When he is confronted with yet another of the commonly annoying episodes that endlessly appear in his life, this one unusual man will confidently hitch up his trousers and declare: “This is a job for Harold Grubbs!” –  the name that is on his
birth certificate, but not the one he now identifies his self with.
(For a brief period after he died a school devoted to achieving the Great Awakening sprang up around his memory which went by the name: “Let Harold Do It.”
Lions who finally see the light do so by leaving the dark to hyenas, where it belongs.)
Trying to put infra red glasses on diurnal creatures can strike one as
metaphysically apt, but in the primary reality it has the same pertinence as
changing mickey mouse’s colour from black to green.
 
 

For the man-on-the-scent the most interesting responses to all questions are spongy.
     (“Quite enough time to be obdurate when you’re dead, no?!”
And the city area of one chap’s consciousness observed:
“If I was any more rigid I could have myself officially designated as a part of
the Petrified Forest.”)
 
 

When you live in ordinary consciousness you reside in a house of mirrors  –
and not in any profitable sense of it giving you a faithful picture of you;
the image of them that a person’s congenital consciousness presents is something quite beyond merely erroneous – it is off in a field of kaleidoscopic whimsy
unknown to any other area of man’s inner life.
 
 

Ographies, Bi & Auto.
The ole man said to the kid: “Think what a sad life a man has led if he decides to become an author and the most interesting thing he has to write about is
someone else's life.”
    “But you also disparage those who write about their self.”
“And now I should do so you for you thinking you just made a point of significance.”
 
 

Appearances In Prison.
So advised one older con to a younger:
“It’s okay to be ugly in here – as long as you’re REALLY ugly.
         Half way measures in a place of pretend
         can never bring things to an illusory end.”
(One of the guards later told the youth there was no way the word ugly
could be metaphorical  –   “Not in this place!” he assured.)
The unconventional mental beauty sought by the aspiring escapee
is not in the eye of any beholder, but in his having only one.
The internal house of mirrors cracks, falls and is destroyed.
 
 

City Births.
Everyone is born mentally overweight.
 
 

In the midst of a surprising neural upheaval,
one of those trapped therein cried out:
“But what is the sense in observing anything if you don’t put a name on it!?”
(He was quickly asked to produce proof of his own personal identification.
In the closed societies of prisons and cities, no one is interested in info from
an anonymous source;
for the jabberclabber concerning man’s verbal-only reality to be entertaining
it must come from an identifiable individual who thus can be criticized and ridiculed.)
 
 

Once on a sloggy day a man put on his best suit and tie,
cranked up march music on his stereo, then stood at attention
before a full length mirror above which he had taped a sign that said:
“In Tribute To ME!  –   Mister Humanity,”
and then he recited:
      “I can do and I can think,
        I may sweat and I may stink,
        I might stand and I might fall,
        but I’m always there  –  when I call    –     dammit!”
(He was then overcome by proxmires of laughter arising from his understanding of what a kidder life makes men be.)
 
 

Any activity whose benefit must be verbally told
is of no benefit other than as distraction.
 
 

Minds of limited (but predictable) vision run the routine life of man –
and the ordinary have a permanent invitation to join them –
and you do so by either accepting or rejecting their offer.
Prison is open year round, 24/7, and with never any waiting to get in,
(not like at the unsanctioned park by the UNpetrified forest.)
 
 

Those who have to explain the philosophy behind what they offer
have nothing of interest to a man trying-to-get-to-the-bottom-of-things.
 
 

Although spark plugs have a life of their own, they yet do not  –
not beyond any engine having one of its own.
In man’s intangible world, even with a: Hundred Per Cent Off Discount Coupon  –  you always still owe something.
In the more manifold mental reality of the certain man,
everything has its conclusive end.
 
 

Everyone’s hobby seems a bit odd to those not sharing it, and especially the one of wanting to radically alter the way your consciousness works.
 
 

Things in man’s second reality can’t be left to simply be-what-they-are,
but must be accompanied by explanations.
Only real deal stuff can be allowed to stand alone and speak for itself
without any human comments.
 
 

Life has human cells make men describe in words,
them living in worlds that do not physically exist.
 
 

A guy interested in getting-to-the-bottom-of-things mused:
“If stupidity is the question  –  sarcasm is not the answer.”
 
 

The best and worst that can be said of ordinary ideas is that they’re nothing but talk.
 
 

So pondered one chap: “As soon as humans (including young children)
become operationally conscious and thus verbal, they start making up rules,
and rituals which they encourage others to follow and which they clearly see
have no effect.
(A private investigation into this can be eye/I exploding.)
 
 

One man tried not to let his intense dislike for inanimate stuff seep into
his thinking about certain features of his own physiology.
    (“Oo-o-o! –  can I try to figure this one out for my self? –  can I?  --  can I?”)
 
 

The more grandiose the scheme  –  the smaller the minds it is meant to attract.
Life outside prison is far too simplistic for common consciousness to comprehend.