Years of observing and analyzing the many forms of attempted help in which humans engage
(religion, counseling, etc.) has left one chap pondering:
“Is it possible to make men feel better mentally without first making them feel worse?”
And you could consider this: What has actually occurred when a man is told that
he has been reprieved from a sham death sentence?
(Otherwise known as the Neuron/Hormone Shell Game, wherein the King says he will not confiscate your land when he had not the power to do so in the first place.)
   “You know, it was bad enough being a puppet for all those years, but my gawd! –
     how humiliating to finally realize it was only a marionette in me telling me that I was.”
        [“Do I have to say how severely I don’t get that one!?!”])

One man henceforth wants to be known as:
The Man Formally And Erroneously Known As: Me.

There is the world-of-the-material, which consists of people & things,
and there is the world-of-symbols, consisting of words & concepts,
and there is the ultimate possibility that any description of Life that any mortal mind
can put forward will contain a fatal flaw
(just as the injection hole on a plastic doll can never conceive of itself).
Note: He who knows what's going on is exempt from all of the above.

Without log-rolling in man's second-reality, not only would the apparent activity of house-building not exist,
there would not even be any logs.
This mental-only-world is the sole location wherein verbs create nouns:
the activity of talking about the intangible matters that constitute the second-reality creates the illusion that the realm tangibly exists.
Only men with very constricted understanding continue to underestimate
the force of words.

Rococolianly Relevant Fact.
The nervous-system-revolution is the only thing without a stable name that exists.

What better describes being-awake than:
Not letting events in Life dictate what you think.

The ole man advised the kid:
“When in the city, never get in a stupid-contest with an institution.”
   (FYI: Once the elder claimed that in a previous life he had been an efficiency-expert,
    but he now says that what he actually did was deconstruct efficiency-experts.)

Now for channel nine’s: Forecast Prediction.
Those not going anywhere like to believe that others aren't either.

Another test you can administer at home:
If your thinking is like a professional wrestling match, you are a regular thinker.

While the north and south poles stick out their tongues at one another,
the equator smiles,
and those circling the earth laugh at loud.

Sitting on the beach in a rusted-out rowboat, a man snorted:
“While they're alive, men will believe anything  –  but just wait’l they’re dead!”

From The Files Of Unrecognized Science.
One man keeps a ladder propped up against his house to insure the continued integrity of the house.
(And as you rummage about in your own mental drawers you might consider how
houses-&-ladders might be stage names for certain neural actors-&-activities.)

One chap advised a youngster:
“Naming your reoccurring thoughts after famous circus acts can prove quite beneficial    --    not to mention, entertaining.”
    “By entertaining you mean in the sense of pulling down a trapeze artist’s tights
      while he’s in mid-flight!?”)
“I just knew you'd get it.”

Offers one man:
“People aren't necessarily as informed as they seem, even when they seem to be,
(for instance): the real reason that wine should be stored lying down is because
with the job facing it  –  it needs all the rest it can get.”

This email arrived today:
“I am a relatively typical man,
I am a relatively successful man.
I am a relatively satisfied man,
living with all of the normal human feelings of failure and disappointment,
of accomplishment and gratification, and in light of this, as I read your daily words regarding a private activity you call the-neural-rebellion, I am forced to ask myself:
‘Why would anyone go to the trouble of thinking more than they absolutely have to?  (Assuming it is really possible).”
Signed: “Bewildered.”

More Urban Definitions.
The city: Automatic thought made-up to look better than it is.
   (At least attractive enough to make cows collect in a mental herd.)

One man submits his personal report:
”Inasmuch as words are energy  –  those who talk a lot are tired a lot.”
   (And his congenital mind told him to: “Shut up!” about that kind of stuff.)

Hanging out by a lake, one guy said to another:
“I heard a poet say that from our souls doth our body take shape,”
and his bud asked: “You mean we look like what we are inside?”
to which the first man replied: “That’s what I take it to mean,”
and the second guy leaped to his feet and exclaimed:
“Well I don’t know about you, but I'm gettin’ the hell away from me as fast as I can”  –

In response to what they apparently perceive to be attacks made here on the calling of those
it represents, the Poets’ Lobby emailed us this message (in printable part):
“There once was a critic named Tuckque…….”