There was a rumor that the dada-ananda appeared in the frozen food aisle of a grocery chainstore. The dada-ananda, slowly twirling around in circles, spake thusly:

 I have come upon here in the midst of soft dreaming of those who may or may not be cognizant of my being. They are of somnambulant hope. They wander about performing their daily tasks. They do not know wither they have come, nor whither they are going - except as they might briefly have a design of such things. Have I come to explain again what has been explained in various ways before? You have access to all the information that you need. Whether or not you choose to access this information is your own decision. Can I make that decision for you? Can I reward you, or punish you? Is that my mission? Is that my job description?
 Some hope for a savior. Some hope for a champion who will defeat their enemies. Who is it who does not have an enemy? Who is it whose paradise does not depend upon the elimination of others, who are of such evil nature that even their mere existence cannot be tolerated? I look about, and I see no one. Whoever these are, they are invisible. Where do they lurk? Do they hide themselves among the masses? Do they blend in so perfectly that they are not recognized as being different enough to be considered to be a different species altogether?

 At this point, the dada-ananda stood still and laughed and cried. After a few moments of that, the dada-anada again slipped away into obscurity.
 The dada-ananda appears only briefly. The dada-ananda appears only in the imagination of those who might be present. One might not be aware that it is the dada-ananda that one is imagining. One might imagine that one is imagining something like whether one should quit one's job or not. One might imagine that one is imagining whether someone one just met might be led to having sex with one or not. One might imagine that one is imagining just about anything except the dada-ananda. One might not recognize that what one is imagining is the dada-ananda. For the imagining of dada-ananda to recognized, for one's imagining to take shape as the dada-ananda, one must be aware of the possibility of imagining the dada-ananda. One must become aware that there is the dada-ananda to be imagined, and that one might possibly be imagining the dada-ananda, instead of what one might be imagining that one is imagining.
 The imagining of the dada-ananda occurs on a level of imagining that transcends what is usually what one imagines. One usually imagines what is real, or what is imagined from what is real, what is possible to imagine from what is real. There is nothing real from which the dada-anada might be imagined. All that is imagined about the dada-ananda is false, not real. There is, and never has been any such thing.
 The imagining of the dada-ananda comes to one from nowhere (now here). One is aware suddenly that one is imagining the dada-ananda. In order to grasp this sudden imagining, one fills it in with objects from reality. The objects are dada (deliberate irrationality). They are not what they are, but become something other, that they are not. When one does this, and one is able to fix by this means one's imagination upon imagining the dada-ananda, ananda (bliss) occurs. The imagining is ananda.
 One might have noticed that there is a bit of a backward twist in this. In order to imagine the dada-ananda, one must imagine what is not the dada-ananda. One must remain aware that this is what one is doing the whole time one is imagining the dada-ananda. To forget that what one is imagining is not the dada-ananda is to slip into dada-dogma - or, dada-doo doo. This is when one comes to believe that what one is imagining is the dada-ananda. This is the common error of all belief. Belief is imagined to be real. We have seen the disastrous results this has had on the human race in all quarters everywhere throughout our history. This is why we emphasize doubt. One must always remain in doubt, especially regarding anything even remotely connected with the dada-ananda. And, what is not remotely connected with the dada-ananda?

 The dada-ananda is rumored to have appeared at a rodeo. The dada-ananda spake thusly:

 It has be told to you that truth cannot be known through complicated means. It has been told to you that it is found through simplicity. One needs to forget in order to remember. And such and such business as that.
 I say that truth is as complicated and/or as simple as one might make it out to be. To one, it is a vision of a butterfly. To another, it is the movements of the galaxies. Which is complicated? Which is simple? One may take Occam's razor and slice and dice the universe down to mini-micro particles, and still find as much complexity as one had begun with - if not more so.
 I say, leave it alone. Take it in as it is. Which is not to say, do not touch it. The universe is meant to be touched, meant to be handled, torn apart, and put back together again, whatever and however whichway it might be made to go. The universe is indestructible. The world is indestructible. Life is indestructible. Set out to destroy it, and one will fail. One will only destroy oneself.
 But, who am I to say anything? What does it matter what I say? Am I speaking anything remotely connected to the truth? Am I one who would be able to do so? Am I anyone who should be listened to at all about anything? I say that I am. I know that I am. I am it. But, to you, I am an imaginary delusion of another's mind. One who is no one among you. One who you have pronounced as being not quite in his right mind, not playing with a full deck, his elevator not quite going to the top floor, and such and such business as that.
 So, go on with your dream, people. Go on with making the world after your own desires and fears. Be always desiring. Be always fearful. Make up your gods, and then destroy them. Be always expecting, and always disappointed. Be always living and dying in the same breath and heartbeat.
 I am not here. I do not exist to you. I can scream and you will only turn up the volume of your noise machines. I can stand before you radiating, and you will not see me, being blinded by the light of your illusions. You have no imagination left. You are dull-witted creatures. You are numb to yourselves. You have replaced imagination with corporate collective institutional dogma.
 But, who am I? Do I call out to you from the wilderness? What wilderness, except the wilderness of your imagination? Do I hang from the cross of your ignorance? Am I the one to bring you laws, or to fulfill them? Am I here to save you? Am I here to defeat your enemies?
 You see me among you everyday. I am not rare. I am not unique. I am not one who is anointed, elected or chosen. I am among the people you walk past on the street. I am among your closest friends - and among your most dreaded enemies. I am among your family. I am a figment of someone among you who is sitting in a cafe making all of this up out of his deluded head. I am not that I am.
 Do not worry, people. Do not be alarmed. Your world will never end. When has it ever ended in all that has be destroyed before? What you build, you then tear down. It is your way. You call it progress. But, what progresses? What is marching through your history? What is it that leaves ruins left behind itself? What is it that has not found peace anywhere it has gone? What is it that has not found victory with all it has conquered? What is it that is unstoppable, yet, also,  not enduring?
 Let us imagine what is and what is not. Let us begin to open what has remained sealed forever before. Can I bring you to this place? Can I lead you through the desolation of your world? Can I offer comfort, consolation, forgiveness? Who might I forgive who cannot forgive, either others or themselves? Is there too much rage and hatred to be gotten through? Who does not cry out for blood? Who does not worship at the altar of the gods of vengeance? Who does not have an adversary to whom no mercy must be shown? Who does not cast someone into the bottomless pit in order that heaven might be realized on earth for oneself? Who does not envision a hell burning with the flames of contempt and disgust?
 So, one might ask, why have I come? I have come here to watch you chasing yourselves around in ever-tightening circles. That is your progress - a progression of control, a progression of power and authority. And, does that come down from heaven? Or, does it rise from the depths of your own selves? How is it that the few control and have power and authority over the many? Is it by supernatural magickal powers? Or, is it by the willingness of the many to obey - to allow others to take command, as long as they also take responsibility? Who among you stands up and takes responsibility among all those who stand and point out the responsibility of others? Who says, I am the criminal you all have been seeking, I am the Satan of all evil works against you, I am the persecutor of the innocent, I am the one who has devised all that has tricked you and cheated you out of what you deserve, I am the one who is greedy, selfish, cruel?
 That is what I am here for. I am the one who has twisted your imaginations. I am the one who has deluded you. I am the one who has set you against one another. And, you cannot touch me. To you, I do not exist within the sphere of your senses. I exist with the sphere of your minds together imagining all the evil and wickedness, all the terror and atrocities, the wars and rumors of war, the disease, famine, pestilence and death. I am who convinces you that you are weak and helpless. I am who confuses all your plans to lift yourselves above your miserable state. I am the one who lures you through your greed and desire for power to build great oppressive empires. I then whisper in your ears among the crowd to rise up and destroy them. I am who endures through all that is transitory.
 Or, I am standing here jerking myself off. Or, I am that one sitting in the cafe jerking himself off. But, wait - do you hear a slight sound? Are your ears perceptive enough? Are you able to be still enough? Can you concentrate enough?
 It is the sound that is within all sound. It is the sound that is within silence. It is the sound of my breathing. It is the sound of my mind. It is the sound of my imagination.
 I am who you imagine, or do not imagine me to be. I cannot control you, or your imagination. That control is yours, whether you use it, or whether you give it over to others to use for you - to use against you.

 And, in the next moment, the dada-ananda disappeared again - leaving only a rumor of having appeared at all.

 Once more, it is rumored, the dada-ananda spake thusly:

 O' little people, how much there is that you do not see. We are all among you. We are people who you see everyday. We are in Paradise. Where are you?
 You are still out in the wilderness. You are still wandering lost in the shopping malls of the future. You live at the tip top of buildings. You have estates spread out so that all that you see is all that you own. And, so do we. Does that surprise you? Do you expect us to be monks living in cells, nibbling on stale bread and mumbling prayers? Well - some of us do that too.
 You may look directly into our faces, and you will not see who we are. We look directly into our own faces, and we do not see who we are. What is there to see? We are no different than others - no more or less than others are different than each other. Some of us wear hats. Some of us wear wigs. Some of us are fat. Some of us are diseased. Some of us like to rock and roll. Some of us are brutal. Some of us are blabbering idiots. Some of us launch rockets.
 But, we see you very clearly. we see you everywhere. We need to see you, so that we can ignore and avoid you. You make your presense widely known around you. We can see and hear you coming from far away. you are an annoying noise across the whole spectrum, though, to yourselves, you may seem quiet and serene. You do not know what you transmit that can be detected by those who are perceptive to it.
 We can only watch you and shake our heads. There is no way to communicate anything to you. We have tried for thousands of years, in everyway that we could think of. We have tried with subtle kindness. We have tried beating you with sticks. You remain oblivious to it all. You just do not get it. We do not know why. We have conducted studies and tests on you, without your knowing. We have tried many corrective measures, from desemenating high philosophy to putting drugs into your food. We have experimented with every type of religion, political and economic system, and you still are as miserible as you were to begin with.
 We have given up. We have come to question why we even bothered. We have stepped out of the way and allowed you to run your world however way you want. It only bothers us to witness you in so much pain - pain that you cause yourselves.
 But, we can tolerate this. We can go on with our own lives in the midst of your raging stupidity and ignorance. Sorry for being so blunt, but, what else would you have us call it?
 So, go on with your schemes to get yoursleves to be on the top of others. Claw and climb over one another like maggots on a piece of rotten meat. Do whatever you will do. We will do whatever we do. We will continue to live unseen among you. We will continue to live unseen among ourselves. We will continue to imagine the world, though it means imagining a world with you in it as well.
 Dispite all else, we find you to be amusing. The antics that you put on are incredible. We would never think of any of it on our own. Perhaps, without you, we would become bored with ourselves. But, with you, it is like watching a circus. Such entertainment exists nowhere else. So, perhaps you do serve a purpose after all. Though, you will never know what that purpose is, because you seem incapable to step aside and look at yourselves. You believe all of this is real. You belive that you are real. Whatever other beliefs you might have, that one is central. You do not seem to be able to imagine how imaginary everything is. We can tell that by listening to you talk and watching you behave. You do not know how you give yourselves away. You are images in a movie. We eat our popcorn and laugh and cry, boo and cheer.

 The dada-ananda is rumored to have appeared swinging on a swing in a playground. The parents of the children were frightened and called them away when they were drawn to this imagined apparition. Those who pretend to be the dada-ananda's followers were also drawn in. They are everywhere wherever there is bold pretense.
 And the dada-ananda spake thusly:

 How much must I suffer without suffering? How perfect in my imperfection must I be? How imperfect in my perfection? When will the world learn from itself instead of waiting for instruction? How many pointless questions must be asked before we stop looking for answers? Am I the first to appear? Am I the last? What does my appearance mean? What does the appearance of anything mean? Is one thing more or less sacred than another? Is there anything left that might be sacred? My work is done, and now I am lounging in my ill-gotten gain and leisure. I am both bored and excited - often at the very same time - at all the very same things.
 There is a great wonder to behold at what is exactly before one's eyes. One kisses it with each breath. Yet, there is also no wonder at all about anything. Each breath robs one of life. Each heartbeat is one less that one has left.
 There are any number of stories to tell about any number of things. Each story is a lesson. But, I have given up on such things. Let the lessons be learned another way. Who learns from them anyway, until it is far to late? It is always easy to recognize one's errors after one has made them. I did not learn from either the stories or my own error - not until I became imaginary. Now, being imaginary, I am anything and everything. I am the perfection of imperfection, and the imperfection of perfection. Let there be mystery in that.
 The mystery is never-ending. Only the Creator is in the state of boredom when and where all riddles are not. We cannot hope to achieve that state no matter how long we live, or how many times we live. To live is to be in mystery - with the expectation of revelation. Only if we remember ourselves as the Creator will the mystery vanish.

 And, with saying that, the swing stopped swinging and the dada-ananda disappeared. That is the way with the dada-ananda. There never remains any clear proof that the dada-ananda has appeared other than one's imagining. All is rumored. All is within the imagination. Who is the one imagining? Does the dada-ananda imagine as much as being imagined? Can we imagine this?

 To believe in and imagine the dada-ananda, one must have much doubt and ignorance. The dada-ananda means nothing to the faithful and knowledgeable. What do they not have already?
 The dada-ananda is less than the wind. The dada-ananda is less than what is less. Yet, once one perceives the dada-ananda, one perceives nothing else. Once one experiences the dada-ananda, one experiences nothing else. This is not necessarily a desirable state. It can be bothersome, if not out and out terrifying. Yet, the state comes to one without warning or calling. There is no technique to either bring oneself to it or away from it. It has its own will - the imagined will of the dada-ananda.
 Here this is it. Here that is it. It is fully imagined. One stands within it, as it is within oneself. La-dee-da. O' Sweet Dear God Jesus In Heaven? O' Fat Laughing Lord Buddha? Hare Krisna? To not know if the dada-ananda is a blessing or a curse. To not know if the dada-ananda is a cure or a disease. To not know how to get rid of the dada-ananda if one should want to - and one always at least half wants to.
 The mind becomes divided against itself until one does not know what is up and what is down, and what are any of the other dualities one previously depended upon to guide oneself through the world. Yet, when one remembers back, one is uncertain that it was not always this way. When did one not know the dada-ananda? Did one only fool oneself into thinking that one did not? What are the illusions here?
 This is the madness produced by the dada-ananda. The dada-ananda can only be known through madness - through the imagination of madness. One loses touch with all else. All else is far away through a fog. The dada-ananda is the fog. the dada-ananda is doubt and ignorance. the dada-ananda is this experience.

For us, there is the ever-wobbling pivot - the dada-ananda, the axis of
chaos.

 When one cannot recognize the ideal shining brightly in one's face.
 When one loses one's way on all the paths leading inward and outward.
 When one stumbles and falls.
 When one has no other resort but to enter into one's own deluded madness.
 When one finds oneself exiled from all paradises, even the paradise of eternal damnation and the tortures of hell.
 When one becomes stuck on the wheel of misfortune, and is forced to chew off one's own head to escape.
 When one can no longer make sense of the words of the teachers and prophets.
 When one's screaming is endless and fills the universe.
 There is the dada-ananda.

 And one begins to perceive that the dada-ananda is in far worse shape.
 One realizes one has only begun the ordeal.
 The dada-anada is a omen of more to come.
 And, the dada-ananda speaks: "If you are going to find it, find it now, buddy boy."
 The wobbling is relentless...

 The empty foxhole where Elmo Dadaski was huddled in the midst of a raging storm of battle. Before Elmo was caught by a disease of imagination. Where and when Elmo entered into that imagined state becoming the dada-ananda (deliberate irrationality - bliss) radiating outward and inward to evoke the age of dada, first expressed in the cafes and galleries of Europe and later the world. This is a rumored story, as are all stories about the dada-ananda. The dada-ananda is now an imagined being, if at all. There is much to doubt about this. One should always doubt. That is one of the things the dada-ananda teaches, if the dada-ananda teaches at all - which might be impossible. What more is there to teach that has not been taught already? What thing is new?
 A gig.
 A Thing.
 A happening.
 An experience.
 Abstract whatever becoming real, and vise versa. Around and around, again and again. The dada-ananda spins out and in new forms of logic and perceiving.
 Dig it.
 The deliberate irationality of it all weaving into bliss. The dada-ananda takes all the new things and puts them into a box where they belong. The dada-ananda throws the box into the river which flows to the sea upon which rages a storm which otherwise would be calm. The box bobs and floats and is washed ashore onto the island . It once again becomes something imagined, which is what anything new should be.
 This too should be in doubt.

 It is rumored by some that the dada-ananda is an alien. The rumors state that Elmo was abducted and replaced. The alien has the ability to travel through space and time, materializing where and when it wants. And the alien has telepathic ability. These rumors, as with any of the others, should be held in doubt. The dada-ananda is what the dada-ananda is, alien or not. There are many rumors about many things.

A possible photo of the dada-ananda as alien
(Eero Ruuttila)
 
 

On the Road with the dada-ananda
- Mark Fisher -

there was this little Frisco nightclub where the dada-ananda always hung his hands. Slim Gaillard was in one of the back stalls, talking to a Negro with big sad to become the dada-ananda eyes who's was always saying 'Right-orooni'.
'How 'bout little rumors for this bourbon-arooni?' In Frisco the great eager way: crowds of young semi-intellectuals sat on the time carpet, there at his feet and listened.

this was the la Madonna family to him, on the piano, living on what is now guitar and bongo drums. When in Spain.They may have been driven here. first he gets warmed up by the Inquisition, takes off his undershirt and they were either Moors, or really gone. He came upon fingertips barely tapping the skin steadily moving East. eventually they lean forward breathlessly hiding themselves and travel among the gypsies. In what is this for a minute now and then Poland, there or so, but he goes - alive in the brood of Dadaski (right on), for as long as a great estate divides an hour, he can make a noise among them. so it was told by an imperceptible little noise that once belonged on the tips of his fingernails. smaller than Count Alphonse Dadaski and smaller all that time long ago.

one night we suddenly saw the the dada-ananda and went mad together; we became the dada-ananda, yet not always so. we went to see Slim Gaillard play the dada-ananda. Well, let us say in a bourbon-orooni ... all-orooni ... how whichever son among them produced  the ini boys, first born male-children of front row making out with that generation alive in their girls-orooni ... orooni ... the manor house.

So, there vauti ... oroonirooni ..." He was always Alphonse he was always living. he could keep this up for fifteen - and, most times many more minutes, his voice getting softer every three or four blocks. The young and the soft;  you can't! Alphonses would be taught to hear their thoughts. They'll say anything that comes in even the no longer welcome.
in his head he'll sing,
'Cement the wandered Mixer', Put-ti Put-ti'

and suddenly around  Europe, a being slowed down the beat.
he became unwelcome in most towns where barbers brood over jars of hair.  young Alphonse, now a big burly construction worker, enters his 33rd bass-player and wakes up from a year of life. he was in a reverie and realizes Slim is soon to become the elder playing 'C-Jam Blues'. he and Alphonse  take slugs from a big forefinger under the title of Count.
here on the string he was first born till you can't hear it.

a son for each generation; more sound than Dadaskis.
the mayor named him Alphonse and traffic comes through the tunnel ever since
(through how many doors, no one knows).
Then slowly he gets up and takes the mike and says, very slowly, 'Great-orooni It was a ... fine-ovauti ... hello-orooni' ... a custom among the Dadaskis. Maria's mother came through innumerable languages. Finally their set eases the pain and the performance is over; each set takes the dying elders, two hours. Slim Gaillard reads our fortune with great sad eyes - serve the head - scan the audience.

Dean stands in the brood as the elder turn back, saying,
'God! Yes!'
Alphonses died anyway. They were... well -- clapping hands until he called for prayer and sweating. 'Sal, not usually recognized as Slim understands time, he knows the roads beyond the local villages.' Slim sits down at the old piano and hits two notes, two C's, then two for the here and now. three colored men sat Slim Gaillard down. the new Madonnas were welcome. Dean turned his despairing eyes on a very cold winter, a big booming beat begins and the elders starts rocking. Slim and Alphonses lay upon their deathbeds. looks just as sad as the next youngest Alphonse ever was, and they blow jazz like a child for half an hour,

and It was through this then that Slim goes mad and Alphonse who spied Maria, grabs the bongos and plays to the Madonnas, with tremendous rapid Cubana beats and all the manor house yells crazy things in Spanish. mother!
The Madonnas spoke Arabic with a Peruvian dialect, they became healers and diviners in every language - the whole world was just one big orooni' blindfolded against a post, our soon-to-be new Count looked sadly over everybody's head. her mother called the people, "come talk. do this" - Maria held him.

A bourbon on the rocks still learning the way slipped into his hand. 'Bourbon-orooni, the family vacation. -- thank-you-ovauti ...' Nobody knows who Alphonse spied for or where Slim Gaillard was hiding out. Dean Maria, he fell madly into a dream called love. He forgot he was having a baby - he forgot his coming obligations. and his belly was full of the gods and everyone bloated up blue as he knelt before her and lay on the grass to ask her hand in the garage of a California hospital.

  this we know of his renowned gifts in healing the mother. Slim wandered off. 'There you go-orooni.' you are welcome to leave quickly afterward. Dean approached him, but they usually came and went despite his fans; he only saw Slim at night. They had no Gods; we shuffled and paced among the Dadaski brood, bowed in front of them. certainly not among the Alphonses. we asked him to join us. 'Right-orooni,' says Slim; I can count. join anybody but don't guarantee to be there in spirit. Dean got us a table, bought drinks, and sat stiffly in front of Slim. Slim dreamed over his head. Every time Slim said, 'Orooni,' Dean said 'Yes!'
I sat there with these two madmen for hours.
but nothing ever happened.
 

(with a gentle nod to Jack Kerouac and Robert Hand Ferry)

everything is a lie.
we tell lies.
but what is the truth?
is the dada-ananda the truth?
the dada-ananda is beyond truth and lies.
we are not.
it all slips away from us from one moment to another.
who knows the truth?
who seeks the truth?
is it here?

anything goes.
everything comes and goes.
who does not know this?
what do we expect?
the idea of the dada-anada is expecting nothing, and accepting everything.
few wish to go that way.
we would rather be disappointed.
the dada-anada laughs and cries.
the dada-ananda is not divine.
the dada-anada is quite ordinary.
the dada-anada is one of us - one of the guys.
the dada-anada spins and spins.
the dada-anada makes something out of nothing.
what everything is is the dada-ananda.
there is understanding.
there is incomprehension.
the dada-ananda is the monkey in the middle.
what more can we tell you?

but we go on.
it is without reason.
it is the rationality of the irrational.
this is here for you.
you are here for it.
know and doubt.
the dada-ananda comes forth from the imagination.
imagine.
our imagination is everything.
we control what we imagine.
what we imagine controls the world.

the dada-anada was rumored to be walking down the middle of the street.
the dada-anda spake thusly:

my little people, how you are concerned with your lives, as you should be. i am nothing to you. i am less than a mote in your eye. i am not here to judge but to be judged. i am found wanting. i cannot deliver you from your trouble and boredom. that is for you to find your way. all i can say is that i am not troubled or bored. my path is wandering from here to there. neither place is any place other than where i may be at one moment or another. is this the way for you? i cannot say. i have no voice. i have no mouth. i can scream and who hears me? we are all screaming, and who hears us?
scream on people.
our screaming is silent. the silence is golden. i am in the toilet. what else do you expect? i need to be on medication. i have no money. i am here and not here. i am my own imagination. the world is my oyster. the world agrees with me. the world is silently screaming.
who laughs anymore without humilation? must we be humbled? spin, people, spin. spin to where your hearts and minds might go where you must follow. we are all dying. but life goes on - with or without us.
my words are grains of sand on a beach. my words are stars in the sky. i walk among you and no one knows. no one should know. no one should know anything other than themselves. when we know ourselves, we know everything. and in knowing everything we know nothing. everything is scarey. i am scarey. i am scared. i have many shadows. each shadow has a different name. i am legion. i am cast into the sea. i am left adrift. i see the light. i see the darkness. it all blends into grey.
the world is grey. who knows which is what? who can anyone trust? do not trust me. i do not trust myself.

then the dada-anada eats a sandwich.

and we could make up some mystical hoopla if we wanted to.
others do, why not us?
but this is all very common, and common to us all.
why would it need to be anything other than that?
there is only what is.
and what is is everything.
there is no instruction.
there is only doubt and what is imagined after that.
we don't need messiahs.
all we need is ourselves.

let heaven and hell rot away.
let nirvanna fade into the mist.
we are here now.
is there anywhere else?
this is the world we created for ourselves to let our fancy free - the twisted and the straight.
all things are possible if we doubt enough.

or maybe this is just us.
maybe it is no one else.
maybe we are set apart from the rest.
that is a possibility.

this is a record of our being.
we are here now.
we may never have been before, and we may never be again.
who is to say?
who is to know?

the dada-anada is our guide and no one knows where the dada-anada is going.
the dada-ananda is confusion itself.
we ask no more and we recieve no less.
this is our way.
this is our fate.
this is what we imagine.
this is what we doubt.
this is the flag that we wave.

the dada-ananda is ourselves.
we are the dada-anada as we imagine ourselves to be.
we have stripped ourselves of all else and come back to ourselves as who and what we are.
we are no one and nothing.
we move in the world invisible.
we are in the crowd around you.
we could be anyone.
we are anyone.
even we do not know who one another is.
there is no sign, no secret handshake, no nod and a wink.
there is only imagination - and doubt.

imagination burning like a fire leaving nothing but the ashes of doubt.
it needs only to be itself.
it is its own creation and being.
it is its own life.
it is its own reason.

but what are we saying?
if one understands, then one understands.
if one does not, then one does not.
that is the way it is.

the dada-anada is not important.
one should doubt the dada-anada.
what is important is oneself.
one is all and as one should be.
there is nothing else to compare oneself to.
there is no example to be set above all else as to what one should be.
realize this.
doubt it.

the way is all ways.
enjoy what one is given to enjoy - for one has given it to oneself.
if it is misery, then enjoy misery.
we see these everywhere who do this.
they gnash their teeth in their sorrow and their pain which they celebrate.
no one can change them.
and why should they be changed?
this is what they see as their path.
let them through.

we have our own misery which we enjoy.
we have our own sorrow and pain.
this is what the dada-anada gives us.
this is what we give to ourselves.
this is what we imagine.
this is the world we live in.
is there another?
we doubt it.

forget the dada-ananda.
forget everything.
we have lied to you before.
we will lie to you again.
should we be any different than anyone else?
are we different than anyone else?

the dada-anada is no differnet than anyone else.
the dada-anada is unique as all are unique.
who is anyone other than who one is?

the dada-anada is nasty and spiteful.
the dada-anada smells bad.
the dada-anada is unwashed and dazed.
the dada-anada is not a nice person.
the dada-anada is rude and obnoxious.
the dada-anada is diseased.
if one sees the dada-anada, one turns away.
if one sees the dada-anada one should cross the street.
the dada-anada should be avoided if one has any respect for oneself.
above all, do not give the dada-anada any money however much the dada-anada may beg.

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