Journey to Join the Telepaths

Book I

[top] Sunday, 9-4-88. When I imagine this journal as a window into my consciousness, I see it as only that part that's touching the pane. Perhaps with the vastness of my experience as a living creature, I am only capable of writing about the tip of a thumbnail that can trace letters across the windowpane I mist with my breath. Then it's lost anyway.

     
 

I can also see this journal as a recorder of experience, a means of setting down states while they're fresh and unforgotten, as a storingplace of sweet preserves or as a well I am filling for future reminder and nourishment.

     

It is my aim to acquire a computer as soon as I can afford one and to assemble in it a certain ordering of the notes I have taken from my school during the last sixteen years so as to create a framework for consciousness. A What's What in the importance of things. Why are so few books in the literature of enlightenment of a practical nature?

A rather religious Hawaiian man in my taxicab yesterday said that whenever the devil of confusion overpowers you, you should fall back on what you know. I intend to create a tree of what's important to know.

Might as well start at the root. Night before last I woke up at 3:30, half an hour before I'd ordinarily get up for work, with one giant dick in my hand. In the dream my mother and I had been visiting my Aunt Betsy at this plantation in North Carolina where I spent some childhood. Kindly, the two of them seemed to be getting along as they cooked some soup for me. Mom hoped it was my favorite. I was just tasting it as I woke up with a mammoth boner. As I lay there on my futon stroking it, I imagined how it must have tasted, a creamy tomato soup with little alphabet noodles in it.

My penis was swelling into this huge electrical thing. Rivulets of static electricity seemed to roll around on the head. The retired Japanese electrical engineer in the flat next to mine began sneezing. I thought if he quit sneezing now, it had nothing to do with me. He wouldn't quit. He must have sneezed twenty times and by that time I was so absorbed in figuring out whether I was causing it that I completely forgot about my penis. But that was enough to make the little guy die, and when he did, the sneezes from next door stopped. Why is my enjoyment of power ruined by a preoccupation with side effects? Well, I can't be responsible for side effects. As they say about a beautiful woman who makes heads turn, "She can't help it if she's built that way."

I think it would be a real good idea to make a list of my responsibilities. Anything that's mine I'll take care of. In some cases gestures will do. Anything that's not on my list I'll ignore or gracefully decline.

Responsibilities Outside My Skin

 

An income producing job;

 

Transportation to the job;

 

A place to sleep;

 

A place to store things;

 

A mailbox;

 

A telephone connection;

 

Reasonable debt maintenance;

 

Reasonable capital maintenance;

 

My things;

 

Health insurance;

 

Taxes.

   

The Hawaiian in my cab told me his father (who I gather was also a religious man) said that every day a person manufactures a certain amount of garbage. Everyone. And every day a person should dispose of it. If he doesn't, he will find that he is in the trash business.

My teacher has put this in another way: It is very useful to reduce the burdens of your life.

Responsibilities Inside My Skin

 

My thoughts and feelings;

 

My aims;

 

My past and future;

 

My safety;

 

My health;

 

My beliefs and frozen attitudes;

 

Interactions with the universe;

 

Pathways for

 
 

mental accuracy (truth),

 
 

emotional understanding (love).

   

I will take it as an aim to monitor all interactions in which parts of me believe other people are my family.

I wonder whom it would please that my room is piled high with unpacked boxes. Could I be carrying an imaginary family inside me?

[back] Monday, 9-5-88. I unpacked one box last night and dispersed its contents around the room kind of grouping like things together but without much more thought. I think there are 4 more boxes in my room and 4 in the closet to unpack. Visibility. As long as things are in boxes I don't know what they are, so I can't apply my mind toward them. So I take things out and scatter them.

I have discovered another class of responsibilities:

Responsibilities of my Life as it Moves Through Time

 

Sleep allocation;

 

Hygiene & appearance;

 

Professional credentials;

 

Resume;

 

Reputation;

 

Record keeping;

 

Appointments;

 

Promises;

 

My weight;

 

Quality of life.

   

[back] Tuesday, 9-6-88. A telepath must learn to understand on a very deep level a set of axioms which have a subtle influence over his own emotional system. Most basic among them is the realization that most people don't like you — or should I say, can't like you. And coupled with this idea is the admonition that you should like them with all the genuine energy you can muster. This is basic. This is easy if you can see that the other person is to a large extent a child within the emotional realm, and to make matters worse, under a constant and conflicting stream of orders from his own beastly instincts and incorporated cultural values - his id and superego - whereas the telepath is almost pure ego - the observer.

The reason for this preparation is quite simple. When you are probing someone's mind pieces, you shouldn't take anything you see personally. A sense of humor is, in the circle of telepaths, not just a useful facility - it is a requirement.

A second axiom explains why so many seekers of truth hold so dearly to the ability to keep an empty mind — it is that many people in the population are latently clairvoyant themselves. They read minds, too, but are so busy doing so many other things with their imagination, emotional dreams, and omnipotent orders that they don't see their telepathy for what it is, except very occasionally.

I had some fun with this the other day. I was taking someone from SFO to the City and detected a trace of suspicion in his emotional system. I immediately held in my mind the sleazy idea I was taking the long way to town to boost the meter. Now he was really getting fidgety, and angry, too. No one likes to perceive they're being duped. After 30 seconds of this silent exchange, I told him I had a fabulous map of the Bay Area that had been put together by a Canadian firm — would he like to see it? You bet. So I handed it back to him and described where on it he could find the airport and other San Francisco landmarks. You should have felt his emotional tension vanish and natural human warmth return as he saw that we were going by Candlestick Park, which on the map was the only honest way to go. Why should a guy ride in the back of a cab filled with black suspicion when he can use direct perception and a map?

[back] Wednesday, 9-7-88. Here's the dream I had last night. My dream self was asking how long before I would wake up.

       

That's cute. When I did get up at 4:10 AM to go to work, I wondered how the hell I was supposed to talk to it, being sound asleep and all. There's something kind of harmonious about having a dream like that. It takes a load off my mind though; makes me laugh.

   
       

[Back] Thursday, 9-8-88. Bathed in the ordinary, straight as an arrow, my teacher hides. If you can imagine a School for Telepaths whose door is a well kept secret, you better think again. The real school is as open as your nearest theater, yet purports to be teaching something else. Really is, in fact. To say the secret hides itself is a ridiculous understatement.

Last night, for instance, there were seventeen people in attendance at the early meeting. Seekers of truth, they would say if someone was really interested. Ideas of Gurdjieff, Ouspensky, Shah and their source. The telephone number.

So here we all were, some as long as sixteen years, and I started to ask a question I thought would force our teacher to come out with the truth.

"I have noticed," I began.

"Wait a minute," he said, "I don't want L. to hear this. L. is a really nice 9-year-old baseball enthusiast who suddenly announced the A's were on. So his mom pulled out a portable Panasonic I had left there and let L. set up the earphones. If the motivations for all this seem ridiculous from what I have said so far, you must understand that I have a reputation for discussing sex in an impertinent way, and that L. had a history of pretending to be bored with all these proceedings, anyway, and he really did like to watch TV while various group members asked for guidance in various realms towards self understanding.

As far as I can tell, I was the only one who knew this was a School for Telepaths. Except for our teacher, S.

"Now, what were you saying?" S. asked after a while.

"I have noticed that something that I would call 'being' has grown in me since I have started coming to meetings. When I was in college, I smoked marijuana every day. Now without taking any drugs at all I feel rich in that way all the time. As a matter of fact, I hardly ever feel bad and it has something to do with coming to these meetings."

Here S. said something about drugs that made everyone laugh. Then he said, "People in the country have being. People in the city have knowledge. Here no one stops you from being what you really are, so your being can grow here."

Later in the evening he said, "Most people know things you don't know. If you cultivate 'Not knowing,' you can learn just enough to let them do what they know how to do and stay out of their way. Some people say the entire purpose of education is to teach a clever person just enough to escape from the system."

Notice how adeptly the telepath hides. If this had been another time or place he might have said, "Your being can grow here because on occasion I focus my attention on the part of your consciousness that is hidden to you. One of the most efficient carriers is on a beam that can extend from my optic nerve to yours. I enter your consciousness at the corner of your eye and probe through a flaw in your plates of conditioned armor. In my probe, I can see everything you have thought, felt, or done that interests me. I can see how you wiped yourself on the toilet yesterday morning, how you held your penis while you peed. I can see what you thought as you crossed the bridge on your way to work, what you didn't say to the toll taker, and why. I can see how you felt hurt when an old acquaintance ignored you, what you didn't understand. I can see all this because I can see how freshly you have used your life energy to reinvent your own plates of conditioning, how you cripple what you really are. Finally, I can subtly rewire you. I can provide a neuronic connection between what gave you difficulty in one instance with an understanding you have acquired in another. I can reconnect your memories and release energy in plates of conditioning you no longer need. And this energy that I release will be yours. In the next few days you will dream. And your real being will feed on this energy and grow. All of this I did in less than a second. I am quick and clever in this because I have been doing it a long time, since 1960. But you are quick, too and sense when I disconnect. You notice that your attention has subtly changed course, and resisting the urge to daydream or sleep, you laugh triumphantly to yourself. You notice, but most people don't."

Once in a meeting I said to myself, "This guy can't really be a telepath. It's impossible." Then I held the question, without knowing the answer, What's fifteen minus seven? There were twenty-two people in the room. He was talking to someone. As gracefully as a cat, and with an amused expression on his face, he turned to me and said right out loud, "The answer is eight."

[Back] Friday, 9-9-88. I'll tell you flat out the girls I like are the ones who provoke me and are glad of it. I see them as subtly enticing aromatic electromagnetic time-space entities with titties, who for the most part, drive right past me in their decked out fleshmobiles.

A mathematician might cast a theory of relationships in the following way. There are exactly five relationships between two people of the opposite polarity.

The first I already described. Two people who like each other pass right by and never get together. This is by far the most common situation.

In the second, two people get together, stay together for a while, then break up. Many love songs were written in dedication of this one.

In the third, two people get together and live happily ever after — except the other one dies, leaving the widowee.

The fourth is just like the last — except you are the person who dies. This is the only relationship mentioned so far in which the person meets someone, and from his or her point of view, lives happily ever after, not ever knowing they died.

The fifth is the way seekers of truth cultivate — You realize that all life is connected as islands are connected under the ocean. This connection can be made conscious. It makes things a heck of a lot easier to be working with someone who's done it already, that is, with a full-fledged island joiner.

[Back] Saturday, 9-10-88. There is an idea in this work that preparation is everything. Another says if you hold the questions now, someday you will find you have lived into the answers.

I made a vow in 1972, soon after I discovered I had stumbled into a real school (a year before I tumbled to the fact I was dealing with telepaths) that I was going to wake up come hell or high water and that I was going to spill the beans.

Why all these people in the past acted as if the road to enlightenment was some sort of mystery was a mystery to me.

Since that time I have learned how the secret protects itself. It's simple. By the time you've dropped enough excess baggage for you to fit through the eye of a needle, you've become a light hearted sort of guy. So you get real serious about something like telepathy and everybody laughs. Or you monitor your voice a little, give it some bite. They think you're being sarcastic. Or finally someone does believe you. Then they forget.

I can see why. There is a cultural conspiracy to take the wrong things seriously. Kids believe in ESP to a certain extent. Then they say, "If there really are telepaths, why aren't they president of General Motors?" I don't know. Maybe they are.

[Back] Sunday, 9-11-88. I prepared to write this journal in very specific ways.

First, I stopped reading the science fiction, science fantasy magazines in 1972. They were simply too good, too believable and many of them based on valid metaphors of the truth. However, story writers can sometimes give believable flesh to the imaginary and I didn't want to confuse the imaginary with the real.

Second, I mastered the craft of writing, beginning in 1975. Fuck my English teachers and their goddamn degrading opinions — except for one, Miss Reinhardt, I believe, who taught me how to diagram a sentence. I liked that.

Third, I am ripe now. This is the time to begin my chronicle. My aim is to accurately report the day-by-day experience of one human being waking up, which as I would like to demonstrate, is a quite human journey, based on years of preparation to joining the unbelievable ranks of the telepaths.

In these circles there is a very powerful notion that all real work is done on the inside. Afterwards, its manifestation in the physical world is an almost trivial side-effect. This principle should hold true for interpersonal relationships, for personal accomplishments, even for what would appear to be miracles. Believe me, for a telepath a miracle is a dollars and cents energy equation, merely an expression of being.

Now everyone who's ever thought about it would realize a telepath has very few difficulties. This is an interesting assumption for me to make because I, personally, have some very real difficulties I am interested in dissolving.

Among them are the piles of books and papers I have finally unpacked and distributed around my room. And those papers — I'm afraid to even look at them.

Next is my chronic debt. Me and America. So with $400 on my Mastercard I just went out and charged another $300 for some Lladro porcelain figurines I couldn't live without. They're for my virgin collection.

I have to tell you these two difficulties, things management and debt, have been with me a long, long time. We're talking suffering. The trouble is, I have these different selves who gain control under certain circumstances. They aren't bad selves, they just have contradictory aims. Furthermore, they are only dimly aware of the effects they have on my other selves.

For instance, let's just say that the moment when I saw and bought those figurines, the euphoric zing I got seemed worth the little effort it took to extend my Mastercard.

One was a little girl centaur, her horse part sitting down, the arms of her human torso drawn back, wearing nothing but a lei. She was all I intended to buy. In fact, I had already made a down payment, in cash. But then I saw this naked thirteen-year-old Eve in the back of the display case, holding an apple, with a chip of sawdust trapped between her legs. It was the sawdust that did it. I thought it was her clitoris, so in my cultured opinion, it was a must-buy. Not that I was disappointed when I got her back to my room and after a delicate probe with my X-acto knife, brushed her clitoris away. Because I discovered a fascinating brown birthmark on the inside of her leg right by her apex, that gave her just the right touch of human sexuality.

[Back] Monday, 9-12-88. There are four ways that telepaths commonly communicate with cognizant non-telepaths (such as myself).

(Notice how I misspelled "cognizant." My youngest sister, M., taught me how to do that. She wrote to tell me one time, in no uncertain terms, that the words she used were the words she chose, and she'd spell them any damn way she pleased.)

(Oops. I just looked it up. Turns out I spelled it the right way by mistake.)

(I can get into these.)

(.)

Meanwhile, back on the planet, it's Monday morning. I go to meetings on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. The meetings on Monday and Wednesday are open. The meetings on Friday are sort of a secret. I say, "sort of" because some people think they are and don't tell anyone. They're really for old-timers who want to talk about things in an uninhibited way. When I found out that an ex-girlfriend was in attendance, I asked if I could come, too.

The meetings are held in one of the rehearsal rooms of a theater in the Berkeley flats. The theater, in turn, is one of many arts and crafts studio areas partitioned within an old factory down on Eighth Street.

The room is noticeably three-dimensional. It has high ceilings, lit with skylights, and because the Berkeley climate is so temperate all year long, you can see all the struts, beams, and structural details of the building where in more frigid climates the insulation would be tucked.

A three-cubic-foot gas heater is suspended near the door with a silvery exhaust pipe extending to the ceiling.

A flight of stairs runs between the front wall and a storage closet and leads to two large open balconies that run the length and breadth of the room, the one on the side wall descending three feet to create a sheltered darkened alcove for those down below. At the top of the stairs a large flat table slightly skewered out over the edge of the balcony and supported by three legs serves as a railing and repository for paint brushes. Elsewhere along the edges are workbenches with patterned windows carved in the base through which you can see the legs of anyone who happens to be standing there.

The real activity is down below. The entire room is rich with the signs of life. Carefully conceived lines of electrical conduits run along the wall, around bookcases, two huge blackboards with children's poems unerased, behind an artless assembly of folding lawn chairs, standing airport-style ashtrays, love sofas, and black cushioned benches, all of which get pulled into a loose circle as a meeting begins, and as more people come and eventually fill the circle, everyone pushes their chairs back a little to let a latecomer squeeze in.

I walked in, tilted and rolled a three-foot-high ashtray from underneath the staircase, and carried it over to the soft black vinyl bench my fanny prefers.

[Back] Tuesday, 9-13-88. I don't mind telling you I spend at least eight hours a week in meetings like this. Sixteen years, fifty weeks a year, maybe ten hours a week — that's eight thousand hours in the company of one, maybe more than one, telepath.

They say that's all you have to do – spend time with them – and you'll become one just by osmosis. They say that some telepaths never talked, but they also say Jesus never laughed, and I'm not so sure about that.

Personally, I think doing the morning exercise and spending time with a real teacher is all that is necessary.

But my teacher talks. And does. And is. Around the clock. Over the years he has arranged experiences from which I have learned ... that the body is sweet enough without a deodorant; that life is better being pearls of experience rather than lists of things to do; that a person can shut down his own imagination and use the imagination of Nature; that what you can't get rid of is truly your own – so try to get rid of everything.

I think anyone would agree it would be nice to get rid of feeling bad – forever.

My teacher is a Twelfth Grand Master at understanding the language of emotion, and not only does he understand the hidden meaning of almost every nuance of emotion known to man or octopus, he has an ability to map his own realizations into our own psyches. While it's outside the scope of my journal to provide that map here, there's no law saying I can't put the whole damn thing down in an appendix.

You know me. No secrets.

[Back] Wednesday, 9-14-88. Whew! That appendix almost sidetracked me. I guess I'll work on it as a background activity for a while, a little every day. It's nice to make gestures towards a masterpiece, kind of old-fashioned, I guess. The good craftsman gets out his tools, enjoys himself at his craft, then wraps it up and goes about his business with the understanding it may never be finished, and at least he's having a nice life.

[Back] Thursday, 9-15-88. Anyone who's ever tried drugs knows they provide a very quick way for shutting down unpleasant and often unnecessary parts of a person, but rob a person of resiliency and necessary flexibility to respond to changing circumstances.

What is not so widely understood is why the extraordinary realizations a person glimpses are so fleeting, and in a way, so useless.

You can think of the mind as a giant computer, and in that computer is what we could call a Realizer. Under the influence of certain drugs a person can move his attention into the close proximity of the Realizer and see it in action. Unfortunately, all the long term storage devices of the mind are quite full and other parts of the mind are quite busy performing maintenance on those data banks, so the realizations of the Realizer are simply ... thrown away. In a School for Telepaths we do something about this. We use time, and ability to be present in the moment, the experiences gained from the workaday marketplace, the suffering that is generated by having a good life at the expense of giving up unpleasant memories, and a dash of benign psychic probing to clear some room in our long-term storage — and to design a new emotional computer that will keep the area around the Realizer completely clear.

[Back] Friday, 9-16-88. My mind is as clear as I've ever know it. Every time the tendril of an emotion touches my clearing, I use the thought pattern programmed into my emotional computer to quiet it, to return me to colorlessness.

If you haven't figured it out already, the Emotional Computer that I have programmed inside me and listed in the back of this book has the exact same effect on me that many drugs would.

And I understand drugs. What do you think I flunked out of college for?

Heroin, the great provider of milk, quieting feelings of abandonment. Methamphetamine, the cool air whooshing down the chimney, centering my attention, quieting feelings of paralysis. LSD, purveyor of visions, pushing pinholes through waves of whatever feelings are washing through me, giving me glimpses into the workings of my real mind. Marijuana, one hand on the throttle, the other on the joy stick, quieting the thou shalts and shoulds of the superego. Alcohol, friend of the great pretender, removing all feeling you're out of control. Cocaine, the one drug that never really affected me because I've never been sexually repressed, or I knew all too well how the optic nerve is connected to sex, or I never bothered to get addicted. My being is at rest and quietly alert.

[Back] Saturday, 9-17-88. Here's what happened. To the left of me sits S., dark hair, full peppered beard, a 57-year-old Jew with a voice you would find in the warmest Russian home. To the right of me, in almost a straight line facing the corner where S. and I sit are about seven of the other participants in Friday's secret meeting, all male, variously bearded, attentive to our teacher's voice. I have quickly counted everyone in the room, nine of us, to verify my attention is focused. Now a feeling appears in the clearing, and no longer needing the words from my Emotional Computer, no longer even needing the realization of the words, I quiet it with a touch. Emotions clear. Another feeling, this one washes over me before I quite recognize it. Then I do, and quiet it with a touch. There's something quite compelling about a daydream. Imagine for a moment that there is an Eleventh Commandment, and that Commandment says, "Thou shalt not lie to children," which S. said early in the meeting ... "the world would be a different place."

Pretend a little kid comes up to you and says, "Can you help me with my homework? How many senses does a person have?" Now you and I know we have dozens. We've got a sense of balance, that keeps track of one of the greatest forces in the universe; a sense of direction; a sense of time which some people can use to great precision; a sense of humor. A sense of whether the next delivery through that wonderful grand passage of ours will be a turd or a fart, and the sense to keep it silent. We've got a sense of temperature, a sense of moistness, a sense of where we left the car. We can sense exactly the right food to provide exactly the right nourishment to stay healthy. A sense of sex. A perfect sense of pitch; a sense of harmony; a sense of weight. A sense of pressure; a sense of, it's time to breathe. A sense of empathy; a sense of liking; a sense of pretending; and a sense of sensing like a cat. With five senses in particular, we can sense a mother. "The answer is five. Imagine the taste, touch, smell, sight, and sound of your mother."

My mother is important. Not my quiet breathing. Not the chills that run up my back or the silent call that makes the cat come running.

"Well, Dad, what about this one? Who discovered America?"

"Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue & Christopher Columbus looked like you!"

"Do you think mommy loves me?"

"Of course she does. Now time for bed."

Christopher Columbus was important just like me, Christopher Columbus is my specialty!

Not those stupid old Indians.

"Excuse me. Excuse me. Would you like some more coffee?"

I look around. I'm in the Sizzler Restaurant. It was a nice fish dinner I had, and I think I missed something.

   
 

DEEP COMPUTER?

 

Ready.

 

DOES MOMMY LOVE ME?

 
 

Begin run.

 
 

Submit to overnight.

 
 

End run.

 

Ready.

 

TELL ME!

 

Specify parameters, * to stop.

 

ALL OF THEM!

 

*

 
 

Begin replay.

 
 

"Mommy, do you love me?"

 
 

"Now what do you think?

 
 

Honespp@ spttmtt along tttt

 
 

*

 
 

Interrupted.

 

Ready.

 

ANALYZE!

 
 

Begin filter replay.

 
 

input = "ink? Honespp@ spttm"

 
 

speaker

 
 

not under duress

 
 

not a hoax

 
 

was felt

 
 

not imagined

 
 

not thought

 
 

??? approved

 
 

was attentive

 
 

not mistake

 
 

not fresh

 
 

??? context

 
 

was english

 
 

not opposite day

 
 

not enemy

 
 

not sarcastic

 
 

not word game

 
 

not read

 
 

not memorized

 
 

was meaning

 
 

not artificial

 
 

??? identical

 
 

was harmonious

 
 

??? tortured

 
 

was smell

 
 

was experience

 
 

was 1951

 
 

was authorized

 
 

was competent

 
 

was special

 
 

??? affair

 
 

not spy

 
 

??? intuition

 
 

was near

 
 

was important

 
 

not ill

 
 

was vital

 
 

was natural

 
 

not mean

 
 

was innocent

 
 

was pretty

 
 

not having period

 
 

not angry

 
 

was familiar

 
 

??? metaphor

 
 

was serious

 
 

not renegade

 
 

not humor

 
 

was dad approves

 
 

was heard

 
 

was understood

 
 

not trick

 
 

was garbled

 
 

was connected

 
 

not faulty

 
 

was brief

 
 

was genuine

 
 

was hinting

 
 

was mommy

 
 

end filter replay.

 

Ready.

 

JESUS!

 

Ready.

   
   
   

Gee, guys. I don't know what to say. You can't imagine what it's like writing a journal like this – I might as well come right out with it – with a damn fucking telepath breathing ... not to mention the deepest parts of my own mind.

The other day ... And I'm doing the damn music! ...

 

 

"Gosh, Honey, is it really you?

   
 

"Now what do you think?"

   
 

"Mommy, do you love me?"

   
 

"Honey, I've loved you

 
 

a long, long time."

   
   
   

Very clever. I see the connection and it's very beautiful.

[Back] Sunday, 9-18-88. I'll tell you one thing I like about women – the way they lie there when you're about to come over and fuck them. They all do. One time E. told me what it was like when she came from being a virgin to not being one. She said she had no idea there was that entire place inside her until after a penis had filled it up. She said it was such an amazing surprise. One time she let me fuck her. She'd had a little to drink. I don't know what girls think. Later I told her I liked it a lot. I didn't think I'd get another chance, so I told her it was squishy.

Yesterday San Francisco was crawling with Englishmen, New Zealanders and Australians. I asked one of them in my taxi what was going on. He said it was insurance. Once a year they get together for a convention. Last year, he told me, it was New Orleans. I said, "Well, where are the French?" He said he didn't think the French were as big on insurance as the English.

I said, "I like England a lot. Your ancestors gave me my language." I thought that was a sly dig.

"Yes, but look what you Americans have done to it: Affordable."

"What?"

"In our country we are without the word, 'affordable.' I think here it means something like one foot in the grave."

Later on I realized on the entire planet earth we have exactly one monster language. It's just that small clusters of nation groups have memorized different parts of it.

[Back] jtjtt, Book II