How Mind Works.
After learning that the prescribed psychiatric treatment would cost a thousand dollars
a week, he found someone who, for a flat fee of five hundred bucks
would exculpatorily alter his original mental evaluation.
Dining-Out Tip That Even The Most Sophisticated Of City Dwellers
Don’t Care To Hear About.
Simple minds are served simple fare,
but all men are charged the same.
And a reader at the next table emails this message:
“By god sir! –   if what you are really talking about pertains to men’s minds
and not their stomachs,
and to information and not actual food,
then I say, by god sir that.....well.....well  --  I don’t know WHAT to say!”
The senior partner of one neurological practice says
(of the environment in which he finds himself pursuing his profession):
“Often I feel like a naked maitre d’ at a homeless shelter.”
 
 
 

The prime purpose of the specialized and often secret language employed by
city professions and institutions is not to keep hidden what they are doing,
but rather to hide the fact that they don’t know what they are doing.
    (“It’s actually pretty neat: If you announce that you want a ticket to Istanbul,
       it stops ordinary people from realizing you have no idea where it is.”)
 
 
 

While embroiled in an outlandish drunken spree,
local conditions in one area yelled out:
“All of the serious can bite-my-ass!” –
only to discover his self at the head of an interminably long line.
(Observing all this, the local god pondered: “Is this how I got started?”)
 
 
 

“Remember,” reminded one father a son, “it’s better to go-out-with-a-bang
than to just either go-out, or bang.”
 
 
 

Between the beginning and the end of everything is always more middle than
anyone ever expects.
 
 
 

If you can’t describe what you are in three words or less  -- you don’t know.
 
 
 

Anyone not present can be your friend.
    (“Hey –  you can’t talk about my thought-origins like that!”)
 
 
 

Even looked at in the worst possible light, one man says he still considers his self:
a hand-picked-team  (albeit the hand anonymous and random).
 
 
 

Decries one guy: “Forget advertising claims: ANYTHING said has the potential to mislead-the-public  –   that’s what the public is for.”
 
 
 

Even though it was not the xmas season,
one man unilaterally declared his consciousness a festival-of-lights.
 
 
 

“No research required,” claims one guy, “simple fact is:
If you are a popular public figure  –  you’re a rip off of some sort.”
 
 
 

Real crooks don’t care what’s said about them  –
only sissy-boy miscreants are concerned about their rep.
(Heat to simmer, and spread liberally on questions concerning consciousness and thoughts.)
 
 
 

For civilization to survive, men must physically act similarly;
for culture to continue, they must verbally do so.
Question: What do all city artists have in common?   --   A lack of originality.
(Better safe than non existent.)
 
 
 

As he helped prop up a tree in city park, one of the indigenous philosophers opined:
“No one loves a smart ass but his mother.....which can work out nicely.....
since a really classy smart ass wouldn’t have a mother.
(Needless encumbrances are certainly one thing a ridiculer doesn’t need.)”
The Mirrors Of Darkness.
Only in the city do those claiming to be parents
take their own reflection to be a legitimate, viable off spring.
    (“My feet may not be in prime operating condition but I know damn well who to step on.”)
 
 
 

One kid noted to another:
“The habitual rejection of some mortal ritual is itself a ritual.”
Another squirt then stuck his head in and said:
“There is a lesson in this for all of us (though I probably do not adequately
comprehend how many there are of US in here).”
The business manager of one psychiatric clinic forbids his doctors from giving
group rates.
“If you can’t bail a droplet, you’re sure as hell gonna be stymied by an ocean,”
seems to be his view.
    (“Pa pa: when I grow up can I go solo and not be part of any group practice? --
       and have no commercial concerns guiding my affairs?”)
 
 
 

Whilst swimming in the boiling mud a man mused:
“An artist with a family has much more than mere kin,”
and on the banks lounged some alligators who began to chant:
“The weight  –   the weight  –   watch out Frank  –   it’s the WEIGHT!”
A respectable motorist passing by at that moment and witnessing the scene,
said to his self:
“Men start stories  –   and men can end stories!”  --
and his car, his clothes, the money & photographs in his billfold,
and the entire second reality of mankind cried out in horror:
“But then what would happen to US!?”
 
 
 

(Another episode in our continuing feature): It COULD Happen.
A group of pea-brains held a press conference in front of the state legislature
where they pointed out that they don’t need a lobby.
 
 
 

Looking at his pet wolf, a man mulled:
“Can you not know what you’re doing mentally and still be conscious  --
really conscious?!”
And a wise shepherd (judging from his crook)
said to his sheep (judging from their dress):
“(You should all remember): In case I do not pass this way again”
lessons which neurons and hormones never tire of swapping.
 
 
 

One aspect of telemarketing in the city is:
Some who order  –   later refuse delivery.
 
 
 

Once you know the trick  –  it’s no longer a trick.
(Even Paris loses its charm, the third or fourth time you’ve left it.)
 
 
 

In lieu of singing in the shower, one guy delivered this message to his self
as he lathered:
“Life is great!  –   but being forced to think can be a drag!”
(And his local conditions muttered:
“That’s why I provide collective wisdom, institutions, individual advice --and --
slippery shower floors.”)
 
 
 

There stands, just above everyone’s nose, a most dangerous  –  challenging  –
and rewarding cliff.
     (“Paw  –  why did he throw in, dangerous?”
“Aw, you know how most kids enjoy a bit of harmless fright in their tales.”)

The distinguishing feature of the active rebel kid (no matter his chronological age)
is that he’s lost his interest in tales.
  To have forced your consciousness into becoming actually conscious
   is to put yourself in a sporting land
   wherein sandpaper races are run on sandpaper tracks:
   this is the essence of: the-fast-track.

The supreme, redeeming quality of consciousness is that it can become actually conscious.