Improvisation

Being as how some pleasure can be short-supplied out-in-the-Bushes, the Real Revolutionist learns to build a liquor-still in the woody area just behind his own brain. (Aw-right, you – I mean me; you're under arrest for serving intoxicants to a Kidder.)


Only the seriously imperceptive scorn the judgments-of-history. They are to be duly recognized and accepted. Have they not been fully bought and paid for?


Whereas the Ruling Powers want things predictable and totally orchestrated, the Real Revolutionist knows the value, and often necessity, of improvisation. In the Cities, praises be to Immovable, marble palaces, while in the bushes it's kudos to the fleet-footed, inspired lean-to.


The Real Revolutionist says, “Wound me you may; subdue me you won't. You may crush my bones, but not my passion. It is possible I may once scream, but whine, never!”


How many philosophers, theologians, and even scientists have proclaimed that the seminal difference between Man and all the other creatures is his “moral sense of conscience”? I'm here to tell you that fear made ‘em say that. (“Conscience” my other worldly ass.)

J.