On thinking and belching

A thought is a psychical belch. It is a quick expulsion of an intangible essence; it having probed our innards and been strongly tinged by our distinctive flavour. It bears a faithful witness of the substance of our bellies, giving a whiff of it to all whom it besets. Its flavour is, taken at different times, of many various descriptions, depending on the present substance of our insides. It comes often in a stream, like so many fluid motions of an adept painter, each brush-stroke dabbing its constituent piece of a vivid portrait; each dab a gesture towards the finished work, 'like a finger', as the Buddhists say, 'pointing at the moon, but not the moon itself'. When we take in the dabs, with a sense of this truth, we can without a physical meeting, piece these parts together and form a mental representation (whether correct or not) of the person whose thoughts we observe, the nature of the finished work depending largely on what pieces we have at our disposal as we assemble the picture.

Our thoughts emanate smells that paint pictures. Our words express our thoughts. We write to have a tangible testament of these otherwise insubstantial things, and to share these testaments with those who find nothing unbearably disagreeable in the tang of our belching. Having found such a one, we belch repeatedly and delightfully, until our tastes are jaded, and sour and sweet blend easily into a gratifyingly bland olfactory nothingness. Our pictures no longer change. She is who I think she is, whether or not the flavour changes, for it all smells the same to me...

What do you say...can I belch with you?

[RANDOM UPDATE]: I was chatting with a blogger whose identity I will not reveal for fear of her practicing the lethal technique I am about to write about, and she said the following:

doug: [RANDOM QUESTION] Do you know yet, what region to strike with a kitchen knife in order for a man to lose the ability to procreate?


Killer Blogger: sever his spermatic cord!

doug: You're now officially a killing machine

Men of blogsville, before you go off getting besotted by some anonymous female blogger....know that she might know where your spermatic cord lies.