If an artist
doesn’t like his work,
the simplest cure
is to talk about it.



An apparent nephew of one of the Fortunate Five Hundred Soreheads, whenever he’d hear someone say, “Well, I can’t say’s I blame you,” would think, “They’re just not trying.”



Almost every morning, this one guy would stand before his full length mirror, stretch out his hands and sing out, “Are we not handsome?”  Then one day, he changes it and says, “Are we not brilliant,” and his brain sez, “What do you mean, we?”



In ordinary Earth affairs, men are inclined to shout out, “Waiter, more of the same over here – much more!” while a revolutionist would look for a back way out.



Just as an ordinary artist is struck dumb when asked what an abstract painting means, so too might a revolutionist be non-plused when asked – even by himself – what anything means.  (Soon after finishing this particular written note to you, a passing squint-eyed stranger glanced at same and conclusively commented, “If things don’t mean what they mean, they don’t mean shit.”  You know, it’s fairly uninteresting what you can’t learn from strangers if they don’t pass fast enough.)


Droll Explosion

Is it possible that obvious information, for which the old intellect cannot account or satisfactorily analyze, might offer unrecognized tips to neural explorers?  (And…perhaps a more residential version of this query might come in handy for the do-it-your-selfer, so how ‘bout this:  On more complex orbits, might controlled irrationality be evidence of one’s sane nationality?  Might the non-seriatim lay the tracks for the straight-away?)



If you learn something extraordinary, and then don’t become extraordinary, you’ll lose it.



This one little fellow, who was accused by his cohorts of being bland, shallow and intellectually inert, finally produced a come-back by one day announcing, “If god had wanted me to have opinions, he wouldn’t have given me some.”  And his brother was damn near killed by the resulting “droll explosion.”



Every-o-now-and-then the revolution seems to come up with a jerry-rigged PR attempt, although, no one much seems to notice it and we all seem no worse for the try.



Over near that long wave galaxy, this one being, who sometimes shows specific signs of sagacity, has taken to saying to some of his closer associates the following, “The past is finished, done for, all washed up – now’s the time to forget it.”


On the Verge

Brave Galaxy Theorem Number Blithe:
All rotten ideas started out as good ones. 

And the Theorem’s brother added:
"Yeah, but everything started out as something else.”



This one sideways, short gentleman soundly said that his thinking was “so important,” that his brain had an unlisted number.  And his brother muttered that it didn’t matter, cause nobody ever called him anyway.



The mystique of wars resides in the minds of the defeated.  It is failure that has the memory, tongue and inclination to chat up its ignominy.



Over near the foggy quarter sector, there’s this chap who, several times a day, exclaims, “We’re all in this together,” which may not sound too interesting until I tell you that when he shouts it, he’s always by himself.



If you’re in-the revolution, and with-the-expedition, remember this: No matter what space you take, no matter the prevailing time, just like Life itself, you’re always on the verge.



A commercially bent kinda guy recently opined, “Going into business for your self is like being married but without a partner.”  And a Revolutionist passing by his head heard this and thought, “Is he talking about me?”



Where there’s talk
there’s hope, and
if not hope exactly,
at least possibility.



A real explorer can be by himself and not be alone. (Of course, on a more simplistic level, this is so for everyone, but whenever they notice it, they are mostly annoyed by it.)



This one guy gave his brain a cute nick-name.  But it still wouldn’t come when he called it.



Everyone’s crippled in some personal way – except those who aren’t.  Oh, and P.S.-by-the-by: Such info as this is systematically encouraging except, of course, when it’s not.


Well Done

A real revolutionist would ask him or herself, “Do I want to be well known, well off, or well done?”



One little neurally fashionable fellow observed, “It’s not so much my looks I’m concerned with, but I do fret over my receding brainline.”



Regarding 3-D things and earth bound concepts it can be helpful to note that what can be recovered will never be exactly as ‘twas before it was lost.



That cross-stitched, industrial ole-sorehead I told you about, had this more recent comment to comment on.  On an unexpectedly bright day, he said, “It’s almost enough to make you glad to be alive…I said almost.”



Probably the single most important thing for a revolutionist to have, is not to have a “single most important thing.”


The Secret



Homegrown intelligence usually seems pretty insignificant, (except to those you-know-who’s).



This one ole dude used to like to say, (least wise I hope he liked to say it, seeing as how he used to say it so much), but anyhow, he used to like to say, “Having an eye for beauty don’t mean you are one.”  And he’d generally have a hearty chuckle while folks would uneasily ponder what he’d said.  Then one day, right after saying this, he thought to himself, “Instead of saying this about beauty, what if I said it about intelligence – would that mean anything?”  After pondering his own idea for a bit, he said, “Naw,” then pondered a few more meters and added, “Gawd, I hope not.”



For every traversable track that info lays down in the sensual world, it also cuts a phantom one nearby – sometimes running parallel, sometimes not.



Those who
discover the secret
then only have
one secret.


Coming in in the Middle

On almost all three dimensional planets, you’re always coming in, in the middle of something or other.  (And it often seems serious.)



One guy asked his older brother, who happened to be visiting in the same head, “Is repeating oneself a forceful means of emphasis, or a sign of flaccid intelligence?”  And his brother said, “I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”



Don’t bother checking the past for accuracy.  That’s not part of its responsibilities.



If you’ll sing the high notes, someone will pick up the low ones.



On some worlds, real explorers don’t believe in colons, or dependent clauses.


Who Cares?

All cheap artists do self-portraits.



When you understand that the term, “who cares,” is a benediction, you’re making progress.



Only two classes
of people resent
new information –
men and women.



A reporter once asked a cosmic revolutionist, “I expect you’re your own severest critic,” which provoked such volcanic laughter from the rebel that he was put on United Press’s list of unfriendly countries.



A man with one ear will never find solace in solitude.



Last Monday, over near that other place, I heard a fellow say that trying to be truly intelligent under ordinary conditions was like having a forty acre farm on thirty-five acres.



This week’s Come-On-And-Let’s-Stick-It-To-Words gambit, to wit:
Is anything truly “misplaced” until you realize it is?

Okay, Brandenburg Variation, Opus One:
Is anything actually “misspent” until such later time as you might come up a penny short?



Under local conditions of this planet, “true love” would seem to be a passion A has for B that drives B nuts.  (Or did I miss something?)



Questions rococo, answers terse.  (Oh, okay, we can execute a 3-D expansion of this and admit to the validity of its vicey versey?)



First Voice:      “Remember, you get what you pay for.”
Second One:   “Don’t threaten me!”



You can coast through time, or you can coast through space, but you cannot do both – unless you know how.



Question:  What ages faster than yesterday’s fads and follies?
Answer:     Their criticisms and parodies.

Nest Question:  Does this have any possible pertinence to me?
Next Answer:    I’m thinking, I’m thinking.



On most visible planets almost everyone feels a little uneasy just being alive.



In 3-D universes, if “success” were to be judged strictly on the basis of success, there would be no success.



‘Tis not unknown
for a real explorer
to live life
from the inside out



The One Question

This new ole-sorehead spat out his opinion that, and here we faithfully quote, “Most people’s thinking operations have about the same significance as low cholesterol cyanide.”


There is a little known band of transient radicals in a certain polyglot, who have as their verbal vexilum the following:  “There is only the one question – ‘What is the desired result?’”


One near-by thinker-chap recently said, “It has become my opinion that real revolutionists do not do re-writes.”  And his equally near-by brother replied, “That would explain why much of what they say sounds so un-re-written, all right.”


The stainless-steel-question-of-the-day:
If space is to matter
as time is to energy,
then would space
be filled with nouns
and time with verbs?


You may believe-it-or-don’t, but it is the most common ills that require radical treatments.



In some certain distant battles, the generals with the most medals and biggest umlauts get the biggest bullets.



Continual-thinking-when-you-don’t-have-to does have the downside of tending to interfere with the specious comfort of all First Stories.



Having a blow-out
at ninety miles an hour
is no problem.

Wearing your good suit
at the time, however,
could prove awkward.



Whilst visiting that star over there that I’ve mentioned before, I found the following neatly printed on a water closet wall:  “Ordinary philosophy is the attempt to wipe your ass in a snow storm.  Ordinary philosophy is the attempt to wet your whistle in a desert, and ordinary thinking is the attempt to become more athletic by studying baseball stats.”



A musician said, “I played for a bit in the Count Basie band.”  And a by-standing listener asked, “What did the Count think of your playing?”  And the voice replied, “Oh, this was some time after the Count’s death.”  And the listening voice mused, “Is there any possible way I can use this in living my life?”


Round One

One guy put it this way:
“No matter where I look,
no matter what I see,
more and more it
becomes just a reflection
of my involvement with ‘This’. 
…So little time,
so much to think about.”



Being the ordinary worker in Life’s mortal enterprise is experiencing the “freedom of adventure” without the adventure – and without the freedom, for that matter.



A real revolutionist may continue to operate, even with a broken thermostat, or with a wayward compass.



If you understand that all of man’s singularities, his soul, his spirit and consciousness, are all intellectual, and if you understand that all of the intellect is in the brain, and if you understand that the brain is all chemical, then, by gawd, you’ve about got Round One rounded up.



“Hey look,” he said, “This is important.  If you knew something really amazing, and then forgot it, does it still count for something, that you did once know it?  Well does it?”  And his other half said, “I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”


Natural Grace

Another of the details upon which you may safely depend:
Any mortal system that claims its version of reality is the single valid one, is at least as primitive and simplistic as your present one.



More complex,
Revolutionist information
can be identified
by its natural grace.



Heard another fellow say that, no matter his many and several shortcomings, one distinct benefit of being himself was that no matter what time it is, he’s already home.



Be advised: All city employees are overpaid and underworked; and in some cases its even worse – the reverse is true.



Life once mused to Itself, “Once they catch on, everybody will be wanting to do it.”



One chap with some semi-solid insight into himself recently declared that what he likes about the change-of-seasons is the fact that it doesn’t change anything.



For those still pondering the relative merits of verbal assaults versus physical attacks, consider this proverb from a certain planetary point I don’t wanna talk about, that says:  “Being shouted down in the middle of the battle-field is no disgrace."  (…Enough said, right?  Bang, bang, babble, babble.)



One fellow, in a fit of satirical neural patriotism, cried out, “I regret that I have but one brain to give to my country!”  And his brain said, “you egret?”



If ‘tis true, as one planet would have it, that “Those who say don’t know,” what does this also indicate about those who listen?



One ole timer said that he could wrap up all the wisdom and experience of his years in one sentence, “Don’t wait for a train in the bus station.”  And both Amtrak and Greyhound feigned amazement at the old codger’s wasted life.


Planning Your Future (Holiday Edition)

Only the defeated—and, oh yeah, the simplistic, that’s it – only the defeated and the simplistic must remember the war, and hold a grudge.  (“Maybe,” cried out one little voice, “But that still doesn’t address the problem of man’s internal battles with himself.”  Now you see, that’s why I call such little voices little – as in simplistic.)



Just before going to sleep each night, one guy would tell god that if he had anything he planned to send him, to please have it delivered before 8:30 a.m., "or wait until the next regular business day – please.”



your future
is not the same
as having a future.



To a Revolutionist’s ear, all talk is hyperbole.  (…and added:  Oh yeah, and cute too.)



When seen from a foreign perspective, each person is the actual boundaries and limits of their own information.  (P.S.:  When viewed up-close, the situation is oftimes reversed.)


Meanwhile, Backstage,

Indubitable Fact Of The Day:

Small mines
small pay loads.

Ah hum, pardon me, but are you saying “mines,” m-i-n-e-s, like in “gold mines,” or m-i-n-d-s “minds?”  Right!



Upon hearing repeated references to people “talking to themselves,” one high blown chap thought with some disbelief, and even more disdain, “My dear Aunt Eloise, what would I ever have to say to my inferiors?”



the same old
boring gossip
rolls on.



First voice:  “There’s a difference between talking smart, and being smart.”

And his brother replied, “Maybe, but not much.”

And the first voice said, “Yeah, but there’s still some difference right?”

And the brother stood silently, squinting one eye and scratching his chin, ‘til the first voice again insisted, “Right?”  And the brother said, “I’m thinking, I’m thinking!”



If you actually “did it,” no excuse or explanation is necessary.



Dumb and Dumber

Originality doesn’t count for much once it’s un-originalized.



I realize that in some quarters of your world ordinary justice seems scarce, but at least be comforted by knowing that everyone deserves to be as dumb as they are.



One day, one guy, finding himself just too entirely happy, stared himself dead in the mirror and declared, “Okay, buster, I’m from the Fun Patrol and we’ve got our eyes on you.”



One interesting aspect of new info, when it first comes to roost in your own brain, is that at first it doesn’t talk out loud.



One ole sorehead, on some equatorially unbalanced days, would whine, and insist that in private most famous people were about as exciting as white bread.


Cross Currents

And yet another fission can be made of the universe’s intellectual creatures, the division into those who care what they think, and those who care what others think about them.



Some info is like chlorine in man’s earth pool, encouraging him to keep his eyes closed.



Only the
teensy weensy,
trial-size mind,
becomes cross
over cross currents.



On some paradoxical mornings, this one chap would look deeply into the mirror over his bathroom sink and say, “There’s no doubt I deserve the best, and look what I got.”



On this one star over near the foggy quadrant, during all their sporting events, both teams wear the same uniforms.  One of the benefits, so they claim, is that the games go on so long that the spectators really get their money’s worth.


The Great Dumb Machine

At this level, The Great Dumb Machine produces all the energy necessary. (And aren’t we all extremely grateful.)


If information was linear inch worms, they would be in graduate school.


If someone has to tell you, “Don’t look now,” you should have already looked.


One ole planetary sorehead muttered, “If original thoughts were bloody, most folks could still wear their white suits."


If you’re not smarter
than yourself
you’re not smarter
than anybody.