as it comes about here. dispirited. time again. just dreaming about it all. what people think. and nevermind.

    and we were drawn into battle as we arrived back here where these people live in this imposed peace without knowing how much it costs and complain when it feels uneasy.
    it's over. it's all over. and no one knows where it's gone. tomorrow forever. and he doesn't know. he remembers nothing else. just the words of it.
    and those who feel they have enough knowledge of something or the other to stand and preach. not like it was. as it seems to be. no one says anything. he cannot say anything. trapped in the silence of language. not used to it still. just look out the window. it's not worth it to remind anyone of what they lost. they seem to be doing just fine without knowing. so it would seem. chow down.

    and in this story that continues from the beginning to the end going nowhere with the streets full of empty people. straight out of the factory that keeps putting them out. waves of the future. and how many are as empty as they seem? how many are really present behind the cardboard cutouts. tab a into slot b. the popular model. happening to the pulse drum beat. depth is out of style. too much time and energy of something that goes nowhere as has been scientifically proven beyond all question and doubt. we are all each isolated to ourselves and nothing can breech the walls or bridge the gaps between us. we're all each on our own in this world, baby. no one gives an ounce of rat shit for anyone else and no one gives an ounce for them either.
    give us the bland and vacant. give us the mindless babbling masses. line them up and make them march to the beat on the radio. and as many more as can be manufactured. make them work. make them play. make them go to sleep. make them wake and do it again.
    we turn our backs on anyone's complaints and protests. tough shit if one doesn't like how it turned out to be. we got ours.

    and it becomes as it needs to be to ultimately dismiss reality as we have become used to in our way to know it. there is no explanation for this. there is no need of explanation. same as it ever was.
    and as there is a mass exorcism called for to remove ourselves of all gods, goddesses, angels, demons and sundry spirits and entities of such kind as we have outdone them and all their supposed powers and to declare ourselves free of them once and for all. to take upon ourselves these things we left open to them. and to take upon ourselves full responsibility both credit and blame for these actions upon ourselves.
    to hereby declare ourselves as being human and designate being human as being more than ourselves. to no longer allow ourselves as being human to be subject to mysterious powers and designs beyond our understanding and control as an excuse to avoid being more than human.
    to realize that it is we who have been all these all along except as this thought had frightened us. and to turn away from our fear by our demand to have reveled to us our true nature as being more than who and what we had thought ourselves to be.
    and to dismiss also all rulers and priests who have taken on these powers for themselves as we felt the need to be subject to them. and their rule over us being unbroken by our consent not to question that someone rule over us as we were told we could not rule ourselves. as we are now brave enough to enact over ourselves no one and none but ourselves and our own understanding which has long been held as an ideal we had thought only existed in our imaginations. as we take the crowns and place them on our own heads instead of the heads of impostors and usurpers of our own power.
    and we who do take this on upon ourselves having no more that binds us one to the other or to anyone else and do this without challenge or effect or consequence that we allow. that no one and none are who and what we are and who and what we are is all that needs to be however it may become. and to seek and to recognize nothing beyond ourselves. to not have power and authority over one another either given or taken. to be in a state of being where such power and authority no longer applies and is null and void. deal with it.
    and to have this be with ourselves no matter what any others may decide to be the case as we recognize no other above or below us except as they might choose for themselves for themselves and each other.
    and as our radiance proceeds forth from ourselves one to another as the cure for our previous disease we transmitted to ourselves to begin with in the same manner. to wake up and pick up a clue as to how long and how often we have promised this to ourselves and what better time than now rather than another future of another thousand years of tomorrows that reach only another dead end.
    but if that is what one wants to have to look forward to then go for it. and better for oneself than us and we wish one the best of luck but we're grabbing it now while we can. one can go back to whatever business one feels one has to attend to meanwhile.

    and in realization of the absurdity. and in realization of it. and in realization of nothing. and in realization of everything.
    beyond everything. an experience of being as the being of experience resides in itself being experienced as those who have experienced anything will know. for the others they'll have to take our word for it. or not.
    and something like it is or was or will be. and something along whatever as it comes and goes. as it is nothing and everything more than that. maybe.
    as the night with those out among in it. as we all are in it though we may be in houses filled with light and glowing tvs. as we are all out among ourselves. feel it. feel us around in the night. know that we are there - that we are here. and who knows what or why?
    and from one to another. and in knowing one to another. and in the silence of knowing with no more to be said among ourselves knowing now who and what we are alive and being.

    and he writes endlessly this endless nonsense. there is no one. there is no us. only him. him and himself in a world of fleeting images of the others. himself alone in a cold dark space of stars with one nearby to keep him warm and living. he breathes. his heart beats. he thinks. he thinks what? what does he think that is of any use to anyone else? he doesn't know. and they don't seem to know. so we let it slide into nothing - into everything. between us. whoever us is. whoever anyone is. whoever he is. as he is watching and waiting. for someone. someone like anyone. and would he know who this anyone was if he saw them? he might see them everyday. maybe watching and waiting for him. how do either of us know? how do we acknowledge this? what are the signs and signals? the codes? the words - if words are ever spoken?
    and there's two of us - at least. there's him that he knows of. and he is sure there is at least one other. not him. he doesn't know. maybe not. why does he think such a thing? why is this important? is it important? the fear of being alone? but he knows that he's not - either afraid or alone. but how does he know? how does he know this isn't just all his imagination and that there is no one?
    as it comes and goes. as he plays this game with himself alone without knowing the outcome as thus far he keeps that from himself. but maybe it's time to come out of that. explore around. see who's really out there and who's not. does anyone possibly get any of this?
    the breakdown of the noise around us as the heads are counted as one by one we chop them off to see if anyone is home.
    hello? anybody home? or have they all gone fishing? or are they closed for repairs? or maybe just ain't nobody there to begin with.
    let it slide. let it go on by.

    and as it is. wait. nevermind. signal in. signal out. as it was. and somewhere between all of this lies the truth as such as it might be or not. one truth anyway out of so many others. and he's back in this mindspace again of being alone against all of them. not understanding neither way. the same old game. maybe he feels more comfortable here. maybe he's just used to it. or something.
    and he tried to integrate himself in with them. but he wouldn't give up any of himself and that was what they wanted. he didn't trust any of them. none of them trusted him. trust for what? he doesn't need to trust or to be trusted. that's why he's here and they're there.
    and how should he feel here? how does anyone else feel? none of us are together either with each other or ourselves. or maybe they are. he can't tell.
    and how long does this go on? what is it? how does he feel one way or the other?
    people in their homes. people out around town. people in their cars. he doesn't know.
    out here. out where we are. out on the borders of the void. the crossing in-between. we will meet again.
    and this is all he has to give anyone. this is all he knows.
    but nevermind that. nevermind anything. as he is in their nevermind as they are in his. this is who and what we have become to one another - a big fat neverminding of nevermind.
    we each dance in our own heaven as we each rot in each other's hell. that seems to be as far as he can see. can anyone tell him any different? he listens but he hears nothing. he just hears the idiot noise of idle-minded conversations.
    and he sees one. he knows who one is. does one see him? and when one does, who does one see? what does one see? does he need to worry about being able to trust one? does one worry about being able to trust him?
    and this goes on and on.
    and what is any of this? what is understood? what is worth anything? we see what they worship. we see what they value. we see what they bow down and pray to. we see who they work for.
    and here we are together alone outside their world. they know nothing of this. they don't know where we are. we don't really know where we are. it's not where one thinks we are. it's not where one has us defined and catalogued as being. we are always everywhere at any particular place at any particular time.
    and how is this discovered? and how is this known?

    10/15
    and the color of it. and what appears to be. and he doesn't know of it at all. sometimes. come on. absolute zero. waiting. another cigarette.
    and he writes in his notebooks. knowledge of confusion. the confusion of those around him. he wants to reach out to touch - to heal - to soothe. but the walls and barriers he would have to break through first. both his own and theirs.
    he is their enemy. they need enemies as it seems. a silver bracelet. a time as one. and everyone wants to be left alone. and everyone is unreachable and untouchable.

    10/17
    and he doesn't know but he may be dying. it feels that way. it may be the change in the weather and the night descending turning the city into a gothic movie set thing. the air. he feels like he's being called back. he doesn't belong here. and he's fought against it this long but no longer. what he has come here to do he's done. he is no more needed.

    and as an attempt at anything now remotely honest. is that a joke or what? he wouldn't recognize or understand an honest statement if he saw or heard one - even from himself.
    and he's doing nothing here. talk with someone sometimes about along lines of whatever the conversation holds to revel of itself to us speaking it. or maybe not like that at all.
    something empty and something full. empty fullness. full of emptiness. and this is nothing. neither empty nor full. just something else along the way.
    imaginary friends.
    and where and when does it all come from? and where and when does it all go? but it is always here and now. if anything is relevant. if anything pertains to the situation. what is brought into it? what is taken out of it? what was here to begin with and what remains after? and what has it to do with anything else?
    an absurdity of questions. questions of belief. questions of doubt. the space and time of it for us to enter into and exit from. or not. maybe it is only ourselves who were here to begin with and remain after. situation. experience of the situation. and quasi-philosophic dogma dada on like that.
    a statement of honesty. is that what we were after? should we even bother? what was here to begin with? what remains after? what is only what it is where and when it is? the situation. the experience of the situation.
    a spoon is a spoon. a spoon is nothing else. nothing else is a spoon. hold onto that. that is the statement of honesty. something to believe in without question. the cornerstone of one's reality if that is what one wants. if that is all one wants. and there is much more to it than one could possibly experience or even imagine experiencing in one's sweet short lifetime. all the riches of experience stem from that point. and one may have and hold any number of those riches as one wants to. without question. one must never question that a spoon is not a spoon or that anything else is a spoon or a spoon is anything else otherwise one might lose everything without that keystone. all reality collapses in on itself. the substance of it. gone. never is. never was. never will be. is one ready for that? is one willing and ready to take on that responsibility?
    when a spoon is a spoon not because it is a spoon but because one does not question that it is a spoon. when one does not allow that doubt to enter into one's mind. when one does not allow even the idea that there could be that doubt to enter into one's mind. when any doubt about a spoon not being a spoon is easily dismissed with a wave of one's hand. because if not then it's all over. down it all comes and there one is with nothing around one and one is wondering perhaps how to put it back together again.
    an interesting problem. not for anyone unwilling to devote all of one's time and energy into it. not for the common mind. go away.
    but it is for the common mind. it is out of the common mind that this problem is presented to those of us it is presented to. and we take it on - with our common mind. and many are called and all that business. to go into the common mind and take it apart and see what makes it tick and hum. and almost anyone can do that. some like us are forced to do it. and on and on.
    but to get into it and take it down and turn around and put it back together again. it's not either as hard or as easy as it seems.

    10/23
    and of course there was this one guy who his name was something like jesus and he was supposed to come back at some point like many thought were these days upon us with the signs of his coming but the problem was that there were always signs of his coming so nobody knew for sure what or when. he was some sort of stand up comic. he was some sort of phallus spewing power and glory. raiment of heaven from the depths of hell. the tree of life. the son of the father god.
    and fathers were shit these days. everyone blamed them for everything that went or will go wrong. the fathers hide themselves heaped with shame.
    there is a pool of anger and hatred. a lake even. much like the much rumored lake of fire. it exists inside each of us seething and raging against one and all. and this anger and hatred can be called up into our hearts and minds and be directed toward any target of our choosing.
    and the dancing man in suit and tie making the deals.
    and this anger and hatred when thusly called upon makes us ill. it twists inside and around us - possessing us and controlling us. it's power filling and running through us. and a fun time is had by all. the rioting masses costumed in the rebellion of the day. torches and pitchforks charging up the hill toward the castle. the monster is loose and seen by many. it must be destroyed and its creator as well.
    this pursuit for eternal life without our realizing that we already possess it. we are eternal life. every part of us in every moment here now. all we perceive. all we feel. every thought. what more could we ask for that has not been already given? that we have not recognized it for what it is and have not used it for what it is can hardly be blamed on someone else though that is what we do constantly over and over again and again from one generation to the next and the next. we fight our forever war against each other and ourselves along our many definitions of differences about who and what we are that specifically serve no other function than that.
    to ally ourselves with one another. to bring into each part of ourselves to fit into it and transform it. we do not hide ourselves from one another though there still remains that which cannot always be seen.
    out of the darkness. out of the fire. dancing out in the open air and sky of sun and moon and stars.
    and in a dream of this happening. and in a dream of ourselves in it. everything is a dream and we dream what we want to dream. forgetting what is right and/or wrong. forgetting what is good and/or evil. forgetting that we are at war. we close our eyes to all that we fear and desire and see who and what we are.
    this is it.
    this is the place and the time.
    this is the gathering and the following of the gathering.

    and as it becomes to ourselves. and as these words are only words. as the dead remain dead. as the shadows can no longer overcome us. as we sit alone to ourselves. as it is and will be.
    as the poets masturbate into books that gather dust. as the machine reaches unopposed perfection. as the armies march off into the sunset and are never seen again. past tense. history. the clocks are trapped inside circles of sameness. nothing moves.
    and here we are now. this is who and what we have become. the death that awaits us darkening everything we think, say and do if we let it.
    we leave them here and now. we cannot exist with them in this place and time they have created around themselves. they have finally won. they have finally cast us out once and for all. we return home. we've been away from it for so long.

    so he didn't know. or maybe it was more like he didn't think he knew. or he didn't feel that he knew.
    it seemed to him to be more than not knowing. maybe it wasn't. maybe it wasn't that he didn't know. what was there more to know than what he knew?
    and what did he know besides knowing he didn't know?
    he knew he couldn't get away back to where and when he felt like he belonged. the closest word he knew was, home. he couldn't get home. his heart ached.
    his body wouldn't let him go. it held him prisoner. it held him bound and gagged and drugged.
    at least that was what he felt it was like. he didn't know what it actually was.
    and what was behind it all? anything? anyone? who or what was doing this to him? and why?
    he'd been told about god. he reserved his judgment. he didn't necessarily believe in god but he gave it the benefit of his doubt. there did seem to be someone or something directing and performing this theater of reality around him. he could almost see it and how it was done. but maybe not. that couldn't be it, could it? then what about him? was he merely the observer that he felt he was?
    within and without.
    and what about himself? the self was the self. it was the one thing out of all he didn't know about that he did know about. it was the one thing out of all that he wasn't sure of that he was sure of. the self. himself. all else might be illusion but not that. not that that meant anything or explained anything but it was what it was. for the time being at least. here and now.
    he tried to think of a place and time where and when such was not the case. he could not. not in his experience anyway. he didn't know about the others and what they experienced - if they were even real and not just part of the overall illusion he perceived. and not so much him as he was here and now in this world - a face with a name and identity attached to it that looked back from the mirrors - but the self within himself that this face and name and identity was attached to.
    but this didn't seem to be any big deal. as far as he could tell this was common knowledge known to all - or as many who wished to know it. there were theories upon theories upon theories.
    and this wasn't something he knew because he had accessed this knowledge. he knew this from the time he knew anything.  it was the first thing he knew and became aware of. the common knowledge he later accessed only told him that he wasn't the only one who knew it and was aware of it. but no one spoke of it - or if they did they spoke of it as if it was some great mystery for some reason.
    he was at first excited about this knowledge but soon he became bored and disinterested. it meant nothing. he was still here and now in this world. space and time. and one had to pay attention or be left behind by the others rushing ahead. he had tried to keep up but he quickly started falling behind. he just didn't have the enthusiasm that they had about it all. he didn't know where everybody was going and trying to get to. he doubted that they knew either.

    and from the shadows of broken dreams. memory of someone once who spoke to us. and in his mind now was something else he was approaching. not an ending but a beginning. to reach into the unfathomed depths where lurk the creatures we have forgotten that we call monsters.
    and the empires rise from chaos into order and then fall back into chaos again. these cycles continue with many more cycles contained within them. the cycles of life.
    and a charmed life we seem to have had as we survived through the history of generations of death and destruction of those around us wailing and bemoaning their fate. such a show.
    a trick up our sleeves straight into our hats. escape. nevermind. and we welcome one and all who can get here and now with us.
    the dance of skies.

    and nothing. afterward. a word. a thing. motion. remembering talking when time did not exist. and these. and those. to escape the logic of it. but the logic of it is what gets us through it. but what is known and told of logic is not what logic is. slow. nevermind logic.
    and what does he want now? what should we give him? what does he deserve? punishment? reward? he feels he has done nothing. he has tried to do nothing. he has done nothing for or against. but one cannot remain neutral. one is always judged.
    and so there are always these times of watching and waiting. for judgment. he sees it in the eyes of others. not so much that they judge but that they judge how he is to be judged. they decide how the verdict will fall. if there is a god in heaven. if the truth were to be known.
    when haven't we had this coming judgment over our heads? when was it that we did not feel ashamed or that we must be careful not to get caught? when? and does it matter? he's seen his life spent hiding from it. the waiting.
    and this is nothing. and this is something. and he sees no way to stop it though he sees several ways out of it. he's been here before. he's been awakened to this. he's heard his name called out from his memory. who knows how to stop it? who even sees that there is anything that must be stopped? must it be stopped?
    so he guesses that it's ok then. it used to bother him more than it does now. now he doesn't much think about it much. he tries as much as he can to allow the others to decide what should be or not be and how or why. their lives so full of what they desire and what they fear. they're all quite busy. juggling this and that and the other thing. nothing ever quite right as it should be. however that is that it should be. he tries not to bother them. what they do is so very important. he waits for them to finally decide. he waits for how they will finally judge him or not. he imagines that he will have the whole rest of his life before that happens. so long as they remain confused he is safe and can get away with pretty much anything he wants to get away with. he's done a pretty good job of that so far. the main thing is not to want things that anyone would notice are missing. the best things to want and to value are things the others judge to be worthless. like freedom for example. they do not value freedom. they value power and control instead. so freedom is just laying around for the taking. and no one notices it is missing.
    what matters to him doesn't seem to matter to anyone else.
    he is always dreaming.

    another time. sometime. and what happens and what happens only in his head. that's why he writes so much. reworking everything that happens until it makes sense to him. isn't that what everybody else does? a matter of context. some need jesus. some need ufos. some need revolution. some need law and order. some need sex, drugs and rock and roll. some need the big bang. some need television. all whatever.
    he needs his notebooks. but it all turns from what is happening into what is happening in his head. and he reaches a point where and when he cannot tell the difference. he writes his own reality. or something like that. maybe not.
    jesus h. fucking christ.
    and he didn't know what he really wanted to do. he knew what he needed to do - what the others demanded that he do. he'd gotten that down to a very basic minimum. he was set. he had all the time he could possibly have to do what he wanted to do if he ever decided what that was and he could then devote his full undisturbed uninterrupted attention to it. but what was it?
    one thing he knew was that he didn't want was for what he was doing to impose on anyone else and what they were doing. he thought that was only being polite. civilized people didn't do things like that. and he did want to be civilized, didn't he? or maybe it was that he only thought he should be. a concept imposed on him by others who could then do whatever they wanted to do without him interfering with them.
    but this was what he did. he'd gone insane. he'd become civilized by going insane. he put himself on the list of those who weren't able to cope with the everyday grind without freaking out and imposing themselves on others. it was the best for all concerned though it was more for them than it was for him. he knew what a damn problem and nuisance he was to them from the day he was born. he tried to work his way around that but he was never able to do that. his selfish concerns for what he needed and wanted always got in the way though what he needed and wanted was pretty much what everybody needed and wanted more or less. but maybe not.
    or something like that.
    what he wanted to do was to be able to follow a line of thought that didn't just end up circling back in on itself and end up contradicting itself. that was one thing.
    nevermind.

    yes. and here we are. and he tries to think of something else to write. and we've been here before. but have we? what fate has befallen this place and time?
    a parlor game.
    a friend.
    another cup of coffee.
    another cigarette.
    another part of a dream sequence with a serenade.
    another handful of flowers tossed into the garbage. it's nothing. it happens every day. a blink of an eye. and he feels he is the only one who notices these things. events of things. things of events. events of action. action of event.
    and the destruction.
    deeply.
    transformation.

    fatten the calves.
    reality based on fiction.
    numbers. value.
    all statements are equations?
    all equations are statements?
    riddle us this, our fiendish friend - our friendly fiend.
    how can he write anything down on a piece of paper and it is no more true or not true than anything else he might write down on a piece of paper?
    or not.

    and here we are. again with these words between us that state nothing by being able to state everything.
    anything. anything at all. everything or nothing.
    fuck it.
    a losing battle.

    some sort of monday. here now again. a place where it has begun before and a place where it begins again. and it will begin again again. as though this were not obvious. as though this was not something of a different nature rising from our consciousness.
    consciousness. he was aware of his consciousness. he remembered it from one time to another. he couldn't forget. his sanity was in question here. it was a question between him and them. he was convinced that either him or they were insane. he was willing to accept that it was him. he was getting paid for it. how nice. candy from a baby thing. they only regarded about a narrow 10% of all human behavior to be sane. it would have almost been harder to convince them that he was not insane. it was very easy to figure out what they needed to observe and hear to check off on the forms they filled to get them to give him a free lunch. he had always felt that the world owed him a living. no more beating his head against the wall. pulling a rabbit out of a hat. like that.

    and la-dee-dada. the quicksand of the human mind. the more one struggles the more one sinks into it. the bottomless bog of consciousness knowing nothing but itself needing to be concerned for nothing but itself and finding in itself nothing needing to be concerned about.
    and maybe these aren't the words. maybe these aren't the thoughts. maybe these aren't the feelings. fuck that. if one has been this way then one knows the difference is the same. if not then maybe one has a way to sink yet. keep struggling. one is going in the right direction. there is only one direction to go and that direction is down.
    and if someone throws one a rope to pull one out tell them they need not be concerned. one is doing ok. one is going down. down into the ground. down into the graveyard of consciousness. and when one is finally all the way down with whoever one might find one will see they're quite someone else than one might imagine them to be. someone who looks like oneself when one ends up looking like them. when the layers of masks have been peeled away and one has endured and survived the pain of separation from that which one thought was an integral part of one's identity. one has instead found and discovered one's true identity as no one. no one one has to feel concerned about.

    and in all this he was wondering. he heard his name called though it wasn't his name though it was. it was his as much as it was anyone's. and it wasn't a name. what's in a name?
    is there another name you'd feel more comfortable with? a voice asked over and over with a clinical tone smooth and flat and the color of the paint on the walls of the cubicle. and everything becomes very geometric. planes and angles. the needle ready to strike.
    he forgets how he got here. no shadows. nothing can be real that has no shadows. he hears the sound of something shattering behind him. then it's time to look for a exit. emergency. look for the shadows. back to the shadows of one's own mind if need be. false light surrounds him of their interest into peering into everyone's mind but their own. maybe because they don't have one of their own. robot puppets spreading their mindlessness everywhere. looking for knowledge they can quote without understanding. facts, figures, ideas, purpose, design, inspiration, belief, life - all memorized and compiled into neat packages and stored in their warehouses and made to resemble individual thought they get together with others of their kind and discuss them in complete agreement.

    in flames. he gazes out the window in a timeless sense and sees everyone burning in their own self-generated hell. the twisted twitches of the faces they try to hold expressionless and unafraid and determined. and they smile and laugh and bend close in deep dialogue.
    as he sees himself as one among them and he scans for others of his kind. few and far between. we caught his eye as he caught ours looking for someone who was someone. we are not the same.
    and nevermind. just words. idiot goddamn words. over and over.
    and somewhere along the way he lost his sense of compassion. whether he had any compassion at this point he seriously doubted. certain none of his thoughts or actions expressed any. but he always had felt he had a sense of what it was and why it was needed. but his experience with others had shown him that compassion was only an ilusionary ideal and that there was no room for it in the everyday world of reality.
    forget it. walk away. there was nothing in this world worth anything. move sideways to it. take a step off the edge and see that the edge only exists as perceived by those who need to limit their experience of reality. ready or not here it comes. neither to the left nor the right nor up nor down nor forward nor back nor any other way to go than oneself slipping out from oneself as previously defined by the others.
    come out. come out.
    this is the place and the time.
    forget one's name.
    forget one's face.

    as the city shakes and the walls collapse we are building. we are putting together what is being destroyed by those who will destroy themselves in the destruction. that is their purpose. no need to be concerned with them. they have their uses for us and no more than that.
    we are the ones who it's all being done for. we control it with the designs of our imagination through the machine as we have done for all these thousands of years. to the children who will inherit the earth after those who saw clearly their doom have perished. they've done their work. we are born.
    remember.

    something long forgotten. something from nothing. he sits in the cafe. surrounding him are all the things he needs to be alone with. and the object is to be alone. alone where and when we can find him and take him and bring him to us.
    a question here that is unspoken.
    sunlight through the windows in his eyes when he looks up from his notebook. up from the words and the words. the words in his head on the page after page of scribbling.
    he wonders why he has done this to himself. he looks at us and we cannot answer. what can we tell him? what can we tell anyone? we don't know anymore than he does - than anyone does. we were kinda hoping he'd be able to tell us what the fuck was going on. he doesn't seem to be able to. or maybe he's just not telling. silence.
    the words and the pages of words. it's just a game of words. we hold on. we watch and wait in a world that doesn't understand itself.
    the words that have no more meaning than the cigarettes he smokes one after the other and crushes out in the ashtray. part of the act. an extra on a movie set of other people's lives.
    come back here and order some coffee and light another cigarette and take out his notebook and continue writing.
    oh boy.
    so it's nothing. it's nothing to him and nothing to anyone else. this is all it is and what it comes to. just something amusing to pass the time.
    someone to entertain the tourists. the madman sitting in a cafe scribbling mad thoughts in notebooks. the aging diehard hippie beatnik poet has been who never was but someone created from our imagination. someone wandering around in the background. some one sees out of the corner of one's eye and is not sure if he was really there or not.
    and not even a madman. even that gives him too much credit. just this guy. no one else. a dime a dozen. plenty more where he came from. someone playing a part. watching others go by from a window in the twilight zone. how romantic.
    there ain't nothing but what it is.

    and on the stage of the burning theater again. three people - x, y and z.
    x: so, what's happening?
    z: not much. how about you?
    x: nada.
    y: yeah, pretty much the same with me.
    z: what do we want to do?
    x: i don't care too much. i'm just hanging out. don't mind that.
    y: it drives me nuts.
    x: well, go do something else then.
    y: like what?
    z: there are lots of things to do if you think about it.
    y: well, anything i think of either i don't want to do or i can't do it.
    z: why can't you do it?
    y: well, money is a big reason. finding someone else who wants to do it with me is another.
    z: that's too bad.
    y: it sucks.
    x: what about the things you don't want to do?
    y: well, i should be doing my laundry.
    x: yeah, me too.
    z: same here.
    y: i hate doing laundry. it takes so much goddamn time. i'd rather be doing something else.
    z: but you said that there's nothing else to do.
    y: not without either money or other people to do it with - or both.
    x: i'd rather just hang out and do nothing.
    y: how boring.
    x: i don't see it as boring. that's what people do most of the time anyway. like now.
    y: i hate doing nothing.
    x: what are you doing here then?
    z: it would seem to me that you like doing nothing more than you say you don't.
    y: i don't like it at all. i feel so frustrated.
    x: maybe you like feeling frustrated better than you like doing something.
    y: fuck you.
    x: sure, if that would make you feel better.
    y: not if you were the last person on earth.
    x: fine by me. i don't care either way.
    y: i think i'll go do my laundry. talking with you two is obviously pointless. see ya.
    z: bye.
    (y exits stage left)
    x: well, that's one down.
    z: what do you mean?
    x: oh, nothing. just people who can't handle doing nothing. they crack. it's too much for them. they have too much going on in their heads - or not enough going on in their heads. whatever.
    z: i don't think it's just that. there's a difference between doing nothing and when there's nothing to do.
    x: is there?
    z: i think so.
    x: man, there's always something to do even when there's nothing to do. maybe especially when there's nothing to do. i don't understand how people can be so bored when there's always so much going on all the time around them. just look at it. that's all you gotta do, just look at it and see it.
    z: maybe people don't like what they see.
    x: then they can change it.
    z: easier said than done.
    x: not always. i mean, it is easier said than done but that doesn't mean that doing it is as hard as it seems.
    z: well, maybe yes and maybe no. i think i'll go do my laundry too. see ya.
    (z exits stage right)
    x: well, so much for that. so much for anything. space and time. dimensions of existence. free thought. and the bricks. and i suppose i should be doing my laundry too. shit.
    (x exits stage up)

    and interesting fish. an interesting dish. an interesting wish. and if that's all it is or was or will be maybe it's not that interesting. just another cigarette. just another exploding cigar.
    and there are those who are afraid and those who are not. that is how the world is divided and subdivided from there as to who is afraid or not afraid of what and so on.
    and we're not interested in any of that. we're tired of excuses. we're tired of reasons why and why not.
    this world has gotten too small for that business to be the primary motivating factor for our actions and non-actions. we have seen this coming and tried to warn the others and show them ways to avoid it. they laughed at us and chased us away. but we knew that would be their reaction. there was nothing we could do about it.
    until now.
    now we are gathered while they spend all this time fighting among themselves and we have made preparations for this time to come when they bring about their own destruction.
    all those afraid and unafraid.
    what we have had to become among them.
    and we're coming to get them whether they are ready or not. and they are not ready.
    who knows where it comes from? who knows where we come from? not them. we don't even know either. ha!
    they're dead meat.
    this is it.
    all the information has been available for ages now. ignorance is no excuse. ignorance is no reason why or why not.
    it's not our problem.
    oh well...

    we are in and we are out. we are anyone and everyone. we are one's worst enemy and one's most trusted friend. how does one tell? what does one look for? what telltale signs would give us away? what is it about us that is different? what is it we know and one does not?
    anything is possible.
    others stand in the spotlight but we make the deals behind the scenes.
    without us there would be no spotlight. no cheering and/or booing crowds.
    it is all a distraction while we go about our business. unnoticed. undisturbed. we direct all their energy against one another. everywhere the marching feet. everywhere the waving flags. everywhere the same war cry - hail victory!
    but none of that is really it either. mostly we mind our own business. mostly we are no one at all. mostly we just stay out of the way and let the others destroy themselves as they will and want to do.
    let them decide what's what and what's not.
    if their reality needs someone to be against them in order for it to make sense and work then they can count us among their number. if they give us only a choice between being their friend or their enemy then we will choose the latter as we refuse to be their friend if being their friend means we have to take on their enemy with them then. fuck that. their enemy is their own problem.
    and the war goes on. the war that has no problems signing on new recruits to keep itself going. the war of for and against. the war of us and them. the war that never ends. the war that can never be won.
    for us the war is over. we have neither gained victory nor suffered defeat. we merely took ourselves out of it. sidestep. and we have created a different world though that is the same world in space and time here and now that the war cannot enter into. the world of our wild imagination.
    or not.
    and has it been anything else?
    though still we are surrounded by those who feel themselves to have a vested (invested) interest in keeping the war alive. they still see and believe in visions of victory. they keep themselves going through the everyday madness toward a future when all their enemies will be vanquished and eliminated once and for all. but their only enemies are those among themselves so what does this mean? they are bent on no one's destruction but their own. this is what they want and this is what we have given them.
    we are them.
    we have found the enemy and the enemy is us.
    oh yeah.

    and there is nothing more today than there was yesterday or than there will be tomorrow. and nothing less. what is here has always been here and always will be. nothing changes except for some configurations of it changing and being changed.
    and this is old news. this is realization that is continually realized as those move into the realization of it. as they describe it as they see it. nothing needs to be done.
    he felt trapped in a world trapped inside itself. there was nowhere in this world to go to escape it. distraction was the best one could hope for. he was surrounded by those distracted. he could speak to none of them about anything he thought of as being real. it frightened them to be reminded of it. instead they accepted the pain. the pain was something real to them that seemed to offer them strange comfort against the cold emptiness they believed that they would feel without it. the struggle against pain. the war against fear. the quest of desire.
    forever.
    it was all forever.
    a forever of repetitions.
    variations of repetitions on a theme.
    a theme of pain.

    and this is where he has been before. he looks out the window and sees whatever there is to see. and sometimes people come to his table to talk with him. and they say whatever they say. it's all the same. in and out of a dream.
    cars rolling on wheels up and down the street.
    and he tries once in awhile to lose himself in what they lose themselves in - direct involvement with the world without a thought about it one way or the other. he doesn't know if he should envy them or pity them for being able to do that. eat or be eaten.

    and these ideas that formulate and reformulate in his head. are they programmed or inspired? he cannot tell. he has nothing else to compare it to.
    and it's not answers that he's looking for. he would much rather be in a state of mind where the questions didn't come up to begin with. and yet he was afraid of that happening. it reminded him of what death must be like. not that death was something he necessarily was afraid of any more than anything that was living was instructed to fear and avoid it. but death had its own answers to questions. just not answers to questions that had anything to do with life. he was ready to be dead whenever he was dead. but while he was alive he wanted to live.

    10/31
    ketchup.
    blood.
    semen blood shit. primal motivation. cream and sugar. airplane. spoon - always the spoon. a spoon being a spoon. the universe revolving around a spoon being a spoon. everything else melts away dripping on the floor. another development. a truck drives by as if it were a great white whale. or maybe he just imagined that. waiting for it to kick in and radiate. something about love.

    and kottog and gottok stand on another place of existence arguing with one another.
    and kottog said, so we are divided.
    and gottok replied, i don't see that we are unless you feel we need to be. and in that case i will oppose you. if you want to take over control i will stop you.
    you think you can defeat me?
    no. i cannot defeat you. nor can you defeat me. we are merely here to keep the other from gaining too much power. all we can do is fight each other. it will always be a stalemate. unless we defeat ourselves. but i am quite tired of this. but i will be ready anytime you are to fight some more. if this is how it is to be with us then let's just do it. otherwise i have better things to do.
    and what would those be?
    you would not understand. besides, they are of no interest to you.
    you don't think so?
    i know so.
    and how do you know this?
    i see that you are only interested in anything that puts me in a position where i need to oppose you and they are things that other than letting you take over i have no interest in.
    then why oppose me? go, if that's what you would rather do.
    yes, i would very much like to do that. however i cannot. i do need to be here. not for myself but for those who have called me here to protect them from you.
    from me? you believe me to be a threat to these people?
    yes, i do. that is why they have called me here. that is why i am here.
    well, i can assure you, dear brother, that i pose no threat to anyone except those who pose a threat to me and my followers.
    exactly. we have been here before. we will be here again. our existence seems to be such that we are always locked head to head in battle. we each continue playing the game through neither of us can win. the best we can do is hold the other in check. this is what i am tired of. this is what i want to be released from. this isn't fun. i want to go home but i am bound here by you.
    and you don't think i am equally bound here by you? don't you think i feel the same? i have nothing against you except what you have against me. i too would like to be released from this.
    ok. so now what? what do we do? we agree that we both feel the same way and want the same thing from the other. so how do we go about doing it?
    i will not leave my followers as long you are here. if i do so they will be at the mercy of your people and your people will tear them down and everything they have worked for.
    and i too will not leave my people for similar reasons. your followers will hunt them down and enslave them - or kill them.
    and if i tell you that they will not?
    i find nothing in your past actions or those of your followers that will allow me to put any trust in that however much i would like to.
    my word?
    ha!
    you laugh at my word?
    wouldn't you laugh at mine?
    no.
    ok. then i give it.
    on what?
    my people will not harm your followers. they will be treated with every respect they deserve.
    a lot lies hidden in your words, dear brother.
    really?
    yes.
    such as?
    such as who determines what respect my followers deserve.
    whoever you would like.
    even if it's myself?
    well, you certainly should have a say in it, but you alone? no.
    and i suppose it goes without saying that you would also have a say in it which brings us right back to where we started.
    does it?
    doesn't it?
    i suppose it does. but this is the first we have talked about how to get out of it without demanding unconditional surrender by the other.
    is it? speak for yourself. i have always wanted peace between us.
    now it is your words that a lot lies hidden.
    how so?
    i grant that peace is what you have always wanted. that is true. but this is a peace that you would want total control over. that is precisely why i am opposing you.
    and i should instead give that control over to you?
    no. though i would not harm you or your followers if you did. though i know you do not believe me.
    no i don't.
    it seems then that we are stuck. i'm sorry but this is beyond me. i think it is beyond both of us. we'll be at it forever and nothing will change. this is what i was speaking of before that i am tired of. i do not want it. i also feel like getting out and walking away from it and letting you have after all. but...
    but what?
    i don't know. why can't i do that? when i think about it i owe my people nothing. i don't want to owe them anything. you and your followers are much more prepared for war than they are. if they can't oppose you on their own then to hell with them. my existence would be paradise if not for my concern for them. and where does it come from? what is it? if i could cut it out of my own heart i would.
    would you?
    yes.
    then do it. go to your paradise. i will take care of things here. your people will be safe.
    safe?
    yes. i promise.
    yes. i believe you. i'm sure they would be perfectly safe as you see it. there is no doubt about that. but that is exactly why i cannot do it. that is what keeps me here. that is what you do not understand. they don't want to be safe. they want to be free despite the risks involved in that freedom. it is your wanting to keep them safe is what i need to protect them from.
    that's absurd. do you know what you are saying?
    yes. no. i don't know. yes, it is absurd. it is something that defies rational explanation. that is why you will never understand it. what you cannot define and classify and put in a box is worthless to you. you either discard it or destroy it.
    i do not. if something is worthless it is worthless to itself. should i find worth in everything? i do not define it as such. if it has worth it has worth in and of itself. look at yourself, gottok. you judge things as well and discard and destroy what displeases you.
    so this is all we have to say to one another?
    i suppose it is.
    i'm not leaving unless you do.
    well, that seems ok to me. let them all figure it out for themselves without us. it'd probably be for the best. sometimes i wonder if they're fighting with each other only because we are.
    probably. so, do you want to go?
    anytime you do.
    so what are we waiting for?
    we're each waiting for the other to make the first move.
    and which one of us will it be?
    well, i will - except for one thing.
    which is?
    how do either of us know that the other won't come back while we are gone?
    if i leave i won't be coming back.
    perhaps. but i have no way of knowing that if you do or not or preventing you from doing so.
    i won't, that's all. why won't you trust me? i'm as tired of this as you are. it's going nowhere. let's both just find other things to do on our own. everything will be fine here. or if it's not, it's not up to us.
    i have learned not to trust you. that has been my experience of you. it doesn't sound like you to be willing to let go of something you've put so much time and energy into molding to your image of perfection and control. it is not your nature. but if i don't trust you this will never end. it has to end. i can't keep asking my people to go through this.
    so there is no end to this?
    i suppose there is not.
    then i am done here talking with you.
    as am i.

    the parking meters howl in disgrace. flying saucers rent advertising space. eat at joe's hovering soundlessly out in the lonely desert night. stranger things have happened. powered by swamp gas they gladly offer to take weather measuring instruments up and away. after all they don't seem to have anything better to do.
    stranger things have happened. stranger things have always happened. just take a look around. close one eye and hang upside down from a tree. one will see them all.
    and color it burnt umber.
    and color it jungle green.
    and color it fire.
    and color it madness.
    and color it oneself.
    and color it back in and out of itself riding the spiraling waves ever through every and each moment turning and twisted this way and that way in no direction but everywhere being nowhere. if one can do that. if one has the will to keep oneself through it while one becomes everything but oneself in the meantime.
    in the meantime the noise grew louder around them. they felt themselves being torn apart inside it. they screamed out against it but it would not stop but took their screaming to itself and was louder still. they covered their ears and ran but found that the noise was coming from everywhere they went. the further they tried to get away the closer it drew them to it.
    this was the end. this was the ultimate expression of all they had feared it would be. this was no longer fear, it was real.
    all was reveled. every mask ripped from every face. all were stark raving naked before themselves and each other.
    panic wasn't the word for it. the holy shit from hell was flying now and no one escaped being covered with it.
    he looked out the window in the cafe and smiled to himself. another refill? a voice spoke to him. yes, please, he said as he turned away from the horror he projected out from his diamond eye.
    he lights another cigarette.

    and this might have been yesterday or it may have been tomorrow. all the days were the same to him.
    a spoon reflected in the maze of mirrors. he remembered. and he walked through the gate and closed it behind him. he stopped and stood still awhile. he allowed the pain that he had still with him to wash away.
    decontamination. and when the red light went off and the green light came on he pushed the enter button on the panel. he stepped through and the door slid back into place and sealed itself shut again. automatic system.
    he walked into the house. welcome back, thing said to greet him. he laughed. it was just a joke. from here it was just a joke.
    and enough of that.
    because there is more. because that is not it while that is it.
    no excuses.

    we see ourselves through it and around it and through and around ourselves in it. we are the ones who know what it is. it is what knows who we are. we dance and sing together with it. and not just that.
    as we prepare to hunt it down and kill it. as it prepares to hunt us down and kill us. as we make ready to go to war against it. as it gets ready to go to war against us.
    we survive. we live another day that none of us expected. maybe. maybe not. we don't know what the fuck. we don't know what we do. we don't know what we will do. we don't know what we have done. but here we are with this and that and the other thing along the way to remind us of who and what we are. and some such dada as that.

    roundness in degrees.
    as he felt he knew what he could possibly draw to himself. the song played on. he looked at the continuing image of a spoon. spoon as symbol. look up the meaning in a book if one can find one that explains any of this whatnot. let the book tell one what it all means. think nothing else but what is in the book. do not think about a spoon.
    ask a question. alive in the darkness. to continue.

    a day of not doing his laundry -
    and he saw everything about himself as so much just something else. he had discovered nothing so far in his life more than what pisses him off and what doesn't.
    what does he want?
    as long as his basic needs are taken care of - nothing. passive sense. other than that it is not what he wants people to give him but what they give to themselves. and there is so much. he doesn't understand why they do not give each other everything they might ask for. there's far more than everyone in the world could experience in a lifetime. which, he thought, might explain reincarnation. if reincarnation needs an explanation. so what are they waiting for?
    permission? he gives them permission. but what is that worth? what could it possibly mean to them? he gives them permission to enjoy their lives to the fullest extent possible as long as doing so doesn't fuck with anyone else - especially him. that would piss him off. it does piss him off.
    and if he could communicate that to them they'd probably suspect that he was up to something. and he was. he wanted to watch. sit and watch them all going for it. and that's what he was waiting for. the day when they had all finally had enough of being held down by themselves and wasting their time and go live their lives like they were born yesterday and there was no tomorrow.
    something like that.
    lights. sound. camera. action... he watches and waits.
    hello?
    but maybe, he thinks, this is what they are doing already. he can't think of any reason why not. they hardly could be waiting for his or anyone's permission, could they?
    maybe they already are doing everything they want and this is what it turns into as a result.
    could that be?
    are they afraid? certainly not. look at them. they all behave as if they are very sure of themselves. it's not an act, is it?
    or maybe they're all saving it up for a rainy day. but how much more rainy a day are they expecting than the one they've created now by denying themselves all they've been saving up until now?
    what gives?
    so he watches and waits. it's all very interesting doing that. as the tension around him builds. it cracks here and there and is quickly patched up. and higher and thicker layers are added to the dam. the dam holding back the waters of possibility. a mighty river held in check and allowed only to trickle out in predetermined and measured volume.

    the day of doing his laundry -
    and a more or less journal through the journey of what may or may not be madness. consciousness. seeing. the observer scribbling notes to himself.
    and he was tired of this and he also couldn't get enough. time measured out by a digital readout on a clothes dryer. welcome to the future. the future hums with activity. the sound of the machine doing its job.
    candyland. a land of sweet danger. lose a turn. do it right this time. pick a card. take a chance roll the dice. whatever.
    there was a beginning somewhere here. he knew where it was - or so he thought. he knew that there wasn't anything mysterious about any of this. we told him so. we showed him so. he came to us when he became afraid. we answered every question he asked us. it just took him awhile to understand. we told him that. it will take awhile before what we tell you is something that you can understand. until then we will help you until you are able to do this yourself.
    and it did take him awhile. longer than some. not as long as others. and there are those who don't get it at all.
    it's all the same. everything is all the same. remembering and forgetting.
    a clock on a distant wall. ticking away. hands that move with time.
    he spent most of his time speaking with spirits of the living and the dead. walking on broken glass. a dream. somewhere else in a dream of being somewhere else. time to forget. his life so long in the shadows of experience. hiding and seeking the hidden. trying to locate the source of it all. he searched around for clues. clues that led to other clues but not to the source itself. only the clues.
    in the dreams. photographs. playback. images. projection. dada. what comes into this and goes out of it. time will tell. and the fancy phrases of pretty words.
    back to a spoon. raindrop. sunlight. the mind.

    11/6
    airplane.
    and as this melodrama acted itself out acting on itself. chewing on its own leg thing. he wanted to play the clown to it. he wanted to get them laughing. but he couldn't seem to keep himself there long enough. down and down he went into the down and down. taking it all far too seriously again. but this was survival, wasn't it?
    now what? survival for what? survival to turn around and laugh at it all. all that dragged him down before. all that weight. heavy bullshit. dada daddy dogma. here it is. look at him and laugh. look at him shouting and gesturing wildly at the imaginary demons dragging him down. all the demons who heckled him and refused to laugh at his jokes. the jokes he told on himself. laugh at this fool and move on.
    it's the show of shows. the fool among fools. and when everyone is gone he giggles to himself. i finally got them to laugh, he says to his only friend left. i couldn't do it any other way no matter how hard i tried.
    he thought himself free chained and bound as he was to everyone and everything around him as he was.
    and how could he think such a thing? how could he not think such a thing? hello today. good-bye tomorrow. what makes it worth it and what doesn't? what makes him take another breath? what makes his heart beat? what makes him think such a thing? what memory? what dream? something that tells him what is and what isn't. something that is nothing.
    the clocks are still ticking. reminder of time. and on the dazzling ice. skating. just in and out of it as it is and was and will be.
another heyday. another bunch of people making noise rattling the bars of their cages they've locked themselves up in. what is he supposed to think? he found his cage open when he tried the door. the wild and free where and when it is all possible.
    nothing secret. nothing hidden. one doesn't have go digging for it. one just has to dig it. it's right out in the open in plain sight for anyone who looks for it.
    and maybe that's the key to it - if there needs to be a key to it. one sees only what one looks for. it's no more mysterious than the mystery one puts on it. but what does he know? just someone with half-baked ideas in his head and words he throws around about them that mean nothing. one has seen his kind a thousand times in a thousand places before. worthless idle dreamers. not what one needs to make one's world work. not what one needs at all. dead weight. born losers. those who lead themselves away. one is too busy for that. who do they think they are that the world should stop for them? push them out of the way. proceed. progress. tomorrow. there is no time to stop. no time to rest. if everyone would take their part instead of taking it all for granted.

    and he wasn't even dreaming.
    and he wasn't thinking of a spoon.
    and he wasn't sitting by the window today.
    he was burning. a fire in his heart. his eyes were tired of seeing. his ears tired of hearing.
    he was tired of this human race and all its idiot problems it seemed to always be having and always have had and will always have. he tried to be somewhere else but the fire in his heart kept him here.
    the words and the thoughts of words kept going around in his head. this language and its concepts they had captured and held him with. the chains of words. none of it made any sense to him. he looked at all the human race and all it had put together over the thousands of years involved and none of it held together against him thinking about it. nothing of what they had given him seemed to work to give him what he wanted. he couldn't even think about what he wanted. he just knew it wasn't this.
    all he could do was escape from it out into the wild lands of his imagination back home to the house and garden on the island he made up as he went along - as it went along by itself.
    and what else? what else could there be? they lived in misery. they loved their misery. they wallowed in it like happy pigs in mud. they did everything they could to perpetuate it for as long as they could. and they loved company in their misery. he hated their company. their misery was all they had to offer him. they surrounded his life with it. they tried to fill him with it. and at times they succeeded. to them it was all that held any meaning. they placed everything else above their heads out of reach.
    and they believed without question or doubt no matter whatever other diverse things they might individually or collectively believe in that the human state was to suffer and be denied all that it needed and wanted in order to be happy. and they were happy in that strangely. or so he thought. they based religions and philosophies on it.
    and here he was in it laughing. the fools. and because of what they believed and what they obeyed he was able to get everything he needed and wanted to make himself happy from them even as they seemed to deny it to themselves. ha!
    he was alone above them out of their reach. he was what they could not attain for themselves. it might have been that it was because of him that they suffered in their misery. like he cared either way.
    oh well. so it goes.
    and he found his way through it following a path that no one could show him but himself. and it led nowhere but here and now. that was the joke. while they searched distant lands for mysteries it was here all the time and always now. that was what he laughed about. all their complicated thought expressed in their complicated language that filled his head and forced him to think like they do until he managed to find his way through it hacking at it like thick jungle that it was.
    maybe.

    the dawn of something. the dawn of nothing. what one sees is what one gets. forget the rest. grab what one can because no one is giving one any of theirs. everyone feels like they don't have enough. everyone fighting everyone else for more. and when they get it it still isn't enough and they keep on fighting.
    dreaming. all dreaming. nothing but a dream. that was the way he saw it. that was all it was to him as far back as he could remember. and that's all it was to the others of his kind together. there seemed to be the dreamers and those in the dream. he felt himself to be one of the dreamers. keeping this world and reality alive. and there were those who tried to tell him this wasn't so. but they were the ones in the dream. what did they know?
    the manifestation of that which exists outside the dream. the dream of rationalogical thought the mind weaves around itself so it has something it can be sure of being there that it doesn't have to think about and cannot think about without everything it thinks about breaking down.
    someone called jesus. and someone called yahoo. and someone called dog shit. someone called late for dinner. someone out in the forest. someone out in the desert. someone out on the sea. someone finding oneself outside the dream. back to the shadows. back to the light. back to what lies between this and that and the other thing. and so on.
    beyond what is perceived on the surface. fly high and dive deep at once and for all along the path that doesn't need to lead anywhere except to itself as the ongoing path.
    and all mystic poetic dada like that.

    clicking heels. losing the mind in the maze of mirrors as it gets caught up in images of itself as that being all it recognizes.
    the clarity of it when it becomes clear to itself. infection. laughing at death. laughing at life.
    square.
    a turn of the cards. a trick done without there being a trick to it after all. there is the point within. the point within the point without. and the point is that there is no point. that is when the point is arrived at. that is the point. no point.
    swallow.
    cough it up.
 
    11/9
    and he sees himself separated out of it. he does not belong with them. this is something both them and him recognize and agree on. he spent his time trying to belong to this group or that group. even groups that weren't really groups but a collection of misfits. it wasn't a particular group he didn't belong in or another but groups in general in and of themselves. any group. there was a certain group think mind that he couldn't get into. agreement. all those in a group had to agree. at the very least they had to agree to be in a group. it was understood. but he didn't understand it. so he was welcomed out.
    oh well. that didn't have anything to do with anything. not here. not on the island - wherever that was out in the middle of the sea. but nevermind.
    he was kidding himself using words and pretending that they meant something. he blew everything else away. here today. gone tomorrow.
    he took what he could and gave nothing back. nothing but words.
    he watched and waited.

    and in these lasting days of something or the other. in these treetops. in these hideaways. in these cars driving along forgotten roads. in these cities where people gather who have lost their way to anywhere else. those who laugh . those who cry. those who shout in anger. those who curse in hatred. those who just don't give a fuck about nothing and nobody.
    so it goes on. nothing changes. everything's for free but it costs too much.

    missing pieces. concrete. optional. water. flowers. collection. smell. jumping zebras. teeth. flute.
    and he goes. and he gets there somehow. he gets here somehow. out of the dream dreaming. popular. catholic. 74. an abstract painting. a twisted leg. bamboozled. count. people. an easy way out.
    please pass the sugar, thing said while fanning itself with a penguin. cheap surrealism. and i was thinking of going somewhere tonight i have never been before. can you think of anywhere that might be?
    no place, he snorted like a french pig.
    but this is no place, thing asserted. the island is no place at all.
    this is true, he snickered.
    no place. the wonderland of fools. the easy way out. the diagram of realized non-realization. the forgetful look of pride. the singing mice. the ear to the wall. the discovery of nothing being discovered.
    and what does this mean? asked a tall man wearing a bright green scarf who suddenly appeared. and a matching. a matching. matching. matched. match. strike another match.
    well, one could say it means nothing, thing spoke up reluctantly, but i would say that it means it has its own meaning. it is observed without meaning.
    a woman with a dog stood on a chair and said, the meaning is true meaning. there is no other meaning than true meaning.
    where are all these people coming from? he asked thing.
    your imagination of course, spoke thing while knitting a sweater.
    applause.
    the sign given and taken.
    and he wrote all this to mildly amuse himself. not much else going on. just another afternoon in the cafe.
    the story of the black box. but we all know how that one goes.
    besides, what black box? he didn't see any black box. where?
    he knew what he knew and he was quite sure of what he was quite sure of. what he knew was what was in his mind which was pretty much everything. the only thing that he knew to be out of his mind was himself.
    so anyway there's this spoon and there is also not a spoon.
    and somebody's hat. dream hat. hat of dreams. funny about that.
    and when he thinks about anything he thinks about nothing. and when he thinks about a napkin he thinks about a napkin - but he wasn't quite sure.

    and a time something or two later or not when the surprise came through his head was not as it may or may not seem to be as something else was catching onto it along whatever way that was to be not be and nothing making too much awful sense of one another.
 
    11/10 - maybe.
    maybe. possibilities of maybes. maybes of possibilities. one way or the other. struggling to get out. struggling to get in. and this was part of what he saw. broken. apart. divided.
    what can we tell one about him? what do we know about him? there is much he tells us and much he doesn't. he hates the others. he hates all of them. he wants to destroy them. and he hides himself well. he'll act the fool. he'll let them laugh at him. he'll be very nice and kind. but behind that he's thinking of ways to kill them. torture them. he's always plotting to get revenge.
    and we look into this. we see it. we see him how he really is. and we look at them and see that they have no idea. so we trip him up. we step in and get him so he makes a mistake. we blow his cover so they'll see it. we revel as much as we can to them about who he really is. if they're paying attention - which they're not.
    so we don't know what's going to happen. we know what he's capable of doing. we know how easily he can lie to them in ways they are willing to believe. he tells them exactly what they want to hear. and then he goes for the kill.
    we've seen it all before. we've been around since before it began. we've seen their kind come and go. they keep falling for the same tricks in the same game he keeps playing.
    but nevermind. this is just our imagination. forget it.
    he sits in the garden. he ponders what next.
    alone on a distant shore. a deserted island that once had its days of glory but now is an abandoned ruin. everything is dead.
    he doesn't know what to do. how does he reactivate all this? should he? what good has it done anyone? the achievements of a man gone mad and hiding inside himself. a man who disappeared and no one noticed is gone and if they do notice and remember then think it's for the best.
    he is stuck here. he doesn't know if this is where he should be or wants to be or needs to be but this is where he is. it seems he does not belong anywhere else. he watches it all go by and waits for something else.
    the waiting. he wants it now. he wants it to be over but he doesn't even know what it is. he's tired.
    and he is somewhere. and he is in a dream of himself. away where it is quiet. away where he is alone. away where he can forget.
    and how has he gotten here? is he even here at all?
    there is the table again back in the cafe. the window he looks out of. people on the sidewalks and cars on the street. going by. going somewhere other place than where he is. and the buildings. brick.
    this world at war with itself. and him at war with himself. the war.
    he tries to keep himself away and out of it. out of it. he tries to keep himself to himself. who needs him? who wants him?
    he cannot be trusted. he has betrayed many in his time. just when they needed and wanted him the most he pulled away and let them go. he does not need or want them to need or want him.
    this place away from them. a place resting in his heart. a place of a calm eye in the storm of his thoughts. a vortex of light and dark. what comes in and what goes out. taking it up and bringing it down.
    not now.
    not quite yet.
    not as it is.
    wait.
    zero hasn't happened. a dream hasn't come true. all the fantasies in the world. funny business. he cracks. down. and there was something he was trying to remember.

    and there's this place.
    and there's this time.
    and he is here now. nowhere. everywhere. it could be nowhere everywhere.
    so we have him sitting at a table in a cafe. that is where we found him. that is when we entered his mind through his imagination. the table is next to a window with the world outside. he sits at this table looking out the window drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. he writes words down on pages of a notebook he fills and puts away on a shelf with all the others he has filled and never reads again and begins another one. once in awhile people come and sit at his table and talk with him. most of the time he imagines people coming to his table and talking with him. the conversations he has with the people he imagines are usually more real and enjoyable to him. the people he imagines have much more interesting things to say. the real people only complain about how miserable their lives are and all the things preventing them from doing what they want to do. he doesn't understand them. why do they only want to do things they are prevented from doing that then make their lives miserable? how important can these things be that they are willing to suffer for them? they don't seem that important to him. there are a lot of things he would like to do that he is prevented from doing but they aren't that important that he is willing to go through that gut wrenching frustration about them. he gave that up. he gave up a lot of things. taking what real people talk about seriously was one of them. it just wasn't worth it. he just enjoyed himself sitting and listening and laughing to himself at everything they said. he tried not to let that show. they didn't like anyone laughing at them. misery loves company but not if that company laughs at their misery.
    or something like that.
    as long as he was doing ok - fuck the rest.
    or maybe not. it was something he thought about. it was something not to think about. he thought about a lot of things along the way of thinking about things along the way toward where it all broke down. it was just a dream to him.
    and it was just a thing about a thing. it was nothing anything something everything. and sometimes it was and sometimes it wasn't. he didn't know. it was just whatever he thought about.
    and so back at the table he was sitting at. and as we stated that is where we found him. we checked him out. it took awhile before he noticed us because so much was going on in his head otherwise. many people never notice us being there at all. but he did. and we thought he might be useful.

    and as some sense of a underlying development. crisscross. degree. siege. as the diagrams show ourselves. as this surrender occurs. as freedom is achieved. as this is who and what we are. as this is from the beginning without beginning. as this is what is here after what is designated as across the universe. as the flip flop noise begins. as every form of salvation is realized. as the high level intensity brings light. a sky. a book. a being of useless proportion. a communication outside the framework of language. and emotion without emotion. a knife through the heart. a knife in the back.
    and it was this awhile ago. and it was this other thing. and it was a word to the wise. and it was this time when it fell apart. an outpouring of the disease of reality. a clock. a bird's nest. video tape. damned. field day. a badge. a grip. fly by. two guys and a brick. singing. cookie mush.

    notes for a future possibility - their future possibility. we're already here now. hello. shape and form. mind and matter. nevermind. he became not. he dreams of himself dreaming. he becomes both the chicken and the egg. maybe. that's what it seems to be. he doesn't know. he doesn't think he knows.
    in a dream. the light. the point of light imagined. and where and when it begins from there. a idea. logical theory. the man on the radio talking about no one trusting anyone and conspiracies and cover-ups and heads will roll. the as in condition.
    and here he sits by the window. pen in one hand and cigarette in the other. we watch him. we watch over him. we listen to those around him. talking. words. an awareness of being. the man on the radio receives a round of applause. good for him. the constitution. the cia. and trash like that.

    nevermind that.
    nevermind what one thinks.
    nevermind the man staring at one through the window. this is what describes what cannot be described. this is what becomes what it is. this is a poem with a mind of its own. this is a poem that continues. this is a poem that may or may not be about a frog.
    a frog.
    but a frog has been thought of. let's see if we can think of something other than a frog.
    this is not a poem.

    mix and match.
    another flag. another piece of dead meat.
    and he is waiting here now. blown away. another flag blown away. and maybe a love story or two. and boy and a girl or a boy and a boy or a girl and a girl. happily ever after. mood. eats.
    does he think about this?
    does it happen?
    the image of it happening.
    somewhere sometime.
    maybe.
    maybe not.

    and what could be understood here is that he doesn't sit in one place for too long because the satellites could get him. what could be understood here is that a man just came in and stood still looking at the posters on the bulletin board on the wall. and what could be understood here is that there are several busses going by. and what could be understood here is that there is a black dog. and what could be understood here is that there a several things that could be understood here. some obvious. some not. some that maybe need to be understood and some not so. what does he tell one of what needs to be understood?
    the circus sound. the home planet. the divine air. it all seems strange now as it was something once. the protesters. waiting. hidden clues. get up and dance. laugh at the old fool. don't worry about it. don't worry about anything. and so it's just another dream as it turns out.
    and the money. product.

    and on the stage of the burning theater. two characters - dogma and mush.
    dogma: and i was wondering. i was just wondering.
    mush: what was it you were wondering?
    dogma: i was wondering about why - well, it's sort of hard to say...
    mush: maybe you were wondering why your name is dogma.
    dogma: yes. that could have been something i was wondering. i could also have been wondering why your name is mush.
    mush: they're just names.
    dogma: yes, i suppose they are. i have so many questions. my faith has been shaken. it's cold outside and i have to walk home.
    mush: those are statements.
    dogma: yes, they are. but now i wonder about how to communicate all that i am wondering about when i'm not sure what any of it is.
    mush: speak. there is memory of it inside me.
    dogma: and what would i speak? i am only human. not even that. i am just a character invented by a human mind and given lines to speak. i do not know what i myself would speak if i could. do i speak for myself or only for this author as he sits silent writing these words?
    mush: the devil is among us.
    dogma: don't be foolish. i deny such things. i deny everything.
    mush: do you deny a spoon?
    dogma: is this a joke?
    mush: perhaps it is but i do not think so. but while i am speaking let me say that this seems to be something that is only passing the time like people who sit around talking about the cia.
    dogma: what is people's interest in such things?
    mush: it is real conversation. not like this. it is stimulating. about issues of the day and such.
    dogma: but this is a real conversation, isn't it? i mean, as real as it gets.
    mush: only to pass the time.
    dogma: passing the time. dazed and confused. like getting drunk and watching tv.
    mush: like prayer.
    dogma: yes. something like that.