“Welcome aboard Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking;
we will be sailing shortly, and I want to remind you that intellectual romances
are permitted only among those in First Class,” and all the cows in steerage
nodded their heads in resigned recognition of this restriction.
Not all neurons are created equal  --  so why should they be treated so.
 
 

“Okay Pop: gimmie today’s edition of the funniest thing you’ve heard people say.”
   “Someone berating the public for their fascination with frivolous entertainment
     figures as opposed to serious political ones.”
Social commentators comment on other people’s lives for lack of one of their own.
 
 
 

Since cows and sheep have certain difficulty becoming mystics,
they become religious.
(“And damn good at it,” notes mary’s little helper.)
 
 
 

More Bounding Main News.
On city ships, First Class is where no one calls a spade a spade,
nor admits they know what: digging-my-potatoes means.
Wherever you go outside of town, eating is eating, and fucking is fucking,
but inside the boundaries of the civilized mind  --  euphemisms reign as they must,
with only the outlier rebel  --   in reality putting his trust.
If you verbally point at it  --  it is already safer;
buggerbears called pandas is Pluto plucked from the underworld into the light.
Roaches are not all that breed in ill lit synapses.
“Always my boy: call ‘em what they are.”
      “How ‘bout: not at all?”
“Better yet.”
 
 
 

One man wrote himself:
“I have been reading these daily writings for some time now,
and would like to ask you --  why?  --
since half the time I don’t understand what they mean.”
 
 
 

Some Cheap Entertainment News.
If you stare at the ground long enough you’ll always find something to pick up.
“Yes, my dog’s barking and running about is repetitiously annoying  --
which is why I turn him loose in your direction:
to be annoyed with yours  --   and have something new to do.”
Entertainment comes no cheaper than the mind:
the cost of movie tickets and books is just a cover charge  --
not the price for the actual diversion.
The man trying to get to the bottom of things enjoys a form of head entertainment
not available in any city venues, or forms.
(“And I hear it is free!”)
 
 
 

The adult game of spirituality is one of threats, and condemnation
while its younger version was one of promise and excitement.
“Ask not: Where you went astray, but whether the safety of being in a herd  --
both physically and mentally  --  is for you, a bargain.
(P.S. you never know unless you step outside.)"
    “That’s a lot easier said than done.”
And you’re revisiting the obvious for what purpose?....
Fact For The Few: actually nothing is easier said than done outside the physical realm;
any complaint you have about yourself intangibly, you live with by refusing to make the slight (albeit, unnatural) effort necessary to realize this:
nothing is easier said than done in man’s verbal reality:
if you can say it  --  you can do it   --    and when you get really sharp eyed/I’d
you realize that when you say it  --  you have done it.
“I don’t see that?!?”
That’s because you haven’t yet seen it.
 
 
 

In his diary one day, a man wrote:
“I have decided that there is no ‘secret information’ I need to awaken from the dream.....well.....there probably is, but it’s probably not so much actually secret
as it is.....well.....I guess you could call it secret if you wanted to.....”
Months later he reread this passage and didn’t immediately recognize it as
having come from him.
The secret code to everything said about life outside the city
is only secret when you’re in the city.
“It’s like this boy: if all you think with is the brains god gave you, then god help you.”
A mama bird said to her chick:
“Cats have a bad  attitude, and that’s all there is to say about that.....well, that,
and to remind you that somewhere down the line we all swallowed a cat.”
The consumption rate in rebel camps is terrifying.
And the old blues singer burst forth:
    “Oh the T.B. ain’t so bad,
      long as it stands for: Taut Brain.”
Eating one’s genetic heritage is the certain man’s only satisfying meal,
(the particular mental temperament that is each man’s personal birthright
is for the rebel, his birthwrong [at least his: birthwon’tdo.])
 
 
 

One man wrote himself:

While business done in the city operates on the schedule: “Come back Thursday  --  it’ll be ready then,”
for the rebel, everything is: While-You-Wait.