Dreamscape

You may have some revolutionary potential if your daytime dreams start to become as free and surprising as everyone else’s nocturnal versions.

Would it be harder for 50 people to double their number, than for a group of 10 to do so?  Surely it would be five times as hard…except that it would be easier, since they would have 40 more people to help.  (Is this one of those trick, City questions?)

In a battle between chemical and electrical forces, I am not prepared to tell you who will win, but I can tell you who will be a casualty, and it’s not either of the two combatants.

Beware, the housecoats of the mind.

J.

Stay on the Move

No explication, or comment to follow:

In the heat of an argument, I heard one City chap accuse another by the invective of declaring, “You’re nothing but a commuter brain.”

Whenever you find yourself temporarily stuck in the City, at least stay on the move.

City ways, continued:

They will erect statues, buildings, and bridges to a dead man they wouldn’t say “Hi” to alive.

C & D can hold hands floating through the Tunnel of Love, while it is E that owns the carnival.

The answer to all of Man’s unanswerable questions is in his unrecognized captivity to a world of incomplete dimensions.  All mysteries would be as plain as sweet potatoes if Man could see the full dimension of things.  The unknown is simply Man’s best view of incomplete pictures; his conception of imperfect info.

J.

Real Power

Part of why dead men and their ideas are kept alive and revered is so that some of the living can make their living there from.

Real power
is silent.

It can be noted that for those of the City seeking the time and space to pursue new age, higher spiritual matters, the proper defense against the negative vibrations of their neighbors not so involved is a smile, a kind word, and a 44 magnum.  (In the City, half way measures will only get you half way.)

Those engaged in intergalactic, inner species travel, should always carry their Beaver Card.

In the land of 3-D, time does not cure everything; for even should you store it deep, keep it cool, and long let it lay, polyester will not ripen into silk.  (But do remember that it IS only 3-D stuff that is impossible in 3-D-land.)

J.

Catch Your Breath

The only question to a Real Revolutionist is whether he will “do it or not.”  No question of degree, or comparison with how it has been done by others, just the simple matter of whether he will do it, or not.  (Only those not going to “do it,” even entertain questions of possibility, and the fashions and quality of actually “doing it.”)

The true job of the Revolutionist is not to stay in the City and combat, correct, or destroy the old guard, but is to sally forth and discover and chart new neural lands, both internally and otherwise.

The Revolutionist has got to forcibly insert himself, and perception, into the infinite loop.

In the City, no one actually takes anything personally; they say they do, but they “take things,” feel things, explain things, as being an integral part of the larger neighborhood, city or state.  Only the Real Revolutionist can “take things personally,” which, in his case, is the only way to there from learn.

There are those, City bred, so sly as to even devise traps to catch their breath.

J.

Down, Spot!

Don’t let the epigrammatic couplets of your childhood misfortunes become the epic novel of your whole life.  “No, that’s enough, down, Spot, down boy, don’t keep jumping up getting those muddy problem prints all over my one clean suit!”

An all night deli is a terrible thing to waste.

Heard this one, from yet another “in-town,” in-a-lather philosopher; he said, “I love the truth.  I DEEPLY love the truth, but not all at once, thank you.”

Everything’s
everything
else.

Come on, tell the truth, how can you stay mad at a Life that has an oriental priest named, Cardinal Hymie Sin?  Okay, if that doesn’t get ‘cha, how about that a scion of the world’s largest cigarette producing families publicly presents himself as the head of a stop-smoking clinic?  If you don’t have a freshwater sense of humor, Life will “tag you,” whether you’re “it” or not, (and you may get slapped even if you do).

Whilst waiting for Wednesday, in this plastic fern bar near the college, I heard a chap say, “It’s weird, it really is, but every time I think of a truly important question I turn out to be the answer.”

J.

The People

Amazing Sequence Number What-Not:

Do it twice and die,
do it thrice and grow numb,
four times and tingling begins,
repeat once more and
you’re “back to life”
(at least by City Standards). 
Remember:  Even a fool can revive the dead.

And the poet sang out, “May my words last through eternity.  No?  Well, may my words reveal eternity.  No?  Really?  Then, listen operator, this is ME calling, may I SPEAK to eternity?”

If you suddenly cry out to a group of people, “Hey, wanna have some fun?” the men will stop to consider their obligations, while the women will immediately light up and shout, “For sure, for sure!”  (Although some things aren’t all that much different in the City, it still makes you glad to be a weenie.)

The People
are intimidated
by the future.

I heard part of the lecture last Green day, by the famous Doctor Famous, and during a frenzy of words and waves, he stated, “There are now more than sufficient statistics to firmly suggest that trying to ‘improve yourself’ will not make your life any better.”  Heads up, y’all.

J.

Keep it to Yourself

Yesterday, it could’ve been, I read in the Big Town Gazette about the “Son of a well-known official, born retarded, and who died 19 years later at the age of 23.”  Now, even for the City that’s stretching things a bit, don’t you think?

I believe I’ll un-tacit another silent precept that has periodically been spotted hovering around the area where the bushes meet the ditch.  I’ll just repeat it for you once, then I think we should let it fall back into soundless surveillance: “Controlled violence is a noble art.”  Shhhhh….

You know, if Goethe were alive today, he’d have a thing or two to say.

In the City, serious Scientists say they “Frame no hypothesis not based on observed phenomena,” but the Revolutionist, realizing that the People themselves observe little to nothing, knows that any old idea he can come up with that seems to explain some aspect of Life is about as good as one that doesn’t.  (Best keep THAT one on the “q.t.” also.)

The Revolutionist knows that certain kinds of necessary knowledge and experience can come only when one has lost one’s balance.

J.

The Silly

I once heard it said about one chap, that although he “attempted” to traffic in intellectual goods, he ended up dealing in remnants.

It is still claimed that one of Buddha’s great granddaughters, (you know, the little chubby one over in Westport), attempted to produce her own “magnum opus,” but never got any further than the title, “Deception:  The Supreme Tool Of Enlightenment.”  (But, what-the-hey – let’s hear it for the title anyway.)

Why is it, hmmm, that City folks seem only interested in the matter, as they phrase it, of “the effect of consciousness on our perception of reality.”  Why not as promising an inquiry the other way around?

Okay, okay, my latest City vignette:

As I was passing by a rather grimy establishment with a sign saying, “Free Transmission Inspections,” I heard a voice arise from underneath a parked car stating, “Yep, you got one.”

In being able to see routine Life as a kind of satire, the Revolutionist recognizes that the silly is silly, and the serious as well.  What greater truth could you want?

J.

There is no Outside-Of

Although many in the City dream of extraordinary, temporary states of awareness, the Real Revolutionist knows that it is the everyday conditions in which we most live that are to be expanded.

All of the City’s historically accepted philosophies and religions were imperfect in stating that “Man is ignorant of his true nature, which I tell you is untrue.”  Man DOES know what he is, he just doesn’t like it much.

Those still even slightly bored can do the following: Carpet your kitchen in black, and keep it clean by hand.

There is no outside of We.

If, in the City you can find anyone who doesn’t feel as though they have been soundly cheated and betrayed, they probably need their diapers changed.

J.

Action-by-Art, or Violence

In the City, those who believe they can’t do something, can’t.

Men are like dehydrated spare tires…well, some men are.

One of the Revolutionist’s tacit-mottos, which I’ll un-tacit for you is, “We move by skill, or by brute force:  Action by art, or by violence.”

Remind me to tell you sometime about this guy I once met who had the outlook of a ’52 Hudson.  (What a car, what a guy.)

No matter what quotes and axioms you may hear in the City, just remember this:

Real genius
doesn’t sweat.

J.

Mine-&-Thine

Another one of Life’s, at least, super-strokes, is in having its stuff, energies and impressions divided into mine-and-thine.  (An arm’s length is a terrible thing to waste.)

Why is it, you figure, that men have a word, “facts,” for what they take to be objective activity, and the word, “opinions,” for what they believe to be subjective, but have not comparable byplay regarding the emotions?

In case you’ve never thought about it this way, (and who has), human consciousness can know only one thing – relationships.

In the City, to properly present a truly “new idea,” that might fit on a single page, requires at least a hundred times that, just to provide the necessary intro.  This is inefficient for a Revolutionist, and yet he is not totally free from it.

I saw a brand new book in the window of that little shop I’ve mentioned before:  and the title, “The Handbook Of Modern Sex Therapy And Small Arms Of World War II.”

Beware, the mulch of the mind.

J.

Rhymes with Tarp

Here’s one I got off the restroom wall of a fat-joint over in Cityville:

“He who carps and skips away
lives to carp another day. 
He who carps and splits with grace
lives to carp some other place. 
But, he who carps ‘til he’s a bore,
may not live to carp no more – maybe.”

As a desperate, final, fall-back-reserve, everybody should have at least one hobby they got no interest in, dammit!

I heard a mechanic tell a City guy that the “Portable Tire Inflator Kit” he had in his trunk “wasn’t worth a damn,” and “wouldn’t get the job done,” and the guy said it didn’t really matter since he always calls for help when he has a flat, but that he just “felt better” knowing he had it along.  (Talk about your inadvertent, greasy metaphysics.)

Only a Real Revolutionist can picture external matters that have no natural inner models.

Has there ever been a City poet who wrote more than a dozen lines, who has not again noted for man that, “What is done is done…and the past cannot be rewound.”  Is that apparent truism so hard to be possible?

The more interest/energy-producing is the contrast, the more likely it is to consume the participants, if not by-standers.  (Thus hermits, and some would-be “holy men” seek an insulation.)

J.

J.

City Sight

City sight is always cyclopic.

The Revolutionist has, always available, a second-order-of-routine-data, such that, for example, in a City maxim like, “You can’t judge a book by looking at the cover,” he can derive fresh information from its contrary.  Either way offers correctness for him.  It is at all times the effort to turn arithmetics to algebra – to extend geometry into topography.

Perhaps the single most telling attribute of man that sets him apart from any other creature of this planet is his desire to change.  No, make that the two most telling attributes; the first one, and his ability to do so.

Everyone would agree that, “Tis better for one man to suffer than a whole state to grieve.”  Well, almost everyone.

I heard one old veteran say he had no real fear of his “brain washing” by the enemy, it was the subsequent matter of the wave and set that gave him trouble.

Man’s five senses are not wired to tolerate inaction; thus, their acts of desperation.

J.

Full Disclosure (Not)

The prevailing wisdom currently of the City seems to be that: Nature’s most compelling warning signals are fevers and blue light specials.

I once overheard a certain fleet-tongued chap, standing near a fast-track-university, lift his nose, and utter these memorable words, “Ah, the exhilarating aroma of anticipatory sweat of the long distance thinker.”

The gates may swing open for everyone at least once in their lifetime, but no one seems much the better, or wors, for the unused opportunity.

In a 3-D world, could even gods actually analyze a thing, other than after it happened?

In the City, there is a tacit ban on “absolute info.” (Full disclosure not permitted.)

J.

Sunday Supplement

Proper Revolutionary data is neither too local, nor too infinite, to preclude making from it meaningful maps of one’s own experience.

From a certain 3-D-view, thinking-of-action can apparently prevail over action itself, past and future, but not of the moment.

If I were you, I would not concern myself too seriously with any “self-improvement” system that seems centered around the ability to hypnotize a Presbyterian.

In the City, bona-fide cosmopolitanites seem able to partially avoid boredom through endless talking about themselves.

J.

Efficiency

The Revolutionist must strive above all for efficiency; much of it unseen, and within himself, but above all, efficiency.  What are normally referred to as “expanded states of awareness,” are simply conditions of enhanced efficiency.

Beware,
the short-hairs
of the mind.

In the City, they’ve got this new magazine, “The Foot Long:  For The Intellectually Hung.”

In his autumn years, one ole sore-head claimed he had but two regrets:  One, that he didn’t marry the Pointer Sisters, and two, that he didn’t get to hear Hank Williams, Sr. sing, “I Heard It Through The Grapevine.”

If you were accused of being a “Revolutionis,t” would they find any supporting evidence?

I’ve had the periodic experience of some people wanting to thank me for what I have given them.  But, I always try to get them to see the correct relative value of what I’ve done; given their lives meaning, that’s all.

J.

The Best Laid Plans

 What under the bright city sun could be dumber or sillier than a man writing “odes to love.”  (Except, of course, for a woman doing the same thing.)

There was this inner-City cult that flourished one time for all of four or five hours, who believed that the human spirit was like an automobile engine, and that beauty was the excise tax on gasoline…hey, could I make that up?

At the conclusion of a frenzied, and blood soaked battle, as he lay dying, a Revolutionist asked, “The King, is he dead, and if so, was it due to the after-point conversation?”

Either do the inappropriate at unexpected times, or, at the very least, do the vice versy.

For a man to have a precise, specific, detailed plan, is equal to having absolutely no plan at all.  You do understand that, don’t you?

There was this one, rather spicy Revolutionist, who throughout the day would ask himself, “Yeah, but what have I done to me, I mean, for me lately?”

J.

Mind within Mind: Holiday Edition

A man who'd had his eyes begin to open wider thought: "It's easier to find fault with life when you can narrow down your criticism to one specific area. Too late for me, though, since 'easier' has become synonymous with 'possible' in this regard." (And as he walked away a joyful bounce was detectable in his step.)

There was once a race of cows whose curse was to believe that anything was possible…anything, that is, but an improvement in their individual bovine-ness.

Another way of looking at it (if you like):

There is a mind within the mind --
consciousness within consciousness --
all in the potential.

When this one man began to see what was going on, he at first thought: "There must be some kind of 'misunderstanding' here." Then thought: "No, it must be some sort of 'joke.'" Then later, began to think: "No, it must be that I'm not seeing it  correctly." Then finally came to the conclusion that there was nothing to be said about it.

Many men enjoy actual warfare and combat, in that it forces them to be alert.

J.

There is no "Proper Time"

Some men say they cannot “tolerate their present ills.” While other believe they could not “endure their cure,” but everyone supports both notions taken simultaneously.

Real Revolutions have no “proper time.”  They are always unseasonable affairs, executed by improper people.

Ahoy, mates, let us now pay homage to the Great Rudder, and The Keel of “Man’s Ship Of State,” his ignorance, and his cer-tain-ty.  Sail on, my little lovely, sail on, sail on.

You know how they keep re-naming things in the City in their attempt, okay, their successful attempt to change-the-thing?  Well, here’s the latest:  Instead of calling someone dull or boring, they now refer to them as, “charm impaired.”  (Don’t it make you wanna hug ‘em again this week?)

Since you ask, here’s another ad-hoc view, an operational definition of Art:  The display of talent not fueled by thoughts of profit.  Okay, two more:  Intelligence sans deceit:   Insight without intrigue.

J.

Tuesday Tunes

Never bother to spend any of your attention on a system whose central purpose seems to be in correcting, or combating, another earlier one.

Head melodies are nice enough, but there are tunes available from another region.

Although creations cannot outsmart their artists, man apparently gives himself one ability that his gods do not possess: he can commit suicide.  (So tell me, would it make the six o’clock news, or nor, if a Van Gogh watercolor relieved itself of an ear?)

Listen, you guys know I’m not the “pessimistic kind,” but I can still note that Life is “drug out” enough, as it is, without you making it any worse.  Know what I mean?

As that one City chap likes to say, “Life is like a race track; the windows all close at three o’clock.”  (I haven’t the least idea why he likes to say that, but he does.)

J.