Being Critical Is Incorrect, Stupid and Injurious to the Few
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Notes by TK
The finding of fault: being critical, is unspeakably incorrect; horrifyingly stupid: injurious dysfunction…for the few. The need to convey ‘bad news’ is built in to ordinary consciousness and integral to its functioning. It is the basis for the feeling that something is WRONG with human life: necessary for run-of-the-mill humans, but utterly wrong for those who would awaken. (54:18) #3307
Jan’s Daily Fresh Real News (to accompany this talk)
WHEN ONLY COWS HAVE
COWS WILL GET ALL THE CREDIT
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Making Economics Understandable For Those With No Debts
JUNE 1, 2005 © 2005 JAN COX
The Episode In Banquet Hall B.
Around midnight (when everyone seemed liquored-up loose) he shushed the band,
climbed onto the main table and loudly declared in mock dramatic delivery:
“Freely expressing how-they-feel is the poetry of the everyday man,”
which brought the house down, in that everyone loves a comedian.
(Well, everyone there who was good and liquored up did.)
Singing the praises of the common man and indirectly, the workings of his uncontrolled, common mind, is an easily accessible pit that has been successfully mined for thousands of years by common poets momentarily out of inspiring ideas.
(“Lauding the nature of spit, I guess, will always have an audience in saliva glands.”)
Those who do not have their own individually generated denominator are always a ready and helpless market for appeals to mental man’s lowest common denominator.
(“You must admit that it is pleasant to hear what has been previously
censured about you, now praised, and this is especially true concerning matters
that involved your self-censure.
Come on! – you do have to admit it – don’t you?”)
Something that adds pleasure to ordinary men’s lives is their talking about it.
(“Yes sir, he was just a plain old brown hound dog –
until I started describing him to people.”)
The certain-man hears songs no one else does,
which include lyrics, verging on the incomprehensible.
The sounds of Life, once freed from your mind’s interpretation, are not only singular, joyful entertainment, but surprisingly informative as well.
What the inner ears of collective man hear from Life’s operations are nothing like
what wafts through the head of the man-who-knows.
There is special music with attached appropriate poetry
that a man can only hear in his own head; you can find it no where else.
Slogan For The Day.
“Words are a terrible thing to waste – and terrible things to let waste you.”
To civilized men (that is: word-driven people) rules and prohibitions are somehow
not real and valid until they are written down and available for everyone to read;
this should tell an uncommonly alert man about all he needs to know
to understand consciousness and thus wake-up.
In the future there is always a place where originality is worth something.
(“So I guess the question is: How do I get there?”)
What kind of creature believes the claims of authors who say that
they do not write-about-their-self.
(Is no one interested in how Life normally makes consciousness work, and how, through its mechanical speech, it misleads even itself about those matters
unique to it.)
There once was a gopher who had one hole (and the only thing that makes him
worth mentioning is that he would never look at it when he entered it).
Motto For The Day.
“The unexamined gopher is not worth living.”
Where are the communities who have words that mean absolutely nothing?
Come on – where are they?!
Here’s what’s weird and what ordinary minds never look at, are not interested in,
and pretend to not comprehend if it is clearly pointed out to them:
Words create and wholly constitute their own separate reality,
and the standard state of human consciousness makes no distinction between it
and the other reality which consists of all the things that have physical substance,
and the man-who-knows (for all you know) lives in a place that has words which
Shibboleth For The Day.
“Dr. Johnson giveth, and then goes away with the gout.”
In certain parts of one land, density is held in higher esteem than in others.
When men much discuss matters which only exist in their words,
the water is deep, muddy and of questionable potability; it can for some, be sewage.
When the nature, purpose and reality of words are not perceived,
you’re in a hellava fix – your thinking is always confused, uncertain and skewed,
and you have no way of realizing it – you’re normal.
For a while, one man carried his understanding around in a shoe box –
later, a matchbox.
Axiom For The Day.
“I am the incredible shrinking-man – n a manner that you don’t see.”
A certain feature of one chap got so small,
it was hardly there at all.
(“And it only took me fifty-nine years!”)
The beings on one world tried to make the opposite of talking about something,
not hearing about it.
(And you know, you don’t hear much about them any more.)
If you can get back down from where you are, you weren’t very high to begin with.
Jan’s Daily Fresh FlyingNews
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