What?!’”

A certain city intellectual began to set aside a few minutes each day
for what he called his: Irony Time (he now has no hours left).
“Damn! — that’s downright coincidental,” deadpanned an amygdala.
The meaningful fun at the expense of words is enjoyed and understood but by a few.

In one land they have a bazaar where you can sell your guilt —
only problem is: they make you buy some more.

Another man (of apparent political interests?)
says he believes that once all the votes are counted.

A man to whom everything unique to human existence is secretly funny
may secretly be a unique human.
A rare 1987 Deusenburg will vanish if it is spotted and its name called out:
(something again appreciated by only a select smattering).

The chief acrobat of one circus, in his instruction to new tumblers,
showed he had no words to waste: “Timing is all a matter of time.”

Anyone who doesn’t find their own thinking to be their best entertainment value
should stick with their mama.

A prisoner with unlimited space might actually be free.

Standing by the Pensive Fountain in city park,
a gent staring down into the water commented:
“The older I get — the less certain I am that I should take credit” —
he looked up — then back at the pond — spat and added: “for anything.”
(Rene [one of the leading frog philosophers] always liked to say: “Don’t go overboard.”)

After hearing the term: self-serving derogatorily applied to a specific person,
one chap wore out three pair of legs searching for whom it might not apply.

There could be more to a quiet man with only physical interests showing
than meets your eye.

On Locating What You Want (Need?) To Know.
If a man knew what to look for he wouldn’t have to look in the first place — would he?

J