Lemme Think About It...crazy

"Of all the poop in the world, who decided bat shit was the craziest?"

Jes B Rambling's Hallelujah Caravan...The Moral Of The Story

Jes...ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS A MAMA HORSEFLY, A PAPA HORSE-
FLY, AND A LITTLE BABY HORSEFLY. IT WAS NEARING SUPPERTIME,
AND THE FAMILY WAS LOOKING FOR SOMETHING TO EAT. AT THAT
MOMENT, THEY SPOTTED A FARM WITH HUNDREDS OF COWS IN THE
FIELD. THEY IMMEDIATELY FLEW INTO THE BRN, AND, BEHOLD!
IT WAS FILLED WITH TONS OF COW MANURE. THE HORSEFLIES
IMMEDIATELY STARTED EATING, AND THEY ATE AND ATE AND ATE
UNTIL THEY WERE SO FULL, THEY COULD NOT FLY AWAY. THEY HAD
TO GET OUT OF THE BARN BEFORE THE COWS CAME BACK, SO THE PAPA
HORSEFLY, SEEING A PITCHFORK STUCK INTO THE MAURE, SAID HE
WOULD CLIMB UP THE HANDLE AND TRY TO FLY AWAY FOR HELP.
HE CLIMBED UP THE HANDLE AND TRIED TO FLY AWAY, BUT HE WAS
SO HEAVY FROM EATING ALL THE COW MANURE, HE FELL DOWN AND
BROKE HIS NECK. THE MAMA HORSEFLY, WANTING TO SAVE HER
BABY, TRIED NEXT. BUT AFTER CLIMBING THE HANDLE AND TRYING
TO FLY AWAY, ALSO FELL DOWN AND BROKE HER NECK. THERE WAS
NOTHING FOR THE BABY HORSEFLY TO DO BUT TRY TO MAKE THE
ATTEMPT HIMSELF. BUT LIKE HIS MOTHER AND FATHER, HE WAS
SO FULL OF MANURE, HE FELL OFF THE HANDLE OF THE PITCH-
FORK AND BROKE HIS NECK. 

(PAUSE) 

Jes...DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE MORAL OF THE STORY IS?
 DON'T FLY OFF THE HANDLE WHEN YOU'RE FULL OF SHIT.

Made Me Grin Series...a punny

THERE WAS AN INDIAN CHIEF NAMED SHORTCAKE. THE CHIEf WAS A BACHELOR, AND ONE DAY HE DECIDED TO GET MARRIED.
WELL, HE GOT MARRIED AND DIED ON HIS WEDDING NIGHT.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED THEN? SQUAW BURY SHORTCAKE....just punny. A little nonsense just went off in my brain...I will get better...sorry...:) Doc

Let Me Tell You A Story...James T. Callow's Folklore Archive

THE VIPER

ONE NIGHT A WOMAN WAS HOME ALL ALONE AND THE PHONE RANG.
SHE ANSWERED IT, AND A VERY WEIRD VOICE SAID, "I'M
THE VIPER AND I'M COMING TO YOUR HOUSE. I'M 3 MILES AWAY."
THE WOMAN WAS VERY FRIGHTENED, BUT NO ONE WOULD BELIEVE HER
ABOUT THIS PHONE CALL. THE NEXT NIGHT SHE ANSWERED THE
PHONE AGAIN AND THE SAME VOICE SAID, "I'M THE VIPER AND I'M
COMING TO YOUR HOUSE. I'M 2 MILES AWAY." AGAIN, NO ONE
BELIEVED HER. THE NEXT NIGHT HE CALLED AGAIN, AND SAID
"I'M THE VIPER AND I'M COMING TO YOUR HOUSE. I'M 1 MILE
AWAY. I'LL BE THERE TOMORROW." STILL NO ONE BELIEVED
HER. THE NEXT MORNING THERE WAS A TERRIBLE KNOCKING AT
THE DOOR. HER CURIOSITY OVERWHELMED HER AND SHE OPENED
THE DOOR. THERE STOOD A MAN WHO SAID, "I'M THE VINDA
VIPER, AND I COME TO VIPE YOUR VINDOWS."

Discovering Ourselves...wondering

I have no doubt that our thinking goes on for the most part without use of signs (words) and beyond that to a considerable degree unconsciously. For how, otherwise, should it happen that we sometimes “wonder” quite spontaneously about some experience? This “wondering” appears to occur when an experience comes into conflict with a world of concepts already sufficiently fixed within us. Whenever such a conflict is experienced sharply and intensely it reacts back upon our world of thought in a decisive way. The development of this world of thought is in a certain sense a continuous flight from “wonder.” 

A wonder of this kind I experienced as a child of four or five years when my father showed me a compass. That this needle behaved in such a determined way did not at all fit in the kind of occurrences that could find a place in the unconscious world of concepts (efficacy produced by direct “touch”). I can still remember — or at least believe I can remember — that this experience made a deep and lasting impression upon me. Something deeply hidden had to be behind things. AE

Stopped To Ponder...silence

In that moment, he learns what we so easily forget: that silence is not the absence of sound but the presence of an inward-listening awareness, an attunement of the mind’s ear and an orientation of the spirit toward a certain inner stillness — perhaps the positive counterpoint to loneliness, which so often thrives amid the crowd.

Lemme Think About It...to pretend

To pretend, I actually do the thing: " I have therefore only pretended to pretend."

From The Study...a conversation about possibility...consciousness of guilt

Consciousness of guilt...

In the first volume of The Death Penalty, Derrida considers the jus talionis, the principle of equivalence according to which a relation is set up ‘between the crime and the punishment, between the injury and the price to be paid’. Debt, in On the Genealogy of Morals, gives Nietzsche a way of understanding how ‘the “consciousness of guilt”, “bad conscience”’ came into the world. Earlier he laments ‘that whole sombre thing called reflection’, in which the self becomes its own object of relentless scrutiny and self-punishment. If one wants to keep a promise, one must burn memory into the will, submit to – or submit oneself to – a reign of terror in the name of morality, administer pain to oneself in order to ensure one’s continuity and calculability through time. If I am to be moral and keep my promises, I will remember what I promised and remain the same ‘I’ who first uttered that promise, resisting any circumstances that might alter its continuity through time, never dozing when wakefulness is needed. The promise takes on another meaning in Nietzsche when what I have promised is precisely to repay a debt, a promise by which I enter into, and become bound by, a certain kind of contract. What I have apparently burned into the will, or had burned there, is a promise to remember and repay that debt, to realise the promise within a calculable period of time, and so to become a calculable creature. I can be counted on to count the time and count up the money to make the repayment: that accountability is the promise. I can count on myself, and others can count on me. If I prove capable of making a contract, I can receive a loan and be relied on to pay it back with interest, so that the lender can accumulate wealth from my debt in a predictable way. And if I default, the law will intervene to protect his interest he exacts from me.

Judith Butler...

Stopped To Ponder...happenstance

Happenstance...

John Krumboltz is an established career theorist. He most recently developed ideas about supporting indecision in clients. He states that indecision is desirable and sensible, as it allows the opportunity for clients to benefit from unplanned events. This theory is called planned happenstance. "Now ain't that the sh*t. Ole Jes B Rambling was right after all. Doing nothing, cause I have not finished yet."

Lemme Think About It...awareness

"There is not a "you" independent of your awareness.

That is just a thought too."

Inside The Sane Asylum...

Announcement...

The Sane Asylum Hysterical Society would like to announce the ribbon cutting of a new
business venture in The Sane Asylum. No one knows for sure when it will open. Seems the proprietor is on the road trying to franchise the idea. But if you happen to be up Shit Creek without a paddle, you should look them up online. They carry some much needed merchandise.

P.s. You guessed it. No post today. Attending this important event. Ole Goat Man will be giving lessons on the fine art of goat milking...later, Doc.

P.s.s Don't believe all that bull sh*t I just wrote...the truth is, today is the day I cut my own hair. By the way, no post tomorrow either. I've got a lot of chores to do, besides, if you stay on Google to much you will need one of my paddles...also lowers your IQ...Doc

From The Far Side...of the glass. Anxiety

One important source shedding light on anxiety: Google. As reported by economist Seth Stephens-Davidowitz, searches for anxiety have doubled in the past eight years. Certain terms are typed more often: ‘anxiety at night’ is skyrocketing, while ‘anxiety in the morning’ is also on the rise.

Most interesting about Stephens-Davidowitz’s reporting is that heavily reported items—major terrorism attacks; whatever Donald Trump is barking at—do not increase searches. Obviously Google is just one source, and not everyone seeks help online. But Google offers critical insights into social functioning. What the data reveals is fascinating...

Interestingly, memory plays an important role in both addiction and anxiety disorder. With addiction, positive reinforcement creates an insatiable urge to revisit the experience. An addict’s aggressive nature partly depends on recalling the feeling of the experience. Soon this spirals into negative reinforcement, where a potential inability to return to that state keeps the user focused not on pleasure, but fear of withdrawal.

This is why panic attacks are a withdrawal symptom. If the compulsion to use is unrewarded, an overwhelming sense of dread kicks in. While this insatiable craving is not exclusive to drugs—food and sex are also powerful motivators—drug addiction is perhaps the most damaging.


Derek Beres is working on his new book, Whole Motion: Training Your Brain and Body For Optimal Health (Carrel/Skyhorse, Spring 2017). He is based in Los Angeles. Stay in touch on Facebook and Twitter.  A good one to follow...Doc

Reflections From The Past...

----My Grandpa, John (Jean) Lemoine.

Poppa John and Momma John lived just across the bayou from us. Most of the time the bayou was full of water, but my Poppa solved that problem by building a footbridge across it. A big willow tree was next to the lil bridge. Poppa came home one day with a long piece of tow boat rope that he found on the river bank. We tied it to a big limb in the willow and played Tarzan with it, standing on the bridge, giving the Tarzan yell, then swinging on the rope out over the water. We had very little, but we were proud.

Poppa John had a milk cow. She never had a name, so we called her "milk cow". Seemed like it was ok with her, cause bout the only thing she ever said about it was "moooooo". (:-).

Poppa John milked that ole cow every afternoon, and on his way to the barn he would hit the milk dipper against the milk bucket, his signal to me it was time for me to get over there.

The old barn where "milk cow" lived was a scary place to a sprouting tadpole like me, and little did I know that a monster named "JudeBa" lived there too.

On our way back to the house with the milk Poppa John always had a sip or two of fresh warm milk left in the milk dipper. He would look around to see if Momma was not around, then give it to me to drink. I found out why one day, when Momma saw him give me the dipper, and did she fuss him or what. She told him the raw milk was gonna make me sick and kill me, but hey, even though I feel dead I am still kickin.

I have to admit, when I was little, I was bad.

 One day, a new resident moved into the ole barn, his name was "JudeBa". While Poppa John sat in his rocker on the back porch, JudeBa would come a crawling out of the barn on his all fours, moaning and groaning, then stand up, a big long black coat from his chin to his feet, big wide brimmed hat, not even a hint of his face could be seen. That's all it took to hightail it back over the bridge and back home while Poppa John laughed. This happened quite often, and every time it did, Momma John was nowhere to be seen.

Life was good living next to your Grandparents. When Christmas time rolled around Poppa John would load us up in his ole car and take us down the road to Mr. Duke Rogers store in MaCrea and buy us Christmas candy, moon pies,  stage planks, and firecrackers. While he was there he would get some "Joe Lewis sausage" and "forceted meat" for Momma John to cook. We ate a lot of "forceted meat" as kids, know what it is ? (:-). He never left Mr. Dukes without a half gallon of banana flavored Borden ice cream in the round cardboard container either.

Once we grew up a bit and the bad in us seemed to water down, ole JudeBa moved on.

Momma John took down sick and left this life many years before Poppa John, then before we knew it Poppa John's work here being finished,  he went to meet Momma John in that better place.

Their old house and barn, "milk cow",  the lil bridge Poppa built, the willow tree, Momma and Poppa, their house, everything they built, all faded away into the past, but me and mine still live here, the bayou is still there too, and sometimes while I sit alone on my swing in late afternoon, I can still hear Poppa John hitting the milk dipper against the milk pail, telling me it's time to milk the cow.

Hey Poppa John, you are a handsome man Sir, and I am so very proud to have your communian/confirmation candle, and one day very soon I will post a pic of it for the whole world to see.

Tell Great Great Grandpa Marcelin hello, never had the pleasure of meeting him, nor Great Great Grandma, no pictures of them, but i have his diary, and had he not survived the war, I would not be sitting here tonight, telling the world about a milk cow named "milk cow", a "JudeBa", lost bread, and peanut butter with syrup, mixed up in a bowl, waiting in the ice box for someone to eat, because it's "good for you, get you some",,,,,,,,,,,,,,just like family history.

May you and Momma John rest in peace, never to be forgotten.

--- This post is not the end, but the beginning instead.----'nuff said, for now.

Michael Gautreaux, Sr.

Stopped To Ponder...Silence

“There are many fine things which we cannot say if we have to shout,” Henry David Thoreau observed in contemplating how silence ennobles speech. A year earlier, he had written in his journal: “I wish to hear the silence of the night, for the silence is something positive and to be heard.” It’s a sentiment of almost unbearable bittersweetness today, a century and a half later, as we find ourselves immersed in a culture that increasingly mistakes loudness for authority, vociferousness for voice, screaming for substance. We seem to have forgotten what Susan Sontag reminded us half a century ago — that “silence remains, inescapably, a form of speech,” that it has its own aesthetic, and that learning to wield it is among the great arts of living.

Of the nine kinds of silence that Sontag’s contemporary and friend Paul Goodman outlined, “the fertile silence of awareness, pasturing the soul” is the kind we seem to have most hastily forsaken — and yet it is also the one we most urgently need if we are to reclaim the aesthetic of silence in the art of living.