What Comes Next?

Information doesn’t exist apart from a retrieval instrument.

Even after you suspect, “what comes next” – THEN – What comes nest?

This speech writer asked me how come the same line spoken by the King sounds better than it does delivered by a Duke?  “How come,” he asks, “How come?”  (Do you have an answer for him?)

Something that’s
correct by comparison
is not yet correct.

The first son declared, “What we know is all we’ll ever know,” and the second one replied, “Nay, may I disagree, and say that we do not yet even know all that we do know.”  And they both turned to number three son for a deciding judgment, but he was already scratching his little chin, and tolling his eyes about, and said, “Ahhh, I don’t know, we oughta' ask the old man.”  And the second son said, “Save your sweat, it’s a waste of time; if the old man knew, we wouldn’t be sitting her wondering.”

The Revolutionist should die at night.

J.

Loop-de-Loop

A woman, sitting in a sack over in the knolly area of the park, looked off somewhere just past my right ear, and said, “If it wasn’t for failure, you know, I wouldn’t have any fun in life.”

“Remember Son, it’s just a hobby.”
“What, Dad?”
“That’s right, Son.”

One fellow standing off to the side wondered, “What’s a Revolutionist like in his spare time?”  And a nearby rebel thought, “Real Revolutionists don’t have spare time.”

As one scouting party discovered: Inside every carousel is a miniature merry-go-round. 
(For those with hungry eyes, I might further note that along other lines, once you approach the end of the Systems Chain you do not come to the final, smallest system, but rather you rediscover all of the system over again…sort of.)

The Revolution is not to finalize local activities, but to perpetuate universal ones.

One other little guy who liked to ponder things, after hearing the up-to-the-minute, systems based, computer-age term, “the information loop,” reflected on it for a while, looking backwards, then considering man’s current intellectual achievements, and after some serious chewing, mumbled the following; “It’d be better called ‘the information loop de loop.”

J.

All Evil is Local

Just “acting” civil is like applying for credit.

All evil
is a local
phenomenon.

One guy turned to his neural partner and said, “If you show me yours, I’ll show you mind.”  And that other part replied, “Hell, you say that just because you ain’t got one to show.”

After lo, these thousands of years that men have been repeating, rephrasing, and reshaping the notion that, “Never was, nor is, nor ever will be a faultless work a man can see," after all this time, has it never, ever occurred to anyone to get men’s eyes checked?

Culture is bricks.

Over in another little cosmic bar, one of the full-throated regulars, several times a night, would hoist high his glass, and toast all assembled by proclaiming, “To the wine, which righteously loosens the tongue!”  And one night, one guy in the corner finally thought, “From what?”

J.

The Bright Side is the Right Side

Neptune’s Fictitious Quote Of De Week:
“Boy, life wouldn’t be near as interesting if everybody didn’t hear the same thing.”

Most things irrelevant to the Revolution seem pressing to everyone else.

Snits
do not come
in Revolutionists’
sizes.

Over at the Post-pubescent Polyvinyl Philosopher’s Forum, one speaker, on Thursday, noted that, “So long as the gods who speak to man appear to be multi-lingual, things are gonna stay at ‘sixes-and-sevens,’ and a bit frayed around the edges.”

Navigation: The echoed answers of starboard questions; will, on the port side, rise.

The “bright side” of everything is the right side.

J.

Another Brother

One way in which the Revolution assures its perpetuation is that ordinary folk don’t even know what’s going on.

Advice from one guy that seems to have plenty, (I just pass ‘em along, no comment, and no guarantee), anyhow, his for the day goes like this, “Forget,” he begins, “Forget all about notions like ‘cosmic doubles; guardian angels, or imaginary playmates,’ - latch onto something really important you dig, like this – there’s a ‘hit man’ on everybody’s tail.”

In the attempt not only to give him some good, hard, healthy and practical directions, but some that carried a deep metaphorical one as well, a father told his son, “Those who serve the wine never themselves indulge.”  And the kid replied, “Are you nuts, every bartender I ever met drinks like a horse.”  And with pathetic shock and disbelief the old timer screamed, “Are you serious?”

By the time anything becomes a part of man’s vernacular, it is already in a state of decline.

The first brother said, “It’s hard to believe,” and the second one replied, “Yeah, but it’s even harder not to believe it.”  And the first brother asked, “What can we do?” and the second one said, “Invent another brother.”

J.

Cup-of-Tea

If you’re going to show up later anyhow, no need to be on time.

Short, insane ideas that make sense could prove dangerous to someone’s cup-of-tea.

Some who love their sleep say that the first rays of sunrise are the worst, and a Revolutionist once told some interested visitors the same thing, except he didn’t mention beds, or daybreak.

(Ah, the steady forward of winsome talk and Wild Turkey):

Over in a small bar in the next time zone, a fellow climbed onto the bar and delivered the following verbal bouquet;
                                             “I used to speak in riddles,
                                             But now I speak in rhymes,
                                             I used to live on quarters
                                             But now I live on dimes;
I have never met a thought so formidable that it could not be chopped, nor a word so pithy that it couldn’t be dropped.”  (Need I tell you that his next round was on me.)

Up toward the front was one man proclaiming, “We’re all on a fast trip to destruction,” while back near the rear another figure was announcing, “We’re on a slow cruse to paradise,” and wandering up and down the aisles was a chap selling torn calendars, and out-dated watches.

J.

Never Happened

There is no such book as, “The Compilation Of Man’s Worst Decisions”…well, yeah, sure there is, but I decided not to admit it.

A man who can “do the best with what he’s got” is still only minimally employed.

One rebellious man’s poetic sentiments were expressed thusly:

“I’m now the kinda guy
I used to hope
someday I’d meet.” 

The End, (he says that’s The End.)

Although officially reliable confirmation is lacking, rumors persist regarding a man in southern Greece whose psychology is not a result of any childhood, or environmental influences.  (Stay tuned, I guess.)

“Hey, Bubba, look at that thing – what is it…let’s kill it!”
“Nah, let’s just talk about it.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

If you put something off long enough it’s as though it never happened.

J.

Funny Names

Found writ on a rest room wall, just over in that other world with walls:
“Fear the surgeon with an un-blooded scalpel, but not so the knight with a similar sword.”

One guy, of a pretty rambunctious nature, directed in his will that his tongue be diced and distributed to the dogs.

At a recent combination “going-away” and “home-coming” party one guest said, “People with funny names act funny.”   (I dare not mention his moniker.)

After being informed that once the twelve notes in an octave are played, they simply then repeat themselves again and again; this one lad, surveying the many notes on the keyboard before him exclaimed, “Well, to hell with most of them then.”

I suppose as further evidence, (if indeed further be required), of the continuing lack of synchronization between the perverse postures of fate, and man’s feeble acts, a certain gentleman told me that even after all of the expense of changing his name to Shakespeare, and after all of the effort of moving to Stratford, that the British literary establishment still wouldn’t lend him fifteen hundred pounds.

J.

Almost

Since Life has failed to mention it on your Dance Card, you might care to make an individual note of the fact that She has, for Her dominate forward dancers, and more submissive ones who glide backwards, provided two different schemes of morality.

Over on that little “secret” planet I’ve mentioned to you before, where I sometimes stop and refresh myself at Plato’s Bistro And Bar, a fellow on the next stool to me, after a few of his own forms of “refreshments,” intoned with a certain manual flourish, “What need have I of books, and universities, my opponents are my own beloved instructors.”

A Poem:

Every dog has its day,
Every woman has her way,
But every man who merely thinks,
Well…I’ll have to get back with you on this line…

At exactly seven and a half minutes before legal sundown, one bright kid asked his fading father, “If just thinking about something won’t make it so, will something being so make you think about it?”  And along with that fiery orb, the old man sank.

One subversive I met told me he had a motto, one he had gotten from Life Itself, it goes: “Everything, everywhere, at all times, is exactly as it should be…almost.”

J.

Home-Held Advantage

One guy approached me in the park, with a pretty well discouraged look and hat on, and finally told me that for years, one of his “true pleasures in life was, ‘talking to himself,’” that is, until he suddenly realized how dumb he was!

It has come to our attention that some relatively consistent statistical proof exists showing a home field advantage in favor of life.

A guy hiding in a bush over in the park whispered as I passed, “Aggravation is the only sure evidence of life.”  (Perhaps that busu is thistle.)

Over on this one planet that had a fluctuating number of days in its week, a representative of their world’s religious institution was making a public speech wherein he noted the necessity of all people to confirm to the sacred teachings and rituals by stating that, “A man who is virtuous simply by his own nature has no future reward awaiting.”  And a pretty decent and upright gent right up front leaped up, ripped off his coat, threw it in the dirt, began jumping up and down on it and hollered, “Well, in that case – Forget it, just forget it!”

Now for some scores:  Tornados 12    Humans   0

J.

Rats!

At some sort of meeting or other, a speaker proclaimed, “A life well spent would be reflected in the fact that once deceased, one would no longer trouble the living.”  And a woman in back thought, “Very well, but then that opens up the implication that History led a scandalous existence.

“…and in conclusion may I say,” (and I did), “A man who would read while on a voyage should either not take a book along, or else not sail…(or, of course, he could also ignore my comments.)

One guy, who admits that some of his family, “worries about him,” told me that almost every night just before he falls asleep, his brain, quite distinctly thank you, says to him, “Is it safe to come out now?”

When others disagreed, and wanted to argue with him, this one guy would try to walk away by saying, (at least to himself) that, “It’s not worth it.”  (He did this for such a length of time that it became as though it were so.)

On that attractive orange planet just over there, on their beautiful resort island of St. Soothy, tourism was being severely damaged by the irrepressible presence of rats; the continuing complaint of irate visitors was always the same, “Rats, rats, and more rats,” they said, and then a local had a minor mental downpour, and solved the problem of the rats from stem to stern – they renamed the little critters, “St. Soothy Squirrels,” and now all goes well.  (By the by:  In your daily naming and renaming process, how goes it with you?)

Anything that’s true at the cost of something else being false is not true.

J.

No Need to Call Ahead

At a “cast party” after opening night in one small galaxy, I fell into conversation with a bushy moustache, with a tall man, who confided to me that he was some sort of “self driven, private detective about to crack the biggest mystery in and of all creation,” and when asked exactly what that was, he, (the moustache, not the man), smiled – no, leered, and replied, “Ahhh, but that would be telling now wouldn’t it?”  (I have observed that in certain parts of this universe some parties that end too quickly didn’t start soon enough to begin with.)

On another bright little burgeoning planet, I found a new local religion the creatures were using, that went by the surprising name of, “No Need To Call Ahead”.

In one future, a dining companion noted to me, “In much earlier times, it was aid that, ‘An erudite fool is a greater fool than an ignorant fool.'”  (He ate a bite and then continued), “Then in more recent times, someone said that, ‘An erudite fool is a greater danger than an ignorant one,’” but I think our modern technology has reached the point where this should be again updated.”  (He sipped up his wine glass, and concluded), “We could now say, “An erudite fool is more wearisome than a routine one.'”  And with that, he paid his bill and took a nap.

If what ordinary men call the “gods,” did answer what ordinary men call “prayers,” then ordinary men would no longer be ordinary, in that local time would have been thrown into reverse, and their own genetic ancestors plunged into a state of inoperative chaos.

The only way to “know for sure” you’re in the Revolution, is to be in the Revolution.

J.

How Many Brain Cells?

In his personal attempt, I suppose, to avoid the oft used, trite proverbial symbols of, “dogs-and-fleas,” and “pigs-and-mud,” this one poetically inclined lad writ as follows, “Lay down with Milton, get up with Blake.”

After years of what seemed to be futile efforts to improve the intellectual properties of his birthright, this one guy drove a sign at the edge of his head that said; “Commercial Potential:  Could be Re-Zoned.”

One little fellow with what seems to be some sort of shifty, supernatural grip on the universal untidiness of reality, was last week quoted as saying that, “Nature abhors a vacuum cleaner.”

Where land based, ordinary men seek knowledge is in much argument, noise, and debate: Where the Subversive pursue theirs’ is mostly silence.

Party Game For Those With No Particular Political Alliance:

Question:  How many brain cells does it take to change a light bulb?
(Or an opinion, or anything else, for that matter?)

Answer:    Just as many as an ordinary man has operating at that moment.

This ghastly=looking, hacking ole man, pretending to be dying, pulled the kid up close to his ole man type face and said, “I know your time with me ain’t been easy, and I understand that much of what I’ve told you seemed vague, if not downright improbable, but, cough-cough, just before I go, let me leave you with this, something on which you can always depend, a mental anchor to secure your safety in the troubled waters of ordinary, intellectual uncertainty – cough-hack – You may forever-and-a-fortnight rest assured that ANYTHING another human tells you is ‘absolutely true and correct’ is not.”  (And being so pleased with this final advice, he went ahead and pretended to die.)

J.

Someone Stole the Ocean

You have truly joined the Revolution when you realize you’ve started something you cannot finish.

The once-and-sometimes, mighty leader of one fearful, faceless barbaric horde cried out each morning, “At peril of my snarling wrath, may ye never forget: at the first sign of success – RETREAT!”

I propose for our “Ole Sore-Head Of The Week” Award the gent who last night was heard to say that while “Waiting for his ship to come in someone stole the ocean.”  (One of his caliber may not often pass this way…instead of “may” perhaps I might say “shouldn’t.”)

At one of those erratic, unscheduled “God Conventions,” one of them stood and said, “May I offer a suggestion?”  And another asked, “Is that anything like criticism?”  And the first one replied, “Well, I guess you could say that.”  (All that was then heard in the hall was the sound of seven hundred guns being drawn.)

One semi-sparkling squire, after a certain exposure to certain subversive data like this, mused, “It somewhat strikes moi as a ‘robbing of Peter so as to teach Peter a lesson.’”

J.

Need and Beauty

A man with a card that said, “Free Lance Social Commentator,” standing beside me at a corner across town where a sewer was backing up, proposed to me, “Tis' a sad life we lead when the most excitement many people ever have is being sick.”  (At least I hear the condition of the sewer eventually improved.)

The beauty
of things
passes,
as our need
for them
lapses.

Over on a playground, I saw this chap with a steely look in one eye, and more of a carbon gaze in the other, talking to a group of children, and the part I overheard was this, “…and since men do not know the purpose of life they imagine-up gods, and they further imagine-up that the gods tell them what the purpose is, and that’s the way that little bagatelle is played.”  (Several of the nippers appeared a bit upset so the gent passed out some imaginary candy.)

Muse:  In a 3-D world, space has no room to move around, and time seems always out of sinc.

Message left on a bathroom wall for out-of-towners:  “Just remember; things are not as bad as you think or else you wouldn’t be here.”  (May we assume somewhere is a scribe flushed with pride.)

J.

Talk is Time

Many think that peace, recognition, and satisfaction come through forces outside the person, the rest believe they must come from within the man himself, and god bless ’em, they’re both just as cute as can be.

It’s true in kindergarten, it’s true at Harvard; you can nibble now, and still gnaw on it later, but no matter what you try to do about it – talk is time.

Messages arrive from all directions, information comes in from all corners; thankfully, it doesn’t all pile up on you, eh what?

It’s hard to frighten people on the red planet by shouting, “Vermilion”.

They can see the cities fall, they can hear the crowned heads roll, but some know a revolution known to none.

J.

Curious

After hearing someone say that, “The mind trying to examine itself is like a very tall person standing on a chair to make combing their hair easier.”  And this one dude said, “So – where else would he stand?”

On three sister satellites over in the laterally temperate sector I witnessed the following:
On the first world, the people who oftimes cry out, “Stand back, here come the gods and they’re hungry.”  And on the second orb, this shout was periodically heard, “Make way – the gods are horny.”  And on the third little planet, which seemed to promise the most, and threaten great reversals, you could sometimes hear the locals saying amongst themselves, “You better watch it, the gods are curious again.”

There are those who cry over beauty,
and those who cry over tragedy.
(Oh yeah, and there are some others too.)

In his wine, the most just ruler can become dangerous.  But who cares about the drinking habits of a tyrant – the worst is already known.

J.

Call me Bill

Another guy who obviously, if not indubitably, recognizes the power, if not the terror, of words, tells me that he’s changing his name to "Bill," “just to throw ‘em off the trail.”

At some other time at this one place, there was a kind of cultish little collection of people whose leader one day accidentally cut off a finger, and the next occasion when they all met, and the followers expressed their concern over his missing digit, he covered himself by immediately declaring that his injury was a predictable result of a certain “mystical ritual,” to which they were not privy.  And several days later when they next met many of the faithful were missing a finger, whilst those others who still had some potential were simply missing.

Stiffening joints have made more men metaphysical poets than any dose of spiritual compassion.

I once became acquainted with a man who for many years toiled over his “grand epic poem,” which centered around the theme, “Those things I once did see, I gradually see no more.”  (And you might care to know this was in regards not to his growing blind, but to his growing up.)

To more completely fulfill the unknown definition of a “Real Revolutionist,” or a “Neural Subversive,” a person should have almost no ordinary “psychological inner life.”

J.

And the Winner Is: Habit!

It is being rumored in some quarters, (and debated in other half crowns), that low cholesterol prevents proverbs.

No matter how they may define it, rhapsodize it, no matter how many beauty contests they hold, or swimsuit issues they publish, man finds the ultimate resplendence, the supreme beauty to be – not an object, no my lovelies, but the enchantress – habit!  (Think about it calmly, and see if all the visible evidence does not preclude the pre-eminence of any other competitor.)

This one ole sore-head with a patch, was really letting life have it one day, “Sometimes I get a special thrill over the stupidity of humanity, and the futility of their lives…just look at science, their ‘grand achievement,’ and especially an area such as mathematics, where they tried to finally come up with an intelligent, objective language that would be free of human bias, and personal prejudice, and look what good it did ‘em – hah!  See what I mean?”  And his better turned son said, “Seven.”

A reading from the book, “A Child’s Garden Of Verse For The Extremely Unruly Child”:

“I have a little friend who thinks for me,
I have a little friend who speaks for me,
I have a little friend
who’s not really my friend at all,
but who is me – Ha ha ha!"

  But no seriously, folks…”

In this one system a new game, “Quell The Disturbance” is sweeping their neurons; this system will add little to the Gross National Product.

J.

The Normal Brain is No Loyal Friend

Those who criticize the past are deaf to the past, and those who fear the future cannot see the future.

I know of this certain, foreign universe, subject to the general weight of creation with sentient creatures, whose “family tradition” continually dies, yet perpetually survives.

The normal brain is no loyal friend, save to its own silent ancestors.

The mostly unknown, (though largely allegorical), Famous Titanium Triplets were one day discussing their individual views of man’s most beneficial technological milepost in the long march to progress, and the first one said, “Without any doubt, it is the general development of the field of electronics.”  And the second one added, “Why be hesitant, more specifically, I would say, would be the invention of television.”  And the third one countered, “Ah, brilliant choice, but I would refine it to the ultimate development of color television.”  And the fourth one finessed by saying, “Nope, ‘tis the volume control."

The more simple and the more complex, are the two least mechanically inclined to tell you “what kinda guy they are.”  (Although this should be of no practical use to you personally, it is noteworthy.)

J.