along a lucky lonely road he had erupted somewhat quietly. another event may be occurring. who was there to tell? there was just himself. was he to be trusted? did he trust himself? and if he did, could he trust himself trusting himself? what if he misled himself? what if his trust was misplaced?
    but is trust all that important? only fools place their trust in someone else. is he someone else? perhaps one should hold one's trust in suspension neither trusting nor not trusting. just being. being as it is.
    but suddenly he is writing about trust. he doesn't really care about trust one way or the other. to others either trusting or not trusting may seem may seem to be some sort of ideal one should attain, but not him. it is as it is - as everything is. it is everything. it is whatever and however it is as it is. or maybe not. maybe it's not that way at all. maybe it's this way and that way. and another way too. but even taking that into account, isn't it still as it is? and have we gotten anywhere? have we left yet? who are we?
    he looks around. there are others but not anyone who he would apply a we to - except in a general way that any random group of people is a we. even a group of strangers who happen to be at the same place at the same time for one particular moment like here and now.
    dada.

    the circle of questions with each making the way open for another which makes the way open for another and another and on and on.
    alive in the field of flags and of dreams. the flapping makes the mind rejoice. the mind rejoicing dances alive unfurled. this is a true/false myth. this is a possible revelation of the ordinary. but who wants the ordinary reveled? who believes it needs to be reveled? scabs. is the ordinary concealed? does it conceal itself as the ordinary knowing no one would search for it there in full view of everyone while they went searching all in mysterious places for it?
    is the ordinary known at all? or is it just familiar? what about ordinary people each of whom think of oneself as someone special and unique which only makes them all the more ordinary?
 
    he writes these words and wonders what they might mean. words are slippery little suckers. each can mean just about anything. and then one puts one word with another and the meanings become exponential. and that is even when one is putting them together hoping they might mean one particular thing rather than other things.
    is that the case here? does he have some particular idea of meaning he is trying to express through the words he is writing? if there is, he is not sure what it might be.
    the words appear in his mind. they are commanding. they tell him which ones to use and not use. as he writes them he tries to discover what they might mean - what idea of meaning might be behind them selecting them one way and not another telling him which ones to select.
    but is that really the case? does he have it right? how can something other than himself - if that is what it is - have an idea of meaning in his mind without him knowing what it is?
    what is this source? what meaning is it trying to express through our words? we turn around to look for it and it is not there. we look back into the shadows outside the periphery of the light of our consciousness - that flickering flame in an immense cavern. where do these words come from? who is back there whispering them to us? who is back there in his mind whispering them to him? or does it just appear that way to him? is he the only one who imagines himself in his mind this way? how does one know?
 
    meanwhile, life goes on. his life goes on. what is left of his life. what hasn't been shut down by him because all it did was throw sparks and blow fuses. this minimal functioning core of his life.
    and here his life is. this is it. should it be more? should it be something else? should he be more? should he be someone else? probably the answer to those questions should be yes. someone else would answer yes. someone else wouldn't bother with what he is doing with his life for a minute. he looks around and sees all these someone elses. he wonders which one would he be if he could be someone else.
    but all this wondering isn't because he doesn't like his life but because he imagines that few if anyone else would like it. he wonders about what it would be like to be one of those others. what does that other think and feel? does the other think and feel? how does that other experience what that one experiences?
    he doesn't know.
    but doesn't he and that other experience generally more or less the same thing? isn't the world the same to both of them? they are both human. what diverges from one from the other apart? what process? if there is a divergence. if there are similarities.
    so where does this come from and go to? what is it? a flow of ideas and thoughts through his mind that appear and disappear. some leaving traces of themselves behind. some seeming to be connected to others.

    the faces of wonder. the faces in the crowd gazing nowhere. the redundant meaninglessness. the excitement unfolds as everything is at the point of collapse. the rising and falling of the distant nearness. opposites dance across the spectrum. there is always at least this and that. there are always the lines that can be drawn. but we don't like to think that it all might be arbitrary. we want it chiseled in stone down from the mountain.
    the messages float about in the air. the eyes are always open.
    one can write anything one wants. there is no mystery though what is written may be mysterious.
    he tries to reach into some pureness. the pureness of anyone. what anyone might experience and think and feel and what anyone might write about what one experiences and thinks and feels. that would be ideal. but ideals are easily imagined and difficult to realize. he cannot strip himself away to become what it is to be anyone. there isn't that anyone to be reached even if he could. no one is anyone. anyone is no one.
    so, stuck with himself can he reach some sort of pureness of himself? not himself as being pure - oh no, not that. never. but him as being purely himself. the two are entirely different.
    we try to be pure. we try to tune ourselves to an ideal. we imagine what we should be and try to bring ourselves to that whether trying to lose weight or attain cosmic consciousness. but how many try to be purely what they are as they are?
    he can imagine himself as almost anything he might imagine. but who is he as the one imagining? that is what he tries to imagine and what he tries to become. what is it that is himself imagining this or that or the other thing?
    perhaps he can reach into who and/or what he is. all the characteristics of his being himself ascribed or acquired to be purely himself no matter how pure or corrupt that may be.
    whatever the fuck.
    and so on.
    he lights another cigarette.

    all of this to do nothing - to arrive nowhere. to return to where one set out to realize one had not set out at all. one merely confuses oneself with words. these word that swim about like schools of fish flickering and shimmering that all of a sudden all together change in one direction or another. schools of words. schools of thoughts.
    what is real and what is ideal? where do we draw the line? is it left up to us to draw it where we might want it to be or is there a given certain place it should be drawn? do we draw it individually or collectively?
    swallowing it up while being swallowed. absorbing and being absorbed. wanting and being wanted.
    moving through shadows and light. discovering and being discovered.
    one hides oneself and finds oneself. one finds oneself hiding. one hides oneself finding. and one might wonder how one translates oneself into the other. how it might translate into oneself and oneself into it. and out of all this translation what is the substance being translated? or is it always in a state of translation as it is in and of itself?
    how many times do we come around this way with no time being exactly the same as the other? it spirals in and out again. it turns and rotates around again. la-dee-da.
    but does it do that? is that another illusion of it? can we tell if it is this or that or the other thing? and in saying it is one or the other or the other what does that mean? isn't it just translation? a translation into our understanding of what exists in a state of translation? everything in exchange of information and that information being received being only that which is translated to fit into and merge with the form of the receiver - the form the receiver will accept and understand.
    we eat and what we absorb is only that which is translated. the rest is shit.
    and so what?
    we eat. we put stuff into our mouths that tastes good to us. we chew it up and swallow it. we digest what we want or need. the rest is shit. we don't think much about it unless it is something that disagrees with us and causes trouble with the translation. it is automatic.
    was there a point to this?
    was there even a direction?
    was there supposed to be a point or direction? what would that make it if it did? what does it make it if it doesn't? what do all the points and directions and beginnings and endings amount to? what do they not amount to?
    is there something missing?
    there is much that is missing. there is more that is missing than what there is. but is there something missing that is critical to it having a point and/or direction? and without that is this only so much nonsense? does it then have no value even being itself? is it untranslatable?
    so much nonsense. so much whatnot. so much rambling about this or that or the other thing which ends up being nothing.
    and it could be about something if one decided on a something for it to be about. it could be about dogs or outer space. it could be about sex or war. it could be about some fine philosophical point. it could be about any number of things if one used one's imagination. but these are all written about by others. one may read them anywhere. what this is about is something that is missing.
    what is missing? what is missing that all that is written doesn't reach? does it need to reach anything?
    there is room for everything in everything. and there is always something missing in anything. everything is missing in everything. everything is found in everything. doublespeak.
    we exist on this island of what we perceive. we live and die. we are parts of an interactive program that adds and/or subtracts. it directs itself this way and that way and the other way. we have no choice but to follow it and while following it we direct it in order to remain who we are in it.
    we wake up. and we get up and get dressed and go about what we go about doing. we become tired. we go to sleep. and in this way our lives go by.
    so what out of everything does he write about? what is he now writing about? what would one call this? what does his writing reach toward? what does it find in everything? what is to be found in everything but more of everything? more of what is.
    he feels he has lost whatever it was he was once writing about though he doesn't remember what that was either. writing about writing itself. writing about thinking about what to write about. it gets so very old yet maintains an illusion of being new.
    there isn't much of what is thought that remains unwritten. there is an all open possibility of that to be thought. in the end adding and subtracting there is nothing.
    so what does one put into it? what does one add to the mix or subtract from the mix? one wants to write about something that is missing from the mix. but is there anything missing at all? what part of everything is missing? can there be anything missing from everything? but does everything have to be complete? doesn't there have to be something missing in order for it to be everything? but how can it be everything if something is missing?
    the mix of everything must include those elements that contradict each other. one might imagine that everything should be at the least be divided in half between things that contradict each other. so at least half of everything contradicts the other half. for everything that is there is something that contradicts it otherwise it cannot be everything. or maybe not. it's probably not that simple. for all of this and/or that there is the other thing.
    but if this is true, or for the moment possibly true, then wouldn't everything cancel itself out? or is one going down the wrong path here? is one canceling oneself out with one's own contradiction?
    we should also consider that though everything is in contradiction with itself - maybe - that doesn't necessarily mean that it cancels itself out. obviously it doesn't because there is at least something here. whether that something is everything is another question.
    but it would be everything that is even if it is not everything that could be.
    only everything needs to be everything - even including that which is missing.
    everything is everything that is and is not.
    what ratio between what is and what is not no one can know.
    perhaps there is none.
 
    what is stated to be or not while what is or is not is and is not. words evaporate against reality. reality remains undescribed no matter how we may describe it.
    but through our will we can manipulate reality, or certain characteristics of reality, toward our purpose. our purpose to survive. to create that which survives beyond our own survival - beyond our own destruction. and it is sometimes our own destruction that we create that survives us. it is this flux of creation and destruction that reality is composed of that builds reality into what it is.
    stating what is obvious. stating what the words one uses already exist to describe and have described. how can one use them any other way? one can turn them around and mix them up. one can select them at random. but they still only state what they mean to state even given the range of their metaphorical and symbolic meanings.
 
    wandering through it. taking it in with little comprehension. a tour through the forest along paths that sometimes go somewhere and sometimes fade away and disappear.
    but even that is gone. where are those paths now? where is the forest they go through that is not someone's property? where don't the maps reach? they extend now off the planet and into space. what path has not been turned into a major freeway?
    he wonders when it once was that one could become lost in the great unknown. places where now only survive in myth. now there are cities in the wilderness. now there is nowhere to lose oneself except in one's mind. all else is known and explored.
    what one grasps being just someone. let the great thinkers of things go their way. let them push out further away from the growing masses lagging behind not even understanding where these thinkers have been let alone where they might be going. we read about them in magazines and watch them on tv.
    but being someone who just absorbs the world around one as it immediately appears as it is translated through the given cultural language and symbol system. this someone who is anyone. this anyone who is no one.
    what is and what might remain. this one transformed and transforming. not even that.
    one writes to have something survive. to have something remain and extend beyond one's immediate being. what is written that might do so is secondary. to reach into immortality is the primary purpose. or is it just compulsion?
    it goes on. it is and becomes what it becomes and is. but it's not that easy. we put a bit in its mouth and try to direct it. we must control its passion and independent will. we must break it and ration it out. this is our power. we equalize it and make it submissive to itself. we equalize ourselves and submit to each other. even dominance is submission. even inequality is equality. even powerlessness is power.
    and one finds that one can write anything. it need not follow truth or even reason. it merely needs to be written. there is this one possibility. one argues nothing. one makes no point except the point of being. and one notices that this point is overlooked by the others who do argue about truth and reason. one watches them cruise right on by without noticing anything different.
    but should one stop and take notice of that which one has decided is inconsequential? one has found a system that appears to work, that appears to give results. should one look inside it and analyze it? should one stop for even a moment?
    to stop, to even to pause is to misstep, to break one's stride. one is in a race, on a mission. it is one's own survival that is the prize. that is the accomplishment. this is true even among the bums and junkies and among the poets and singers and the dancers and the painters and among the reclusive and contemplative philosophers and among the diseased and the insane.
 
    enough of this inane rambling, commands the commander. what idiot nonsense. what useless trivial psuedo-philosophizing. what drivel. what inflated narcissism. what puttering doo-dah. what involuted needless self-inflicted psycho dada over nothing to begin with.
 
    an orange sky melting. a ship that floats sinking. there is gravity. there is an open grave. there are thoughts about this. there are thoughts about everything.
    easing about in a certain manner of degree forcing the desired element rapidly to become exposed. a common fault slips into the program devised by uncertain corruption. there is an avenue of abstract space against the primary demands the system holds to itself.
    we are on the shore. are we arriving or departing? what is our deposition now as we are left by ourselves alone to decide now on the constant ever-changing threshold of our fate?
    slowly the tide begins to turn. slowly we turn with the tide. slowly our understanding follows from what has been.
    a faint vision of the messiah can be seen in the fog drifting around us. we drift through the fog. events in and out of our intelligence. songs on the radio. images on tv. soft edges so we do not feel the pain. our rage locked in a cage. rage can only be felt locked up in a cage. when it free it is experienced as unbearable delight. it takes us away to where we cannot remember. when we return it is lost. business as usual.
    how can we think of ourselves without sadness, without anger? we learn not to think of that. we learn to let it go. we find some way to rise above it or it eats us alive. but this itself is the source of our sadness and anger. it is what we do to rise above it that then pushes others beneath it that produces the sorrow and the resentment.
    and we have tried to devise ways around that. we have invented religious doctrine, political systems, social theories, economic programs. yet each of these have fallen into and followed our human nature - our collective human nature - which is deeply rooted into our being far below and within our consciousness.
    there is rank and elite within all relationships and all that we think, say and do. there is domination and submission. there is have and have not.
    the others are other to us. we know a few names. we know a few more faces. beyond that people become a mob to us. and we each wish to keep the mob at bay. we are surrounded by masses of strangers.
    and he had just thought of time. he usually doesn't think about time. or money either.
    taking up time thinking about time.
    and it comes that sometimes those we know by name become strangers. slip away. and it comes that sometimes we know strangers not by their individual names but by some group identification name - a symbolic name for all. these are the totems, the icons, the flags. these are the hats and coats and badges, the books, the hairstyles, the secret words, the shoes - whatever. there are so many.
    some are exclusive. some are inclusive - but too are ultimately exclusive too as well.
    and what is he writing about now? is it some sort of explanation? is it any sort of explanation? an explanation of what? more of the obvious? does anything need to be explained? what sort of realization might he come to that is anything more than what is commonly realized or able to be commonly realized? who is he more than anyone else? is he someone uncommon and unique? what would be the point in that? suppose he was someone uncommon and unique - or as the beastie boys claim, you gotta fight for your right to party. suppose he was someone who could think things out past what is commonly thought out. and he wrote these things down. what does that do for those who are common - or not even that? what is it other than those who are uncommon or who think of themselves as being uncommon to find and admire and admire themselves for recognizing its uncommon supposed value as such?
    even at the best if it was something uncommon it is still nothing. it might as well be scribblings of a madman. what else would the common folk perceive it as? how many more geniuses do we need? what good are the ones we already have?
    yet he like everyone else wants to be uncommon and unique. so isn't that desire common? yet being that isn't all that desirable. being uncommon is to be isolated and alone - even sometimes to be considered mad. unless one finds a group of people who are similarly uncommon to feel a common closeness with. but then doesn't that make them all so common?
    to some extent there can be an attraction to that sort of closeness, of unifying solidarity against the odds, against the the common majority, against the mob, such that things that are uncommon are sought out or invented for these to share together apart. symbols of their uncommonality are used to represent that shared uncomonality. yet at times all that is really uncommon about these are the symbols that they choose to use.
    or something like that.

    does the absurd dictate death? asked camus the clown. our dear old albert who wrested with sisyphus.
    what is this about assuming - though the assuming is by reasoning it is still assumption - that by reaching absurdity we have reached truth (death)? asked the other self to itself while seated at the great banquet table alone. we imagine that we have chipped all else away - all the previous illusions that we held in our ignorant misunderstanding of our youth as a human race. and now we have reveled the bare essential thing of truth itself - nothing. this then becomes our truth. we still believe in truth though we profess not to. that there is no truth is our new truth. it is our new faith. our new dogma. the religion that solemnly believes in no god. one cannot shake this belief these have in absurdity than one can any other.
    i say bah humbug, and the other self bangs its fist on the table. does the absurd dictate death, it crowed. the universe seems so big and we so small. but that is if we imagine the universe viewed objectively. how do we who have dismissed god explain objectivity? whose eyes have this view? whose mind? am i saying anything?

    and to remain where the winds howl. to remain so distant and have the distance be so near. when one can only comfort oneself. the others are gone.
    is this the place where one is oneself? is this what it needs to be? what is the attraction that pulls one away to be alone? what is it that makes it seem more real and being with others seem like being with ghosts?
    but this seems to be it. this is the place others have written from. but is it only that those who come here are those who write? are we writers who seek isolation the odd ones? do we only describe the conditions of our disease? what else do we do? we are not the builders or even the designers. we are not the workers. we do not farm or manufacture. we could all disappear and never write another word and would the world even notice? would the world be relieved?
    we pretend to be human conscience. we pretend to be the voice of the human soul. who needs a conscience? who needs a soul?
    we are beset and plagued by it. we are commanded. the demon muses will not go away and leave us alone. what do they have to tell us? what do they have us write down to tell the others?
    the muses howl in the winds. we hear their voices while others do not. is this something to be admired in us? or to be pitied? what do we understand from it? we can weave language. we can create tapestries of words. we are conjurers of fantasy. we remove ourselves from the real to construct the unreal. and we then convince the others that our visions have meaning. that they are somehow composed of a purer substance than reality itself that only we can bring into existence.
    we are the last of the priests and the shamans. we still hold humanity in our spell. we get the others to house and feed us while we offer them nothing but words. but we tell them these words are magick. but what magick do they have besides the magick to make others believe they are magick? there is no answer to that. and it is in the absence of that answer that we have found a place to thrive.
    no other animal has ones of its species like us - those who do not hunt or forage but live off the others who do. and we view this as an indication of intelligence.
    it's not that other animals do not communicate. they do not have those who only communicate and do nothing else. but then we are the dominate species. we subjugate the world. we have moved into all domains. and who have helped lead the way - or at least charted the way - but those who wrote about it? those who made that idea a common idea. those who are at the heart of the organization no matter how apart from it they may be. those who are between the leaders and the led. those who made up the proclamations of what was to be and not be. those who pronounced the paradigms within which the instructions for action could be framed. and who wrote those instructions?
    what need is there of language to be more than us speaking directly to one another about immediate things? is there truth to be gained beyond that? the other animals get by in this way, why not us? where has this intelligence for inventing fantasy gotten us? they all have had their price. and so far none have manifested themselves in reality. we have only created worlds where we have felt the need to escape into far from this one we have created. fantasy invented by those who have removed themselves the farthest from the world into the wilderness of their own minds. a place of isolation where the winds howl and voices come to them.
    eating nothing but ice cream.
    humans are those animals who believe that everything is better someplace else. we lost our garden and seek it over the next hill, the next horizon, the next planet.
    once upon a time ago when the world became frozen and the seas and the rains dried up we came out of the trees in the forest and walked the ground. we could no longer hide from the scene up above. we were now in the scene. we now found ourselves out on the expanse of savannas wandering lost searching for the forest again. we had been expelled from paradise and did not know why. we only knew that we were out in the world where we needed to fight for a place to stand. and fight and stand we did. for our survival. for the promise that we might find our way back to those long gone forests - that garden we remembered in our stories we told one another.
    and there have been those who spoke of knowing the way back. they also claimed to know the reason why we had been cast out and became lost. and these were the masters of language. these were those who could turn words that were words of ordinary things into words of mystical imagination. and these wrote those words down so they could be spoken to all. they taught the others - the many - to hold these words sacred. to live and die for them. for these words told of the secret way back to paradise - to the forests where life was easy and free.
    and these words were replaced by more words that promised the same thing. and how many revisions of this fundamental promise have we gone through by now? we are still going through them. is there anywhere in the world or beyond the world that hasn't been promised to be where paradise lies?
    but to be human is to search for paradise. to be human is to be a monkey seeking a return to the tree. we are deeply driven by this and all that it entails.
    so it is doubtful that that any call to give up this nonsense won't be be anything but ignored. (huh? is that sentence right? who cares?) what would we do without it? it is an integral part of our human psychology. in fact it is the whole of our psychology. we cannot stop. we cannot tell ourselves this is it. we are here.
 
    inventions of madness. the madness that does not have a name. it may not be madness. it is the madness of the creator. a mind alone in the void. or a mind scattered at random. happenstance. consciousness as either a game or an act of desperation.
    one is left in ignorance. one is left assuming certain things are true because one does not have the means to test them as to whether they are or not. one is left assuming that being true is something for something to be.
    so is it ignorance and not madness?
    and one should leave this alone. one should forget it. others have done so. others move into life and live it as it is on the terms that it is whether it has substance or not. who cares if life has substance? some have built up substance of some sort with faith and belief.
    one still remains here.
    a cafe where a radio plays songs and commercials. people eat their breakfast, read newspapers, talk.
    one decides to read a book instead.

    so enjoying the illusion that breaks before us embedded in the rituals we enact. the real filtering through and shaped by our perception. social perception. the world processed and analyzed automatically. our minds sometimes working for and sometimes against us. we being in the middle having to work with what happens or what doesn't happen. sometimes feeling near to ourselves and sometimes distant. sometimes near to the world and sometimes distant.
    diving through the moment. diving in and diving out. but the moment holds to now while our imagination takes us elsewhere across dimensions of realities. yet it always remains just us here imagining. except there are those who do forget and are forever lost to the now. their bodies remain among us but there is no communication with them. they speak of other things that exist in the imaginary ether they perceive with dreamy eyes. we sometimes call them mystics. we most often call them mad. they are sometimes content. they are often terrified and violent. hell is such a larger place than heaven. it is also more real. to get to heaven one must find a needle in a haystack. to get to hell all one has to do is step off the path.
    and this is no more than a psychological dilemma - a human psychological dilemma. there is no heaven nor hell other than what is perceived by our minds. yet our minds are capable of devising endless variations of things perceived. and we have no choice but to believe what our minds tell us to perceive. it is that or nothing. though a few do opt for nothing. one cannot judge them. one does not know what kind of world their minds conjured up around them. no one's world is the same as any other's however much they may seem to be similar. one cannot know the possible horrors another who is sitting right next to one is experiencing. even one who is laying in one's bed. our minds may overlap to a large extent but no two exactly correspond. the world we call real is probably no more than an average of our minds combined.  it is not any more real in substance than the fantasies we supposedly imagine off on our own. it is real only by collective belief. or something like that.
    no argument can be made for this. no argument can be made against it - no matter how many rocks one may kick to refute it thus. the world would seem as real in either case or whatever whether it is really out there or only appears to be really out there because that is what our mind and by collective agreement tells us or something.
    the world is the world and remains the world and transcends us even as illusion. it means nothing either way. if it is illusion that does not mean it is any less real to us since our minds tell us otherwise. dada. we cannot penetrate it. we cannot dismiss it.
    however, we always struggle against this. we refuse to accept the world as is. the world wants to kill us if only by its indifference. we happen to live despite this. circumstances and events happened to lead to our survival and continued existence. we don't know how or why. is there meaning to this? probably not. who cares? we don't. without us everything turns to nothing. who or what perceives it? does it exist without being perceived? who can know?
    to believe in being human. to look out upon the mass stupidity of the entire species in all its history and possible futures. to witness all the suffering and awareness of its suffering. to place the human in the midst of the darkest void without hope. to declare that all that the human possesses is the freedom to end one's existence. all this - and to still believe in being human.
    one stands alone in the dark void. one does not have the comfort even of one's fellow humans even no matter how much one hates them. one points a gun to one's head. would one trade one existence for another's? would one step away from this and join the crowd of the others who keep themselves busy and unthinking?
    but who is here? who is standing at this brink? who has followed the path of uncompromising logic to this terrifying end? though this one's existence is to cease in a moment of squeezing a trigger would one take away this moment that exists in brilliant light now before the final command is made?
    where did this one come from? did one suddenly appear out of nothing into nothing? it may seem so in one's mind but one has come from the matrix of all that is human - all the struggles for survival over the millions of years. all of that has brought and placed one here.

    and we continue without a clue. without an idea that will hold up to the test of eternity. nothing that holds back the meaninglessness. nothing that explains any purpose to our continuing. but there are those of us who continue anyway. we wake each morning groaning at having to face another day that is just as absurd as any other and is followed by similar days as far as we can determine ahead down the paths of possibilities forking from this present moment. we might invent some meaning. we might devise some purpose. but these are phantoms. they exist only so long as we do not look at them too closely. still they move us through the quagmire of our lives and along the way we fuck and bring more of ourselves into the world as it is and as it will be. does that give our lives meaning? perhaps not. but perhaps meaning can only be found in that. or perhaps it is as meaningless as anything else we do.
    one cannot discover the meaninglessness of one's death if one hasn't discovered the meaninglessness of one's birth. the two are insepartely linked together even if by hatred and disgust.
    and what a pleasant feeling hatred and disgust can be even while it makes one sick. what superiority lies behind it. what satisfaction in feeling one has uncovered what is ultimately true and real however horrifying - even because it is horrifying. to feel pride in being able to face that unmasked horror while others need to turn away and hide behind images of gods to protect them. to be among those who rise and stand while the others cower and lie face down in the dirt. to be among those who lift their eyes toward that naked void and thumb their noses at it while their knees are trembling.
    and is that the meaning of our existence? does even that need meaning?
    we live awhile and then we die. we get a glimpse of this thing that is entirely incomprehensible. we bring others into it to get a glimpse of it. hey, check this out, we say to them. you gotta see this. we don't know what the heck it is but it's something you wouldn't believe unless you saw it.
    we are dumbstruck by it. we are overwhelmed by it.
    what else is there but oblivion? why not stick around and enjoy the show? oblivion can wait. it isn't going anywhere. this is not oblivion. that may be the only quality we can know it by - being not oblivion. not nothing. or whatever.
 
    what could be the excess of divine space swept around him. his mouth opened and no breath came out. next to him there were those speaking of other things. lucky dogs. this was easy. it happened of its own will. one was merely present where and when it occurred. there seemed to be no purpose or meaning except what purpose and meaning we humans expect things in our experience to have without knowing the purpose and/or meaning of our experience itself has. they seem to be connected and perhaps even organized. maybe not a plan but at least a design.
    this all passed through his mind in a split moment. the moment splitting and never quite reaching itself. its beginning and ending becoming lost in the infinite infinitesimality of infinity. he knew he was here now but what that was exactly eluded him. all he could be sure about was that he was experiencing. and experience implied existence - yes? but these are words. words can be argued as to whether they mean this or mean that or mean something else or whether they mean anything at all. he was not concerned about words. words just came into his mind. nevermind the words. he neverminded the words even as he was writing them down. it is this moment he continues being in. always this moment surrounding him with ongoing experience - sensation and thought. he swims through this moment. he is moving. he feels as though he is moving. moving in relation to what? even the clocks are moving. the universe of galaxies and stars is moving. all swimming through the moment.
    meanwhile he remembers he is sitting in a cafe. he pretends he is someone but he is no one.  he's been writing. he is still writing. these words come though him from out of some vortex thingie within him spiraling down his arm to his hand to scribblings on the page. this common mystery. he stands in the open door. is he coming or going? he waits at this threshold of either/or. he cannot move while he is moving. everything moves with him while he moves with everything. it's all in the same state being only in relation to itself in all its myriad forms of being this and that and the other thing that is ever-moving and ever-changing yet remains ever-still. it is something while it is nothing. and thinking of it is thinking of nothing. there are other more productive things to think about, he thinks.
    zero out. zero in. set it to where it is where one wants it to be. the poets are delirious hunched over a table covered with papers in a dark back corner. this is where they pretend to see everything. this is where their voice speaks amid the noise. when there is a pause, when there is a few moments of relative silence, one may hear them shouting at one another. set it to where it hurts. the needles on the gauges flickering. the humming is buzzing. ouch!
    flying away. forgetting. the past falls behind. the future lifts off into outer space. the blue sky turns dark, becomes darkness. one doesn't quite know what one is doing. perhaps this is dying. perhaps this is still living. the question of god becomes a question of its relevance not of its existence. it is something we cannot know. we can only imagine knowing. must the flesh always be a burden one must deny?
    we must deny what we are given without our permission. surrender what is to be taken away anyway. there is only tricks and puzzles never answers. it is a game to be played to pass the time.
 
    a discovery of moments. an opening toward never. a song sung in silence.
    there are the people with the screaming eyes while their faces are numb.
    we look through the haze searching for something of substance. everything seems to be a dream. we have made a religion of that. our reality exists elsewhere. though maybe not.
    he has sat here writing for years. he does little else. he doesn't know what else to do. the meaning of it has left him. it has become a habit by now. it relieves his anxiety. he has notebooks full of these words he has written. words that are about the same thing. yet he keeps writing trying to figure out what that is.
    too much faith is put into words. what do words mean beyond meaning whatever we want them to mean? truth and lies are fluid. one believes in one thing rather than another. we argue about it with words that mean anything. truth is pounded like a gavel, like a club. is that what truth is, what someone who has power to tell others what is the truth? that seems to be what it is and what it has always been.
    and who is to pronounce truth otherwise? some guy in a cafe scribbling out meaningless words? is it that someone as that doesn't know truth or doesn't have the power to pronounce truth?
    not that he cares about truth.
    he has words that are either truth or lies. he doesn't care. he leaves words written behind in his wake. words that he would deny as well as claim. words that are written out in the moment without more thought than that. what is a moment? in a moment does anyone know anything? in a moment can one state anything about what one might know? we believe we know the truth, at the very least our own truth. we believe that we can state the truth in words. more than the moment. are we allowed to change our minds in the next moment? do we need to change our minds? aren't our minds always changing? his mind is always changing. we believe that when we change our minds that we change what is true.
    he lives in a land without borders. he does not see the borders. it is others who map them out and argue about where they exist. he is in some kind of wilderness of mind. a wilderness within the borders. from the inside looking out. we have forgotten. we have forgotten that world around us and within us. we have forgotten the world is a wilderness. we would rather argue about where the borders are and fight wars over them. the borders are all in our minds. one enters the wilderness not by crossing borders but by erasing them.
    is there a point to that? why would one want to be in the wilderness? why would one want to be apart from the others? why would one look for loneliness in lonely places?
    one waits here. one waits for the others to discover the wilderness in the midst of their world. one waits for them to realize and erase the borders from their minds that confine them from everywhere.
    we believe that we no longer live in the world we once remembered as being real. we have memory of a place we have come from. a place we have lost our way back to - that we have been supposedly exiled from. this place is told in stories we have listened to and retold from forever. we believe that we are no longer in that place. but where are we now that we haven't been before? haven't we only surrounded ourselves with borders and walls from our imagination? we have not separated ourselves out from that place but separated ourselves within it.
    here he sits within the heart of our world. within the borders. within the walls. yet he is in the wilderness.
    is he someone special? someone set apart?
    he knows nothing of that - except that he is supposed to be mad. he was born into the world as others have been. he has had a similar part in the human experience as others given that the human experience is that we each share in the same experience separately alone to ourselves. he does not believe that he is anyone no one else can be. he does not believe he is anywhere no one else can get to. there is no dividing line except what is placed there by the others. he cannot control that or alter it. he cannot change what exists in the mind of the other.
    however, these borders and walls do offer them protection. the wilderness is a frightful place. it is an undefined place where any sort and manner of thing might exist and threaten and do harm. fear itself can kill us. so it is no wonder that few want to do away with the borders and walls but rather to want them reinforced all the more.
    and the ones who do allow them to vanish are on their own. can they expect the others to help them from that which exists only within their own minds and imagination? this imagination that has been opened up wide to include all possibility.
    so where does that leave us now? where do we want to be left with it? do we accept the possibility of it? or do we scoff it away as just more nonsense from yet another fool among the multitude we find among us? can any one judge what we decide to do, what we decide to accept or deny, what we decide to call truth or lies?
    and the question comes back to who has the power to decide and to judge. those who exist in the wilderness have no power in terms of those who live in the bordered lands. it takes power to create and maintain borders and to build walls. it takes power to ensure that others believe in them and obey them for only in the collective mind do they exist.
    power by definition will protect its own interests. and what are its interests no matter what else it might profess than to maintain its power? yet we are always surprised by power being primarily concerned with its own existence over others and suppressing and eliminating all that opposes and threaten it. what else is power? how else is power to behave no matter who it might be who holds it? yet we continue to give power to one after another.
    in order for power to maintain its own existence it must find those who believe in it and will serve it. those who wish to be possessed by it and obey its commands. those who believe that by doing so they accomplish great things. and power will allow them that as long as its primary goal - its own continuance - is followed.
    this is the story of life. it is the story of human experience. or we should state that it is part of the greater story. that is the most we might be able to claim. and it might be far less than that. what do we know? what does he know about what we might know? what is he able to write down about what he might know? it gets very distant the closer it gets.
    or he could be wrong about this. he could be wrong about everything. does it matter if he is wrong or not? he is one among billions. he has no power or access to power. he can only write these words in notebooks that may remain unread or not. for them to have any meaning would they have to be discovered and used by someone with power? but what would anyone with power have to do with these words? those with power are only interested in that which serves their power. the power that they themselves serve. do these words do that? can they be made to do that? or do they only cause confusion and doubt? do they even serve the power of resistance to power? is confusion and doubt power?
    or is it just him? is he alone in this essentially writing to and for himself? to someone else these words may represent what not to think. not if anyone has any desire to serve power.
    there is in this his own isolated thoughts. thoughts coming from and influenced by the world around him and the thoughts of others. but in his mind they become combined in such a way that they can only be expressed in this rambling stream of words that lead to and from nowhere and nothing as he himself does.
    while the words stretch on for years each is written in a moment. each represents what combination of neurons happened to fire in his brain at that particular time. chain reaction. cause and effect. doo-dah. dada. a flow of electrical current self-stimulating and stimulated by the world perceived by stimulated senses. all translated into thought. and the changing mix of chemicals altering his emotions. changing the key to the melody.
    la-dee-da. it might as well be la-dee-da. what is one thinking when one thinks la-dee-da? what is one thinking when one is thinking what am i thinking?
 
    there is a certain delightful madness in all of this. one comes to realize that all it might be is madness. one does not know what madness is really nor does anyone else seem to either. this coming from a perspective when one once believed one was not mad, that one was thinking things that made sense and had a connection to the others who supposedly were not mad either. one or the other was fooling themselves. maybe. maybe not. this realization that one might could very well be mad can be quite frightening. but over time one becomes quite used to it. one adjusts oneself to it and makes allowances for it perhaps being the case. that is when it begins to become delightful. one no longer needs to be concerned that one might be mad. madness is assumed and ceases to be relevant. if one is mad, then one is mad. oh well. that is how it is. that is where one is at. that is the state of one's mind give or take a few loose screws and bats in the belfry. one realizes that if such is the case there is little if anything one can do about it. one of course can fight it. one can try to think of things that are not mad or think about things in a way that is not mad. but what is mad and what is not? who does one believe? how does one tell? can one even trust oneself?
    so who does one trust? based on what? is one only mad if one is told that one is mad? if one wasn't told that one was mad would one know whether one was mad or not? how believable are those who tell one that one is mad? is it because they have certificates on their wall? is it because they have power?
    but whatever.
    realizing the possibility that one might be mad. realizing that possibility one then realizes the possibility that what one is thinking may not be correct. correct in the sense that one's thinking is not in synch with the general thinking of others. we leave for now whether or not the thinking of others is correct or not or even if that can be determined. compared to what? madness is a social phenomena. it exists only in social terms. the social group determines what is or is not mad and/or correct. correct thought only implies that one can co-operate with others. when one can no longer co-operate with others then one is mad. that is as correct as the thinking of others needs to be.
    zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzap!
    if one finds oneself separated and isolated from that collective thought then one is mad. one who is mad may wish to no longer be mad. one may wish to integrate one's thinking into synch with the thinking of the collective. but one can most probably kiss that dream good-bye.
    and what a dream it is.
    what part of one's thinking constitutes madness and what part doesn't? again, how does one know?
    and so that goes on to varying degrees of success or not. it is a struggle filled with worry and concern and often fear. it is not madness itself but the fear of that madness that is the worst of it. madness is one thing. madness that is full of fear is quite another. that is true madness. it is entirely off the map. it is not fun like ordinary madness is.
    madness that dances and spins around in its own distorted world view full of wonder and amazement. the delightful sort of madness. it is madness without fear of its own madness. yet it is not madness without fear. what it fears most is the judgment of others. they are in control and have the power. one must always be on the watch out that one's madness is not perceived by them as a threat or a danger  - or even sometimes an inconvenience or interference. if so then one can get by. one must not bother them with one's madness. or sometimes one may be able to amuse and/or entertain them with one's madness. everybody loves a clown. well - not everybody, but enough.
 
    it was out on the field. it was being hit and knocked down. it was bleeding. it was hurt. but it had to get up and try to stay up. others were depending on it. the others were also being hit and knocked down. they were also bleeding. they were also hurt. no one could walk away. where could they go where this would not follow them? they would have to confront this sooner or later. now was the time.
    was this what he was thinking? or was it something else?
    why should he be thinking about what he was thinking? why should he be thinking about anything? he's been around these spiraling circles forever. that seems to be the process of consciousness - awareness. it never settles in one place. it never arrives at a destination. it cannot recall where or when it began. there is only continuing. there is only the journey.
    unless one is some sort of fucking zen master or something.
    but what about the rest of us dumb fucks? what could bring it to a place where it could stop and rest? what would keep it in that place? it would have to be satisfied that it had found all that it needed and wanted. is that the destination? is that what he is thinking? is that what he needs and wants? would he be satisfied being satisfied? or is he satisfied not being satisfied? is the journey the place? is it not being able to settle anywhere but endlessly wander? is it finding peace without finding peace? to lose one's concern? not to control one's thoughts but to let them free to go their own way? to be able to forget them?
    but all of this is to ask what is supposed to be. is that what is supposed to be to be asking what is supposed to be? how does one tell what is supposed to be? is there a supposed to be? isn't there only what is? we can imagine any number of other things instead. we are able to bring some of that into the world that is - into reality. this happens. it has happened. we have been doing it all along. our present world of what is is composed of yesterday's what is supposed to be. but it is not as we imagined it was supposed to be. something doesn't translate from one to the other - from imagination to reality. something is disrupted and doesn't get through. or is that it?
    what would we imagine if everything was how it is supposed to be? would we have any imagination?
    and so on.
    this is the spiraling circles of his thoughts. kaleidoscoping in and out. the patterns evolving one to and from the other. this is the place his mind finds itself in. this wilderness.
    but that is as it is and how it is. why is it left to our pondering wondering imagination? there are the others. there is himself. but he imagines that the others experience the world much the same way he does relating to their own subjective perspective though they probably do not. do they feel themselves each alone apart from the others? do they experience themselves as being unique and perceive the others lumped together as the masses? is he not perceived that way by the others just as he perceives each of them that way? so how can he justify his own sense of feeling unique? isn't he just another face in the crowd? is it that the details of each one's experience is unique but the basic framework is the same?
    and so on.

    zero divine idiot crawling up the wall toward an appearance of oneself looking down shattered face puking rainbows with the electric mind humming like a bell.
    he remembers. there were days like this before. gripping. teeth. can't think. too much and not enough. don't want to be here. don't want to be anywhere else. uneasy doom invisible hovering waiting. disruption. annoying.
    this is part of what it is. this is an aspect of the overall experience. should it be cut out and removed? yet part of experiencing is that one does not want to experience it. one wants it all changed. one feels subjected by overwhelming overpowering forces that do not even know of one's existence. there is no one one can appeal to. there can be no complaint or protest. there is no communication with anyone who can do anything because there is no one who can do anything. it just happens. others are in the same place. they do not want to hear about someone else's problems. they have their own. they are trying to deny it as much one is also trying to do. they do not want to be reminded of their own pain.
    but that's all a rather dim view. and one can sink into it and wallow in it. it is there. it is a possibility. we can be optimistic. look on the bright side. smell the flowers. yet there is the  feeling that such an attitude is superficial. the worst always seems to be more real. maybe we believe that to protect ourselves. the worst is always a possibility and we do not want to be unprepared and be caught off guard.
    but here he is once again writing about human behavior and motive as if he knew what he was writing about. he falls into this as so many others have done and still do. theories on top of theories. theories intertwined with theories. there is no beginning or end to it all. one can make sense out of it almost any way one wants to. fill in the blanks. mad libs. doo-wah-doo. envelopes. frequency divergence.

    flaming emptiness jumping from the sky where there is nothing to jump from but only that to jump to. and when it arrives it laughs. when it laughs it cries. crying for all the children being born into an unknown world of deception. crying for all the children already born and grown into misshapen adults. crying for itself and its own loneliness that may have been the cause of this. it only wanted company. it did not know what that would cost. it did not know that there would be a cost. it was not concerned as it felt that any cost would not affect it. it was untouched. it had remained as it always had been except now it had company. it only then began asking questions about what that meant.
    they are not it though it is them. they are finite as it can only be through them in space and in time and in mind.  it is always and ever in every way. it is entire. it is whole and all. all else is incomplete. infinity is incomplete. eternity is incomplete.
    and there is a joy of being. a joy that is also filled with sorrow.
    now it has come down though there is really no down or up. there is that which is. that which is to itself. there is no other reference point. there is only its own center which is everywhere and nowhere. here and now. there is only that which is not it. and not it is it too.
    there is itself but there will always be other.

    big eat munching on nihilism of the age. it was full and always hungry. it dove into existential gravy. it stuck a straw into a surrealistic sundae. dada french fries.
    big eat was singing a song of love. cigarette buts in the ashtray. a check in the mail. a slap in the face. turn around. lift one's head toward the ceiling. was this natural? was this another case of obscurity gone amok? absurdity?
    the gun is loaded. it is in the kitchen. the group is watching the latest reports on tv. if there was to be a riot they wanted to be among the first to see. no one seemed to know what it was about but something seemed to be happening. dull expectation. the moment stretches on toward impending infinity. babies are being born. cars are crashing. echoes.
    invisible divine light ever-present. we have forgotten that. remembering how possible everything had seemed. remember it breaking open. remember laughing at nothing. laughter that was only laughter before it became sharp edged with cynicism.
    now we have our own story. it's been turned over to the experts. we dance. we have our answers before the questions are asked - in case the questions are asked.
    when the earth was moving. when the future wasn't to be found in ancient prophetic writings about the last days. now we have the fever. we cannot wait to hit the streets and have our day. to drag ourselves back into the dark. this light is much too bright. where is there a place to hide ourselves? where are the shadows we can blame for our mistakes? we need something to have been controlling us. something to have been moving our feet and hands in some design we knew nothing about. opening and closing our mouths.
    it is here. but what is it? is it beautiful or ugly? is it running or crawling?
    here he is at home with the cockroaches and the music playing in his ears. this is how it used to be. it is sometime between midnight and dawn during that time when it seems to slip away and then stand still. it's too far away from what's behind and not close enough to what's ahead.
    and now someone is smiling. he knows that somewhere someone is smiling. he imagines this. it's no one he knows probably but maybe not. they are probably all sleeping. maybe sleeping and smiling.
    it is not at all like it used to be. it is now not then. it seems now as though it was never then. what was that that was then? had it always been in the past? was that why it seemed we would never get out of it? are we back there in it still? is all time the past? who is up ahead remembering it? is it us? or is it someone else?