and let's make believe that dog plasma was this guy who was always dirty. not filthy dirty, just dirty. it was his day to day state. dirty and worn.
    and he was busy. he didn't sit down much. when he did he'd usually hop back up again in a moment. if when he sat for awhile he'd always have something in his hands and be doing something with it. it looked like he was taking it apart and putting it together again. this may or may not have been what he was doing.
    that was until he was shot.
    he was sitting on this park bench with whatever it was in his hands he was doing whatever with when this fat woman strolled behind him and put a gun to the back of his head and pulled the trigger. his nose exploded. his hands dropped whatever it was to the ground. the woman walked around him and picked it up and went over to where a car was waiting for her to get in a drive away.
    buzz zip watched all this while walking toward where it happened on his way to the library. he had been looking at dog but didn't notice the woman until the shot went off. buzz knew dog. he saw him just about every day some place. he had met him when they both worked at this italian restaurant. buzz was a busser and dog a dishwasher. they both got fired together caught smoking dope in the garbage alley. buzz had a few other jobs since then. dog didn't. even that job seemed borderline for him.
    a man and a woman in suits walking toward buzz on the other side of where dog had been shot stopped. the man took out a phone and made a call. buzz assumed 911. the woman stood and mouthed, oh my god, over and over again.
    buzz left the park and crossed the street. he didn't want to talk to anyone, especially cops.
    as he walked around to the library he tried to figure out why someone would want to shoot dog and take whatever it was he had in his busy hands. he'd never paid much attention to what it might have been before. he didn't see dog for longer than to say, hey, as he was walking by. dog would look up and nod and maybe say, hey, back. that's the way it was with most people buzz knew. he really didn't want to listen to much more of what they might have to say - especially dog who would ramble on some monotone rant about whatever if one let him. buzz had thought of recording him maybe and mixing it in with some of the music he made.
    now let's pretend that that is the end of that story.

    we have met who we are and we are them. we are those who were innocently slaughtered. we are those who slaughtered the innocent. we are those who lived in the promised land that others invaded and took from us. we are those who invaded the promised land and took it from those who lived there.
    when the israelites blew their trumpets, then the roman legions raised their standards, then the spanish conquistadors set sail, when the u.s. cavalry saddled up, when the nazi tanks rolled, we were among them as we were among those who stood in their path. we are the survivors of those wars we fought against ourselves both as the aggressors and defenders. the wars we are still fighting for whatever victory and glory can be had. the strong against the weak. the weak against the weaker. we have done this. this has been done to us. between us and them the lines become blurred. but we are them.

    and it falls as it rises. these thoughts come to him as he sits in the cafe writing them down. he is thirsty. the water is cold but flat. thoughts from vague impressions underlying the words these impressions trigger. and it rises as it falls.
    the notion of it. it as a noun, not a pronoun. it represents nothing but itself. it as the thing that is. it as it itself. thing as verb - the-ing. as it comes from nowhere and goes to nowhere. nowhere being here and now. maybe. and he is left in it. others have come and gone. from and to nowhere. he remains with it. it is constant though ever-changing. it as this or that or the other thing. it as it manifests itself as that which he perceives around himself it to be. as what he imagines it to be. it speaks to him as such. he speaks to it as such. in a manner of speaking.
    out in the night on this thin line where the lonely wander and remain alone. it is in this loneliness. one will not find it in the crowd - unless one is alone in the crowd.
    it draws and leads one outside. this is where it is and when one finds it when one is not distracted by the flash of things generated out of it. yet one must not ignore the flash of things either because that is all it is. it is not that which it is not except it is. one need only remember that there is only it. oneself and it, and maybe not even that. it is illusion, but not illusion in the sense of illusion masking something else or as being something not real.
    is this a test?
    is this the correct answer?

    as it breaks it comes together. and on and on with the usual phrases of description that are uttered by those finding themselves in this trance of no return.
    his thoughts are no more than a smoking cigarette. the smoke spirals in the air twirling with the slightest current from a door opening or someone walking by before it loses its fragile coherency and joins the general haze.
    then one puts the cigarette out.
    one thinks. one smokes a cigarette. one writes about thinking and smoking a cigarette. one hangs out in one cafe or another. one thinks once in awhile that one might be doing something else. one puts the cigarette out.
    soon one lights another one. everything comes and goes in and out of the smoke. it's all part of the general haze that lingers here and there. one sees ghosts in the haze. these ghosts are people. one recognizes some of the faces and knows a few of their names. there is a certain familiarity to all this as there is a certain strangeness. one cannot decide if the familiarity seems strange or the strangeness seems familiar. all comes and goes but something always remains. the people come and go but there are always people. conversation about the weather or the nature of the cosmos.
    there is beauty in ugliness. there is joy in sorrow. not despite of but because of. they are not divided. one does not replace the other. one who sees the beauty and feels the joy must gaze into the ugliness and embrace the sorrow.
    there is nothing between one thing and another. there is not one thing and another for there to be anything between.

    there is isolation from others and there is isolation from oneself. there is what is and what one feels there ought to be.
    he feels these levels of isolation from others and himself. but are they felt more so in him than in others?
    there are those who aspire to please the gods and those who aspire to be the gods.

    out of the nature of the human mind composing reality out of what is and what ought to be. the area between what is perceived and what is imagined.
    and all of this is painting a landscape describing outlines and sketches of possibilities. but there is nothing here. otherwise it would have been explored and surveyed and mapped in detail and farmed and mined and great cities of industry would now be seen as elsewhere where there was thought to be paradise. he can only think that these spaces he is allowed to wander freely as left as places where those are exiled who won't co-operate with the way of things as the masses think of them.
    but who is he but one among the masses? there is nothing that he is aware of that distinguishes him apart from them. his experiences and thoughts of his experiences seem to him, as much as he is able to judge based on the information available to him, are rather common and ordinary, yet maybe not spoken of as such. yet the others seem to consider him as someone unusual apart from them.
    doo-wah-ditty-dada.

    he goes around through this again and again. from one view it seems one way. from another view it seems another way. like an optical illusion of one image interlocked with another and one sees either or depending. the reality that is conjured in one's mind existing between what is perceived and what is imagined. and those who insist upon one view over the other and go to war.
    all of that on the distant shore of the sea far from where he perceives or imagines himself being on the island. all of that somewhere out in the world far from where he centers himself in his mind. he hears the distant echoes of it that reverberate everywhere from the great noise it makes. and once in awhile waves of it do arrive and shake him. one cannot entirely escape. one survives or one does not. one is injured and heals and becomes stronger or one is injured and heals and becomes weaker.
    he has survived so far. in many ways stronger. in many ways weaker. at some time he will be overcome and exist here no more. within that which is always changing no part remains unchanged. yet there are those who believe that eternity is changeless and that they can become changeless with it. how boring. but he has this fantasy as well to become that which was before and will be after. the eternal here and now. yet here and now is always changing. that which brings all into existence out of itself and that which brings all out of existence into itself. it is it. it is the sole and only thing that all else is. it is and is not. no definition perceived or imagined by anything created by it can encompass it.
    he thinks to himself, it exists. there is nothing that exists that is not it. there is nothing that does not exist that is not it. he is it whether he exists or not. yet one must be open to all possibility and one possibility is that something might not be it whether it exists or not. and he might be that something. yet even considering all possibility one must remember that all possibility is it and it is all possibility - even possibility that is not possible. so even if he is not it he is still it. unless he's not.
     there is only contradiction in that way of thinking when it is thought of in the human mind within terms of human perception and imagination. the human mind creates the contradiction. the human mind exists within contradiction. creation is based on contradiction from the first it divided this from that and the other thing. without that division there is no creation. within this division of creation all contradiction exists together. without this there is just a general haze of nothingness like cigarette smoke. the legendary sea o' chaos. to create it must divide and separate that stuff of itself and define this as not that or the other thing. or anything else. each is what it is. and even then things are not all that clear. it is the primal contradiction. this, that and the other thing are not things in and of themselves but are the stuff of it divided and separated apart and defined. and all that blah blah blah business...
      he giggles and dances an odd little step with a spin and lands on his face on the sandy beach of the island. thing approaches dressed in flowing purple robes and jet black hair with sparkles of diamond dust sprinkled through it and holding a jade wand.
    what are you doing? thing asks.
    being an idiot, he said somberly and standing up and brushing himself off.
    that's what i thought.
    and what the flying fuck are you pretending to be?
    i do not pretend. i am. i am that which i at any time appear to be. that is my nature.
    ok. so what are you presently appearing to be?
    hot shit.
    you don't seem like hot shit to me.
    that's because you cannot perceive or imagine me as i am. my appearance before you is shadowed by the limitations of your mind.
    am i now to prostrate myself and grovel before you?
    you can if you wish.
    i'll pass.
    if that is what you wish. i do not desire that you do anything other than what is your free will.
    even free will that suffers from such limitations as mine?
    that is also your free will.
    the limitations?
    yes.
    yeah - i suppose that's possible. it doesn't matter.
    not if you feel that it doesn't.
    i don't suppose that there is a point to this, is there?
    do you need there to be a point?
    only because of my limitations.
    then what point do your limitations need?
    oh, probably any point would do.
    there are none that i am aware of.
    is that because perhaps of your limitations?
    perhaps.
    you don't know?
    perhaps i do not. perhaps i do yet i do not wish to revel them to you.
    oh well.
    oh well?
    oh well. that's it. i see no reason to continue this with you.
    does that mean there is no reason?
    it means that i do not see any - or that i do not wish to revel them to you.
    so there may be a reason?
    is there?
    why ask me?
    who else do i ask?
    yourself.
    i am not speaking with myself at the moment.
    unless i am yourself.
    then asking you is asking myself.
    i suppose that could be the case.
    is it?
    we're going in circles.
    really? i hadn't noticed.
    so now what?
    what do you want?
    everything.
    as do i.
    we both can't have everything.
    we can't?
    i wouldn't think so.
    i do think so. we just agree to share it and stay out of each other's way.
    and if we cannot agree on that?
    we fight over it - which is a form of agreeing to share it.
    is that what we agree to?
    if you wish.
    i wish what you wish.
    then there is no reason to fight.
    unless that is what we agree to do.
    correcto.
    do we?
    you already asked that.
    yes, i suppose i did.

    the world turns around again. it's another day. he is again in the cafe. again drinking coffee. again smoking cigarettes. and writing.
    no one else he knows is here except the working people and a few others who also come in to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. the radio babbles nonsense.
    school starts again tomorrow. another scam for more money he is supposed to pay them back but he won't. more classes about various things that are taught. he takes them to try to figure out what's going on - why what is being taught is being taught? what is the origin? what is it's purpose? what is it supposed to mean? etc. and who decides such things from what information and for what motive? and who else is taking these classes? and on and on, etc. questions that lead to more questions. it is so much easier not to think along these lines. it's so much easier to accept things as given. just find some niche one can fit oneself into and survive.
    and he's done that to some extent. he has found the niche where he's supposed to be suffering from some sort of mental disorder and receives assistance from the state and survives. what questions he has about this he keeps to himself and his scribblings. he knows better than to bring any of it up as the others are more than equipped to defend any attack on their position - their own niches. they need do no more than let the status quo defend them. the responses to his questions have been that this is the way things are. he tried to ask if those answering him were satisfied with their own answers. that was when he is told to leave, that he is causing problems for everyone.
    it seemed to him that this system of organization that everyone was involved in was mutually oppressive to all no matter where they were or who they were in it. no one spoke of being happy with it or with their place in it, even those who theoretically were in the most favorable and advantageous positions. in some cases those bitched the most. and everyone saw others as being the cause of the problems. each pointed to those who were set up in direct opposition to themselves based on some reason or another. as far as he could determine every side had their justification for its accusations and every side was also full of exaggerated bullshit added to that justification which made it virtually impossible for anyone to reason with them toward any sort of compromise. everyone wanted it all their own way. compromise was surrender.
    so he keeps as far away from it as he can. and that was what perhaps most people tried to do. just lay low and ducking under the crossfire between the various uncompromising groups of radical this and that and the other thing shooting at each other in all directions.
    and such is the status quo. and if one should ask anyone if they are happy with it they are told to fuck off and quit causing problems.
    on the island he causes problems only for himself and whatever he might conjure up from his imagination.
    and anyway, he does have ideas that spiral and twist around about how he might change all that and become the main number one problem everyone on the entire planet has to deal with. these ideas are rather vague and are difficult to grasp for very long at any one time and as are the reasons for them being even ideas about anything at all. but such is their nature and the only problem one might have with them is when one tries to grasp them. one has to learn how to think of these ideas without grasping them - to allow them their own space and course of direction. one cannot expect to rein them in and confine them within confines of rational thought.
    this is made that much more difficult when one has been raised in a culture that believes and teaches that any and all thought that is not rational is madness and that those who are suspected of being mad are to be isolated from the others.
    one must have faith - or at least some measure of doubt - in one's madness that it is not really madness, though there is no rational reason why it is not, while at the same time accepting that it will always be considered madness by the others. one learns to keep up a certain front to the others and not discuss anything concerning one's madness with any of them, even those one is the closest to. no one is that close that they would be willing to share in one's madness. this is learned through a lifetime of trial and error after making many mistakes about what to discuss with who. one learns where the lines are drawn dividing one's madness from the others supposed rationality. one learns how to function in their world of rationality while at the same time maintaining one's madness. not all can do this however.
    the place that one finds to do this is always a place of isolation. one needs to accept that. but there are rewards. sometimes rewards from the others, but mostly rewards from being able to enjoy one's madness on one's own. one may often find that this allows one with certain freedom that one would not normally have. it is the freedom of imagination. once one no longer fears one's own imagination one is free to do just about most anything.
    though there is usually sacrifice, there can be material reward as well. he has found this to be true in his own case. he is far better off now that he is mad and has accepted his madness than he was trying to function in their world. his basic needs are met and all of his time is his own to do whatever he fucking pleases. and he still has his madness.
    and what is his madness?
    that is what he is now trying to discover. all he knows is that it is considered almost universally by everyone to be madness. he has been told this by numerous others. some are more subtle about telling him than others. he has been called anything from being psychotic to being weird. but it all amounts to the same thing. he is different than them. he is someone who none of the others wish to be, even though some may admire him for being it himself. most do not want to have anything to do with it as much as possible.
    he has never understood any of this. he and they are all human and subject to the normal individual and unique variations of being human and is common to all humans which he shares in common with them and they with each other. he could not determine exactly what it was about him that they saw and agreed on that was fundamentally and radically different that divided and separated him from them that none of them saw themselves as possessing that is what they describe as madness. what the fuck is it? he knows he is mad because he has been told that he is mad. there is something about himself that they see that he does not. and even they seem to be rather vague about what it is while at the same time being certain that he is indeed mad.
    this is the limits of their rationality and sanity. the limits to his madness and irrationality are not yet known. he may never know them. they are dogs on chains who can only navigate within the circumference of the radius of the chain - the chain of rationality. beyond lies the unknown and indescribable - indescribable because this language he is using to write this out is the language of rationality. describable by them only as being madness.
    the limits of rationality are limited. the limits of irrationality - madness - are limitless. the sphere of rationality is contained within the sphere of irrationality. as such, he can understand them but they cannot understand him. rationality is not beyond him as irrationality is beyond them. they each have a common center. the only difference is how much farther irrationality can reach, being unchained, than can rationality from that center. the center is the human mind. madness reaches beyond the human mind. madness is all the things the human mind cannot be. madness is all things possible and impossible. rationality considers only the possible.
    rationalogic and irrationalogic.
    logic being the common element and bond. the human mind thinks things logically. the difference is whether that logic is rational or irrational. the rational thinks 1 - 2 - 3, a - b - c. the irrational thinks 1 - moose - love, a - blue - microscope.

    and so where does that leave us? we are thrown into our own madness to sink or swim. he swam when the good ship rationality went down in the storm raging on an otherwise calm sea. and after some time that was not measured in time - rationalogical tick-tock time - he washed ashore upon the island. and/or he was driven by his madness into the sanctuary of the center of his mind. look upon it as one will with whatever set of definitions one wishes to apply. it's all the same and none need apply. one knows and understands this or one does not. this is a problem - if it is a problem - that one solves for oneself. and there are many who solve it by ignoring it.
    oh well. ho-hum.
    he wanders about the island finding places on it he had not known before. it is an island in the many respects of being an island as defined characteristics of being an island but it encompasses space and time as far as he can imagine as being infinite. of course what is imagined to be infinite by the human mind is in all probability far short of anything that is actually infinite. on the island is the imaginary city in all its mythological forms. on the island is the best of all possible worlds and the worst of all possible worlds - these worlds being the same worlds. on the island is excitement and boredom, joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain. on the island is everything. on the island is nothing. on the island is this and that and the other thing. on the island is it. the island is it.
    the island is the island.

    and all flaming bits of dada farted out the assholes of the swine charging into the sea having been invaded by the legion of demons sent into them by the lord most high jesus h. christ himself such that he might prove what a pompous self-righteous prick he is before the ignorant buffoons he was trying to impress that he and he alone is the way to their salvation from the pathetic state that he and his no holds barred eternal battle with his shadow-self satan was responsible for to begin with.

    are you enjoying yourself writing that stuff? jesus asked as he sat down at his table.
    enjoyment is enjoyment, he said, writing is writing. neither might not have anything to do with the other.
    then why write it?
    it came to me and i wrote it. because it can be written. what's the big deal?
    do you believe it?
    believe what?
    what you just wrote.
    what about it?
    about me being a pompous self-righteous prick.
    well, aren't you?
    i am what you make me to be. i am all things to all men.
    what about women?
    them too.
    well then, to me, you are a pompous self-righteous prick. in fact let me add greedy overbearing intolerant and ass kissing.
    ass kissing?
    you kiss your father's ass every chance you get - as i understand it.
    if that's how you choose to see it.
    i just say whatever i happen to say - or write. it's just that. as i said, what's the big deal?
    you are creating your own hell with it, that's all.
    hell? what hell? i don't see any hell.
    give it time. you will.
    perhaps. but if so, i then refer you to what i wrote later about that being created from your bitch fest with your own alter ego.
    it's a bit more than that.
    is it?
    this is a battle within man himself. i am a symbol of that battle - of man's own victory over himself.
    and women too, right?
    right.
    why don't you just say human? get with the times, dude.
    human then.
    and kissing your father's ass and hanging yourself on a cross is the solution to this?
    what would you offer as an alternative in this situation?
    what situation?
    man - humans being at war with themselves.
    i'd just leave it.
    but you are human.
    as much as you are.
    i am spirit made flesh.
    and i'm not?
    are you?
    if you are then i am. unless the deck has been rigged in your favor. and if that's the case then you don't have any business saying shit to anybody, not until you go through it with the same deal that we got - which is nothing. anybody can fix it so they come out of it looking good if they have inside information and connections. any schmuck can do that. you're just some guy who has a big fat sugar daddy backing you up. that's nothing special. what's special is getting through it without that - especially having to kiss daddy's fat ass for it. i'm not impressed by anything you say or do. if you were some common ordinary dumb fuck then i might be. but from someone who has it handed to them on a silver platter i expect a little more.
    such as?
    such as renouncing any and all involvement with the whole dirty business instead of strutting around promoting yourself as the son of god.
    i never said that.
    no - technically you didn't. but you allowed others to say it for you, my dear son of man. i can smell slick pr miles away and what's been written about you reeks of it. you never said you were but you never said you weren't either.
    should i have? what would that have accomplished?
    it would have brought it down to a more human level for one thing. but anyone who is promoted as being the son of god, whether they are or not, can suck my dick. the son of god is nothing to me. why should i be impressed by another's privilege? what is that to me? give me some of that privilege and i can pull off the same tricks you did out of my hat. the whole thing is a scam. a big fat set up so you and big daddy can have the whole world full of pathetic frightened human creatures you purposefully created that way to be as they are to tremble every time one of you say, boo. and all so you can sit on your thrones and jerk yourselves off while those you have duped sing praises to you for all eternity. i am amazed that someone as all-knowing and all-powerful as you are supposed to be is as small as that. what a joke.
    this is how you see it?
    how else should i see it?
    and you believe i am part of this?
    no, i believe that you are some lunatic who wandered in off the street who is sitting at my table.
    then why bother talking to me?
    i am not talking to you. i am writing about talking to you.
    and i'm the lunatic?
    you are if i say you are. in the world inside my notebooks i make the rules.
    and who's playing god now?
    i am. so what?
    don't you face the same accusations you accuse me of?
    probably, except that i may play god in my own head but i don't impose it on others and let them believe that i am god.
    and i did?
    who do you say i am? do you remember saying that?
    yes.
    need i say more?
    no.
    at which time a buzzer buzzed.
    gotta go, jesus said. things to do. people to meet.
    sure. get lost.
    and jesus split the scene. exit stage right.

    next day. no money. bum a cup of joe from one of the servers.
    down the line this will all collapse. he'll be out on the street again someday. should he care?
    burning his karma.
    he sits at the center of his own world with everything coming in and nothing going out - except this endless stream of words.

    18 zillion formulations of one point. possibilities of what is and what is not and what lies between depending upon this or that or the other thing.
    but there are events. there is what happens. there is that which is shaped out of action and not ideas. an idea of hammering a nail and the action of hammering a nail. the action of bending the nail against the idea of driving in the nail.
    so what?
    a simple action and a multiple of possibilities of ideas.
    and he thinks about how he thinks too damn much. he views the world through compound eyes that see a variety of images of what is and what is not in a variety of combinations. each point is an axis splintering each line into webs of possibilities. and splintering again and again toward infinity. for every point there is a universe of possibilities. yet in all of this there is a course of events determined by actions.
    and he thinks about how he thinks too much about what doesn't matter. possibility is nonsense. possibility is meaningless gibberish. there is what is. there is what is not. there is what happens - events determined by actions. ideas about actions and events are nonsense. ideas might cause actions which determine events but the actions act by and of themselves.
    oh well. ho-hum.

    drowning in a sea of nonsense. drowning into a realm of oblivion. in oblivion one finds oneself as it is the oblivion of all else but oneself. one has thought oneself as this or that or the other thing but this and that and the other thing disappear into oblivion. and at the end oblivion disappears into oblivion and all that is left is oneself. one discovers that oneself is oblivion and nothing has disappeared that was not oneself all along that one had believed and perceived was this and that and the other thing.
    and on and on and all such cosmic trash.

    he goes in or out awhile or so following this or that tangent and returns again to where and when he's just sitting writing in the cafe here and now. he tries to organize all this business into some sort of order. he doesn't know quite how. he doesn't know quite why except for feeling that it should be so otherwise it's meaningless and subsequently worthless. he thinks about where this feeling might originate from. part of it originates externally from others having told him that unless whatever he or anyone else is doing is organized into some sort of order it is meaningless and worthless. things should have worth. worth comes from meaning. meaning comes from order. order comes from organization. this may or may not be true. this may or may not be important.
    what he tries to determine is how he feels about it. part of that is his response to that external influence from the others. part of him is his acceptance of this idea and his desire to mimic it and incorporate it to please the others. part of it is his rejection of it and his desire to avoid being influenced by it and having it become a part of himself. part of him just doesn't know which.
    what plays into this is how it affects his social relationships with others and how it affects his internal relationship with himself. he examines it to the extent to how much he is able to examine his feelings about it other than this external influence and whatever feelings he may have in connection to that external influence. this type of examination is next to impossible to conduct because there is little that is not externally influenced.
    so he makes some attempt to at least imagine how he might feel about the idea without having been influenced by it from others. he thinks about whether he would have come up with the idea on his own based on his own experience.
    how does one draw the line on where and when there is external influence and what form it takes? one doesn't have to be actually told the idea itself. it is implied by language and the use of language.
    when most organization is disorganized. when most order is disordered. when most meaning is meaningless. when most worth is worthless.
    what?
    all this is in the mind. the minds of influence passed on from one to another. and how but by language?
    the language of the mind - the human mind. organization, order, meaning, worth.
    and of course reward and punishment.
    so to come into the world influenced impossible even before this idea by such development the idea being and one intuitive into the foundation of without substance thinking and mind question reach cannot do so without one does attempt employing understood or explained either contained within and used because this would imply somehow natural function the brain without being not having been uninfluenced by others and that were supposes somehow know this for certain the idea isolated not to have occurred various recognize itself otherwise not able to be perceived pondering examinations cold philosophical with any of it ill-equipped trodden paths is quantum zen explored arrive to reach at the beginning and such as expect the same mapped these paths return from no communication into oblivion and obstructed of everything and worth organized some system in some particular understanding that then offers and manner all rewards substitutes getting the reward another that works does not until one receives it.
    and so on until he loses the point of anything.
    blah blah blah...

    discovering no system of no functioning of no understanding and gives no reward or punishment.
    he laughs to arrive at this. what a joke. what was the idea?
    systems of whatnot.
    systems of controlling the uncontrollable.
    all that comes and goes in a passing breeze until something or another makes sense - if it ever does.
    but what is this that all of this comes to?
    will he ever find out?
    here he sits scribbling away some sunday morning in the cafe drinking coffee and smoking his cigarettes. it may not be much but it beats talking to himself like so many other crazy people do but which he also does from time to time which he observes even not crazy people doing more and more but then one thinks about who and what is crazy then.
    but could he talk to anyone about what he is writing about?
    who?
    why?
    how?
    for him this all leads to nowhere that is everywhere and all things that are and are not. any talk about it would ultimately lead to silence. so silence is where it should begin and continue. one hears a pin drop across the universe. it's where he feels at home.
    but to the others it seems that they think it all leads to oblivion.
    oh well.
    he sees no one where he's at. not even god has shown up. he wonders what's keeping it.
    all others stop outside the gate and won't pass through. he steps through alone. back to the garden which to them is oblivion.
    and maybe it is.
    who cares?
    the yawning mouth.
    they run away.
    trickery and deception toward the destruction of all that they believe in.
    oh well.
    they barely escape at the last moment and will never come this way again. never.
    now they avoid him like something like death.
    he laughs. the expression of confusion and fear that would come over their faces they would then try to hide and hold their heads up to some aloof height they would look down at him from.
    avoidance and denial.
    the light shines upon their inflated selves and casts him into the darkness of shadows.
    they have pushed him and everyone out of their way to get to this light. this light of salvation. this light of forgiveness. this light that is their reward.
    they fear the darkness of shadows where he has found his peace.
    shunned.
    forbidden.
    dog poo.
    theirs is the crowning achievement of creation that they do not even understand.
    he laughs and shakes his head.
    the light is blinding so they shade their eyes with images and symbols and myths of every imagination.
    and this is oblivion.
    light that is only reflection of image.
    he has his own light.
    he has his own reflection.
    he has his own image.
    these scribblings are outline traces of it.
    sort of.
    it's all as senseless as it appears.
    huh?
    what the fuck?
    nevermind.

    unable to hold a thought in his head for more than 2 seconds he returns to the house on the island. tuna fish breath on the singer's voice who sings the songs of the dead. but what surprises him the most is the choices people - his fellow humans - make based on their free will. but is it not manufactured to function a particular way and free will is a myth? one would not expect a toaster to receive television signals. one would not expect a sofa to wash one's laundry. humans too function to how they are manufactured. if humans are in error then whose error is it? who manufactured humans according to certain design? or who was not able to manufacture humans to a certain design?
    so he doth ponders ponderingly what is the nature of this worshipped light behind the images held before it? what is the perfect and wonderful thing believed in? what is it that radiates and shines forth from the adoration of its worshippers to bath them in its glory, yet to one who does not sing its praises it remains dark and empty? is it the source of ourselves? can it be called the creator? or is it we would create it out of ourselves as we have been created from the mindless happenstance of forces that spontaneously erupted from the fabric of nothingness? or is there another explanation?

    it does might exist even if it exists only as a product of our imagination its existence cannot be denied. if it can be described it exists. and it has been in some form or another the guiding force of humanity since we entered into consciousness if not before. we perceive such light in our minds and will sacrifice all to it, even ourselves.
    rutabaga, baby.

    so the fundamental complexity to it that leads one out of the social matrix and into one's own hollow void hidden in such spaces one is able to discover between those pathways engraved in one's consciousness by one's mere association with the others one finds oneself surrounded by from the hour of one's birth and arrival what may constitute one's tabla rasa or original zen state by the steady transmissions of behavioral systems communicated by every movement and touch and the voiced inflection of the spoken word long before there is any understanding of supposed meaning that for the most part directly contradicts the former impression the preverbal understanding from this first impression is formed by one's emotions rather than by one's mind and thoughts as the words attach themselves to one's intellect the emotional impression is pushed down and submerged infused and this is one's gut level feelings of occurrences that are denied by the words one has come to understand that explain these occurrences in terms of what we would wish these occurrences and our actions that create them to be we all suffer from this delusion we all wish the opposite of what is there is the reality of the public domain which exists in our words we speak to one another individually however we recognize the falseness of this reality by the churning of our emotions that have been pushed under our conscious awareness by the words crowding into our minds the emotions have no verbal outlet as do our thoughts we may speak what we think but not as we feel what we feel is expressed by the shaping of the words we speak and by the mannerisms that coincide with our speaking them and by our other actions that follow a different course than that charted by our words.
    so how do we speak of such things our feelings perceive?
    it would seem that each of us recognize this discrepancy alone and in isolation in our own private personal space where our soul resides if it were we have souls or are souls and it happens that this might be recognized and communicated between a couple or a few of us together when it is that we find another or others we might become closely acquainted with sharing the same space and time yet that recognition and communication is most very fragile and delicately balanced and requires nearly constant diligent work to maintain on everyone's concerned part these open and share their souls they are naked and reveled to one another the usual armor and weaponry is laid down there is no other state between two or more people remotely comparable to this when it is attained yet one unintentional false move on the part of one or the other instantly destroys it with a chain reaction of quick defensive maneuvers this false move may be the raising of an eyebrow a turn of the hand a word spoken too soon or to late or left unspoken anything perhaps it does not even originate from any of the parties involved but blows in on a breeze from without anything can bring this house down this house cannot be built out of concrete or contract it is ethereal it exists in an intangible sphere no physical sense can perceive.
    one can ultimately only trust oneself and many of us cannot do even that and if one trusts oneself without a great high degree of doubt one is a fool begging to be deceived and misled.
    doubt is his only remaining faith. and he doubts his doubt above all else he may doubt.
    and with this he is removed from the world and himself into what lies beyond description that he experiences and knows as such overflowing joy and comforting peace.
    dust to dust and ashes in our hands alone.
    holy fucking christ.

    another day in the merrie month of october (though it's actually the 10th month not the 8th). time moves along. time moves through space. time shapes space. or space moves time through itself as a medium to shape itself. or something.
    he writes along the edges of this and that and the other thing without it ever entering into something definite. he uses a fork to stir his coffee. this and that and the other thing are present as given to the situation. this and that and the other thing are available as given to be used in the present given situation. also one's understanding of what is given in what is present and available and one's resources and ability to change and alter what is given.
    the endless analysis and discussion of this along the edges of science or philosophy or magick or poetry or art or whatever else is present and available and understood.
    and what can be stated to be the net result of the gross accumulation of the mass of dada? what is the desired net result? what is the perceived net result? what is the actual net result?
    can there be any? does the interaction of all that is given and used in the entirety of the situation end in or produce a net result? or is a net result arbitrarily and subjectively taken out of it for one's own particular purpose and intention?

    he ponders ponderingly again and continingly about what all this is and how it goes together and works in and of itself into mind thing hoo-ha twist and shout perplexed zimbo-dee-da and in terms of the other - always the others - and himself both in relationship with it and each other.
    he thinks he'll draw a circle around it. though inside the circle may not be what it is but at least what he is able to comprehend and understand about what it is. but he finds that he cannot even draw that circle. he ends up drawing this line that goes almost every which way in its pursuit to include even just what he can comprehend. it turns into a jumble of scribbling without any sense of direction or purpose. and he turns another page and tries it again.
    yet there are those who do draw circles around things. and they proclaim that these circles not only include what they comprehend and understand but all that is to be comprehended and understood.
    he ponders ponderingly whether it is he who is stupid or them. one or the other doesn't get it. one or the other is entirely off and wandering lost in one's own illusions. or maybe not. perhaps both are correct.
    what is the fucking truth?
    and he bangs his head against that wall for awhile.
    then he lights another cigarette.

    excuse me but have we met?
    would you like to place another bet?
    is there any need to fret?
    what is caught when we cast our net?
    do we have enough or is there more yet?
    do we continue just to pay our debt?
    will we only find more to regret?
    or something to finally make things set?

    it's all wet. it's all flat on its face and over its head pulled in by the power and weight of that which it has sought to pull into itself and gain power and weight from.
    ha-ha-hee-heeeee...
    the clown doth laugh as the acrobats tumble and plummet to their death with their tangled apparatus following crashing down on top of them.

    so here we are far away from home at the circus fair and the clowns become our rulers by default in the absence of the others who have eliminated themselves by over-extending themselves with their daring deeds and not looking back to check to see if what worked for them once will work for them again still.
    and the clowns pile into a tiny little car and it drives around in crazy circles then explodes into a ball of flames. the crowd stands aghast, then cheers.
    are we free yet?
    have we overcome those who would subjugate us by the marvelous use and display of what are merely tricks of the trade?
    can we leave now?
    can we go home?
    or does the circus continue?
    does it continue without an audience?
    do generals march to war if armies do not follow? do leaders shout commands and chant slogans in empty halls or on empty streets? do kings and queens live in palace fortresses if no one builds them? do priests perform the sacred rituals if no one comes to be blessed and saved? do stores remain open and place ads in the media if no one buys what they sell?
    we mummer and complain about the generals, the leaders, the kings and queens, the priests, the store owners, about all the dastardly ways they cheat and oppress us yet we play audience to them anytime any one of them comes to town. we stand in line to buy tickets for the show. we fight among ourselves for front row seats.
    can these few be blamed for stepping in and acting out our desires and fantasies when the house rises to a standing ovation and shouting for encores? and how many are willing to take their place if they did step down? how many among ourselves? how many are lured by the spotlight of our undivided attention? what if our attention was elsewhere?
    yeah, right, he says to himself while sitting here scribbling and smoking time away.
    yeah - fucking right.
    right the fuck on.
    he laughs in his head.
    in his head he laughs.
    the others do what they do to get paid and laid while he sits here among them dancing around in the playground in his head.
    off with his head.
    pull his head out of his ass and put it on the block. chop it off. put it on a stake and parade it around town rejoicing and celebrating victory over the beast.

    and as he is executed what might his last words be?
    thank you. thank you, good people. thank you for helping me accomplish what i was unable to accomplish for myself. i was too afraid. i was too conceited and selfish. i was too stupid and ignorant. i was too greedy. i am sick and insane. i am twisted and demented. i am an aberration of what it is to be human - if it can even be said that i am human. it would not take much to convince me that i am not. let us say that i am not. who wants to argue?
    but allow me to speak no more. i waste time with my insensible babbling before you and further forestall your liberation from my kind. my last words shall be a hope and a prayer that with me you have found out the last hidden among yourselves who has been a constant threat and hindrance to your glory and progress. may all the gods and forces of the universe bless you always and forever.
    but, for now, the show must go on.
    let's do it.
    thank you all.

    and the drums roll. and the blade comes down. and the cymbals crash and the trumpets blare. and the gathered crowd lets go a wild cheering and jump up and down and hug and kiss and dance and shed tears and all their burdens and worries and cares and clothing and there is a frenzy of delighted abandoned fucking until the cows come home.
    this is it.
    who would have thought that anyone would ever live to see this day? how many prophets from the world over had predicted themselves hoarse about it? how many believed and struggled without hope and against the odds of the misguided majority against them?
    how long?
    how long?
    how long?
    since before the dawn of memory. since before even the days when the proto-humanoids dropped from the trees and began this eternal searching quest. since before all the dreamtimes put together.
    since forever.
    and now before everyone's eyes it has come appearing as real as life itself. more real than life itself.

    all the world for all it had disagreed on and fought with itself over for time immemorial it has finally come upon this one thing all could wholeheartedly agree on.
    that this worthless waste of time of a person taking up space should be once and for all killed and destroyed and never allowed to come and return again. that any and all trace of this person and that which brought this person into being should be entirely eliminated.
    and this agreement opened the door to lay all other disagreements to rest.

    and that should be the end. it is the end as most stories like this are written that are believed in by the masses. that is how the circles are completed. yet they are circles of snakes swallowing their own tails. the circles cannot stop being completed. once one follows a path that is marked by what is good and what is evil one becomes committed to that path. neither good nor evil can be eliminated from it as one cannot exist without the other. for who follows the path leading to victory there must always be the other to be defeated forever.
    but is this a path that we create or a path that is created for us?
    this great labyrinth that only leads back into itself. the great labyrinth that has its pathways in our minds. we may come to peace with it but we may never escape it.
    even this god that might be is in the labyrinth and has the labyrinth within it. it too may come to peace with the labyrinth but it too may not escape it. not without ceasing to exist. that is the only door to anyone human and god both alike.
    and so his writing follows this every which way path within the labyrinth as the labyrinth is within it. the labyrinth is everywhere. any and all directions to and from any and all points are paths within the labyrinth. in this way the labyrinth does not exist in and of itself. it exists only when we choose a path out of all the possible paths and follow it. then the paths of the labyrinth are set within the possibilities from that path we have chosen. yet at every point along that path we may again choose from all the possibilities. yet out of this continuing choice of all possibilities the probability of what we are apt to choose having chosen one path out of all the others is restricted to the limits of that particular path we have chosen continuing.

    doubting in one's own nonsense along about whatever one's own nonsense may or may not be about. repeating this statement and various and sundry related to it over and over. the incantation. the mantra. the formula.
    and so now what?
    and so he waits for his damnation to take effect. he is certain it has been pronounced. it has to have been by now. he would damn himself if he were someone in a position to do such a thing. but he is not. and so he waits. he waits and scribbles and drinks coffee and smokes cigarettes. he goes home and talks to ghosts and phantoms. or he watches tv. or designs pictures on his computer. and he takes classes at the state university. and he spends the hard working taxpayers' money he is given for fulfilling and performing this given role for their benefit.
    crack, baby, crack.

    and he lets loose whatever philosophy he has about it all which is basically the immense and overwhelming micro and macro level of absolute stupidity of it all that makes very little if any sense to him whatsoever except from some weird altered contradictingly skewed juxtapositional distorted perspective view it makes all too much perfect sense. as much sense as a wheel is round and it rolls. he is at times, when he allows himself awhile to think about it awhile, astounded by the logic of the illogic of it. it could be no other way. what other way other way could it be? there are trizillion ways it might and are imagined it could be. all left to the imagination. if not then what is our imagination for? and those who endlessly bitch themselves into sucidially depressed states about it all.

    and so now what?
    and so the scribbling continues. the words concerning this and that and the other thing still roam in his head as he watches those others around him.
    and so he writes to no one - not even himself. he wouldn't read any of this. what for? there is no useful imformation. no story. bad poetry. it has nothing to do with discovering anything. it has nothing to do with gaining freedom, pleasure, joy, power, authority. it has nothing to do with any sort of enlightenment or realization. it just maintains itself. it perpetuates itself. until he dies. when he dies it will stop. unless he finally just fucking gives up before then. and then dies.
    one should just live and enjoy living.
    the mysteries remain mysteries. the mysteries today are the same mysteries that were yesterday and will be tomorrow. for whatever reason they are out of our reach. all the whys to it all.
    oh boy. ho-hum.
    one does what one can do in one's life. one discovers. one gains freedom, pleasure, joy, power, authority. one becomes enlightened and realized.
    one climbs whatever summit one can.
    now what?

    one plays a part in the play. it is the play that is the thing, not oneself. though one will always view the thing as being oneself. one is always center stage and the play is the background. even if one plays the part of one who is selfless. one as being selfless is center stage in one's view of the play. nothing else is as important as whatever one is doing.
    and we become absorbed in it and ourselves.
    he is absorbed into playing a part of someone who is only playing a part.
    where does the actor and the act begin and end?

    dig.
    dig on the groove of the thing, baby. dig on the smooth bumpiness of the groove. dig on the sharp jaggedness of the groove. let it throw one up and down and knock one around and cut and tear at one's flesh and heart and mind. that's what the thing is about, baby. it ain't no easy ride on some silver glider somewhere between the earth and clouds.
    dig it.
    or don't dig it.
    dig it not digging it.
    just dig it.
    find out what it is for oneself even if that may come up to be the most horrible ugly foul-smelling putrid nasty thing that could ever exist and dig it. dig not digging it if that's all there is and that is what it takes to dig something. the main thing is to dig. but there seems to be a short supply of sweet nice fluffy flowing fancy free things to go around for us to all have something like that to dig. but digging something like that is a drop in the hat for one to dig because digging something like that is down right instinctive and requires no thought or effort at all. but to not come up with something like that and use it as an excuse not to dig is stupid.
    there are so many uncountable amounts of things readily available in some manner and form of existence and the vast majority may not be much of anything in and of themselves one might think to dig but just as much the vast majority of them are not anything that are so entirely impossible to dig either. not everything is milk and honey, but not everything is piss and shit either. most stuff is just ordinary whatever within the confines of the extremes of things.
    the thing about digging something is not so much dependent or even concerned with the object of what is being dug but the act and experience of digging itself. that's the thing to dig - digging something. what that something is is secondary at best and more often is irrelevant to the digging itself.
    in the absence of having something one feels worthwhile to dig one can just pick up a rock and dig it. there is nothing about the rock to dig except it just being a rock like any other common easy to find rock. it is not a diamond. it is not gold or silver or a gem of any kind or a meteorite, though by random chance it might be if that so happens. it's not the quality of the rock but the quality of one digging it and the experience digging it.
    and so what does one have? one has something that one digs in a world of others who don't seem to dig anything. and it's just a dumb rock.
    but whatever...

    he writes beginning with something that seems obvious and follows the obvious and proceeds toward the obvious and he'll write along that way for awhile and look back and see that he's written down nothing but what is obvious. and he stops. is there a point to his continuing to write when what is being written is obvious? who would read it? yet what do they read otherwise? what do they talk about? what is all of this that they deal with that makes them so unhappy and unfulfilled but the obvious? what is all that confuses them but the obvious?
    that would seem to be the thing that it is not obvious. they may say that it's this or that or the other thing but this and that and the other thing are just make-believe. this or that or the other thing may be given as reasons why one cannot dig anything but what prevents them from picking up a rock or picking up a spoon or something as common as that or even just thinking about something as common as that and digging it?
    what prevents them from doing that is thinking that a rock or a spoon or some other common object whatever is not anything one can or should dig. they instead imagine digging something they do not have and cannot get and become determined that if they do not have this thing they do not have and cannot get that is something they can and should dig then they won't dig anything. and they pass all the rocks and spoons and all the common things in this world and don't dig any of it.
    one can just dig. one finds the way to dig and to dig at the most optimal level one is able to dig one forgets about all else but digging itself. for itself. one needs no object to dig. or one may dig any object one comes across as it comes for the time it presents itself and when it is gone one digs something else. digging in motion. this way one does not even have to have a rock or a spoon or anything specific however common to dig. one just digs.

    but what divides this from oneself and removes it from one's reach is the group. when one subjects oneself to that which the group tells one to dig over that which one digs oneself.
    the group usually digs that which only a few in the group determine what to dig. and this is usually something that these few of the group have and the others - the majority - do not. and these others join the group and follow the group and its rules - again determined by the few - in hopes of attaining what the few of the group tell them to dig. this is how the few control the many and the many allow themselves to be controlled. and why would they allow it if they didn't dig somehow?
    but this has a strong hold on our hearts and minds. we are a collective species though we admire the individual in the ideal if not in reality. the individual is usually a pain in the ass.
    the almighty group and hoopla hoopla oink oink...

    but what is any of that to him? the line is drawn between it and him - between them and him. but the line is fuzzy and unclear. out of focus. how is he to know where he stands? he doesn't care where he stands. if he's part of the group then he's part of the group. if he's an individual (part of that group?) then he's an individual. he himself doesn't say he is this and not that except to say that he is someone who doesn't say he is this and not that and not one who does say he is this and not that.

    dripping dropping from zero into infinity he saw himself sliding past himself while his eyes were exploding. this was in a moment elongated and superimposed upon other moments backward and veering off a bit sideways. from the other view his eyes were imploding and being saturated by blazing full spectrums of invisible light. the clocks were spinning. a flock of doves flew away and become flaming suns fading into the glowing darkness.
    he walked through strange hallways that seemed unending. yet there was a time when he was not walking but was lying on a bed and staring up at a white stucco ceiling that was swirling around like a galaxy. but he did not know if this was before or after the other or if either were in the same time line. sequence was jagged. he wondered if it had always been and what had given him the idea that it wasn't supposed to be that way. it was something these one people were telling him once who seemed to exist in only one world plane which part of his existence and/or consciousness passed over and through. yes. that was it. they were afraid of so much happening around them that they could not explain. they mumbled chants and prayers to what they called gods who they begged to protect them.
    we were considered demons in that world. we were cast out by magicians and put to death by priests. we find a place of refuge where we might live without too many questions being seriously asked by the others. though we are never fully accepted we are not actively condemned. if we remain quiet we are safe. and meanwhile we can concentrate on other areas our existence and/or consciousness extends to.
    a door opens and closes at once. one who is and who is not steps through. there is joy and sorrow. he remembers what is not about to happen. there is the crisscross nature of these events. there are the multi-sources of origins which are not the true origins but are the points of the crisscross of events.
    a saucer full of secrets.
    we have had to invent various diagrams representing our understanding based upon appearances that we judge by the ratio of hits and misses. to improve the seeming accuracy of those diagrams we have invented we circumscribe certain limits to the parameters of the context to which they are to be applied and from which observed data is to be derived. and this is our magick and science that we hold to be the highest accomplishment of our thinking because it produces an abundance of material wonders that bedazzle the senses and cause us pleasure.
    but what does this magick and science really do but to further confine us to this world plane when once we would soar above and below and around it in spaces that our now refined magick and science has defined as impossible and sealed off from our minds?
    that other time is now referred to as a childhood of fearful ignorance. what was there to fear? what was it we were ignorant of? is there no fear now? is there no ignorance?
    there were risks then as there are now. there were great and grave dangers. and there was the darkness of the unknown as there is now. one could find oneself very much lost and alone.
    but how many more possibilities exist in one's imagination over one's knowledge of facts?

    and he is blank.
    but buzz zip knew nothing of this. he was still wondering about what happened to dog plasma. he stopped by zed's and told her what he saw happen. zed listened. yeah, she said, this sort of stuff happens all the time. i've seen some weird shit myself and heard about a lot more. there's any number of theories people have put together about all of it. i've known some people who have driven themselves nuts trying to figure it out and piece it together into something that makes sense. and go to any bookstore and there'll be shelves and shelves about this theory and that one. the mistake they all make, it seems to me, is that they assume that there is a singular cause and subsequently purpose to it. that's where they lose me. i don't deny that this shit is going on or even that it's connected together directly or indirectly but not from one single source. as radical and outlandish as these people promote themselves as being, they seem entirely unwilling to drop that ages old classic archaic assumption. i don't get it. you know, here we are in the future and everything and they're all stuck in the past way of thinking feeding new variables into the same old paradigm. they're still into uni-everything. what about multi-everything?

    but he got tired of writing about this. it was as pointless as everything else he was writing. a story about nothing. it turns out that the thing that dog was always playing with was a rutabaga that he kept sticking various things into. the woman who shot him and picked it up was an alien agent named josephine. she shot him because he was on the point of discovering hyperdrive and had he done so the aliens who josephine worked for would no longer have a cheap source of rutabagas from earth and we would be one more species capable of interstellar space travel and competitors to their markets. there were too many as it was.
    then there was an explosion.

    it comes at some point that will be the last. but each point is the last. nothing is returned to again. and there are some points that are never arrived at either.
    being human is an interesting thing. it is so much but yet it is so little. to be in this state where so much is imagined and desired. this awareness of possibility and there is no conceivable way of arriving at it. to be in the limitless limited human mind.

    but there's another version of the story where buzz did record dog's mumblings. after he had gone to zed's he went home to listen to them.
    he was surprised by what he heard. faint but clear dog muttered, they're gonna kill me, man. fucking kill me, man. i know it. i sense it. before i can figure out the puzzle to the shazam thing, you know? because it's not in their plan. it's in some other plan. that's where i gotta get to - the other plan. but i'm dead. my nose is all over the place and that bitch is stealing my... whatever it is. the shazam thing. she's got the space spooks all conjured up with her. you wanna find them, go find her. i can't because i'm dead, man.
    that's weird, buzz said to himself.

    we are here. we are all within our separate heads in a space that is subjectively the same space that we look out from to the others who are as ourselves each looking out to the others who are us.
    and all that business. all analyzed and recorded and set in place to collect dust and be buried or out in the wind and worn away.

    following the winding way that is not always clearly seen and when it is does not always mean that one is not lost. at times one is most blind when one sees the light.

    bringing things from one another in order of what impossible groupings what the human mind may grasp and hold beyond the limits of the reality it is presented with.

    from broken wings to flight as dizzying fragments of thoughts and ideas and concepts gather and disperse within that all-inclusive mind sphere that one knows everything one knows in that is the surrounding world surrounded by one's mind. what is the difference between this and that and the other thing one might wonder without knowing that is something one is wondering.
    as has been long discovered and stated, language is dada. the moment with vibrational familiarity beset by strange changes. have we been here before? is today the day day as yesterday? will today remain tomorrow?
    thanks for all the fishes, mr. and mrs. wilson. thanks for the crucifixion. it arrived in the needed moment despite numerous delays in its departure.
    we are the donkeys among the splendid mounts once ridden by cowardly men of great courage. their belligerent stupidity was our inspiration.
    we designed the machine in order that all else might be destroyed. then we lived and lived while it was built building itself. the masses have so many hands. they are kept busy but still manage to do the devil's work. who is the savior? who are the saved?
    and where does this machine stand? where does it not stand?

    there is a theory to this nonsense scribbled here by this certain fool who is our messenger - who also is considered and considers himself to be mad.
    madness is a tricky thing. its substance less substantial than ethereal sub-particle matter and energy. it is a map to buried treasure written in coded metaphors and drawn in representational symbols - images from the nightmarish dark gray dream past, the river flowing into many distant futures of probability, a delta before the sea.
    these are memoirs of madness. i am i because i know who i am. my little dog is barking at someone who fills its food bowl by the light of the bright pale moon. nothing is confused here. confusion is precise and exact - and exacting. it demands our immediate attention. it demands our obedience to our immediate attention. it offers up no single clue in the multitude of clues it graciously offers.
    salvation is a mystery. in and of itself it does not exist. it a creation of despair. despair is the creation of the non-existence of salvation. this is the theory. the theory goes on forever searching for easy answers instead of proof.
    this is the circumnavigated territory of the wandering mind. a mind loosed among wild and savage constructions of thoughts. thoughts as thick as a brick.

    sitting in a cafe no man scratches his beard wondering who he might be at any moment. he writes out these words others may never read. and if they do will they know more or less than what they did in a previous state of mind?
    a question. a substitute for knowledge. knowledge is a rock tumbling into a chasm of ignorance. look out below! questions give flight to these broken wings of our fallen angel. the angel pronounced to be beyond salvation. an angel innocent in sin. an angel knowing how pointless it all is to be disheartened.
    a breath of smoke from his mouth. a cigarette burning between his fingers.
    this angel who was expected to perform miracles. this angel who is human and only that which one being human is. this human who imagines and deludes himself into entertaining this idea that he is this fallen angel. how human a thing that is. how romantically tragic.
    meanwhile he searches through that which his madness presents for him to search through. to be human is to search. and searching itself is the purpose of this searching. to find anything is a disappointment that leads to despair because the search is over. what a ghetto utopia is. what hell is heaven. he prays to god almighty not to save him. he implores with tears that the lord might spare him that damnation. and he thanks and loves the ever-merciful one that answers all prayers.
    flocks of busy bees buzzing hovering over the flowered fields. each in turn dives into the maw of sweet delightful raptured nectar. to be a busy bee or not to be a busy bee. is that a question? the skull just always grins. what does it care? it is free of this thickness of flesh oozing with brews of emotion wired and sparking the brain with impulses fireworking into the convoluted cerebral tangled network of thought that gives rise to this i am beast thing grunting while it eats and shits and falls asleep and fucks something once in awhile or simulates same.
    do we answer this call? do we enter into this situation? do we lazily sit back and view it on the big screen eating our popcorn and slurping our sodas?
    let's see that jew hung up again. we can't get enough of that. let's see a slow motion close up of the nails being driven in. the blood and sweat dripping from his thorny clown crown. let's hear these stupid people jeer and let's gaze upon those among them who stand entranced by the blinding revelation of complete and total incomprehension some call understanding.
    the delicious imagining of what that pain must have felt like. pain so great that only one's ability to forgive might overcome. to be in that mind - that space of reality that pain revels ever so sharpened and clearly. and in the final moment of one's endurance to speak the words that part that reality as though one were walking through a morning mist.

    the fallen angel buddha with a halo of nirvana around him everywhere he goes. this divine madness hated by those who are caught in the world and its ravaging idiocy designed out of their competing desires and fears against one another and themselves.
    but that's an old hat we wear. we come into this and play a part and then we leave. we are another gear in the machine turning along with the others. we are saints and we are sinners. we represent the highest good and the lowest evil. we abide in heaven and burn in hell. we worship god and dance with satan. we move through this and that and the other thing. it parts around us like water around a rock until we are eventually worn away and become part of the water.

    and no man understands this. he is here and not here. he laughs at those who chase and try to gather the material for the new jerusalem. he laughs at those letting go and trying to fade into the wilderness. and no man neither goes one way nor the other. no man remains in the moment passing him by showing him the wonder and confusion of creation conjured by the wonderful and confused creator that may be merely himself playing tricks on himself.
    guess again.

    there was the time before time. it is time experienced in a different way by a different sense.  and it leads one to a different understanding.
    but it's not just the time before time, though in a certain aspect of itself it can be stated that it to have been before or is before or will be before. this is only in terms of time which in another aspect of itself it is not. time is its face, its appearance. time is the manifestation of it.

    to speak to the fools who have no way of comprehending what one speaks to them about. it is like speaking to the images projected on a screen in a movie. they will hear what they hear and say what they say and they will do what they do. they have no choice. they not only cannot comprehend anything other than that but they cannot even conceive of anything other than that. not only does the understanding of the idea not occur to them but the idea that there is a idea to understand does not either.
    it's from a thousand thoughts combining together for a moment that the idea occurs. the idea is not singular though there are singular things within the idea.

    the which way of things. the abundance of all manner of thought. the oneness - but not oneness as in terms or parameters or conditions of inclusiveness and/or exclusiveness nor oneness in the sense of a harmonizing whole though it is ultimately a harmonious whole of cacophony clashing division and conflicting contradiction.
    a madness ensues toward itself. there is an opening to the sea where seekers of wisdom have escaped through to drown themselves in overwhelming waves of ignorance.

    the machine is powered by the lowest common denominator. that is the pendulum that drives its mainspring. the machine's mainspring has long been broken, locked in rusted tangles. the mainspring of the machine is the gordian knot hacked at by the sword of incomprehension. it is the hissing snakes of the gorgon's hair.
    the machine is god if we let it. it is the resurrection and the anti-christ on a stick. it is the bottomless pit which is the foundation of the new jerusalem.

    there are no towers. there are no heights. these are inventions by those who wish for something that is above and beyond and more than themselves to worship and idolize.
    what god but a human god?
    what machine but a human machine?

    10/29
    the melting permanence of non-existence as he sits in the cafe writing words such as the melting permanence of non-existence. the mismatch mix of conceptual images describing altered mutations composed of blocks of definitions.

    what happened to the story? was there a story? what happened to all the business about what may or may not be going on either in reality or in his head?
    it comes back to asking if there is a point to it. why a point? what does a point do for it? do we always need a point? what sort of freedom is that?
    he lives in a world with people in it. but he has no faith in any of it. it seems to him to be bent on self-destruction. but that is never the end. something unexpected survives the final holocaust that even god cannot predict. that infinitesimal impossibility overlooked by a blind eye. some warm-blooded rat thing scurrying around with the dinosaurs comes to dominate the earth when the cumbersome big lizards drop and die. that sort of thing.
    god bless the cockroach.
    he thinks, what survives from me? i am a father and now a grandfather. i will be gone rotting in the organic compost feast. what continues and survives from me - either from my genes or feeding on my flesh?
    there is only destruction of our sense of permanence. otherwise all is eternal.

    at the outset the machine incurs a rapid plasmatic void of dissemenial premeditative proto-occurances circulated among anthropomorphic conceptual gestalt systems. this quasi-process is masked by operative reality implants at discreet logistical sequential locations such that an illusionary screen is maintained between the perceiver and that which is perceived, which is the machine itself. thus the machine by its very nature creates itself as it is not. what it is not in its natural state is something which is. ergowise that which is is not the machine but a manifestation of the machine. and this manifestation appears as designed and generated by the machine as anything and everything but the machine. this extends so far as to also include the use of the term, the machine, and all descriptions thereof. we only call it the machine. that should not confuse one into thinking that it is a machine. it could be anything. it could be zebra - or a snake in a garden.
    the machine in one aspect exists as theory. this should not dispel one into thinking - don't think! - that the machine in existing in one aspect as theory that it is not substantial. it is substantial in the manifestation it generates out of this one aspect of it being theory though the manifestation is not the machine itself except that it is.
    it takes a practiced mind to conceive of this. it takes a practiced mind well versed in doubt to be able not only to conceive of it but to design the damn thing to begin with. and then one needs the practiced mind to comprehend it. comprehension of the conception of the machine and its one aspect of existing as theory that generates a manifestation of itself that is not itself but is a substantial image of itself not being itself can only follow from doubt. it is one's doubt that allows one this freedom that leads to the comprehension - any comprehension. without that doubt one is left with only the machine's manifestation as a basis for reality.
    and it is reality. none of this should imply or be inferred to mean that the reality around us that we are within and interconnected with is not real and that there is some other hidden reality more subtle that exists behind, beneath or beyond it. it should not be mistaken that that is what we are describing. that is what is described and promoted by others in other various camps and schools. our own opinion of that sort of thing is that they are full of shit. what is the point of another reality? what the fuck are we doing here in this one then? to learn the error of our ways? what the fuck is that? a joke? but then we don't know from nothing about that at all. it is just our opinion. take it or shove it. we don't care.

    glittering green fishes floundering upon the shores of our dreams as we discuss different forms of vibrational energy that might appear as shifts of light and shadow taking up arms against the latest ongoing insurrection devised out of the minds of dishwashers. there is a clock on the wall. the hands point out the time commonly understood as 11:34 am. there is an implied beginning and ending and a regular linear sequence of segmented moments in-between.

    the ever-flowing state of mind jumping off the bridge spanning the constant void. we flash between the light and shadow against any proposed logical conclusion. it is this nature of our madness that has divine aspirations above and beyond the call of reason. it's an easy trick to play. one merely needs to fool oneself. the benefit of doubt supersedes the suspension of belief. the gods rage at this invasion into their domain. we come upon them innocently and pass them unharmed. we are neither for them nor against them. we find them useful at times. at other times we find that we have quite forgotten them.
    our laughter strikes to the marrow as we dance without moving in the fields where once these gods played. now the fields lay beneath tract houses. now the missiles are poised toward every direction it is feared from which the enemy will attack. the enemy is everywhere. we are everywhere. we must be the enemy.
    the sweet girl on the balcony lifts her skirt. the boys below gaze upward with rising erections as they imagine the lovely and terrible things they wish they could perform with upon that which is reveled.
    we play chorus to this pantomime. we beat the drums and strike the gongs. we chant as much as we can remember of the holy songs we were taught by the mistress of knowledge, otherwise known as the whore of babylon, that are impossible. we open and close the gates of never was and never will be. no one needs to know. this is our secret. no one needs to know anything beyond what they presently can gain knowledge of. we do not nor will we ever tell them anything different. and there is no one here besides ourselves who might know what there is to tell that is different.
    to tell them anything that which concerns ourselves is to invite ridicule that they employ to maintain their denial mechanisms. one is able to perceive at a glance who is one of them and who is one of us - though we are them. each exposes one's identity openly by one's reaction and response to our presence. there are those who frown and sneer and those who smile and nod. simple as it seems.

    goof: what is the form of the disease we are suffering from?
    prism: in what sense do you mean disease?
    goof: i mean disease - dis-ease.
    prism: physical? emotional? psychic?
    goof: yes - all of those and then some. the whole general thing that derives from a multitude of sources and has a multitude of symptoms.
    prism: it seems that you answered your own question.
    goof: i just further defined the question. i didn't answer it.
    prism: sometimes that's all an answer is - just a further definition of the question. a differently worded restatement.
    goof: well maybe for some things. but this is a specific question needing a specific answer.
    prism: perhaps - but i doubt that it will ever receive a specific answer.
    goof: well, nevermind - forget it.
    prism: glad to.
    and they sat on the fence awhile more with the moon hanging above and the television glow from surrounding houses.
    goof: so now what?
    prism: so now whatever.
    goof: whatever? whatever what?
    prism: whatever is now.
    goof: which is?
    prism: am i a prophet?
    goof: why would you be a prophet?
    prism: exactly - why would i?
    goof: i didn't say you were.
    prism: but you are asking me questions one would ask a prophet and expecting me to come up with answers.
    goof: i was just making conversation. it doesn't have to be that deep as that.
    prism: oh.
    goof: oh?
    prism: oh.
    goof: what do you mean?
    prism: now who's is searching for depth? i just said, oh. it's a perfectly common sound made in response to a statement that usually indicates an affirmative understanding or acknowledgment or whatever.
    goof: oh... well, is that all you have to say?
    prism: that was all i felt i needed to say.
    goof: it's hardly conversational.
    prism: we are having a conversation, are we not?
    goof: well, yeah - but you don't seem too interested in having one.
    prism: to some extent you may be right. i probably would not have started a conversation had you not done so. but since you have and we are having one i am interested in participating in it as much as feel i am able for it to continue. however, if it ends, then it ends. in the meantime i enjoy this conversation as much as i would enjoy almost anything else that might occur at this particular moment.
    goof: even if i hit you in the head with a rock? you would enjoy that?
    prism: i don't quite understand your tangent. but, yes, there would be a certain amount of enjoyment of kicking the shit out of you if you were to hit me in the head with a rock - or i should say, attempt to hit me in the head with a rock.
    goof: you would enjoy that?
    prism: my enjoyment would be momentary as it would be needed in response to the circumstances. i would not be able to defend myself against your assault if i did not feel some enjoyment in my actions. when one is threatened or hurt then one is angered. when one is angered there is enjoyment to inflict corresponding injury to the attacker, at least sufficient to cause the attacker to stop and sometimes more than that to cause the attacker to think twice about taking such action in the future. outside of that particular circumstance i would not enjoy inflicting injury upon you or anyone else. but i would also not feel bad about it if it were unavoidable. i don't believe in guilt.
    goof: you wouldn't feel bad at all?
    prism: yes, i would. i would feel bad about the whole situation. i would consider it unfortunate that it had happened. but if i felt my actions to be appropriate to the circumstances then why should i feel bad about them? i might question my needing to resort to violence, but that's not the same as feeling guilt.
    goof: well, i'm not going to hit you in the head with a rock.
    prism: yes, i know. you were just making conversation.
    goof: well, i suppose - but it was more than that. i wanted to engage you in the conversation more than you just making minimal responses.
    prism: so you thought you would hit me in the head with a rock?
    goof: figuratively i suppose.
    prism: did you get the response you wanted? am i engaged?
    goof: i don't know if you are engaged even if you are engaged. you hold yourself back even when you are the most responsive.
    prism: doesn't everybody?
    goof: i don't know. maybe.
    prism: don't you?
    goof: i don't think so.
    prism: there isn't a part of you that sits back and watches yourself as you act in the world? i think even the most physical people have that. but maybe not.
    goof: you mean the soul?
    prism: soul? i know very little about what might be a soul or not. maybe it is. maybe in a zen sort of sense. but then i know very little about that either. i don't know. i don't think it's anything as metaphysical as that. at least i don't experience it as such. to me it's just there. i'm just there. it very much everyday and ordinary. as much as breathing or my heart beating. it's not something that i strive for like reaching a zen state or anything. but then that's what i don't know anything about. and i can't say that i particularly care about it either. i let others worry about that. i like it where i'm at just fine. it all comes and goes. there's good stuff and bad stuff. there's joy and sorrow. there's pleasure and pain. there's all of most everything and its opposite and all in-between. and i've found that it pretty much all balances out somehow for some reason. but i suppose it has to otherwise it would fall over. where would we be then? there isn't any real gain or loss, i don't think. not in the long run. and la-dee-da and blah blah blah and all that hoopla oink oink coo-coo-ca-joob dada monkey business that doesn't mean squat to a tree...
    goof: huh?
    prism: forget it.
    goof: no - i was following you up to that last part. what do you mean?
    prism: i mean that it's meaningless. it is what it is and ain't what it ain't. it changes nothing and nothing changes it. it's a matter of one's perspective of it - where one places oneself in it or finds oneself placed in it. if it means something, then it means something. if it doesn't, then it doesn't. it doesn't matter either way to anything - except to whoever sees meaning in it, i suppose. though i could be wrong about any of this. maybe it is all zen anyway.
    goof: so the bottom line is what?
    prism: bottom line? what bottom line? there isn't any. or there isn't one in theory and that's all this is is one hopped up theory. the bottom line, i suppose, is wherever anyone draws it. unless one wants to count death as the ultimate bottom line. unless there some sort of existence or experience past that. but i don't know. i haven't gotten that far yet.
    goof: you say it's just a theory but before you said it was as certain as your experience of breathing or your heart beating.
    prism: i don't know if i was talking about the same thing each time, but can't it be both? it's a theory of experience and an experience of theory. it's a theory drawn from experience and experience drawn from theory. but i'm now just playing with words. i'm opening and closing my mouth expelling breath and making these sounds. i can do that because certain neurons are firing in my brain and nervous system. they are firing because they are stimulated by experience i am having and from previous experience that formed certain learned patterns of response that have become more or less automatic. there is belief on our parts that these patterns of sounds have meaning. and they do. they describe this or that. we have enough similar experience and can share that meaning. but if one of us speaks of an experience that the other does not share then these meanings become vague or even entirely lost.
    goof: i don't know about that. that's the one thing about words, they can describe something that is new to one's experience.
    prism: up to a point. if you know what a cat is then i can describe a tiger to you and you will more or less have an idea of what it is even without having seen one. but as more of what is described cannot be described using words that have familiar and shared meaning then that becomes less true. and more so if what one is describing is something entirely abstract.
    goof: so you're saying that what you're describing cannot be described?
    prism: oh, i can describe it. i can describe it very well. every word i use in describing something is describing it. but how much of that description is understood by others i cannot determine. it does not concern me that much. is it important that what i say be understood by anyone? who am i that anyone should listen to what i have to say let alone understand it? am i responsible for their understanding? i do not understand them except in the most simple terms. if someone says, cat, i know what a cat is. i can even imagine a tiger from it. but i don't always know what they mean by saying, cat. and forget about something like love. and forget about truth, justice, freedom and so on. you asked at first what is the form of our disease. this is it. is language a virus as old bill said it was? it binds us together but it divides us as well at the same time. it creates bridges. but those bridges are more often used to invade and conquer not to trade and exchange. oh well. that's that. it's the way it is. we all have this disease. you have it. i have it. yet i choose not to suffer from it. if you and others choose otherwise then that is your choice.
    goof: do we choose that? are we given a choice?
    prism: one cannot often have much choice in what occurs and what is. but one can choose how one responds to what occurs and what is. and as i said before, there is a balance. do i suffer? i suffer as much as anyone, i would imagine. i am not immune to suffering. we all suffer. some more and some less. i try to see this and keep it in mind. i try not to allow myself to become too overwhelmed by it. i feel that i suffer and that i do not suffer.
    goof: what does that feel like?
    prism: both ways. either/or. i must say that i don't really quite know. it's almost like not feeling but that's not it. it's not numbness of feeling. it's more a neutralization of feeling. one feels everything and all that one feels balances out. one cancels the other while at the same time both are felt. but that's not exactly it either. nothing is not experienced. nothing is taken away. each component is experienced fully in and of itself but not alone and separated from the rest of what one feels. maybe that's the difference. i do not experience these various states of feeling separately but blended together as a whole. but not blended as a undifferentiated mush. it's more like blended across a spectrum of contrast. one may like one over another but still one wants to experience them all.

    and he is tired of writing this crap. it's just some sort of compulsive habit. but he still writes it. he cannot not write it.
    everything is becoming darker. everyone's closing off the light. all talking about the world coming to an end. they seem to want it to come to an end. they've given up.
    and he can't blame them too much. who asked for this? who asked to be created and born? to be brought here into this mess of people driven by their biology and one is the same as them. one's body and mind have their own motivation. they cannot be trusted. and these needs of the body and mind become one's own needs through the use of pain and pleasure they can cause.
    but so many have been down this path and written about it. it doesn't matter.

    and in a dream we speak to ourselves. we stand in character upon the stage of the burning theater. outside is the rubble of what once had been. we can only imagine how it might have appeared.

    goof: what is the problem? what is broken? what are we constantly fighting over?
    prism: we divide ourselves into camps of us and them.
    goof: not all of us.
    prism: by saying that you have just done it.
    goof: i didn't create the division. i just stated how it is.
    prism: no one creates it. everyone is stating how it is. that is how it is created.
    goof: so you create it too?
    prism: how did i do that?
    goof: you said we divide ourselves into us and them.
    prism: and who is we?
    goof: all of us.
    prism: yes, all of us. you were the one who divided us into those who do and those who don't.
    goof: but that's true.
    prism: is it?
    goof: there are those of us who don't divide people into categories and camps.
    prism: but that in itself divides people into two categories and camps. i did not do that. you did. i said we divide, not we are divided.
    goof: what's the difference?
    prism: we are all of us. we all divide. that makes us one. that makes us all of us. we. your description divides between the primary division - us and them.
    goof: what about you? do you divide?
    prism: yes.
    goof: but you said you didn't.
    prism: did i?
    goof: well, maybe you actually didn't. but you gave that impression. you seem to saying that there is no us and them except for people saying that there are.
    prism: that is basically what i am saying. in actuality there is no us and them. there is only us. us being people - the human race. but it is a shared characteristic among us that we divide ourselves apart from one another. we each do it differently along different lines, but we all do it. i am one of us, so therefore i must do it too.
    goof: how?
    prism: i represent the most extreme. to me it is not us and them but me and them.
    goof: so to you i am one of them?
    prism: yes.
    goof: thanks a lot, pal.
    prism: but i also recognize that you and i are us in the greater sense of all of us being us.
    goof: doesn't that contradict the other?
    prism: how so?
    goof: i don't know. it just seems like it would. but i think i get it. we all divide. you divide. you pointed out that i divide, though i thought i wasn't, but i was. so everything is true.
    prism: bingo...

    and that goes nowhere while seeming to be going somewhere.
    what is left when it ends and is gone? when one does what one does in the context and within the parameters of a situation and reaches the limit and the end of the extent to which one's actions may play a part and have an effect one way or another in that situation. when the others working separately or together effectively eliminate or at least neutralize the effect of one's actions. when one is isolated by the group because one is an individual factor independently operating from outside the group's control. this is something that groups universally cannot tolerate. it threatens the group no matter what else the group is doing or trying to accomplish or what its supposed philosophy is. defending itself will become its first priority over all other activity, even at the expense of all other activity.