the dream he began to recount in a dream:
    in a restaurant on first avenue i asked a girl at the bar if she wanted to go for a ride.
    the advantage of your situation is that there is no pressure to decide. however since you are the majority stockholder your eventual position will have to be determined.
    a bare bleak hill outside mexico city and i'm hiding in holes looking toward the ocean for which it is also a strange beach - digging in a woman's cellar. earlier i was in a room. i knew i was going to work on the railroad again. i'm afraid. i see the ancient bedroom with a demand - i tried to imagine the little cat.
    sheer sophistry! shouted trurl all the louder because he felt the force of his friend's argument. don't you see when the imitator is perfect so must the imitation and the semblance becomes the truth, the presence of reality!
    but she already filled up the sky, burning, scorching, roaring, hissing, until their moon shriveled up singed from horn to horn and even if had been a little cracked, old and on the small side to begin with, still that was a shame. an extremely obtruse and brutal creature. it does this instinctively of course.
    ha! laughed the king like a thunder clap, or on the other hand go home?
    i'm afraid not, gentlemen!
    the woman narrowed the path through their ranks.
    we must see to the survivors of the populace, he said.
    i have been told about vultures, she said - her voice cold.
    ten meters in he went before stopping. his store of energy contained just enough reserve for the next stage. he turned on his back scattering the dead parts of legs and back exposing the queen and her guard cluster to the dirt beneath his chitinous spine.
    the bird went higher in the air and circled again, its wings motionless. i'm clear enough in the head, he thought. too clear.
    and there was something missing about this. something we wondered about from time to time. the words were scattered here before us. we did not know what to call them. the big lie. the idiot's dream. and back at the vacant theater the devils gathered. laughing. it was such and such a game to them.
    she was in the bedroom lying on a chaise lounge in front of the fire wrapped in a steamer rug, and he came in, out of the grave in which she had entombed him.
    what's the matter? he asked.
    - all men have their weaknesses, she had been thinking wearily, we ask too much of each other.
    yes, i am here, she said.
    i know. i am not afraid.
    i know, she said. don't push me, my love. we'll see.
    there was no need to go running to anyone.
    as she turned her head she became aware of movement in one of the pews.

    as cries enter the night. as he gazes out the cafe window. as he wonders about it now. as he tries to feel around him to tell if it's over or not. he was fooled before. many times before. and probably many times again and again. but here he was. he was dead - or so the rumors had it. he liked being dead. he was responsible now for no one else's happiness but his own. and now that he was able to let it go he found that other people's unhappiness was all that was preventing him from being happy. now he was happy. but he had to be dead to do it. well, fuck it. dead to them. he was far from being dead to himself. he never felt more alive in his life thus far than now. and each day brought him more of it flowing through him and around him.
    he used to feel guilty about feeling this way whenever it used to happen to him before. he felt he had no right to it. he was told others were more deserving of it than he was. but screw them. he wasn't responsible for the way anything went in the world. he didn't even want to be here. there were only two people who mattered in the equation. those were his son and daughter who he had helped bring into this. perhaps a case of before he knew better. but they were both doing ok if people would stop fucking with their heads. but good luck on that. they would have to figure that out how to prevent people from doing that to them on their own. he couldn't hold their hands.

    first: the situation is not hopeless.
    second: the dead are dancing on their own graves.

    again and again and once more again.
    despair and sorrow is gone from our hopes and desire of mind and heart and dare the soul to depart freeless.
    these are sad and happy times in and out of and many times removed until the occurrence refined together alone becoming friends in the end.
    worry - not even!
    shine on, dude.
    these kids today.

    who are we to be condemned?
    who are we to be set free?
    and which is which?
    and who's who in this zoo?
    the apes or the gorilla galore glorious to our own making of it to reap these future shores of tomorrows never coming unless they are here and now.

    their politics suck.
    their politics suck.
    their politics suck out loud.

    afraid and defeated faded memory of ourselves added to the core of our being.
    we've failed before but have gotten back up gathered before us. we are them

    hands are extremely weird.
    everyone look out for their idled hands reaching out into a void - but what is this but the living void living its short lived heart outside inward?

    according to all this which is nothing surrounding us within shuffled decks of cards calling up the names we call now to our aid if they exist.
    we call upon our faith and doubt to be released to witness the witnessing of eyes unfolded and blinking astonished with wondering aloud.
    justice is dead.
    revenge is living.
    teeth gnashing in a burning hell, dancing demons on our graves.
    our new born graves including our fate to find heaven standing opened before the immovable gates of the city lying elsewhere in our imagination. to steadily envision reality of a substance clear of purity.

    the free and idle mind of his.
    a drift and drifting somewhere.
    this is no place.
    this is no time.
    he can claim nothing.
    the land of fathers is divided against one another. the mothers do not know who or what to claim their own. and this he does not how to state. trying to write these damn words about something.
    something or nothing. it's about the same to him. and this world passes him by along their grand parade searching for their own end. what is popular? what will get the most votes? the primal unconscious. yet nobody's yet ready to deal with that perception of truth. the rising anger within ourselves toward one and each other. forget the times remembered. we will not see them again.
    our diversity will never be organized. get a grip. not organized on their terms. not him. not his diversity. and if one cannot tolerate his diversity from their organization they can go fuck themselves.
    his diversity does not want to be organized. how about that? not to them. not to itself. his diversity seeks disorganization. his diversity doesn't co-operate. his diversity doesn't listen to reason. his diversity doesn't go to meetings or workshops. his diversity doesn't listen to speeches or attend rallies. his diversity doesn't follow orders or the plan. his diversity does give a shit who they say is in change. his diversity will argue with everything they say. his diversity contradicts itself. his diversity doesn't question authority because it does not recognize any authority but its own question. and it will not question its own authority except a 1000 times a day. his diversity laughs at their confusion and incomprehension. his diversity isn't educated or well-read. his diversity will outlive them and dance on their graves. his diversity is spreading and there's nothing they can do about it to stop it. one is either for his diversity or against it - and it doesn't matter either way. his diversity is his madness. has he made himself clear yet? is there something one does not understand? or what the fuck?
    his diversity doesn't want to be friends with them. his diversity takes what it can get. his diversity doesn't forgive or forget. his diversity will hunt them down and kill them if it has to. his diversity won't think twice. his diversity worships its own image reflection of itself. his diversity doesn't bathe and is loud pigheaded and rude. his diversity is sexist, racist, elitist, and every other -ism one can name. his diversity is legion. his diversity is god. his diversity will shout the others down or remain stubbornly silent. his diversity won't budge but will go anywhere it wants to. his diversity is pure and innocent with its guilt. his diversity is a perversion of all values anyone believes in. his diversity treats no one as its equal. his diversity is stark raving mad and the world owes it a living.
    his diversity will send out armies to conquer the world. his diversity doesn't care. his diversity does everything wrong because it knows it is right. his diversity expects others to kneel in its presence. his diversity is peaceful and violent. his diversity knows the truth and speaks lies. his diversity won't play games. his diversity is his and his alone. he doesn't have to share it with anyone. his diversity hates them with love and compassion. his diversity looks out for number one. his diversity will watch the others fall. his diversity will watch them be taken prisoner and tortured and killed and do nothing. his diversity will light another cigarette and walk away. his diversity has reproduced itself and is wiggling around crazy mau-mau in their pool o' genes waiting to be born again. his diversity is a disease. his diversity is ashamed of itself and proud of it. his diversity is lazy and good for nothing. his diversity has the highest respect for others yet reserves the right to pull their pants down. his diversity is pissing into the wind. his diversity is their worst nightmare and their dreams come true. his diversity will make them beg for more. his diversity is finished for now.
    his diversity doesn't want to know anyone's name but to see their face smiling and shining through it all. his diversity is anyone's diversity and if one can't figure that out then that's too bad.

    i'm so pissed off at people, man, groucho said, i mean, come on - how long we gonna keep arguing about the same old bullshit from both sides of it? all sides of it, you know? jesus fucking christ, why can't they either let go of it or just fucking take it someplace else? ain't none of them speaking for me anyway, you know? they're just whining and complaining for themselves and their own greedy self-interest. and i'm talking about all of them. those in power and not in power alike. all they are is at each other's throats, you know? fuck it. and they're all after people just like me who wanna just be left alone to come join them. and when we don't they lay the blame all on us telling us how useless and worthless we are and we're the ones creating all the problems because we're not part of their fucking solution. i'm glad i'm useless and worthless to them. then i can stand up to them and their propaganda programmed lock step army of blind brainwashed non-thinking faithful follow the leader idiots. i ain't following nobody. i find it in myself. hey - i don't know shit except i know i don't know shit, you know? man, these assholes who figure because they read some books about something that they're the ones who know what the fuck is going on, you know? fuck 'em. fuck them all. you know?

    we need to stand together alone. apart a part of the whole divided to us as we want and need. it is all possible for all of us. we don't need to take anything from each other. we're doing ok. forget what anybody else says.
    and he looks around and muses. maybe he doesn't even wonder anymore. maybe he still does. maybe he never did. he's just here, wherever here is. and one can't get here from there, wherever there is. it's always elsewhere than here. it's all divided. we divide ourselves from it with out thinking that we have to get there - someplace else - to get it. to find it. to find ourselves there when we are here.
    we repeat this to one.
    we repeat this again to one again. we repeat it to ourselves again.
    we are on a common ground and they've turned it into a war zone. we have allowed them this in hope that they'll work it out somehow this way. are they? do they even know? is that even their purpose? or can they only thrive on seeking the taste of victory? and they will taste it in their time. we will give them that. they will have to struggle for it. they will have to surrender everything else for it. now. here and now. on their knees before us. worship us and we will let them drink from this cup. but be forewarned, with this taste of victory comes the poison of defeat.
    what goes up must come down. a simple law of the universe.
    this is what they ask us for. this is what we will give them. it's their tough luck if they haven't done their homework and figured it out that that's the way it works. dig? dig or not dig.
    and so come to us to ask us for deliverance. come to us and confess one's sins against us. and we will give one all the power one wants that is the authority of ourselves to do so.

    and tell us no lies and we ask one no questions.
    and we need nothing from one but one's devotion to us and remember that we can and will destroy one if and when we want or need to. do not evoke our judgment. it will not be kind or forgiving. we will not forget how we were treated among one's own kind.
    this is not our request but our demand.

    junk city.
    got them hooked on it. they love the glamor of the lives of those who hold it above their heads and out of their reach. and they'll buy into any presented imitation thereof. pretend lives of influence. pretend lives of wealth and popularity. pretend lives of poverty and alienation.

    to give it all up. to do something. to depend on what is undependable. to dream.

    and/or something or the other. what is confusing and what isn't? to let it grow as it is, frightening as that may seem to be. uniform. pleasing to the eye. charming. seductive. death. the still corpse unblinking. behaved. obedient. allowing others to act freely.

    and all his life they've been pointing their finger out of his tv screen and telling him he's wrong. and up to now he believed them. he tried to follow a path of correct living and thinking. and now he slaps himself across the face and realizes that they're just images - no more real than any other.
    dreaming on through the dream of one. he has forgotten what he has told one and what he hasn't. how much anything he does goes past and beyond just him. it sits on one's shelf. it gets put in one's closet. it gets thrown down into one's basement or up in one's attic. or gets put out with the rest of one's trash.
    but this is it. and they are too damn stupid to realize it.
    nothing gets through to them. their walls are too thick and too high. they've locked themselves in inside themselves and they can't get out. they let the others do that to them. they've let us do that to them. because we are them. because we define their reality. because we set up what they are up against. because this is not that and that is not this and neither are the other thing. because we're running rings around them. because everything is silent. because this is difficult and hard to read.

    and there's something here and there's something there. this is what it is and what it isn't. this is the zen tao of it. figure it out. blockheads. surrounded by mindless puppet blockheads who can't figure it out so they wall themselves up.
    and nothing. and we're not stating nothing here or anywhere. are we? they wouldn't fucking know if we were or not. they go for all that glitters. they go for what makes a lot of noise. they go for the trip. they fall for the trip. or maybe they think that they're out of that. they're too cool. they're above it. ha! we got those hooked with all the rest.

    because everything is everything. creepy little fingers. because we intend to confuse the fuck out of anyone reading this or even thinking of reading it. take what one can and take what one can't. forget the rest. we can't change what anyone thinks. we do not want to change what one thinks. it amuses us to watch one think what one thinks. it amuses us to see how confused one is.
    can one follow this? we can. what's one's problem? what is one's excuse? did one bring a note from one's mother? one has always got so many goddamn problems. one has always got so many goddamn many excuses. forget it. forget everything one has been told about everything. forget about this. forget about oneself. we've forgotten about one already. we forgot about one a long long long time ago - since some ice age or another.

    it is pointless for one to struggle against us. we have defeated one and one doesn't even know it.
    but don't worry because this doesn't make any sense.
    AND IT BEGINS HERE!
    no it doesn't. it begins someplace else.

    and it can begin here if it wants to. or it can begin elsewhere where we have forgotten where it begins so we're beginning it here again. does it begin here for someone reading this? does one begin here? has one been paying attention? is one ready for it to begin here? and he's changed his mind so many times he forgot which is what. and the light breaks somewhere. is one ready for it? is one ready now? has one done one's homework? is one ready for the test? can one follow where and when one will be led? because it's here. it's in here somewhere. can one find it? does one even believe us? one doesn't have to. it's just an idea. an idea that scares the shit out of most people. what are they frightened of? let's begin here. room 101. is one ready for that? yes/no?

    and one can give up any time one wants to. we don't care because we already got it. fuck the rest. we've seen the beginning of the primal point of fear and desire poised in contradiction to itself between existence and oblivion. playing with the cards. we've seen the birth of the living god. we've seen the death of the god who is dead. and we don't care because we exist with or without both. or something like that. or something like something.
    and where were we? where did this begin?
    or is this the middle somewhere? is that where it begins?
    monkey in the middle.
    see the monkey in the middle. and one looks like one is the monkey. and we look like we are the monkey too. and the monkey chases back and forth from one thing to the other searching for a beginning or even and ending. a beginning of the end and/or the end of the beginning - whichever comes first.

    and this is what he leaves behind. this is what it is or isn't. if it isn't enough or isn't what one wants then too bad.
    an idea of some sort of something maybe or maybe not real. something that begins and ends somewhere.
    and the words are without him as he is without the words.

    we don't exist in their world then how do they explain this that one is reading? how do they explain anything that doesn't fit into their tiny speck narrow world of limited set of possibilities? easy, they refuse to see it. and they hide or destroy all evidence contrary to what they believe.
    this is contrary to what they believe. this is why it is hidden from them and if it is discovered by them it will be destroyed. then everyone can be free to think what they want to think and to say what they want to say and do what they want to do and to believe all that is real and true. but it's not. not so long as this exists - even if it is hidden - even if it were destroyed. we will get someone to write it again as we have before and as we are now. again and again as many times as we need to.
    and one may ask oneself, why? and our laughter is the only response. it's here and no one can see it. they won't let themselves see it because it will cause them to doubt whatever they believe that they now believe. we are here and they can't see us. they won't allow themselves to see us because we contradict what they believe in - what they need to believe in - what they are addicted to believe in.
                                                                                                                             lie
                                                                                                                             lie
                                                                                                                             lie
    and nothing can change them because they will not allow themselves to be changed because change is death to them. change is life and life is death to them. they are dead. they are all dead. and they are too stupid to realize it.
    and we are dead too.
    but dead or not, we exist. we exist on their death - on their oblivion. we feed on their death. and who's to stop us? we killed their god. and now we are killing them.

    and this madman one looks upon with pity and revulsion. he is nothing to anyone. stay away from him. do not speak to him. his head is full of nonsense. do not listen. do not try to understand because if one does that may mean one is mad too. and one couldn't live with that. one's own madness will destroy one.

    and he doesn't know what's going on with all these fucking people. what makes them do all the stupid shit they do? and it drives him nuts. he can't stand being around them. they can't take care of their own shit and go around looking to screw up somebody else's.
    they can all die.

    observation #28608943.7
    from anytime between anything. this is nothing. it's just him. forget it. he is wrong. he is wrong. he is wrong. they are right. and the only way for them to be right is for him to be wrong. oh well. that's what he's being paid for - to be wrong so that they can be right. and long may they wave, until they fall. enjoy it while it lasts. there isn't that much more time left to climb on top of the heap while they still can proving how right they are by how wrong everyone around them are. and this comes and goes. and he doesn't have anything new to add. this is it pretty much.

    someone who knows or doesn't know. he is alone here. he's getting used to it. he's been used to it for years. he is one of a kind and no one can deal with that. they want him to be one of them and their kind. fuck them. he wasted most of his life trying to figure out what pleases them. and nothing does. except for him to go away and leave them alone with all his crazy ideas and shit. and he doesn't care if that pleases them or not. as far as he can tell the only thing that pleases them is not to be pleased with anything. that's being cool. they love to be cool. and he's not going to play that fool's game with them. ain't gonna be their monkey. because he's got nothing to hide. he'll admit to any crime. not like them who try to hide behind who me? faces of innocence. but those faces are so easy to see through once one learns to recognize their motive. and their motive is to seek sympathy from whoever they can get it from. but who cares about them?

    and it was something back then when he thought he needed to be saved or he thought he needed to save someone else in order to be alive. in order to give that life meaning. now he knows better. he is far older than as old as he was then. but maybe not. maybe none of the above is true. there's always that option. optional answers to unasked questions. questions he doesn't bother asking anymore. he's either smarter now or more stupid. and he doesn't care which. or maybe he does. he doesn't know which or what.

    and as it pauses awhile.
    and as we watch fate pass us by. as we watch the crown fitting on someone else's head. of golden thorns. and we attempt to escape from this imagery. imagery of everyone's broken dreams. of words we have lost the meaning of.

    and one longs to have him come to rest. to come to one. to lay himself down with his head on one's lap while one strokes his hair. for him to be satisfied with what he's done.
    but he's merely exhausted for the moments he spends with one. one to him doesn't matter. one could be anyone of a thousand others. one is anyone.
    he'll forget all about one when he rises. and one will be no one. and he will rise again. when he's caught his breath. when his racing heart has slowed down. when his fevered brow is cool and dry. he will rise from the bed one has prepared for him to die in. this tomb of one's embrace. he will rise to live again. he sees too much undone unfinished in this world. and he sees too many fat and comfortable. he dives beneath the surface to rock their boat coming up from the depths of their minds.
    and he sees this as so simple. he doesn't understand why one makes it so complex.
    and he could be anyone.
    and he could be himself.
    and he could be us together.
    or he could be them against us or whatever it takes to kick out the jams we're in and keep this trip going.
    because as there is a past there is a future. and both happen here and now. everything else is just fantasy of our imagination. this is of our imagination. of our imagining. a fantasy. our hopes. our fears. both of them we keep apart from us with our imagining them as someplace else in another time.

    and whatever comes and goes from there to here in whatever form it may or may not take. nothing is lost. nothing is gained. it's all here and now. no beginning. no end. just this and that and the other thing of it happening.
    dive down deep into it.
    and come up again.
    fly up high above it.
    and come down again.
    it's all right here.
    it's all right now.
    what else?
    what else is needed than this?
    and one can want what one wants to but it will just leave one wanting. and one will cry forever and a day. and nothing will ever change for anyone.

    and we have tried to tell the others this again and again. but we can't tell anyone what they do not want to know. and so we're standing here having to stand aside and watch while they bang their pretty heads against the walls that exist only in their own minds that they built around themselves. and then they come up to us and wonder and ask why we look so sad and hold our heads bent with heavy sorrow. and they think it is for our own pain that we cry. and they think it is from our own wounds that we bleed.

    come on now people.
    come on and wake from this nightmare self-generated.

    listening to it ringing everywhere he goes. doesn't one hear it too? listen. feel it moving along through oneself. hold back and let it pass one by. again and again. here we are again.
    but if one wants to cry we will laugh and dance on without one. come on.

    what does it take to get one to check out and realize that the door to one's cage is unlocked and open? or is one too used to being imprisoned? is it too safe and comfortable?
    and we can dig that.
    oh yes, we can.
    we can dig it all. everything one may have to say - we can dig it all.

    and it was on about something else. and it was on about everything and nothing more or less at the same time.
    in one door.
    and out the other.

    and nothing.
    he is dead to them and it doesn't matter if these words repeat themselves. they repeat themselves. everything repeats itself through the infinite variations.
    it was a circus mind now thinking. it.

    easter -
    a gun thinking probably stupid and buying to get one good reason much supportable maybe yes logic anything knows politically correct nevermind who cares gut feeling expression of the soul attention given people has a gun stimulating a conversation one given person maybe no in the room and one of them it doesn't matter sexual and pleasurable promise of from another fistful holding out delights more money seen despicable disarray power life dressed in stuttering slurred except got a gun absolute corruption respect to see would avoid ill-mannered ever been with for what it's never been trembling it's always possess without tried earning did not power over respect felt like by not being any worse way wants power more person this has failed dog shit see who power over fool better yet forgive up off stand behind at the others how happy disease twisted and sick normal human live point the gun then that while knees behavior yes feel better knowing permit to wear nervous having a gun thousands just enough no other reason stop give which shit what act interesting who fucks cares what talk to who the power can get how people toward long as respect possess a world where do this no one would gain power threaten dreaming of some other respect would need what know who do and why give something which is it have power where what any of just walk away shut let live blow stupid useless mouth fucking tired if only blessed power shit about getting real out of changing it with power who wanted with power sit shit criticize fucking coward like ever done.

    dreaming on of something else now maybe. dreaming on in a dream without anyone. without them and their kind left behind in a living hell they generate themselves out of their hatred they project toward themselves reflecting it off others. die. just fuck off and die if they don't like living in our world. why should we change one minute part of it for them? what have they done for us that we didn't have to force them to do? and if they didn't like that then they should have stopped us. but they didn't. tough shit because it's too late now. they are either for us or against us - just like it was with them. and first they have to figure out who the heck we are. good luck. they haven't figured it out yet with all their pogroms they've celebrated over the whole of their history.
    and it's nothing but some guy spilling out his madness over pages and pages filled with words that go nowhere. an exercise in hopeless futility and then some. or not even that. agree or disagree. a monster in one's eyes that see nothing but a delusion of ideal perfection.
    and these words have been written a thousand times it seems a day and thought a million more and felt throughout the infinite realms of time.
    this division they create between us because we do not rise to their expectation of a coming savior messiah to deliver them from their own inner tormented hearts they cause upon themselves. and how many more times will these words be repeated by himself and others until they understand them?
    how they create misery around themselves for themselves and all others. and he can only write about himself for they are perfect and innocent in every way. just ask them and they will tell one it is true. it is right for them to drive us from themselves as they pursue their own glory for themselves. is this not so? we have failed them. we are the mistakes in their holy creation that they are the jewel of. is he wrong about this? we must die so that they can live. this is their religion. we are thrown back into the fire to be destroyed and our defectiveness with it. they are the ones to be worshipped with fondness and love. and this is our own shortcoming because this we cannot do. we hate them and each breath they take from us and pollute with its passing in and out of them. this is our crime.
    and why? why do we feel this way? according to them they welcomed our arrival into their world with gratitude and open loving arms. did they? is it our imagination that we were ignored and shunned? were we not verbally and physically abused and then chased away? not for who we are. who we are is not different from them except we do not behave the way they do. we are of the same womb, the same seed. we are not alien creations. but because we were not gods, because we were not as perfect as they see themselves, because we did not live up to the images they have of us.
    but this is who we are. we are different somehow. we are not them anyway. though they are us - all of us. except they divide themselves apart.
    we have come to judge them. we are them. we are here now. this is what we call the project. to put them to the test. whatever the project is. we don't really know. or what is was or will be - or wasn't and won't be.
    control.
    not control.
    out of control.
    their control.
    our control.
    it's toast. frozen on acid. those were the days. looking in the windows. electric guitar. forgetting everything. and what's the deal with the president? just someone else to blame for everything that gets out of control. forget it. flying saucers on the radio. dreaming again of some other world. formations crashing to pieces. we know where it is now. here it is. the government remains silent. just another cover-up. one either knows what it is or one doesn't. here sitting by the window in the cafe. lost. found. where is it now? we just know that we're missing it. speculation. vehicle. occupants. nothing more too much was reported.

    numerous films. and here he sits broken hearted. nothing is ever new. nothing is ever old. and the story he was going to tell that he never got around to. and he probably never will unless he's told it already. would anyone know it if he did or didn't? what kind of story was one expecting? revolutionary bunny stories to eagerly salivate about over? anything that promises salvation from oneself when one can't get it up anymore. across distant skies. something more or less insane.
    and he could tell one the whole story but one would never believe him. echoes. he remembers now who one sees him as. some burnt out space freak from some twilight zone. and that's all it is. that is where and when he calls one from. but one is afraid to let go of what little one possesses. flowers. and he could be anyone who is disguised among them. an observer reporting back that they are not ready yet. he sees nothing in them that indicates that they are ready. they can imagine it. they can sit around and talk about it. but none are ready to do it. back up their words with actions. they are still in the phase of blaming each other for everything going wrong. sinister forces from another planet perhaps. the news. the war. oh boy. ho-hum.
    unusual activity and all that and then some. and what are we willing to believe? what are we willing to doubt?
    as he sits here maybe dreaming even that there may be someone else anywhere. someone anyone. just dreaming. writing these words as the dream passes by in a dream that seems real as a dream. another cigarette.

    and we were just remembering something. we do not know who this may or may not be going out to. there is much more of this that is more or less the same that we cannot tell without knowing who. we cannot change anyone or anything. that is not our mission. it is up against the noise of their breathing, the hatred in their souls, the daggers in their eyes, the hope in their hearts as the doors open and close around them without understanding. business management. and it's nothing. just irrelevant information. space twist. have another beer. forget. just forget everything contrary to what one doesn't think about anyway. this doesn't make much sense. don't worry about it. but we don't need to tell one that. one isn't worried about anything - right? except what everyone always worries about and we gotta listen to them complain about every day all day long. bitch bitch bitch. we've been listening to that constant garbage coming out of their mouths for x-number of thousands of years now and probably thousands more yet to come. does anyone have any idea how old that gets? monkeys. and it's all really a bunch of nothing dada.

    and the dada of nothing. and the dada of everything. and the dada of dada. and the only understanding of dada is the dada of itself. such is the theory as it goes.
    pronounced and as writings before flagrant of dada me myself and i doth only may have itself understand none of dada fulfilled such a state authority understanding which manifestation by any other of dada denial who alone themselves knowledge a falsehood of truth declared a witness for have been light dada shown perceive through within circumstance thereof.
    as here he is unconvinced by all that is said and shown him so far. where is their truth? where are they? they have yet to prove to him their own existence beyond the ability to cause pain and anguish. and if that is their sole cause for being created either by themselves or another then they need not question his hatred of them.
    and this he has thought of for long hours of each day and has come across that the pain and anguish that has been directed to him from them must have had its cause and origin in himself. it is he who allowed this to have happened to him. and he allows it no more. for the pain and the anguish he has felt most deeply felt was to see their suffering. it stabbed at his heart. and when he saw himself as helpless against it to offer any remedy to them that they would accept from him he realized that he alone was responsible for his own misery and that he alone only had the means to stop it. and this he had been doing since he cast them out from himself and the enjoyment of his existence he now enjoys by himself alone. not to let their wailings to bother him anymore. to find himself an island and build there a paradise of his own creation and for his own use alone. and this he has found. and this he enjoys in what remains of his time here. this is his dada to them that they find incomprehensible with all their noise of themselves.
    and what have they found otherwise? what do they... he wrote without quite exactly knowing where or when he had begun anything he found himself writing. and at the next table the young kids spoke together of world peace.
    yes/no.
    good luck.
    he laughed to himself.

    and here he is among the dulled and stupid masses in this doomed cafe beneath the spreading chestnut tree. how little they know how he's seen them already betray each other. he knows the patterns of it as he has lived this experience. and what wonder and glory it brings us to when we finally conclude with our realized love for big brother though by many names it has been known and spoken of even the names now of the revolutionary heroes. he will laugh with them who are risen to this height he has climbed to from the darkened valley of despair they now wallow in. but, oh well, their confusion now is thus. and he was going to continue telling a story. where does he begin?

    and nothing.
    anything.
    he is sitting here where nothing meets with everything and the two become one and the same. he is tired. so much noise around him of nothing and everything constantly arguing with both trying to have it their way.
    and he imagines god very much the same as him. sitting in a cafe somewhere thinking, what the fuck?
    what the fuck happened? some wild nights of creation and now all this that it doesn't understand or know what to do with. it had seemed like a good idea at the time. but now it's tired with all this noise about it of the crashing and clashing between nothing and everything. some paradise of existence this turned out to be. and now there's these people included in the whole mess who revel in it to their heart's content. yet their hearts are never content with anything no matter which way it goes. what's it to do with them? it promised them eternal happiness and they told it to fuck off and leave them alone. they desire and worship this human condition they're in. so it did leave them alone except for a few who got everything it told them so twisted up and backward with their flaming ignorance of what any of this is really about that it is just about at the point of giving up on the whole thing and destroying them all and going back to the quiet peaceful oblivion void where and when it came from.
    but that's where it all started. it's quiet and peaceful but as boring as anything can be. try it sometime. but this is maddening.
    so it comes to earth and hangs out awhile. it tries it on. being human without anything more to it than that. it forgets itself to experience what it's like to be purely human in a world surrounded by mystery. to have nothing to rely on except oneself. to not be able to trust another living soul except needing to in order to survive. to deal with one's own and everyone else's petty greed.
    it didn't like it too much and about halfway through it freaked and remembered itself again. and it came to this cafe and ordered a cup of coffee, lit a cigarette, stared out the window and asked itself, what the fuck?
    what the fuck happened? what the fuck is going on with these people? is this really what they want? can't they see anything more than climbing over each other trying to get on top or sitting around bitching about being on the bottom? nothing's ever good enough when if they took the time and checked it out they would find that they have everything they need. but they always want more. never-ending. and without ever seeming to realize that what they want never meets up with what they expect it to be. on and on.
    it wondered about it. it sat there paralyzed wondering about it.
    it lights another cigarette.
    what could it do now? it wanted to grant all their prayers and wishes if they could ever state them in a way that made sense and were in agreement with each other. so many wars were raging all around it and all sides would only accept victory over and annihilation of their perceived enemy. so that was the prayer and wish that it granted that they would always be in a constant struggle to overcome their foes. and they bitched about that. they bitched about everything. they were happy to bitch about everything. so it granted them that prayer and wish. it gave them lives that they could constantly bitch about about. and they bitched about that. nothing it could do for them would make them happy. it saw no way on earth to fulfill its promise to them. the fact was they didn't want it fulfilled. they always wanted it held out beyond their reach. always tomorrow, never today. never now.
    and so what the fuck?

    and something of a more or less different manner of which or what like a rabbit pulled out of someone's hat. and there is not information here that one would want. in formation. that's the only thing one can handle if it's in formation. if it has a proper beginning and a proper end and something proper in the middle between the two which this does or doesn't depending upon which way one looks at it as we make it up as we go along with it. can anyone else go along with it too? or are they still holding on? what are they holding on to that they are going along with? this is going along nowhere everywhere as it goes along and one is going along with it for now though one may not understand why o' why.
    anyway - we were going to go along with something here but we can't remember what it was. just hanging out with god or someone here at the cafe by himself which it always seems to be. in there and out there.
    and there is nothing to state about what it is about what it is is this fragmentary thing of some kind of improbable thing that we make up for ourselves as we go along spilling words out along the way and this is to describe the process which is a harder thing to do than to just do it. to do it we make up some story to tell someone who may or may not be reading this and anyway that may or may not be true based upon this certain someone's belief or doubt depending something about some planet exploding or something and when it did we found out what was behind the scene the whole time sort of like a computer program but sort of like a coo-coo clock too which we haven't seen in many many years and we found out that we controlled it the whole time which was pretty neat and that was a beginning. oh boy ho-hum.
    so we settled into this thing like something was coming to eat us like pacman and we sent out someone to fix it and it was ok.
    so we landed here and these people things from somewhere came and took everything over which is the basic plot of most everything these days. and we let them because we are them and who cares? let them worry about it for a change. deal with it. because this is how it is. and so here we are trying to open up some sort of communication with someone but it seems no one is home. we have yet to be successful with more than handfuls each generation. and though maybe that number is growing but it's hard to tell and we don't really keep track of that sort of thing - so who knows?
    so we took over all control. there was no one to stop us. there were few who even noticed and fewer who realized how or why something was going on and no one who really knows what it is at all.
    so what is it?
    and we'd be able to have him tell you but the formal rigidity of the ways and means of how people use language and how they developed language and what it is designed to communicate within very limited parameters of a common acceptance of what is and what is not possible prohibits us from being able to tell anyone except that everything is hunky dory fine.
    it comes from within.
    it comes from without.
    where and when within and without meet here and now it comes and goes. repeating. yet never the same way twice.
    what is seen and unseen.
    what is realized and unrealized.
    what begins and does not begin.
    what ends and does not end.
    what is this.
    what is that.
    what is the other thing.
    what is neither both and all.

    one can only tell oneself. we can offer no more than clues. but isn't that what they all tell people? what is it? what is our knowledge and understanding of it? we can tell nothing of that except what we have already scribbled down here along the way. one needs to tell oneself.
    read this carefully. it may not be as it appears. it is made to create the illusion of nonsense because that is all basically what it is. it is even deception. and we do deceive. the deception of nonsense. that is the only way we know how to communicate with anyone. that is how anyone communicates with one another. but one may not be accustomed to this sort of thing. one is used to the clarity of dogma and propaganda being what and how things are communicated among the masses of either and any side of the fences one may be sitting on deciding which way to fall over. ba ba ba ba ba ba....
    forget truth.
    forget lies.
    this is neither as it is both and all.
    one is quite confused by that anyway by this point - yes? we are anyway.
    this has its own logic and structure. yes it does. do not confuse it with anti-logic and anti-structure.
    let go of one's disease which has been the sole interpretation of what is real and not real.
    doubt.
    doubt oneself.
    doubt everyone else.
    and few can do that and live.
    most who do go off the deep end pretty quick and don't come back again.
    don't forget to come back.

    but nevermind that for now.
    one two six, the peas are in the pudding.

    and all now to perhaps describe a scene. a play performed for the benefit of those survivors of the approaching hour. time will tell.
    a point in what is now known as space but which before was known as nothing.
    on stage at the burning theater.
    and we may come into the middle of things but we will begin it here.
    two figures are standing back to back. one is dressed wearing a green robe. the other is dressed wearing an orange robe. and their faces and hands are painted and their hair dyed as well in the opposite color. time will tell. the stage is black dark but there seems to be movement around the two figures who are in a tight spot.
    orange robed figure (orf): those sweet peace loving people.
    green robed figure (grf): the average person.
    orf: what purpose is deceived among us now?
    grf: what use is it to wonder?
    orf: and who do we serve to amuse ourselves?
    grf: i could tell you but i am sworn to secrecy and lies.
    orf: yes, this is the favor of our fate. in whose honor? for whose glory? i witnessed blood spilled with the wine drunken at the feast. i throw my cup down and say, no more! my fellows nod their heads to one another and softly clap their hands.
    grf: yes. i have known this as well. i have seen the child brought in and slaughtered. who knows not of this death? who is not responsible? who could have not stopped it? was this not the sacrifice we had longed for?
    orf: we are both fools, you and i. we should depart.
    and each pace off stage in the direction they were facing.
    among those in the audience were many who were sleeping.
    and he looked up to the balcony where hung draped the holy banner all civilized nations bowed before in its one form or another. and the box behind was empty. so perhaps this was not the performance we had come to see. perhaps it was a common hoax. a common hoax as god itself in its one form or another.
    but these thoughts he kept secret from his lips. for who was there to speak them to? now or ever.

    now or ever
    a simple riddle.
    nothing too complex.
    nothing to it at all as we vainly seek the answers to mysteries unfolding into mysteries into mysteries. as he is waiting for the show to begin.
    as he is sitting with himself in the cafe across the table. or perhaps this too is another part of the play.
    him: so now what?
    himself: we will see. time will tell.
    him: the only thing time tells me is how much time has gone by.
    himself: funny.
    him: not to me.
    himself: what are you so worried about?
    him: i don't know. i'm not really worried about anything except all these people. they worry me. they're restless and anxious. they're waiting for it to begin. but it never does. not for them.
    himself: that's their problem. what does that have to do with us?
    him: well, they're just driving me nuts.
    himself don't let it get to you. it will pass.
    him: in time - right?
    himself: yes.
    him: well, fuck you then.
    himself: right, then fuck you.
    him: thanks.
    himself: no, thank you.
    and a pause while maybe some shadows were moving someplace although it was a bright and sunny day outside the window. he felt them. he always feels them beneath however shiny the reflection of the surface looks like or how smooth it seems across the heart and in the back of the mind. he can't say what it was. he can't say what it is. those around him with their fears and desires prowling in the dark. someplace. where?
    him: what do you mean it will pass? i've been waiting for it to pass for quite some time.
    himself: you can't change them. they can only change themselves. you can only change your own feelings about them.
    him: i hate them.
    himself: i know.
    him: that's how i feel. and i'll feel that way until they change.
    himself: then that is what you have to deal with then.

    and this becomes one thing or it becomes something else as par normal quasi-what-due-wha-ditty.
    the plainclothesman easily smiles. the tree grows. it becomes difficult. he is not really who he thinks he is. me, myself and i. he's a bit fed up with the mystery of it. but then again when he thinks about it again he forgets what he was thinking about anyway.
    and it's just another day.
    and it's just another part of the dream.
    a lot of people don't like us, he said to himself, or they're afraid of us, one or the other.
    and it seems that there's a lot of that business around. a lot and a lot.
    it seems to him.
    or maybe it doesn't seem to him. or maybe it's just something that comes and goes from time to time. just another part of the dreaming dream of dreams. and there's nothing to worry about - is there?
    what?
    logical surface.
    and no one gets it, do they? they don't even get what they are supposed to get. because it's coming. it's coming to get them and they don't get it. huh? what?
    the logical statement of purpose. the pretense of language. notes for the future.
    nervous.
    a declaration of doubt lost in the crowd. it's easy to doubt in nothing. it's hard not to let it just slip away. it takes doubt to draw another breath. it takes doubt to lift the cup to one's lips. it takes doubt to light another cigarette. it takes doubt to stick the needle in. it takes doubt to close one's eyes and fall asleep.
    he wakes up.
    it's the darkest before the dawn. a swirling drowning dream right behind him. he gasps for air. he opens his eyes and to realize they were already opened. a opening. he looks for an opening. get me outta here, he mumbles to himself. and i don't know what i'm in. let me in. and i don't know what i'm out of. but the oppressive feeling of one along with the vacant feeling of the other implodes exploding on him. he can't remember. he can't forget.
    does anyone know?
    does one know anything about this?
    if one does then one probably doesn't want to be reminded. if one doesn't then one probably doesn't want to think about it. think happy thoughts. try to feel happy. try to remember what that felt like once. he forgets. a distant shore now. a river. a lake. an ocean.
    he looks out across the waters. a sea of faces. he looks for one to show him what it's like. happy.
    and he sees only shadows. he sees through all of them walking through the shadows. and he wishes he could call them out of themselves and their shadows. he wishes he could speak. he wishes he could shout. he can only hold back the urge to scream when he sees them. scream at the sight of the walking dead around him. is there no one here but him?
    abandoned by a god that doesn't exist. he laughs at the absurdity of it. one asks him what's funny. he says, nothing.
    nothing. nothing sure is funny, ain't it?
    look at all the weird shit it can do all to keep him company. look how it makes it seem as though there are others like him. funny. laugh a minute.
    but that's not it.
    of course not. they are as real as they appear to be - right? of course they are. silly of him to think otherwise. it's not just a trick of illusion, a reflection of images.
    so how does he do it? how does he find the faith that they have? how does he believe that the smiles and greetings and handshakes and hugs and kisses are real?
    to him they are all ghosts haunting his house he walks through alone. and sometimes he can forget. and sometimes he can remember.
    and now as something else passes by. and now as whatever and whatever.

    and now as he is writing these words again after stopping for awhile. a month or so. when it becomes too pointless.
    back at the beginning which always begins and returns to its own beginning again. and so what? and so it begins here again.
    something. he doesn't know what. he looks out this window here in the cafe and tries to figure it out. people telling him it's this or that or the other thing. mystics with their hoopla of whatnot.
    and he doesn't know.