When he heard it said: “Our forefather’s history weaves inescapably through us still,” one guy mused: “Yeah, if your nervous system blanket is that loosely stitched.”
And this e-mail just in:
“Why do you bother printing stories like that last one;
since people can’t help the way they were born, what’s the point of talking about it.”
Notice how humans express this attitude only under quite specific conditions,
and never under others wherein it would be equally appropriate.
Another view of the difference between understanding-what-is-going-on
and being of routine consciousness is in realizing that there is no permanent, describable truth, only comments that have useful application ad hocly.
One reason that the weekend dilettantes of the great metaphorical journey
never get from paris to istanbul is they never come to realize that the locations
have no fixed location but are just momentary manifestations of where their own consciousness is at any given instant.
    (“Wait a second: are you saying that the reason I haven’t gotten there is because
       I’m the there?!”
That and every other word in your sentence that just asked the question.)
 
 
 

Everyone has a beaver in their brain which stays forever busy bringing down saplings therein with which to construct confining mental dams which, while they
irrigate normal neural fields, do nothing to aid the rebel woodsman trying to flee the overall flood which contributes nothing to his special private planting project.
 
 
 

Operating intellectually on the basis of things you believe you already know
is much akin to the intelligence agency of a victorious nation still translating
and studying information it obtained during war time about a foe now defeated.
 
 
 

In a weak moment: everyone believes that they’re hot stuff;
in a really weak one: they believe that other people also think so.
 
 
 

One man sends the following communiqué: “We have a problem over here.”
(He acknowledges his lack of giving a specific location, but says those with any
city smarts will get the message clear enough.)
 
 
 

Only pinheads try to make those they consider to be pinheads
feel like they’re the pinheads.
 
 
 

As the kid dragged his suitcase nearer the door for his maiden journey to the city,
the ole man said:
“I don’t mean to give you the deep fried willies, or the hemostatic heebie jeebies,
but over there, anyone who assures you that they know-what-they're-talking-about,  is either deranged, trying to con you, or…” but the boy put his hands over his ears, being so disheartened by the first two possibilities that he could bear to
hear no more.
(And goldilocks said: “I know how he feels.”)
 
 
 

The companionship of real thinking is ruthless.
 
 
 

On one level the difference between being awake and of ordinary consciousness
is whether you take what you constantly hear in your head as
you-talking-to-yourself, or if you insist on another understanding of the matter.
 
 
 

Mused a man: “What kind of fool do you have to be to defend yourself with the retort: ‘What kind of fool do you take me for!?’”
 
 
 

There is believing and there is thinking;
thinking is a thought about something that materially exists,
while believing is a thought about another thought.
 
 
 

One guy’s advice to the kid:
“Picture the dumbest thing that could occur with you,
then without ever mentioning it to anyone  –  guard against it.”
 
 
 

A gent sitting by the pond in city park to his self said:
“It has been my thinking that has kept me alive,” and a nearby frog reflected:
“I suppose that the very nature of a species could be thought of as its life-support-system   (though it does seem strange for one to go to the bother of mentioning it).”
 
 
 

Whenever he misspells or mispronounces a word,
one man always tells people he did so deliberately.
(He says he’s now trying to get up the nerve to try it on his self.)
 
 
 

Additional Urban Definition.
The city is where all believing lives;
the certain man's head is the special refuge of thinking  –   real thinking  –
original thinking.
 
 
 

Under cover of the starless, silent night the conspirators made their stealthy way
along the rampart when one of the band suddenly shouted: “Look out!  –
here comes a rampart!”
Later (as they awaited execution) the guy who had yelled tried to explain his action
to his condemned companions: “I thought that was what I was supposed to do.”
Another example of how city affairs continually turn on themselves,
catching the unwary in the bind that results.
When you do not recognize that the very nature of the numerous intangible
spiritual, cultural and intellectual matters man’s consciousness has created
will always cause them to eventually become their own foe,
you are destined for a life of confused captivity.
(Aka: You can’t look the non-existent foursquare in the eye/I.)
 
 
 

Most of ordinary men’s intellectual life can be summed up in a marine scene
wherein every time this particular boat tries to dock  --   the pier moves.
 
 
 

After unusually exciting battles in the mountains,
the king would often send a messenger back to those in the valley to describe to
those there the events of the day,
but what with the distance involved,
the differences between the two locales,
and the cloudy mist that constantly hung between the two areas,
this story has no conclusion.
(Oh yeah: the above was one of the messages the king once sent.)
 
 
 

Normal human explanations aren’t actually intended to explain anything,
but are in fact evidence that things cannot be explained to ordinary minds.
 
 
 

Over in one world a man given to verbosity and whining was sending up his daily prayer to their local deity and noted therein:
“After all the rituals and adorations I’ve directed to you over the years,  not once
has any of my requests been granted, so now I must say to you that if I cannot at least have today’s appeal answered, I will never again communicate with you:
it’s all up to you; it’s your choice,” and the god thought: