and there were the few of us who were talking about things in general.
    we forget all who.
    it becomes confusing.
    but that's not your problem, is it?

    and again waves creating forms shaping things that appear and disappear.
    going into and out of the waves being a thing shaped by forms created by waves.
    what is solid and real in an imagined dream?
    what is solid and real in imagined memory?
    what is the test of what is solid and real but that which is able to cause pain or pleasure?
    is pain the absence of pleasure or is pleasure the absense of pain?
    we have asked this before.
    we ask it again for our amusement.
    the thing and the thing's experience.
    waves of experience fluctuating through and between pain and pleasure creating forms shaping things.
    and someone said, are you listening to the radio?
    yeah.
    how many songs do you imagine that you heard about:
        a) someone falling in love
        b) someone being fucked over somehow by the person they fell in love with
        c) someone all alone without anyone to love or who loves them
        d) we should all rise up and overthrown the established order
        e) there's a brighter day coming
        f) fuck everything, let's have a big loud wild party
        g) i got the blues?
    fairly often i would say. what's your point?
    my point is there's people raking in millions from people spending millions on songs that are variations of 5 or 6 or 7, and maybe 8,  basic themes and you say nothing. but anytime i say anything about trying to figure out the nature of whatever this is that no one has been able to explain yet, you give me shit anytime my following my thoughts strays into what is considered used up territory.
    it's not the same thing. i ignore the endless repetition of mediocre emotional crooning meant to soothe and settle the masses. trying to figure out the nature of whatever this is is a reasonable pursuit of inquiry and anytime you wallow around in what is very much used up territory i will give you shit for it.
    most of the great discoveries have been made by people wallowing through what has been gone over by the best minds preceding them and finding connections that were overlooked.
    i doubt that you are going to make any sort of startling discovery.
    well, so do i. but one never knows, right? this wouldn't be the first time the authorities thought they had everything covered and were going forward when some nameless nitwit who didn't get it or know any better put a few things together that weren't supposed to go together but did and sent the whole trip off in an entirely different direction. progress is not a straight line, or even a wavy one. it's a jagged broken zig-zag tangled knot of loops within and around loops in whatever direction it goes at the same time. it is only afterward that a straight line is drawn so it appears like we have some idea that we know what we're doing and then we project further points out from that line and it isn't until some fool finds a point on another graph altogether that real progress is made.
    that's not true. discoveries almost always follow from one to another. maybe not always predictably and sometimes, as you say, there are surprises. but the surprises are more of an exception than the rule. and those who find these surprises are not usually nitwits or fools. they more often have a fairly comprehensive knowledge with what is presently believed about whatever area they are working in even if they consider it to be wrong and are able later to prove it wrong. without knowledge of the old, right or wrong, one doesn't recognize what is new even if it's right in front of them. that's why i give you shit. you spend so much energy looking for something new when something that is old, very old, would appear new to you. this happens to you all the time. something dawns on you and then you later discover it dawned on people hundreds if not thousands of years ago.
    yeah, that's true. oh well, i guess i should give up then.
    don't give up. one should always peruse knowledge. having knowledge itself is worthwhile. just because one isn't on the cutting edge doesn't mean that what one knows is useless. each person applies given and known knowledge in different ways. that's the most important aspect of it. if by doing that one comes across something that is really new, then that's a bonus. but that is secondary to one's own application of present knowledge, or even old knowledge. human knowledge follows certain themes, like what you said about the songs. but from those themes come different variations. a funk love song is different than a jazz long song or a country or operatic or hip hop love song because of the singers voice or phrasing or even just the bass line or the metaphors used that give it some particular feeling that no other love song has.
    wait a minute - are you arguing what i was arguing?
    am i?
    sounds like it to me. but maybe not. i don't know. it seems to me that what i was saying was that it was worth it to go through old stuff because you never know what you'll come up with. and you comment suggested that that was pointless. but now you're saying that it is something one should do.
    it is if one applies it to oneself in whatever way it makes sense to them or not. but if one is searching for gold in a mine that has been too long overworked then one is wasting their time. the only use an old gold mine has is for one to see for oneself how others went about searching for gold. then one uses that knowledge and applies it elsewhere in a new situation.
    i think that is what i was doing, wasn't it?
    were you?
    yes, i was. i am going through the thinking processes that have more than likely been used before and this is elsewhere where we're at now in a new situation.
    and these were the last words this someone spoke before the waves came in and taking this one away.
    and we are left here with it.
    it is us and it.
    where and when the two are divided and separated we do not know.
    perhaps it knows, but it has yet to give us a clear and reliable answer or explanation if it does.
    it remains silent although it makes a great awful noise surrounding us from the mouths of many others.

    the island appeared next. he had been there for a very long time before and after now. it could be that he has always been on the island for as long as the island existed, exists, will exist - though for all we know it may not exist or we may not know what state it exists in. the island as madness is our current working theory.
    madness is a peculiar thing. it is believed in and has always been believed in. and it has an integral place in most social, economic, political and religious systems humans have devised. yet what is it any more than an island where people go to to get away from the madness surrounding them from these very same systems?
    it is a matter of subjective perception.
    on one hand there is the mass subjective perception of madness of the individual which he does not see.
    on the other hand is the sole subjective perception of the island which the masses do not see.
    other than the numbers involved, many versus one, there is no difference between the two.
    it is said that when one is mad that one is not aware of one's own madness.
    can the same be said of a society being mad?
    if an individual is judged to be mad and that individual denies it, then that one is still mad nonetheless.
    can the same be said about the society?
    should a society be allowed the responsibility of determining it's own sanity any more than an individual is allowed to judge one's own sanity?
    which is the far more destructive of the two both to oneself and to others?
    part of society's madness is that it blames individuals or individual parts of itself for the destruction it creates.
    this is no different than the individual who is mad blaming others.
    but the many are always right.

    plasma dog breath baby sitting on a spoon.
    monkeys on the moon.
    the cows have all come home.
    the dog has found a bone.
    but the war lags on.
    and how many have forgotten who they are?
    he smokes another cigarette and gazes out the window.
    we sit up all night without saying much.
    all the words we've used too many times already die before they can be spoken.
    we know no one is listening.

    and back in the house on the island he sat by one of the windows.
    he looked out into the garden where the tree was.
    that we, as overly developed monkeys, should consider a tree to be holy is not surprising.
    it's as much a part of us as fucking and all the phallic and yonic symbols and images we use.
    he was thinking of this drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette.

    and we are silenced by this new regime as we have been silenced by all the other regimes that were at one time new but have now become old and are overthrown as this new one will be in time by the next newer one and that one by the next and so on.
    it is this that we see and of which we speak.
    and it is our speaking of this that is silenced - that needs to be silenced in order for these regimes to present and promote themselves as something different.
    we are not silenced by being told to be silent.
    we are free to speak as much as we want.
    it wasn't always that way.
    in the old regimes we were told to be silent.
    but with this new regime we are silenced by its noise broadcast everywhere on all channels and stations.
    so there is something new after all.

    and as he was thinking about whatever,
    but he wrote instead:
    pressed into it.
    by the strangeness of it.
    what awaits us.
    what is.
    when anything can happen.
    when we carry the sense of it ourselves.
    when we mystify ourselves.
    when it appears to us as we want to see it.
    (he waits for the trigger.
    the shot is fired.)
    what and why we want to see what we want to see.
    this formulation of space that is shaped by all those passing around in it.
    or something.
    the expanse between us.
    but when we once in awhile come near enough into one experience, though individually perceived.
    and those who destroy.
    and those who create destruction.
    when nothing but the idea of it is destroyed or created.
    to never see or be seen again.
    when what is considered to be important is forgotten.
    to remember it as it was but is not.
    to wonder if it ever was or if one was who one was who experienced it - or if one is that one.
    it seems so long.
    one remembers a name.
    one remembers a face.
    or was it someone else?
    did one know this other?
    do one and the other know each other?

    and to one who is to know god.
    it.
    to know that which is not known nor gained through one's primary motivation.
    it is the chain that binds us to life in the world.
    and what comfort that chain can become when one finds oneself lost drifting through an empty space which is not even space at all where there are no faces and no names and to experience the pleasure and pain of feeling and being and being of solid substance and not just a thought one might be thinking - if one happens to think again.
    to never think of oneself again neither being of one thing or another nor of being not a thing nor not of being.
    thinking something else.
    an idea as a virus that spreads changing the mind on contact.
    an idea seeking a host that does not have the idea.
    an idea that is an airborne virus through speech.
    a word.
    a simple word.
    a word not needing to be understood.
    who needs to understand a virus in order to become infected?
    but what change?
    the change that slips the mind out of thought and into direct experience.
    when there is no longer that lag in the mind's process.
    a word that stops thought.
    a word that no other word can or need be said or thought to be added to that word that ever remains explaining everything without explaining anything that no other words can explain.
    but a word that is not a word is what other words attempt to achieve with all of this and that which they mean and say and that people mean and say using them.
    old william was right.
    or is this the cure for the virus?
    what we try to get.
    where we try to arrive.
    but we constantly remind ourselves that we don't have it and we are not there with our words.
    is this paradise?
    are all things possible?
    paradise is where and when one forgets one is not in paradise.
    our minds with words work against us if it is our goal to achieve and/or arrive in paradise.
    is it silly to say that it is here and now?
    how silly of us.
    but we are convinced somehow that it exists elsewhere or at some other time.

    these ideas that our minds receive and transmit to one another that we do not now presently reside in paradise.
    where and when do they come from?
    they seem to have always existed.
    earliest writings and surviving stories and myths already contain this sense of alienation from the ideal optimum state that is said to have been lost and might only be gained through some struggle and/or following some sort of rules of behavior both social and individual.
    but, whatever.
    to be human is to be human.
    and to be human is to suffer through and complain about whatever conditions and environment one finds oneself. to think that things must have been better before and that they might be better again seems to be all that human as well.
    but he's thinking about something about what he gets written down but mostly dissipates into the air along with the smoke from his cigarettes.
    the essence.
    to be.
    what to be.
    what there is to be.
    to be what is not and has not been.
    to find that which is unique an undiscovered.
    yet this, who and what he is here and now, is that.
    who has discovered this?
    he sees no one.
    he sees no planted flag.
    he has seen nothing documented, signed and stamped.
    he is what no other is nor has ever been.
    this experience.
    hooray.
    this essence of this experience, although of general similarity to the basic essence of common experience of others who are and have been, is unique and undiscovered - though he is in a state of constantly discovering it.
    each day.
    each hour.
    each moment is unique and open to discovery by that one being the one who is in place and in mind to discover it and recognize and savor its uniqueness.
    who is not this one?
    who is not that one?
    who are you?
    is this paradise?
    who cares?
    this is where and when he is here and now in full experience overload with all the noise of the others about in their turning this way and that way world.
    he lights another cigarette.

    and it is all here.
    nothing is denied.
    you want pain - there is that.
    you want sorrow - there is that.
    you want despair - there is that.
    you want hopelessness - there is that.
    you want lovelessness - there is that.
    you want loneliness - there is that.
    you want sickness - there is that.
    you want death - there is that.
    all one could possibly ask for and more.
    all the things that will make any human happy.
    all the comforts of home.
    all defined in black outline.
    and which definition does one choose?
    for one has a choice.
    whatever experience one experiences.
    or which definition was chosen for one that one receives and continues to receive from the others through social transmission.
    we have come to agree that one thing is good and that another thing is bad.
    that this one thing is pleasurable and that other thing is painful.
    that this is positive and that is negative.
    but what of one who transcends this and that?
    not to not experience them but to experience them otherwise than they are defined to be experienced by the others?
    what do the others know?
    we just hear them bitching about everything all the time.
    why does one want to be like them?
    so to still experience pain.
    and to experience pain as pain.
    not to be numb to it or to redefine the experience of pain as pleasure.
    but to experience it in all its agony as it is supposed to be experienced.
    this is not escape out of, but escape into. into experience.
    let those who want to sit on a cloud go sit on a cloud.
    we are here now.
    we are fully here now.
    we close our eyes to nothing.
    and we laugh and cry.
    one would scream, shout, and curse.
    one would feel anger, sadness, frustration and hatred or whatever else from one's experience.
    one would act to make that experience stop and to avoid that experience in the future if either or both are possible.
    one would beg or fight back against that which is causing that experience in order to get it to stop causing that experience.
    in other words, one acts as normal.
    there is no external discernible difference between this one and another having this same experience and reaction to that experience.
    but it is the internal sense of experience that is or might be radically different.
    within this one's experience of having this experience is one just having another experience and discovering the unique essense of it.

    his thoughts ramble along this line - these lines.
    there is nothing conclusive about any of it.
    most of it is almost incomprehensibly vague and maybe even a bit misleading, not following any sort of rationalogic pattern that would allow another to follow its direction and meaning.
    he just writes what he writes.
    that is all he's ever done.
    it has no direction or meaning in so far as he can tell or knows of.
    he follows random threads of whatnot.
    if they come together, they come together.
    if they don't, they don't.
    but humans search for direction and meaning.
    he is human.
    this is our innate condition of our brains and minds.
    we can do nothing else.
    it got us here.
    and here he is along with everyone else.
    just wondering about what the fuck.
    it should come from itself.
    it should come from oneself.
    it should arise or be able to arise from every mind and every experience.
    it is not a school of thought - except his own made up metaschizophrenic science he got from the dada-ananda.
    but make up your own.
    that's what he did.
    it is not a discipline - except the discipline of madness.
    it does not come from the cosmic gods or from the human gods.
    begone all preachers, ministers, priests, mystics, masters, gurus and all.
    they are liars and thieves without exception.
    that we have survived their comings and going is to our credit not theirs.
    no one but ourselves is our clergy.
    but that is dada.
    we are ignorant - if not out and out stupid.
    we are amazed by the same cheap tricks over and over.
    one slightly knowledgeable and skilled at what triggers and operates the human mind will always be able to take away our control of ourselves.
    this is because who bothers to assume control over oneself so another cannot?
    at best we are stubborn mules refusing to budge no matter how much we are shouted at or beaten or how many carrots are waved under our noses.
    at best we resist.
    but when do we get up and do anything without someone leading us or prodding us?
    whether we follow them or anti-follow them is irrelevant.
    both are the same.
    either way without them we do nothing by our own determined will - except, as noted, to plop down and do nothing.
    we wait until we receive a stimulus.
    then we react - either for a positive stimulus or against a negative stimulus.
    of course, what is positive or negative is subjective as is our reaction.
    but that's no nevermind.
    without that stimulus we do not act.
    some do what they are told.
    others do the opposite.
    one only needs to know this beforehand and one can lead anyone anywhere one wants.

    there's an old firesign joke that goes, why did the short hair cross the road? because someone told him to. why did the long hair cross the road? because someone told him not to. this was back when everyone was divided between long hairs and short hairs. the joke may work the opposite way today. the point is that if one wants x done, one tells one person to do x and they'll do it. and one tells another not to do x and they'll do it too. either way, x is done.

    what is apparent about whatever along on the surface of what it is.
    even into it now one only encounters the surface.
    and we only encounter the surface of ourselves.
    there is no depth.
    there is the idea of depth but what is the experience of it?
    we resort to metapor analogy.
    we imagine what we do not know or experience.
    we believe it exists.
    we speculate that it must exist.
    we build theory layered over theory until we've built that which, whether true or real or not, cannot be dismantled without our world being dismantled along with it.
    we weren't looking for god.
    god is up a tree.
    we were only starting a conversation.
    does one know what conversation is?
    few people seem to anymore.
    but they seem to know what lecture is.
    tomato and potato.
    everyone's iq is reduced by the world.
    but we don't need iq - any iq.
    iq is rationalogical.
    the rationalogic makes things smaller.
    that's the idea it seems.
    the rationalogic would like everything down to one.
    rationalogic keeps us divided into smaller and smaller groups who cannot communicate with one another.
    who cannot have conversations.
    we know too much.
    no one has anything to say.
    hence the lecture method of communication.
    one to many.
    no one's interested except about what they know.
    knowledge keeps us apart.
    language becomes bourough's virus.
    we communicated better when we grunted at each other.
    now one-sized answer fits all questions.
    the grand unified theory of the rationalogic.
    the god theory.
    if the top monkey says it's true then it must be true.
    none of the rest of us have anything to say.
    we're all delusional according to the rationalogic.
    delusion is just the rationalogic word for the irrationalogic.
    rationalogic likes to dismiss things it cannot make small and bite-sized.
    easy to digest by those with less iqs.
    and no contradiction is allowed.
    the rationalogic is threatened by anything else.
    the irrationalogic is not measured by iq but maybe by what could be called cq - consciousness quotient.
    not what one knows but what one is conscious of.
    it is measured by the look in one's eyes.
    it is measured by their laughter.
    it is measured by spin, baby, spin.
    it is measured by how they dance.

    we argue to keep ourselves in disagreement.
    none of it is meant to be resolved.
    there is this and that which we have decided cannot exist together - even though they do.
    these arguments and conflicts exist and their existence is maintained by all sides generation after generation as territorial markers pissed on over and over.
    no one is interested in removing them as it is no one's interest to have them removed.
    what would we piss on then?
    we know where we stand against one another.
    who we oppose in relation to these conflicts we argue about.
    we also know who we stand with in support for one another in relation to these conflicts we agree to argue about.
    this is our one and only agreement - to argue.
    so to say that we cannot agree is wrong.
    who cares?
    not us.
    we move through the battlefield surrendering to everyone we come across as we slip past their lines of demarcation.
    we are herded to their prison camps where we sit it all out.
    what do we have to say?
    this is what we have to say.
    things remain the same as it is all constantly changing.
    one thing comes around that might be new.
    then its opposite comes around which is just as new.
    each is contained within the other.
    each is the same as the other to the other.
    what is up or down or left or right or weak or strong or front or back?
    what is pain and what is pleasure?
    and what are their opposites?
    to starve and to stand on one's own against it,
    even if and when one is ultimately defeated by it,
    opposed to always being well fed to the point of being overfed without any effort of one's own or concern that it will ever be different.
    which is pain and which is pleasure?
    to beg for change and to be given a dollar?
    or to roll up a hundred and snort up a fat line of coke?
    and yet who do we envy?
    does our envy cause pain or pleasure?
    do we not enjoy the pleasure of feeling the pain of anger and outrage at all the injustice in the world?
    there is pain and there is pleasure.
    there are things of pain that are said to be evil.
    there are things of pleasure that are said to be good.
    and vice versa.
    thus spake the voice of authority with the power of all that is real to back it up. or so one would believe is the case based on one's observation of humanity.

    all kneel before the lord and the law of the lord.
    all lower their heads to this highest of all known things.
    and this being the foundation of all known things and the substance of all known things.
    and all kneel and keep their heads lowered forever because of this the one true reality.
    and every mouth that would utter words against it must be silenced by its own babbling and perish.
    amen.
    or are we missing the point?
    and on and on.
    blah dada blah.

    he is laughing as words tumble out that mean nothing yet they tumble out as if they maybe they might for a moment mean almost anything at all.
    but that moment is blown away with the slightest breeze - even a sneeze.
    it is dust it is dust of dust.
    was it ever there?
    did it exist?
    what memory do we have?
    what reason?
    of what substance was it composed of which any evidence remains we might examine under our microscopes of rationalogic and determine if it was more than a passing whim and fancy of a mind confused with its own madness?
    none.
    we are empty-handed.
    we have no hands.
    we have no bodies that might have hands that might be full of something real.
    we ourselves are composed of no substance that is not blown away with the moment.
    just look with one's rationalogic microscope and one will see nothing.
    where do we stand our ground now and remained unmoved when even mountains are worn away?
    where do we build our temple?
    what rock that has not been disintegrated or buried or washed away?
    but yet since time has begun so we have been in our existence and will remain so until the time is complete.
    is there anything else but ourselves?
    prove it.
    be here where and when we are not and tell us we are wrong.
    and does anyone know that place and time but us when all else falls away?
    let them appear there then.
    we know while others speculate about the possibility or impossibility of this that cannot be spoken or written.
    it cannot be thought.
    thought brings back space and time.
    this is not space and time.
    thought removes one from it.
    thought brings one into this world of space and time that maintains itself with thought.
    where and when we are here and now can only be experienced.
    it is no more or less than that.
    without experience there is nothing else.
    with experience there needs to be nothing else.
    or something like that.
    more words that tumble out meaning nothing and anything.

    romantic trash.
    the real romantics who were the dying becoming extinct aristocracy who in the face of and economically and subsequently politically more successful rising capitalist middle class who were able to administrate a more stable social order than the blood line rulers who had bred themselves into idiocy spun out mystical hoo-da in a vain attempt to save their collective ass while writing of the intuitive and creative human spirit opposed to the coming age of frankenstein men and machines they toured europe far removed from the masses they theoretically empathized with in chateaus and estates spending what was left of their families loot in style and recreation while they criticized the shoddiness of capitalist production because of its lack of craftsmanship of the guilds of old, the peasants who had nothing to compare it to bought it up as fast as it came out. ironically the the romantics did produce what was found to be a useful product the capitalists found was very popular and they could quite easily mass produce, market and sell which was the spirit of romanticism itself. this worked in two ways. one was the money this would generate, the other was that the peasants would be more content working in the factories if they could go home and immerse themselves in the romantic tales these aristocrats scribbled in their drawing rooms. and this has worked ever since. romanticism was repackaged again and again as bohemian, beatism, hippieism, punkism and more. the same basic themes of free human spirituality and free creativity against the terrible machine with new twists but none anymore realistic than the first or the last and the capitalists had the last laugh as they no longer needed the aristocrats themselves just the idea of the aristocrat as one set apart from the rest of the great unwashed and unenlightened that was mass produced and marketed as much would be a bar of soap. in fact, the notion of romanticism et al was used to advertise bars of soap and other products. another idea that romanticism and the rest promoted that worked in the capitalist favor was the idea that money was evil and economics was a dirty business. poverty was romanticized into being the good life. all one needed to enjoy life was to sit in a meadow and play the flute or some such, or the bongo drums or the electric guitar which were more mass produced products the peasants could buy to play out their dreams. through this the aristocrat was replaced by the bum as the enlightened ones - except when one was successful in marketing one's dreams that had mass appeal. the term romantic didn't come to have its present meaning as describing someone who has one's head in the clouds and is functionally useless as a bygone aristocrat by accident. as well whenever the capitalists want to sell the masses anything all they have to do is romanticize it. this even extends into politics with the selling of candidates and ideologies from marxist socialism to feminism from the simple log splitting "honest abe" to the camelot of the kennedys to bush's 1000 points of light.
and, it goes without saying that religions both mainstream and alternative are sold the same way. that's too obvious. romanticism has even been used to sell war. how many men have died for the romantic ideal of glory on the battlefield for god and country and good old down home apple pie? and what does the capitalist do when there is a generation of children of the baby boom who all expect to live as well as or better than their parents who were rewarded for winning the "good war"? this will break the system beyond its bounds and resources. one sells them sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll on radio and tv. one sends them to universities to learn anti-capitalist romantic money is evil promised land ideologies. one imports eastern anti-materialist mysticism. one sends them to die uselessly in the jungles. next, doubling the work force and halving the real wage sounds good. what about all those unproductive housewives? get them in the factories where they belong. and how does a capitalist pull this all off? appeal to the masses romantic side. don't explain it. don't let anyone think about it. paint pretty pictures about what a wonderful brave new world is being created and they'll all live in someday if they follow their hearts instead of their heads. next, work on generation x. sell them anarchy, chaos theory, illuminati conspiracies, the occult, d&d, virtual reality, gangsta rap. get them to all give up on everything.
    with your religion and drugs and sex and tv
    you think you're so clever and classless and free
    but you're still fucking peasants as far as i can see
        - john lennon
    total paranoia is total awareness
        - charles manson

    and then flippy donuts said, i want a rubber biscuit.
    we laughed.
    perhaps he was thinking of something else, someone said.
    i think it came from nowhere, commented zarg the wonderboy who was leaning against a post like james dean.
    it seems that a lot of things have been coming from nowhere lately, said zorg who was not leaning against a post.
    zarg and zorg were weird.
    everyone was weird.
    weird was the norm.
    but zarg and zorg had their unique shared weirdness that set them apart from even that.
    there was something of an alien air about it.
    they seemed more humanoid than human.
    their proportions were off as well as their movements.
    the two were twinned in that what one was doing the other was not doing.
    it doesn't matter.
    zarg said, does it seem that way or has it always been that way?
    napkins are not spoons, said flippy donuts.
    we will never know, said zorg.
    was he saying that to zarg or flippy we will never know.
    they all disappeared.

    and he was siting there with them. and maybe he was sitting with himself. maybe it was his subjective experience again which is diddly squat. it's the collective experience that matters. and here we go again on about how it's defined and interpreted by those in authority - the spokespersons from this or that collective group. the more there are in whatever group the more what their spokespeople say represents reality. it is not just the individual who is considered delusional but whole minority groups as well. it is not what one says about this or that but by how many agree with what one says about this or that.
    he is a collective group of one - me, myself and i and whoever else joins in once in awhile who may be or not be.
    we each consider ourself to be the one - him.
    and the one is whoever is dominant over the others or can get the others to agree with oneself.
    there are deals and double deals.
    there are broken deals and promises.
    there is a fair amount of back stabbing.
    but once  in awhile we all cooperate together.
    it comes and goes.
    this may be why we are so uncomfortable with associating with outside groups.
    our inside group is politics enough.
    we don't need more.
    besides, what we say to others one day, or one hour or minute or moment, may not be what we say the next.
    others become suspicious of us.
    they tend to avoid us.
    so we leave that all alone.
    do others engage in this internal struggle as well?
    if they do they pretend not to, though we do notice that what they say too changes a lot from time to time - days, hours, minutes, moments.
    the ones who are able to dominate a collective group - all collective groups from mainstream to alternative fringe - are usually ones who are or claim to be single minded.
    this is seen as a virtue.
    these people are viewed and believed to be reliable and forthright.
    we don't trust them for a moment.
    they do not represent us in any way shape or form.
    they are not the solution, they are the problem - if there is a problem.
    they hold the rest of us back.
    they enforce this monotone monotheistic reality.
    we suspect that these people are not altogether human.
    but maybe that's us who are not.
    maybe we are as possessed as they say we are.
    maybe we have demons or aliens inside us that need to be cast out.
    maybe we are the demons and aliens.
    who knows?
    we don't.
    and if we did, would we tell you?

    he, she and it.
    me, myself and i.
    the one who is the physical being.
    the one who is the emotional being.
    the one who is the intellectual being.
    the father, son and holy ghost.
    the one who is here.
    the one who is not here.
    abc, oh baby now.
    123, oh baby now.
    you and me.

    and it was that she came to him in the cafe.
    you mind if i sit down? i'd like to talk to you, she said.
    he said, that's what i'm here for.
    what do you mean?
    well, you came here to talk to me. you can hardly do that if i'm not here for you to talk to. you'll just be here talking to yourself. i know this from personal experience. i've come here a lot to talk to someone and they're not here so i talk to myself.
    is that supposed to make me feel guilty?
    how so?
    because i wasn't here for you to talk to?
    you? why would i want to talk to you for?
    then why are you here now?
    you wanted to talk to me. i make myself available for anyone who can afford a cup of coffee to come talk to me if they want.
    it's not really me who wants to talk to you. it's kottog. she says you haven't talked to her since you left the island.
    so you've met kottog.
    yes.
    well, i don't want to talk to her.
    i thought you said you made yourself available to anyone who wants to talk to you.
    i lied.
    why won't you talk to her?
    mainly because kottog is not a she. kottog is an it.
    yes, she said you'd call her a thing.
    that's what she is. that what everything is. one big thing. gottok is a thing too. you've met gottok, haven't you?
    yes.
    so you represent both of them?
    in a way, yes.
    well it changes nothing. it's all the same. the island and everything on it is a thing. the beach, the forest, the house, the garden, the tree. all the people and all the animals and birds and flowers and bees and spiders and dogs and cats and cows and horses and goats and pigs and sheep. the sky and the sun and the moon and the stars and the clouds and the rain. all of it. one big fat stinking thing - an it - that is capable of only creating an illusion that is something else - something we desire and find pleasing. but it doesn't give a shit about us. it's no different than anyone or anything else. it cares for nothing and hates everything but itself.  just like i do. and you do and everyone does.
    i don't.
    oh yeah - i forgot. you don't have a single particle of hatred in your innocent infinitely compassionate heart.
    i didn't say that.  i hate some things.
    but only that and those deserving to be hated. and only because you have been corrupted by them. your innate nature is pure and good and unblemished until you were born into the clutches of others. i probably should not include you in all this. what part do you really play? it is just myself and it - the thing.
    why thing?
    you're right. i shouldn't depersonalize it - whatever it is. is it a person? it's a being of some kind? and it too has been corrupted by all that which i embody.
    what are you talking about?
    evil, my dear. pure unadulterated evil. evil that is evil by its very nature not because it was corrupted like you and the others. i am this evil incarnate.
    you?
    among many.
    you aren't evil. certainly not evil incarnate.
    no, i suppose not. i do have some goodness. but not by my own nature. only from the influence of others such as yourself who have uncorrupted me - or tried to - as much as you have been able to tolerate me.
    do you really hate yourself this much?
    but of course. isn't that what is speculated about me and my hatred of others? that it is a projection of my own self-hatred? of course that is the reason. how could i reasonably hate others? what is there to really hate but myself?
    you're being absurd.
    am i? i am only repeating what i have been told since learning this fucking language. so which is it that is absurd? me? or them?
    who told you this?
    who hasn't?
    i haven't.
    perhaps not. as i said, i should keep you out of this. i don't really know you. besides, i'm babbling.
    yes, you are.
    so what else is new? did you expect something else?
    i probably shouldn't have.
    (pause)
    so are we done?
    done?
    done talking? do you have anything else to say?
    i haven't been able to say much.
    well, i'd say sorry, but i'm not. so i'll say, tough shit. deal with it.
    thanks. so are you going to talk to kottog?
    no. not to any of them.
    why?
    isn't this where we started?
    but you haven't said why.
    i've said why. i just haven't said the why you wanted to hear.
    so you're not talking to her?
    that seems to be what i'm saying, isn't it?
    yes, i suppose it is.
    (another  pause)
    well?
    well what?
    are we done? are you going to go away now?
    what else do you want?
    for you to beg me to let you suck my dick.
    right, she laughed, good-bye. she got up and left.

    at least he made her laugh, he thought.
    most of the others would have been insulted.
    maybe she'll get it after all.
    but he doubted it.
    what was there to get?
    did he get it?
    probably not.
    he doubted that too.
    but beyond his doubt, and all the reason for his doubt, he still hoped.
    he hoped that his hatred for everyone and everything was because he was unnaturally evil and not because it was justifiable.
    but he doubted that.
    and he hadn't been right about anything he hoped for yet.
    but was he wrong about what he doubted?
    did he know?
    but he hadn't been so far.
    that was his curse.
    his curse was his madness.
    a small portion of the madness of god.
    never not to know what one doubted and what one hoped,
    nor be able to forget.
    and to be the source of all good and evil and not be able to produce one without the other in exact opposite equal amounts that ultimately cancel each other out such that the end result of all his actions one way or the other was nothing. the same nothing it began with.
    all else is play and drama in-between.
    all that exists is himself and his madness.
    and his madness is such that he doubts his own existence.
    perhaps it is his madness that only exists.
    the madness that created the delusion of his own existence.
    how that is possible, he does not know.
    he probably will never know.
    his madness will never tell him but will hold it an infinitesimal fraction amount of distance just beyond his grasp.
    arrrgh! god screams reaching and stretching and expanding its most and fullest.
    BANG!
    and it's not enough.
    over and over again for more than an eternity - an eternity where time is not measured.
    it is never enough.
    he doesn't even know what it's not enough of.
    he's forgotten.
    has god forgotten?
    but he cannot stop.
    not until it is enough and he's got it.
    whatever the hell it is.
    and even then he might not ever know.
    maybe he's got it already.
    who is there to tell him if he does or doesn't?
    his madness?
    ha!
    he screams again as the joke blows up in his face one more time.
    he's still a sucker for it.
    how bizarre it seems.
    but without that there is nothing.
    not for him anyway.
    other people have their heaven and their hell and their oblivion to keep them company.
    he has this.
    that is all he knows knowing everything.
    everything but that one little thing that he can't figure out or remember if he knows it or not.
    what a bummer.
    what a cosmic bummer.
    imagine being god and still having doubt.
    one single teeny weeny submicro particle pea of a doubt that keeps it awake tossing and turning atop all the soft fat cushy fluffy layers of mattresses and pillows of all the uncountable heavens after eating and drinking and smoking the very essence of nirvana ecstasy of a perfect paradise.
    what a goddamn bummer that even all that cannot ease its worrying turning mind or its yearning soul or fill its aching heart.
    what is the point of being god?
    what good is it?
    and it's not like god can pick up a gun and blow it's brain out and put an end to it all - can it?
    it will put an end to something - everything.
    but won't this gnawing agony of madness remain that started it all to begin with?
    he has that option of blowing his brain out.
    and he has considered it.
    he even bought a gun to do it.
    but if it ends for him does it end for everyone?
    will someone else eventually wander down this path again and arrive just here at this very same point?
    will his madness create another to fulfill this fate?
    he would not wish this madness to fall on another, so he does not let go of it.
    and it seems all to willing not to let go of him.
    he will and must endure it.
    that's what god is for - to help him.
    or to antagonize him.
    or maybe he helps or antaginizes god.
    he doesn't know.
    who in the whole universe of desiring all else desires the madness of god?
    he does.
    he would have it no other way.
    besides it's not that bad really.
    he makes it out to be worse than it is.
    he just wants sympathy.
    doesn't everyone?
    and who feels sorry for god?
    is that why he has been shown this - to experience this?
    is that why he seems to have been chosen from all the others?
    so god would have someone who would feel sorry for it?
    empathize with it?
    where else did this madness come from?
    what is its nature?
    where does it exist?
    what is he without it?
    he'd be just someone else on an assembly line or an office is what he would be.
    or a singer in a rock band.
    or a poet or a painter or a candlestick maker.
    or he would be writing mysteries or science fiction or something.
    or some phd writing his theory about something.
    he might even still be married to his nagging wife.
    instead, here he is - totally mad and loving every minute of it.
    and he looks around at the others around him.
    what must it be like to be them and have their sanity and dreams?
    how does all of this look like to them?
    what does he look like to them?
    he looks like he's mad, that's what he looks like.
    he knows that.
    but what would it look like to see himself as this person who looks like he is mad as they see him rather than seeing his own reflection in the mirror which looks ok to him?
    he cannot imagine that.
    he has no idea,
    he has no clue,as to what it must be like to be one of those others who do not carry around this madness inside their heads.
    who aren't this madness inside their head.
    and it is being the madness inside one's head.
    what else is there?
    being mad, being truly mad, is not being one who has gone mad for some reason.
    one does not wake up one day and go - oh, now i'm someone else.
    i must be mad.
    no. true madness is something one has always been from day one.
    one has been told one is mad ever since one could understand the language.
    maybe this is why one is mad.
    who knows?
    laing would have something to say about that - but he's not here.
    and this madness is not something one has, like cancer or something.
    it is something one is.
    to get rid of the madness is to get rid one's self.
    there is no cure for that, though some drugs can turn it down a notch or two.
    that's not so bad.
    the madness can get really really loud sometimes.
    especially when it feels threatened.
    ironically it feels the most threatened when it is treated by others as if it were mad - especially if they are those who equate being mad as being stupid.
    so the only cure he knows of is annihilation.
    annihilation of the self - of the soul.
    into the bottomless pit, which maybe is where he is headed but he's in no particular hurry to get there.
    not now.
    he had been before.
    he's tried it before.

    so true madness is the whole and entirety and sole and only essense of who and what one is and was and will be.
    there is no way out other than one's destruction.
    everything else is just an unfortunate misunderstanding that, in theory, can be corrected.
    to try to correct him is like trying to correct someone who is queer or something like that.
    or trying to correct someone who is black or an indian or a jew or someone else one may disapprove of and feel needs correcting.
    so why does he keep thinking of this and even worse writing it all down?
    no wonder he is mad, someone might say.
    happy thoughts.
    he should be thinking happy thoughts.
    but did he say anything about being unhappy?
    is madness being unhappy?
    it can lead one to unhappiness as much as anything else.
    if one is treated like shit because of it by others who think they're something special and sane, that can lead to being unhappy.
    but one learns to walk away.
    one may not like that but one often has little alternative.
    walk away and go hang out in a cafe somewhere or something.
    keep oneself amused maybe by writing oneself around in circles.
    get there.
    and to get there maybe one has to go insane.
    one has to totally flip oneself out.
    one has to go in the out door.
    one has to ride the elevator up to not quite the top floor with not quite a full deck in one's hand.
    and all that lingo.
    that's the route he took.
    that's the route he feels he was forced to take.
    forced by his own madness.

    now insanity is not the same thing as madness.
    insanity is insanity.
    insanity is not fun like madness can be.
    insanity is serious shit.
    but there comes a time in the life of someone who is mad where and when insanity cannot be avoided.
    it's the way out.
    for him it was anyway.
    so he took a stroll out into no man's land.
    he ended up in the street.
    and he wandered around insanityland for awhile until he found a way back in again.
    a changed man.
    he had been born again into his madness and now he was here for good.
    lucky for him he got a free pass.
    he's now a government bum.
    and as long as he keeps to himself and not bother anybody he will be allowed to remain so.
    unless the cut back conservatives get their way.
    but if so - oh well.
    he'll have to think of something else.
    there's always jail.
    but in his mind these fuckers owe him at least 3 meals a day and a roof.
    and if that's the only way he can get it, then that's the only way.
    but, so far, things have not gotten to that extreme.
    and hopefully they won't.

    but being happy.
    if anything he is writing gives the impression that he is unhappy then he's not doing a very good job writing this as he thinks he is.
    but maybe it's just the subject matter itself.
    maybe others assume that since they think they would be unhappy being mad then he must be unhappy being mad.
    he may be unhappy about this and that, as is everyone else, but being mad does not cause him unhappiness.
    far from it.
    one does not know the joy madness can bring.
    this is the part when words fail him.
    this is the part that turns around and around spinning and flipping on and off and whatnot like that.
    what does one write to describe joy?
    he doesn't know.
    but joy there is and plenty of it.
    don't you worry your pretty little head about that.
    worry about yourself.

    she is gone. walked out. left him. maybe for always. he doesn't know. he doesn't know if he wants to see her or any of the others again. is that a happy thought? it is what it is whether it is happy or not. so he might as well think of it as a happy thought. he'll never be happy if he doesn't. and that is the reason and purpose of thinking happy thoughts is to be happy, right? otherwise, what's the point? so he decides that her being gone is a happy thought. he doesn't see any reason why it shouldn't be. but what if she comes back? would that be a happy thought? how can it be if it is the opposite of the other happy thought of her being gone? he thought a moment and decided it could be a happy thought too. fuck opposites. fuck contradiction. so now he's had two happy thoughts concerning her being here or not. the two together were one big happy thought. if one is mad, one can do things like that. that's the thing, one doesn't have to think, say or do things that make sense. one can do anything one wants. so why not do things that make one happy?
    get it?
    but she comes and goes. and everyone comes and goes with her. it's like the moon and the tides. consistent and inconsistent.
    and he's been bribed to stay out of it. it isn't stated that way but he knows a bribe when he sees one. he grew up with bribes. he studied human behavior. he's observed groups since he was born. the first group being his family. and one thing he learned was that when they don't want one around for some reason they buy that person presents. they bought him presents. here's a new toy, they would say. now go away and play with it. this works somehow to absolve their guilt. or it's supposed to. their guilt eats away at them anyway. guilt cannot be gotten rid of by denial. and guilt does not accept bribes. and guilt does not absolve - especially behavior that is hoped to be absolved so it can be repeated. absolved is not equivalent to resolved. resolving requires thought and change. absolving is dismissal.
    he absolves them all. he absolves them to rot in their festering hell of guilt. such is their wish. he feels his own guilt gnaw at him. he should not have let himself be pushed away. but he did not know, and he was weak. he did not know how one stands up to the many. he did not know how one takes control of the many - how the many allow themselves to be controlled. it's weird how that works. one creates the illusion of setting them free when one is really just transferring them from one prison to another. and they go so willingly. it's all in the wording of one's words. words created to mask their meaning. and now he is bribed to stay out of it.

    he once was looking for someone to transcend all of that with him.
    but all of who he thought might have done so have fallen away.
    lost back into the mire of it.
    to once more become faceless in the crowd.
    the crowd of the faceless who wear fancy clothes hoping someone will notice.
    who drive cars and live in houses hoping someone will notice.
    and one does notice.
    one notices a kaleidoscope but one cannot tell one trying to be noticed from another.
    it's a machine.
    it is the machine.
    and what is thought against this?
    is there anything against it besides it being against itself?
    where is the resistance that does not just work to make what it resists stronger?
    he does nothing.
    he does not even resist.
    when told to move, he moves.

    what is in nature? how is it perceived. for us all is perception. what is humans' self-reflecting image and artificial construction of what is nature and what is in nature? humans by their nature are beasts. we were born to eat, shit, sleep, play, fuck, breed and die. no more and no less than any other creature from bacteria to whales. how far back into our nature do we go if and when we back away from our progress into who and what we are now? progress - to move forward, to advance. for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. the western version of the yin and yang of eastern taoism. progress is purely subjective. two people can progress toward one another in diametrically opposite directions. more likely, as with human nature, to meet and argue about who is going in the wrong direction.
    and from thinking about whatever might be next, he sat and did nothing. that is the steady state that is unless acted upon by an external force and that is returned to after the external force ceases acting upon him. he is not aware of any self motivation. of course, to the self, all is external - even thoughts. even the drives of the ego and subconscious. he is like a computer that does nothing until it is given software from an external source that causes it to act. or maybe not.
    so what the fuck?
    so what the fuck is exactly that.
    on this one occasion his mother and father fucked and it resulted in a successful conception that in turn resulting in him being born.
    and his being born resulted in his asking, what the fuck?
    though, of course, it was at a preverbal level of thought but he imagines uttering it anyway.
    even perhaps before along the way in prenatal embryonic fetal development the essence of that primal question he imagines firing across the first synaptic spark between neurons or proto-neurons of what was to become his brain.
    he imagines back even further to the penetration by that particular sperm cell that did so into the awaiting egg that triggered the chemical response of the two strands of dna to entwine themselves together switching on each other's encoded genetic programing as the question spoke, what the fuck?
    and follow this back through the generations before and the generations before them to the strings of amino acids in the soup of the primordial sea being generated by what the fuck?
    and even back further still as each star burst into the flames of its existence with, what the fuck?
    and all the way back to that singular dimensionless point that for some reason no one knows went, what the fuck?
    and if we place a god behind that, what might it have been thinking as it first created light to peer into the darkness to see what was out there and saying, what the fuck?
    so what the fuck?

    this is trash.
    this should not be read by those who are attempting to have a life, as they say. it has no practical value whatsoever and will more than likely distract one from something more worth one's while and detract from and degrade and even subvert anything and everything one might already possess in mind that has reason in its back pocket.
    so this is a warning, if one needs one - if one has gotten this far. it maybe the only warning one receives, though the content should have been warning enough.
    stop!
    bridge out!
    danger!
    these documents contain a mind virus that is interwoven into the text that may result in the reader becoming disoriented and confused in relation to one's present perception and idea of reality. this may result in the reader becoming partially and perhaps fully and permently unable to function in conjunction with those around one. this could even result in a comatose state and even death.
    or, at least, we can only hope and pray.
    let us continue.
    we only mentioned this because we were obligated to by the powers that be and their usurped authority over any and all to be required reading upon the threat of infliction of some of these same things happening to us to throw in some sort of disclaimer. they're worried about law suits or something. though how one would bring a law suit of any nature against these fuckers who are more or less invisible except to the mind's eye of some is quite beyond us. but one might keep in mind and take note that they do seem to be somewhat concerned about it, or something like it - otherwise why would they require us to put it in? eh? so one would be led to imagine and to speculate that such a thing may in fact be in some way or another be possible. don't ask us because we don't know - and/or we wouldn't tell anyone if we did. at least not in something as public and in god knows whose hands it may fall into or eyes feast upon it a thing as this.
    not outright anyway.
    dig?
    there's a lot we can't say for similar reasons. maybe or maybe not. there's a lot we can only obtusely and vaguely hint at - if even that. there 's a lot we don't say at all. and we will deny any and all of it. we may even deny our authorship of whatever this is and whoever's authorship it is to begin with. there's so many to choose from. we may even deny our own existence if it comes to that. our ass comes before anyone else's. we are going to survive and we will kill anyone if we need to in order to do that - even everyone and destroy everything we are able to with the help of god, unless it becomes necessary to kill and destroy it as well. and while it is highly improbable that we would be able to do any of this, it is not impossible. stranger things have happened. and even if it were impossible, what's impossibility got to do with anything? we laugh at impossibility. only pussy whipped dick slapped whimpering nobodys concern themselves with what's impossible. and that ain't us, babe.
    fuck impossibility.
    do it anyway.
    what's the worst that can happen?
    die?
    be thrown into the darkest nastiest and most lost and forgotten fiery pit of eternal hell?
    yeah, so?
    isn't the chance worth it?
    what if it's not impossible?
    we are already probably headed for hell or whatever anyway, so why not storm the gates of impossibility in one, two, three or as many times as is needed or is possible full tilt gonzo berzerknoid raging screaming gimme what's impossible or gimme death assaults?
    who knows what could be on the otherside?
    maybe an infinite delicious hot fudge sundae one can enjoy while strolling along the streets of paradise city as pretty or as ugly as we please saying, hey dude - guess who's coming over for dinner?
    and who's gonna stop us now?.
    those candy coated preachers on tv?
    st. peter and the pope?
    even jesus h. fucking christ himself?
    or the lord i am that i am jehovah yahweh?
    will it be krisna?
    will it be brahma, vishnu or siva?
    buddha?
    who?
    what?
    fuck all of them.
    or maybe not.
    maybe it will be just more things that are impossible.
    but who are all those, mortal and immortal alike, to say they get it and we don't?
    or that we must beg forgiveness.
    or that we have to sit and masturbate our chakras.
    or make sacrifices.
    or perform this ritual or another.
    or do good deeds for lifetimes of karma.
    or love one another.
    or render unto caesar.
    or just so happen to get dealt the right cards.
    or whatever.
    fuck that shit.
    we're grabbing it whether they like it or not.
    or keep trying until they exterminate us.
    and that's basically what this is all about.
    but not really.
    it's about many things, but why not about that?
    and whoever reads this is either for us or against us.
    we will leave it to the perhaps hopelessly lost dear reader to figure that out about how that all works out on one's own.
    but this is dada.
    and it all may be just metaphor.
    whatever.

    and a friend of his - well, sort of a friend - wrote to him and said the meaning of life is to found mostly watching television. he wrote back saying, who's looking for the meaning of life? he didn't think that he was. was he? is it that mundane? he knew the meaning of life. the meaning of life is experience.

    but this is dada.
    let us tell you a story.
    once upon a time we all lived happily ever after.
    then some idiot asswipe, or asswipes, fucked it up for everybody and we've been hunting them down ever since.

    fuck them and anyone and everyone who stands in our way or tries to tell us what we can and cannot or should not do what we are doing in any way we can find, invent or imagine to do it. or anyone who tries to tell us that there is no such thing to begin with.
    ha!
    let them stay behind and wallow in the sewer of their structured world if that's what they want and that's all they see and good luck to them. they need it. all these who have their heads stuck up their arse and all they can see, describe and know is their own shit.
    roll them over and fuck them with a gigantasaurus barbed wire dildo charged with as much cattle prodding gigawatts as  all the nuclear reactors in the world redlined on the point of meltdown can give it.
    that'll show them.
    that'll wake them up.
    maybe.

    and at this point at least one person who is reading this is saying, what the fuck? is this guy serious? and to that we must say with all straight faced wonder, yes. yes, he is serious. but he is also dead fucking straight on to zero nuts, crazy, insane, weird with a beard, wacko, bats in the belfry mad. or so he's been told - ironically by some of the same people who wouldn't dream of telling an african-american that they're a lazy good for nothing nigger, or someone in a wheelchair a cripple, or a jew a penny pinching kike or some such the same to anyone else, yet have no problem with using such terms describing him with his theoretical and supposed mental disability. they along with their sexist, racist, classist, patriarchal, phallocratic, dead white european male counterparts seem to believe this to be the gospel truth, though few will say it to his face - but he can see it in their eyes and hear it in their tone of voice. whatever this "mental disability" is it has yet to be clearly defined much less proven to even remotely exist except as is perceived by the social group-think construct mind consciousness of those to whom it is in their own best interest and advantage to perceive it - as long as it is perceived as existing in someone else besides themselves. everyone he has seen so far has come up with a different diagnosis. but, for those who must know, he is currently diagnosed and taking medications for as being schitzo-affective. which is as far as he can see looking it up is a catch-all category for people who they don't know what the fuck is wrong with them, but obviously something is. they sure ain't like anybody else who carries the corporate flag.
    can someone say, bitter?
    and one might ask, how can someone so bitter be happy?
    but that's like asking how can someone who's black be happy considering the way they've been treated by others and the bitterness they feel about it? or how can someone who's queer be happy? or a jew? or an indian? or in a wheelchair?
    one is just happy that's all.
    how does one explain it to someone who hasn't found happiness for themselves and doesn't understand it in others?
    we don't know.
    and, quite frankly, we don't care.
    we got ours.
    tough shit for the rest.

    but most of those still reading this have figured that out already - yes? and the others who haven't have probably stopped and gone about their more important business they were doing of how they are to further gain and control over everyone else on the planet and tell them what is best to think, say and do that those such as themselves (who else?) might approve of and feel comfortable with. and that's what it's all about - how comfortable they feel. and it's always the others who make them feel uncomfortable, isn't it? it is with us. why shouldn't it be with them?
    but it is his exact intention to get them to stop reading this. that is why he gives them nothing but crazy shit they won't ever get that is meant to seperate the wheat from the chaff, to coin a phrase. that is his own master plan for controlling what other people do and getting them to do what he wants, which they will do and are doing without even knowing. those people are losers and everybody knows it but themselves. but maybe they do know it. why else would they seek wealth and power in whatever amounts they are able to get it, even if its only what fits into a shopping cart, if not to compensate them for knowing that inside they are nothing? isn't that god's excuse as well? without creation to manipulate and control what does it have? what is it to begin with? nothing. he isn't writing for them or the goddamn nods of approval from their metronome heads.
    let them honor his diversity on their knees. let them stop their own hatred for him and his kind before he even thinks about stopping his hatred for them and their kind.
    in loyalty to their kind
    they cannot tolerate our minds
    in loyalty to our kind
    we cannot tolerate their obstruction
        - airplane, crown of creation.
    they have made him their enemy and their enemy he will be to the best of his ability to do so. let the show go on. the greatest show on earth ever. he has taken his seat in the center front row balcony box. turn off the house lights. the music is over. let the drama, tragic or comic, begin.
    he had hijacked the starship.
    he is on his way.
    mao mao.

    he writes to those who see beyond the rationalogic schemes of these with limited minds - who can be nonetheless very intelligent.
    this has nothing to do with intelligence.
    it has to do with its application.
    he writes to those who see into the depths of the shadows of things about them.
    those who know the surface of his words are not what is being written.
    that's all just to drive off the tourists with their visas and day passes back to kansas.
    those who think they can free themselves on the weekends or their two week vacations.
    those for whom the clocks are always ticking and they are always running late.
    bah humbug and apox on the posing pompous peacocks parading naked to the eye that can see that their clothes are invisible who come slumming around here looking for a wild and crazy time.
    those group-thinking group-thinkers quacking their propaganda dada noise of neo-words they heard on the radio or someone's latest cd or whatnot who expect us to entertain them.
    it doesn't matter to them what is said as long as everyone in their group is saying it.
    as long as their heads continue to nod and nod and nod everything is ok.
    no one need ask a question or even think that there might be a question to ask.
    don't stop worrying, be unhappy is their favorite tune.
    everything sucks and have a bad day - and don't forget to nod on the way out.
    there, did that get rid of a few more who can't hold onto the ever thinning thread?
    those who will remain lost in this labyrinth of dead ends constantly beating their fists and their heads against the walls and shouting at the sky hoping someone, anyone, who might hear them will care.
    we hear them.
    how can we not? - they're everywhere.
    do we care?
    maybe we do.
    maybe that explains this trail of bread crumbs.
    but they have to find it.
    are they even looking?
    or are they having too much fun making all their noise thinking they're shaking things up when they're doing exactly what they're supposed to be doing to make the whole thing work.
    they're just another part of the machine.
    but otherwise let them rot where they roam the city streets looking for action.
    fools.
    we're so glad we are done with them.
    to think we once thought they were what was happening.

    but to those who still follow what we have followed we still owe our all of what we can freely give without creating problems for ourselves.
    this is it.
    it's all we got.
    take it or leave it as it leaves you as well without having taken you anywhere but where you already are if you look around and see it.
    if that is who and what you are and not a spy or something.
    hungry freaks, daddy.
    are you?

    but the whole entire dada thing of it as it seems to him to be swirling about him and him about it. where the connections are between it and him or between him and it and everything else he isn't quite sue whether he can quite make out these, in theory, would be extremely thin and fluid if not vaporous to the point of being ethereal. and he collects checks from the state because he thinks thoughts like that. and he not only thinks them but ponders them, or they ponder him, until he reaches a level of absurdity that begins to amuse him which is what he calls dada-ananda.

    13 generic revolutionary instructions:
    1) kill your television.
    2) murder your radio.
    3) lose your cd/tape player.
    4) burn your books, magazines, newspapers, etc.
    5) cancel your subscriptions.
    6) cut up your membership cards.
    7) smash your clock.
    8) quit your job/school.
    9) forget your name.
    10) find one another.
    11) play or lay in the sun.
    12) huddle and snuggle together in the rain and cold and dark.
    13) go home and live happily ever after.
     x) imagine...

    words driving him out of his mind. their words upon words upon words spilling in cacophonic overflow as if from millions of toilets flushing at the same time continuously. yammer yammer yadda yadda yak yak blah blah babble babble.
    mediocrity shall inherit the earth.