At the birthday bash his creatures threw for him, this one god got (shall we say) --
a bit tipsy, and in his alcohol-enabling-affability made the following comment:
“Ah, my dear little beings  --   my smallish, sweet subjects:
when an undesired event occurs in your life,
you instantly feel that all of existence is malevolent,
and when a pleasurable incident pops up,
you suddenly deem the totality of life exquisite;
what are we to make of the potential for understanding I have equipped you with
if this is the best you can do?”
and for most of them the party ended  --  right there.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

In case you never thought about it: another reason speech's veracity is always suspect is that, as dictated by circumstances, all words either seem related,
or else to have their own independent existence;
thus in the city can truth be wet & wide one day and dry & narrow the next;
on man’s planet only atomic structures are unchanging;
neural ones are like silly putty in mind’s hands.

Ordinary men’s thinking has nothing permanent on which to rely  --
which bothers not a whit, ordinary men;
the rebel (on the other foot) is much put off by this normal state of human huffing,
and (it is rumored) either: somehow unnaturally forces the symbolism of words
to totally merge with the reality of what they attempt to represent  --  or:
they secretly wash their hands of them,
(in any case): in the land of the free: what works  --   works,
while in the dichotomously confined environs of the city,
all thought goes round and round, never actually accomplishing anything,
but with the special atmosphere there making men undisturbed thereby
(so in one sense, mental things do work in ordinary city minds  --   [that is]:
they survive and continue to operate  –  just to no end that the certain man finds meaningful).
 
 
 
 
 
 

Quick! --  describe the world’s most useless act  --
the re-writing of something an ordinary man said.
Quick! --  Definition time: History: mental preferences run totally amuck;
see: the very way by which words let-you-down is their complete dependence on expressing preferences for their very existence;
as though a ferry might admit: “Yes, most people drown using me  --   but did they not  --  how could anyone ever cross the river?!”  --    they couldn’t, but the ignored squirreliness involved in this is that city rivers divide and keep apart nothing;
the sensation of there being two asunder and opposing shores is pure urban hocus pocusy.
   Never stepping into illusory streams,
   the certain man is never overcome thereby;
   don’t joust with Galahad and you can’t get imaginarily speared --
   it is as simple as that (and way too far off the city’s ostensible,
   Complexity = Seriousness Meter to there be even perceptible).
 
 

Once upon a time there was a kingdom in which, when you were born,
you were given two boxes into which for the rest of your life, you could put things;
there were things which appeared appropriate to each box,
and each seemed capable of accepting a limitless number of things,
but there was one curious feature of the affair:
the number of things in one box had to always equal the number in the other box.
   Local reality rests on two legs  --
   universal reality never rests,
   which is why runners in all local city races never reach the finish line
   (but also never notice it),
   while the certain man (out molly-mucking about with the universal)
   never seems to be exerting himself anymore than is the universe itself  --   and yet,
   at the cellular level, his mind never accepts any proffered finish line,
   or place of apparent intellectual complacency;
   he alone understands that such is an illusion --
   one necessary to keep city mental life churning,
   but one irrelevant to him
   now that he realizes what is going on.
 
 

The only corruption of acts is facts –
those sounds and mental images the ordinary mind entertains
which claim to explain man’s behavior, and tell how he can improve same:
the ultimate corruption  --  yet the genesis of civilization;
one part of the brain in charge of one level of normal operations
giving holy hell to another part controlling another level.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

When the voice of man’s burgeoning consciousness suddenly could hear itself speak inside of man’s brain,
his original, non verbal sense of himself was driven from the idyllic, edenic garden
out into the world of commerce and technology (which, by the way,
he had to invent as he went along).
    The action that ordinary man call progress is  --   if they could see it head on  --
    more astounding than anyone in the city can begin to imagine.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Left to their own innate devices, wolves will live a strictly canine existence,
and any who expect otherwise display even less understanding of things
than do those four legged creatures.
   Every man is naturally what he is,
   and ordinary men by nature are made to think otherwise;
   a man who knows what is really going on thinks not so about himself, not by instinct,
                                                      but through his own effort.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

All who speak (save the realized) deal in but autobiography  --
and not even factually that, but one they found in the attic  --  that came with the house.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Today’s Travel News:
One man enjoyed it so much
that he never came back.
  “Dear Sir: As much as I enjoy your Daily News overall,
right here is an example of something which I most definitely do not –
it is entirely too brash and blunt, and needs (in my humble view)
much elaboration and explanation for it to even be considered as
possessing pertinent veracity.
               Sincerely Yours,” etc.
 
 

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