Nothing to be Said

This one chap stopped by to tell me that he is not currently prepared to undertake any new efforts to expand his intellectual horizons until he has a good, up-to-the-minute aerial photo of the lay of his present mental land.



There are times
when there is
“nothing to be said”;
such times have
not reached this planet.



Over on the Great University’s park, I overheard a couple of older gents talking about their future and their time of retirement, and one of them said that what he’d like to do, after his final days of work, is to take out his brain, and carrying it in his hands, begin to walk off in no particular direction, but to just keep going until he came to a place where the people look at the glob in his hands and ask, “What is that?’  And there is where he would stop and stay.



Holding him briskly by the ears, a father said to his son, “My own blessed father often told me, ‘The philosopher who sups with a king dilutes his own wine.’”  And the lad replied, “Isn’t dear grandfather now for several years dead?”  And the elder nodded, and the kid continued, “Then, precious Papa, may we not begin to ignore the rantings of the old fart?”  And suddenly the father beamed with bemused and thirsty enlightenment.



Hey look, for the revolutionist, it’s not a matter of, “the time for excuses being over” – hey, it never happened.