to become absorbed back to the original point of the mind. to see into that direct reflection of oneself. to be sitting in a cafe drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette and to be scribbling words in a notebook. to be sitting in a house on the island. to be part of the design of the machine. to be the first and the last. to be listening to these others speaking of what goes on in their lives.

    and this or that or the other thing may be formulated and incorporated into the design. the design follows its own evolution accepting or transforming or rejecting what is given to it or that it comes upon itself.
    and the priests perform the sacred rituals in service to the gods that have been discovered or invented through the ages to have had this or that or the other effect upon the human mind and spirit. the symbols and the mysteries. the hoopla from the most traditional to the most arcane and spontaneous. the human mind and spirit trapped in a box trying to imagine what might exist otherwise.
 
    the well lit streets were still dark. the darkness that the lights were installed and were burning to dispel would not leave. where was it to go? where else was it supposed to be? the light was thin like watery white wash over a deep black. it was vaporous and ghostly. it served to make the darkness even more eerie than darkness is of its own nature. apparitions and a confusion of shadows in a haze of unreality. the darkness had its place. the light did not no matter how many powerful generators turned and made a great noise insisting that it did.

    8/23
    always at this point of evaporation when the world fades and all is only a single note of oneself without the reverberating cacophony of the others that creates a swirling twisting churning storm of confusion each becomes lost in and each is an integral elemental cause of the chaotic effect. and one is included in that.
    one sits in a cafe. drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. one is scribbling in a notebook down what one can collect of the thoughts of theories and speculations and experiences occurring within and without one's mind. oh boy. ho-hum. and one is just someone. and one is just anyone. it might be common to everyone. one does not know. this can only be verified by everyone. and that verification cannot at this stage and state of human affairs be achieved or recorded or communicated. one can only guess at how much one's own thoughts and experience could have in common with anyone else's.
    and one may wonder what importance that may or may not have either for oneself or for others. for oneself there is the need to feel in some sort of unity with others of one's human species. this is a need common to the species itself and its members. humans are a social species. though there is also a need for one to feel unique and individual and independent apart from the rest.
    and it goes on and on. and it alternately and sometimes simultaneously makes sense and doesn't make sense. and at times the more it makes sense the more it doesn't make sense that it should make sense and/or the more it doesn't make sense the more it makes sense that it should not make sense. and those two spheres of thought mingle and merge twisting and turning and entwining until they become indistinguishable from one another and then some. and one finds oneself back at that point of evaporation. this sense of vanishing blows through one's hair as though one was falling through an opening space into some other void thing whatever.
    and on and on it goes whatever may come or go into or from this either with or without oneself coming or going with it.
    and the words that are available to one in the language one is given to use at one's birth and subsequent conditioning are nearly entirely useless except if one uses them in some highly allegorical metaphorical symbolic representative way that communicates little to another unless that other has had similar experience and similar understanding of that experience one has had and is attempting to describe and possibly communicate.
    and blah blah blah.
    it can't happen here.
    one tries to imagine how another might read these words one finds oneself scribbling down on endless pages in endless notebooks though one realizes that it is unlikely that another will read any of them for very much long before one's mind tilts and twirls in a multitude of directions at once and one feels oneself torn apart by them toward one's every thought shrouded in meaninglessness nonsense but that is what these words essentially in a certain aspect describe and communicate which is the sphere and environment in which they exist and are written down and what one needs to be in or enter into in order to begin to understand them and what they are written down to describe and communicate.
 
    8/26
    and then a few days later one has forgotten what one was writing about and doesn't feel like reading what one wrote in order to find out. one rarely reads what one has written oneself. but one sort of remembers that that sort of has something to do with what one was writing before the other day about the matter of anyone reading this what one has written and if one doesn't read it oneself then why should anyone else?
    it is written just to be written just to ease his compulsive behavior of his madness. scribbling words - any words - helps him to center sort of. and whoever was much changed by what another has written? whoever was able to understand what another had written? is there change? is there understanding? everyone believes what they believe and they will just find something to read that supports what they believe in and then pretend that they have been changed and that they understand it. who wants to believe that they are mad and read this and/or change into someone who is mad in order to understand it?
    what?
    maybe that's why he writes so much. one doesn't have to believe in anything in order to write. one does not need to change nor understand it. one lets others decide what to believe from what one writes. one lets others decide to change or not. one lets others figure out if it's anything that can be understood.
    one lights another cigarette sitting in a cafe. one pretends to be a misunderstood artist/poet/something or the other. but one knows one is only mad.
    one does not want to identify oneself though one feels that one should. is it important? does it matter either way if one identifies oneself or not or what one identifies oneself as? should it? should it not? some would say, yes. some would say, no. some would say, what?
    but one continues despite whatever. one finds oneself drowning and flying at once. one has crashed through the mirrors and mirrors only to find more mirrors and mirrors. is this the self that one has heard and read about that should be the goal of human searching?
    the self. how does one know the self except in some reflection? is that a joke?
    the illusion. where and when does the illusion begin and/or end?
    laughing in the maze of mirrors. who should one be next?
    whoever one is and/or decides to be one exists in a world with others and one is in interaction and interreaction with these others and them with oneself. one behaves this way or that way or another way and receives this or that or another response or no response from these others and the same with one with them. some of the responses and non-responses are advantageous or beneficial to one's well being in this world while some are not. some may be neutral. this is the guide for one's behavior. one works from a given. one was born as this or that or the other thing and has these or those or other qualities and abilities into this or that or another environment and situation. these create the parameters of one's personality that either work for or against one that one can either use or try to overcome or fail to live up to.
    this is one's basic theory about it that one has hobbled together from other theories and from one's experience and imagination. this is complex enough when one is thinking about oneself but when it is applied to oneself among all the others that it also must be applied to it becomes nearly impossible to comprehend. this is what it turns into when he follows the advice, know thyself. yet there are these others who behave and operate as if they understood it all - not only in themselves but in everyone else too.
    simplistic. experimental. deluxe model.
    this is where we are. this is how we've gotten to where we are. and this is how we are continuing.
    one skates figure 8s intertwining one way and the other and another into and out of each which way. one turns this way and one is this. one turns that way and one is that. one turns another way and one is the other thing. and one turns and turns and turns. yet one somehow remains one though one is many. the many become the many others who are one beside oneself among them. we are all of these including the one among them. we are them. me, myself and i. coo-coo-ca-joobie-doobie-doobie-doo.
    and do we have consciousness of ourselves other than being one among ourselves? he wonders about this as he observes the others of ourselves who are them. do they think or feel in any other way that he does? is there experience different from his experience? not specifically but generally.
    and he has always felt and has been told that he should write a story. if he could write a story. the others like stories. that might be one way of getting them to read what he writes. if he wanted them to. but why should one write what others want to read? is that the point of writing? is that the point to his writing? there are an abundance of people who write what others like to read. an over-abundance.
    and what story would he write but the one he is writing? this is a story, isn't it? a story of one's madness.
    always at the point of evaporation.
    the others do not matter. a mass of bodies. a swarm of minds. they are part of the environment one must consider and contend with much like the weather or the geography. the are sunny days and storms. there are mountains and deserts. as there are winds there are prevailing moods and opinions. as there are rivers there are crowds. as there are swamps there are organizations.
    and one scribbles on and is amazed at the absurdity of it.

    one is on the ongoing point of discovering being faced by the infinite expanse of one's ignorance one is brought to by any and all knowledge one might possess like a bubble in the surf crashing on the beach of the island where one lies in the sun in the eye of a storm on an otherwise calm sea while finding oneself scribbling words onto pages in a endless series of notebooks that as each is filled one puts it on a shelf to collect dust until one dies and they are collected together and taken to the nearest landfill. nothing is to be remembered of one's existence and presence in this world. one finds oneself here now presently scribbling these same words.
    one recognizes one's fate and realizes that it is quite pointless to think or feel anything about it one way or the other. both the highest revelations and the most common mundane idiot thoughts one might have and transcribe will vanish as if they never were. all feeling from ecstatic euphoric joy to hopeless abandoned despair will also vanish. one will know of the experience of these things but no other. no other - even if anything survives for what can ever be communicated anyway? the others are dead. the others are programed animations of senseless mindless matter that move through space and time without the cognizant awareness that one has of being anything more than that. they even speak of themselves as being nothing. listen.
 
    and one writes oneself around in the circles and loops that go nowhere and back again. this is what one is and what one does except for whatever one needs to do to maintain a simple yet comfortable existence while in this world where one has found oneself without knowing how or why. that and watching the antics of those around oneself which one finds amusing. they who see themselves as these lowly human creatures who are stuck in this physical material world unless they undergo some sort of rigorous and disciplined method of some kind or another to break through some barrier between them and the infinite itness of it all before they are lucky to even get a glimpse of it. oh well.
    one does not know why this is the way it is. one knew of no reason why these others were trapped in the misery and suffering of the world. it seems that they have no choice. that this was the only experience that they knew. they did not trust their imagination - if they had any imagination besides how to design a new and improved model of some consumer product or some new and improved way of selling it. one did not see any of these other than in the world. one did not see them where one was otherwise. when one was somewhere otherwise one was alone. even for most of the time one was in the world one was alone.  but being alone afforded one and encompassed a great infinite expanse of possibilities that only partially included one being in this world.
    but all of that is irrelevant.
    but oneself is irrelevant. one exists as no one who is or needs to be noticed. nor does one do anything that is or needs to be noticed or if it is noticed is quickly and quietly dismissed as irrelevant. one is just another someone. another anyone.  the few who even know one's name which isn't one's name anyway are as irrelevant as himself. they are and do nothing that is just as unnoticed. they each are just someone who is anyone. but this is the case with the vast majority of people. he is no different however much he may not be the same.
 
    with a dark storm of of light filling one's mind one sits in the cafe. within this dark storm of light filling one's mind is the island. on the island in the deep forest is a house where one lives. the house has many rooms. far more rooms than it might seem to have from the outside. the rooms are actually the same room which is the only room in the house in different spacetime dimensional aspects to itself. one moves from one room to another without leaving the room by shifting how one thinks of and perceives the room. the room is also the cafe. the cafe is one of the spacetime dimensional aspects of the room. this description is a simplistic one. the mechanism is far more complex but is simple as well. one doesn't think about that. there is actually no such thing as any of this except in his imagination. he imagines it any way he wants to and explains it any way he wants to. nor is there such a place as the island for the house to be on to begin with. one does not find this to be any sort of problem with being on the island or in the house or in any one of the rooms - including the room which is the cafe. the house like the rooms being one room is actually one house of many houses that compose the imaginary city. the imaginary city, as the name implies, does not exist either. he lives with what does not exist except in his imagination. but who is to say whether this is true or not true?
    and la-dee-dada-ditty-doo.
    and the shore of the sea is also the island itself in that same sort of spacetime dimensional aspect. and the sea is perhaps the sea of humanity that a storm rages upon but is otherwise calm.  but this doesn't need to be. he doesn't think of it that way most of the time. he doesn't think about it in any way most of the time. it is what it is.
    one finds oneself in it and out of it. but either way one finds oneself with oneself. something a bit simple but often forgotten. or maybe just unremembered. and it all need have no ulterior meaning symbolic or metaphorical or otherwise.
    and one finds oneself among those wallowing in this madness of convoluted of convoluted dada spun and twisted and tangled out of what is fairly simple. but what else are humans for?
    and one returns to oneself siting in the cafe. and one is still writing and drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes.
    and one gains oneself and loses everything else. that seems to be the rule of it. one cannot have both it would seem. one is a phantom in the world of the flesh.

    as one walks along through the streets of what some call the eternal city of babylon. as one is feeling radiant through the dull gray despair haze hanging stagnant in the air from the others. one sees the emptiness in their faces even when they are smiling. to his x-ray eyes their deeper feeling show through the veneer they practice putting on. one sees them when they feel no one is watching when the dullness of the expression returns by default.

    and one imagines also out of oneself all manner of plots and schemes. and one wonders of the meanings of these and from where they might originate. there is basic human motivation which humans share together and with all other living things. this is the instinct to survive. along with this is the instinct to reproduce oneself which not all humans share but enough that we overpopulate the earth. without this there would be nothing living. humans channel this reproductive instinct into all sorts of things not just biological reproduction. this produces all kinds of creativity.
    is this where the roots of one's motivation lie? to dream of things unimagined? to devise plots and schemes of survival and creativity beyond just pure survival?
 
    9/4
    one imagines oneself as oneself. what else would one imagine oneself as? what else could one imagine oneself as that would not then become oneself? one imagining oneself as something other than oneself is to imagine oneself as being one who imagines oneself as something other than oneself.
    one imagines oneself imaging oneself on an island which is not an island but appears as an island. it is a dimension of the mind in its own spacetime thing for its own experience apart from the experience of this world with all the others. one is not interested in the others and what they think, say or do.
    on the island one is with the other who is a direct reflection of the self. besides oneself existing it seems to one that at least one other exists. the island is where and when one meets the other.
    then there is the machine. the machine is central to all of this. it creates the island and all that is on it out of its own design. it may create the world but one is not sure about this. it is probably too much to imagine that it does so. the machine may be the other. even oneself may be a product of the machine though one is the one who designed the machine. in imagination things can work this way. in imagination all possibilities are possible. one may be the machine oneself.
    and around and around it goes. and so it goes. oh boy. ho-hum.
    the house which is also the cafe is one of the axis points of the machine though all of the axis points may be the same axis point and only perceived as separate as we perceive the universe as an infinite number of points which may all be the same point or something like that.
    the other has been watching him on the island playing the piano. the other is thing which calls itself lightbulb.
    thing: how are you doing?
    him: perfect.
    thing: how can you be so sure?
    him: i have decided that how i am doing is perfect. there is no need to verify it beyond that. there is no way to verify it beyond that. i cannot trust another's judgment. the other doesn't have the same sense of things as i do to make such a judgment.
    thing: so only you can judge?
    him: how i am doing? yes.
    thing: and what if you discover that you are wrong?
    him: that is irrelevant. you mistake perfection to be without error. how can something not be perfect even if it's all fucked up? it is then perfectly fucked up - right?
    thing: then how you are using the word perfect is meaningless.
    him: if it is meaningless to you then it is meaningless to you. i have nothing to do with that. that is your decision or perhaps your fate. i understand its meaning and that is all that is needed. the word perfect originally meant to be finished. it was probably assumed what was finished was finished the best way it could be without error and the word came to mean something without error. i am not saying i am without error. only that i am finished.
    thing: you are finished?
    him: not in terms of being finished in finality. not finished but finishing. to be finished up to this moment. and any moment might be the finality. i am finished up to now as it stands in space and time. that may or may not be without error.
    thing: so you can be perfect but also all fucked up?
    him: exactly.
    thing: i guess that makes a certain amount of sense.
    him: whether it does or not is pointless.
    thing: so our conversation is pointless?
    him: no, there is a point.
    thing: and what is that?
    him: to be laughing.
    thing: but you aren't laughing.
    him: i'm laughing more than you might think.
    and he lights another cigarette. he surveys the world of the others. emotions pull at him to feel this way or that way or another way about it all. and the emotions pull at one's thoughts. one resists with one's thoughts. emotions are drugs. hormonal fixes and counter-fixes. on and on. the mystics are right. but what is the world without feeling emotions and the feelings and the thoughts that emotions create? it becomes a flat illusion which at best is an annoying distraction. one can pass through it. one arrives at the island with the other. and the island and the other are just another illusion masking reality that there is only oneself. and the reality that there is only oneself is another illusion that hides the reality that there isn't even oneself but only nothing. and one can step into that. but one has been here before and one creates the layers of illusion for oneself to amuse oneself with something other than that because even though that may be the ultimate reality it is boring as heck.
    one finds oneself imagining that one is that which exists and does not exist simultaneously.
    big deal - right?

    one reaches into the possibility of things as far as one is able to. this may not be the entirety of possibilities but it may not need to be. it may not even be anything that is possible but it may not need to be. if one can imagine it then that may be all that is needed. one imagines it as humans have imagined things since the beginning.
    as being human - a particular human - one sits in a cafe drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and scribbling in notebooks all that one imagines in one's so-called madness. so-called by the others for some reason he doesn't not quite understand.
    one has experimented with creating certain imputs into the fabric of the machine at certain points under certain conditions and has had a certain amount of success. one cannot effect the machine for one's own purpose. the machine is traveling its own course and cannot be manipulated by a single individual's will to do something outside or contrary to that course. however by carefully reading and understanding and accepting the way of the machine and aligning and matching its course one can create imputs that do have manifest results that at times are greatly magnified by the machine's momentum.
    and one need only a single nail to bring down a kingdom.
    all the while seeming to be no one doing nothing. someone pushed aside by the others' goal-seeking behavior. the machine feeds them pellets to get them to do what it wants.
    and blah blah blah...

    one laughs to oneself and with oneself at how wonderfully delusional one's thoughts have become. a life well spent concocting a megalomaniac proportioned reflection of oneself out of the virtually nothing one actually is. out of someone who wasn't even supposed to be born or to survive. out of someone who is utterly common and mediocre and banal. out of someone jimmy jazzed as no one who no one would suspect to mingle in the belly of the beast whatever.
    dada-poo-poo.
 
    thing: are you having fun writing all this nonsense?
    him: is it nonsense?
    thing: is it not nonsense?
    him: must that be decided? and if so then who is to decide? and if they decide one way or the other do they decide for everyone? does it change anything about it?
    thing: does it need to change?
    him: would we know it if it did?
    thing one would think one would.
    him: maybe. maybe not.
    thing: i suppose we could say that.
    him: i just write what i write just to write it. it's as much nonsense as it is. it's as much not nonsense as it is. it is what i perceive and what i think about. it's what i imagine as being real. it's what i set into motion.
    thing: what did you set into motion?
    him: the machine.
    thing: when did you do this?
    him: it has always been in motion. it will always be in motion.
    thing: then what did you do?
    him: i imagined it.
    thing: and that set it in motion?
    him: as it had been and will be - yes.
    thing: so what exactly is the machine?
    him: some action/reaction/inaction thing.
    thing: like taking about my sally?
    him: something like that. there is no exact thing about the machine. it's as vague as imagination itself.
    thing: like the want of a nail?
    him: exactly like that. though there will always be a nail and there will always be a kingdom. there will always be a relationship between the two like the butterfly and the stock market thing i suppose. but this has nothing to do with that. it has nothing to do with what one does or does not do. it's basically meaningless.
    thing: i thought so.
    him: well, there you have it.
    thing: i would have thought something else.
    him: most people would. at this point one is entirely free while at the same time being bound. it is not a matter of action or reaction or even inaction but of perception of one's action or reaction or inaction. the nail is lost or found. the kingdom stands or falls. there is stability and instability as there is all this and that and the other thing in everything. to this glorious realization all else is darkness. what is there compared to it? what victory? what wealth and power? what drug? what heaven? what any other experience? but i don't even know what it is that i'm talking about.
    thing: i didn't think so. but you seem to be enjoying yourself.
    him: not without sorrow and regret. not without the deepest forlorn and hopeless despair. not without the most intense anger. for what joy that denies those things can truly be said to be joy? joy must include all other possible states of being and thought and feeling. it should include all pleasure and pain. it should never allow itself to be in a position to be in want of a nail. it should never be so attached to anything - even itself - that the loss of anything including the loss of itself should alter its sense of unending joy.
    thing: those are wonderful words. yet i have witnessed you being very far from any sort of joy whatsoever.
    him: and...?
    thing: well it would seem to blow a big gaping hole in what you're saying.
    him: so it would seem.
    thing: so it may be.
    him: yes, so it may be.
    thing: and so i would say it is.
    him: i would agree. that is what i would expect you to say.
    thing: am i wrong?
    him: there is no wrong or right. there is no yes or no. it is all only how i imagine it as being not necessarily how it is to anyone else.
    thing: so then i am not wrong?
    him: yes/no.
    thing: talking to you is like driving a car down the wrong way on a one way street.
    him: so you are saying that a big gaping hole has been blown through what i was saying?
    thing: and you are going to say that it doesn't matter.
    him: does it?
    thing: if someone is going to listen to what you are saying it does.
    him: then maybe that someone should be advised not to listen to what i say.
    thing: that would be my advice.
    him: then when this someone comes along i will send them to you.
    thing: yes. then i will advise them not to listen to you.
    him: that is probably a good idea. but what about you?
    thing: what about me?
    him: do you follow your own advice?
    thing: should i?
    him: that would be my advice.
    thing: but i can listen to what you are saying without needing it to mean anything. i'm quite used to that.
    him: so i've noticed.
    thing: i thought you would.
    him: so if what i'm saying doesn't have to mean anything then what difference does it make if anyone listens to me or not?
    thing: i didn't say that it did.
    him: but you would advise someone not to.
    thing: maybe.
    him: so now you're not sure?
    thing: i can change my mind.
    him: well, there is no one else so i suppose it doesn't matter.
    thing: no, i suppose it doesn't.
 
    zap!

    him: and what meaning would you like what i'm saying to have?
    thing: some sort of direction or purpose.
    him: such as?
    thing: i don't know. all i know is that it doesn't have any.
    him: it may surprise you to hear this but this is a concern to me as well. i too would like what i say or anything else for that matter to have meaning - direction and purpose. yet i am not willing to just pull anything out of a hat to fulfill that function just for someone else's direction and purpose which may not be my own. in my thinking about this it would seem that the most useful meaning and direction and purpose anything could have is to be that which produces or at least represents joy. joy that has no limitations. joy that shines through the darkest of moments. if this is to have meaning then this is the meaning i would wish it to have. that is the direction and purpose it should have if it is to have any.
    thing: that makes sense.
    him: then i say this - that rather than having joy as its direction and purpose why not have joy as its possession that it expresses in all places at all times? why set joy as apart from ourselves as something we do not have and that we have to set out to attain? why not agree that we have already attained it and more than that that we have always had it and always will? why not agree that our very existence is joy?
    thing: can we agree to something like that?
    him: why not?
    thing: because it's not true or real.
    him: if we agree that it is isn't that enough to make it true and real?
    thing: no. not if it's not.
    him: what makes it not besides ourselves?
    thing: something else besides ourselves.
    him: what? you don't mean god?
    thing: no, not god. but something.
    him: then that something, if it exists, which i do not believe it does, must be convinced to not interfere with what we ourselves agree on.
    thing: and if it cannot be convinced? or maybe it's not something that is something that one may convince or not convince.
    him: like what?
    thing: a force of nature.
    him: so a force of nature is what will not allow us to experience joy if we agree to do that?
    thing: something like that.
    him: so then we just ignore it.
    thing: and if we can't ignore it? what if is something like trying to ignore gravity?
    him: i don't believe that. if it is anything it is just some chemicals in our body. we just have to override them with our minds.
    thing: i think that's been tried.
    him: well i've been able to do it. that's what i was trying to tell you to begin with.
    thing: i feel nothing.
    him: that can be sort of like feeling joy i suppose.
    thing: what about the others?
    him: they can stick it up their arse.
    thing: am i to take that as an expression of your joy?
    him: sort of. i told you that the joy i feel is not dependent on anything else. it exists despite anything else. and just because i feel joy that doesn't mean i feel compassion for anyone else.
    thing: so what is joy? even killers feel joy when they kill.
    him: that's not my problem.
    thing: what is your problem?
    him: nothing having to do with anyone else or them with me. it's just joy. it is internal and i keep it to myself. it is mine and mine alone. others can find it for themselves - and i wish they would. then i wouldn't need to keep it hidden and protected and i could express it along with everyone else. it is the only experience i consider to be real. everything else is illusion. and i try to avoid or put off those who would rob me of it and would seem to want to deny me that experience for whatever reason - probably because they deny it in themselves. or else they want me to give it to them. i ain't no jesus here. i don't climb on some cross so that others get a free ride to paradise just for mentioning my name. and it seems that that is what others would want from me more often than not.
    thing: am i doing that?
    him: no. i don't think so. but the others. i don't know what to do about the others. if one is experiencing joy here and now then what is there to say? if they are not and they feel that they have to go somewhere else to try to find it then they can go and good luck to them.
    thing: but isn't that why you're writing all this?
    him: i write this only to write it. there is nothing more to it than that. i'm just making it all up as i go along.
    thing: but what if someone reads it and starts thinking it's something else?
    him: well, too bad for them. fuck them.

    god fuck them, everyone.

    the story so far is what one has been reading so far. one either gets it or not. fuck it. light another cigarette. learn to forget. down by the river. into the city. it happens in the city. it always happens in the city. the story itself - and we aren't going to concern ourselves if this is a story or not - is in pieces that are connected by some rather tangled threads. when one writes a story there should be no explanation other than the story itself but this story we are having him write is a story of explanations. explanations of nothing that can be explained. nothing. and some of the threads are broken. and some of the threads are missing. abandon logic and reason. abandon oneself. abandon faith. abandon doubt.
    forget it.
    nevermind.
    the story is basically and may only be this guy sitting in a cafe writing the story on the stage of the burning theater in the imaginary city on the island.
    he is mad. he is a killer, though not yet. he wants to kill. another inside him - which is why he writes about himself in 3rd person - wants him to kill. but sitting here writing distracts him from that and thinking about it - for now.
    this is what we have given him to do.
    we have our own motives - like destroying the whole entire planet.
 
    and it is laughing. it is in the state of laughing. the story is about the state of laughing. one laughs at the misfortune of others when one has escaped what has befallen them. at the very least one laughs despite the misfortune of others. the idea is to keep laughing.
    but one often has to keep one's laughter hidden from the others who are suffering this misfortune. one who is suffering misfortune does usually not appreciate another's laughter.
    and it goes around like that.

    to be sitting in a cafe writing in a notebook. it has become a habit - a compulsion. one sits here among the others wondering while they jabber about this and that and the other thing. and one doesn't come up with much from one's wondering that doesn't seem to lead to more wondering.
    one writes down all the thoughts and ideas one would like to say to someone if there was anyone.
    what is anyone else interested in except for some romance thing or another? success and love. what could one write that would bring them success and love? or would comfort them in not finding either?
 

    wishing away upon the song of a lark.
    walking along while the dogs do bark.
    oh boy. ho-hum.
    and here it is. it is now. what is it?
    we gather ourselves in encampments armed and ready for war.
    the beast and the whore walk along the promenade laughing.

    and buzz zip, hero of a thousand worlds, burst open and a purplish green orange glowing thick stenching slime oozed out of him onto the expensive luxurious golden carpet in the queen's secret chamber where she had had him brought in the hopes of receiving an injection of his genetic material into her family's line that otherwise had been producing a diversity of bizarre yet interesting yet functionally useless deformed offspring.
    when the queen came into the chamber and saw what had happened she stamped her foot and muttered, damn! with one hand bringing a handkerchief to cover her nose and mouth, her other hand waving gestures instructing the servants to clean the mess up and dispose of it somewhere, she turned and left.
    so much for her hopes.
    she was wearing green satin slippers and nothing else but a sheer loose rose gown. she had a diamond in the center of her forehead. it was mounted onto a post that was screwed into her skull. this had been done on her sixth birthday when it was ascertained that she do not exhibit any major genetic deformities and she was allowed to appear publicly at court.
    this did not mean that she did not carry any genetic mutations. it only meant that in her case these were recessive. they had not been for her siblings and offspring.
    this was why her hopes lay in seducing buzz zip who until the incident in her secret chamber was believed to be among the few who were genetically "clean".
    we must point out at this time that the queen was no beauty. when it was ascertained that she did not exhibit any major genetic deformities this did not mean that she did not exhibit minor ones. everybody did. by this time it was rare for any child to be born and grow into anything closely resembling what was once the human norm. all that was left of this norm were images from history when it was the norm. these images were romanticized and even worshipped.
    humans had moved to the thousand worlds and living on these thousand worlds had a pronounced effect on their genes. no planet was quite like earth. by not even earth was quite like earth though it had been largely abandoned and left to a billion or so people who lived among the ruins as hunter gatherers. but they too mutated.
    buzz zip appeared out of legend. stories of him and his heroic adventures and his genetic purity spread among the thousand worlds before most had actually seen him.
    this came at the time known now as the dna wars. rumors circulated that there were banks of dna samples taken at the time before the human race had mutated. different planets were rumored to have had them. these were invaded by others.
    buzz zip offered his services to these invaded planets and such it became rumored that he was a product of these dna banks. he fought bravely and would be instrumental in chasing the invading fleets off.
    no one really knew where buzz zip came from or where he went back to after helping some planet or another. no one knew how to contact him if they were being invaded. he would just show up in the nick of time and save the day. then he would be gone.

    meanwhile in another dimension of mind there is this house where a child lives in with her parents and a dog. the child was a girl and her name was elizabeth but she was called becky. she was 8 years old. every year on her birthday since her first she was brought into her father who was still in bed sleeping and made to have sex with him by her mother. her mother dressed in some sort of priestess outfit like this was some sacred ritual. her father like most men in the early morning had a firm erection. her mother would slip off the blanket and unbutton his pajamas. she would then straddle her daughter over her father's hips and carefully insert his penis into her vagina after lubricating it. on becky's 3rd birthday she did this herself at her mother's urging instruction.
    otherwise becky and her parents could have been a tv family. their lives were the ideal example of  the middle class family lifestyle. they were well groomed and dressed. the yard was well kept and the house sensibly decorated in which they often entertained neighbors and friends. her father and mother were both college educated having master's degrees in business management which is how they met. they married just after graduation.
    becky's father was named william but he was called bill. her mother's name was josephine but she was called jo. bill worked for a chicken wholesaler company. jo worked for a rutabaga wholesaler company both of which secretly unknown to them sold chickens and rutabagas to aliens through a dummy company. they were both administrators supervising all operations from supply to distribution - but accountants handled the billing.
    it was a week after becky's 8th birthday and her annual sex ritual with her father that two men in black suits had visited her parents. less than a week after that her father moved to an apartment and they filed for a divorce. it was a few nights after that when becky was abducted. she woke to a bright light in her room and some little people with big eyes standing at the foot of her bed. one picked up the teddy bear she slept with that had fallen on the floor. she took it and hugged it to her chest as she began floating out the open window toward the light.
    jo called bill the next morning. becky's gone, she said. he said, yes. they hung up and never talked to each other again.
    becky wasn't seen again until she was 16 when she appeared on a music video as the singer for a speed metal band called the abducted playing a song called you're gonna miss me when i'm gone. the band was never seen otherwise. the song was never released either as a single or on a album. if anyone had bothered checking there was no record of them except for the video which had arrived at the music video channel the day before it was aired. on the box it came in was a label with the name independent enterprises and an 800 number.
    and no one checked except for this guy named harold wienstock but who was called buzz zip who was also a singer for a speed metal band. after some inquires he had the 800 number of independent enterprises. the number was an automated answering system that after he pushed through the selections allowed him to leave a message.
    yeah, he said, i just saw a video of the abducted and i'd like to know how to get  ahold of them.
    the next day a message was on his own machine when he came home from his day job at a telemarketing service where he made calls selling carpet cleaning. it gave him an address and a phone number. when he called it he was informed that it was disconnected.
    he called a friend of his who was the step brother of a bass player in his band who had moved to the same city the address was in a few months ago. this step brother's name was harold too but he was called bob666 which was also the name of his band which was also a speed metal band yet more to the hip-hop side of things. bob played guitar and was presently the only member of his band which was more often than not the case. speed metal hip-hop was not a sound that many others could or wanted to achieve. bob was very particular about what it should sound like and would explode into a shouting rage at those temporarily in his band not playing it right. other than these outbursts he was known as a sweet lovable rasta-hippie-looking pothead sort of guy.
    buzz got ahold of bob and asked him to check out the address he was given. bob told him that he didn't need to since it was the address of a warehouse where bands had rehearsal space including him. none of the other bands were called the abducted as far as he knew. he hadn't seen the video. i don't watch that shit, he said. what the fuck for? bob was very anti-corporate rock.
    when buzz described becky bob responded that she could be any number of a thousand chicks that hung around who were either in a band or wanted to be. this city, bob went on, thinks it's the alternative mecca these days. there's more freaks than a circus around here. ya gotta be normal to stand out - except for all the birkenstock wearing boomer yupnoids who think they're living in margaritavile or are the last refuge of woodstock.
    bob would go on for an hour or more about his distaste for the human race if one let him. buzz interrupted him and said he had to go and hung up.
    he thought bob was right about becky though - though he didn't know her name was becky. the subworld was full of vintage/thrift store look alike girls with randomly chopped and dyed hair and docs and 50s housedresses and smurf lunch boxes and all that.

    meanwhile back on the island he set fire to the piano in the house. a number of clocks struck the hour - but not the same one.
    meanwhile in the cafe jesus came to sit at his table. how's the story going? jesus asked. he told him the latest development of the story about buzz zip. jesus nodded and said it sounded ok. and you're going to tie all this stuff together somehow, right? well i don't know, he said. if it gets tied together it'll have to tie itself together. that's how it seems to work. jesus smiled wryly and said, you haven't dropped my part of it out of it though, have you? what part of it is that? he asked while continuing to write all of this down. jesus pushed his chair back with a look of exaggerated disbelief on his face. what part do you mean what part? what part do you think? he sighed and said, i know what part you mean. what i meant was what part of that part? jesus leaned forward again with his elbows on the table and his hands underneath his chin. i don't think we're following each other, jesus said. maybe we should be a little more specific. the part i'm talking about is my second coming business. and he said, right. me too. that's what i meant. what part in that do you want to play? jesus grinned, would it be too presumptuous of me on my part to want to play the leading role? he asked raising his eyebrows. yes, of course, he answered quickly, that is ultimately your part. but that comes after all the subterfuge and plots and counter-plots and double dealing and triple dealing involved in that part first being usurped by the one pretending to be you but who isn't but most people think he is because he brings peace and prosperity for awhile by instituting a totalitarian regime under the guise of revolution and freedom and all that stuff. what are you doing during all of that? jesus laughed and reached out and mussed his hair. i'm laying real low during all that free for all and maybe stop by here once in awhile to see how you're doing. there may be other people coming around here too looking for me too. you'll have plenty to write about. and jesus got up and left.
    as usual he wondered if jesus had been here at all or if he was whether he was really jesus or just some bum off the street who maybe took one or two or a dozen trips too many. or maybe that guy is me, he thought. he decided to write about something else.

    there was the alien infiltration invasion thing involving chickens and rutabagas which was probably only rumors. but it seemed always to be coming up.
    he had first heard about it in classic urban legend style context. he was sitting at a table in one of the cafes he goes to when he overheard a conversation the people at a nearby table were having. it seemed that one of them, this guy, had a girlfriend who had recently moved up from la. one of her house mates down there went to film school where he heard of someone who had been going to the same school the year before. this person had been working on a final film project that was a sf spoof like attack of the killer tomatoes, she had said. it was called destroy all chickens and was about a secret alien invasion that was exterminating all the chickens on earth. she hadn't remembered any more of the plot than that but the weird part of it was that these guys in black suits came to him and told him not to make the film and were willing to buy the footage he had already shot for it and give him more money to make a film about something else. the guy told them to fuck off and the next day he disappeared. and the film too.
    the conversation then drifted off to other topics of the usual cafe nature.
    it was another time in the same cafe with a different group of people sitting at the same table as the other group had been and he was sitting at the same table he had been too. he overheard their conversation about a similar story except this involved rutabagas instead of chickens. this time it was one of the girls who told it. she had grown up and escaped from a small town in nebraska. her sister who had done a lot of partying in high school but got married and became a born again christian and settled down and started having a bunch of kids was still living there. her husband worked for the department of agriculture and a few times a year made trips back to dc to attend policy meetings and seminars. while he was at one of these a friend he knew from school who also worked for the d of a but worked in dc itself invited him over for dinner. during this dinner his friend told him that a lot of interest had been circulating about how to increase the production of rutabagas. none of this was at official policy level but there were people he knew who had been asked to work out projections in this area. his friend wondered if he had heard about any of this since parts of nebraska had been mentioned as possible increased rutabaga production areas to be tried out. the husband said that he hadn't and asked who was doing this. his friend didn't know except as far as he knew it originated outside the department possibly from the department of defense. the two wondered about what uses the military might have for rutabagas which the people at the table offered a round of humorous suggestions until the girl stopped them saying that wasn't all of the story.
    she continued saying that the following spring after this dinner with his friend the husband on his rounds to the farms and granges he began hearing rumors of farmers who were being paid by the government to devote some of their fields to growing rutabagas. this was in the northern part of the state out of his territory. he made some calls and found out that apparently the rumors were true but was not being conducted through their office or through the d of a as far as they knew. when they had called back through channels back to dc they were told not to worry about it or to interfere. 
    the husband called his friend to try to find out more but was told that he was no longer working for the department and no one knew where he had gone or could be reached. he had resigned the day after the husband had had dinner with him.
    the people at the table said how that was weird and each started telling stories about other weird stuff they had heard about that the government was doing.
    but the main thing of the story that he had remembered was that the small town that the girl telling it had grown up in and left was venus, nebraska. this was the same town elmo dadaski was born in who later became the imagined dada-ananda.
    weird.

    meanwhile at another time in the great unconscious there lived a scary iguana like this woman who he also overheard talking about being in her dreams before she started taking prozac and she felt much better now who told anyone who came across it that it wanted to be their friend. and it was that in one half of the great unconscious roamed the blue shirts and in the other half roamed the red shirts and the blue and red shirts each roamed en masse with their own kind and anytime they met in the middle of the great unconscious they fought like cats and dogs with one another and anyone who found themselves between them had to fight both of them to get out and away.
    that was why it was a good idea to be friends with the scary iguana because the scary iguana kept the blue and red shirts apart. neither of them liked or trusted the scary iguana. but to one who was friends with the scary iguana found that the iguana wasn't as scary as it might appear at first. if one made friends with it it would climb up on one's shoulder and stay there if one only fed it bits of food one would find along the way.
    the scary iguana also knew the territory of the great unconscious very well. that was its domain. it was a reptile after all and who would know the great unconscious better than a reptile?
    and as one made one's way through the great unconscious with the iguana on one's shoulder it would from time to time whisper in one's ear and warn of possible hazards or point out interesting landmarks. sometimes it would not whisper anything but would just lick and tickle one's ear with it's pointed little long tongue.
    no, there was nothing scary about the scary iguana at all except in some dark freudian sort of way. but he was basically a jungian and a langian so that didn't bother him. he knew the dark shadowland of his madness very well indeed.

    meanwhile in space and time bill, becky's father, was attending a chicken industry convention in des moines around about the same time when becky would have turned 16 if she hadn't disappeared. in fact her 16th birthday fell in the middle of the week of the convention. bill was planning as he had done every year since she had disappeared to hire an appropriately aged and appearing prostitute who would be instructed to climb on top of him while he was sleeping in the early dawn and mount and fuck him. in the early years it had been difficult and risky finding a similar aged girl to perform this task but the right amount of money can buy or hire anything. and from about the age 12 on the difficulty and risk were almost nil. by 16 even in this middle american town of des moines it was as easy as buying heroin and just as common - especially during a convention being in town. the only problem was finding a girl of similar appearance as becky. but this too as the years went by from when he last saw her became easier as who knew what she looked like now? in the absence of fact fantasy had taken over to fill the void.
    bill by this time had gotten a job with the chicken wholesalers association which among other business lobbied the government both state and federal on behalf of the chicken industry. he was the head manager of the central division. he was responsible for everything having to do with the growing, slaughtering, packaging and distributing of chickens and chicken products and legislation of same in the central united states of america.
    he was very good and successful at his job. bill was a handsome amiable easy going yet firm and demanding person. he managed to get those he worked with to like him while at the same time letting them know what was expected of them. he could get those around him to work hard because they wanted to not just because they had to.
    this set him up against the head manager of the western division who was known as a slave driving ruthless bitch. they were in competition for the association's president position who it was rumored wanted to retire soon. the head manager of the eastern division told everyone who would listen that he was not interested in the president's job. too much headache, he said. plus he would have to move to chicago which he didn't like because it was too cold and windy. plus he was a devoted yankee fan. so he was out.
    bill didn't really want to be president either. it would take him too far above the day to day workings of the association and the people involved. it would be boardrooms and statistical charts and was also far too political. but it would give him more decision making power and over the whole association not just his division. plus it would save everyone from that bitch from the west including himself except he had the hots for her. and she had a daughter who was about 16. his dreams could come true if they ever got together.
    henry, the current association president, liked bill and was only staying on until he was sure bill would move in to replace him. but there was no guarantee of this. it was up to the board of directors to choose the next president. and many of the board weren't all that interested in the association as they were in themselves. it could go either way.

    meanwhile in the cafe he kept scribbling away. he didn't have much of an idea where this narrative was going. or what it had to do with the aliens killing off chickens and buying up rutabagas. it slipped this way and that way. the snake swallowing its own tail without beginning or end. and stuff like that. or the chicken and the egg or something.
    he didn't know.
    he was the last person who should be thinking of things like this on such a cosmic level - if it was at all cosmic. he didn't even know that much about it.
    this was the realm of the mystic and the scientist and people like that. this is the domain of those devoted to a tradition of devotion. this is not to be claimed by someone who happens to be walking by and picks it up off the side of the road in one's spare time - though he had all the spare time in the world.
    though many do just that. they are the muttering masses baaing like lost sheep. even those who pride themselves as wolves among them would be lost without the pack. they too are locked into the same rhythms of the project - whatever the project is or was or will be. though different groups of people constitute different variables the one thing they have in common is that they constitute groups. that is the overriding factor of factors. everyone is part of a group even if is a group of loners who don't belong to any group. they all behave the same way as if they were a group. that they are alone and apart from each other and everyone else is irrelevant. they are all cast from the same mold. they are as much robots as anyone else.
    humans are humans and the 1st commandment of humans is monkey see, monkey do. or it's inverse monkey see, monkey don't.
    humans are a binary species as are all others.

    and as this mish mash of whatever dada churns around in his brain like clothes in a washing machine jesus comes again and plops down at his table. he's shaved his beard and bleached his hair platinum blonde. he has on a light blue sleeveless shirt and short tight black skirt and knee high spike heeled boots. his eyebrows are plucked and penciled thin over purple shadowed thick lined eyes. he has matching candy apple red lipstick and nail polish.
    he looks at jesus and laughs. you look terrible, he says. there's nothing worse than drag that doesn't work. jesus said, yes, but who would suspect that it's me? thus spake the burning bush, he said. i know i'm lost in the wilderness now. you're not lost, jesus said. here, have some manna. and jesus opened his hand and placed a number of blue stained white mushrooms in his palm. take and eat, jesus grinned, for this is my mind. cool, he said and did so. yuuch, he said chewing them wincing at their bitterness. the worst they taste, jesus said, the better they are.
    and in a while when the mushrooms began to take their toll jesus asked, how's the story going? well, he replied, i was thinking that when the 16 year old prostitute comes to bill's room to perform the birthday ritual that she hangs around afterward and while bill's in the bathroom pissing she turns on the tv to the music video channel and just as bill comes out to tell her to leave and is just about to turn the tv off he sees the video with becky in it. he knows instantly that it's her. he gets quickly gets rid of the whore and calls the music channel and finally talks to someone who gives him the 800 number of independent enterprises.
    i don't know what happens next, he said as around jesus's head a halo appeared and he had a beatific glow about him. what's up? jesus asked when he noticed him staring at him. these are coming on fast, he said as he tried to light a cigarette that was not in his mouth. yeah, they do that, jesus said. here let me help you. and jesus took a cigarette out of the pack and lit it and handed it to him. so what happens next? jesus asked.
    meanwhile he thought about what the question might have been or if there was a question. he looked at jesus but jesus had turned into the scary iguana. oh boy, he thought, here we go. uh..., he said, what did you say? jesus laughed. are you that fucked up already? all i asked was what happens next with your story? this time he knew what the question was. that's a good sign, he thought. and he said, well, i think that bill with his connections with the corporate world and all tries to find out just who this independent enterprises is. and that should lead him somewhere where some other weird things happen and more connections are made to the overall alien conspiracy. is there a conspiracy? jesus asked. and a cold shiver ran up his spine making him wonder how serious a question that was and whether it referred to his story or real life and maybe if it wasn't a trick question to get him to revel something maybe he shouldn't and he didn't want to be talking about this anymore especially with some guy in bad drag who may or may not be there and who may or may not be jesus and who may or may not have given him mushrooms which he may or may not have eaten which he was getting off a little too fast on to feel comfortable if he did and he maybe wanted to go some place else but didn't know where or how he was going to get there but maybe he should go home but that meant getting up and collecting his stuff together and paying and getting change and talking to the server and he should go to the bathroom first but the keys were gone so someone else was already in there and besides the bathrooms have mirrors and he didn't want to deal with mirrors right now but now that he was looking around he was seeing everything was a mirror in its own sort of way except for the made up haloed face of jesus who was waiting patiently for him to say something. what was he saying? was he already talking? he was answering a question jesus had asked him. what was the question? oh yeah, is there a conspiracy?
    man, he said, i don't know. you tell me - is there?
    yes, jesus said his eyes sparkling and twinkling and his dilated pupils like the void itself. he then sat silently with an expression without malice or deception yet without promise or expectation. it was just matter-of-fact and neutral. i'm not going to kill you it said.
    and then the expression changed and moved and asked, are you ok now?
    he sighed and and grinned and said, whew, yeah.
    you want to leave? jesus asked with a look that said just nod and we're outta here no fuss no muss just walk to the door and i'm right behind you or i'll walk to the door and you stay right behind me. either way i'll take care of all the details of making sure everything's settled and cleared away and nothing's left behind.
    not yet, he said.
    ok, jesus said, but just say when.
    he focused on lighting a cigarette that he made sure was in his mouth this time and the sever came by to refill his coffee and she said, you guys are staying, right? good, he thought, she sees jesus too. that solves that problem. and as the last fearful doubt dissolved he relaxed and melted into the groove mode of it all. this always happened to him when he tripped. he got a spell of jagged paranoia panic as reality explodes and shatters all over the place and he's not sure what's what and what's not for awhile then it settles into the whatever it is and he could dig it without worry. it was good to get that over with early. the later it happened the worse it was and the longer it lasted. sometimes that's nearly all the trip was. but even those always ended on a good note sort of like ta-daaaaaaaooommmm... vibrating off away purring like a cat curled up in one's lap that made all twisted inside out backwards turning around around teeth clenched twilight twinkie zone of no return whatever worth it in the long run of dada something or the other and then some. yes. it was all yes.
    and he tried to hold that from one trip to another but came down into the solid real world with all its noise of human confusion that got tangled up in his head and hair in all its gory ugly glory. then he would say, boo. who are you? and it would identify itself and cease to have its power anymore over him. once one knows the demon's name one has command of it.
    and he asked jesus, what do you mean, yes?
    isn't that what you're writing about? jesus asked back.
    i don't know, he said. not really but sort of. but maybe it's going that way. i mean, what's a story without a conspiracy?
    exactly, said jesus. and if there's one then there's two - at least. a counter-conspiracy. and given enough people and enough time there's three or four or a dozen more. yet if one looks close enough there aren't any at all. it's just one story leading into another. what would a conspiracy involve anyway? what would it be after?
    power, he said. whatever's involved in gaining and maintaining power.
    and what is power? jesus asked.
    one person or getting another person to do what the first person wants by whatever means. a big stick or a kiss on the cheek. by invasion of an army or shipments of food and medical supplies.
    my, jesus said, you're awfully cynical.
    and he said, it's what i learned in my political science class.
    still, jesus replied, you believe it.
    i suppose, he said grinning like an idiot, some people call it being cynical. i call it being realistic.
    hmm, jesus hummed regarding him with a mildly furrowed brow.
    and he said, what about your seeds sown on the rocky ground or choked by weeds? that's not cynical? or is it realistic?
    jesus snorted a laugh. let's not argue, he said. ok, you 're not cynical.
    i didn't say i wasn't cynical, he said. not really. it's just that cynical and realistic to me mean the same thing. the original cynics were just being realistic. it's just now compared with romantic idealism that cynicism has a negative meaning. but that's whatever. i just don't like being labeled anything by anyone. not even you.
    sorry, said jesus.
    and i suppose i'm supposed to forgive you, he said, just because you say you're sorry? get down on your knees and beg, you dog.
    and they both laughed.
    so, anyway, who's behind independent enterprises? he asked.
    the aliens? jesus said.
    not yet, he said. i'll get to them - if there are any aliens. but it has to be more complicated than that.
    what about buzz zip? jesus asked.
    what about him? he said.
    well it seems that both him and bill are wondering about the same thing from either end. they should meet somehow.
    hmm, he thought. yeah - maybe. but maybe they each figure out something different. maybe when they meet they each think the other is in on it. i probably will connect buzz with bill somehow. but right now i don't know how to connect buzz with the buzz zip who is the hero of a thousand worlds sometime in the future.
    that's easy, said jesus, he gets frozen.
    oh yeah, he nodded, that would work.
    yeah, well, jesus said with a yawn, i'll leave that to you. you're the writer, not me. you know what i would say - satan's behind it all. he laughed.
    of course, he laughed too. but is satan an alien?
    i'm the alien, jesus said and didn't laugh. and his face changed into an elongated wedge shape and his eyes enlarged into slanting black almonds and then it all instantly changed back as soon as he had seen it.
    an alien messiah in drag, he said unamused. are you a vampire too?
    and jesus said, some would say that i am. a vampire of souls.
    well that's nice, he said, but i still don't know what to do with bill. or jo. should i fit her in here somewhere?
    i don't know, jesus said, but this joint is closing. we gotta go.
    ok, he said.
    and they left.
    they walked along around for awhile barking like dogs at anyone who asked them for spare change which on this fair summer night there were a multitude. sometimes jesus would shout at them, the poor ye shall always have with thee. and burst into deranged guffaws twirling in circles like a dervish.
    then he would sing:
    o' babylon o' babylon.
    how wretched are your masses.
    o' babylon o' babylon.
    becoming as thick as molasses.
    but you don't care oh do you now?
    you don't ask either why or how.
    o' babylon o' babylon
    you'll soon be landing on your asses.

    they parted when the bars closed. jesus walking off arm in arm with some lonely guy he's met - or who met him.
    he walked off alone wondering about independent enterprises and what jo had been up to all this time and maybe whether the two were connected.

    and the next day he was still in best of all possible worlds. it was for him anyway but he knew it wasn't that way for hardly anyone else. they worried about things.
    he worried too.
    there's still the question of independent enterprises. it's obviously a front. but a front for who?
    for now it was a company that made videos of desperate young rock star wanna-bes. this generation's rebels without a cause. without an option. there are still the young dudes who carry the news. but the news is old news by now. they enjoy a few years of senseless fury while it lasts before they discover how really hard and uncaring the world really is. it will break them down and separate the wheat from the chaff - those who co-operate and those who don't. even the world of the adversary is ruled by a hierarchy that one is either in on or out of. obey or get lost. all the newcomers are a dime a dozen, as they say. nature used to weed them out but now we must have a system of mechanisms that does the same thing. the machine. does anyone care if they beg and starve? did anyone ever? the only guarantees one might expect are those one can provide for oneself. so dance on, children, dance on. the party's not over yet. it never is. there's always one more happening to go to. until the party is only in one's head. the show must go on.
    this, he thought, is what independent enterprises represents. it's the first secret door. and it's not locked or bolted or even guarded. one doesn't need a password to get in or a key. one just needs to find it. and it is usually hidden in the most obvious place no would look for it. who would look for the doors to halls of power in the heart of the revolution? and who would know that was what it was if and when they found it?
    and why am i thinking this? he asked himself. i've got the conspiracy bug everybody else is catching and coming down with. it must be some widespread and spreading symptom of high technological culture when the culture loses faith in itself and slips into a paranoid depression.
    or something.
    but hasn't it always been this way?

    dreaming somewhere sometime away which is here and now while the others are pretty vacant. the others are gone. nowhere to be found among us living. all these are dead or might as well be gazing off into some elsewhere which then fills the words of all they talk about.
    or is this him?
    and all this that may or may not be happening. the play being performed on the stage in the burning theater which by now should have been burnt down long ago but it just keeps burning and burning forever through the nights gone by.
    and the play continues including all in its path as backstage those who perceive themselves as being actors though there is really no such distinction go through the costumes choosing or making up parts they want to play in the play within the play.
    jeanne finds and puts together a costume that she announces is a good witch. i'm going to be the good witch, she says.
    the good witch? says phillip. why not a good witch. someone else might want to be a good witch too.
    well, i suppose there could be more than one, jeanne said. but won't it confuse things if there's too many? we should probably only have two.
    what's wrong with confusion? phillip asked while picking out anything that was either red or black. maybe we should all be good witches and have a war to determine which good witch is the best and which is the worst. i'm going to be a good witch. and i'm going to be the best good witch.
    you're going to be a good witch wearing red and black? jeanne said in disgust.
    yeah - why not? said phillip putting on a pair of black and red checked pantaloons.
    good witches don't wear red and black. jeanne had picked out a white and gold dress and pink slippers.
    this one does, phillip asserted.
    red and black are devils and demons, jeanne said muffled by the dress she was pulling over her head.
    if you're a christian maybe, phillip said with his hands on his hips. but i'm not a christian good witch. i'm a satanic good witch.
    there's no such thing as a satanic good witch, jeanne said with her hands on her hips too.
    jeanne, phillip shouted, you're so fucking stupid. and there's no such thing as a stupid good witch. i'll see you on stage. and he left to finish getting dressed someplace else.

    larry had been listening to their conversation. he had picked out a cowboy outfit. can cowboys be good witches? he asked.
    ok by me, said susan who was dressed in a business suit, as long as ceos can be good witches.
    arrgh, grunted jeanne, cowboys and ceos aren't witches either good or bad. they are what they are - a cowboy and a ceo. what sort of play is this going to be if we're all the same thing?
    susan replied, we're not all the same thing. we all want to be the same but we're all different. it should be an interesting play, i think.
    larry said, do we have a script?
    there's quite a few scripts in the producer's office, susan said.
    who's the producer? larry asked.
    susan shrugged her shoulders, i don't think there is one.
    then which script do we use? he asked.
    whichever one has a cowboy and a ceo in it, she said.
    don't forget about there being a good witch, jeanne interjected.
    three of them, susan corrected.
    and a housewife, josephine said coming in wearing a powder blue jogging suit and a flowered print apron.
    susan laughed, you and i can do death of a salesman - saleswoman. she looked at larry and added, out on the lone prairie.
    what about me? jeanne asked her voice rising.
    you can do good things to keep me from killing myself, susan replied.
    oh, jeanne said, that's be alright. though by her expression it was clear that it wasn't
    frederick came in and said, what about a prince? it's in my contract that i'm a prince.
    jeanne asked, you have a contract?
    frederick asked, don't you?
    susan said, i thought this was just community theater.
    frederick said, well, i'm a professional.
    larry said, he can be the prince out on the lone prairie.
    jeanne asked, what about phillip?
    susan said, well, what's a play without conflict?
    frederick said, i see him more as a harlequin.
    josephine said, enter puck.
    larry asked, so who's the villain?
    susan said, ahh, that's the mystery.
    frederick asked, so this is a mystery play?
    susan said, could be. could be. and exited backstage right.
    i don't' know if i like this, jeanne said.
    oh come on, larry said, it's just a play.
    frederick said, maybe. i suppose we'll find out soon enough. and he left following susan.
    larry and jeanne looked at each other. a brief hesitating suspended bashful attraction enveloped them. larry said, it'll be fun.
    i just want to be a good witch, jeanne said.
    good luck, honey, said josephine and left.

    the players -
    phillip - satanic good witch/harlequin
    jeanne - regular good witch
    susan - ceo/good witch
    larry - cowboy/good witch
    josephine - housewife
    frederick - prince

    the play proper -
    the lights come up. some sort of scenery that looks part ski lodge and part tavern and part something else which isn't exactly clear. phillip is alone on the stage walking and twirling around. he has found a black cape with red lining. he practices bela lugosi moves wrapping himself up and standing in the shadows and then stepping out opening the cape slowly to revel his presence as dramatically as possible.
    susan walks on stage in a suit and raincoat and carrying a briefcase.
    phillip: hello wanderer. i bid you welcome. i am pal, your humble servant. how may i please you?
    susan: are you a good witch or a bad witch?
    phillip: a witch? i? a witch? who has told you this? (laughs) witches are creatures of some deep dark imaginative past. these are no longer those times. tell me, dear stranger, who might you be?
    susan: i am ralph. i am returning home from a busy day at work. i am tired. i've been on the phone and in meetings all day turning the wheels of the world.
    phillip: sit here and rest a moment, my dear fellow. i believe others may join us.
    susan: no. i will rest when i get home. my darling wife is waiting for me.
    phillip: i fear not. i hesitate to tell you that she has been out wandering too? come, sit here. i hear someone coming. it might just be her.
    enter frederick strutting like the prince he is pretending to be under contract.
    frederick: hello, ralph.
    susan: hello, prince.
    frederick: and who is your companion?
    susan: he says he is pal, a humble servant.
    frederick: a humble servant? i once had humble servants. i once had corporate executive officers. i once had many things. all was mine as i was born. but no more. ever since that nasty revolution that came and took it all away. maybe never again.
    phillip: do not despair, my prince. these things that have been lost have only been so that they might find themselves. and so you might also find yourself.
    frederick: i would hope so. i wish that all i have lost is doing well. i would not possess them if doing well was kept from them. but were they ever my possessions? can a man possess so much? - even a prince? they were given to my care and my protection. but i was young and youth does not care for what it is given. only what it earns for itself. i have earned nothing.
    phillip; not so, my prince. you have earned a place in our company. come, sit down. others will join us presently. here comes one now, i believe.
    enter larry riding a stick pony.
    phillip: greetings stranger. come to us. are you a cowboy? there aren't many cowboys around here.
    larry: i'm larry.
    susan: psst, larry. pick another name. a stage name.
    larry: uh, i'm... uh....
    phillip : a cowboy who has lost his memory. do not concern yourself. you are among friends here. perhaps it will come back.
    larry: uh, thanks.
    frederick: i have forgotten many thing as well.
    larry: have you forgotten your name?
    frederick. no i haven't. but my name has been forgotten. but that's a small matter. it was someone else's name anyway and it was too long and difficult to pronounce to remember it easily. come to think of it, i may not remember all of it after all. but the first name i was known by was rudolph. prince rudolph.
    larry: that's a nice name.
    frederick: yes it is, i suppose. i bet yours is a nice name too. i was born into a palace of mirrors.
    larry: i can't remember where i was born. i've always been here.
    frederick: and where is here?
    larry: the lone prairie?
    frederick: you don't sound too sure.
    larry: well, where else would a cowboy be?
    frederick: the lone prairie, eh? i must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. i was on my way home to the suburbs. i live in a tract house now.
    phillip: prairie. suburbs. we are all in the same place now. every place is here. and here comes someone else. look, ralph, it's your wife at last - or somebody's wife, i think.
    enter josephine carrying a pie.
    phillip: hello, dear lady. come join us. it might be that your husband is here among us.
    josephine: my husband? would i recognize him if he were?
    phillip: look among those who are here. do any of them look familiar?
    josephine: they all look familiar. which says he is my husband?
    susan: i think that would be me.
    josephine: you? but you're a... oh, right. this is a play. hello husband.
    susan: hello wife. you recognize me, don't you? ralph?
    josephine: ralph, right. i do. and you recognize me - uh, louise?
    susan: of course i do. i was on my way home when i ran into these people and we were talking.
    josephine: what about?
    phillip: it would seem that most of us - some of us - are having a little what the modern scholars call, crisis of identity. we have a prince who is not recognized by anyone who used to serve him. we have a cowboy who has forgotten his name. and the two of you who, if you don't mind me saying so, don't seem to know each other very well as a husband and wife would.
    susan: and what about you?
    phillip: i told you . i am pal, your humble servant.
    josephine: but who do you serve?
    frederick: what are you serving? i'm hungry.
    phillip: i can serve anyone and anything.
    larry: how about serving me up a name?
    phillip: ah, lets' see. a good cowboy name. how about buck?
    larry: buck the cowboy. i like it.
    phillip: there's still one more of us to arrive, i think. if she shows up. she says she's a good witch.
    larry: i'm a good witch too.
    susan: so am i.
    phillip: that makes three of us - four when she shows up. talk about an identity crisis.
    josephine: she'll show up.
    susan: i think so too.
    larry: this could turn into waiting for godot - or the good witch.
    phillip: i see your memory is coming back, buck.
    larry: yeah, i just was stuck on my name. i think i remember everything else, thanks.
    phillip: don't mention it.
    larry: shouldn't someone go look for her?
    frederick: who?
    larry : the good witch - what's her name.
    frederick: what is her name?
    larry: it should be godot. godot the good witch.
    susan: i like it.
    josephine: you seem to like everything.
    susan: why shouldn't i?
    josephine: you're just too agreeable.
    susan: what's wrong with that?
    josephine: nothing. i'm just being a bitch. isn't that what wives are supposed to do - bitch at their husbands?
    susan: if you want to, my dear.
    josephine: there you go again. mr. agreeable.
    phillip: now you two are acting more like husband and wife.
    larry: or how about griselda?
    josephine: what?
    larry: the good witch. that's a good name for a good witch -griselda?
    frederick: i once was supposed to marry a girl named griselda.
    larry: oh.
    ferderick: but maybe it was her - the good witch. when is she suppose to show up anyway?
    phillip: i don't know. she should have been here by now.
    larry: here she comes.
    enter jeanne wearing wings.
    jeanne: hi guys. sorry i was late but i was making these wings.
    phillip: have you promoted yourself to an angel then?
    jeanne: no. i'm still a good witch.
    phillip: witches don't have wings. they fly on broomsticks.
    jeanne: not good witches. they have wings.
    josephine: i would agree and so does ralph.
    larry: i don't mind her having wings if she wants.
    frederick: ditto.
    phillip: ok.
    jeanne: are you still a good witch?
    phillip: we're all good witches.
    susan: even those with wings?
    phillip: i said the wings were ok, didn't i?
    larry: we decided your name would be griselda.
    phillip: or godot.
    jeanne: godot? i don't want to be godot. was that your idea?
    phillip: actually it was buck's.
    jeanne: buck?
    phillip: buck the cowboy.
    jeanne: oh. well, i don't know...
    frederick: i wasn't sure about godot either. i thought you'd like griselda better.
    buck: i thought of that name too.
    jeanne: griselda's better. a good good witch's name. i like it.
    frederick: then griselda it should be.
    jeanne: but now that i think about it, godot's not so bad either.
    phillip: make up your mind.
    jeanne: well, you were all waiting for me to come, so i guess it sort of fits.
    susan: how about griselda godot?
    jeanne: two names? do witches have two names?
    josephine: why not?
    jeanne: i suppose so. ok. i'll be griselda godot then. as long as i'm a good witch.
    phillip: i told you, we're all good witches.
    jeanne: well, you can be what you want to be, i guess.
    phillip: we will be. the question is who is the best good witch?
    jeanne: that's not fair.
    larry: she's the best good witch. she has wings. i vote for her.
    frederick: so do i.
    phillip: what about you two?
    susan: i vote for louise.
    josephine: that's very kind of you. thank you. i vote for susa... uh, ralph.
    jeanne: i win.
    phillip: who cares?
    frederick: you brought it up.
    phillip: well i haven't voted yet and i vote for louise too. it's a tie.
    jeanne: no it's not. i vote for myself. so i win.
    phillip: ok. big deal.
    josephine: we should go home now. i baked this pie for your desert.
    susan: why thank you. yes, let's go home.
    exit susan and josephine.
    frederick: buck, do you have somewhere to go?
    larry: i thought i'd camp under the stars.
    frederick: well, ok. but if you wanted to come home with me...
    larry: that's ok. no. but thanks.
    exit frederick and larry in opposite directions.
    phillip is alone on stage again. he draws his cape around himself and steps back into the shadows.
    the curtain comes down.

    meanwhile on the island after burning the piano and almost burning down the house before thing put it out he is digging a hole. the hole is as deep as his waist. it is a round hole, more or less, about the diameter of his height.
    thing walks up: digging your own grave?
    him: it could be. i just felt like digging a hole. there's something about digging a hole that is reassuring and comforting.
    thing: is there? i wouldn't know.
    him: no one needs to know. it's not important.
    thing: how deep are you going to dig it?
    him: well, i'm starting to hit rock so i'll have to stop soon. maybe i'll stop now. maybe i'll find something to put in it and fill it up again.
    thing: what are you going to put in it?
    him: maybe you.
    thing: why me?
    him: just to get rid of you. that's one of the reasons for digging a hole is to get rid of something one doesn't want. make it go away and not come back.
    thing: you want to get rid of me and have me not come back?
    him: sometimes.
    thing: burying me won't do it.
    him: i know.
    thing: if you want me to go away and not come back just tell me and i will.
    him: i said, sometimes i do. what about when i want you to come back again?
    thing: i would come.
    him: that's what you do now. i don't want to bury you. i just said that off the top of my head. i'm just digging a hole just to dig a hole. it just seems to be a waste to dig it and then fill it in again and not bury something. i don't know what though. i'm just doing it to experience it and to feel what that experience is like and trying to understand why the experience feels the way it does. why should it feel reassuring and comforting? is it digging the hole? is it just any sort of exercise? could i ride a bike and feel the same?
    thing: why don't you ride a bike and find out?
    him: i know what riding a bike feels like. i ride all the time. it's not the same feeling as digging a hole.
    thing: maybe you should bury the bike.
    him: that's an idea.
    thing: should i go get it?
    him: sure, why not.
    and so he buried a bike in the hole that he dug.
    and he and thing talked about other stuff but it wasn't anything all that interesting so he didn't write it down.