What Occurs Naturally to the Mind Is of No Help in the Rebellion
The following recordings are from Jan’s final years, when his voice was diminished and he spoke in a low whisper. Some listeners may find these tapes hard to listen to, or difficult to understand. Thus, as another option, transcripts are being made and will be posted.
Otherwise, turn up the volume and enjoy! Those who carefully listened to Jan during this period consider that he spoke plainly and directly to the matter at hand, “pulling out all the stops,” as he understood that these were to be his last messages to his groups, and to posterity.
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Summary
7/8/05:
Notes by TK
Thoughts that occur to a man’s mind are natural to and in accord with his temperament. They come hand-in-glove with his reactions to the physical world. Alien thoughts cannot occur to the mind, so it cannot learn about itself, as that requires an exotic perspective. What occurs to the mind naturally is de facto incorrect, misleading to the neural rebel. (49:30) #3323
Jan’s Daily Fresh Real News (to accompany this talk)
THE SONGS OF MECHANICAL BIRDS
ALL HAVE A CERTAIN SAMENESS
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The World’s Only Fake book Of Nothing But Original Tunes
JULY 8, 2005 © 2005 JAN COX
“Believe me boy!” said the Mayor of a city to his son,
“Around here, a man with nothing-to-hide has got a lot to hide from ME!”
It’s a good thing that rats can’t smell cats.
(“Yeah – or that some of the rebel’s neurons can’t detect the presence of
certain other ones.”)
Urban legend in the city tells of one man who made up his mind so tight,
you could bounce a quarter off of it.
The battle cry of one reality’s university went like this:
“Bite our ass! you sorry opponents –
bite our ass – rah, rah rah.”
This was used at football games, debating contests, science fairs & vespers.
(It has been voted the fun school for six years running.)
Only those born with a special, uncommon perspective can hear what would
sound to others to be sarcasm, as helpful information.
(And one frisky outlier [when he was sure no one was watching]: kissed his hand,
slapped his face, kicked his self in the crotch, gave his self a quick mambo lesson,
served his self with a subpoena, then hopped back on the train before anyone
realized that he had privately jumped-the-track in the first place.)
The sophisticated in cities today, laugh at public transportation –
and yet when it breaks down, everybody wants to ride.
The inborn mind’s instinct to look to the left – and then to the right –
assures that criticism is its own best customer.
Whenever the answer is: Efficiency – ordinary thought can’t ever grasp the question.
This morning we found this email in the box:
“Dear Sir: You recently reported a story concerning a man who, after having
undergone some type of unspecified ‘treatments,’ ceased insisting he was
George Phillip Teleman, and began referring to his self simply as: ‘A well-known seventeenth century composer who has undergone certain treatments,’ and while
I continue to search this alleged episode for any possible parabolic potential concerning consciousness (which you say is present in everything that appears on this site)
en passant I would like to point out that although Herr Teleman did live and write in
the late sixteen hundreds, it was not until the early part of the eighteenth century
that his musical efforts began to be publicly appreciated – so! –
although you were technically correct in identifying him as a figure of the
seventeenth century, in historical terms your reporting was stray of the mark.
I trust that my input in this matter will prove helpful and instructive,
and do not hesitate to call on me for corrections in the future.
Glad to be of help,
Respectfully Yours,” etc.
First you inhale – then you exhale;
do this a bunch more times – and one day you can stop.
If you just have to write-home — at least don’t write to your home;
you’ve already heard everything you have to say.
When city ears hear jazz and say: “Where’s the melody!?” —
they are registering their discomfort at the lack of the familiar.
One reality finally said to the creatures in its care:
“Contrary to what you seem to think: there is EVERY accounting-for-taste –
and I have the DNA corporate ledgers to prove it.”
Another reader sent an email in which he offered his view that the stories we report every day, taken as a whole, is not the same thing as each story taken separately.
Gulps and sips,
gulps and sips,
when e’er we dance,
it’s slides and dips.
Nothing to read but thoughts – nothing to eat but words.
A new Good Samaritan Law recently passed in one jurisdiction states:
“Anyone witnessing a person being struck by a metaphor must render aid thereto.”
In second-reality affairs, anticipation is always an operative substitute for
actual results, which is nice — nice since no actual results will ever be forthcoming.
One man so cogitates: “Is irony the two sides of man’s mental bread,
or is it what’s between the two sides?”
The mother’s milk of mental stability in the city is repetition.
And the band began to clap, stomp their feet and chant:
“Do it ‘til it drops,
do it ‘til it drops,
then go to the bridge and,
play it again.”
In urban, neural neighborhoods, everyone goes through everyone else’s garbage –
then they exchange garbage –
and then go through the new garbage –
then forget whose was whose –
then dig back through it again as though it were fresh and they were handling it
for the very first time.
(And the alto player said: “I axed you to take me to the bridge!”)
J
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