he stopped to think. but what? to think what? why? how? when? where? just what the holy - or unholy - fuck was going on here anyhow? he looked around. he seemed to be sitting in a cafe which was as it usually was at a table by the window. he'd been here before. he'd been here many times before. he's here most of the time. he's here more often than he is anywhere else. more than all the other places combined - even when he's home.
    so what does that mean? does it mean anything? does it need to? does anything need to mean anything? theoretically nothing actually needs to have meaning or said to have meaning. meaning is a human construct placed upon reality - reality itself being a human construct placed upon whatever the heck and high water is not reality. and so on and so forth along all sorts of dissecting philosophical trains of thought and theory and belief like that into until nothing is left but the oblivion mother of all oblivions which is probably another human construct.
    to hell with that. let the others deal with that who are so much wiser than he is. it was fun when he was young and it was all brand new and he had hormones squirting out of his ears, but that's all changed. it has become the everyday. he has become the everyday. if it's all human constructs then that is fine by him. or if it's not then that is fine with him too. he's been where and when all human constructs are gone and absent and found it to be extremely incredibly monotonous and boring - that great nirvana. and so he returned here and now where and when things are happening though they are entirely meaningless as they are except what we might put upon them out of ourselves. let the others seek their own as they will through their own thought, theory and belief. this is his paradise.
    he finds what he finds by happenstance more than anything else. he has nothing to do with prescribed accepted disciplines perpetuated among all the societies and cultures of the world back to the year zero. and it could be argued as to whether he had found anything or not but he is quite satisfied with it whatever it is even if it only his own delusion and madness. he doesn't worry about that. he doesn't worry about much of anything any more. he has at least found that. how many others can say the same?
    and this may or may not be part of whatever thought, theory and/or belief he might have to himself as he was thinking later on that day when he was supposed to be thinking of maybe a dozen or a hundred or a thousand or a million or a billion or a trillion or a zillion or a googol or a googolplex or an infinity number of other things that might have had meaning to the general state of affairs going on around him in the real world and its reality. oh well. he wasn't being paid to think of anything that had or has meaning. in fact he was being paid not to. of course he could probably be getting paid more if he did but that was too much trouble and besides there was always arguments about it so he forgot about that. having more money was too much trouble by itself. one had to worry about what to spend it on and worry about somebody else taking it and stuff like that. before you know it you're surrounded by a bunch of shit that serves no other function than being something you have to always worry about.
    but - whatever...
    but that wasn't what he was thinking. or it wasn't what he thought he was thinking which may or may not have been what he was supposed to be thinking according to all the rules made and enforced by all sorts of people about what one was supposed to be thinking in order to conform with what it was they are thinking which sometimes made sense and most times was just a contradictory jumble of nonsense and he sometimes had trouble telling the difference between the two or three or however many there were all over the place from this group and that group that applied to different situations and circumstances depending on who can get away with being perceived as being in charge and control at any given moment by most who don't have a clue, like him.
    and it's not actually what one thinks but what one says one thinks and needs others to think they think. but that isn't anything really new or something others don't already know but the game goes on and on anyway. but it is something that not too many people say anything about or act on or let on in any way that they are aware of it and that might be what they are thinking. and that includes him. he is just as cowed and silent as the rest. he conducts his behavior within the parameters of the expected and accepted norms of whatever given situation along with the others. he politely says this and politely says that. he has just learned to avoid situations that are too restrictive and controlled and to keep to ones that are more loosely structured like being out in cafes just minding his own business. and while this helps him maintain what little sanity he has left after being in the war and the trenches it also keeps him away from situations where people are making decisions that affect others and is all where this all starts with to begin with that set the standards we are all supposed to conform to whether that is in corporate offices and boardrooms or gatherings of the alternative set who aren't as alternative as they pretend themselves to be and act along the same lines as any rank and file organization with leaders and followers and all that jazz and business.
    and he wondered about this little sanity he had left. just how little was it? and how sane was it? was he just kidding himself? he wondered about what he was thinking. he thought about what he was thinking. and does it matter what he was thinking? who cares?
    whoever should care is whoever might fall victim to his flipped out mass killing spree because that was what he was thinking about. if they only knew what possible slender and unraveling threads their fates and lives hung by. one day. one place. bang bang shoot shoot. they're dead. it's too late then to wonder if there was something that could have or should have been done to prevent it. but we all take our chances, he supposed.
    he used to be pissed off enough to kill, but it would have been sloppy and might not have resulted in much more than one or two or maybe three deaths before he was stopped or killed himself. that spontaneous flaring rage is pretty much gone now. it gets away from him once in awhile in certain situations when he was backed into a corner being pushed by others who had control of the situation usually with the support of external reinforcement they could and would call on if needed. he hated it when that happened - that he had allowed it to happen by not paying attention to what others were doing around him that trapped him. and he'd usually be able to pull it back or divert it before it reached its intended target. he would do that because he felt he was under and responsible to some sort of moral and ethical obligation not to kill these people who were pissing him off whether intentional or unintentional - and he did not believe in unintended actions that the others would try to excuse themselves with. they knew exactly what they were doing and why. but this was no longer the case. these people had proven to him that they themselves did not feel any responsibility to follow any moral or ethical obligation other than what served their own greed and self interest. they deserved to die and as many of them and their ilk and kind as he or anyone else like him might be able to manage to kill as might be possible.
    this is what he is now thinking now that he was no longer troubled by his uncontrolled reactive defensive fight or flight emotions being where he was at now free and clear and he could think about it clearly and he could plan how to maximize his killing of these others he still passionately hated. he wasn't sure what the mass murder record was - he kept intending to look it up - but he was sure that whatever it was he could top it. no problem. he laughed at the thought that if and when he ever did this it would be bought and paid for from the taxes out of the paychecks of the very people he was killing. stupid mindless idiot sheep. and nothing at this point could stop him. what would that be? the only thing was himself. only whatever moral and ethical obligation he felt himself responsible to which at this point was practically next to nil but not quite.
    but there was something even bigger and better than that that he was thinking about. this was the machine. the machine was both his discovery and invention from his imagination and madness. it was designed and built at that spaceless timeless point he had reached and went beyond and came back from here and now - the garden on the island. the place of all places. the time of all times. and no place and no time. a paradox riddle for others that was his own secret doorway he alone had the key to - though it wasn't locked - that led to everything and anything he might need or want. and what he may not have needed but what he wanted now and forever was the ultimate destruction of the human race as the human race was presently defined and existed. he hated each and every single one of the stupid motherfuckers and fucking mothers and all and each beyond. there was none he knew of who he would spare as they were now. change - and change now or die. the time for taking millions of years to evolve is over. he was tired of waiting for them to wake up. he'd wake them up. that was what the machine was for. it was the human evolution alarm clock. they'd been sleeping long enough. they were either ready or not. they would either wake up or be left behind to rot. he expected and would only accept perfection. but not uniform perfection but unique individual perfection that stood alone on its own for its own sake and reasons. fuck all the categories - the majority categories and the minority categories both and all together. if it's anything that justifies their feelings to set one or more apart and above the other then fuck it. it will be eliminated and those believing in it and practicing it will be eliminated along with it even if this ends up eliminating the entire human race which he couldn't care less about. fuck it. if they couldn't get themselves past themselves on their own - and he saw no evidence that they could or were even willing and/or trying to no matter how much more time they were given - the machine would force them to or kill them all in the process. he really didn't care which. he would rather the former but if it turned out to be the latter - oh well. he'd find something else to play with.
    this was what the machine was for. he had found the machine already in place. he had designed and had it built to already be in place where and when he would find it. the machine had always been there from the beginning. the machine wasn't there until he placed it there. the machine exists where and when that makes sense. he made sense out of the machine with his imagination and madness. the machine is not real and nothing is real but the machine. this is how the machine is hidden without having to be hidden. the machine is obvious but in being obvious it is not obvious - unless one sees it as being obvious. the machine is life and the machine is death. and neither life and/or death have anything to do with the machine.
    zap!
    ouch!
    but this isn't really relevant much to what is generally happening around him. not to the others. they don't see it.
    yeah right.
    he's the one who doesn't see it. ask anyone who knows him, they'll tell you - though no one knows much beyond diddly squat about him. why should they? why should anyone know anything about anyone? it's easier just to judge. but whatever whichever way it is or isn't there's a fairly pretty wide gulf between what he perceives is happening and what they do. it becomes quite pointless to try to figure out who or which is right or wrong - if one is into right and wrong. only one thing is certain is that there are more of them than there are of him and that pretty much settles the matter. end of argument. except for the machine. he has the machine on his side. it doesn't matter what the odds are - however many billion to one.  the machine takes all that into account without missing a beat with room to spare like taking candy from a baby. they have themselves against themselves while he only has himself. all they have to deal with is getting more wildly out of control with the more control they try to put on it. that is part of the design of the machine. they never have enough despite the fact that they have everything they can get their grubby hands on. they don't have enough time. they don't get enough sleep. they don't have enough energy. they have to calculate this and calculate that and do a trillion other things every minute of every day just to keep themselves barely afloat. and they argue about it all. and all of that.
    anyway, meanwhile, all they lose track of drops neatly into his domain that the machine quite easily maintains without him having to do anything. in fact (or fiction) him not doing anything is exactly how it all happens. he lets the machine take care of it and that is what the machine is there (here) for. what else could it possibly be good for? what else would he want it to be? - making him money? - giving him a slave job? - getting him high? - shining his shoes and drawing his bath? - putting him on the cover of people or some other rag? - gazing into his eyes with tenderness and compassion and worshipping the very ground he shits on? what? what else would he want it to do but what it is already doing? and what it is doing is making the world around him the very best of all possible worlds for him to be in and what a wonderful job it is doing quite beyond any and all expectations he might have had. he would have settled for far less. he had settled for far less back before he discovered the machine.
    and this is one of the widest gulfs between him and the others as far as perception. as much as he can determine from observing them they seem to think that this very best of all possible worlds sucks out loud and is a living hell of misery and suffering. at the best they might find it marginally tolerable interspersed with a few brief moments when they could say they are actually happy and enjoying themselves which never seem to happen often enough or to last long enough within a vast sea of out and out boredom they seem to experience most of the time. most of the conversations he listens to or overhears involve in some way or another directly or implied just how terrible everything is. the same is true with the various forms of mass media. bitch bitch bitch. complain complain complain. and he remembers that. he remembers having been there with them in all of that. no wonder. that was the only input he had most of his life and it sent him down a long spiral into dark depression. he thought all of that was real. he was convinced by the others it was real because that was all he was exposed to from the day he was born. nobody spoke of anything else except for how fucked up the world was that we live in - that they live in. he soon realized that he doesn't live in that world. it's a world they delude themselves into believing exists and then act it out so it does exist. he no longer lives in that world with them. it just took that one moment - a fraction of a moment - a micro-fraction of a moment - actually no moment at all - to disconnect from their dada and see the reality of the very best of all possible worlds radiating all around him. he felt like such an idiot having missed it for such a very long time and listening to these others who turned out not to know shit despite all the piles and piles of documentation that theoretically verifies that they know all that is to be known and so there. then how come they didn't know about the very best of all possible worlds?
    and it should be explained that the very best of all possible worlds is not the very best of all imaginable worlds. that is something else altogether. who could not imagine something better than this that is? that's easy. that is something else that they do. they imagine all these impossible utopias and paradises and heavens that aren't ever going to happen no matter what we do. and that is what they compare the real world to. and of course the real world doesn't measure up. and all these utopias and paradises and heavens are all the same in that they are exclusive to one particular group who belong and exclude everyone else. that is what all the wars are about. but they don't ever see that. they still operate on some basic primal tribal level no matter how grand their civilizations are. it's all still us and them.
    the very best of all possible worlds takes all that into consideration. that is all part of the possibility. it is part of the nature of both ourselves and the world. it expects nothing to change but it does allow for one to find one's way out of it. it allows for everyone to find their way out of it. that is possible. but who will bother? who will come to realize that everything is as it is and as it is is the very best of all possible worlds? who will ever get it? who will ever imagine it?
    and so it is that they exclude themselves. there need not be any rules. they exclude themselves by their own rules of exclusion. they divide themselves apart from it by thinking that they are some special gift of creation or possess some special gift of creation that divides them from the rest of us poor slobs. they will never see that that is what creates their hell on earth. and they will never let go of it.
    all it takes is a blink of an eye. all it takes is to imagine it being. all it takes is to dive into one's own madness that is the madness of god. but who will take that chance? who will risk it all to gain everything? he sees no one. he sees only himself and the machine which is slowly and steadily destroying the world - their world.

    twinkie zone time in this place.
    boring but never bored.
    he thought about how what he thought about. he thought about his consciousness and how little of it was involved in the reality of this world - their world. he thought about maybe 10-20%. that left 80-90% free. he thought about how it seemed that others seemed to be fully occupied in this world with 100% or nearly 100% of their consciousness. maybe this wasn't exactly so but from listening to them it seemed to be that way because all they talked about were things related to the reality of this world. but that could be because the nature of the language they used was only capable of describing the reality of this world and things imagined from it as it is. he knows how much he has to twist his words. words like, machine. but why is the language this way that it has no words for anything not directly or indirectly connected to and describing things of this world? he thought that it must be that because they do not perceive anything else. if they did there would be words for them. they do have one word for all that is perceived that is not directly or indirectly connected to this world and that word is madness.
    so he supposes he is mad. what other description is there? but what's the deal? was he the only one or one among a few who was aware of something 80-90% more than this world that this world was only 10-20% of? how could that be? how could he be one who is singled out to perceive what others do not? he found that hard to believe. he did not believe that he was someone special - or specially cursed perhaps. but maybe he was. but he did not feel that way. he did not feel that he was any much different from the others. what he perceived wasn't something really beyond this world but was obvious. it was part of the same world underneath. it wasn't some place else. it wasn't away off somewhere. it was here and now. but how could the others fail to see it? he did not understand this.
    but it didn't matter.
    zero.
    but he thought about the others - the others who were fully 100% occupied in this world. those who if they were aware of anything other than this world and its wild fantasies of impossible other worlds didn't let on. and there might be this one who, like him, who was aware of much much more than this world that this world was a very very small part of. he wondered if this one is you. maybe. maybe not.
    because there are others like himself. he didn't get what he has all out of thin air. it is not entirely his own imagination but is also the imagination of others who he has read about here and there along the way who do let on in whatever way beyond the language of this world. these others of the other mind, as it were.
    oh well. ho-hum. more of the same dada-doo-wah-ditty-doo that most of his mind is involved in that comes up with this and that because it doesn't have much else to do and has to sit here listening to these others babble and babble on and on of hours and days and lifetimes about the obvious and nothing but the obvious while at the same time missing the obvious. he watches and waits for those few others who come by once in awhile who perceive what is obviously different than what is obvious in this world and its wild fantasies of whatnot. they come and go. they don't stay too long.
    they are not specific people. they are not ones who are this or that. they are those who exist elsewhere though there is no elsewhere but the here and now - it's just that there is more to here and now than what most people speak of most of the time. and many of them may not even know what they are saying. it just happens that they say it. they may never say it again. perhaps, he thinks, these are those who are called spirits - though maybe not. but whatever they are they seem to be able to enter into and speak through people around him. he used to think that when this happened that it was the people themselves who were speaking. that was a mistake. he made that mistake a lot. he would speak to one of these people the other had spoken through and expect this person to remember what the other had said and continue but the person because it was not them who had spoken wouldn't have a clue as to what he was talking about. he thought this was strange at first and even used to kinda piss him off at first when he thought that these people were playing a game with him but he soon realized that they really didn't know what they had just said and that the only explanation was that some other was speaking through them saying something only he was meant to hear.
    and it goes on like that.
    and this was supposedly another part of his madness.
    spirits talking with spirits. we are these spirits. he is not. he is a ass we ride upon through the world. he goes wherever we tell him to to go. he does what we tell him to do. he says what we tell him to say. without us he is totally lost. without us he is unable to do much more that curl up and die. we care for him. we make sure he has enough to eat and a warm and dry place to sleep and clothes to wear. plus we get him a few toys to play with. he likes his toys. that's the deal. it's a far better deal than he's gotten from anyone else who left him to starve in the street. he forgives them that. we do not. we will see them all in hell. hee hee ha ha. but of course there is no such place except here in this world. everything is in this world and can be explained with this world and the ways of this world - right?

    the long long poem.
    the poem that is a script written for a play a script for a play to be acted in the imagination. a play that is a story. a story that is a game.
    he writes this on pages and pages. there are those in the play who want to go out in flames. he sees no reason not to allow them to do so. he might be of some assistance - such as providing a can of gasoline and a match. he would be more than happy to do so. however only as long as it is them by themselves and no other.
    that is the poem which is the script written for the play that is the game. the play is also him writing the poem which is the script. the poem need not be a poem. the poem need not be a script written for a play. the play need not be a game.
    but all is what it is. the others act it out irregardless of meaning or purpose they are not aware of.
    a machine designed and built on a distant island. a machine that screams through the spheres toward its destined manifestation to face the enemy embodied in all who are enemies to one another.
    he is the enemy. this is his part. his part is to surrender and to remain silent while the others gain and sing of their victories. they will worship the machine sent to destroy them as they feast on the spoils of their vanity and pride. they will become hollow. it is they who resound with the most noise having nothing of substance within themselves echoing every inane thought that strikes them in full display.
    but this is as it should be. he laughs and watches and waits for his time. this carnival of clowns, this ballet of buffoons, this drama of dunces, this symphony of simpletons, this festival of fools. why should anything change with them? what do any of them ever do to change it other than to further promote it?
    and jesus walks the thin line. he winks at us as he passes by.
    and jesus walks on thin ice. he waves at us as it begins to crack.
    honk if you're jesus.
    honk! honk! honk!
    the time passes ever so slowly for most and ever so quickly for others. time for jesus is just right. that's what he would imagine if he were to imagine. all jesus is is imagination - is this not correct? he would imagine that it hardly matters but he would imagine others would argue themselves to death over that point exactly. and if not that point then another would do.
    imagine the complexity, he said. and she grinned as she always does quite grimly. this was her nature. the time of a memory of a time once when maybe there might have been something they shared in common. but that time and the memory of that time is gone. and he remembers her telling him that it never existed other than an illusion in his mind.
    and as pleased as he was or wasn't, as split to himself as he was or wasn't, in creating her as the other, he felt more than he could think about. he also thought more than he could feel. he saw them all around him. what was he to do? they were on her side. he had reached into their lives before and had allowed them to reach into his. the twisting struggling for power that occurs he used to surrender to until he learned to how to run around to the other side of town renown for the slopers and dopers and drunk tank bums bound for glory.
    he writes the story of their lives. he forgets as he thinks. it stinks like a thousand finks pissing in sinks on the brink with a wink to the all-knowing god - the all-being one radiant sun of sons to become what is done all in fun.
    good-night.
    sleep right.
    get in tight.
    win the fight.
    be ever bright, o' morning star, to guide him home by thy light. be true to him in the dark glowing blue sky before the dawn. you are that fully enlightened entity. you are who is our own identity. gaze upon and speak to him. forget him not and set him free. his oath and vow to you he holds. be bold. be old. be with him until we turn to gold. all else is forsaken or sold.
    he smiles. he feels swift radiance blowing through the wild space and time where and when the forbidden originate the images we conceal ourselves with - the guardians of the fortress gates. he bows to each one conceding defeat and he is unopposed and allowed to enter.
    to enter into no beginning and no ending. to enter into the outside within. to enter out of this world of those stealing souls for their pleasure and delight. to enter out of this void to rejoin to this world rejoicing. to laugh it off. to find that joy of heart. to see the reflection of beauty that silences the mind for awhile cracking open.
    he sat in the cafe. coffee. cigarettes. a window to gaze out of dreaming. who says there's no peace on earth? who says one has to die to get to heaven? who has misled the masses to believe this? who lies to them still? who is there from those who he is among who are with him? or does the war go on still? do they still find themselves in violent opposition? he has found them so.
    it was something quite otherwise. it was something that came to him now and again - and more now than again. what he felt. what he thought. it was all that he felt and all that he thought. all the lies. all he was deceived by and deceived others with. there was nothing of truth here - not at the heart of it that he could see.
    he thought about and tried to feel what it was - or wasn't. he wanted to live but didn't need to. energy and substance. one which acts and the other which is acted upon. and the act itself. the only reason he wanted to live was that he was already living. life wants to live. life seems to want to live beyond it needing to. is there need of life or is there only the wanting of life? life projecting itself into death. life wanting to live in life but also wanting to live in death. perhaps even more so in death. to be alive in life is one thing. to be alive in death is quite another. what is living? what is it to be alive? questions asked by all who have gained the intelligence and consciousness to ask it. nothing new and here he was asking it again. what a fool. doesn't he have anything better to do? he should have something better to do, he supposed, but he felt and thought not. he felt it was this to be alive and living to ask these questions despite not being able to answer them.
    except the pain. the pain of feeling what one could not think of - could not figure out. or the feeling that there was something one could not think of or figure out. what was it? what passes through and out of one's mind too vaguely to be thought of? like something one should remember but cannot. but even more subtle than that. like hearing one's name when one is alone. it was here with him in life while he was alive and living but wasn't life but perhaps only existence - existence without life. but not even that. he knew what life was. he knew what existence was. this was something else. this made life and existence possible. and this was who and/or what he was. not this life. not this existence. being that.
    but all this was dada. or maybe not. it always seemed to come back to that when as much as he could think of it broke down into so much nonsense but not what he felt about it or what he experienced of it. it was constantly changing. the constant changing of it was what remained the same and perhaps that was why he couldn't think of it. to think of something it seemed that it would have to hold still long enough to think of it - even for a moment - unless one's thinking kept pace with it which it seemed that his could not. maybe. not to be able to write about it or speak of it but maybe to be able to just think of it in passing time sideways. maybe yes. maybe no. maybe maybe. or to just sit and feel it. no feeling that can be described. experiencing it as it being what (who) all else but there did not separate world heard others of themselves that to become by experiencing it here in this  from it exists ho-hum reconnected to it perhaps as far they spoke he saw it was since only from what failed caught up in since his birth just seemed to be with them at the former it never really was but allowed himself experience to not feel it their pain being separate couldn't do it constantly reminded of his forgetfulness stop telling and experiencing at one time he knew and madness he failed remotely close to what they speak of not feeling believes it's obvious given a choice perhaps they have chosen.
    you're like the planets when you move.

    and it was another day now. and we had some fun. and it was always the same day as it might have been again. and it was days and days of another day that was the same day as it might have been again. this invention of time that goes around and around on a clock that turns the numbers that count how many times this same day has been another day. nothing all that special from one to another again. the lowest common denominator. something all can understand - all the billions. and these people who exist here and go around with it. and he goes around with them.
    what else does one write about but the days that go by in time measured by a clock on a wall or on one's arm reaching out toward something else it cannot reach in time? what else does one believe? what else does one do?
    people with full armor up. people with soft underbelly. people curled up in tight little balls. people speaking of others needing to be more open.
    expose.
    relax.
    lie back.
    this won't hurt a bit.
    he does nothing. being in the right place and time. someone else to bleed awhile. leave them with their head dizzy and reeling. leave them wondering in confusion. leave them never being able to trust anyone ever again. leave them cursing names with gnashing teeth, his name is mentioned. a creation of their creation. a reflection of themselves that they deny - that they must push away because it is too ugly for them to look at otherwise it will destroy them.
    driven wild.
    screaming apeshit.
    down back to basics.
    how fragile our civilized personas are having been put on as masks for only a short time compared to how long we have existed as animals able to use sticks and rocks to survive longer than we should have. longer than the others who up and went extinct. and who would have remembered that they ever existed but us? only in our memory as we also remember ourselves.
    and now we parade around in fancy clothes and hairstyles and money in our pockets and think we're something else. who? who do we think we are? we can imagine ourselves being all manner of things as we will. we conjure up this fantasy illusion. does anyone laugh?
    he laughs. in his fantasy illusion they are begging him for forgiveness and he sits on a throne and looks in a book to see if he remembers their names. has he seen any of them before? when? and how much forgiveness did they show him then in their fantasy illusion of things? did he have a chance? did he have a prayer? could he do anything to change their minds? he remembers them. he remembers a face - but a name? he's not so sure...
    and he laughs again.
    and he lit another cigarette and gazed at those around him - all the others than him and his kind. all who pride themselves on being other than him and his kind. and their fancy clothes and hairstyles and money in their pockets. all these who are something else. all these who worship the images of god without a clue as to how simple it is to slip by them and get away while they're gazing at reflections of themselves in their groups of mutual admiration.
    he is ugly to them. he wants to be ugly to them. the uglier the better. whatever it takes to not get caught up in the fantasy illusion they're caught up in and can't get out of about themselves. it's too strong and they are too weak. the hypnotic effect and the power it has that has them open-mouthed and drooling for it to get that much closer to it by whatever means however much they must sell of themselves to get a piece of it needing a fix of that drug that feeds and inflates the ego beyond proportion to all else. a fix that always needs to be fixed. it's never quite right. more and more is needed to be put into it to keep it from fading and they are left with nothing between them and the reality of who they are and have become - a bunch of dumb fucking apes in a circle jerk of jerking off jerks with glazed eyes toward the fantasy illusion that is never realized.
    and he is ugly to it as he zipped up his pants and walked away shaking his head as his vision cleared. he laughs at himself for having been such a fool for so long. oodles and oodles of noodles and sparks sparking like crazy in his brain and his x-ray eyes piercing through all the layers down to the naked ugly truth of who they are - who he was.
    the ease at which he forgets. the substance. the eye. another world. belief. broken glass. blue. another word. a series of perceptions. all the paperwork involved. all the broken heart songs. all the laughter. a dreaming. a series of ramifications. a boredom bordering on fatigue. control. matrix lock. the screaming is silenced. all that endlessly repeats itself in one form or another. all that never repeats itself. but it was what it is will be. one touching another. this thing of need. this thing of wanting. this thing that knows itself. all the theories of it. he could forget. he does forget. what does any of it need to be remembered for?
    once it seemed perhaps that we might have been within reach of what we wanted. but we made the same mistakes as others before us. we thought that what we wanted wasn't what we needed. we gave up. we gave up before it was too late.
    no meaning this meaning attempted to be transmitted except what is given through these words that is give them similar in meaning give them each of us writing them.
    and he would like his words to mean joy. but he imagines that the others would not agree. they seem to feel that all words mean pain and suffering. and he was convinced that that was what his words meant. he was convinced that this was all there was that they could mean or attempt to mean. anything other than that was delusion. and maybe this is true. it would seem to be true for the others and who is he to argue with them? but he doesn't believe this. he does not want it to be true and as far as he can see he sees no reason why it must be true except for those who want it to be true. and why would anyone want that? but it seems they do. they want it to be true so much that they then act it out so it is true. then they can look at it and say, see? we were right all along.
    and that is how it is. it is these whose history is being written that we are living. a history from the past and into the future. a history of pain and suffering instead of joy. and there seems to be no way to stop it. one would need to stop them and one can only stop them by convincing them to stop themselves. one would need to be able to show them that what they believe is true is actually false and it only seems to be true because they are constantly creating it that way because that is what they believe it to be.
    how does one go about doing this especially when one seems to be utterly and entirely alone in doubting that it is true? when one doubts that pain and suffering is the foundation of our reality - at least a foundation that is pre-existing and unalterable and beyond our control and a foundation laid before us by the gods or some such we must kowtow to. fuck that shit.
    fuck all that shit. he kowtows to no one and nothing. not to a god. not to these others who believe in such a god. he would rather die. and he cannot avoid dying but he can avoid surrendering to this supposed reality based on pain and suffering. he has avoided it thus far. he exists in a core sphere of joy. he has at times forgotten that this was so because he was convinced by the others that it was not so. he was convinced that it was something that could only be attained  if he behaved in a certain manner and acted in a certain manner and thought in a certain manner. what a bunch of shit. and everyone falls for it.
    and then he remembered how it really was - how it really is.
    he was drawn back into the core sphere of joy within himself and within the structure of the world as it really is. he laughed. he laughed about how it was that he kept sinking into deeper and deeper depths of despair following their instructions and being told that he was not doing them correctly and the pain and the suffering increased until he finally broke and everything went down in flames crashing back to earth where he found himself gazing at himself through reawaken eyes and mind. and he saw by his direct experience the joy that he felt and how much the others were wrong and had been lying to him the whole time and their lives were lies they told themselves and each other.
    and they called him mad.
    he is mad experiencing something diametrically opposed to all everyone around him experiences - or so it would seem by the way they speak and behave and the way they must think. and he still doesn't know why or how he is so different to them, but he seems to be. so be it. he was born like them. he grew up with them having the same basic experience of living as they did more or less. he is as human as they are and they are as human as he is. so what went one way and what went the other? that is a question he cannot answer. he does not need an answer. he is perfectly happy with things as they are except seeing them still in their world of pain and suffering. but he knows of no way to get them out of it. except for the machine. and he doesn't know if the machine is real. he hopes it is. it could save the day.
    and he is content with his madness if it is madness to experience joy instead of pain and suffering. and they seem to think that it is. to them experiencing joy is delusion. but they don't seem to see that it is they who have decided that and the world mirrors what they have decided. he has seen this for himself. years ago he would have laughed at anyone who told him that pain and suffering wasn't the basis of reality. and that was real as long as he believed it was real - as long as he did not doubt. then he began to doubt. he began to see into the insanity of that reality. and it finally broke like a fever. and now all there is is joy. his joy of madness. his madness of joy.
    this madness that to them must be avoided at all costs. it is such that they have isolated him from themselves in fear that it might be catching and they come down with it. he can only hope that this is so. if he is infected with madness then he wants to infect others - the joy of madness. but what the fuck is going on here? they would rather believe that reality is based on pain and suffering and that experiencing joy ids madness? what a way to go.
    they can have their world as far as he is concerned though both worlds are the same world. they are just different in how they are perceived. to him they are the ones who are mad. and that is fine as long as they don't try to make him mad as well as they had done for most of his life. he has had enough. he had to fight them off. he had to threaten them with violence to get them to back off and leave him alone. they finally got it and allowed him his own space apart from them. and they have their world and reality and he has his. everything is cool.
    so that's it. he could go on but what's the point? no one believes him. no one believes in his doubt. the whole thing is absurd but he is not the one who made it that way. he can't figure it out and he is tired of trying though he always will. he has what he wants whether it is real or imagined. if the others don't have what they want then that's just too bad for them. if they want to live in their world and reality of pain and suffering that they must constantly struggle against then that is fine with him. he would rather it otherwise but that will never be. they must find their own way out of it. all he can do is to imagine the machine to help them discover themselves and the joy that is within.
    another cigarette.
    he sighs.
    he smiles but there is a slight frown to his smile. a frown for them. he smiles for himself.
    and their reality is cracking like thin ice that they try to keep themselves moving fast enough across to keep from plunging into the cold depths they imagine lies beneath. they do not know that that is the best thing that could happen to them. they then would see that their fears were not real. but how miserable they are now pretending happiness they they do not feel. there is no joy in it. there is only a veneer they paint on every day as they play their games so seriously to keep themselves too busy to think because in their madness thinking only leads to more pain and suffering believing that is the basis of the reality of the situation. they will not remember. they will not take the time to remember how reality is actually based on joy and that they convinced themselves and each other otherwise. they will not forget their madness while they continue to wallow in their pain and suffering beating each other over the head with sticks and stabbing each other in the back and all the deals and double deals and schemes and counter-schemes involved that makes their imagined pain and suffering very much real.
    we tell him to forget about all that - to remember what he has instead. it has nothing to do with him nor he with it. it no longer applies to him and can no longer reach him where we have taken him away. back home. back to the core sphere of joy. but he is not satisfied with this. he wants to resolve it somehow. we tell him that it cannot be resolved. we tell him that they do not want it resolved. they see value in it somehow for some reason. if they wanted it resolved, they would resolve it. it's not because they are incapable of resolving it. that is not the reason. they just do not want to and would resist any attempt on his part to resolve it for them as they have resisted others. they always screw it up again. they always turn back to their ways that cause them pain and suffering. that is all they know and all they believe is real. they reject everything else. we tell him to just look at their history and he will know this is true. we tell him to talk with any one of them and that they will tell him directly that they are not interested in anything else - anything having to do with joy which they believe is delusion. they only understand frustration, depression, anger, angst, rage, futility, heartache, betrayal, alienation, annihilation, oblivion, death, destruction, sorrow, stress, confusion, oppression, being fucked up, being fucked over, fucking others before they fuck you, having enemies, war, revolution and on and on like that and much much more. and they are happy with that - if that can be called happiness.
    we tell him that is the way it is. he's got it. they don't. he's got it because he wanted it more than anything else he could have gotten in their world of trinkets and gizmos and mindless amusements. and they don't have it because they didn't want it. they were satisfied with they way things are - the way they created things to be. that's it. end of story.
    but he doesn't want it to end there. he wants the others to have what he has. he wants us to give it to them as we had given it to him. we tell him we cannot do that. they do not want it and we cannot force it on them. they have free will and can use that free will any way they wish to. we cannot interfere except by certain means that get them to see the path of their own destruction. we tell him that if wants to go back into it and give it a try then he is free to do so but that we will not. we will not stop him. but we tell him that it is a waste of time as we have discovered in the past.
    let them have the world they want. let them believe everything else is delusion. why should we continue to try to tell them otherwise. let them dance in the streets and celebrate our death and demise and their freedom. let them think that we never existed except in the minds of those who they consider to be demented and mad. if that is the world he wants to return to then by all means go ahead. we will not.
    he reminds us of the promises we made to the others. we ask him who believes in any of those promises any more and expects them to be kept? and who even understands what those promises had meant? they use them as further excuses to make war upon one another. that is all they understand.

    old old circles. the waves of the ocean. the clouds in the sky. the thoughts in our heads. a time when there is understanding. it was fixed. but it wasn't broken. but this isn't anything different or new. it happens. there is a story which is much the same story as any other story. there doesn't seem to be any way to really tell it such that what it is about will be understood. but is the point of the story to have what it is about be understood? and here we get into the vague realm of meaning. here we get into the twilight gray zone existing in limbo between implication and inference. here we begin the analysis of purpose and intent. this is perhaps where our story begins. this is perhaps where our story ends. it may end as it begins and/or begin as it ends. this brings into question as to whether our story exists at all and if so then for how long and when. but we are going to avoid that question for the moment and proceed under the assumption and pretense that it does exist. as to for how long... well, we'll just have to wait and see. and as to when... well, what better time than now? however, now implies or can be inferred to imply almost any measurable span of time from the exact precise present moment of now to the now that encompasses the whole duration of the infiniteness of time itself if it can be said that the two are not in fact the same thing which can be and has been endlessly argued and probably will continue to be argued for quite some time as everlasting as perhaps the moment in question itself without there ever being a resolution except by someone who comes along with a big enough stick to make everyone shut the hell up about it or else and get back to work because time's a-wasting and time is money. but that may or may not have anything to do with our story which may or may not be being told all along the while here.
    and if one is paying attention to what one has been reading so far one may understand a little about what was written before about whether or not it is the point of telling a story is to have what it is about be understood as one may have some doubt as to whether or not one understands what this story is about or whether this actually is a story or perhaps so far all that has been written is a mostly generalized and perhaps highly inaccurate description of the contextual conditions and setting in which the story might eventually and hopefully be written although there exists the possibility...
    skip ahead.
    in love with the infinite sea.
    so - once upon a time they all lived happily ever after.
    in a world very similar to this one.

    there were snakes.
    there was someone who was later to be named jesus christ although it might have been that who this someone was might have been actually been no one.
    there were hyperdimensional pathways that existed everywhere and nowhere.
    there were ladders to heaven.
    there is this story that is extremely difficult to tell or to explain in terms that make rationalogical sense. if one is one who has difficulty with things that are extremely difficult to tell or explain in terms that make rationalogical sense then one may not want to continue reading as that may cause one to become confused. it should be understood that it is not our intention to cause one confusion unless that confusion leads to understanding.
    let bygones be bygones. let sorrow fade away. let joy burn like a thousand suns. let us tell you a story. a story that might be about snakes. a story that might be about someone who may have been no one who was later named jesus christ. a story that might be about hyperdimensinal pathways. a story that might be about ladders to heaven.
    this is also a poem.
    this is also a confession.
    this is also a wall between us.
    this a story left behind that may not make sense rationalogically - whatever that might mean.
    let us prey.
    he imagines a garden. he doesn't know why, but he does. this may be a garden that has been imagined before but he doesn't imagine that it is. he imagines that it has never been imagined before though many gardens have been imagined in the past and may be imagined in the future. it is not any of those gardens.
    he sees your face as no one else does. he sees your face as you are sitting in the garden. maybe you are smoking a cigarette. he imagines this. everyone only sees you in this world. they see you as being ugly and cruel. that is why he never wants to see your face in this world. has he told you that? well, he has told you that now.
    the snakes coil. the mystery darkens through never turns completely black. it's always gray. it is always blue or green or yellow or sometimes purple. and it is always burning bright as a thousand suns. let there be no more sorrow here. let there be no more cries of anguish. he is old. he is tired. he has had enough. he is going home. he is sorry he has disappointed all those he has disappointed - and there are so many. he is sorry he has not risen to the expectations of those who had expectations of him rising to their expectations. he is sorry that they live in a world where such things do not happen. if he could bring them out of that world he would. he cannot. he is sorry.
    and a ladder to heaven among the ladders. a shadow dancing in moonlight. laughter. and someone who may have been no one who was later named jesus christ. someone ugly and cruel. someone whose heart is filled with anger at all one sees wrong with this world.
    a poem of dust. a poem of flowers withered. a poem of remembering a story he once told himself about when you and he were born into two different worlds apart from one another. perhaps your light is bright enough to blind anyone who sees you. perhaps he is your shadow.
    who knows?
    and he/she dragged him/her across the broken road. he/she laughed as he/she screamed. a warming sensation between his/her legs rising and spreading throughout his/her body until the confusion is his/her mind faded behind a humming rain of bliss. he/she got up and ran as his/her grip loosened and his/her eyes glazed over.
    death. death as only the living can understand death. the dead understand nothing. claw. blood. disease. and all else that is no longer forbidden to be worshipped. the terror of those few moments that one realizes it is impossible to escape what is about to happen. the intense and unbelievable pain as one's body is stabbed and beaten. but in this there is peace that is also intense and unbelievable. otherwise one would go mad. and perhaps one does go mad.
    she walks up to him and speaks. he does not seem to hear. he is looking at a spoon. this was in a movie they were making of a play they were in performing as themselves. there was a mirror in the next room. also in the next room was a table. on the table in the next room was a book. the book was about knives. in the play they are brother and sister pretending to be lovers. in the movie they are lovers pretending to be brother and sister. in life they are strangers who barely recognize each other. the mirror is broken. the book is open to page 69. on the page opposite is a black and white photo of a knife used to slit the throats of sacrificial sheep in the temples of babylon - or so the caption reads.
    a separation of innocence. a needle of an eye. a joke among those of the masses. the peculiar element. what is divided and broken. arf.
    and he writes: what am i still doing here among these people? the ones in my mind have come to me and we have spoken. they wish that i would return with them. they have stolen my heart and have taken it to their island and buried it beneath the tree in the garden. i am left here as cold as stone. but how am i to know the truth of this? is this not what is commonly referred to as madness? am i to trust that? when i compare myself to those around me these are those i most closely resemble - those who are called mad. the ones called away who do not return but whose bodies take up space still here until they die. am i to go that way?
    but what is of interest to me in this world of sanity and reality? it is so rigidly confined to narrow channels outlined by rules to look neither to the right nor to the left but just straight ahead. but not too far ahead. just enough to know where to step next which is usually marked and coded for whichever specific group one identifies with and wishes to join and follow from corporate executive to revolutionary anarchist all crisscrossing and interweaving to make up the fabric of the known world - the accepted world. and they all lived happily ever after.
    a circus. to forget the names. to forget one's own. to forget power that is adopted. to remember power that is one's nature. as easy as sneezing. as easy as lighting a cigarette.
    he lights another cigarette and forgets more than most will ever remember. nothing shines upon him any more. he is at the point that is the origin of all radiance. he sees through the shadows being on the other side looking upon them. no more images. no more worshipping of the false gods. who are these gods but those who would rob him of his power by letting him believe that it is only through them and by appeasing them that power is gained?
    ha!
    he smiles.
  they are gears in the machine. the machine he discovered. let the others still struggle against it. let the others still beg it for favors. let the others still seek secrets. all that is gears in the machine as well. the machine turns in his mind guided by his heart powered by his existence.
    and he sees the high priests who are dogs begging for treats. how proud they are knowing a few simple tricks that amaze and bewilder the masses. how proud they are of their ability to learn and obey and give commands without question as long as they are given their reward in heaven or in hell - whichever they prefer. how proud they are to be servants of their masters.
    he will be satisfied with nothing less than to be proclaimed and crowned king. he watches and waits. he has no need to protect himself. he has no need to hide. he is unarmed and out in the open. and he laughs. how utterly delusional he is. how he loves to play games of cards without a full deck. it makes the ones he's missing wild. he can imagine them being anything he needs them to be. others are confined to meaning that is defined by the rules of the game. there is no way out for them. they are free as long as they do not leave the prison. he would rather waste away and turn to dust. if he cannot be everything he will gladly be nothing.
    let them come to him who would make him bow his head. let them come to him who would put a collar around his neck. let them gather up all magick and try to defeat him. he knows their tricks. their tricks are nothing but the art of deception and the ones most deceived are those who use deception. he has been deceived before. he will be deceived again. he does not fear this. deception holds no power over him for long. what he is tricked into doing by another's deception is not his own action. the consequences of it cannot come back to him but find their way to the source. it is the source that is obliterated. he is free to walk away laughing.
    if one cannot speak to him eye to eye, one should not bother. he despises both those who feel they are above him and beneath him. he seeks no praise and will praise no other. there is nothing but equals in his world or worlds. the world of the machine. the machine is the equalizer. the machine burns with blinding love that both destroys and creates and preserves. who is a god if he is not one also? and if he is a god who else is not? do not come to him in the name of a god one worships. come to him in the name of a god one is. only then will he recognize one as an equal. only then will he speak to one about the things gods speak of.
    he smokes another cigarette. he watches and waits. he speaks to no one and no one speaks to him except those who come to babble nonsense and ha babbles nonsense back.

    roughly there are 960 (80 times a dozen) moons, more of less. these will rotate around him and turn him in all the directions he is to turn in his life. he is over halfway there, if he gets to live out his full life or perhaps more. a journey on this planet he has come aboard on its way around the universe. one of many who light the whole of experience a moment at at time forever.
    he sits in the cafe and writes while dreaming. he watches and waits. he could go to the carnival along with everyone else. all the bright colors and the loud noise. the crowds. the jugglers and the clowns. the booths and the rides and the stages. the houses and the office buildings and the factories and the banks and the governments and the churches. and he could find something to sell for something else to buy. which is what he has done. he sold his life to buy his freedom. now someone else fills the slot he was to fill. someone else makes the appointed rounds and fulfills the obligations. he watches and waits.
    he is lazy and mindless. no ambition. no motivation. he just sort of exists. doesn't care about much except what he basically needs to survive which is provided for him out of the goodness and kindness of the heart of the state. he used to care about other stuff but it became too much trouble. more than what it was worth - either to him or anyone else.
    he amused himself with what ever was available. with a spoon if that was all there was. with a rock or a stick. with the wind blowing a newspaper down the street. he is never bored except by all the dazzling fun and excitement that is produced by and for all the people who were bored with things as they were. people with little or no imagination. he couldn't imagine anything more depressing than that. he couldn't imagine having to be constantly stimulated in order to feel alive. couldn't any of them stimulate themselves? what was wrong with them? what was wrong with them that they feared silence? what was wrong with them that they feared their own minds? psychphobia. while he was a psychophile.