Never Never Land

City folks actually shouldn’t be all that concerned over questions of happiness, contentment and satisfaction, for they always have the fall-back positions of routine and habit.



The Revolutionist becomes ultimately so tasteful and discriminating that, at times, he can barely bear to associate with even himself.  (“I am the ONLY person for whom I have even the least personal respect, and even THAT’S on a slippery footing.”)



Along certain energy lines: only Man stands between profitable conversions, and wasteful short circuits.



From The Book of Nevers: Never trust a god with an ethnic name.



While others say, “I’ll NEVER find another love like my lost love,” or, “I’ll NEVER find another job so interesting,” or “I’ll NEVER be happy again,” the Revolutionist has quietly discovered that Never, never comes.


Don't They Wish!

If there is no word for it, you may be onto something.



A Real Revolutionist comedian is one who makes up jokes even HE sometimes doesn’t get.



Those who are driven to tell you you’re gonna be “fascinated” by what they have to say, know you’re not.



In regards to that City statement, “Every Man’s life has a subplot,” – Yeah, don’t they WISH!



I heard yet another soul in the City attempt to verbally, if not intellectually, “wrap it all up,” when he said, “Life is WAY too weird to think about.”


Beware the Vice-Presidents of the Mind

I heard a sergeant in the City Army once tell fresh recruits, “First off, in times of peril or catastrophe, don’t panic: Stay calm, look the situation over as carefully as possible, and then, if it STILL looks threatening – panic a lot.”



The too-well-known, too-well-done enthusiasm of City Folks caused one ole soul to exclaim his surprised pleasure in seeing someone do something, “one time in a row.”



Beware, the vice-presidents of the mind.



is like a
(And thus, here we stand, at the far reaches of man…)


The Mundane Boogie

“What easier way,” realized the King, “to abolish a rebel than by absorbing him into the power structure.”  What a move!  What a trick!  What a lasting silence after a threatened storm.



When you get right down to it, what IS the routine use of the City intellect, but to prove that “A is obviously A”?  To verify, in words, that you DID experience the experience you experienced.



Those who have to write a book of their “life experiences,” didn’t really have many.

That which falls from the sky today will fall again next Monday – count on it. (Those committed to the expected, will be measured and fitted at 12:30 sharp – be there or be bare.)


Ordinary Men have ordinary understanding…and, oh yeah, routine People behave routinely…and the mundane do the “Mundane Boogie.”


Life's Heard It All Before...

Most City religions are akin to “gourmet cuisine”; they give you REAL teeny little portions, charge like hell, and make you dress up for the privilege.



I believe the most pressing question, that should be of present concern to the best minds in the City, is: “What ARE the safe limits of stupidity?”



All attempted change is an insult to present conditions, and a direct threat to the status quo.



What the City folk call “reality,” is but the ONE possibility they can presently perceive…but hell, that’s true for all their thoughts and feelings as well.



I’ve told you that, “Life’s heard it all before,” but do you see why?  Life’s SAID it all before!


What it Means

Do you know about that certain rotund ruler who considered himself somewhat of a “thinker” and scholar, who once announced, “We will hold no opinion before it’s time.”



Remember as you “walk through the valley of Babylon,” and as you “pound the pavements of the Wall Street Philistines,” that goods are to service,s as nouns are to verbs.  (Tell the Rockefellers to “Get Real,” and the melons to “Ripen Up.”)



Again, an example of Man “almost getting’ it”:

Whereas, in routine anthropomorphic views, men are wont to see “Life in non-mortal entities,” they should be looking at it the other way around.



To a Revolutionist, NOTHING means simply “what it means.”



There is never enough data/energy present in any situation, or combination of just C-&-D, to facilitate any change.


The Difference

The only lasting tyrant is the future; the only true aristocracy, the band leader who can’t hear the requests of the dancers.



Things are equally both what-they-are, and what Men perceive them to be, and only the Revolutionist knows the difference, and whether it MAKES any difference.



In the heart of the City, the most reliable forms of “treatments” are: 

A strong religious faith,
firm family support,
and suicide.



Just about the time I again think Man is bland and humorless, I hear something like this: “Art imitates Life.”  Gads, is that a thigh-slapper or what!  That IS a joke isn’t it?



A Real Revolutionist could be offended by only one person, (and you know who THAT is…)


Spare Me the Details

Another unspotted curio about Man’s inner noise, I mean, life: One of the Partners has got to have everything explained to him, even if he must do it himself.



I believe I have now collected sufficient evidence to safely state that reading is no worse for you than watching TV.



In the City, Men slave, and know not that they do.  Out near the Bushes, a few suspect they slave, but know not why.  Only the Real Revolutionist may ever realize both.



A hearty old City fellow, dressed mostly in clothes, gave me this definition, which he insinuated had some deeper significance.  But be that as it may, here it is:  Circumcision: Short-sheeting a man’s most private bunk.



When a Real Revolutionist says, “Spare me the details,” he MEANS it!


Unlimited Storage

Just wanted to assure you that some of them still know how to have fun back in the City: Heard of a contest recently, whose grand prize was your choice of either open heart surgery, or a metric ton of prunes.



Life’s been this way before.

And Added:

And it left a trail,
if you can find it.



Heard yet another City guy wrap his hand around his beer and his thoughts around his final philosophy when he noted, “Hey, it’s ONLY wrestling.”



The Past is a curious place to store things.



Regarding advertising, AND, I might add, usual advice: If you gotta be told what you want, you don’t want nothing worthwhile.


Nothing to Declare

Apparently one of the signs used in the City to confirm your intelligence is when you clearly affirm that, “All creatures live by instinct alone, save Man.”



Whoever first said that “Ignorance is no excuse,” sure didn’t take his own advice!



Travel Tip for a Tuesday:
In his travels from state-to-state, the Revolutionist should have “nothing to declare.”



The second cousin of the so-called philosopher I previously mentioned, recently pulled himself up to his full so-called height and let go with what I’m sure was his one best verbal shot at semi-mortality.  He proclaimed, and I quote, “Think of the mess we’d all be in were it not for the timely discovery of ‘downhill.’”



It it’s been named, it’s for sale somewhere…


But Is It Art?

The Revolutionist gladly lets others lead the lives that other believe must be led.



I know I sorta “snuck it up on you,” the first time, so let me now just say it outright and plain: don’t “phone-in” your life.



In the 3-D world, there are no real “waves of the future,” only “ripples of tomorrow,” vibrations of next week.



You gotta wanna KNOW.  Then, you gotta DO.



If you feel obliged to announce that “It’s Art,” don’t be too sure.


Room for Infinity

Even the smallest of Revolutionist tales have room for infinity.



In that ole-City-you, one professed thinker once declared, “A prudent question is one half of wisdom.”  Yeah, but which half?



In the City, some say, “You are what you eat,” and others say, “You are what you think,” but in the Bushes it goes without saying, “You are what you are.” (“Hey, let’s hear it for the Bushes.”)



There was once a particular Revolutionist who, in the midst of being totally overheated, considered going back into the heart of the City and making certain gestures public.



Another way in which a wanna-be Revolutionist can do mayhem to Himself, is in knowing that His old voices give fallacious directions, and to yet give heed to them.  It is only a Real Revolutionist who can singularly constitute His own crime scene wherein He is both victim AND perpetrator.


Saturday Sing-a-Long

Anytime you are overcome with concern regarding the civilized status of contemporary Man, just look in the daily paper and compare their coverage of science, literature and art, to that of sports.  Now, don’t you feel much better?



The past is where EVERYbody sings flat.



To rhapsodize and poeticize that “nothing worthy ever truly dies” is just a sneaky way of hoping for your own immortality.



More Cause For Encouragement: For those with demonstratively low-powered brains, in the City, they have this marvelous new device, “Hi-Lite Markers.”  (I’m so “happy” for you.)



There WOULD seem to be some merit in knowing when to be “done with” something, knowing when it is finished; but even more so, not to care.


On the Defense

In the City I recently read the following, “No proof is more striking of modern Man’s decline than his disbelief in ‘Great Men.’”  As is often the case with my cosmopolitan experiences, I couldn’t decide whether to laugh, cry, or have a bowl of prunes.  I later happened upon this relevant quote: “The true history of the world is the history of Great Men.”  What history books are they reading in town?  And no wonder the People have such a generally low opinion of “Great Men.”



Without any doubt, one of the most penetrating aspects of the Revolutionist consciousness is in knowing that what everyone else believes is not correct, AND, neither is its opposite.  THIS, not dust-and-flowers, should go down in the grave with you.



How defensive you are reveals how conscious you are.



More of the curious nature-and-justice-of-it-all: Man can be “unhappy” only because of his potential not to be.



Anyone who’s going to “regret the past,” shouldn’t even bother with today.



A Revolutionist is a dead Man in reverse.



In the City, don’t pick up anything anyone else has handled.


While everyone else’s “wish-dreams” would be for the whole Macy’s catalog, the Revolutionist would be thinking, “Where would I store all that shit?”


 From The List of Nevers:
Never invite someone ELSE’s god for the weekend.


The Revolutionist treats ordinary emotions as junk food…eat ‘n’ run…


Every Revolutionist should have a nickname, but he shouldn’t know what it is.


It's All an Act

I hate to break the news to ‘em, but the closest City folks are going to get to building a “thinking machine” will be a computer whose memory can’t be reached, and which resists all forms of reprogramming.



To truly “act,” one must know that it’s ALL an act.  (Action without knowledge that it’s “all an act” is merely RE-action.)



A Real Revolutionist might even make himself uneasy.



If a Revolutionist doesn’t appear to be doing much, it may be that there’s not much to do.



I guess the only bad thing about being a Revolutionist is that there is no longer anything, or anyone, to rebel against.  (“I SAID I ‘guess’.”)


Beware the Mastercards of the Mind

Yet another sterling example that makes one so happy for the continued existence and support of City life:  I heard one Man announce, “Yes, we’re open 24 hours,” AND ANOTHER ASKED, “You mean ‘a day’?”



If there were truly any serious sense of honor in the City, those who bungled an attempted suicide would be so humiliated that they would immediately kill themselves.



Never brag about anything before you have given it away.  No possession is worthy of comment until you’ve been able to dispose of it.



Beware, the Mastercards of the mind.



The Glue Pot

The past is the glue pot of officious obligations.



If they couldn’t talk about their lives, most people could hardly stand it.



Engines, AND people, have a “sweet spot” where they operate with maximum power, and optimal efficiency.



A Real Revolutionist doesn’t simply want to “get-well” – he wants to become unnaturally BETTER.



Don’t forget now: Talk has almost nothing to do with it.


Pay Attention!

Out of a locker-room area in the City, I once heard this piece of a song arise, “Oh, I got a .22 caliber brain, and .38 caliber needs.”



Life probably pays the most attention to those who pay the most attention to it.



Once heard a guy in the City say that he had to hurry away from a brewing argument before a “fight broke out in his brain.”



In the City, solutions inevitably become part of the problem.



If you’re mad at something, it won’t speak to you…and tell you what it knows.