How You Feel about How You Feel

(Although this may not be the absolute “best” way to describe it, it is also not the absolute worst):  Along the way, among his collection of new data and out-of-City life experiences, the Revolutionist would begin developing a personally strange, though distant, vocabulary of secret…

And then there was, as I might have suspected, the chap who was so courteous that every time he saw himself in the mirror he would say, “Ah, pardon me.”

No matter what is said or believed in the City, it is NOT what you feel, but how you FEEL about what you feel.

To really be counted among the unbinarily and revolutionarily “happy,” one must be severely, and I mean – SEVERELY – pleased.

City Men have both a public, and private potential; the Revolutionist must bring the third “P” on line.

J.

The Sounds of Excellence

Least you begin to think that I only note foolishness in the City, let me tell you of a brand new book I saw displayed in a shop window; its title was, “How The Fourteenth Century Ultimately Became The Fifteenth.”

It may not come as a total surprise for you to hear that, to a Real Revolutionist, “everybody looks alike.”  (Sometimes, even to himself.)

Whilst sitting amidst the shadow of a Bullit Bush, I heard a would-be revolutionist say to his-ole-self, “My present state-of-mind is tomorrow’s state-of-art.” (I guess it’s good that some bushes can’t bite.)

I once heard a Psychiatrist defending his profession, specifically trying to explain why such a self-proclaimed, “significant art” was so historically late in its arrival on the human scene.  And the good doctor said, “I’ll tell you precisely why:  Up until the late eighteen hundreds, everybody was okay.”

The Real Revolutionist should run his Yellow Circuit in such a manner that the mere sonance, (okay, “noise”) of its basic operations would make him cock his ear and say, “Ah, the sounds of excellence.”

J.

The Unanswerable Question

I have hinted, noted, and sung on this subject, I guess I should go ahead and give you the final word:  Yes, there IS one unanswerable question, and it is, “What’s the purpose of This?”

Another distinction, although minor perhaps, between the Revolutionist and normal folks is that He alone discriminates between the useless and the entertaining.

There is no way to free yourself from ordinary madness as long as you wear City clothes.

Have you ever noticed that it is the old who laud advanced age?  Is this because it is true, or, because it is because?

I find it interesting that in certain circles in the City, the debate continues over whether the Mujo River of Australia originates in the wetlands of the North Territory, or in the Swiss Alps.

J.

Beware the Underwear of the Mind

Beware the underwear of the mind.

And you don’t think I can really enjoy myself when I visit the City? 
While standing in the lobby of a building I saw the following listings on its Directory: 

The National Institute of Satire

The Alabama Council of and for Panache

The Will & Advil Durant College of Histrionics

The Lower California Board of Epitomes

The Reformed Zen Privy of Nude Bricklaying

The Refried Wagner School of Humility

And then a poster nearby announcing the following two events:

The Wynton Tinley Wet & Wild Night of Willy Tingers

The Normal Vincent Peel Memorial Parade of Hip Shakin’ Mamas,

Both to be held in the Ye Olde Mountbatten Olympic Style Squatatorium…

I can hardly stand it.

The correct, true, “seizure of power” is never a past or future act, but must be now, amidst a process, in an ever active battle.

In a place not far down the road from your City, there was a guy who had this theory regarding human existence, and particularly the notion of déjà vu.  Well, he said that Men unknowingly live the same, one day over and over again, and the only reason people sometimes feel as though they do remember already doing some of this, is because of something they ate that day.  And thus it is that holy men, and the would-be-exceptional, without knowing why, have so often favored fasting, or at least doing with as little food as possible, so that they cut down on the possibility of something reminding them of the fact that we live the same day over and over, and over, and over.

J.

A Hole With No Donut

In the City, ordinary reverence, without fear, is like a hole without a doughnut…in fact it’s worse, it’s almost like self-pity without pity.

For those of you who may not notice that, at times, Life does go beyond affording Man just a minimal level pleasure, have you not heard that you can get PAID for sperm donations.

An honest Man is stronger than a polar bear.  No, he’s not, I was just repeating something I read.  Sorry.

One simple reason that some other higher primate hasn’t equally evolved with Man, and taken over the rule of the planet, is simply that they weren’t PUSHY.

And as Buddha’s long forgotten cousin used to say, “Life is short, but not so an insurance man’s memory, or a rabbi’s grudge.

Comes the time you can no longer sit, awaiting the Grand Finale, the Final Act, for you are it.

J.

Midnight

Since several sticky seasons and yummy years have passed since I first mentioned this, I believe it be time to remind you that, “Opposites work together…and sometimes they don’t.”

Other than regards mere injury, the Revolutionist knows that no “aid” will be forthcoming in the “no man’s land” area of the battlefield.

Might it be, as they fear in the City, that all Men are not equally gifted?  Or, worse yet, that ALL are equally cursed?  Well, without me low rating myself to theological discussions, let me ask you, cannot a blind Man speak and a deaf Man taste?

In times of stress and confusion in the City, it is well to recall that, “It is easier to walk on eggs than it is to scramble cobblestones.”

The Real Revolutionist doesn’t believe in midnight.

J.

All Our Pigs Are Fake!

Tis said that, “Although he is not deadly, the flea does do all the harm it can.”  But what a limited view, for he also “has all the fun he can.”

No matter how attractive the idea might first seem, I tell you that, “No one should try to live with a prophet,” (unless all of your “carryover” capital losses from last year are used up.)

In the City, it is petty squabbles that divide friends, split neighborhoods and bring down institutions…likewise, sometimes in the Bushes.

In the entire universe, nothing, nothing is so attractive, so alluring, as he who goes about continually straightening pictures on the wall.

In the City, all precious items are diamells.

In the City, all believe their polyester to be silk.

And a great cry of discovery was heard throughout the City,
“All our pigs are fake!”

J.

The Code

The actual definitions of all words are basically the same, (if, “Y.K.T.T.”, as always, if You Know the Trick.)

If, for some strange reason, a Revolutionist decided he wanted to involve himself in the City notion of “sin,” he would do so IF he could find a way to transgress that would not be limited to one of the five senses.  That’s right, give ME some sin I can sink my teeth into…or your teeth into…or something.

In the operations of the Theatre-Of-Rebellion, the Revolutionist knows not to ever bother asking the audience “how they like he show so far.”  The People did not purchase their tickets for additional doubt and confusion.

If you still have difficulty remembering and realizing the conservative nature of Life and change-in-the-City, just remind yourself of these facts:  They still deal in verbally describable gods, they refuse to call the brain the mind, and they still put nipples on men.

All of a Real Revolutionist’s words are in code, whether he intends it, or not.  You understand, this means that all real info IS a code.

J.

I.B.M.

Do you really understand that in the City it is the land-locked who write the most passionate odes to the sea?

The People all want a drink, but no one wants to be an alky.

I don’t guess Life will ever be arranged so that the ordinary might ever hear what I have said regarding the benefits that would ensue from physicians being always and unconditionally positive in their diagnostic comments.  But just perhaps things have shifted in another, modern area, whereby a version of this approach might be possible.  To wit:  Produce and program a new computer which you announce can “do it all,” and sure enough, no matter what problem, or question is submitted, after a reasonably impressive passage of time, and humming of the machinery, the Big Binary One tells you that a solution, a specific answer in your case is CERTAINLY possible…although it will take 25 years to perfect it.

Just because the Real Revolutionist doesn’t honor ordinary feelings of nationalism doesn’t mean he doesn’t USE them, (and other stuff as well).

And then there was an ole sore-head in the City’s financial district who, for his own personal motto, appropriated the name of a certain well known firm, I.B.M., which he said stood for, “I Be Mad.”

J.

Homer in Disneyland

From a fully realized view-of-the-Few, This is about teaching a bird to fly…(but don’t forget, this is just so regarding the Few).

The correct sacrifice for a new enlistee is not money, blood, or self-respect, but one’s commonness.

A true leader could operate exemplarily as a follower when need be.

It takes more than one season to see a gold field to harvest.

(Diamells, are another matter.)

You could look upon This as a trans-dimensional, 4-D odyssey; as a contemporary inner expedition…Homer visits Disneyland by way of a black hole.

J.

That Close...

True, Revolutionist activity is, and has always been, the only philosophy with soul, the only conflict with compassion, and the only warfare that IS art.

And on a rainy Saturday, if I’m not mistaken, I heard this chap say, “There’s no doubt about it, I can be generous to a fault, but only if it’s been generous to me.”

The greater the ambiguity, the deeper, the more intense, the contrast.

No matter what City you’re in, if you hear a powerful, Spiritual Leader begin braying about the “Evil of whores, the dangers of sex, and the lustful downfall of Man being imminent,” put both hands over your head, and your other two over your private parts, and run for the hills, or the valleys, or the shores, but run-dammit-run, cause no one of either sex, or any sex, is safe, (save the priest’s personal pornographer).

A small, (although, real small) Inner-City-Epic:

He wrote his books,

He drew his crowds,

He asked for learned donations;

And from his head,

The flames did roar.

Fed on by mighty quotations.

The King Is Dead,

The King is Dead…Long Live The Footnotes.

After a serious-night-of-drinking, I once heard a would-be pundit say, “You know, I was THAT CLOSE…I was within four beers of actually knowing what I was talking about.”

J.

Captives of the Sun

In the City, rubes, intellectuals, and other dimensionally impaired people will jump into the jaws of the obvious, and leap into the arms of the apparent.  (And just look at the money they save on playground equipment.)

Amidst all the talk about Man’s “multiple selves,” within the morass of descriptions regarding all of those inner alternatives, his conscious-self, his unconscious-self, his subjective-self, his objective self, his mind, his body, and so on, while up to your neck in such talk just remember this – you’re in there somewhere.

Heard a guy, last Friday, I believe it were this time, cry out in a loud, although piercing voice, “humility sucks!”  And I decided to correct him, but just as I started to do so, he was struck and killed by a low flying lottery number.

A certain “let’s-have-it,” would-be philosopher in the City, proclaimed that his charge was to “find the key to tomorrow.”  And a nearby Revolutionist seemed obligated to think, “To what purpose, when all your doors are made of yester-wood and fitted with hesitation locks.”

And here the certain Few be: neither total captives of the City, yet neither babes-of-the-Bush. Here, yet neither here-nor-there, and dealing only in things that for some reason, must be said.

No matter how cocky and independent they may sound, all shadows remain captives of the sun.

J.

The Icebergs

Beware, the icebergs of the mind.

A certain Revolutionist formulated a slogan for his enlistees:

“Never cease to plan, and never cease to act, and NEVER EVER interrupt one to do the other.” (And from a near-by Confrontary Tree, dropped the query, “Should both, then, be going on all of the time coevally?”  “But Daddy, what does coevally mean?”  “Shut up and eat your equilibrium.”)

Things, stuff, problems don’t “happen” to Man; LIFE does.

And another Rebel then noted his version of that previous slogan/melody, and his went like this:

“Act, then consider, then act some more, OR, consider, then act, then consider some more.  But by ALL MEANS, don’t just do one or the other.”

In the City, of course, what is “fair” is what you like, and “unfair,” what you don’t.  But out in the Bushes the revolutionary concept of fairness is:  Things as they are times a madman’s efforts squared.

J.

Unbelievable

Last Thursday, I believe it was, I saw a notice posted back in the City announcing an upcoming lecture entitled, “The Human Race, and Other Rigged Events.”  (I’m telling you, the City’s not to be missed.)

Those fully stocked with holiday, and revolutionary confidence would be those who would proclaim, “Gee, I wanna be JUST LIKE ME when I grow up!”

In the City I once saw an advertising slogan that assured potential buyers that “A million people CAN’T  be wrong,” and I thought, “No, well if not that, then what COULD they be?”

One philosopher declares, “The future is unclear.”  Another avows, “The future is uncertain,” and yet another proclaims, “The future is inscrutable.”  And a Revolutionist thought, “They just use such euphemisms to cover their 3-D fear that the future is UNBELIEVABLE.”

Although I’m not absolutely sure of what this signifies, I feel inclined to pass this along to you.  Once, after a number of orbital whirls about the floor with the ever popular, ever vivacious, Jack Daniels, I heard a certain Revolutionist explosively smile, and devilishly confide, “I got a CURE for the future.”

J.

Vices and Virtues

I know I’ve pretty well just said it “outright” that a Revolutionist would be free of vices, but to make up for that, let me add that he would also have no virtues.

As far as City standards go, the Revolutionist understands that the basic difference between the Hotsy-Totsy and the Hoi-Polloi is simply carpet.

Do you still accept as the most efficient, the arrangement whereby the down-trodden dream Messianic visions, while nearby the victors swill vino and piss in the campfire?

Once heard a certain, out-of-state rebel shout out to himself, “Get your head out of that damn book!”  And he replied, “I’m not reading a damn book.”  And he countered, “I know, I know, and that’s even worse…just as bad…the same-thing-without-the-covers.”

If there were any literal significance to the old allegorical idea regarding the “truth being light,” then the Revolutionist would be seeking a source SO intense that shadows would be impossible, (there could exist no contrast between light and not-light.)

J.

The Muse of Rebellion

And I heard a guy once cry out, intellectually pleading as it were, “No, no, not facts, anything but facts…they always prove to be so, so, well, false and misleading!”

In what never-ever-land might dwell the right-angle-critic who seeks excellence and meaning rather than imperfection and insignificance?

What the would-be Revolutionist seeks lies in a teenie-weenie little sector, while what he doesn’t, fills in most all the 360 degrees…(on alternate days, or centuries, this may, however, be reversed.)

To say that notions of “gods” are superfluous to Real Revolutionists is in itself superfluous, in that the insurgent’s code of conduct would actually be more stable and precise than would be Life’s in general, at any given moment.

To be uncontrollably and unconditionally seduced by the Muse of Rebellion, is to be educated in a multidimensional manner most liberal, BUT be almost rendered useless for many ordinary professions such as, Instructor, Priest or Critic.

J.

I Think, therefore I Need To

Anybody that knows anything extraordinary is either nuts, crazy, or insane.

I have heard that once, a long, long time ago, a certain Revolutionist did agree to be interviewed by someone from the City, and was first off asked, “We all understand what other professionals are, like doctors, lawyers, soldiers, by ‘what they do,’ but what you are often called confuses me, just what does being a ‘Real Revolutionist’ entail?”  And just before our Insurgent apparently “came to his senses” and “walked off,” he thought, “Being a Real Revolutionist is simply doing what I do.” (A totally unacceptable definition, and totally telling at that.)

Damn! Oh, okay, just one more: 

“I think, therefore I NEED to think.”

I once heard it said that “Books are the children of the brain,” and if so, then in the Cities, literary illegitimacy must be on the roll-of-the-century, (running better than rampant2).

If bullets and fears are death-by-the-pound,
then boredom and fear are destruction-by-ounces.

And the motto for the rest of this year, at least: 

“If it ain’t fixed don't break it.”

J.

I Think, therefore You Are

The new, useful data of the Real Revolutionist must meet three criteria:  It never was, is not now, and never can be.  (If the fresh-info were any of these three it would be true, it would be stable, and it would hence, be of no value.)

In the City, no one would be righteously expectant if they knew exactly what their religion’s Paradise would be like, and no one would be properly impressed with their faith’s god if they knew what he actually looked like.  All dreams of favorable change must be perceived in a cloak of mist and uncertainty, or their intrigue and power will crumble and cease to exist.

None of the famous, really important, spiritual figures actually lived; history remembers only minions and pygmies, and part of their responsibility is to make up those Buddha-kinda stories.

And yet another, (and I trust, final) version: 

“I think, therefore YOU are Rene Descartes.”

In the City, everything is merely “true.”

To properly survive in the Bushes, some talent could be used in willfully disdaining what you cannot presently have.  In the City everyone does this already, but that’s another matter.

J.

Real, Fresh Data

Real, fresh data makes you want to lick your fingers long after initially handling it.

And this guy says, “Hell, I could’a been famous too if I had’a died a long time ago.”

If you really, really wanted to, you could treat your ordinary thoughts as boring relatives, and your everyday feelings as burglars.

I ran across this would-be mystical poet back in the City who, after a rather trying, if not inspiring night, told me that before his “very eyes, passed the picture of eternity,” but that 

it was a rerun.

In the City, a wise man flaunts it all.  (He's got no choice.)

Those who write odes to death (or have the inclination to do so) should be killed ASAP.

J.

All the Time in the World

What kind of bedazzling food-merchant or ad man you figure coined the line, “Man can’t live by bread alone,” when the Revolutionist knows that a real Man can live by ANYTHING alone,  (as long as it's the right thing, and you know the trick).

Heard a guy who freely admitted he held little love for physical activity still point out that he did get a dose of daily exercise when he took his feet out for their nightly walk.

And in that inimitable style native to the City, they pointed out that, “What he lacked in speed and strength, he made up for in clumsiness and stupidity.”

And then there was the time I heard this little voice bemoan from the rear of the would-be cerebral crowd, “Just about the time I begin to truly understand something, it becomes passé and  irrelevant.”  Sometime after that, from that same general area, I also heard the following, “Bout the time I'm getting able to overcome a habit, I lose interest in it.”  And finally, this, “You know, just about the time I begin to have some interest in a matter, I suddenly don't give a clinical-damn.”

People say that they “Have no time,” and what is meant is that they have no perceivable way OUT OF their “time-problems.”  The Revolutionist might say that he has “all the time in the  world, for it all has me.”

J.