Never trust a god who talks.
Is it not rare, whilst out of doors, to meet a true thinker?
Anything worth possessing
is worth destroying.
Anything worth remembering
is worth forgetting.
A truly wise king knows that he cannot legislate or dictate human nature out of the people.
Those really frightened by City life are those you hear cry out, “Whatever it is, put me down for two.”
J.
All human activity is an exchange.
There is a monstrously large statue of a frightfully naked, and awesome figure standing with its face to the wall in a deserted warehouse in Nicosia, except no one knows where it came from, and no one has ever seen it.
When you’ve graduated beyond simply bifocal sight, you personally come upon the startling realization that INDEED, everything basically indicates the existence of everything else.
And the young convoluted traveler cried out, “Dear Mother, dear, oh dear Mother, do not today my trapeze wash, for on it a splendid journey I now must take!”
Heard a fellow recently say, “The biggest problem with them City poets is they tend to take every single little thing that happens as ‘special,’ which I guess may or may not be justified, but still…to take EVERY little thing and moment as being so…oh, I don’t know. I guess City folks and poets have their own little ways of doing things.”
,
A Man with no ordinary, City convictions, can go far. (Just like the ability of a swimmer without cement trunks.)
Being young once is probably not enough.
A City dude said, “The benefits of ‘singing your own praises’ is that you know when to lay on the triple forte, and where to pass by sotto voce, and above all, when to move right on to the next verse.
Never quote
a dead man,
or repeat
a living one.
You can count on this: that a City person with no outstanding habits or vices is dull even to himself.
J.
One man says he now likes to refer to his normal thinking activities as "taylor made" for two reasons, he says: one is that his name is not Taylor, and the other is that as far as he can tell he has almost nothing to do with the production of the thoughts that occupy his mind.
A man who publicly addressed matters such as this, was one day approached by someone who'd heard him speak, who said to him: "It seems strange to hear someone talk about the mystical without bringing in the subject of God and the spiritual."
And the man nodded with a certain facial gesture indicating he understood what was said.
A man wrote to the "I'll-Bet-You're-The-Kind-Of-Doctor-Who'll-Level-With-Me" Doctor
and asked:"Is anything you say about a higher condition of awareness a lie?"
And indeed the doctor did level with him by not replying...for all the good it did. But "what the hey" -- lighten up, it's only mortal mental stuff we're dealin' with here.
Spurred apparently by another chap's comment regarding neural activity and The Top Ten, another music fan offers his spin on it. He says that most people's normal thinking activity is "repetition brought to the point of popularity."
A man wrote to The Blazing Eyebrows Doctor and rhetorically inquired:
"What is more popular in the life of man than redundancy?"
And the doctor replied:
One man declared: "The mind plays a good 'captain-of-the-ship' game, but let's see the son of a bitch grab a paddle and row for a while."It might be noted in life that the mind doesn't really seem to object very much to hotheaded outbursts directed to it -- I mean, like, who's the granddaddy Grandmaster of such things?”
J.
If you don’t care how high some things may be, or how wide some things are, or how deep other stuff may go, Life then becomes an overlapping, deliciously complex symphony of Prince, Pavarotti, Picasso and rainbow salads.
Even though he might not be so delicate himself, the Real Revolutionist would usually treat others as though they were.
Religions are armies without guns.
For City folks: If it SEEMS too hard, it IS too hard.
Another example of how energy will be moved, in spite of what mortal difficulties may appear impending; a woman with a cake in her hands approaches some people engaged in moving and proclaims her “welcome” to her new neighbors, who retort that they have been her neighbors for the last four years, and are not moving in, but moving out. “Well,” sez she, thrusting the cake still towards them, “Bon voyage, we’re sure gonna miss you.”
J.
Heard another scared, but perhaps socially aware, City sorehead sneer, “Life is just like an ice cream sundae, all the nuts end up on top.” (And not too shabby a shot, thought I, and thank god bananas can’t vote, or bear arms.)
Never trust a god who demands to be noticed.
There’s hardly any reasonably priced way to comfort the ordinary.
City folks seem hell bent on taking the confusion in others for “Depth of character.”
Ordinary history is no more than a disguised belief in the dead.
J.
My kinda really aggressive intellectual is one to whom reading is a full contact sport.
From a certain view, City knowledge is derived from taking 3-D stuff apart, and Revolutionist data comes from putting it back together under 4-D conditions and light.
What could be more a sign of a truly civilized City person, than that they purchase the useless with borrowed money.
A REMINDER:
Those who can, do, and those who can’t, don’t, and only those who know the difference know that there IS no difference.
Although many a voice has declared their interest in the actual “workings of the play,” only a Revolutionist has any business ever going backstage.
J.
Those who seriously and serenely say, “My fate is in your hands,” have none.
To a Real Revolutionist science is humorous; I don’t mean that he laughs at it, it’s just that all apparent human “discoveries” are funny.
If there was actually anything special about the past, the nineteen fifties wouldn’t have ended so soon
Will you be real, real surprised to discover that god’s name is Stanley, like in Stanley Power tools?
And where does dust go when it dies?
J.
Some Advice for a Monday: Don’t be permanent chattel to ordinary life.
A Philistine’s idea of heaven is where no one has any more talent than he.
A Philistine’s notion of hell is where no criticism is allowed.
The City will kill ya, and I mean DEAD!
If people who talk about “god” actually knew who/what they were talking about, they wouldn’t talk about him. If there were a god, like those people imagine, he wouldn’t want you to talk about him. Really!
After all, in the City, people’s lives are what they remember them to be.
J.
A Real Revolutionist is like the center of a circle that has no circumference.
The only things a Man actually owns, are those things that have not yet been taken from him.
Another great City slogan I say:
“No reasonable offer accepted.”
Hear ye, oh, hear ye: Anyone who still does stuff that hurts them, OR allows it, is no Revolutionist.
If you know how to read history in a certain fashion, it tells you that the only “good” people are dominant people.
J.
If you have to explain what your art means, it don’t mean nothing.
In all the states, in all the Cities, all Men have their national deities, and tribal gods, while in the Bushes the Revolutionist has only his book of dried figs, and a case of B-flat mouthpieces.
A real thinker would never use such words as “imaginary” as a censure, but would leave it to the City-sighted to make their own distinction between their apparent reality, and their not-so.
Never trust a god who’s between jobs.
Thirst is a dangerous thing, and REAL thirst is REAL dangerous.
J.
When it comes to certain “in-town-communiques,” sex says it all.
To some, I guess a Real Revolutionist could appear unsentimental, but this is simply because HE doesn’t wallow in the past…or in the fucking present, for that matter.
Many City people believe they won’t let appearances fool them, but the Revolutionist must also guard against this idea itself.
A truly jaded City-ite would be one who goes to sleep reading their own biography.
A doubly jaded sophisticated City-ite would be one who wrote their autobiography as a roman a clef under a pseudonym.
J.
Far beyond the grip of City influences and urban battles, the Real Revolutionist executes His own form of Agreeable Inner Conflict.
In the tingling midst of a burly City crowd, a voice cried out, “But force is no cure,” and was immediately answered by another which said, “Yeah, but it’s a helluva treatment.”
Beware
the toe jam
of the mind.
No matter what others may believe, or institutions may announce, the Revolutionist knows that all resources are not yet exhausted, or all possibilities yet explored.
If NO ONE, including your dearest and closest friends, knows what you think, you may be on to something.
J.
Another possible commentary on most people’s upcoming demise is, “You’re gonna run out of time before you run out of excuses.”
Read this astounding piece of wisdom in a City book: “They give useless gold who give only from a sense of duty.” Now, are you really expecting me to comment on how little Men know of gold, uselessness, or duty?
A surprising, but apt, cry I heard in the City: “Hey, you’re melting too fast!”
Religious beliefs are to perception
as formaldehyde is to a marathon.
Don’t wrestle gnats…(or pole vault with pygmies.)
J.
A true intellectual would never think the same thing twice;
a true artist would never paint the same thing twice;
a true warrior would never do the same thing twice;
and a Real Revolutionist would never.
The other green day, I overheard a Revolutionist-look-alike mumble, “Even though I am far the smartest man I’ve ever met, or hope to meet, even I’m not all THAT impressive.” (If you wanna get shown, that just goes to show you.)
Only a half-price fool blames ALL his problems on his furniture.
What a sham! What a rip-off! Being half-pissed costs the same as being fully-pissed!
Writers who quote other writers should be stopped from writing.
Thinkers who refer to other thinkers should be reupholstered.
J.
Don’t be cute unless you’re prepared to back it up with some NON-cuteness.
A Real Revolutionist shouldn’t have a change of clothes.
Have you yet to realize that under ordinary conditions there is a serious question as to whether Man’s attempts to “do good” do any good?
Never leap to your death from the heights of someone else’s opinions.
Then I heard that one ole sorehead’s sister bemoaned, “I’m just the watercress on the fashion-plate of life.”
J.
If you just read about what everybody else has thought about, it’s real hard to tell just what’s going on.
Circus Tip: Never bring on the elephants just before the tumblers.
Your opinions are life’s opinions; likewise for youe adversities; and likewise for theirs.
For Revolutionary purposes, a theoretical explanation is no explanation at all.
Heard this one City bigwig declare, “Individuality is MUCH overrated, except in my case.”
J.
The more the Yellow Circuits seem to perceive themselves, the more dense, obtuse and impractical becomes the ball of info.
A prime cause of City Suffering: Attempting to bronze the ephemeral.
History, sad to say, never captures ALL of reality…well, hell, REALITY never captures all of reality...
Most poetry in the City seems to be just to make people happier about misery, and more dependent on death.
Far beyond what Men SAY they feel is what they ACTUALLY feel.
J.
The only thoughts worth having are those that take your breath away.
And a mighty cry arose, “The king is dead, the king is dead! Long live the earthworms!”
(And a regal feast they had.)
In a peculiar part of one peculiar City, things resemble each other more than they do themselves.
Beware
the slip knots
of the mind.
From a more dimensionally complex view, the study of Man is a survey of surfaces.
In the City, Men operate on “auto pilot,” directed by genetic necessities. The difference with a Revolutionist is that he is at least partially guided by his awareness of certain biological possibilities.
J,
Never trust a god who’s broke.
If, at certain times you can’t “go it alone,” I’m not at all sure you can ultimately “go it” at all.
The other night, I heard this City guy whine, “My life has been not unlike a toll booth with my best ideas and loved ones reduced to catching quarters in their mouths, and me struggling to keep New Jersey on my right, and at bay.” His southern cousin chimed in, “Know how you feel, say, I know how you feel. At times Alabama completely overruns my front yard and highest ideals.” And from a distant coast, a distant aunt added, “I know, tell me about it while I suffer tremors in my vineyards and valleys. But in my steely resolve I no longer worry about slipping into the sea; my fear now is of slipping into me.”
In the City, things remembered and things discussed are always things unfinished.
And always remember:
It’s ALL an act. (And for god’s sake don’t make me define “all.”)
J.
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