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.

Interlude

Hindsight is that remarkable gift of the simpleton; an uncanny grasp of the obvious. By it, I am told that I should not have taken the 2 minute walk to the eatery with the rucksack strapped to my back. The barbarous enterprise of a leisurely walk down a busy road, when made in the first hours of dusk, must be hampered by the stipulation that the only valuable to be found on ones person be a buck or two to purchase a biscuit. This is plain old common sense I am told. No one in their right mind walks about unarmed with a – horror of horrors – laptop! I should have stayed behind had the gopher go buy me the meal. I, and the rest three blokes, who were walking with me, should have formed an offensive formation with the only empty-handed person keeping up the rear. Bollocks! All of it. Easy to say, 24hrs after the fact!

Anyway, the bottom-line blogsville is that I got robbed. At gunpoint. The gun was held to my neck as I was stripped of my rucksack. It had my laptop and harddrive in it [sob sob]...and many other things I need not mention.

I was soothed by all the love I got on Standtall's blog after she put up my interview. I'd just like to say thank you to everyone who said a kind word. I feel rather humbled by all the positive comments I have gotten from so many people in blogsville even way before the interview. It's probably contributed to the bloggers block I've been battling with...the pressure for a post.LOL.

In other news, I was handed a handbill for a Church program slated for Valentine's day a few days ago that said "SINGLES THOU ART LOOSED". Maaaaan, there's no hope for the single dude in Lagos o!