The possibility that you may actually MEET famous dead people may be the only rational basis for fearing death.
A glimpse by any other name is still a glimpse.
Has anyone ever asked, “What’s going on here,” who really wanted to know?
There is this one ole hanger-around out near the high side of the Bushes who insists that time is feminine.
Don’t bother to live-and-learn if you’re not gonna bother to live.
J.
Never believe anyone who denies it.
While brooding over his oatmeal, a man mused aloud, “Cheap ideas are just like cheap gin.” And his wife said, “No they’re not,” and he said, “Oh.”
There’s this spin-dried med-school dropout who still contends that the Elementary Canal is where simple foods are digested.
I suppose that if it did come to it, a Revolutionist COULD “eat ‘em alive.”
All acts are just that.
All acts are just what they seem.
All acts are better than they look,
and a really GOOD act
won’t come back to haunt anybody.
J.
Be ye not dumber than your sovereign.
There is an ancient martial motto that says, “No one provokes me with impunity.” And can you glean how devilishly clever it is for Man’s intellect to be so insulated as to speak of other Men, whom they CAN attack, as the provocateur, and not Life.
Words are like palindromic bullets; that is, with slugs on both ends.
Life doesn’t discriminate against anyone for any known reason. Then again, it does so to EVERY body for EVERY known reason.
Men who can tell you, “how they got to be what they are today,” can’t tell you shit.
J.
No matter what the advertising says, no matter how much you pay, it’s all second hand.
A Revolutionist who depends on another person has put back on a suit and tie.
All human catastrophes begin on someone’s tongue.
(Same is true for minor irritants.)
There IS no way to correctly use the language. In the City, proper speech is just another illusion.
There is this certain City philosopher, who periodically falls over into some kind of daze. He lies still for a bit, and then begins to shake, kick and blink his eyes rapidly while loudly proclaiming, “The key word is ‘overnight.’”
J.
There ARE no consequences until you believe there are.
It is now reported that there is a Man, somewhere near Calcutta, who can simply look at people and tell what they’re “up to.”. “Whatever,” he adds, “may be the significance there of.”
A Man’s leftovers ARE the Man.
A slogan once reputedly seen over a Revolutionist camp’s side entrance:
Everything Passes,
Everything Remains.
It is extremely ill mannered to be ordinary.
J.
There is this City dude, (or perhaps dudette), so current, with-it, and hip that he would weekly have his tastes cleaned and pressed.
Insofar as such might be possible, if not appropriate, I guess a Real Revolutionist COULD righteously overdo it.
Once past the age of thirty, one should NOT have dumbness as one’s imaginary playmate.
It’s not quite so simple as just telling Life to “go away.”
Over in the damper part of the eastern City sector, I recently overheard the following by-play between two philosophically attired gentlemen. Said the first, “If you didn’t have anything to complain about you wouldn’t complain.” To which the second replied, “Yeah, but if you DIDN’T complain you wouldn’t have anything to complain about.” I don’t know about you, but that about wraps it up for me.
J.
In a sense, a Real Revolutionist never finds his clothes comfortable, and only truly feels so when plain nakedness is in fashion.
No matter what you may have heard, read, or imagined amidst City influences, there is no substitute for humans.
I guess one of Life’s more reassuring ploys is in having regular folks believe such stuff as, “Genes don’t predestine, they just predispose.” Beautiful, no?
A person whose prime dream is to be a person “other people look up to,” could easily be a manager of a pigmy pole vaulting team.
The following IS pretty tricky, but I’ll mention it just the same:
Proper actions drive history from the mind.
J.
Since almost anything can be a hobby; so can its opposite.
For instance: If shopping can be a hobby, so can not-shopping.
Lenders have the best memories.
If your king seems to be developing a taste for practical jokes, move to another kingdom.
Just “loving somebody” isn’t enough.
A Man who knows what he’s doing doesn’t need a nickname.
J.
Don’t EVER listen to ANY one who wants you to.
One somewhat testy guy with apparent revolutionary inclinations recently was overheard to say, “For years I wondered why other people weren’t as concerned as me over the generally low level of humanity’s intelligence, and then one day – BAM, it hit me, I understood ‘why’…and besides being initially, and momentarily frightened, I was soon supremely relieved.”
It may further come down to: laugh-or-be-laughed-at.
Being dumb is YOUR side effect of being alive.
If you’re gonna ask for favors, don’t ask -- DEMAND.
J.
Who are the dumbest? The believers in religions, astrology, etc, OR the debunkers thereof?
If you have the slightest difficulty in deciding, you too – remain in the running.
EVERY language is a foreign language.
One thing, at least, a Revolutionist doesn’t have to worry about is the recognition by, or the opinion of, his peers.
A Real Revolutionist doesn’t shoot aliens, or wound strangers.
A part-time nudist is a man without a country.
J.
A central minded young man in the City, attempting some form of romanticism, wrote to his love thusly, “Each time I gaze upon your picture, touch the place where you last sat, and catch the lingering aroma of your hair, I think of me.”
The most common cause of death is from being treated. Treatments kill, and remedies maim.
One City guy said, “Seems like I’ve wasted my whole life being me.”
If something’s got to be proven, it wasn’t true in the first place.
If you really know what you’re doing you can run over most commas.
J.
If your cup truly “runneth over,” you, my laddie, have a demi-cup.
One ole City sorehead’s mortal survey seems to have consisted of the following comment, “Being human won’t keep you from doing what you want, it just keeps you from enjoying it.”
Don’t casually pretend to be dumber than you are unless you are absolutely, positively sure you ARE pretending.
Culture is just a substitute for intelligence. (P.S., so is good taste.)
The advice bankers have given to governments, industry, and the public, has unfailingly been good for the bankers.
J.
If you wanna talk about what might be “real” philosophy, chew on this: Ideas without irony.
A City man, evidently desperate to be a source of some good advice, informed his nephew thusly, “Never allow a cricket team from the Lesser Antilles to refer to you as ‘that portly gentleman over there.’”
In another one of those City philosophy books I read, and I quote, the following, “Even the gods can’t change the past.” And to that I add, even if they could – what difference would it make?
Even if they smile and INSIST, “Ah, come on, tell us what you think,” – don’t.
I’m sorry, I truly am, but there is no substitute for intelligence…NONE…sorry.
J.
In the City EVERY thing is ersatz. (And damn proud of it.)
If anyone actually knew what they were talking about, there’d be no need for supras, infras, or the good ole C.F.’s.
Never introduce yourself.
What men ordinarily call “ignorance” is but an unexpected time delay.
Roundly partaking of real intelligence never produces a hangover.
J.
Anything partially seen will always be seen as being something else.
And from deep within the shaky complex of his sexual wiring arose a cry, “If things get any more frightening you’ll have to call off the orgy.”
If you don’t become free enough to think anything you want, and anything you can, you, my tootsie, ain’t free for shit.
Another old City sore-type-head declared, “By and large, most marriages seem to become a gradual form of legalized murder.”
If a thing has no side effects, it has NO effects.
J.
There’s no need to try and pretend to be something you’re not, because you CAN’T.
In the City, sweeping-things-under-the-carpet is one of the better approaches.
A certain cautious gentleman instructed his young son thusly, “Shhh, don’t disturb Life while its thinking.”
If, from any distance, you hear an unidentified group singing en mass, “Here we go gathering nuts in May, nuts in May, nuts in May…” – make a run for it.
A man who knows what he’s doing, doesn’t have to be religious.
J.
It’s usually the one with the least poetic nature who is first to say, “Okay, weld that sucker.”
If you’re going to live in City consciousness, at least clean your streets as often as they do.
The unnaturally stable ARE unnatural.
The other night, out near that area between the City limits sign and the bushes, I heard someone singing this little ditty,
“I have this little friend,
who lives around the bend,
and I go to see him,
every now and then.”
On the City level, knowledge is merely lawful prejudice.
J.
Overheard a City father fervently say, “I do hope and pray that my son will be a lot like me.” Does this guy believe in safe prayers, or what!
There IS one organization that is actively, and directly involved with a “Great Undertaking,” but no one knows its name, or what it does.
An ole City sorehead said that if he HAD a religion, it would be one of “blind, serene faith tempered by blasphemy.”
Should we be not eternally and humbly thankful for those brave, insightful souls who have oftimes sang out in the name of Man, “Let us take what the fates have dealt us.” (While the orchestra plays, “As Opposed to What?”)
Evidence is meaningless…and proof a waste of time.
J.
Come on gang, raise your glasses, and let’s hear it for eternity.
At a City carnival one guy said, “The reason I don’t like merry-go-rounds is that they only go in one direction.”
And another Man mused, “Hmmm, that’s the very reason I Do like them.”
The most complex, revealing thought ever thought, has never been thought.
Two guys were standing around the loading zone last night, and I heard one say that he had heard that this life was just a prep school for Men to LEARN to be serious. (I trust that something heavy won’t fall on him later, if not already.)
Nakedness IS one of the better weapons.
J.
A Revolutionist once realized, and noted to no one in particular besides his own ole rusty self, the folllowing, (spelled with three “l’s”): What you really have is whatever is left after you have forgotten, or lost, all you THOUGHT you had.
That one ole City Philosopher I sometimes particularly enjoy, recently proclaimed, “There are two ways of looking at everything; this way, and some other way.”
In the City panaceas don’t cure anything.
Here’s a “what-if” for you heavy duty troopers:
What if brain molecules could speak directly, without having to go through the middle-man stage of the tongue?
If EVERY one’s gonna dance, you don’t gotta wax the bottoms of YOUR shoes.
J.
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