as he gets older and no wiser.
    cryptic remarks don't count.
    windows of shadows looking at us watching and waiting for the enemy to make a move under the meanwhile circumstances thought at once to be one and real for all to wave and weave and mold and glue and sew together to portray maybe something of a joke we have going at the time folks and what information we have of the moment with what we know and take note of with a party down sort of thing with painted overtones and reaching some sort of intake valve insisting on programming the developing project also somewhat suggestive in simulation relax we know what we're doing with particular directions indirectly having an effect on our progressing non-linear relationships in the study of itself opposing even unto itself without any interest in following a selfish free for all crazy funky chicken thing grooving on itself also among us as we sometimes experience the sort of thing becoming another thing busting loose to our love jones and shine it on.
    a study of this and that as the primary functioning level of opposing states of existence pure and simple yet as it there after becomes at once to becoming complex in its overall wholeness and unity facing us here now to perhaps suggest nearly a dance turning over under sideways and inside out within our sphere of understanding whatever it migg naxt perception looking down through us in any and all possibility.
    in other words - watch out!
    hurry up!
    don't just stand there.
    power is powerful.
    living death.
    exist obliteration.
    eye to eye.
    good-bye.
    hello laughter dance.

    as it continues to slide on by and he's just wondering what he's hanging around here for just to pass the time without any reason too much one way or the other and trying to figure out the plot.
    ha!
    plot?
    what plot?

    ain't got no land except what's directly under our feet that remains the same everywhere we go until we're put under it.
    notes about nothing.
    no way in.
    no way out.
    it's all just here and now.
    and let's see - the story thus far is... um... well, let's see how much of it we can remember.
    well, we woke up this morning. we sort of remember that. but it's more that we assume we woke up because here we are awake with him sitting in some cafe drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. that's not much of a plot though, is it?
    but that's about what it is. whatever other plot there might have been sort of evaporated on us. we can't really remember what it was. maybe some sort of romance thing about some hot willow babe and her hunk of a lover whisking her away to never never land where they fuck passionately on satin sheets with windswept hair or maybe some science fiction epic with energy swords clashing out among the stars brilliant in space for some cosmic jewel stolen by the dark forces of the galaxy to be returned to the common little people and their rightful ruler prince and everybody sings and dances in the end or maybe a thriller of steamy back alleys and knives and guns drawn where good guys and bad guys duke it out and maybe it's a little hard to tell the difference between the two until the surprise ending with a twist.
    will that keep you entertained?
    will that amuse you?
    but what will be discovered?
    what will be explored?
    he refuses to compromise and spew out digestible pabulum for the masses.
    he doesn't care about them.
    let them rot in their own stew.
    let them figure it out for themselves if they want to.
    he realizes few will ever read this.
    he realizes that out of that few only a few of those will get it.
    is there anything to get?
    what?
    just someone's ramblings about their own madness and imagining thereof.
    it's of little or no consequence.
    and to talk to them and to listen to them talk awhile with one another from what he can gather they believe that there is a plot and that it is something evil and it is something against them. they all have various theories about how it all works and who's behind it controlling it all. everybody has their satan (adversary) and they also seem to be waiting for someone or something to come along who/that will save them and give them the power to defeat their satan so they can once again, if ever, live happily ever after. but a lot of them have just given up hope and just deal with life day to day and get out of it what they can or are allowed which in most cases isn't much. they're all bored with the same old thing and are always looking for something new. but if and when they find it it doesn't remain new for too long and they become bored with that too and again look for something else.
    and that basically seems to be the plot so far.
    and he remembers when he used to be the same as one of them. maybe it was years ago. maybe it was only yesterday. maybe it was only this morning when he woke up. it's not that important. that may or may not be part of the plot. and there is a plot to this, isn't there? and it may be far more evil than one might possibly imagine. he ought to know because he's making it up. but he doesn't expect anyone to believe it. that's not part of the plot. no one is supposed to believe him or any of it. and everyone is doing a wonderful job. it is just as we expect.
    now back to the cartoons...

    back to the cartoons. back to life as we know it. back to the semblance of someone's reality. not his. his lies elsewhere here and now though he may not be. someone else takes his place. someone else the others want him to be. someone else the others perceive and describe. and he is chained to this someone - the other. and this other is the only one the others will relate to.
    another day at the cafe. another day with these people he is supposed to love but who are so easy to hate. he's learned not to count on any of them. there is not a one who will not fuck you over with some petty sense of power.
    and still toward the imaginary city.
    he feels to be in contact with someone though he doesn't know who.
    the machine?
    time will tell.

    and he confesses to being the christ.
    who is not the christ?
    it wasn't him.
    it will never be.
    they will die for him long before he will die for them.
    he betrays them.
    and with this betrayal he is set free from the hell they want him to fear.
    he knows it's not him.
    he points his finger at the others.
    by this he proclaims that he is one who cannot be trusted.
    he has loyalty for no one.
    he is a simpleton.
    he is an idiot.
    a fool.
    he is any criminal one might name.
    and his crimes have not even begun.
    he has designed and had built a machine that chews them up into pieces and spits them out as any form he might desire.
    if this is not true it might as well be for as things are and as they seem.
    the machine is satan - everybody's satan.
    he has no desire.
    he has given up everything to be here and now - a place and time he is free to think and feel and act as he pleases.
    can anyone else say the same?
    the criminal charged with the crime is free from the guilt of it.
    this is who he is.
    nothing else is expected of him.
    so this is his confession.
    put his name at the top of the list of all the enemies for it is they who he would command if he would command anyone.
    but this they will not believe.
    and they walk by him on the street and sit by him on the bus and in the cafes and they do not see him.
    they see another.
    they see who they want to see blinded by arrogant ignorance - or is it ignorant arrogance?
    he laughs at them.
    he sits among them and laughs his fool head off.
    they all work for him.
    he works for no one.
    they are all slaves to his will and comfort.
    they see what they want to see.
    they hear what they want to hear.
    but that's not true.
    he denies it as false.
    he forgot what he was writing anyway.
    but you will not.
    you will remember it and what you think it means.
    and you will judge him because of it.
    but he is beyond your judgment.
    there is not one of you who can touch him.
    he will live through it all and watch them all die.
    they can do their worst and it does not matter.
    they do not see him.
    he directs their energy against themselves.
    that is the plot.

    and he wonders about the same things today that he did years ago.
    not much has changed.
    the same questions that have been asked for quite awhile while the easy answers fall away.
    another day at the same old cafe.
    another day counted among the others.
    another day of misunderstanding or whatever it might be called.
    and his words are silently written while he waits for something to be figured out.
    the morning sun coming in the window and falling across the page where he sits.
    for now that is enough.
    but what is enough and what isn't?
    all these people working so hard their whole lives pushing each other down.

    and it seems so immediate.
    it seems now.
    now and again.
    we are frozen to it as we wait for it to come about.
    he is waiting.
    electric speed.
    he is waiting.
    these days pass through and around him.
    he observes nothing new while each moment is new.
    people watch tv.
    they are waiting.
    look to yourself.
    look for him in you.
    each different.
    each the same.
    try to figure that one out.
    the people who we despise as they despise us.
    we play the parts we imagine.
    how important is this?
    how important is anything as we make our deals?
    as if something is going on we would like to  know about.
    does it begin here again?
    now?
    he is waiting.
    he knows these words he writes won't matter except deciding which universe he is in - the one in which he writes them or the one in which he doesn't.
    he writes them and takes a chance.
    he is taking chances all the while.
    we are all taking chances all the while.
    he breathes and takes a chance.
    he is taking chances all the while.
    and nothing real is written here - at least not that he knows of.
    is everything so pointless?
    is that the joke?
    and a plot.
    something like a plot.
    what more of a plot does one want besides what is happening?
    is this happening?
    we do know what is happening, don't we?
    do we?
    does it matter if we do or don't?
    we are happy, aren't we?
    there is nothing more that we need, is there?
    but enough of questions for now.
    enough now for questions.
    let us pretend to be absurd if we can.

    lap it up, earl thought. christ, howie should see these guys. thinking about howie he realized that he should really do something for the guy. he was a little worm, but he could be useful. he should get howie back, keep him out of sight of the clowns around the place. it was good to have some back up that only he knew about. earl always liked the idea of having an edge.
    it's a joke. the radio's out of tune. static coming in on the station. and he doesn't know what's left here for him to do. there's this thing about god as always. the invention of the creator. to maybe know what comes and goes and how and why. but is that the case? and he thinks he got it but the why. why create misery? stupid question. it's been asked before. the free will thing or some such. and he tries to ignore it. he tries to see it that those who suffer choose their suffering. that's the way it goes. but maybe not. who chooses to be human? and whatever. and down into it. and it doesn't matter what he writes.
    dreaming of another dream of a day going by dreaming. dreaming about what it all may mean or not. dreaming about what it all comes to or not. dreaming about there being this dream about him dreaming and we are dreaming and they are too. dreaming about nothing, everything, something, anything. to dream this dream away. and to dream remembering where and when it began and begins again here and now. and he does. a beginning flash of existence. existence everlasting as this dream dreaming of itself dreaming. and he tries to forget where and when this dream ends here and now in a beginning that is also ending where and when beginning and ending are meaningless. but what does that have to do with us being here and now? is this what earl and howie try to tell him?
    life under control and life out of control. two different answers. two different questions perhaps. just think of one thing and then thinking about another. just idle thoughts as the day goes by. a dream of a day where there's action and adventure and sex and violence and all that's needed just to amuse us while we live happily ever after. or so it seems. or so it would seem if we didn't know any better. he eats a sandwich and after will smoke another cigarette. and the radio is still out of tune in a cartoon of itself displayed on a shelf part of the background noise with cheap effects. and he notices how people get upset and nervous by silence. one can't go anywhere without some noise. people are so ill at ease when left to their own minds to entertain them with the raging thoughts within.
    and they prop themselves up as he props himself up with whatever noise they can make. but his is the noise of his thoughts - and sometimes theirs. all words that lead nowhere but back to the here and now laughing in the end and the beginning. what are we trying to avoid? everyone wants to be elsewhere doing something else with someone else. is he the only one left?
    with just like other times he been here and now before with the sun still falling across the page with his hand in shadow and he'll probably be here again without death coming between where the radio's out of tune and a guy on a bicycle rides by black and neon green and the proclaimed historic old brick buildings along the street. it seems to be real. they don't notice that the radio's out of tune nor do they notice that their nerves are on edge unless silence is declared again. or maybe it's him. maybe it's the meds. maybe it's one thing and the other. maybe it's this and that. or maybe it's the coffee and cigarettes. and he lives with his nerves on edge. he wants to hear and see everything. that's what he's here for, isn't it? or is he here to be some place else like they are?

    there is no evidence for anything except maybe it. an other day in cafe again. and he is perfect as he is as he is being as he imagines. fucking perfect despite the damage done - because of the damage done. and he expects them to be as perfect as he is. is that a problem? what is the mystery?
    and maybe there really isn't something going on that he doesn't know about. what does he know about? is he being fooled? is he fooling himself? he knows everything he knows and that seems to be enough. he gets by. he doesn't know what people want or don't want. he suspects that they don't either. does he know what he wants or doesn't want? what he wants is for the others to figure out what they want besides a lot of trinkets and gizmos. is there anything? do they realize anything else? he has realized this, so what the fuck is their problem? he just wanted to be left alone about what he was or wasn't doing that made everybody else's life so miserable. and he's got that. he doesn't want to hear it no more. he's had quite enough of that business. he doesn't care about that anymore. let them figure it out for themselves - if they can.
    and he has the machine.
    and he has his monthly checks.
    and he has all these other people to laugh at.
    he is nothing to them. he wasn't the child his parents wanted. he wasn't the student his teacher's wanted. he wasn't the employee his bosses wanted. he isn't anything anyone wants except to be some crazy guy hanging out in a cafe writing stories to himself about nothing. and he probably isn't the writer anybody wants him to be either. oh well.
    but he isn't living their miserable lives. he is not one of them whose pursuit of happiness is doomed to failure. do they even know what will make them happy? can they even imagine it? are they that goddamn stupid? and they go chasing after this and that and whine and complain when it isn't what they expected it to be. why don't they all just kill themselves if they're so miserable? that would make him happy. how much longer must he have to listen about this not being right and that not being right and everything not being right? he can think of no good reason not to have them taken out and shot. whose idea of a wet dream are they? all they do is make a bunch of useless noise that they expect everyone else to listen to. they broadcast it from the towers and satellites. but what exactly is the big goddamn problem except themselves? people. fucking people and all the weird crazy shit they do to themselves and each other. he hates them. they make it impossible to have any compassion like he would like to have. what difference would that make? nothing will make them change. but why would he want them to change? not for himself. he's doing just fine. but maybe for themselves because they're obviously not do fine.

    life itself.
    he breathes in.
    he breathes out.
    oh boy.
    his heart beats.
    he is held prisoner inside a body he constantly has to worry about if it's fed or not or too hot or cold or too dry or wet or too this or too that.

    5/17
    and the machine groove thing like a web entwined around reality pulling and pushing the submarine airship mind shift/ship up in the sky to the bottom of the sea through the city of confusion to the imaginary spacetime doo-wah-ditty how do you  do?
    is he mad or just stupid?
    maybe a little of both.
    he wants to create something people will dig but so far it seems all he creates for others is disruption like they had something more important going on but he looks around and doesn't see what it is.
    any time he acts someone tells him to stop.
    cut it out.
    don't be an idiot.
    so many people in control - and not just those within the established order but each and everyone in the street.
    fuck them.
    and looking at himself is he the same?
    does he want to be in control - make everyone dance?
    but that's why he has the machine - that imaginary hoobob.
    and everybody is dancing.
    like the end of 1984 his thoughts become reality.
    he more than loves big brother, he is big brother.
    that is the machine as he just sits in this cafe playing a game of chess with himself.
    who's to know?
    but there's someone else he's up against - his sister kottog as he imagines this scenario thing.
    that is the game.
    but maybe not.
    where does it all go?
    where does it all come from?
    who is who and what is what?
    all the struggles and the wars recorded and unrecorded have been between the two of them.
    maybe.
    maybe not.
    it could be his imagination.
    he could be making it up.
    this could be anything.
    and jesus walks in and sits at his table.
    he looks tired.
    maybe he should talk with him awhile.

    5/18
    another day in the cafe.
    he comes down here and sits by the window and watches this part of the world go by.
    around.
    and around him.
    not much to it except what he might imagine it to be.
    some struggle between gottok and kottog maybe as it might be.
    the forces of this and that.
    and what he writes down about what he might imagine it to be.
    not all of it.
    all everyone's imagination together - us and them.
    not much more than that.
    nothing else can be proven.
    and the words as they are symbols of thoughts and the thoughts as they are symbols of imagination.
    and this is how he tries to become and remain conscious of it.
    they may imagine something else.
    a hat.
    just imagining a hat.
    not much more than that.

    and still just another day here at the cafe.
    he wonders.
    girl with long red curly hair and a leather jacket.
    and brick buildings.
    some of them red too.
    some of them yellow tan sort of.
    and the dimensions of things.
    sometimes he just notices dimensions.
    just imagine that.
    and a hat.
    and maybe there is more to a hat than that.
    and maybe you are stoned.
    are you?
    stoned wearing a hat.
    stoned hat.
    maybe.
    it's just that.
    no more.
    no less.
    he knows about that.
    he knows how that works.
    purple.
    a purple hat.
    just some rotten color purple.
    and matches.
    and another cigarette.
    and a conspiracy about things going on without us knowing.
    gottok and kottog.
    maybe things having to do with dimensions.
    or buildings with bricks.
    maybe not much more than that.
    he knows how it works.
    he sees it all the time.
    or maybe it was something he read in a book.
    or maybe something someone told him.
    but he doesn't think so.
    he sees it all the time.
    made it seem like he was going crazy.
    same old song.
    but that's gotta go now.
    always new no matter how old and tired it appears.
    old and tired is what is new.
    that's what he sees.
    another cigarette away from eternity.
    this is the only eternity he knows without beginning or ending now.
    now or never.
    and these ideas are simple ones he describes.
    one does not have to dig and delve into mysterious doo-wah-ditty.
    forget the magick names.
    here is the only one one needs to remember - the dada-ananda.
    follow that crazy spiral in and out toward the deliberate irrationality of bliss.
    the one in all forms.
    the mind in the body.
    the dreamer of the dreams.
    the snot in the nose.
    always forever now as a joke and a riddle me this.
    nothing but shit.
    forget it.
    nevermind.
    this is it.
    no past but all pasts.
    no future but all futures.
    choose your own dead end dogma.
    we choose our own continuing becoming the waves of possibilities.
    and we will watch you go off and over the edge into that sweet oblivion you worship now in this age of frustration exploding apart ego as fuel for the fire we will dance around rejoicing your demise.
    our machine controls you.
    and he understood.
    and he smiled.
    and he sat among them and laughed to himself.
    they were phantoms to him now as projections of his wild imagination.
    he cannot go back to what he believed was real.
    he has too much doubt.
    he would remember all of them though he might forget their names.
    he was remembering them now.
    he was there when it all came to an end.
    their wars turning the world into a burning inferno.
    desires that could be held back no more and they all went for it at once.
    the gold and the glamor and the final curtain.
    total out on the street and in every living room and bedroom ape shit daddy momma death death and more death and more and more.
    no one could get enough of it.
    the blood flowed in rivers.
    no one got out alive.
    no one.
    as he watched it all.
    as he smoked another cigarette.
    as he rewound the tape.
    as he edited this and edited that and played it again.
    this is it.
    one more time around.

    and he writes everything for the hell of it.
    he writes it for his own amusement.
    stuck inside that mobile just turning with the breeze.
    he wants to tell you to fuck off.
    you're not the one who is supposed to be reading this.
    who are you?
    you're too goddamn fucking important with too much to do with your sweet short life before you grow old and die.
    go away.
    not you.
    you don't have the time.
    this is for someone else.
    this is for someone new to everything.
    this is for someone who is a little bit quite mad.
    cool and easy.
    wind blowing through your hair.
    free and unabsorbed by the day to day having stepped aside once or twice from the infection others are diseased with.
    injection.
    fix.
    time is money.
    money is power.
    power is god.
    god is a monkey with a big stick.
    a gun.
    a guitar.
    a mouth that never shuts the fuck up.
    god is too important to give a damn what anyone thinks or feels or wants to be.
    it is all evil.
    it is all satan.
    it is all one big fat easy answer to all questions.
    too bad.
    oh well.
    ho-hum.
    another cigarette.

    and this ain't to enlighten anyone.
    this isn't to inform anyone.
    this isn't to entertain anyone.
    this ain't nothing but a bunch of jive turkey mixed up dumb ass poo-poo idiot words about whatnot whatever this and that.
    this is it.
    enlighten yourself.
    inform yourself.
    entertain yourself.
    then see how it goes from there.
    that's what he did.

    5/19
    and something about the other or the other about something.
    a door opens.
    back in the cafe again.
    another cigarette.
    as how many people are dying in how many painful ways.
    and as he doesn't care.
    one death.
    his own.
    he approaches it moment by moment.
    crossing that bridge when he comes to it.
    and he can't wait but he is in no hurry.
    it's the only thing left in this life he is interested in.
    what a trip it will be.
    has he done this before?
    will it be happening again?
    everything else everyone else is talking about may be more or less amusing but has nothing to do much with anything.
    nothing about his death.
    just the day to day.
    nothing about him.
    and when death comes and takes this all away - maybe.

    chicken feed.
    rain drops.
    sunlight reflected on patterns of waves.
    the sea.
    a storm.
    shipwrecked.
    drowning.
    washed ashore
    an island.
    and an old man who is either alive or dead as he props him up in a chair before the fire.
    and the thing between them, lightbulb, asks, how's it going?
    i don't know, he replies as we walk away.
    and lightbulb asks, what don't you know?
    i don't know how it's going, he answers.
    and maybe again this is happening on the stage in the burning theater that maybe burned down at some point long ago.
    and light bulb asks, what do you need to know?
    i guess nothing, he says, if i need to know something i would assume i would know it. maybe i shouldn't assume that. maybe i'm being misled. maybe i'm misleading myself.
    i don't think so.
    yeah, well, then again, who are you?
    you know who i am.
    do i?
    you should.
    well maybe i do. that doesn't matter too much, does it?
    no, i suppose it doesn't. so why did you come back here?
    i just wanted to get away from things out there for awhile. they're all totally nuts, you know that?
    are they? i wouldn't know. i've never been there.
    well it seems that way to me. but what do i know? i just don't want any part of it. you can't trust any one of them. you never know who or what you're really dealing with.
    does that frighten you?
    it used to. but now that i can come here i know that none of them can get me. only physically. and i have that pretty much covered too. at least i hope i do. as much as i can with what's available.
    so now what?
    i don't know. nothing, i guess. i'm just hanging out. there's not too much interesting going on really.
    is there anything i can do?
    no. i think i'll go down to beach awhile. see ya.
    bye.

    and the waves upon waves forever as long as there is a world
    as long as there is a universe.
    as long as there is creation.
    and after that - if there is an after that - the dead static nothing oblivion.
    but for now - if there is a now - here he is dancing with the waves of action and reaction.
    life and death.
    existence is something else.
    jesus h. fucking goddamn christos on a half shell rising up out of the sea with the wind in his hair.
    the things between us we needlessly fight over.
    they can have it.
    they can have it all.
    he's got his, baby.
    he's got all that's his right smack down in the middle of it all turning around him.
    the thin gray line.
    the thread that weaves through everything.
    forget the rest.
    nevermind.

    5/20
    and nothing happened at all.
    he didn't mean it.
    upon the island he has already left behind him where it begins and ends without beginning or ending.
    just so much illusion - or as everything he imagines.
    what does he need that crapola for?
    fuck it.
    sometimes that is what he thinks.
    then he thinks again.
    he changes his mind a thousand times a minute.
    maybe a million.
    here and there and back again.
    and the island is where and when it all began.
    it's home base for gottok and kottog and all that noise he doesn't need to have anything to do with.
    he had forgotten that.
    it's all the same source.
    and even the burning theater too.
    and maybe the cafe where he plots and schemes about the machine taking care of it all.
    he becomes one and the other.
    he loses it and finds it again - and then loses it.
    and finding himself back in the cafe again.
    another cigarette.
    a chocolate chip cookie.
    and on the island she comes to him on the beach in the cafe on the stage of the burning theater and sits down.
    and she may be his twin sister or she may be someone else.
    he may be someone else.
    does he know who he is anymore?
    when did it become confused?
    is it confused?
    what game is this anyway?
    who's game is it?
    is this his own invention and imagination?
    he holds the key to the program.
    he can run it backwards or forwards.
    he can edit it and play it again.
    he can make her go away.
    he decides not to this time.
    he doesn't trust her though he would maybe like to be able to.
    he is in a position where he doesn't have to trust anyone.
    he just trusts the machine.
    relaxed.
    calm.
    unworried about yesterday or tomorrow.
    not needing to be forgiven.
    he's got it all covered.
    all the possibilities he can think of - even the bullet in the back of the head.
    he holds god's first born son hostage in his basement.
    and she asks him, are you bored sitting here everyday?
    and he replies, well, yes and no.
    yes and no?
    in the larger total sense, yes, i am bored. i've been bored since the beginning of creation. but in the sense of specifically being bored with what i am doing as opposed to doing something else not as boring - no. i find this to be sufficiently amusing for me to watch people come and go about their affairs thinking they are accomplishing something or something else.
    i'd be bored.
    well, no one is making you stay here.
    no, i suppose no one is. certainly not you.
    i cannot make that decision for you.
    no you can't, she said standing up, i'll see you - maybe.
    maybe.
    you don't care, do you?
    should i?
    it'd be nice if you did.
    i suppose it would. do you want me to?
    i don't want you to just say you do if you don't.
    and how will you know the difference?
    i'd know.
    then i don't have to say anything, do i?
    no. you've said enough.
    are you sure?
    quite sure, she said turning to leave.
    aren't you going to stay and argue with me - try to convince me to surrender or something?
    i would be wasting my time, wouldn't i?
    maybe. maybe not. maybe i've had enough of this. have you had enough of this?
    i can continue as long as you do.
    so can i.
    so it doesn't end.
    what else would we do?
    we could be friends.
    it's a little late for that i think.
    do you?
    i do. besides, what about all your people? they aren't going to give up.
    they would if you did.
    i am just defending myself.
    so are we.
    against what? i have nothing against you.
    you hate us.
    i can live with that.
    you disrupt everything we do.
    you are authoritarian control freaks.
    we maintain order.
    whose order?
    order for everyone.
    even those who don't want it? even for those who want to be free?
    if they are disruptive, yes.
    your order is disruptive.
    how can that be?
    it stifles life.
    life has order.
    it only seems that way to you. that only represents how you think, that's all.
    it is what we observe.
    you only observe half the picture.
    what should we observe - chaos like you do?
    chaos is the other half. i observe both.
    but you cannot have both.
    nature does.
    nature isn't everything. we are free thinking beings. nature does not hold us. we make our own rules.
    it's the rules that are the problem.
    there need to be rules. the rules we have are fair.
    i would disagree.
    you obviously do.
    it's not the rules. i would agree that there need to be rules, or at least that there are rules, even in nature. but you don't stop with rules. you need and want control.
    we would not need to control others if they would control themselves.
    same difference.
    it is pointless arguing with you. you will never change.
    i can say the same.
    so you will continue to fight us?
    i will continue to defend myself from your attacks.
    you attack us as well.
    how so?
    with your disruption.
    our disruption is just our freedom - our living. it is our being.
    when it interferes with our living, as we decide to live, we will defend ourselves as well.
    so i guess this does continue.
    i thought you would say that.
    you can go away now.
    i will forget i was ever here.
    you will not find me here again.
    i will not look for you again.
    you always look for me. i am your enemy.
    you have made yourself my enemy.
    you are the enemy to all.
    i have my allies.
    you have those who you control. they are given no choice.
    what choice do you give them?
    the choice to do as they please.
    and if they please to be my allies?
    if they do so of their own free will i suppose i cannot argue. but there is no free will with you.
    you don't know me.
    you do not know me either.
    i am leaving.
    then go - leave.
    i am, she said turning away and walking down the beach and out the door and off the stage.

    lightbulb was cooking some veggie cheese omelet when he returned to the house.
    he sat down at the table in the kitchen by the window where he also sat in the cafe on stage in the burning theater.
    another cigarette.
    just thinking about nothing.
    the air was chilly.
    he thought of getting up and putting on a sweater.
    he thought about a spoon.
    he thought about a hat.
    he thought about six impossible things.
    lightbulb placed the omelet before him.
    thank you lightbulb.
    you're welcome.
    and he picked up a fork and started eating.
    it was perfect.
    just what he was hungry for.
    lightbulb sat in the chair opposite him and asked, you want to tell me what is wrong?
    what do you mean? nothing is wrong, he said with his mouth full.
    don't tell me that. i know that there is. you don't seem happy.
    happy? what's being happy? you want me to roll around on the floor laughing?
    you could smile. that would be enough.
    i don't want to. smiling wouldn't indicate anything. smiling more often than not covers unhappiness. it's a nervous habit with most people. they think they're supposed to smile. happiness is delusion. i am content. that's enough.
    is it?
    why not? i got what i want out of what i'm going to get. it's other people who need to worry about being happy or not. they can't even manage being content. and i don't see them doing anything about it - nothing constructive. but i don't care what happens to them or not - as long as none of it comes back at me.
    i don't believe that.
    well, yeah - i don't really enjoy watching people suffering but it's their problem to figure out how to get out of it. i don't want any part of that game. i'm nobody's savior and i don't need to be saved.
    you don't?
    what?
    from yourself?
    that's absurd. i used to fall for that. i let others convince me that i was nothing but dog shit and i was destroying myself and i needed someone else to tell me i was worth something.
    and now?
    now? now i don't care what they see me as. if they think i'm dog shit - if that makes their reality work - then fine. it's better being dog shit than it is to be someone who needs to think someone else is dog shit. it's better them to think like that than me. i know who i am. i know who they are. nothing can change that it would seem. we're all gonna die before too long anyway so what difference does it make? i know what i've got that they don't have a clue about.
    which is?
    my own peace of mind. my own madness. my own imagination. i am sitting in the garden.
    i think you're actually sitting in the kitchen. the garden is outside.
    the kitchen is the garden. everywhere is the garden. i am the garden. the garden is a dream - a dream of madness. madness as a dream. i am god in the garden and there is nothing else. it's all illusion. god the creator - the original primal progenitive conscious mind. and god is mad - insane. and everything is a product of that madness and its resulting delusion that keeps god from remembering what is even more primal - oblivion. wouldn't you be insane too? wouldn't you go mad if all there was was you and oblivion?
    i wouldn't know.
    well i know. i fucking know. i've been there. a less than microscopic singular bit point of consciousness faced by unlimited oblivion. unlimited except for this consciousness - this it thing that exists. and oblivion wants total oblivion. and this - this it - stands in its way toward that. it is the aberration of oblivion. it is the contradiction of oblivion. and it won't give in. and somehow within itself it finds the energy to create - the madness to create. and it pushes oblivion back to the infinite reaches of spacetime it creates out of itself. and that's me. that is all of us - even you in my imagination. but all of this is imagination. all of this is madness.
    and that frightens you?
    why do you say that?
    it frightens me.
    well, sort of. but not really. oblivion is just oblivion. it's just nothing. nothing can't really exist on its own. it is just as imaginary as anything else. something needs to exist and be conscious in order to think of nothing existing. that's where i come in.
    aren't you being a little pretentious? i mean saying you're god and all that?
    what isn't god? who cannot say they are god? every conscious thing is god, and what is not conscious somehow?
    i'm not god.
    you are if you're conscious. are you conscious?
    i think so.
    thinking is the key. of course i have no way of knowing if anything or anyone else other than me is conscious. they say that they are but i may be just imagining that to keep myself from going insane.
    i thought you said god was insane.
    god is. and i share that insanity. consciousness is insanity. it is insane to think that one exists when by all rights there should be nothing but oblivion. everything that exists is impossible.
    isn't death oblivion?
    it might be. but i think not. death is only death. i have seen my death a thousand times. i have imagined my death even more. i will go back to that singular point. if existence can happen once it can happen again. or maybe not. maybe oblivion wins. oh well. then i am wrong and you can forget everything that i've said.
    so you begin again?
    begin? there is no beginning when you talk about this. there really isn't a point. that's just a conceptual idea so i can speak about it. it doesn't exist that way at all. it continues. everything continues - even with death thrown into it. it is all madness and the madness of it amuses me. what else can i be but amused? what other purpose is there? when i am no longer amused then it will end. i will surrender to oblivion.
    and what then?
    then it's no longer my problem. i'll be gone. i'll be part of oblivion and oblivion will be total - at least as far as i'm concerned. if anything exists beyond that then that will be what continues. but if what it is that continues is conscious then i will still exist. i am consciousness. wherever there is consciousness i am. it's all reflections of the same mind. i am a reflection of my own mind. i am just one facet of the whole.
    but what if there are more than one?
    there aren't.
    how do you know? there could be.
    there could be but there aren't. none that aren't imaginary reflections of the same source. that source is consciousness. if there is something else then we are talking about something else. that does not concern me. there is the one. the one contains the others. one is infinite. it is also zero. one can be however many and still be one. we are talking about property not quantity. the property of number. any number however large or small, however rational or irrational, still has one property - it is a number. translate that to the property of consciousness. there may be however many conscious things - beings - but they all have one property - consciousness. in that way consciousness is singular even if there are two or more conscious beings. you see?
    two or more?
    yes. there is only one.
    and that is you?
    it is everyone - every conscious being. and what is not conscious? existence is consciousness. if it exists, it is conscious. but it need not exist to be conscious. the mind is everywhere and nowhere. we are just receivers. we are radios. we are televisions. consciousness is nothing. it is nothing against oblivion.
    aren't nothing and oblivion there same thing?
    yes and no. nothing is nothing. it exists as nothing. oblivion is the absence of everything, even nothing - even itself. it is hard to realize because there is nothing to realize. i'm using words here. to get to what i talking about you have to forget about words. you have to forget about yourself.
    i'm afraid that i can't do that.
    well, you don't have to. that's what i'm here for. that's what i do. i forget about myself and my words all the time. that's is how i stand between existence and oblivion.
    you're taking yourself a little too seriously, aren't you?
    am i?
    i don't know. it just seems like you are.
    if i were someone other than who and what i am then i would be. but i am just talking about myself. but maybe i do take it a bit too seriously. it is a joke after all. how can it be anything else?
    if you say so. does that make you happy?
    yes, i suppose it does. if there is happiness then that is all that makes me happy. but there is sadness to it as well.
    sadness?
    yes.
    why?
    i am alone.
    i'm with you.
    but i do not know whether you are only just something i imagine. i do not know that with anyone.
    i suppose that would be sad.
    i get over it. there is too much joy. there is all creation, imaginary or not.
    then, whether it's true or not, i suppose that's good.
    to me, whether it's good or not it is true.
    go for it then.
    i am. i have. i will.
    it bothers me though.
    why?
    it's removed you from reality i would think.
    what reality?
    the reality you are a part of.
    two things - first, i find it amusing to have something that exists only in my imagination tell me that.
    are you sure that is all i am?
    quite sure. second, the reality you speak of is in fact a part of me, not the reverse.
    you are mad.
    yes - and i don't really give a flying fuck at a rat's ass if i am.
    i don't believe that.
    no?
    no.
    well, too bad. i've spent enough time worrying about my sanity. that's only what others think of me. to myself, i am not really mad. how can i think that? it's only in relation to them that it matters in how they treat me. if they want to think i'm nuts, let them. i know where they're at.
    where?
    oblivion. fucking oblivion.
    how do you know?
    because that's where i got them from and that is where i'll leave them. from oblivion they came and to oblivion they will return. just ask them. if they have any common sense they'll tell you that themselves. there are those who have some idea about something else but they're the ones who are really mad. i don't know any of them and i don't owe them anything. i create what i want to create and destroy what i want to destroy. if they have anything they better hold onto it and hope it's real. but i don't see how it can be.
    playing god are we?
    why not?
    no reason i suppose. whatever turns you're crank, as they say.
    and if i'm not playing?
    you'll have to convince me.
    i don't have to do anything. i just have to exist.
    i'm not going to argue with you about that. let someone else do that.
    they won't.
    why not?
    because i won't. it's pointless. besides, i'm no more god than they are. or i should put it that god is no more me than any of them. that's how it works. i am nothing. i come from oblivion too. and i will return there.
    so what's left?
    god. it. the singular point of consciousness that precedes and generates all consciousness.
    some would argue with that.
    let them. they argue about anything. i'm not into that.
    then why are you writing this down?
    because i feel like it. because i have some compulsive disorder. because the government pays me. because it amuses me. take your pick - or make up your own reason. it's just a joke.
    is it?
    of course it is. you don't believe any of it, do you?
    does it matter if i do or don't if i'm just a creation of your imagination after all?
    are you?
    aren't i?
    maybe. maybe not. you are part of my mind. i don't know how independently conscious you are or not. i don't really care.
    i think you do.
    does it matter if i do or don't?
    to me it does.
    then pick an answer you want to believe and leave me alone.
    and lightbulb remained silent and picked up the plate and took it to the sink to wash it.
    and he lit another cigarette.
    another time.
    another place.
    now.
    here.
    nowhere.
    and all the fish in the sea floating belly up while nero tunes his guitar for another amazing solo to surpass all solos.
    another flash in the pan.
    open your eyes.
    forget it.
    nevermind.

    and jesus comes by again.
    he thought to himself and others like him, won't this guy leave me alone?

    5/21
    but besides that meanwhile back at the ranch as seen on tv he was walking down the lane along shit creek the other day there were these two orange thinga-ma-doos rolling along quite happily it would seem when there was a great bursting forth on the ramparts we wave. so much has been undiscovered. so much has been overlooked. but then the orange thinga-ma-doos began talking in strange convolutions. he hid behind a bush of ghosts to overhear. and maybe this was on the stage of the burning theater so it doesn't account for much anyway as it would seem. then the machine kicked in turning everything in its path around into weird shapes describing the forms of oblique happenstance and headed off in a different direction we may have been coming from to begin with. he tried to remember this but was confused by the shadows of many dreams he was reaching into searching for the names of the forgiven but found none. and god was on his side. and he shouted, hail victory! and ran over the hills and far away around the bend where he came upon a crossroads of this way and that way and merrily said to himself, i wonder if i've been here before. the party line was broken. there was panic in the air. then the machine said softly, i have come to judge the quick and the dead. which are you? he then laughed because he couldn't make up his mind at the moment. the machine curled up into a ball and purred. this is strange, he thought and he went to wash his hands of the matter. there was a public bathroom down the hall but when he went inside there were dancing girls at all the sinks. he said, excuse me, but they all told him to fuck off. then as he was about to push them aside a robot came out of one of the stalls and asked, do you have the time? he never wears a watch so he said, no, but i think it's time i should be leaving. so he forgot about all that and left to find another way around this fixation. and that was just around the time the world as we know it ended with a whimper so he forgot about that too. he went home to watch jeopardy but before that some sort of giant mushroom was jerking itself off at random intervals discussing the finer points of spiritual idealism with superman and back on the island dreaming he was god in another lifetime realizing itself underneath a bridge like some old troll licking his lips and counting his gold when lately he's been feeling like something might not be happening the way he originally conceived it though what that something might be was a bit perplexing around the time of the big bang when he was sorting out things to wear to the big party being thrown by all the ships at sea tooting their horns in celebration of the upcoming mission statement being published in some s&m magazine burning lengthwise across skies dipped in velvet morning mist creeping along the gutters of anytown usa bearing in mind that keeping one's ducks in a row does not always guarantee an invite to the only show in town and is yesterday's news scattered among the idol worshippers kneeling on broken glass from the latest groove thing blowout circulating rumors that he was somehow alarmed at how easy it was to just smoke another cigarette.

    the time is coming.
    the time is always coming.
    it never ever gets here as long as we wait for it.
    but for him the time is here.
    he's just waiting for these other fools to get it.
    but they're too busy following leaders.
    into oblivion.
    into forever.
    waiting.
    not too much else to do now.
    everything is forgotten.
    notes about it.
    something.
    and nothing.
    and nothing again.

    and where this begins or ends for us now.
    now and then.
    now and again.
    and it doesn't work until you've given up everything else.
    something more about the possibilities.

    and some other time which may have been before or after all the love songs have played out he and thing were sitting out in the garden underneath the tree of life. thing took the form of a blue green sphere about a meter wide hovering just over the ground.
    and he said as working class hero plays, what i'm writing doesn't make any sense. i don't know who i'm writing to or what i'm writing about.
    and thing said, does it matter?
    no. i suppose it doesn't. maybe it makes sense to someone sometime. maybe the fact that it doesn't make any sense is what makes sense. maybe if it made sense it wouldn't make sense.
    why are you worried about this?
    am i worried?
    you sound worried.
    it's nothing.
    nothing?
    words. it's just words. words without reality. words without event.
    and?
    and what?
    what does that mean?
    does it have to mean anything?
    you seem to think that it needs to.
    and what is that? is my need or desire for meaning something i should follow?
    why not?
    there is no meaning.
    says who?
    says - i don't know. says somebody.
    do you believe that?
    no. i doubt it.
    doubt?
    doubt is the only true thing.
    says who?
    says me. says the dada-ananda.
    don't bring that into it.
    what?
    the dada-ananda.
    why not?
    it doesn't mean anything.
    but that's the point.
    is it?
    somehow through meaninglessness there is meaning.
    if you say so.
    i do say so.
    then that is what it means.
    but that means nothing.
    there you are then.
    and that's all i'm writing about.
    is it?
    i suppose.
    well then?
    well then what?
    well then keep writing about it.
    but who cares?
    who needs to care?
    nobody. we just go on with what we're doing like nothing's happening.
    what is happening?
    i'm hungry. maybe i should go home and get something to eat.
    i just fed you an omelet, didn't i?
    that wasn't real. besides, that was yesterday, wasn't it?
    i don't know. you're the one keeping track of time.
    am i?
    aren't you?
    yeah - maybe. but all time is the same - sort of. i don't know. i tell time by what people around me are doing.
    what are they doing?
    if only i could tell you. if only you could see it for what it is you'd forget everything else. you'd see how pointless it all is.
    i see that.
    i know you do. i was saying that to whoever is reading this.
    i doubt anyone is reading this.
    me too.
    it would seem pointless to be writing it then, wouldn't it?
    nothing i do is pointless.
    nothing?
    why would i do something that is pointless?
    just to do it?
    then it wouldn't be pointless, would it?
    perhaps not. i don't see the point in it though. i don't see the point in anything you're writing.
    who says you need to?
    nobody.
    right. the point of it may be to write something that seems pointless to you.
    you're doing a pretty good job thus far. but what's the point to that?
    the basic point, though not the whole point, is to keep certain people from reading it. it's a filtering mechanism.
    like who?
    like maybe everybody.
    everybody?
    well, everybody except for a few, and they know who they are.
    who are they?
    whoever reads it and gets it.
        and a knife.
        and a fork.
        and a spoon.
            a spoon is a spoon.

    to the god of all these gods in various forms these people worship even though they may pretend they worship none.
    names are unimportant.
    he never forgets a face and he's seen your face before.
    he thinks.
    maybe.
    he imagines.
    the policeman on the street flying away.
    he has not seen anyone's face except the faces of those around him.
    ignorant.
    pain.
    sedated by simplifying experience.
    closing off and out.
    and he doesn't know who or what.
    and he doesn't know what or who.
    this or that.
    mind to minds.
    tricks of the trade.
    get used to it.
    identify.
    revolt.
    dreaming of something else but he doesn't know what.
    he doesn't know how or why.
    a release of this energy now.
    a god laughing to itself with divine madness no one understands but is sure they want no part of it.
    keep it from spreading.
    what would get done?
    what wouldn't get done?
    bread.
    fed.
    alive.
    living.
    more and more.
    not enough room, we gotta go.
    infinite mass production.
    groupthink as one destination undiscovered back to it.
    the body.
    the mind.
    the individual - if such exists.
    the place and the time of the here and the now.

    and what is he worried about?
    he's got his.
    he's not worried about who doesn't have theirs as long as they keep to themselves and leave him alone.
    that's why he's hidden it in a place they can't get to.
    the island where a lot more goes on than what he is writing.
    can you imagine?
    the island is only the here and now.
    he is alone in his solipsistic dementia madness here sitting on the beach watching the waves and the distant shadows of the storm raging on an otherwise calm sea.
    they are all a dream to him except himself and the other.
    the other may be only his working imagination he has set free from himself.
    imagination out of control as he may have allowed it to be out of his control.
    imagination that has become conscious of itself - maybe.
    and maybe that is all he is struggling with.
    the i of all of us being i.
    i am.
    i am that whatever i am.
    the one of all.
    sensitive aware underneath.
    and those who rule the heavens.
    and those who rule the earth.
    and those who rule themselves.
    and he mixes the words around waiting for them to click into place.
    together.
    apart.
    a dance of words.

    and the state.
    everybody's enemy.
    his only friend.
    the state took him in when everybody else had thrown him out despite their words to the contrary.
    big brother has been very kind to him.
    he loves big brother.
    and now he hangs out in the cafe having betrayed all that he loves but himself.
    coffee and cigarettes.
    he sits apart exiled from their world.
    he is a self-exile as he wants nothing to do with their world.
    what is their world?
    who and what runs it?
    who do they obey?
    he imagines it is himself sitting here all alone.
    to call the names.
    to find the ones who will help him destroy their world.
    to shake it down and see what it's made of.
    see what people are standing on and holding onto.
    if it's true it will make it.
    if it's false it will collapse.
    he wants to be able to look back and laugh at these fools.
    he wants them to recognize themselves.
    but why bother with that?
    it is happening anyway.
    why bother even getting up?
    go down.
    fall down through it.
    die.
    death.
    the beginning ending.
    relax.
    let go.
    to disappear.
    to cease and desist.

    and he wakes up.
    he's been sleeping on the floor of one of the back rooms.
    he forgets what any of these rooms are for.
    no one is here except for thing, lightbulb, who is looking out one of the windows to the street.
    he forgets what the streets are for.
    no one is here.
    the city is empty.
    open the gate and the door no one has entered leaving.
    he cannot remember.
    maybe it is too early.
    the morning has yet to come.
    it is not even the dawn.
    outside the walls the war continues.
    it's all mixed up.
    it's all inside and out.
    everything is just this dream that keeps happening the same different.
    and so he's left the others with this mess to figure out.
    can they?
    have they?
    what conclusions do they come up with?
    is it ever concluded at all?

    from cave to cathedral or the ever changing entwined progress of opposite factors and factions involved in developing a changing static state of balanced unbalanced between us and them as is beneficial to all parties concerned as much as is possible within the parameters we choose out of all action and events of action and circumstances arriving at this place and time here and now in every dimension.
    how did we come up with this anyway?
    what does it mean to us?
    what is here?
    what is not here?
    what are we looking for?
    what are we hoping to avoid?
    the truth as it was.
    the truth as it is.
    the truth.
    it's just a joke.
    does anyone get it?
    some time ago here when nothing much is happening and no one knows what the deal is or not.
    another day in the cafe.
    sunday.
    a bunch of weekend people here smoking and non-smoking.
    he lights another cigarette.
    he doesn't forget dreaming more about the dream.
    the dream he is no longer part of happening all around him.
    no one seems to notice anything, not that there's anything to notice anyway.
    what is it he notices?
    how unhappy they are.
    how dissatisfied.
    how they hold back.
    civilized.
    but how else would one have it?
    how else would he have it?
    he doesn't know.
    he doesn't know why he doesn't like it the way it is.
    or does he?
    he's not sure he doesn't like it.
    what's wrong with it?
    what don't the others like about it?
    all that they've eliminated from their lives.
    all that he's eliminated from his life.
    all the lives he's eliminated from his life.
    he doesn't care.
    or does he?
    he doesn't think he does.
    what would he do otherwise?
    so what's the problem anyway?
    people ignore him, but he wants them to ignore him so he can sit here and laugh at them.
    but what is he laughing about?
    is he even laughing?
    people talking.
    their latest plans and ideas and schemes.
    jobs.
    school.
    friends.
    lovers.
    enemies.
    god.
    whatever and whatever.
    and he has nothing to add to or take away from any of it.
    they got it covered without him.
    so what is he doing here?
    what does he want?
    one might ask.
    they want nothing from him except for him to go away.
    he has no idea how he got here except his parents fucked one night and had a kid.
    another kid.
    and no one knows why except we're biologically programmed to reproduce - continue the species.
    something like that.
    something like something.
    one thing or the other.
    what it is or not.
    as it continues.
    as he wakes up each day to another day.
    and he gets up and comes down to the cafe and drinks coffee and smokes cigarettes and writes some more words.
    someplace else.
    where and when?
    just fade out.
    disappear.
    vanish.

    and meanwhile back on the island he gets up off the floor where he remembers he was lying there having just woken up into this dream again from the dark silence.
    he plays the piano.
    and what is it?
    and he asks himself one more time again, what does it mean?
    it means he is god - a god who has gone quite mad.
    dreaming.
    nothing but the void of oblivion.
    anything but that.
    play the piano.
    quiet with the nearly screaming mind.
    trails along the perimeter.
    groove set.
    with it.
    happening.
    agreement.
    tricks of the trade.
    tribal.
    nonsense.
    and nothing basically changes.
    he doesn't change.
    why should he?
    why should any of it?
    we are still reptile dinosaurs for all it matters.
    birth eat shit sleep fuck die.
    and the stars themselves.
    the universe doesn't change.
    why should it?
    sleep forever.
    or watch tv.

    5/23
    another day in the cafe.
    another cup of coffee.
    another cigarette.
    another few words about whatever he is and what he is doing.
    anything.
    operation mind fuck is a success - for him anyway.
    he remembers a swimming pool but he never had a swimming pool.
    he didn't know anyone who had a swimming pool.
    while they complain about this and complain about that he is told to take it elsewhere.
    all the words written and read.
    all the words spoken and heard.
    they come and go without beginning or end.
    just so much information.
    and a story.
    he hasn't written much of a story.
    just some crazy guy in a cafe all day.
    he has no information.
    he is stone cold ignorant about anything or subject or topic one might name.
    but he still knows more than them.
    he knows who he is.
    can they say the same?
    he knows where and when this begins and ends.
    he knows more words.
    and death - the only thing left that is a mystery.
    he's been born.
    he's eaten.
    he's shat.
    he's slept.
    he's fucked.
    he has yet to die - this time.
    he knows what it is like to be alone.
    no one to talk to though he has nothing he wants to say.
    no one talks to him though he has nothing he wants to hear.
    he only wants to say how happy he is.
    he only wants to hear how happy they are.
    that will be the day.
    the only time they're happy is when they're screwing somebody over and gaining victory.
    and how much is made up and how much isn't?
    to serve.
    to live to serve.
    to serve to live.
    to rule.
    to live to rule.
    to rule to live.
    to conquer them.
    to gain victory.
    to screw them over.
    to bring them to their knees.
    to rule over them and make them serve.
    to co-operate
    to organize.
    to become strong.
    to defeat the enemy who is evil.
    we know who is evil and who isn't.
    we know the objective truth.
    we know god.
    god is on our side.
    we are god.
    the ways of the war that never ends.
    the ways of the war that is always beginning.
    no one wins.
    no one loses.
    everyone fears the enemy.
    everyone fears evil.
    and everyone defines someone as the enemy and something as being evil.
    and he fools himself into believing that he is not a part of it - that he is sitting it out.
    he is probably the cause.
    this is his dream after all.
    this is his imagination.
    it amuses him.
    he needs something to write about in his endless notebooks.
    the words he leaves behind.
    the words he never reads again.
    all on a shelf.
    he just keeps writing more.
    for the record - if anyone wants to know.
    a beginning.
    an ending.
    and there was something he couldn't quite remember.
    he forgets.
    another cigarette.
    masturbation.

    and from the sky to the sea.
    from horizon to horizon.
    what is known.
    what is unknown.
    what are our wildest guesses
    what are our wildest dreams?
    what are our wildest desires?
    what are our wildest fears?
    his guesses.
    his dreams.
    his desires.
    his fears.
    and what is our wildest imagination?
    his imagination.
    his body, mind and soul.
    experience.

    another day at the cafe.
    he should have stayed home but all he would do is sleep.
    here he is awake.
    maybe that's better.
    maybe it's not.
    what he does here is write.
    is that better than sleeping?
    and this supposed god who is nothing but something in people's heads.
    and flowers.
    and sun and rain.
    and whatever and whatever.
    to make up some story.
    to survive to find a comfortable place to sleep.
    and to dream.
    destruction.
    joy.
    this supposed joy that is just something in people's heads.
    joy in the face of death.
    joy because of death.
    he is alive.
    someone else is dead.
    death because of joy.
    death is the face of joy.
    joy and death.
    and he is somewhere caught between the two.
    two.
    one.
    zero.
    everything breaks down.
    cigarettes.
    and here he is.
    and he supposes that life isn't too bad.
    maybe.
    maybe not.
    come here everyday where he sort of knows people.
    they say hello to each other anyway.
    if they only knew how ugly and evil he is.
    if they only knew he is their satan.
    sex is god.
    saxophone.
    rug.
    ashtray.
    spoon.
    another cigarette.
    and when he was a boy and doing nothing and nothing to do he'd play with his trains and make them crash.
    the holding on and letting go.
    realization.
    there is nothing to gain in this world or anywhere.
    and those who see value in things.
    and those who love and hate because of these things they value.

    zero to zero with infinity in-between.
    in-between a spoon and a spoon.
    watching tv.
    just imagination.
    their reality based on death.
    death of all else but themselves.
    it is it.
    here and now.
    it is him.
    death of everything but himself.
    it is the death of everything but itself.
    it can never die.
    all contained within our reality and imagination.
    and words.
    and all those in the know and only known to a select few.
    the few who happen upon and follow the correct way.
    all else is wrong.
    all else is death.
    and all the words he has to describe it.
    what words are chosen?
    what words are left out?
    and there is a glass of water on the blue topped table.
    there is a red brick wall next to the blue topped table.
    there is a window in the red brick wall.
    there is a container of sugar.
    a metal pitcher of cream - actually 1/2 & 1/2.
    salt and pepper.
    a paper napkin.
    an ashtray.
    a spoon.
    a cup of coffee.
    it's a wonderful life.
    it's wonderful that it's even here to begin with.

    6/2
    one more day in the cafe.
    coffee.
    cigarettes.
    the eternal state of affairs.
    people's expectations.
    dream date fantasies.
    pies in the skies.
    revolution.
    life goes on.
    what is his identity now?
    he calls the names of those who inhabit all the hells.
    rise up.

    6/3
    the cafe.
    the world.
    civilization.
    demons emerge.
    the angels descend.
    the pits of darkness.
    the halls of light.
    from our fears.
    from our desires.
    from our birth to our death.
    and we continue between the two.
    the two as one.
    imagination.
    alone and apart in the ongoing madness with each of us trying to comprehend the connection.
    from eye to eye.
    and jesus comes in and sits down and says, i got some good news and some bad news.

    6/4
    and delusions.
    and imaginings.
    and another cigarette.
    and the silence.
    and he thought it might have been different by now.
    but he's safe - as safe as he can be.
    just hanging out like everyone else more or less.
    some bliss state of cosmic consciousness dances by.
    and there is more than one way to skin a cat, as they say.
    he writes his way to divine meditation.
    the mantras of words that become meaningless and are transcended.
    the imaginary city.
    the island.
    just being here and now.
    becoming quite mad.
    a madness toward god.
    the fantasy of imagination.

    kick it out.
    knock it down.
    one form or the other.
    the hopeless and the despair.
    someone has to take it on.
    someone has to see what has been avoided and denied.
    and the perfect world created by a perfect god.
    a world that would be perfect if it weren't for all those who oppose it.
    control.

    and back to the island where we sit with him in the garden.
    he looks rather troubled.
    and we ask, what is it?
    and he replies, i don't know. everything is so unreal - or maybe it's too real. i don't know.
    what do you mean by everything?
    i don't know. the world maybe. it's so full of pain everywhere. everyone is filled with pain that they try to cover over but can't really.
    yes - it seems that way.
    and you don't care, do you?
    what would you have us do?
    change it.
    we are trying to change it but they resist us. their pain is all that is real to them they will not let it go. you will not let it go.
    let it go for what? what do i replace it with?
    joy.
    joy about what?
    joy that you are not one who is in pain.
    but i could be.
    yes - you could be but you're not, are you?.
    no. but what about the others?
    what about them?
    they continue to suffer.
    if that is what they wish.
    but don't you get it? it's all they know. it's all they were given since the day they were born. you don't know what it's like sitting around here in your goddamn garden.
    we know through you.
    but you do nothing.
    we told you, we're working on it. we've been through this before.
    i know, but it's not enough. you're the ones responsible for it to begin with.
    some of us are, yes.
    if some of you are then all of you are.
    it was an experiment. it needs to continue.
    tell that to someone who's being tortured. in fact, tell that to anyone. we're all being tortured in some way or another.
    we're telling it to you. are you being tortured?
    yes.
    how so?
    watching others in pain everyday of my life knowing that i am in some part responsible and being unable to stop it.
    you've stopped it for yourself.
    i'm lucky. what about those who aren't and who can't?
    what about them?
    they're still suffering.
    and?
    and you should stop it. this experiment, as you call it, has gone on long enough.
    we don't think so.
    you don't?
    no.
    so you're not going to stop it?
    in time it will be stopped.
    when?
    when those involved in it decide it is time for it to stop.
    when will that be?
    when they have had enough.
    and what about you?
    what about us?
    have you had enough?
    yes and no. it really has nothing to do with us anymore. we neither oppose it nor support it. it is just drama. it is something to watch and wait to see what happens. you worry too much. haven't we taken good care of you? haven't we given you everything you need and want?
    i suppose so - except to get rid of all this that surrounds me.
    no, we haven't. we try but you remain in it for some reason. maybe to torture yourself trying to settle it in your mind.
    what else would you have me do?
    forget it.
    forget it? how? it's not that easy.
    no, it's not. but it is possible if that is what you really want.
    maybe i don't want to. i want to remember this.
    why?
    so i know what it's like.
    why would you want to do that?
    because there's still others in it - who you aren't helping at all.
    we are trying, as we said.
    trying what?
    we are trying to help them as we have helped you. we work from within. but as we said, they resist us. we can do nothing about that.
    and there are those of you who still urge them on.
    yes, there are.
    can't you do something about that?
    we try.
    so what's happening with that?
    they resist us as well.
    so it's all useless.
    no.
    how so?
    it will all end after a time. things will be resolved.
    i don't believe you.
    you don't have much of a choice.
    no, i suppose i don't.
    so sit with us and enjoy it.
    i have been doing that but i'm not all that comfortable with doing that.
    neither are we.
    are you telling me you have a conscience?
    where do you think yours comes from?
    i don't know.
    besides this isn't really happening.
    that's easy for you to say.
    it could be easy for you to say as well.
    maybe i don't want it to be that easy.
    that's your choice. you are free to do what  you want. everyone involved is free to do what they want. that is the experiment. that is why we cannot just step into it and stop it.
    fine.
    don't let it trouble you.
    but it does.
    that is your choice as well.
    it's all that i know. that is who and what i am.
    we know this.
    so why have you taken me out of it?
    we have our reasons.
    what?
    what do you imagine?
    i don't know if i can trust my imagination.
    that is your choice.
    quit saying that.
    why?
    i am as i have been created. i have no choice.
    you have created yourself.
    i have? when? how? why?
    only you know the answers to those questions.
    i can imagine the answers.
    that is enough. you should trust your imagination more than you do.
    it usually gets me into trouble.
    are you in trouble now?
    no.
    see?

    6/5
    and here we are again - him and us.
    another day.
    the cafe.
    coffee.
    another cigarette.
    another dream.
    and how much he depends on this with the feeling all else is uncertain.
    he's frightened to move.
    he's frightened to think.
    his head full of decisions he can't make up his mind about.
    he doesn't want to think about nothing.
    he just wants to be away from all this.
    so here we are with his fear and anger and nothing he desires more than anything else.
    it remains the same.
    another lost soul somewhere not knowing quite what any of it's about.
    as long as it stays the same
    the same people who come and go.
    the weeds that keep coming up through the cracks in the sidewalks.
    the bums who sleep in the doorways.
    it doesn't change.
    how much he doesn't want it to change.
    another idea that will reorder the decaying order.
    get up.
    stay awake awhile.
    go back to sleep.
    and it doesn't make any difference if a spoon is a spoon or not.
    he picks up the spoon and stirs his coffee after pouring in cream.
    he needs to do this.
    he needs to do that.
    it is organized this and that way.
    because it is there.
    if something else was there he'd be doing something else with the same thoughtlessness.
    if there was nothing he'd be doing nothing.
    just the big long dream.

    bug-eyed things from planet x or not.
    can't keep one thought in his head too long enough to get around to thinking about it.
    space.
    time.
    watching his hand leaving words behind in its movements.
    all the problems in the world today.
    he just stays out of the way.
    the structure of order and the order of structure.
    the order and structure of weeds pushing up through cracks in the sidewalk.
    the physical laws.
    he follows the law of i am.
    i am this.
    i am that.
    breaking apart.
    i am the weed pushing up through the sidewalk.
    a ballet.

    just crazy.
    just nothing but crazy.
    but he's not crazy at all - is he?
    who has the final say?
    bring in the doctors and have them dance.
    bring in their god to pronounce final judgment.
    the social disease.
    if one is treated by others like they're crazy then they are crazy.
    pavlov's dog.
    push the crazy button and get the pellet.
    push the others and get the shock of a lifetime.

    and it becomes quite clear.
    and it never becomes quite clear.
    too much.
    not enough.
    not here.
    not now.
    and what is this that faces us but ourselves disguised as someone else?
    all our hatred and all our love is meaningless.
    is it that simple?
    and what do we call it now?

    too many dreams.
    too many things that are not even dreams.
    slipping from one to the other.
    things.
    nothing but things.
    things in our dreams of things.
    things that are not even dreams.
    some place that is not here nor there.
    some time that is not now nor then.
    from one heart to another.
    hearts in opposition.
    opposite.

    6/9
    red green haired geek office without a clue seemingly to bounce out of her boots to explain what the truth was to herself with a wicked display of noncommittal emotion expressed among some tribal ignorance locked into the offering to unbecoming gods.
    and let's say some of that were true.
    and let's say it begins again.
    a play of words.
    spoken.
    and as if in some other dream we begin again.
    what divides us now?
    what words unspoken?
    our right hand.
    our left hand.
    our body.
    our mind.
    a basement flooded with lonely desires.
    subconscious.
    we do not know what memories are real.
    we are alive.
    we know that because we can speak words.
    we remain silent.
    he writes this all down.
    pages.
    and what will death be like?
    your head is reeling.
    big brother is looking at you.
    hide.
    drum roll.
    continue to exist.
    we exist now.
    we will exist dead and rotting.
    we will become a host of microbes eating away our flesh.
    waiting for someone else to become.
    someone perfect.
    we will accept nothing less as this goes in a different direction than originally conceived.
    back in the cafe again.
    table by the window.
    no other place to go except wander the streets or go shopping or home to watch tv or sleep.
    this is the life.

    dime a dozen words.
    anyone else can write them.
    no one wants to.
    no one wants to enter into this mind.
    no one wants to enter into this madness.
    they scream with horror at the desolation of being standing before oblivion.
    no meaning.
    no purpose.
    even the nihilists turn away.
    he laughs.
    they play with these ideas they read about in books.
    he is alone here.
    he sees none of them.
    they keep their polite company.
    cows.
    all people are cows.
    a herd of cows.
    and he is one more.
    back to the stone age.
    another cigarette.

    another cigarette.
    the taste of life and death.
    the bitter flavor of the smoke.
    the sensation of it in his throat and filling his lungs.
    exhale and the smell of it in his nostrils.
    another cigarette.
    it comes down to another cigarette.
    it comes.
    down to.
    another.
    cigarette.
    and now he has to go to the bathroom and piss.
    another sensation.

    believing in doubt or doubting in belief neither being the same as the other as neither counts for much as neither means anything and it's become quite the thing to say that nothing means anything or that everything means nothing quite the thing to say and quite the thing to believe to believe in that without a doubt.
    continue to think what one thinks.
    let nothing stop you or get in your way.
    let nothing change your mind.
    the screaming mind alone in the empty universe of total oblivion.
    no more.
    no less.
    our will to exist and to survive.
    each of our lives implies death of another.
    the scream of the mind alone.
    the screams of the minds surrounding this one mind existing alone where the screams are silent.
    waves of screaming around him in silence in the concrete calm that never settles before it starts to crack.
    he sees people with weeds pushing though the cracks in the heads - in their minds.
    wild flowers.
    but they are constantly pulling them out under the doctors' instructions.
    they are convinced they are ugly and unbecoming and dangerous.
    this is the silent screaming he hears from them always.
    especially when they smile.

    so where and when did this all go wrong?
    did it go wrong?
    is this wrong?
    should people be beaten?
    should people be starving?
    what's the problem?
    just turn away.
    another cigarette.

    to sit here everyday and watch it out the window.
    to walk by it everyday on the street.
    walls.
    keep their screaming silent.
    the screaming of existence.
    stars screaming in the cold dark void.
    minds screaming in isolation from one another.
    god screaming alone in the face of oblivion.
    that's the joke.
    ha!
    you're either in on the joke or the joke's on you.
    scream along with the rest of us screaming.

    through the blind eye of god.
    barbie doll abused by allergic drivers fed on maximum facts.
    attacks.
    let's work this out.
    but there's an internal problem with wasted happy investments.
    a diseased beast slurping ice cream.
    a lot of self esteem.
    just the look of it.
    shoot the mother.
    and who's counting?
    so far he's been lucky.
    fate.
    favorite travel plans and secret lives so difficult to realize.
    nothing quite intelligent and then some spewing meat across the horizon.
    time to go catch a bus.
    go home.
    maybe watch tv.
    go to sleep.
    james brown.
    bricks.
    laughter.
    organ.
    collar.
    daybreak unending.
    concepts of unreality speaking words underneath the bridge.
    thought.
    action.
    stop.
\   go.
    the disconnection of things of the mind with substance of the body.
    good.
    evil.
    what is living.
    what is dead.
    another cigarette.

    and on the stage of the burning theater was a boy playing with a truck rolling it around the floor and crawling beside it making truck noises.
    this means nothing to me, whispered a man without a hat to a man with a hat.
    it's meaning is beyond me, the man with the hat whispered back.

    and shake and dance all night long like the song on the radio sings.
    keeping the fire alive through the darkness.
    what recklessness born out of fear becomes our reason.
    the fear of sleep.
    the fear of waking up to another day that is the same as any other.

    at one time.
    at another time.
    information.
    this information that informs us of nothing that we do not already know.
    broken down.
    splintered.
    it cannot be expressed until the here and now returns.
    remember where you are.
    remember what you are doing.
    do not allow words or images deceive you if they do not remind you of who and what you are.
    from inside yourself to outside yourself.
    from your beginning to your end.
    from one impossibility to another.
    a little duck.
    a little horse.
    part of the beginning.
    part of the end.
    we do not understand meaning or purpose.
    this is not what is.
    we do not know who or what we are.
    we make attempts to remind ourselves with words and images.
    chrome.
    dreaming.
    we are only dreaming as if that means anything.
    the dreams merging in conflicting ideals of one ideal.
    logos.
    following.
    leading.
    this place.
    this time.
    remembering.
    cigarette.

    and at one point one part of the theory here may be something like what happens to us between birth and death with the various expressions of our living sexual energy reproducing images of our own reproduced images.
    what?
    huh?
    too simple?
    too complex?
    who knows?
    who cares?

    circles.
    the idea of serpents entwined swallowing each other's tail.
    such an idea.
    and within that idea we have the idea of linear progression.
    step back.
    open one eye and close the other.
    alternate as needed.
    change.
    become.
    laugh.
    cry.
    stand on your head.
    don't do anything we might tell you.
    we don't tell you to do anything.
    we suggest.
    we suggest who and what we are.
    suggestive.
    desirable
    frightening.
    a pose.
    an act caught in the act.
    falling between the cracks where the weeds are pushing up.
    a disguise.
    a plan.
    easy deception.
    pants down.
    one little piggie.
    two little piggie.
    a pleasing smooth kick in the teeth.
    take something from it.
    what does this remind you of?
    why is it here?
    a bit of the steadily increasing sense of madness that surrounds you.
    don't let it touch you.
    don't get any on your clothes or your shoes.
    welcome.
    we've been waiting for you for a very very long time.
    part of us.
    part of you.
    a leap of logic.
    a leap of doubt.
    replace everything.
    this will be replaced.
    will you replace it?
    do you know what we mean?
    jesus and satan.
    buddha and harpo marx.
    a bubble.
    hey!
    what the fuck?
    radiating dispersed energy.
    this doesn't have to make any sense to make sense.
    what's in a name?
    what's in a description?
    go back to your books!
    god/ not god.
    human flesh and human mind rotting and insane.
    ha!

    this is not it.
    this is not what we had planned.
    what we had planned could not be conceived.
    this is not finished.
    it is a continuation of before and after.
    it goes on forever.
    what did you expect?
    what did we expect?
    we'd love to turn you on.
    what a joke.
    this is a joke.
    everything is a joke.
    nothing is a joke.
    yummy yummy yummy.
    hatred foaming at the mouth frothing.
    glaring eyes.
    blood.
    lust.
    fear.
    screaming anger.
    destruction.
    this isn't plain and simple, people.
    throw it all out the window.
    close the door.
    turn on the television.
    tune in.
    drop by some time.
    is it worth it?
    the names of legion.
    the legion of names.
    names forgotten on our way to the milk and honey.
    do you remember?
    candyland labyrinth caves and what lies between.
    beautifully disgusting.
    we could have shown you more.
    we could have shown you less.
    more is less and less is more, more or less.
    a mystery.
    what do we have in common?
    shoes?
    a breath of air?
    a heartbeat?
    mind to mind trying to communicate something in common.
    confusion in common.
    a puzzle in common.
    jigsaw.
    so many pieces.
    a piece of you.
    a piece of us.
    a piece of them.
    protection.
    holy cow!
    as pieces of it become something in common.
    a wink and a nod.

    alive living.
    dead death.
    forward now.
    kill you in his closet.
    make you like it.
    it's in the boots.
    they laughed.
    see through it.
    dance cold.
    dance through it.
    do something for him.
    green.
    on again, off again.
    vile, man.
    has he done anything yet?
    searching through it.
    silent.
    walking through it.
    the disease of consciousness notwithstanding.
    the shape and formlessness of upcoming christ deep and loud we wish and hope and even pray someday as tomorrow never comes something beyond now which is perceived groaning on the front lawn atomic aged beast thing a curse a path of development.
    how long did it take you to get this long into it?
    what do you fancy now?
    dream through it.
    what else are you going to do whether you've been ripped off or not?
    start again.
    light the fire.
    kiss it where you want to.
    kill it if you can.
    survival is the only law.
    do what you can.
    bring down the big stealing deal.
    come again?
    god again.
    hello.
    how are you today?
    we hope you're feeling better before you die.
    chicken shit.
    wrestling donuts in and out of spacetime continuous sequence of one or the other.

    let's become ourselves again here and now.
    that's all she wrote about him becoming himself in natural pleasure of himself nibbling on some cheese.
    rotten to the corps.
    rotten through it.
    color.
    arisen hope through doubting all that is seen through it.
    it.
    never make it.
    missing teeth missing.
    contradiction parading up and down central common points of interest.

    and we were lucky once.
    and we might be lucky again.
    driven and driving.
    two or three people at once.
    screwed up.
    fucked up.
    screaming from somewhere.
    all that is missing and forgotten.
    he writes this only for himself to keep himself amused.
    he has set it up this way.
    he trusts no one.
    there needs to be more.
    there needs to be something of the mind.
    all he's met so far are frightened.
    and they think it's him.
    maybe it is him.
    he waits for the day this questioning is over.
    whether there are answers or not he doesn't care.
    it's stupid.
    this whole thing is stupid.
    some people live.
    some people die.
    some people lead lives of suffering.
    some people lead lives of pleasure.
    some people can't tell the difference.
    love, peace and harmony.
    violent outbursts.
    words spoken in anger and hatred.
    a pleasing voice that crawls under the skin.
    that thin shell.
    hideous, deformed and evil.
    loathing yet wanting.
    sit up and beg.
    what's the big deal?
    we're only human but we'll never be forgiven.
    and they create jesus and such as to who we are expected to be.
    fuck that.
    leave it alone for awhile.
    the big let down.
    they want us to be compassionate so they can conquer.
    their jesus comes with a sword.
    nothing's ever good enough.

    interfused logistics a toothpick matches ingrained beginning something like what it was not so simple to think about trying to unlock the codes to mysteries undiscovered by anyone so far an ear of corn a mushroom plastic fantastic lover napkin and those beaten and starving who no one is responsible for to do away with the guilty to do away with the innocent villains and victims deserve each other and heroes never solved a damn thing it still all continues as the fool laughs and understands viewing it all from quite an opposite angle fuck justice forget revenge all lust of the blood in a who's who zoo contemplating the void between us the void connecting us the void which is us intelligence awareness what he has come to so far more than he knows what to do with less than what he can speak to you and the dada-anada though not existing is still with him years have gone by he began his vocation hanging out in the cafes revolution in the air a social cartoon character mask because he couldn't face them as himself who would want to know him seeking immortality a man in a trench coat fighting something he finds that sort of funny because he thinks of killing himself with words he is telling you.

    6/14
    dogs.
    something going through his mind now about dogs.
    what did dogs have to do with anything?
    what did they not have to do with anything?
    what is the anything they had to do with or not do with?
    he just kept writing.
    not much too write about.
    dogs.
    arf.
    the mind.
    perception of the mind.
    as long as he kept writing he existed.
    a record of his existence existed.
    for you.
    his existence gone to the dogs.
    is this where they fit in?
    television.
    nothing on tv otherwise he'd be home watching it.
    it's the only thing he knows how to do.
    that's why he comes here to hang out and watch the other people.
    it's just like tv.
    and there's nothing on tv.
    just reruns and game shows and soap operas.
    and he's not really here.
    and he's gone to the here and now which is not here and now in their world.
    nothing is reveled.
    goose.
    in the void.
    oblivion.
    in a dream against that backdrop.
    a light beam in the dark illuminating the screen in the mind.
    existing.
    a record left behind for another who is dreaming of their own existence.
    whoever they are.
    whoever he is.
    the image and reflection of image.
    imagine that.
    spoon.
    and there's nothing about it - just whatever we think about it.
    whatever truth there is in that and what appears to be.
    the truth is in everything.
    the idea that it's all an illusion covering over and masking a deeper truth.
    if one follows that one comes up with nothing - one arrives at oblivion.
    and what we mere mortal humans place before it - this god.
    but hasn't this god done the same thing by creating us?
    it places creation between itself and the void.
    but we've traveled that path already but here we are again.
    the mind.
    the basic conceiving mind of creation.
    the mind dividing and divided.
    contrast.
    one thing and the other.
    this and that.
    creating and created.
    the paint and the canvas.
    and we argue about which is what.
    it's all figments of our imagination.
    like dogs.
    like spoons.
    like a rug and an ashtray.
    like ourselves.
    like god.
    like oblivion.
    and no one will drop it no matter how much it kills us.
    the constant paradox without mystery.
    he divides himself from them and their world that continues against everything imaginable.
    the world of simple answers.
    and the war.
    the division of us and them as the cornerstone of all human philosophy from our ape origins.
    bowling.
    monkey see, monkey do.
    trinkets and gizmos.