Neurons Always Forget That Hormones Are Their Parents
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Notes by TK
The inner working of the liver is not accessible whereas the working of the brain/mind is. Hormones create god; god creates Adam; hormones are primogenitors of neurons. Life’s energies flow thru hormones first, then the neurons. Activating energy of thought comes thru the stomach. But neurons forget that hormones are their parents; they’ve forgotten their heritage, their lineage, and consider they are sui generis and act alone.
Neurons in their search outside themselves for guidance unknowingly seek hormones. Hormones distrust neurons the way parents distrust children put in temptation’s way. (35:22) #3293
Jan’s Daily Fresh Real News (to accompany this talk)
EVEN ENDLESS RECOUNTS NEVER CHANGE THE REAL VOTE
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Guide To The Only Election Actually Possible
APRIL 29, 2005 © 2005 JAN COX
Everybody has two minds which work simultaneously,
no one notices it because they never face up to the question:
“What is it in my brain that listens while my brain is talking.”
(“If you’ll pardon my asking: Just how crude IS that?”)
Depend on nothing that talks.
(For the would-be rebel, there is a significant exception,
but for most of them, it is too early to speak of the matter.)
To those in the city, silence is a closed door – one perhaps concealing a great secret, but that cannot be opened.
“Hey! – listen up and pay attention to me; I know you’re in there,
I can hear me talking.”
One man could think of really cute things to say just as fast as his mind would work;
(he got a really good job with the sanitation department).
In that unlisted roadhouse (out past the city’s neural, goo & electrical fields)
the cook nods toward those sitting at the counter and says:
“I can dish it out faster than they can ever eat it.”
This is why the certain-man must ultimately swallow his self.
Without talking-consciousness there is no sleep;
without talking-consciousness there is no awakening.
“Yes – and quite annoying, I mean, baffling.”)
How To Get By.
Compliment a horse on its muscles,
a woman on her beauty,
and a man on his mud flaps.
(And every now and then you could send Life one of those funny friendship cards.)
It’s never too late – not until you allow your talking-consciousness to repeat itself.
(Mothers can’t make boys stay in their yard unless they tell them multiple times.)
Being an expert in the city consists of memorizing, and then being able to enunciate
an enormous amount of facts about matters that don’t exist outside of man’s words.
(As long as zebras have paint & brushes, they can define themselves.)
On The Bandstand.
Your liver can be dying while your solo’s still flying.
(“It’s not over until I say to myself that it’s over.”
The most astounding improvisation ever heard: Silence.)
Possessions are what psychically holds most men together.
(“As long as I’ve got the Dodge, I’ve got my sanity.”)
In the actual event, Socrates had to pay for the hemlock.
Having no one to turn to is the certain-man’s intentional plan.
They had to shoot one man to ever shut him up;
he had to pretend to be they for them to get the job done.
(“I do what it takes,” has forever been the rebel’s watchword.)
You can drown in words as well as in water.
Amidst even the worst of the chemical goo and electrical storms,
the inner outlier says to his self: “Gotta keep walking.”
The ordinary mind is trapped in a multiplication table.
To be blind & asleep is to not see what is to be seen,
(no mystical powers required, just an irrepressible, unnecessary desire).
When you finally know what’s-really-going-on,
for the first time, you know you.
(He looked at his talking-consciousness and said:
“So! – all along it was you.”
[And what else are people expecting: Buddhas in Tiffany boxes?!])
Frequently on Fridays as prep for the upcoming weekend fun,
one man, while alone, will dramatically declare: “I am INVINCIBLE!”
then have an uproarious, bent-at-the-waist, beat-on-the-thighs
fit of uncontrollable laughter.
You’ve just started to go when you feel like: “Well, I’ve gone too far to stop now.”
For those capable thereof: nothing is as much fun as originality;
for those not able: nothing is as boring.
The collective’s great fun is in shared repetitions.
(Every cow saying: “Moo” is what holds the herd together.
One man’s immediate goal is to slaughter his inner cow.)
Sometimes fear counts – sometimes for everything.
In another place, the certain-man’s name is:The Silent Resister.