April 20, 2003                                                                        © 2003: JAN COX
 
 
 
 
 

A father said to a son: “To achieve the goal of TheThing,
you could forget about all the methods purported for the purpose,
(being ever-mindful; continually remembering-yourself;
constantly repeating-the-name-of-whoever, etc)
and deal with the reality of the matter head-on by the: C.D.A.A. approach:
concentration; determination-of-the-situation, and appropriate action:
not quite as mystically sounding  --  but more to the point.

Everyone’s mind is a shill for their consciousness;
everyone’s consciousness is a shill for their nervous system;
everyone’s nervous system is a shill for life;
life is a nervous intruder in the universe.

Everyone’s personality is a front for their temperament;
everyone’s temperament is a front for their genes;
everyone’s genes are life’s foot in the universe’s door.

Normal men’s thoughts are a substitute for something else;
all substitutes become the reality of what they stand in for/represent;
the certain man’s thoughts are his substitute for normalcy (read: torpidity).
 
 
 
 
 

One man says: “All I ask of life is that I never be so far from a tv set
that I can’t turn one on if people around me begin to talk.”
 
 
 
 
 

One man would preface all his remarks with the words:
“You’ll be delighted to know    --     NO I WON’T!”
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

When one man was off his medication,
he tended to revert to his previous medical condition;
when another man’s mind was off his own special concocted medication,
he would totally revert to being himself  --
which he found TOTALLY unacceptable!  (thank you).
 
 
 
 
 

Says one man: “Surprisingly, my lack of concentration has not killed me,
but it has cost me dearly, over and over again,
not the least expense being to my mental self esteem.”
Even a possum seems dumb when he allows his mind to be distracted.
 
 

                                    Science is to the universe as art is to life;
                                    science makes progress;
                                    in art there is no such thing.
                                    Science may ultimately explain the universe to life’s satisfaction,
                                    but art can never explain life,
                                    since it is a creation OF life.
 
 
 
 
 
 

A man said to a friend with a terminal illness:
"I guess knowing that you’re dying makes you cherish more deeply
 every day you have left.”
     “Naw, it just makes me more pissed than usual.”
Moral: life accommodates all sorts (even you).
 
 

A man who regularly wrote about that CertainMatter
was frequently approached by strangers who would say:
“I really enjoy reading your stuff, but....ahh.....I don’t think I get it: what’s the point?” and the closest thing to a reply (which he never gave) was:
“At the end of an enjoyable pleasure-flight, do passengers say to the pilot  --
“WOW! what fun! --  but tell me: what was the point?”
 
 

Simpletons sing of love & heartbreak;
sophisticates sing of politics & heartbreak;
the man-who-knows (if he sang) would sing only of singing.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The reality of enlightenment is to all methods for achieving enlightenment
as a sumo wrestler is to a long distance runner (except the other way around).
     “Pa pa, is the torture of metaphors forbidden under the Geneva Convention?”
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

One man would never read anything he’d written,
or think about anything he’d thought (all the while singing):
                                    “On the good ship  --  Circle-Back,
                                      where your mind falls  --  thru the crack…”
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

“Father, have you described to me accurately how you accomplished what you have?"
      “No.”
“But you have tried?”
      “Constantly.”
 

           “And I want to make mention of all the little people in me
             who made none of this possible.”