The Ultimate Explanation

Silence can be The Ultimate explanation.



News Item From The Front, (includes also parts of the Rear):

The Minister of Foreign Affairs announced today; “We have just this evening, brought about a cessation of active hostilities between us and them, due in no small measure to the growing awareness of our common economic interests, our combined concerns for ecological stability, and the intelligence and talents of our negotiators to sit at the same table, and civilly discuss our differences, all of this combined with a fackin’ miracle.”



(You probably gotta listen pretty quick to this one):

A most useful expression in the human language is the phrase, “You could say,” since you can say, “You could say,” even when you can’t – really.



There’s no denying it, Freedom’s a funny feeling.



Left-overs have a mind of their own.


The Alarming Truth About Everything

always seeks
someone else’s



Whilst pursuing a periodical in my last visit to the City, I came across what may prove to be the ultimate piece of conservative thinking; it was an article entitled, “The Alarming Truth About Everything.”



Memory’s not important, unless you’re going to talk about it later.



The locals
are generally
the first



Fun is what you have with others, happiness is what you have alone.



The Fire Chief

One reader wrote to tell me that not only is this his favorite, non commercial news, but also to tell me that in his opinion no society can truly call itself civilized until the Fire Chief is an elected position.



Not all problems will go away if you simply ignore them – BUT, all the good ones will.



In the subversive, revolutionary life up on the hillside, peace is just a flawed synonym for “perpetual uneasiness.”



Gluttonous graffiti on one planet’s wall:

First Life handed man religion to condemn him, then psychology to excuse him – Mein Got, what next?”



The only difference between an opponent, and a proponent, is in the spelling of their names.



Oh yeah, and another reader wrote in to complain…


The Great Light Bulb Wars

Anything thought of by man, if not immediately useful for you, will be later, and is already for someone else.



A shout from out the crowd came, “Okay, alright…okay…then tell me this: if women are not to blame for all this, then just by god, who is?”



All of man’s ideas, activities, and institutions are organic, sentient and electric.



What ordinary men call irony, is actually mislabeled resistance.



Over in that little near world, (of which I’m already suspicious), above the bar in a certain saloon hangs this sign:  “If We Can’t Joyfully Feed Stuff To Our Brains, To Make Us Once Again, Raging Beasts, What’s The Use Of Even Living In The City.”  (Very suspicious indeed…by the by, you ever notice, by now how some things are so true they seem silly, and some things are so silly they seem true?)



Never forget “The Great Light Bulb Wars.”


Rubber Reality

The newest toy over in the Green Parallel Galaxy is “Rubber Reality”.



Position’s not everything, but juxta-position is.



One well known ole sorehead, (he’s not all that well known, but who’s keeping score – “Yoo Hoo, I am” – never  mind all this impertinence, back to the bloody story), this ole ruffled-one says, “If you ain’t gonna feel guilty, why bother to get up.”



“Okay,” said the voice, “Let me see if I can make my point this way: Let me ask you, would you use a cheap gauge to check the pressure in expensive tires?”  (Point made, piece captured, square taken, case closed.)



If it’s not paradoxical,
it’s not even doxical.


Emotions Don't Make Mistakes

Although he certainly can be physically injured and killed, the Revolutionist’s inner aspects cannot be damaged or insulted, in that the simple cannot harm the complex.



Short commentary on the Bountiful Nature of Dualist Reality:

The two most important musical forms yet produced by man are, Classical, Jazz, Soft and Hard Rock, Easy Listening, and Country.



Emotions don’t make mistakes, people do.



Under local conditions, there never seems to be any “let up.”



Although it seems pretty obvious by now, I guess even the obvious deserves its own subversive bulletin board, so let’s post this:  “The nature of life, is the nature of man, and the structure of Life is the frame of human consciousness.”



The critic can never see the entirety of his subject.


The History of Rock n' Roll

Based on recent discoveries of some scrolls in a cave near Damascus, it is now clear that rock and roll began in 537 B.C. not 1955.  (Remember, when only time dictates history, only dictators will have time or, only time can take history’s dictation…only, ah forget it.)



A man with no intellectual inferior has yet to make his own acquaintance.



Note:  The current debate is always raging.



One not-so-far-away listener writes to me as follows:

“If there is any real hard-ball-justice afoot in this life, historians would be our kings, the dead our priests, and bank robbers our economists.”



In the sponsored, and apparent race between the sexes, men rely on the horrific, the heroic and the honorable; women on hormones, hormones and hormones…at this point women remain ahead.


Greetings Great Grandchildren!

There was this one guy who decided to only be dumb on Saturdays…hey, I kid you not, this is no joke.  (I believe it all had something to do with that new cult who teach that you should put all your chickens in one basket.)



A Revolutionist who hears his mama, (or daddy), call him, has just gone AWOL.



That short, hairy ole sorehead passed me this note written on the back of a torn relative, it says, “It seems to me that the only things required to be a City philosopher are: a degree, a good memory, a decent haircut, and no personal ideas.”  (Close cover when striking.)



Those who feel the need to defend their intelligence, needn’t bother.



This one guy I told you about, the one who lurks about, oftimes lying beneath some bushes in the park, the same guy that sometimes whispers stuff to me, but who doesn’t want to be identified or quoted, well, here’s his latest bombshell, he says, (more or less just so he can’t accuse me of quoting): “All words have their motive and all motives have their drive, all drives their engines, and all engines have their spark, and so on, bon ami, and so, to all words I say, ‘Greetings, great-grandchildren’.”



There is no way to prepare for the Revolution, and no way not to.


Secondary Activities

You can certainly put the verbal bad-rap on Secondary activities, but do know that therein lies mans’ only unique contributions.



As all city employees should know; irony comes with the territory.



Question:  Who invented “pissing in the wind”?

Answer:     Who invented the wind?



That which
is apparent
also appears
in other places.



In a pause in the middle of the flurry, this one centered chap said, regarding his sometimes erratic behavior, “Well, I guess it’s the price you pay for being me.”  And none of his friends saw fit to point out that they indeed were not him…(but, then again, neither is he in alternate Octobers.)


The Moon as Metaphor

One brother was berating another over his hoarding of newspapers, “No one’s interested in yesterday’s news.”  A passing subversive heard him and repeated it to himself and thought, “No one’s interested in yesterday’s news…no one’s interested in yesterday’s news…you know, no one in the City’s got any room to say that.”



Playing with words can be like playing with infinity…(of course, this all depends on how you verbally play with the word “infinity.”)



Over near a wine tre, I encountered a guy who looked at me, looked away, then looked back at me…then looked away again…then looked back at me and finally said, “I’ve generally been able to bear up reasonably well under the strain and uncertainty of mortal life, but what still gives moi nightmares is to think of the day when fear does pull up, comes to a complete stop, and dismounts”…(he looked away again.)



The phases of the moon can be seen as a metaphor for the phases of the moon.



On the back of the ticket it said, “The price of admission to the ‘Weekend Escape At The Super Holy Vineyard And Monastery’ includes all food, drinks and bullets.”


Flirting with the Local

Would mice still want to be rats, if draft exemptions were based on shoe size?



Unpublished Revolutionist Rule, (or maybe just a hint), Number 17 Y:

You know you’re on the right track when you ain’t got no track.



You can flirt with the local,

but the universal is beyond seduction.

(Hill-side translation:  You can’t lay Life.)



This one bonny chap would quite often conclude a statement by adding, “Of course, that’s just one chap’s opinion,” until one semi-fine day he pulled his shorts up short and thought, “Why hell, that’s quite enough of an opinion – I’m just one man.”



Under the weight of local gravity, there is really no proper question of whether, “the means justify the ends,” in as much as the means ARE the ends…(and vice versa on Fridays).



In the dirt, at one possibly abandoned revolutionist camp, was scratched the following, “This stuff is so powerful, it’s damn near non-existent.”


In the New World...

Subversive Bulletin Number 147 Dash Six Three R:

It is now clearly established and recognized that the only instrumentality to ever comment on the mind’s “amazingly complex and inscrutable nature” is the mind.  Operate accordingly.



Irony is inescapable in a circuitous world…(or a circumcision ward).



Over on the Fern Planet, in a local pub, I heard this one fellow ask his embibling mate, “If there does turn out to be a ‘Judgment Day,’ do you think god will actually look back over your entire life, or just review the highlights?”



In the new world,
there’s no such thing
as an absent-minded genius.



From the midst-of-it-all, (and you damn well know which midst I mean), a voice arose,

“I sometimes do not feel much like praising and paying homage to the gods; at times it seems they are only looking out after themselves.”  And a second tongue replied, “Well hell, why do you think they’re gods in the first place?”



One guy, (who could have been potentially subversive – who knows), after being persistently pestered to give his opinion on some matter or other, finally said, “I’m not into comment.”


We're All Yes-Men

A power structure with a motto is like one shoe, but with a double shine.




When you get right down to it,

other than death – talk is everything.



Liquid graffiti found on a City wall: “We’re all ‘yes-men’ and yes, that includes those who say no.”



Another one of those local soreheads says that he now believes that stupidity is some people’s attempt to “beat up their environment.”


A medium has no innate ability to understand its messages, unless it is also their origin.

(Any who might still think themselves the author of their words and passions, may quietly float from the room.)


Uncertainty Surrounds Anything Alive

At the Primary level is the morality of hunger;
At the Secondary is the ethics of reputation.



A kind of gross,
A kind of subtle,
anything alive.



All crooks and politicians have fun.



Under nominal conditions, many Revolutionists – even land-locked ones – might give their occupation as, “deck hand.”



One of the joys of local history is the emergence of revealing patterns in light of hindsight.  (And from a band of hearty City thinkers comes the cry, “Hey, everything looks better from back here!”)


A Man with a Fried Egg on a Monday

The new ole sorehead just down the block, told a neighbor’s dog, that anyone who writes their autobiography and then seriously awaits a response thereto, should be laughed at, distempered or shot.



Household Hints For Those Who’ve Had Hold Of Several Households:

Always read the instructions,
handle all solvents with care,
and never stand up.



A man with a fried egg,
can afford to be brave.



The dominant will always offer to protect the submissive, even when the only threat is from the dominant.  (There are insufficient local words and symbols to adequately express my appreciation for the scales of justice.)



A man, lame in both legs, and quite deliciously vocal in his complaints, after regaining the use of one, referred to change as, “Illusionary progress,” and added that at least it was still preferable to real progress.



The Revolution is expanding when the person next to you becomes awarethat he’s now in it.


Why Resist the New?

Overheard Comment Number Two Thousand Six Hundred and Something-Or-Other:

“Hey, you can bad-mouth ‘em all you want to, but just remember, without local conditions there wouldn’t be any local.”



Near an abandoned campfire, just upon that east ridge, a scrap of paper was recently found which said, “The secret is to act like you actually know what you’re…”  (The note was unfortunately torn just there.)



Why resist the new? It’ll just run over you anyway.



Any story without an internal point of “self reference” is a tale hardly worth telling, much less remembering, forgetting, or otherwise folding and consuming.



the charade,
is part of
the charade.



Only two classes of people properly believe in the duality of reality: those under five foot nine and those taller.


Nothing to Say

One ole curmudgeon, (a sorehead with a degree), said that after a lifetime of study, scrutiny and contemplation, he was finally convinced of one thing, and one clear thing only – that there is nothing to say, just nothing to say.  (But he doesn’t want to be the one to point it out.)



On local levels, there is a repeated anticipation of victory, (which nicely substitutes for same)..



I heard one fellow on your planet say that, “Even though happiness is weird,” he still had to prefer it over sadness, which he says is, “Far too messy and complex.”



If local authorities must authorize, license or otherwise sanction your exercise of your art, then your art is but a commercial trade, and no matter who pays your wages, you work and support the local conditions.  (Oh well, I don’t suppose any of you have the heart, if not the interest, to consider any internal utility of this info?  No, well at the very least you might be a mite more selective regarding who you work for, even if you’re self employed.)



The Revolution has no middle, no second act, save for the rebellious actors themselves.


Roman a clef

Everyone’s life is a,

  Roman a clef.



Part of the critic’s job is to make secondary human activities seem to be more than they are…(and sometimes less.)



From local views, it seems a flood is always impending.



The perfection
of anything,
is a job for the
Medical Examiner.



One brother said, “Without anticipation, life wouldn’t be crap.”  After a preemptory pause he did see fit to add, “Wellllll, it’d be just like it is now, whatever that is.”



If you go really out of town, a lot of the old stuff sure does look silly.


The Surface May Be Deeper

The beginnings and endings of ordinary affairs could be, at best, painted as grey, and light grey, while the maneuvers in the middle hold the full color palette.



The nearest there might be to a form of “pure evil,” would be if some, any, local conditions, could become permanent or universal.



Might I suggest to you,
May I perhaps hint,
That maybe,
just maybe,
To say the very least,
The surface may be
deeper than
normally thought.



A kid asked his father, “What is death?” and the ole man replied, “Well, it’s the completion of the past, or at least of one past.”  They both kicked up a little dirt in silence for a while, and the father added, “Or, you could say, death’s when the past, or your past, catches up with you.”



The Revolution is sorta like a new level of the Primary.


Middle Ground

Local ears hear jazz and complain, “Where’s the melody?  Where’s the familiar?”



Under true and useful “hostile conditions,” the Revolutionist should know that if he sees a “middle ground,” he is experiencing a mirage.




Some can realize the conspiracy between all dancers, the collusion twixt audience and actors, but can you grab-a-peek at the nebulous nexus that binds the local and universal?

I think that I shall never see:
A poem lovely as a knee,
A link ‘tween thighs and toes below,
A bridge that follows the rivers’s flow.

Could we not now have a moment of reverence for those things that move while remaining, and stay whilst departing, but only do so when you remember, or forget to watch.




One more-than-adult sorehead, standing by his own father’s grave, rubbing together his hands, was overheard to intone, “Based on the way things have gone thus far, I can hardly wait to get really old so that without conditions and with no restraints or exceptions, I can be thoroughly wholly and sublimely pissed.”




Most books aren’t written for any particular purpose, and that’s why publishers must get someone to write an introduction for them all to say otherwise.