There’s nothing humans more enjoy delivering (even those without trucks) than bad news,
(or even just its possibility.    Plus their activities aren’t hampered by the ICC.)
 
 
 

Excessive words make the certain man sick.                        (Non fatally of course.)
 
 
 

If you don’t understand what someone else is doing, but you also envy the person,
then by all means, ridicule them.      (That’s the least you can do).
 
 
 

A father said to a son:
“A man awake has no rules to live by, not because of some pseudo superman game,  but because it is simply not possible:
it is not possible to be both awake to what is going on, and have rules to live by:
the two are incomfatible.”
    “You mean: incomPATible?!”
“What! -- did I: futter!?”
 
 
 

This email just in: “Some of your stories strike me as simply silly;
are they all actually useful to awakening?  Yours,” etc.
Not if you don’t want them to be.
    (“At least we can be thankful that no one has to wake up to what’s going on
       if they don’t want to.
       Yes indeedie: Thank god there are still a few things we can be thankful for.”)
 
 
 

Real Religion News.
When red circuit men wrestle-with-the-devil it is over lusts of the flesh;
when blue circuit men do it is over pride, and when yellow circuit men contend with
the evil-one it is over the publication date of their latest research paper.
    (“I've got to ask: what would an awakened man struggle with satan about?”
Responding to inane questions.
     “I don’t get you?!”)
 
 
 

Spat a guy with an illness:
“You damn T-cells,
why didn’t you keep me well --
letting me get sick,
makin' me have to take pills, and pay doctor bills  –
fuck you, you cheap bastards!  –
what the hell do you think the immune system’s for anyway!”
After pausing for a moment and looking away, he picked the tirade back up,
now dragging in the subject of conspiracies:
“The only conspiracy that interests me, and the only one about which I can possibly
do anything is the apparent one between my T-cells and some of my neurons
whereby I am caused to passively accept being sick.......and oh yeah:
a similar one whereby my consciousness is lulled into dreamland and stupidity.
Screw that shit  --  fuck ‘em all! –  enough’s enough!
Straighten up, you non verbal cells and do your jobs,  goddamn you.”
 
 
 

Definition.
Prayer: Serious mulling for those mentally unsure of their self.
 
 
 

One of the best things about having rules that you recommend people live by
is that you don’t then necessarily have to.
 
 
 

One man says:
“You can bad mouth talk all you like, but a simple fact stands:
when you are helpless to physically change a situation the only thing left to do is talk;  to condemn it constantly, which offers the possibility of helping to ultimately
bring about a change.
Many people are in such oppressive political and social circumstances
(and also I might add, are certain of the nervous-system-rebel’s brain cells).”
      “It’s kinda neat, ain’t it” notes another guy, “how you can only attack words
       with words: the only thing harmful you can do to talk is to speak badly of it.”
 
 
 

The man who awakens has no influences  (not in the way others say they do):
he neither embraces nor acknowledges the influence of any religion, philosophy,
or political system, nor from his family, community, or any other individual human:
the only thing that affects him is his desire to be even more awake.
 
 
 

One guy says:
“I do not intend to insult others by my neglect in this area,
but the only anger I now have time for is that aimed at those of my brain cells
which permit me to fall back into my routine states of stupid consciousness.”
 
 
 
 
 

Standard consciousness is like a reactionary robot that moves only in response to outside activity, which serves man’s & life’s general purposes well, but will not
lead to any understanding of the activities of life (or itself for that matter).
    “Screw you! –  routine consciousness!”  spat that guy again.
Even before the trial was near completed, one man already wanted to appeal.
    (“Hell! – don’t we all,” muttered a judge sweeping out the courtroom.)
At the beginning of every week one man would announce,
in the privacy of his inner bedroom: “It's Monday o'clock:
do you know where your neurons in charge of consciousness are?
Tough love, my friends --  tough love is what is called for.”
For his exceptional efforts in the Great Struggle one man privately awarded himself several medals and the secret nickname: Lead Wolf Of The Outback.
 
 
 

Men have only three matters about which to suffer:
how they behave, how they feel, and how they think;
those are for ordinary people: the few born to the struggle, have a fourth.
 
 
 

One man’s most recent theory is that profanity first appeared during a
humor brown-out in the city.
(It’s rumored that his brother is working on a companion postulate that claims
curses and jokes are interchangeable.)
 
 
 

People of ordinary consciousness feel best when working as part of a group:
the man trying to get-to-the-bottom-of-things, doesn’t.
 
 
 

Having all the personal fun you can during the struggle
makes its success just that much more feasible.
Just look what happened to Athens when they got too serious about being Athenians. The Spartans laughed all the way back to their locker room
as they scraped philosophers from their feet.
 
 
 

A father said to a son:
“The man truly born and dedicated to getting-to-the-bottom-of-things
won’t take anything lying down.”
    “How about being dead?”
“You’ll never hear him admit even that.
Make a permanent note that there are no exemptions in the real rebellion;
even though the physical end is the same for everyone,
the certain man pushes success to its ultimate limits by going down
(when he must) one hundred per cent in flames  –  not ten per cent, not fifty per cent, but totally in flames.
Thus he does not even take death lying down.”
(The lad understood as always that his pater was in truth telling him something about
a rebel’s life, and not his death.)
 
 
 

Every gang has to have someone to act as the brains of the operation,
and if your brains aren't the brains of yours, you're in deep trouble.
 
 
 

When contemporary hippos read the history of the long ago Hippoponnesian War
they think: “Such a fate could never us befall”   –  same as say the synaptic alliances which continually control men’s routine consciousness.
And one guy reminded himself:
“If you can’t be Socrates –  at least be Aristophanes,
and pretend to chuckle at the old insightful sot.”
Said an infantryman seeing a pilot take off: “If I can’t fly, I can ridicule those who do.
It is my privilege  –  indeed, likely my duty as an ordinary man and foot soldier.”
Here's how it goes:
In the beginning (not being able to be you) you become a metaphor;
eventually (if you do right) you can no longer be a metaphor and you become you.
 
 
 

If the certain man were to pray, it would not be to a god, but to his cells.
 
 
 

For the born rebel, any period during which he is not desperately trying to awake
is for him (on a different level) as bad as being without a girl friend.
 
 
 

One man mused: “If the conscious part of my brain would just look after my
overall best interest as well as does the rest of that organ --
everything would be okay by me.”
 
 
 

It is hard to be spontaneous while being planned,
but not nearly as difficult as being planned while being spontaneous.
    (“Are you sure that is not backwards?”
Have it your way then.)