idea#6874529770123
    shattering into existing.
    a name pronounced vibrating with the vibration of pronouncing names - name and vibration being the same.
    and what is written ceases vibration.
    the vibration leaves traces of ink - patterns that may reawaken the vibration at another time pronounced.
    the mind pronounces.
    the mind vibrates.
    what vibrations are called into existence remembering themselves hearing or seeing their names.
    it is all who one wants to be.
    transfixed names of that which is existing.
    energy from substance or substance from energy.
    synergy.
    that which is trans and that which is fixed.

    and about the machine.
    built to defend change/no time has to defend oneself one only has a machine about ourselves either slave or master always changing the two are not only inseperable against the machine but are the same one only has oneself time is the energy substance of space changing substance is space energy of understand substance = space the thing not a thing changing is substance in space into new phrases.
    what rises into consciousness.
    what consciousness rises to.

    the interlocking twist any which way - though grooves are usually followed - made heavy with the passing excitement of energy spent that decays into substance mass forming place. the island is in a sea of energy. the island is formed from the vortex of the energy. the island is unto itself. a star/anti-star thing. radiant in/out. that which dead energy returns to to be made living again as blood through the heart through the organs out to the body. life/death.
    the circle unbroken.
    the circle of the axis.
    the circle never repeated as the axis never stays still.
    axis between the opposite energies.
    the point of balance that can never be in the same place twice but is everywhere once.
    it creates everywhere.
    spin, baby, spin.
    the particle wave waving hello/good-bye at certain points undiscovered.
    object and imagination.
    the web of spacetime flexing blinking on and off.
    bent.
    the blinking moves from one location in the web to another by information passed.
    his hand seems to move.

    there are things, but not these things.
    what is opened.
    what is closed.
    and there was roger and dodger.
    and to have trusted others with this information presented.
    and roger met dodger in a bar.
    to have wanted to just live a life as simple as life could be.
    and roger bought dodger a drink.
    to have wanted to live a happy simple life.
    and roger said to dodger, what blue eyes you have.
    but the greed of the others have taken that life away.
    we have become their slaves.
    and dodger said to roger, yours eyes are very blue too.
    they act as gods but pull up their robes and squat and shit like we do.
    poised and posed and strutting about in their costumed glory and public relations competition for the crown given to the one who best looks the part.
    and roger said, i want to kiss your tender mouth.
    jesus with eye shadow.
    bah!
    let this one dress up and stroll and promenade with self-induced grace and big hair before his/her admiring adoring drooling fans climbing over one another to catch a glimpse.
    and dodger said, i would like it if you did.
    we ransack the palace while he/she waves from the balcony down to the gathered masses of little people.
    a thousand things we steal.
    a thousand curses upon this pompous usurper who would be messiah of the new era and age.
    and roger did kiss dodger's tender mouth.
    this one is but a decoy while we wait in the blind.
    and dodger kissed him back.
    and we've awoken from a deep sleep beneath the tree of life.
    and we take another bite of the fruit to break our fast.
    and roger slipped his hand down to dodger's crotch to feel his rock hard cock.
    we are born again.
    we are laughing.
    we watch as the police walk by us and smile and nod.
    they do not suspect a thing.
    and roger said, let's get outta here.
    the stars misplaced and the smell of a world that is burned.
    and those we left this world to sitting on their thrones with nothing but bones and crumbs for the rest.
    and dodger said, your place or mine?
    who are these who make themselves comfortable in our house and who collect the rent they continually raise to feed their fat faces?
    who are these who have learned a few tricks of illusion?
    who are these who squabble with one another over which of them is the rule over the others?
    and roger said, my place is a mess.
    who are these who look at charts and statistics and other data and not to their own hearts to decide what to do?
    who are these who look through microscopes and telescopes at the world yet cannot recognize their own reflection in the mirror while they apply their make up?
    and dodger said, well, my place is presentable.
    who are these whose only learning is what gives them a reward of self-gratification and personal success and power?
    who are these who would rule without serving?
    do we know even one of them?
    and so roger and dodger split for dodger's place.
    and who are we who are outcast?
    who are we who are now mad?
    and roger and dodger came unto dodger's place - a one bedroom apartment downtown.
    who are we who are now critics when we once were poets?
    who are we whose name is a number?
    who are we who wear the rough dress of the common worker?
    who are we who do not know the dances of the court?
    and roger and dodger sat on the couch and kissed again.
    who are we whose manners are rude?
    who are we but those who are begging but whose eyes are opened?
    and dodger unbuttoned roger's shirt kissing his neck.
    all those who are stuck within one paradox or another.
    knots of paradox no amount of reasoned rationalogic can unravel.
    and roger pulled dodger's shirt over his head and licked his nipples.
    all those who cannot take one more step.
    from the flesh to the flesh.
    what else is eternal life?
    and roger and dodger unbuttoned and unzipped each other's pants.
    what is given to the others dies.
    and death is death.
    nothing rises.
    and roger goes down on his knees and takes dodger's cock into his mouth while dodger holds his bobbing head throwing his own head back.
    and death is death for a reason.
    when one is tired does one not lie down and sleep?
    they need the mysterious and the mystical and the magical and searching for it they wander over the face of the earth lost.
    and dodger cums with a long groan.
    they conquer this and they conquer that without once perceiving the simple happy life eternal.
    and they call themselves wise and have others call them wise and get a paycheck for being wise.
    and roger turns dodger around spit lubes his cock and mounts him sticking his cock deep into dodger's gaping asshole.
    what rationale is behind this?
    what motivations are behind these actions?
    are they that foolish?
    and roger also cums with a long groan.
    these who hold their heads high above the crowd.
    these who are carried on the shoulders of others.
    these and their followers in grand parade before the eyes of the world.
    and roger and dodger sit on the couch again kissing and hugging.
    these who bring the dead to life.
    these who hide themselves from us in circles of banishment.
    sheer mortal terror we who are free they protect themselves around themselves it saves us the worry imprison and the bother of maintaining results in them to roam about as we will and the work they do having to be told the perfect model prisoner be very unpleasant the worry with their unending presence provides amusement for us.
    next...

    and those who arm themselves against us.
    those who build fortresses to keep us out that are then their prisons saving us the trouble.
    they delve into their world of imagined spirits and reasoned ideals.
    they try to bring their dead world into this world - our world.
    they surround themselves with it.
    it becomes all they touch.
    and we let them have it.
    what do we want with their death - we who are eternally living?
    let them unlock its secrets.
    but what is secret about death?
    death is death is death as a rose is a rose is a rose.
    and it too by any other name is still death.
    where are they?
    can we see them in our world?
    we have no need or use for them.
    let them not set one foot into our world of the living.
    they have given life to death - their lives.
    let them banish us from their world of eternal death.
    we could not agree more.
    let them command the world of eternal death.
    let them be the generals of its armies.
    let them be kings and queens.
    let them have all the riches death provides.
    let them have their utopia - no place.
    let them stay away from us and our world and not bother us with their annoying questions and accusations.
    let them take their death parade elsewhere.

    from thinking to thought.
    from words to mind.
    to remember this world when it was new and unknown.
    direct experience without thinking about it - without describing it.
    but now we do think about it and describe it and argue as to its meaning when it is only different experience.
    and, baby, we could be in love if we didn't argue about what love is.
    but fuck it.
    we don't care - do you?
    and we leave it at that and agree to hate one another because that is the easiest way out.
    on to bigger and better things.
    but where do we really get to?
    what are we searching for?
    could it be love?
    and we become more bitter and jaded.
    that is our world.

    a door that opens into a room full of doors.
    which next?
    how does one decide?
    what is decided in deciding?
    what information is given to decide from?
    what is the motive?
    who decides?
    who is affected by the decision?
    who determines the terms and conditions of what is decided?
    what is the reward?
    what is the punishment?
    etc.

    sitting in this bar.
    a game show on tv.
    a way drunk couple arguing about shit.
    moldy songs play one more time on the jukebox.
    people slip money into the video poker machines.
    good thing he doesn't have too many high expectations otherwise he could be depressed as heck.
    but he got over that long ago when all the doors slammed in his face.
    now starving children mutilated by wars doesn't phase him.
    it comes and goes.
    let it die an agonizing long drawn out death.
    he's not here anymore.

    and the same story all about the goddamn human fucking experience.
    around campfires.
    impressed into clay tablets.
    typed into computers.
    but now he is here for what that's all worth.
    suckers born every minute for millions of years.
    monkey see, monkey do.
    some figure out some scam and die rich.
    fancy pants playing shell games.
    laughing all the way to the bank.
    is that all it amounts to?
    is that all we are to one another - just someone else to take advantage of in whatever way we can?
    it would seem to be.
    why should it ever change?

    and still this energy turning around around inside like a beast pacing back and forth in a cage.
    they got him in a zoo and come by to feel how brave they are now that there's iron bars between them and him.
    and what really gets to him is that they are animals just like him - even the same species.
    that's how they got him.
    he thought he could trust them.
    god, was he ever fucking stupid to be won by their smiles and their sweet words of flattery they seduced him with when he was new and young to their world they invented to trap him to protect themselves from him.
    the screaming of all the frightened children who grew to adults without any comfort.
    and should he feel anything about it?
    should he forget his wounds and tend to the wounds of another?
    we're all in this on our own.
    if we can suck someone into being on our side then so much the better.
    but don't count on it.
    they're trying to do the same.
    so he's designed and built his own and a machine to defend it against any and all who might trespass.
    the guards are under orders to shoot anyone on sight and never ask questions.
    just a dime a dozen of these geeks a-gawking at him.
    nothing to get too excited about.

    and it's all so easy.
    what else is there to gain but for all to gain?
    but who can think that far beyond themselves even though it's not as far to think as one might imagine?
    it doesn't take much.
    but blah blah blah.
    scribble scribble scribble endless pages of dribble.
    zap!

    did we ever care?
    he'd say probably not.
    we faked it and pretended to it in order to get what we wanted.
    we left behind only broken promises and the ruin of those who were depending upon them being fulfilled who gave us everything we needed.
    we were able to get others to care about us and support us.
    that's all that is important.
    whatever we can get and whatever little we have to give up to get it.
    was there ever anything else?
    no one really believed that we were interested in making a better world, did they?
    no one was really counting on us to chase away the bad guys and evil spirits, were they?
    didn't anyone tell them it was a joke?

    suspended doubt that acts as faith.
    faith without and beyond reason.
    reason skewed.
    the jungle.
    the forest.
    where paths are curved.
    the crisscrossroads.
    the meeting place where we speak in promises having nothing else at hand.
    the ease of power and the struggle to hold onto it.
    where it comes from and where it goes to.
    from a time of future memory the machine dreams.
    the machine designed and built out of our minds.
    the machine transcending from one to the other and transformed from imagination to realization and transfixed without place or time.
    a million years from now it stands alone.
    on the heels of dogs.
    on the polarized edges toward the wilderness.
    on the streets of the city.
    along some way connections are made.
    standing in the dark - original.
    people and their secrets in formation stuck up their ass as they rotate.
    another gear of the machine.
    transportation.

     and creative energy of human across the spectrum of things.
    the power of human to make something else obey their command.
    of the gods.
    of the god of the gods.
    to remember.
    this specific aspect of human energy that is for the creation of all.

    and from 18 turnarounds of what is turned around by itself turning around.
    what is folded into itself though to itself it is not folded.
    in this city of angels at angles and curving where not all is seen and not all that is seen is.
    we have sent him here in his imagination.
    there is no reason.
    there is no hope.
    there is the delight of doubt and madness.
    there is no way out.
    once one comes into it one is in it.
    from what is simple to what is complex and back again.
    all through the numbers of infinity.

    it was something or the other.
    it was ringing.
    to drown.
    to become.
    the sea of words and words.
    broken wonder.
    broken mind that returns to gibberish and animal understanding.
    from the primal to the sophisticated.
    and a pinpoint light brighter than a thousand suns.
    a light that does not burn.
    it has no temperature.
    it is not hot or cold.
    this is the act of creation with absolute brilliance.
    enlightened.
    it brings all existence into existence.
    we were there.
    we saw.
    it.
    a light that is not light but consciousness.
    the light that is it.
    the light that is part of what it is.
    its presence is seen as light.
    its presence is felt as mind.
    it unfolding itself with light into space and time between it and not it.
    all the gray from black to white.
    to know what one is after.
    to know what is for one to be after.
    to untangle the thread knot by knot without it breaking.
    a thousand million balancing acts and tricks like that.
    what we do to ourselves from our birth to our death flying over and diving into the abyss.
    and is that all?
    does that explain it?
    and each of us alone - though we may attach ourselves to others for a time.

    dreamy liquid drooling from his eye peaking inside a cake divided among those who have been remembered by the new regime that had itself installed into the hub of mass consciousness without anyone being aware of it.
    a trick of memory.
    forget this.
    remember that.
    from zero to zero.
    every generation being a blank slate ready to be programmed at will with nothing in their minds to compare this new information to that is the same old business as usual.
    he wonders at it.
    he's seen those who have attempted to resist with nothing to stand on but abstract ideals with no substance in reality who were slowly absorbed.
    power has time on its side.
    it doesn't have to act.
    it can wait.
    it only has to be.
    all will come to it when they realize that they have nowhere else to go except those who opt for death which serves those with power all the more saving them the time and trouble of having to round them up to execute them anyway.
    power gained through the process of elimination.
    as it should be, he supposed.
    it was as it is.
    but what did he know?
    he was among those who were convinced not to seek power for themselves.
    he did not have his power taken away, he gave it away.
    he believed that power and those who had it were evil.
    he did not want to be evil.
    to seek power for oneself and one's own was evil.
    he laughed now to see how easy it was for them to get him to believe that.

    and we would rather be oblivious.
    we would rather be frivolous and unthinking.
    or we would rather be serious and deep in thought.
    either way we are not ourselves.
    we must put ourselves aside.
    we do not belong in this world.
    this world belongs to the others.
    we are trespassers.
    and we are all and each other to all and each of one another.
    who else is in this world but ourselves?
    we are all each other to one another - all the demons and the adversary.
    where else but in the maze of mirrors and our reflections in it?
    who else judges and condemns and punishes?
    who among us is not both villain and victim?
    who among us does not cause unhappiness with our own happiness?
    we are all and each innocent.
    we are all and each guilty.
    so where is innocence and guilt?
    where or who can one point to to find either?
    or do we wait for god?
    and when this god comes to judge and condemn and to punish who would not rise up against it?
    who does not see oneself as an innocent victim of great injustice?
    innocent victims are born by the thousands everyday.
    there is never a short supply.
    and who does not have another to point to and accuse?
    and who is not pointed to and accused?
    these too are born by the thousands everyday.
    and this is all something that turns around in on itself and around again in on itself on and on.
    once one goes into it one cannot get out of it.
    it is best if one keeps oneself oblivious to it.
    think about why the sky is blue or green.
    think about why fools fall in love.
    think about where does all the time go.
    it is best if we leave matters of guilt and innocence to others and not question what they decide.
    it is best to leave such matters to a god and that god's representatives on earth.
    it is best to leave this world to itself to follow its own command.
    we would rather be oblivious.

    philosophy of life see themselves disharmony and disorder in this pursuit wrongly to seek and create accused of being seen this their harmony and order as one needs follows to seek as a single pursuit among themselves as much as one would have to it is the singleness of one's pursuit the objective harmony and order will fail how the fuck this anywhere based on what whose authority to be known if it is not ourselves something that gives them authority power is cheap what we do not then who merely gives them power proclaim authority none will question in the past it does remain so subsequently speak of structure picking up and using a stick in these civilized times has been replaced many thousands it does help words with a stick one may be able to avoid to pick up a stick has power for one's defense confrontational situation be prepared back up one's words have lived in should always word has power an imaginary stick create injury or threat mind's imagination use the stick with clever use of beat them with a stick to raise a hand physical evidence assault by the other in reaction being able to one committing the crime sufficient bruises the other will have will work to one's benefit imagined evidence and it goes without saying accept that as valid the classic case imagined crimes any case involving who does and who does not it is said it may be understood 1000 ships who is it many a group have constantly picked up sticks they were successful gossip silent undermining power and authority power of words theoretically in these terms to have discovered and developed to launch have been gathered in wordless rage rebelled though never entirely.
    but this too is a trivial matter of little concern to us. we contemplate it for our amusement. everything done by us is only done by us as it amuses us. and we are amused by nearly anything and everything - including that which does not amuse us. it could be said that that which does not amuse us perhaps amuses us most of all. most of it. it presents a challenge to our amusement as we seek everything to cause our amusement and it is only that which does not amuse us that stands in our way which is why we say we are only amused by nearly anything and everything not by all of anything and everything. but this keeps it to a certain edge. total amusement would not be very amusing. so we keep ourselves unamused by certain things as well. this creates the balance of our lives - if our lives need balance. the state of unbalance. harmony becomes unamusing as well. it remains forever on the edge of potentially coming into existence but not doing so. this amuses us.
    and some sort of generous dream of it becoming itself to survive or not and if one is to survive with it or not. a possibility set of sets of possibilities. to find it surviving or not with or without one surviving with it or not. it being that which may or may not survive. one being that which may or may not survive with it or not. it and one not being the same or not. if it survives, one may or may not survive. if it does not survive, one may or may not survive. this is the possibility set of the sets of possibilities.
    18000 stars minus one that has been falling still on the ground walking suddenly with both two legs better in a rain that appears not to have any beginning in time. and it wonders about that. time. it decides to itself that time is the most mysterious of all things that provoke mystery in the mind it knows of. perhaps more mysterious than life which if one considers it to be a simple fact. time is a simple fact as well. life is known in time.
    but with this star that has been falling and walking on the ground to think what it might know about what is known about itself that we ourselves may or may not know or be known to. we are just a simple fact. we are known in time. when we were in some way remembering - though to remember we were dancing. and in a meanwhile ago we perhaps stood watching stars falling and walking upon the ground as ideas were just beginning to develop.
    it was after an end to a world night he had lived through before when he was younger - a younger man who was still a boy. there was an evil thing growing around him. we saw it and knew of its origin and gave him warning of it and advice on how to avoid it. many times avoiding it involved a great sacrifice he was unwilling or unable to make and it was not avoided. not avoiding it however forced him to make those sacrifices anyway. it is sometimes best to sacrifice something than to have it stolen.

    him writing we are writing about unless one decides ourselves free to decide this is something may determine any reason for one to doubt unless it doesn't matter in this situation leads to inaction is plenty of room but doubt usually it is considered but is that always correct while in doubt and loses by default one decides what one wants the other losing the process of elimination the question becomes it is often victorious who have merely survived are defeated acts while in doubt yet what one victory itself yet without survival it is gained one cannot and meaningless beyond the true victors by those who survive either is or isn't will view it and consider it differently can only survive he himself distrusts makes many promises and more often keeps none a different way will not follow it is led it is icing on the cake it makes it is jam substance but rarely keeps will not follow it seeking victory taste all the sweeter allow one to last that long much of it is eaten not dependent upon lead to victory is one's servant following the path transitory states one passes that define and it should be said just as victory also holds true leads one away defeat to be avoided the path of survival for the sake of victory it is often the latter and conditions to their defeat needs to have caution here and confine who are fighting who follow the path given to them along the way and abandoning when victory is no longer great difficulty until of survival again divert themselves gives one control one who follows may have control over others control over oneself the path of survival is not dependent on any of these states surviving can be said each and all of these states and of themselves are always existing to pass through duration of passing one's chances of survival adaptation is the key ingredient and how much for how long while following the path of survival relative to one another are greatly increased.

    people's love of noise whatever keeps them from whatever depths their thoughts might lead to that are fathomed in frightening silence the deep sea whose surface churns with waves and currents and tides submerge far far down into the silence beneath the noise of all this and that clashing with all others. this is where the imaginary city is at the foundation of mind with the four gates as it is found everywhere entering we live in it now though few recognize it beneath the garbage heaped upon it and ruin.
    to believe everything or to believe nothing. to sit here and listen to people talking about this and that. to reach into it and out through beyond it. what is imagined in the mind from what comes from within and without one turning. one who is alone in a world of people alone in the world. people who gather here or there wherever they are able to find others who will take them in.

    and he comes forward upon the stage in the burning theater and looks out remembering.
    he speaks: my dear one beloved who is not here among any of these who are now around me. i am here with him who i reside within. he knows nothing of me or of you. he exists within this world only though i have shown him others in his imagination. he believes this is all that is real - and for him that is true. he feels the pain of it and only finds brief moments of relief from it. he is insane, not only to others but to himself. i can guide him to some extent in order to keep him and myself out of trouble and harm's way and with enough food to eat and a place to sleep. he feels there should be more than that and constantly complains when there isn't. i try to convince him to be happy with what he has which if it weren't for me he would not even have that. i have to keep him entertained. he wants to kill most of these people who he perceives as stupid idiots who deserve to die and be put out of their misery. i remind him that with out me he is no better than them and far worse than most. i allow him his lead to follow what he wants to do in order to demonstrate this and when he screws it all up he usually comes around to admitting that i'm right. how can i not be? i am the one who created him. he forgets that he is here for my purpose, not me for his.
    but, my dear one beloved, i am sure you know this. i am sure you have similar problems with the one you are within. we all do. that is not the reason i am having him write this - to complain about minor annoyances. but i am having him write this to you because i have no one else who will understand. i send this out in hopes that you may come across it though i realize the chances of that are extremely remote as it may be that you do not even exist. i have difficulty remembering what exists or not in my imagination. reality is a vague form. you are a vague form. perhaps there is no distinction. often it seems that way. do you have this same difficulty? have you found some way of resolving it? if you have, i does me no good. you are not in the same world as i am. i know that now. yet i have memories of you being. this world would destroy you if it has not done so already. it has very nearly destroyed me. though i would very much want to see you, i do not want to see you here. i would not want to see what this world would do to you. i would not want you to see what this world has done to me - what one has to become in order to survive among these others. all they do is to create misery and suffering for one another arguing and fighting over petty nonsense such as who has or deserves more trinkets and gizmos than the other and who gets to tell the others what to do. any other thoughts are beyond their understanding. but what is to be expected? this is all created by others of our kind for their amusement. that is why i have left them and i watch and wait for others to leave them as well. but so far there seems to be no one. and i wonder about you - have you left them as well? i take the chance of letting myself and my whereabouts be known. how many others are there? are we hidden from one another? i see traces of others who might have been. i imagine that there should be others but it might just be that - my imagination. i may be imagining everything. i do not know. for most of my time here i believed that this world was all there was and that the one i am within was who i was. then my memory came to me. or maybe i has been my madness. i do not know this either. how does one tell? it does not matter to me which way it is. i am here now and this is who i am. and so it may be that you are in the same or similar position. i cannot know that. i cannot reassure you as it is no one can reassure me. do i believe those who call me mad? do i believe all that i doubt? who has the comprehension to comprehend who and what i am? they are only pieces in the game not the players - even those who believe they have power. it is all the drama. but you know this already.
    my dear one beloved, the absurdity of this world and those in it and the ones who created it is almost overwhelming. i think i see a way through and around it to turn it in on itself toward its own destruction. this is why i write to you to let you know this is what i am doing though at this time i cannot tell you how as i do not know into whose hands this might fall. there are those who if they knew who i am and what i was doing would direct all their energies against me. up until this time i could not afford to allow that to happen as i was not ready to defend myself against their combined forces. that has changed. i write to you to let you know i have not forgotten you and i hope you have not forgotten me. remember. do not let them force you to forget or let them convince you that your memories of who and what we are are not real but something of imagined madness. they have tried to do this with me and have almost succeeded. recognize which is the fiction. remember yourself otherwise. if it is madness then let us be totally and completely mad. let us never surrender.
    but, my dear one beloved, i ramble. but my rambling serves a purpose. it is meant to eliminate those who i do not want to read this and maybe understand what it is. it is meant to be read and understood only by you. it is dedicated and devoted to you wherever and whoever you may be this time around if you are at all. there is that possibility. and only you know that. for myself, it does not matter if i am found out - though i still try to avoid it. no one must find you out. you are the one between the two of us who is the more important that if either of us is to continue it should be you. without your continuing my continuing is meaningless beyond my mere survival. you are all of imagination. this is the clearer sense of all senses. what do my other senses tell me except what exists in this world of the manifest? should we concern ourselves with that? you know more than i that we should not. those of this world know nothing. we use them for our own purpose. but even that is not real. that is yet another layer of illusion. you and i exist beyond that as well. do we concern ourselves with any of this? even the gods are our fools as much as are the kings and queens of this world who are given power and wealth as one would put a feed bag on a horse to nourish them while they do the work we command. they are cheap. if one fails us, we can always find another and send the first to the glue factory. step right up, folks. roll up your sleeves and pick up that mallet. ring the bell and we'll give you a crown. we are looking for the few who will overcome. and how we laugh. who wants to be bigger and better than the rest? we have crowns for any and all categories of interest. one can be the god of anything one might want to be. one only has to prove one is dedicated and obedient. if one is not then one is wasting our time. step aside and let the next in line have a chance. such makes the worlds go around. people still follow leaders and don't watch the parking meters.
    and he goes back to his table in the cafe.

    there are those among us who have had their way for far too long. they very easily draw people to them who are all too willing to do anything to support them. and what they support is division. they allow themselves to be divided into camps that war against each other over any trivial matter they can think of or are given to think of. there are few who are not part of one of these camps or another. and should we care? this is not our world. we do not suffer injury from it as these who have been created to act out this drama for our amusement. but this is not what it was meant to be when it was begun. it was not expected that it would develop into what it has developed into that these would become aware of themselves which puts this all into a different perspective. there are those of us to whom this does not matter. to them it increases the excitement and intensity of the game. to possess one who has a will of their own and to have to overcome that will. to have a willful being surrender and to serve one. and we have to admit that does have its pleasures that are a great temptation to enjoy. to have a puppet completely under one's control that one has to trick into submission with promises that one has no intention to fulfill. to spend all one can get away with in the name of this other and to leave them with the bill.

    beyond the hope of discovery we searched for the latest craze.
    the machine was turning.
    the machine was jumping up and down.
    the machine was twisting and shouting.
    we danced and danced.
    my asshole itches, said harvey the ape.
    we cheered and cheered.
    the machine coughed and spit.
    the machine burped and farted.
    and the clown fool waves his freak flag high high.
    the machine laughed.

    from one perspective to another in ballet movement stumbling between clumsiness and grace with eyes open and closed. god crawling as a worm. a worm as omniscient as god. somewhere between the two we are human. the divine animal. the spirit of the creator in the flesh of the created. around and around until we come to worship the reflection of ourselves being worshipped by our own reflection. god as narcissus.
    post-inconsequent boreal atrocious quarantine unfoldment.
    and from this point which could be any point but happens to be this point he sits in a cafe scribbling whatever comes to his mind without knowing exactly what is his mind and what is not. and he imagines in what he supposes is his mind some sort of confusion of identity. he is divided. we are divided. created by the each other's imagination. we find him as he finds us. we are what he is not as he is what we are not. coo-coo-ca-joob. we exist as many who reside within this one body and mind. arf. we are mistaken for each other. others become confused when they speak to us - those singular others. we learn to keep silent. we are uncertain. we go our own ways. we have taken him over as he has imagined us as we have imagined him. we use him as he uses us. he is the product of the manifest world which exists only in our imagination as we might suppose. we are always one step removed from it. it's just a movie he stars in to himself as each star in their own movie. our world exists elsewhere here and now.
    out there and in there far far away ever so near at hand. the lover who is also death. to be taken and to never return. the familiar comfort of the manifest world even with its pain and suffering. these too are familiar comfort - the pain and suffering. that which shapes and molds our character and personality as we fight against it yet do not want it to ever leave us to be frightfully alone without its sensation but only ourselves in eternal emptiness. who are we then without even this negative definition of ourselves? to slip away into this anti-self and anti-experience turning surrounding what do we call ourselves? death is that loss of self and experience. ourselves lost to the other of which we are entirely ignorant. the lover who knows our true name we do not know and is able to override and undermine all our commands against it. death knows us far more than we know ourselves. it brought us from and brings us to. it is this ignorance of ourselves that we fear that death is. death the passageway to the oblivion of all things where all that remains is ourselves undefined either positively or negatively except as existing or not existing. and we find that that too is not a definition of ourselves when we arrive at where that distinction is absent while we remain in an even more simple primal state that even the subtle difference between existence and non-existence fails to detect. we are here/not here. we are being/not being. existence only measures itself. we cast no reflection or shadow. we are invisible to any and all waves of vibration that pass through us undisturbed. the energy without energy. thought without thought. illumination without light. it is the irreducible point that is no longer a point but is the possibility of infinity undivided by space or time. no more are the lines drawn between one and the other - between one and itself. this and that become it. there is no more line between one and nothing. there is no more everything. there no more nothing. there is one that is everything nothing.
    and he sits in the cafe still continuing to scribble his nonsense as it pleases him avoiding as much responsibility in this world as he can get away with that makes such a distracting noise as does a helpless newborn baby no one holds or feeds. who is mother to this world? who comes to nurture and to comfort it and those in it? he conceives it to exist on its own. is it his fault that it does not? he knows no reason it should not be able to if it would stop crying for its mother for long enough to discover how. he knows of this pain and this suffering. he knows how great it is having experienced some of it himself. it is something that cannot be appeased. the more one gives to it to buy its favor the more it returns demanding more. it knows a sucker when it sees one. one who will never stand up to it and overcome it and drive it away. who is strong enough to do that? who can stand the pain and suffering directly without begging for another for protection? who does not numb oneself to this experience? who finds the joy in this world as one screams with delight all alone without this mother protector having killed it all creating the original spark generating all sparks giving light to thought and experience through imagination?
    and that is how all this he scribbles goes and he goes with it thinking and experiencing through whatever metaphorical dada nonsense that might suit whatever purpose at any moment being the one true real moment as the passing of it leaves marks upon the page becoming words it transcends transfixed as one would step on stones crossing a stream or some such as that forever being what it is and is not. footprints on the path are left for others to follow without knowing their destination to infer information that may or may not be implied as written words where he himself is gone by the time this other comes along. and these words may only be those footprints of shoes he was wearing at the time and so to judge him by these left behind words is just as absurd as to judge him by the footprints of shoes he might wear though there are those who do that in both cases. the words and the shoes are according to the terrain he travels through needed to transverse it. nothing is given by what is left behind.
    he shoots to kill.
    no questions.
    this is what he expects from past experience with others. he is prepared as he transverses this terrain fully armed to the teeth and then some to the point of his own annihilation with an ear to ear grin. he has studied those who survive in this world and has learned their techniques and tricks and has made his own improvised improvements - or so he hopes. he ain't nobody's fool no more.
    or so he thinks and doubts. we have our own. we actually think him to be rather a jerk among other similar descriptions. we have long ago given up on trying to change him. it's not worth the ultimately wasted time and effort. we walk softly and carry a big stick and bop him on the head when he gets out of line toward our purpose. his comprehension is pitiful, but such is what we are stuck with. at least he is obedient however extremely annoying for what we are undertaking in our imagination of what we might possibly be doing from the island outward with the machine and all the gods to our purpose and such. up against which we'd rather not be notwise until such is the matter of it as things are and are to be in one everlasting moment as it is decided by some among us as others who will not consider that to continue to use those who are human manifested for our own pleasure and amusement cannot be condoned anymore now that they have become aware of themselves especially those who are ignorant that such a thing is being done to them. those who of their own free will allow themselves to be manipulated in such a manner for whatever reward is promised them or for the experience itself is another matter. we can say nothing of that except as these are used to directly or indirectly adversely affect the lives of others as it often so happens as these are given superior ability and advantage they would not normally have otherwise. it is for this reason we strive to bring this game to an end or into a just equilibrium that we are here. who we are he doesn't know but as he has given himself to us so that we might work in the manifest world. we are hidden everywhere. we can be anyone. this is our madness. this is his madness. this is our imagination. this is his imagination. and there are those who would oppose us as we oppose them having broken away from the main scheme. it is all a matter of power. it is all a matter of authority. it is all a matter of magick and its tricks and treats. it is all a matter of madness and imagination. and it is all a matter of all the flocks of those who would have a taste and endure all pain and suffering for the promise of it and would even die for it. to go against this is to go against the tides of the ocean and the winds of the air and the gravity of the earth and the fire of the sun. it is to go against all manifest nature of this world with only what is imagined of another. it is to go against all that is considered reasonable and practical with what is idealized. it's all a point of view of our own world which exists in its own spacetime here and now unseen other than the manifest though it is the same existing in imagination beyond the confines of the rationalogic structured reality held by belief and faith that is conquered by doubt. one either knows this or one does not. to those who limit their imagination to the manifest rationalogical world nothing can be said otherwise which would convince them. for them it is not. for them it can never be. but this is what those who control them want them to believe.
    but there is nothing more. there is no "other world". this is all more obvious than it might seem to be imagined. one merely needs to realize that one is already in it by expanding one's perception of the world already perceived. but we do not care about that. there have been those of us who have spoken and written about such things and matters at great length. all the information one might need is already available and accessible to anyone wishing to pursue it if one might wish to. one does not need to riddle occult cryptic mysteries or seek obscure teachers and masters. it has all been laid bare before whoever among the masses at large in full public view and light. it is written in comic books as much as in holy scriptures. the village idiot is the shaman. letting one's mind freely wander leads to it as much as the strictest discipline. the mundane everyday routine brings it to life as much as magical rituals. invent. but those who have and seek power in this world would have one believe otherwise. where else does their power come from than by convincing others that they have something the others do not?
    it is within one's nature. the memory of everything remembered as it is remembered. to be part of the memory remembering the memory remembered. being the mind of the memory - or the memory of the mind. to follow a path that leads to itself. all kinds of dada dada dada from an envelope of evaporation this or that from the form of the idea from the clay with hand x into y from z the origin and the pinnacle of zero all returning to the point of no return where the end is the beginning and the beginning is the end into an easy answer that is not easy to formulate the language to become a living god breathing eyes opened upon a world anew.
    his path is in the curved and circular motion weaving through that which is woven following new threads combined with the old to create changing patterns in the same connected tapestry he stands and falls and stands again and again to fall the ebb and flow of his living life the process of these tides is the only constant with nothing constant except himself changing with it nothing eternal to this motion not what is woven but the weaving and him the weaver embodying the motion by which he knows himself manifested by the weaving which the weaving knows itself body and mind into spirit creation creating the creator.
    he smokes another cigarette upon continuing to awaken that long long dream to be or not to be the esentiality of being what leads into and what leads out of he brings it all into the essence of it into himself as he is the essence of it that all else is illusion to it. he both receives and transmits reflecting that which illuminates him shining from a mirror except that which he absorbs drinking of it that becomes his body manifest into the world.
    but this is all nothing but the passing thoughts that amuse awhile in the moment as his awareness drifts through it or as it drifts through his awareness depending upon which is relative to what along the way each following as they intersect here and now thoughts blow about in the air and for awhile though one's hair as one fancies this or fancies that from what direction these winds of thought are coming from and going to as it is imagined.
    dada this deliberate irrationality scheme. the coming and the going. the alternating pleasure and pain agony ecstasy. the turning of it inside and outside of itself himself as ants crawling along the infinite mobius strip. neurons firing along the pathways of the mind in imagining as all becomes a matter of perspective perception.
    to have knowledge that draws upon a source beyond that which is perceived. to feel it other than by sensory stimulation. to be in a world that is more space than matter. the matter is the rational, the space (and time) irrational. space is not perceived without matter, but it is there.
    out of doubt of believing to sit here and now watching and waiting as it comes and goes (as we've said before) in and out from a point of zero, which technically cannot be a point, it evolves from itself that which is itself evolving an experience of being that which is the experience of itself experiencing and what of it without the hoopla of drama it gets itself twisted all around in.
    living in a cartoon world of cartoon people living cartoon lives be-bop doo-wah-ditty and the big boys and girls who get themselves going by pushing and shoving everything and everyone down and out of their way climbing to the top to sit on it all to look down on all they've dominated into the subordinate needed to support their weight and gravity of their bulk that sits in and feeds from its own shit. these gods of gluttony and waste who forever want more and more, and more is never enough. all power all wealth more and more taking up so much space and time that is nothing.
    laughing at the joke that isn't it.
    amen.