The God of the Second Chance

On this one world, when the creatures became old enough to stabilize their myths into a deity, they referred to theirs as, “The God Of The Second Chance,” which gave all the other myths their best laugh in years.

Man cannot predict the future, for man IS the future.

Don’t poison the snakes if you plan reptile for lunch.

(This may seem obvious to some, but there are those who suffer from a dangerous lack of “brain-stomach coordination,” [in an intellectual sense, of course].)

On one real certain and real obvious day, one of the older guys told one of the younger ones, “Remember, if you wanna feel good, all you gotta do is make someone else feel bad,” and the kid thought, “I always wondered if you were really my father, and now I know.”

If all you know is what is of personal significance, then what you know is of no significance.
 

As he conclusively departed this plane, one revolutionist shouted back, “Life can be understood, but not explained!"

J.

Thinking too Fast

Artifacts don’t mean much to one with no interest in the past…(and over near this other star…oh, okay, I’ll give you the kiddy – I mean, vegetarian version:  History don’t frighten those not interested in history.  Now are you satisfied?

A large publishing house on one small planet had on their staff a number of writers who, for each new book, were responsible for producing an Introduction setting forth what the work was to contain and how the author was to execute it; then under another name, the same staff scribe would write an Epilogue detailing from various views how the author had failed to meet the promise and expectations set forth in the Introduction.

At one place, in one future, they no longer issue citations, or even warning tickets, for “Thinking Too Fast.”

One thin fellow, in an apparent ephemeral burst of confessional enthusiasm, declared, “If the human mind was a three ring circus, I’d be spending most of my time running around hollering, ‘Hey, where’s my other two rings’?”

All categories are illusion…wait, let me be a bit more exact:
All categories are a necessary illusion…well, why not be even more specific:
All categories are a necessary, magnificent illusion.

J.

Diagnosis

The first voice said, “One manner of approaching this is to ‘treat all differences the same,’” and the alternative voice asked, “Did you say ‘treat all differences the same’ or ‘treat them as though they were the same’?”  And the initiating voice exclaimed, “Finally! – You got something right the first time through.”

When spatial systems examine themselves, who shall diagnose the results?

One chap was so intellectually self-assured that whenever he met fortune tellers, he expected them to pay him to read his mind.

One of the forward elders said to his younger, partially adopted cousin, “Forget about arthritis and impotency, the way to recognize the advancement of aging is in that your myths become brittle.”  (Several hours later the youngster said, “I’m suspecting you meant that you begin to take your myths literally?”  And the un-youngster replied, “That is precisely what I said, thank you.”)

Everything’s a preface.
J.

It's Hard to Plan for a Revolution

And still this other guy I met (who says his goal is to “write a column,” and if that doesn’t work out, to BE one), after looking thoughtful for awhile, propounded the following: said he: “Those who continue to confuse fear and good-taste will at least always have something to be afraid of.”

For those in a hurry with real good ears, the world’s shortest moralistic fable – ten words: The panting dog said, “You think I LIKE chasing cats?”

In a striking display of enthusiasm, if not electrified bile, one ole sorehead shouted out, “Okay, all you ‘forty-watters,’ if there IS any basis for believing in the benevolence of fate and the serendipity of chance, why don’t we ever just ‘accidentally’ spell a real hard word correctly?”

One well-honed father, in an attempt to encourage and in a coup de maitre of condensation, said to his son, “Why sweat it? Just look at this as a prelude to a conclusion.”

While over in Bill’s Bar, you know, over on Bill’s Planet, I overheard the following conversation:  This one guy says, “I heard that over on Francine’s Planet they’ve banned erasers, apologies, delete keys, and correcting tape.”  And his imbibing companion retorted, “Hell, why didn’t they save time and just outlaw brains.”

Okay, I’ll admit it…I’ll even say it for you – it’s hard to plan for a revolution.

J.

Talk

Talk is what humans do while awaiting their next assignment.

This one out-of-towner – and I mean seriously out-of-town – said that what he finds most unusual about life here is that in the sequence of “fear – myth – ritual” earth men run it backwards.

Although scorned and rebuked, the power of clichés is such that every aspiring intellectual star must therewith do some public battle.

When this one guy discovered that a song called “Precious Memories” made him cry, well, that was all he needed to know.

An anachronistic myth is no big deal…in fact, one myth said, “Wow – I’m out of sync, I think I’ll become a religion.”

J.

One-Way Ticket

If the irrelevant is not meaningful to you, then you’re part of the irrelevant.

This one person recently wrote me and said he’s certain that he has at least partially “found me out”…he says that anyone who can simply “play around with words” like I do can seem to be intelligent…Part of the fun in being found out is in being partially found out.

In another place exists an unusual travel agent who sells one-way tickets.  You may ask, “What’s unusual about that?” so let me tell you the dual singularities of the enterprise.  First, they sell ONLY one-way tickets, and second, the tickets are guaranteed to be unconditionally, absolutely, irreversibly – ONE WAY.

After years of concern and much reflection regarding the kid’s active physical life, yet inattention to his intellectual growth, the father one day grabbed him firmly by the shoulders, looked him deeply in the eyes, and said, “Son, you can exercise all you want to.”

Along with his patent application, he enclosed a cover letter that said, if needed, he had in his basement a full working model of Jonathan Swift.

J.

Tell Me What's Going On...

On this one quite swift little planetoid, there’s a guy I predict may finally give prognostication a good name (albeit with a certain twist):  His “headline/come-on” is as follows:

“Tell me what’s
going on already,
and I’ll tell you
its significance.”

After being shown an X-ray, a CAT-scan, and a full length Polaroid of his own brain, this one chap stepped back and said, “Oh no, you’re not getting me in one of those things.”

On his interplanetary travels, this one little scholar would ofttimes read a scrap of paper his father had handed him the day of his first departure.  It said, “A trick shot in Tulsa ain’t shit in Sheboygan.”  And for some reason, he’d always feel better for a little while.

All gods are born pagan, but once they become civilized they buy suits, get married, and just generally “blow it.”  (No one’s really interested in a grown-up god.)

J.

A corset adjuster I supped with accidentally on that glazed planet, told me that to keep a clear distinction to himself between his “factual knowledge” and his “opinions,” he called them both The Maxwell Brothers.

J.

Train Ride

From over near the eastern galaxy, a voice cried out, “This universe ain’t big enough for me and sarcasm too.”  And from the violet area, a coy voice replied, “Why I thought you’d never ask.”

And in response, the father waved his arms about and bellowed, “Just look around you – what do you see besides stuff?”  And the kid replied, “Very little else.”  And even louder, the old man roared, “Very little else – very little else, what do you mean, ‘Very little else’?”  And the junior answered, “Well, it is mostly ‘stuff’ just like you said, and then the other, minor stuff.”  And the senior thought. “Oh how sweet, oh how tough; minor minds and minor stuff…how unbearably sweet.”

After reading that “pillow talk, intimate sexual repartee, should never leave the private site of its bedroom origins,” this one chap thought, “Hmmm, that’s how I feel about my talking to myself.”

Even though the former may be inconvenient, even heart-breaking, do note: The last-train-of-the-day is not the same thing as the “last day.”

Over at that little bar, while I was standing by the jukebox – waiting for that important, very intellectual lecture to begin, this one rather lifelike chap told me that he only wished he were rich or clever enough to devise a way to “bell his mind,” so that he’d “hear it coming.”

During part of the seven months they spent together, while sitting under a tower over next to the bridge, one of the kids said, “After all this talk from the old man, I think I’ve about figured out what he’s trying to tell us…I believe you could sum it up by saying that there’s a difference between having-a-rat, and having a pet rat.”  And his brother stood up and thought, “I don’t believe I want to hear any more of this.”

J.

Nonfiction

(Sometimes I wish I hadn’t started this, but, oh well…):

Yet another of those ipse dixit divinities, or demi-divinities, has obviously heard of my recent notations and now he, too, has written me and says that what he likes best about “being a god” is that you don’t have to have any particular reason for being one.  (I guess I could be Mister Wisenheimer and add that the same could be said for being dead.)
 

Under 3-D conditions, the normal laws of motions are not repealed in the invisible, internal world of man’s thoughts and feelings.  Thusl, when you attempt to toss something up and grab hold of its other end, just as with divers, the act itself tends to make it take a half-twist. 

(You might care to recall this next time you think about changing-your-old-mind or reversing-the-old-position.)

Over near the Chromium Sector, I found a new religion being run by some guys that seem pretty sure of themselves, in that the opening address of all their prayers begins with, “Hello, darlin’.”

Lying astride his catered deathbed, one father, who was less than neurally shabby in his prime, threw his progeny litter this farewell advice, “Never simply ‘throw away’ anything that is larger than it was when you got it.”

As this world expands laterally, everyone has access to the same new information…but not everyone has access to the new interpretation.

The real revolutionist couldn’t write nonfiction even if he wanted to.

J.

The First Step

The first step toward assassination of the king is to give him a name. (The Prince of Norseland cannot be killed if he’s just another Bill.)

In-the-future, if you gotta tell someone you’re “serious,” you’re not.

Everyone’s born in Phoenix, so’s they can dream of Hartford.

You might hold this approach in reserve: If something seems too metaphorically complex, just assume it wasn’t a metaphor to begin with.

The first one started it thusly: “I say that men speak of things as a preface to understanding them.” 

And the second one joined in: “I say that men verbalize things as a prologue to transcending them.” 

And the third added his part, to wit: “I say that men talk about things out of sheer and naked desperation.” 

(And the offstage voice boomed: “Would you all please leave in an orderly fashion; that about wraps it up for tonight.)

J.

"Good Luck"

Without traitors and spies the wars could not go on…(After dark, parts of all dry armies, are wet.)

At three-fifteen one day, the father said to the son, “It’s good that we can have these little chats.”  And the kid replied, “Yeah, but good for who?” …The old man looked far off toward the distance and said, “You still don’t get it, do you?”

The people continue to use rituals as a secondary way to have some experience of the heroic adventure.  The real revolutionist looks upon this as a fading family photo album.

In yet another example of that dreamed-of attempt to upset the normal balance of the planet, one guy had this notion:  He wanted everyone who believed as he did to get together in one place, on the same side of the world, and on a given signal everyone suddenly think the same thing.

A strong man and a fool will both wish their opponents “Good Luck.”

…(Someone else will also.)

J.

Visiting Relatives

An anxious soul with two feet on that other planet, says that the “question of the hour” is the following:  “Is there an intellectual equivalency to the notion of a moral one?”

Those who take the grave seriously do not understand the humor of the heroic life.

The variation you may need: From another part of the house, I sometimes hear unknown relatives mucking about.

A myth
without humor
is a mere
commercial.

Whilst in the hot embrace of the Madonna of Pique, one young swain declared, “If I cannot, by god, be a prince, I’ll be damned if I’ll be a lady-in-waiting,” which gave the rest of the people, who were all ladies-in-waiting, a good laugh.

J.

Talent

In a superbly tortured form of what I took to be attempted encouragement of his kid, a certain father said, “Son, you would have to be an idiot to be talented.”

Within the ordinary constructs of history, heroics must be personified, villainy institutionalized.

One chap, who pretty obviously did not suffer from hyper-activity, stated to no one in particular, “I don’t mind so much living in space, if I just didn’t have to move in space.”

Once upon a time, a curious fellow cornered a reputed revolutionist and asked him, “Would this activity of yours result in me becoming a new person, or just a better me?”  And the rebel said, “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”  …No response as of yet…that was in 1948.

It is now official.  The guy who first said, “Anatomy is destiny,” has called in from the great beyond and apologized.

J.

Sounds Electric

Those who don’t KNOW when it’s over, can’t SAY when it’s over.

Mechanical morality is precisely what is needed if you’re the Tin Man or a follower of the Black & Decker Philosophy.

One guy told his partner, “The only thing lacking in our relationship is the failure-to-communicate.”

At the War College of this one tribe, they teach that the army with a slogan is always at an advantage.

Amidst a slow rolling boil on one planetary cauldron, I heard a voice proclaim, “May the future forgive me, but I do so love the sound of electricity.”

J.

A Fitting Climax

Words To Remember In Radical Publishing:

A rewrite won’t necessarily make it right.

A revolution
clearly defined
is your grandmother’s
tea party.

For their birthday, a father gave his quadruplet sons the following verbal gifts: To the first one he said, “Some of what I’ve told you is not true,” and after dismissing him he called in the second one and told him, “Most of what I’ve told you is not true.”  Then when he had number three brought to him, he informed him, “All of what I’ve told you is untrue.”  And when that son had left, he called the last one from a closet where he had hidden him to listen and told him, “Everything I said to them was a lie.”

This one guy, who calls himself, “Doctor,” although he is quick to boastfully add that he is just “barely literate,” tells me that his very latest theory is that anger is like a sweat gland for the mind.

The fitting climax to all acts is the introduction of the next one.

J.

One More Myth

Erratic Myth Number Something:

Once, in a fresh place, a group of creatures gathered themselves together for the first time, and after getting settled down, they wondered what they then should do.  No one knew.  Thus, was civilization born.

There's not much
demand, or regard,
for a hero
until he is dead.

One particular planet put its transcendental, revolutionist dreams into myths based on stories of military conflict, while a sister world’s similar tales were centered on concepts of love and compassion.  To reconcile these variances, they decided to stage an Olympic styled competition – sort of a “Paradigmatic Play-Off,” and at first all went surprisingly well as good will and sportsmanship seemed the order of the day, until one side sent the other cream filled doughnuts stuffed with irrational proverbs and dynamite.

One of the planet elders one day mentioned to the underage underlings in his charge that almost everyone has some talent to be ugly, and that it most tends to be exercised when one gets in a serious mortal mode.

In a certain neural, judicial circuit, alert attorneys begin to expect a most generous judgment when the other side must resort for character witnesses to the likes of Attila.

J.

Myths for a Monday

“Have you ever considered,” inquired the pondering father, “that if any human affairs and thoughts could be tidily wrapped up in words, with a period being a satisfying conclusion at one end of a verbal gathering, then we would have no need for incessant introductions on the other?”

If the possible outcomes of the mythic quest were either to remain more or less as you are now, or become like one of humanity’s spiritual heroes, the would-be explorer, I suggest, would be likely to adopt a general attitude sort of like, “To hell with the whole thing.”

Two myths were just sitting around, doing nothing, and one finally spoke, “Do you realize that half the people take us literally, and the rest think we’re fiction – is that not weird!”  The other myth sorta nodded and, after a quiet internal moment, said, “Okay, I give up, what’s the difference?”

I have previously noted for you that, “Anything that can happen, will,” but I can be more specific: “Anything you can imagine to happen will, or has.”

And yet another of those mythic figures tells me that what he likes best about being a god is that you can not only “start off on the wrong foot, but can damn well stay there.”

J.

Cautionary Chirp

As his “now-you’re-an-adult-going-away-present,” one colorful father gave his equally bland child the following advice, “Just as soon as you find someone who will listen, tell them that you objected to it right from the start, but couldn’t find who to complain to.”

Although compact, non-directional humor is a native bird in revolutionist areas, there remains this cautionary chirp:  Don’t laugh at anything you don’t fully understand.

In the mythic history of man, those who like to say, “What we’re experiencing here is the moral equivalent of an earthquake,” wouldn’t know a poetic seismograph if it rushed up in a clown’s suit, ripped down their knickers and whistled the March of Aida.

If a war is not an invasion, it is not a war of profit.

During the later months of his later years, this one fellow looked up, looked off, and then commented, “One thing I have learned, if life is the only thing standing between you and death, then in this life even if you’ve ‘got it made’ you ain’t got it made.”

J.

Standard Bearer

I hope you didn’t bet more than you could actually afford to lose, but I could have told you that the sequential never had a chance.

If you’re not represented by new intelligence, the only parts you’ll ever get will be in someone else’s commercials.

This kind of extracurricular activity is also exceptional in that the real revolutionist is not “all that anxious” to be anyone else’s dinner.

One father used to caution his daughter, “If you get systematized, you’re hypnotized.”

One student of affairs revolutionaire states that according to his studies and calculations, if such an activity had a “standard bearer,” he could not be standard, and would likely be UN-bearable.

J.

Fun on a Friday

In what is, by some, perceived to be a desert of philosophical, if not penetrating, pleasant pronouncements, this one gentleman loudly proclaimed, “If I were any happier, I’d wear my socks backwards!”

Secrets
cannot
be
systematized.

Almost every morning, this guy could be seen scurrying around his backyard, his hands a-fluttering, and him making a kind of “shushing” sound – his mate explained that he’s trying to “shoo away time and space.”

One father, just before he died…(ah, he wasn’t really dying, he just told me to tell you that), whispered to his son in a shout, this final, exit advice, “Don’t pose!”

Remember our
oh-so-secret motto:
If it ain’t fun
it ain’t This.

After a life spent in these affairs revolutionaire, one person grinningly admitted, “I now seem to ‘have-life-down’ to having just one aim…and the best part is – I’ve got NO idea what it is!”  (And that, my friends, is a revolution well spent.)

J.