A special-investigator in one kingdom says: “Ignorance doesn’t stand in the way of solving-the-case, neither does stupidity, bad luck nor metaphysical misfortune;
the real hindrance is indiscreet seriousness, and alas: many of my companions do not understand the word, indiscreet.”

This same inner outlier tried a hard nosed scientific approach to the matter:
“Premise: If there are innate matters of objective seriousness then they were on this planet prior to conscious man’s appearance: So: what were such?
(For reasons inter alia this, is why our kind of special-investigators are not usually invited to the regular private-eye conventions;
their interest is in cases that produce stats, supported by billable activities:
matters foreign to the special dick’s field of passion.)
Ordinary minds want to know who shot cock robin and what’s being said about him
now that he's ka-put! while the certain-man’s thoughts are always on the complete scenario that allowed cock to appear and seemingly meet his end.
Aka: Everyone else wants to know the details of Red Riding Hood’s story and how it ended while the rebel wants to know: “Why cometh there to be such stories  –
but once they are: How cometh no one to recognize their origin?”
Personally clearing up this simple sounding query sets the certain-man’s mind free  –  free from entanglements that other minds never even see as such.
Aka: The awakened rebel leaves a prison which none of the other six billion detainees see as a prison (in other words):
What he accomplishes is a non accomplishment from their view.
 
 
 

Conversation At The City Reservoir.
“Claiming you believe that what has happened to you has been a valuable learning experience is one way to deal with it.”
     “What?”
“What has happened to you.”
 
 
 

An ipse dixit neighborhood philosopher mused that the least you could say to local conditions would be: “Hi ya!  high, wide and handsome,” and circumstances injected: “You forgot to mention my depth,” and the man replied:
“I’ll be the judge of what I’ve forgotten about you and what I’ve not.”
 
 
 

Those who become historians do so in reaction to the shock of realizing
they will eventually perish.
 
 
 

As he lay in the grass in city park a fellow mused:
“What does a man with no habits have to talk about?”
 
 
 

One thing gods don’t have to worry about when they walk among their creatures
is being patted on the head and slapped on the back.
 
 
 

You can either be stockpiling memories, or else squandering them (as a real rebel
would do)  --  but hell!  –  you could make the same statement regarding the future.
 
 
 

When he had been a teenager, one man adopted several affectations in an attempt to make his self seem more interesting; by age thirty he had dropped them all in favor of the single major pose of: seeming to be what he seemed to be in general.
    (“Adulthood is nothing if not efficient.”
“How true: Posing has no cost.”
    “How true. [Unless of coarse you count that one little teensy one.]”
“How true.”)
 
 
 

One man continually moves his place of residence so that he can always coast home.
   (Mutters one chap: “Unnecessary exertion  –   cursed be thy name!”)
 
 
 

In the city do things go, so that the old will freely exlcaim: “God!  am I old!”
(Confession is not good for all men’s soul.)
 
 
 

One guy decided to sell his soul to the devil  –
but only in return for whatever the devil sold his for.
 
 
 

Riding Roughshod Through The World Of Words.
Before there was a South Pole, there was a south pole.
 
 
 

One guy decided to sell his mind to the devil  –  but the devil laughed in his face.
    (”Hah!   You must think that any creature with hooves is a complete doofus.”)
 
 
 

One guy’s motto is: “Once a guy  –  always a guy.”
 
 
 

Warning!  A man offering an explanation of his self is like a stealth mugger with
a social disease.
(Listening to bullshit will eventually fill you with bullshit.)
 
 
 

Figuring out that there’s nothing-to-figure-out is the fool’s gold of subversive mining.
 
 
 

In one galaxy their local god will sometimes remove all his clothes,
stand erect and glaring before a wrap-around mirror and declare in a booming sarcastic voice (yet one filled with compassion [which is possible via his divine intervention]): “Where are my critics NOW!?”
 
 
 

Only a true power can forgive by forgetting;
everyone else at best just silently simmers.
 
 
 
 

One chap periodically wires home saying: “Will Return Shortly Stop” --
this in face of overwhelming evidence indicating that he’d never gone anywhere.
 
 
 

Speaking on behalf of everyone (at least, who’re normal) one man says:
“What’s the use in being able to talk if you don’t use it to warn others!”
 
 
 

Advising a son, so said a father: “After another person has confessed to some
personal weakness or affliction, don't offer your encouragement by saying:
‘Tell me about it.’ ”
 
 
 

The publisher of one city paper announced on its front page today:
“Due to a lingering paucity-front in the information weather:
today’s: Believe-It-Or-Suck-A-Turnip feature will not appear.”
 
 
 

An old friend who had not been to visit a man diagnosed as terminally ill,
explained his absence by noting that it pained him too much to see someone who he cared for so deeply, dying, and the sick man waved away the explanation:
“Oh, I understand fully: I feel the same way  –  but multiplied by an order of ten.”
 
 
 

On those kinds of days that humans find so problematic,
this one god hangs a sign in his shop window that says:
“No Appointment Necessary: Walk-Ins Headed & Gutted While You Wait.”
 
 
 

One reality offers a money back guarantee
(no one’s ever lasted long enough to claim it  –  but the offer still stands).
 
 
 

Driven by the belief that even the most pleasing examples of justice can always be improved, an organization has formed in one city whose goal is summed up in their slogan: “More Roughage For Ducks.”
(And a kid once said to a king on the throne: “Is it not a good thing, My Lord
that all of those who mean well can’t necessarily manage to do it,”
[and His Grace passed a mallard while never missing a beat.])
 
 
 

One man’s favorite phrase in the whole entire universe is: “Meanwhile.....”
 
 
 

This notion offered up by a chap in an over & under coat:
“One man with several ideas could be compared to several men with one idea;
he might not care for the juxtaposition  –  but what the hell’s he gonna do about it!  –  he’s just one man  --  screw ‘im.”
 
 
 

At any given instant: none of humanity’s spiritual/cultural affairs can withstand
one iota more of scrutiny.
(A happy city is an unexamined city.)
 
 
 

The real power-behind-the-throne is way behind the throne  –
no, I mean WAY-Y-Y behind the throne.
(“If there was not such a natural & lusty attraction between hormones & neurons,
I shudder to imagine what would be the life of would-be civilized men,”
notes some uninvited [though not without insight] commentator.)
 
 
 

An ole sorehead in city park remarked:
“A man who won’t mispernounce a word now and then ain’t worth listnin’ to.”
 
 
 

On one world they have a new religion that says you can if you want to.
 
 
 

Conversation Revisiting The Wondrous Realm Of Words.
“In retrospect: everything looks better.”
    “That’s a pretty well-worn notion.”
“Okay: In retrospect: everything looks worse.”
    “Well all you’ve done is reverse a cliché: what does that prove.”
“All right: In retrospect: real reality looks  like it always has.”
    “What the hell does: real-reality mean?”
“In retrospect I wish I’d never started this.”
 
 
 

No one’s birthplace is ever closed up as they still entertain neighborhood thoughts.
The city’s call is captious only to urban tuned ears.
(“My most unforgettable day was not when I understood that all of the ideas
normally spoken in my consciousness are foolish, but when I finally realized that
I didn’t have to listen to them.”)

Proverb Update.
Thus in a certain instance: anything is better than: to-receive.
 
 

JAN'S DAILY FRESH NEWS