Jan Cox Talk 3261

What if Talk Originally “Invaded” Consciousness, But It Worked Out?

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Summary

2/11/05:
Notes by TK

Jan further pursues the model that consciousness, although intelligent, originally couldn’t talk; that talk is a kind of foreign agent that has symbiotically invaded consciousness—thereby improving its survival capacity, via culture, arising thru talk. Talk/thought has an intelligence different from Life/consciousness, that complements it by directing reactions to the environment that transcend what man’s physical instinct dictate.

Ergo: evolution of culture and civilization; talk as catalyst to culture. In the solving of physical problems, talk and consciousness have their closest, efficient concord. Yet talk can also trouble consciousness with useless gruesome, sickening , frightening imaginings. And the few are more bothered than the ordinary in this. (45:27) #3261

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

ALL YOU CAN PROCURE IN PRISON IS A DEEPER DEGREE OF CONFINEMENT
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Breathing Space For The Few
FEBRUARY 11, 2005 © 2005: JAN COX

Conversational Game.
“What is: being-asleep & unenlightened?”
“Failing to feel the humor in being able to think about being alive (in other words): taking the thoughts that appear in your brain concerning being alive, seriously.”

One father’s advice to a son: “Always say: ‘That wasn’t me,’ regarding whatever was going on the conscious part of your brain just before you caught it and said that.”

You’re either you, or a dog chasing cars.

About his newly realized condition, one chap has this to say:
“It has all of the advantages of the old without any of its disadvantages.
(Damn seldom do you find that in life.)”

Offers one guy:
“Wanna sound insightful while not understandin’ nuthin’? – just recount something men commonly do in a voice touched with sadness and censure.”

Confabulation.
“Nobody likes a know-it-all.”
“How about the know-it-all?”
“He doesn’t count.”
“Some particular reason why?”
“Yes, but it’s not for me to say.”

When an awakened man analyzes some particular human matter in the manner natural to him, there is after that, no need to ever think about it again.

Dialogue.
“In the ruins of Kalastachia, an ancient sage’s manual has been unearthed which says that past a certain age, a man should stop awakening and settle for the feeling of wisdom that comes with the natural degeneration of sex hormones.”
(“No wonder the place went to pieces.”)

A chap says:
“Wrapped around the top of my brain where the cortex should be, I seem to have instead either a musician or fisherman (based on its activity of harping and carping).”

The good news: All conversations are recorded;
the bad news: They’re only available on 8 track.

In his effort to stay on the cutting edge of a certain fashion, one man,
(when alone or anywhere else important) wears a mental see-through blouse.
(“If you don’t provide your needed stimulation — who will?!”)

“Why do you never criticize or ridicule other people?”
“It makes me ill.”

If you must mention to famous people, your claim to fame,
you’re not famous.

One guy’s take on a certain core element of modern psychology:
“Since you can consciously think about the ‘unconscious mind’ – it can’t exist.
(Or in the alternative: if it did – it doesn’t any longer –
not now that you’ve sucked it into your conscious mind.”
(He later puzzled over why no one in the field has realized this.)

(Commencement of what one man hoped would be a dialogue):
“I sometimes suspect that you haven’t tried to describe to me
everything you understand.”

No matter who or where you are, there are only two possibilities:
the conscious part of your brain is either mechanically yapping,
or it is still and momentarily quiet: that’s all there is.

The bad news is: Every thought you ever had was recorded;
the good news is: No one is interested.
(Version II).
The bad news is: Every thought you ever had was recorded;
the good news (if you’re a nervous-system-rebel) is: You’re not interested.

When drugged, one man can see the light;
when normal, he doesn’t even suspect the existence of darkness.

“Sire,” said the page, “there are visitors here from a foreign land, bearing gifts,
who wish an audience with you,” and after one heroic Hurumph!
the loutish looking liege said he would consider it, but first wanted to know
the nature of the gifts they had brought; the attendant withdrew to check,
and shortly returned with the answer: “They bring words, definitions and categories,” and the illiterate monarch (unable to read, but quite aware of how to hold onto power) ordered the visitors be immediately shot.

In city elevators, someone has been posting signs which say:
“Where consciousness and the rest of the brain meet is the area of man’s
greatest confusion.”
(“That and when the cable breaks, mused one guy.)

At intersections where one dimension unfolds into another,
there exist beings who perceive evil to be no less than what they perceive to be weakness in themselves.
For the nervous system rebel, the present problem is that his elevator
does not go high enough;
the connection between consciousness and the rest of the brain is unfinished,
garbled, and under developed.

“Second-reality matters can only be improved by second-reality means.”
“Which means they can’t be?!”

Every time some doctor would tell one man he was sick, he’d whip his ass –
(which kept him in reasonably good health).

“Only primary reality can be changed.”
“You’re referring to actual change?!”
“The only kind there is.”

One man who was never heard complaining, heard himself doing so;
“Screw that!” he said;
“Screw that!” he had his mind say;
“Screw that!” the conscious part of his brain said;
“Screw that!” the conscious part of his brain said, then realized:

“Who am I saying this to?!”

Every time a certain diagnostician would give one man an unfavorable report,
he’d shut him up by stopping what he was doing and looking him directly in the face.

The most ancient of all mythical travelling orders devoted to a man’s radical
inner reconstruction of his self had as its motto (and sole method):
Get A Grip.

J