an open mouth.
    resorting to bullshit.
    he guesses that is what one does. that is all anybody wants. everything is fine. everybody's safe and comfortable in the set up confrontational situations of conflict they're in. don't rock the boat. don't go around talking about how it might be possible and even maybe more desirable for us to exist in nonconfrontational situations of conflict. the way things are is how everybody makes their living and gets by. they get very upset and feel threatened by anyone suggesting any change from the lowest common denominator groove they're in of us versus them definitions of self and group identity. one cannot expect to go up against thousands of years of cultural social history and millions of years of biological evolution. there have been those who have tired and look what happened. everything they've said and done has been absorbed without missing a beat. it just gave someone another flag to wave.
    dream on.
    one can only get oneself out of it as best as one can but realizing that that is impossible and one is only kidding oneself thinking one has done so and has only changed one's self-identity that maybe is on the fringe instead of down the middle but operates the same that one might as well be working for the government which we all are anyway.
    he laughs.
    it's all relative subjective concepts as to who is in and who is out and who is us and who is them that everyone has an idea of that they're the ones who are the ones being left out while others are allowed in and all the freaks of whatever denomination or persuasion they may be in terms of whatever characteristics and definitions are perceived by them or by others as being dividing issues who laugh at all the straight regular folk who also feel themselves as being left out as much as anyone else and who is really in anyway?
    and no one understands anyone and everyone is misunderstood and he laughs at all these crying about such things and even at himself when that mood hits him as well and he goes off looking for sympathy or revenge. boo hoo and fuck that shit. nobody wants to hear it from him yet he is expected to listen to the others around him and on his tv and selling their latest cd and talking on the talk shows about it babble and rant on and on. fuck them. if he can take it then so can they. there isn't anyone who doesn't have an enemy who isn't bent on their destruction and extermination and keeping them down and all the be-bop business. that some groups are more successful at doing this than others is irrelevant as others would not hesitate to do the same if they were given the chance and opportunity to do so. it's just a trick of fate that they don't. it's the easiest thing in the world to adopt some high moral sense when you're the one being attacked and fucked over and being put down. the self-rightousness of the abused victim is as common as mud and about as thought provoking. and the only cause any martyr ever died for is the cause of martyrdom and that is certainly an essential ideal and philosophy that needs to be perpetuated for others to subscribe to and use as a template example for shaping their world view and directing their lives accordingly when one searches out the outcast and neglected to rally them to rise up and demand that they be given back what they couldn't hold on to to begin with in order to reinforce and give meaning and purpose to one's own ego that otherwise flounders in meaningless and pointless despair and is the most false sense of self-identity there could be.
    he laughs.
    none of this is really true. it's just something he thinks about once in awhile to amuse himself and because he can.
    it is the meaningless and pointless despair that is one's greatest enemy and challenge to face but to turn and walk away from it no matter what horrors and terrors one turns toward is pure cowardice. these should be despised and avoided yet are more often praised and flocked to by those who are even more cowardly who cannot generate their own delusions to distract and protect themselves but rely on these others to do it for them.
    what is meaningless and pointless despair but the void? and by void he does not mean death. death happens to everyone. it has its own fear. the void is something different. it exists with or without the existence of death. death, if anything, is an escape from the void. what is death but the oblivion of consciousness? the void is the consciousness of oblivion. a horse of quite a different color. it is through one's own conscious will and awareness of the void that one neither turns away from nor surrenders to but remains with in a relationship of balance in the eternity of the moment that even death cannot penetrate or remove. there are those who confuse death with the void without realizing that death is merely unconsciousness and release. and they see this as their truth.
    the void is not something else and one need not travel on a journey to find it. it is not hidden behind a veil of illusion but is one and the same as the illusion. the illusion is merely an image ordered from the void which would otherwise be like noise on a tv screen. it is the same whether it is ordered or in chaos. it is only the ordered image that we feel comfortable with and call real. if there is an illusion, it is that, though the chaotic noise is just as much an illusion as the ordered image. death merely turns the tv off. death is not truth. the void is not truth - either the ordered image or the chaotic noise. forget truth except the truth one finds with meaningless and pointless despair that ultimately leads to joy when one realizes that there is nothing else but joy that encompasses all - even meaningless and pointless despair and death and the void and pretty much everything else that might not be included in those things.
    he laughs.
    to those who have the inner strength and the discriminating wisdom and the determined resolve of will to bring themselves to that state without being beaten back or being drawn into it or distracted and sedated by something else.  these seem to be few and far between. the rest are weak, ignorant and pathetic robots who cannot overcome their social and biological programming without resulting in self-destruction as there is not enough self within them to hold the self together without external support and verification - without their image of god.

    a jagged edge. a joke. a face. an image. a symbol. a hand to hold in the darkness of a haunted house amusement park ride. jesus. satan. clowns entertaining a birthday party of children who need to be amused otherwise they don't know what to do with themselves and they start getting in our hair and running around the house in frantic confusion mindlessly knocking over and breaking things they are not yet capable of understanding. one gives a child a cartoon cup to drink from not a crystal wineglass. one gives a child a symbol of truth not the truth itself. it does not matter how many symbols get broken or lost, we can always go to the store and buy more. it's the truth that one does not give out to one who only knows how to break and lose things they are given. when one proves oneself able to act more maturely than that then we give one something more than what is merely symbolic. not the image of god, but god itself. the real thing itself. no more speculation and theory of what may be or what may not be, but the experience of what is. after all, we were the ones who invented it.
    he laughs.

    howling sun.
    burning moon.
    it matters and does not matter any which way.
    rules or no rules.
    who cares really?
    the formulas of secrets clung to once discovered.
    those who go from one given set to another in the pursuit of knowledge - or is it for just that which is new and exciting?
    and it becomes old and boring.
    a state of mind which does not seem to be able to exist without external stimulation.
    oh well.
    so be it.
    at least these ones are easily kept under control.

    and maybe he's stupid but he still hasn't gotten over the new and exciting discovery that he has a body. opening and closing his hand can keep him entertained with endless amusing thoughts that arise from observing the movements he causes it to make. whenever he is in need of an image of god, he need look no further.

    and your basic dada-doo-wah some such whatever it is or isn't that those attached to meaning and purpose and all that business will ignore while they carry on with their ever so important affairs they schedule their lives around so they will not become confused and might be in danger of realizing that beneath it all however high they pile it on they haven't the first clue as to what they are doing or what meaning or purpose it has other than keeping themselves occupied with things of meaning and purpose they must never never never - ever! - allow themselves to doubt have meaning and purpose for even an instant otherwise they will cease to have reason to exist.

    a flamboyant sense of wild gray in unrehearsed unashamed display. the mind that follows this easy flow that has its choice of where to stop
                          to look
                          to listen aware of what other minds dismiss as monotony because it does not excite the mind but awaits to be perceived by the mind that is able to excite itself.
    and people wonder why they're bored while he watches a cup of coffee dance and sing while his cigarette revels the secrets of the creating universe in its burning and its swirling smoke. he wonders how they could possibly miss it. how more plainly set before them must it be? but they are bored, anxiously awaiting for the fireworks to begin. he sometimes wishes the fireworks would stop.

    something as if a kiss.
    a spark in the dark.
    a random bit of information.
    the machine we've built. the machine that turns all that is turning and turning itself in the turning. space and time rotating around every point and moment. the radiant axis of here and now cleverly hidden from those who look for it to be elsewhere, who do not recognize that looking for it is the same as finding it.
    huh?

    and again on the stage of the burning theater we gaze upon.
    horse: the division of division divided from itself dividing divides the division of division from division.
    fire: yes, but does the multiplication of multiplication multiplied from itself multiplying multiply the multiplication of multiplication from multiplication?
    horse: no.
    fire: no?
    horse: it is not important.
    fire: it's not?
    horse: it depends on how important one feels it is being able to determine how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.
    fire: how important is that?
    horse: at one time it was considered to be important. now it is considered to be somewhat absurd - at least as it is stated concerning angels dancing on the head of a pin. but the basic premise and concept of it in terms of asking about things such as the infinitesimally of particle physics and string theory dimensions is still considered to be important.
    fire: hmmm...
    horse: yes, it does give one pause.
    fire: hmmm...
    horse: yet while this is all still just a perhaps imaginary - but what is not imaginary - it is still necessary if we are to assume our place as creators of the universe instead of remaining merely the created - although that idea is still, even in this atheistic age, considered to be blasphemous. people are still unwilling to allow themselves to believe that we are no more than dust and ashes or just some low order spiritual sub-species in some cosmic hierarchy or some such.
    fire: hmmm...
    horse: to that i say, bullshit. to all of it i say, bullshit. to myself i say, bullshit. to bullshit i say, bullshit.
    fire: you know i was just thinking that i might want to go get a slice of pizza. would you like to come with me?
    horse: sure.
    exit horse and fire stage left.

2/12/89

    and the story begins without beginning. as such there are many things unknown involved at any point where the beginning is chosen. these which are unknown may in time along the way become known yet not to their full extent. and as well that which is unknown may remain unknown yet too not to their full extent.
    this brings into question what is known and what is unknown. where and when? what is knowledge and what is unknowledge?
    2+2=4. this is simple. this is known in the human mind. yet what exactly in the world is 2 or any other number for that matter? 1+1=2. that is also simple. that is also known in the human mind. one assumes that if one has one of something then one may have two of something. yet does one ever have one of something? what is one beside the division of one done by and inside the human mind?
    and we laugh at this. how impractical such thinking is. it's so much easier to count 1-2-3-4... and to the aspect and concept to which numbers are divisible by and in the human mind we may have missed a major portion of our worldly experience.
    out of the need to eat how much has remained untasted? taste is experienced merely to get us to eat that which will sustain us and not eat that which will harm us. otherwise than that it is useless except as we use this sensation to give us pleasure.
    from this there have been those of us who have sought the denial of experience as a gateway to the ultimate experience. this experience joins to the unity of the many as one and reaches past beyond the divisible rational world we have constructed out of the infinite possibilities around us.
    how perplexing it becomes to anyone seeking some sort of truth to things. we think in terms of one truth, stable and constant, uniform and static. even the concept of the ever flowing river and other similar metaphors have this attribute - oneness.
    oneness is complex, multivaried, unstable, inconsistent, changing and paradoxical. oneness is manyness. how may one know one without knowing many? it is many that gives meaning and fulfillment to one.
    or something like that.
    take a spoon. describe it upon this table next to a cup of coffee. there is a bit of coffee in the bowl of the spoon. it lines up in a certain direction. it harmonics with noise generating in the room. it is in relationship with all of the many. it cannot be moved from its relationship with all as its relationship with all is described in terms of movement in space and time. it cannot be in the wrong place. even if it were in the wrong place that would be its relationship with all and therefore it would be in the right place being in the wrong place.
    and none of this may be the point.
    and none of this may be the story that may or may not have begun as we have been here before.
    there is nothing concluded. as this story has no beginning - or many beginnings - it has no end - or many endings. the ending of things is unknown as is the beginning of things. they exist only in relationship with all. they are only experience beyond experience as experience remains undivided down to one - the one that is many. we cannot judge yet we fight our wars. and us fighting our wars is only our relationship to the all neither right nor wrong. all action is in relationship with all.
    the story does not begin - except where and when we begin it. the story does not end - except where and when we end it. the story continues. the story has no cause or effect except as we give it cause and/or effect.
    or something like that.
    and this all just happens in time with its cause and effect on space. we exist in space and we happen in time. we divide time. we say this happens and then that happens. we tell that story to ourselves. we get in a car and turn the key and drive to work or the grocery store or a bar. what do we need to know of time beyond that?
    time controls us. we allow and even demand that time control us. everything we do is measured by time - by our measurement of time. our division of moments. 1-2-3-4... if we have one moment then we can have two moments. we cannot control time but we can disconnect from time's control of us. we can allow things to happen as they will. we can stop seeing cause and effect.
    control?
    why are we writing about control? the story controls itself as being what it is and nothing other than what it is. it can be anything but what it is not. once what it is not becomes what it is then what it is not is no longer what it is not and becomes what it is. in this way the story continues forever.
    is this control?
    do we control this? is what is and what is not merely definitions of our perception? are what is and what is not actually one and the same together making a whole that we are unable to perceive except by only perceiving what is and not what is not? does it matter in relation to what frozen dinner we should by?
    yes/no.
    is not.
    is too.
    but beyond our perception lies our imagination. our imagination fills in the rest from what we perceive and what we experience. it knows what is not from what is. it does not rely on cause and effect or the control of time.
    the contrast of creation made up of the infinite amount of divisions we perceive in a finite way surrounding us everywhere every moment. we pick and choose our creation of reality one piece at a time instantly. and when we pick and choose one thing or the other we do not actually change its relationship with the whole - the all. it remains always as it is whether it is here or there, now or then, whether it is added to or subtracted from, created or destroyed - though there is no real creation or destruction. there is only what is and what is not. there is just the rearrangement of the elements in relationship to one another and the whole.
    and we forget this that we are doing constantly always deciding and dividing in our creating. yet we complain about it always as it is never what we want it to be.
    something about how we decide out of all infinite possibilities what is and what is not possible. what mind does this? - if there is any mind at all.
    there is no mind, one critic said. it just happens the way it happens.
    this is true or not true. what is our mind then? it just happens the way it happens. it is not different than the rest of the universe. whatever the universe is defined as being then our mind must be defined as being. or maybe not.
    if the universe and the mind are defined as being the same then what is the difference between what is experienced and what does the experiencing? there is no mind, it just happens the way it happens.
    is the mind the cause or the effect? and what if there is no cause and/or effect? and without cause and/or effect the universe and mind happen at once together in being and one with all.
    we are it and it is us.
    or something like that.
    from one to one.
    from one to many.
    from one to many to one.
    if a coffee cup falls on the floor and shatters, is it one or many? was it one or many before? if it is glued back together is it one or many?
    one has the potential of being many as the many has potential of being one.
    as the universe opens out from a singularity from the mind of god is it one or many? when it returns to that singularity in the mind of god is it one or many?
    and what are the names we give things? and what are the things themselves?
    our everyday that is not concerned with such things and find them meaningless. yet the everyday is not the reality except as we experience it every day and accept it as being real. is there a choice here? can we choose what we want to experience or do we just go mad?
    and what about laundry?
    what about a sink full of dirty dishes?
    and what about all the dirty jobs that must be done and those who have to do them?
    when does reality fall apart?
    when do we go about naked?
    what about our expectations?
    and we then design control mechanisms to try to keep things the way they are - or how we have set them to be. and we become frightened of change. and we build things with some idea of static immortality. and when that immortality begins to decay and crumble we become lost and panic. and we fantasize that we are beset by evil gods bent on our destruction.
    and fingers through someone's hair in a shampoo commercial on tv.
    and we are willing to die for what will not change.
    to work toward a common illusion we all can believe in. a common illusion that contains all the elements of our individual fantasies though many work against one another and we go to war. and language based on that common illusion. a language filled with much misunderstanding though we do find others of our kind still somehow - lovers, a gang, a political party, a corporation, a nation, a religion - where all the meanings of our words intersect into the common idea or ideal and those who speak to us of these common ideas or ideals who then command us.
    or whatever.
    la-dee-da down the silver stream or our obscure consciousness twirling swirling around through the various and multi-various currents of contrast making up this world wonderful universe thing.
    dividing on the dotted line. fold. tab a into slot b.
    heaven
    connections and disconnections.
    isolation.
    bad breath.
    spilled milk. birth.
    death.
    maple syrup.
    sidewalk.
    baseball.
    insects.
    stars.
    pebbles.
    unlimited limits.
    possibility toward impossibility.
    dance in the light.
    dance in the dark.
    dance between here and now.
    dance as the dance becomes who we are to be. feel the rhythms pulsing through body mind soul. we are one with many and many with one unless the divisions come between which happens time and again in cause and effect and control.

    and as the dada-ananada was pretending to shop in the supermarket while actually enjoying the intensity of colors of the packages under the florescent lights - the dada-ananda loves attention grabbing devices - the dada-ananda spake to no one in particular, i am wondering about the future. i wonder about what the future has been in the past. i wonder how much longer cows will be useful. i wonder what will replace television.
    and someone who was with the dada-ananda for a few days asked, why do you wonder about things you already know?
    and the dada-ananda chuckled and spake, if one cannot wonder about what one already knows then what's the point?

    and out of ten thousand shadows from the land where everything is forgotten where there is no love, or so it seems at first - or maybe it seems all the time. and where the line divides between the two to ever separate them one from the other never to know unity but to ever seek it or the illusion of it.
    this is loneliness. this is the loneliness of the one without the many. old songs playing the same groove over and over. and windows with morning light spilling through warm in the moments that they last melting the cold reason. and no one knows nothing about anything about how this loneliness feels because this loneliness is experienced by one alone. the ice is so thick that however much the heart may burn it cannot get through. and all the songs on the radio cannot express the isolation felt in this real enough life in a dream.
    the circles chasing their tails flagging seductively out of reach of their open mouths.
    desire.
    motion.
    one to be oneself and also be the other in wanting control and not being controlled.
    one to be two.
    one wanting to be two when two is already one. mirror image the opposite but the same. and the fantasy of the mirror image - the fantasy of the grass being greener on the other side. the fantasy and desire for that which the one cannot have when one is what one cannot have already as one is all there is.
    how long is life contained in a moment always being now? how short? when does our awareness begin? when does it end?
    why despair?
    why celebrate?
    why breathe?
    and the circles continue in and out through and between. one to the other with no distinction of one or the other. yet back here in the real everyday world - money and wars. lines and walls that do not exist except in our minds - our minds full of fear.
    death.
    the loss of the self to the one and the many. loss of control. control that does not exist except in our minds.
    the millions of people who suffer. the billions of people who suffer. generation after generation. the suffering passed from one generation to another. the circles keep turning. the machine turning the circles. the circles turning the machine.
    and when god does not come as god is already here within our hearts. yet we seem to need a savior to get us to break the final link to our suffering. who or what will act as savior to us all?
    what is a name? what are the names but the names we place on that which we need to become beyond ourselves into ourselves who we are and into the one and many? to give control to this name - control over our death of ourselves.
    yet the names are real to some of us - many of us. we believe one name is not the other name. and we will kill one another over what name we use rather than realizing what we are naming is the same.
    and one can only watch. one cannot explain one's inner realization. words have no meaning.

    the noise that is the noise of our god - our one and many it. our god ordered out of chaos. our god in the waves of being we are as we are in the spirit and the flesh. the reality explored through our every action. we decide what it is and what it is not out of all presented to us from our experience and perception of experience.
    glory in all flags waving upon the field of flags. the dance we dance on the graves of all who died to become us who we are. we are of the dust. we are ashes. we are the alpha nd the omega in no beginning and no ending existence.
    we are this.
    we are that.
    we are it.

    and to become the butterfly to awaken at the end of a cold dark winter. to call back the names of our gods who are ourselves. bring it down on down. bring it up on up. this is the war we fight that no matter what we won't do as the others do - or something like that. and the names we use are not the names we use. not here or not. the arguments for and against the main front wherever that may rise before us. bring on the light bringing on the darkness. bringing on whatever lies between no matter how balanced it may or may not be. the words of ignorance. the words of divine cosmic thing dividing itself endlessly all over the place. the plane of existence. ha-ha-ha zippy-doo-dah.

    got it on his mind.
    got the development of it on his poor circular mind.
    he can seem to only understand part of what it is - his part.
    what more does he need?
    what he needs is what he needs.
    the early morning blues.
    the bringing it on up or down to which we celebrate the hop skip and then he can dance again as we danced before knowing nothing eating away what?
    and all the injured. and all the wounded sometime about now and then around the false prophets camped in full modern pomp. the direct insertion of it into our direct what to for easy access down by the river. the ego mind bragging in-between here and now. the mish mash. the damage done by the social crossfire. face down. listening to ten thousand gurus. the mouths open and close. nothing more is said. nothing more is imagined. nothing more. nothing like being here now alive. crying into the air - thin air. the quiet and easy. the donut building into the spheres. books. writing. now again. logic never fails. the psyche incredible through the east west mix of the mind borrowed from one to another. always one to another. that is the secret we do not tell ourselves.
    nevermind.
    and to wonder above it all disgusting fevered bliss to mix it all inside something out outside something in under the bed around again again and through away babies with bath water brain child complex over and over again and what does and what does not count. what even tiny bitty micro-particle does count in its reverberations throughout the whole as the whole reverberates into itself down to each and every tiny bitty micro-particle again.
    huh?
    eh?
    how many times?
    into the serpent's mouth we speak. triangulate. our position is clear though at first it might not be apparent. obviously nothing is obvious except the obviousness of it all not being obvious - or something like that.
    into the dragon's mouth we dance as we have never danced before.
    and as it brings another point of being now as the soul bleeds from the heart. now it seems here and now it seems there and then. a tree falls. and a small comfort to us all as the ship sinks without a sound. and ever into a midnight darkness sought by poets who write of death. who write of death while living. who when dead write no more.
    suicide.
    words.

    a dark poetic cube of whatnot seeping into the cosmic mind which does not perform miracles. this ride is closed. broken figments removed from memory. someone call a doctor. someone call a name. someone call a series of random numbers as we stand exposed now demanding everything we were promised. a god who cares about something other than perfection. when forgiveness won't make it. when we dance ourselves alone. a promise. a kiss in the dark. how many have been here before? how many are yet to come?
    and how simple is the truth - or how true is the simple.
    take it down.
    take it out.
    the breath that is not breathed now or ever again.
    how simple is a breath.
    a breath could be a word.
    a word unspoken now or ever again.
    and what is small is great and what is great is small.
    birth and death.
    it's all birth and death.
    what we lose is what we gain and what we gain is what we lose.
    tomorrow is forever however that fits into anything else.
    the inability to communicate what is common to us all. we divide ourselves apart with words. he watches these words appear as they do or don't - like breaths on a mirror. like fish in the sea.
    no one knows all of what is or not. escape. prison. layers of perception. layers of being.
    and a long long sleep. and nothing more comes away from what is now as he thinks of this and that to say as easy as not what is not easy formulation underneath no words moving somehow between this which is.
    gunshot.
    bringing on the imagined death. bringing on the needle into brain stab in the back now as control is gained.
    listening untrusted movements which celebrate the nowhere now as we no longer explore who each other are or are not.
    and to just be able to see you smile. to just be able to see you radiate toward a moon around in the sky.
    denial.

    and the steady and the unsteady application of some governing system in place through ages with guns and a little beyond our comprehension to keep it together for much too long cracking down into the game we played so long ago we forgot the rules of it seeming to be random as we drifted down a stream of dreams dreaming of themselves and a good fix and listening to the sounds that lie between the stars transmitting no known language or even the absence of language transmitting what is of itself crazy wisdom banging our heads against the walls we call for the poets inside ourselves to give us names for the unnamed in the field of flags where nothing is left standing as we are the ones the gods have called back and we are returning and coming away.
    our enlightenment is called insanity because it breaks down walls instead of building or reinforcing them. no one wants to find themselves naked before god and everybody. yet naked is the only way we may return to the garden of our birth. to be born again from the heart and mind. to feel the limitlessness of the soul as it merges with all. such simple words for simple fools - simple truths. and we stand where nothing has stood before in our own footprints. we are at the end of the path that has been and at the beginning of the path that will be. and it's so easy to turn back. it's easy to be what has already been.
    and the circles describing the circles around us. and we eat what we eat. and we breathe what we breathe. and everyone is looking for perfect love. as the dada-ananda has told us before - love is a mythological emotion.

    and the dada-ananda stood in a meadow and turned to the left 18 times. the dada-ananda walked among the things that grew in the meadow.
    and it was later that the dada-ananda slept. and it was when the dada-ananda awokened that the dada-ananda spake thusly, it would be a nice day if it weren't raining.
    and it was with this being said that great clouds swept across what was the blue clear sky and did form themselves in such a manner that it did rain from that moment until evening when the clouds parted and left the sky open such that all the stars were seen.
    the dada-nanda was naked as we all are beneath our layers of clothes and our minds.
    and it was even some time after that that the dada-ananda was at a friend's house watching television. the dada-ananda was mildly amused and spake again thusly, it is this which troubles me so much to think that this is the state of mind we are up against. i wonder how it will turn out.
    and one who was with the dada-ananda a few days asked the friend, does the dada-ananda not know how it will turn out? i thought the dada-ananda knew the past, present and future.
    and the friend spoke, it is not known if the dada-ananda knows anything at all. there is much we are not told. the telling may be yet to come.

    from the distance. from the length that is known. distance is one thing. knowing the distance is something else. and we were moving from one thing to another across this distance. we were in the world. we were in a movie about the world. we were in a book about the movie about the world. we were an idea.
    the distance circles back in on itself. flesh on flesh. flesh in the world. flesh in a movie about the world. flesh in a book about the movie about the world. flesh made up of flesh. flesh made up of light. flesh made out of shadow. flesh made up of an idea.
    and an idea of distance.
    the image awakening from a passing thought of itself as god creating all creation including space and time which did not exist before but now having been created has always existed at that moment which is the ongoing moment of all moments as they are now at the point which is the ongoing point that is all points as they are here.
    space is here.
    time is now.
    and here we are now in the everyday solid and real and subject to death and oblivion and all the struggles we undergo forgetting that it all is an illusion of creation.
    and still a lot of emptiness that exists between us. emptiness that we fill with our fantasies of love and hate and everything in-between which are all the same anyway.
    we are locked within ourselves. we are locked out of each other. and then we build walls - but the walls are crumbling from their own weight and age.
    and this exists in space and time reverberating with insubstantiality. all changes because it seeks its place as being one.

    and in the delight.
    and in the field of flags.
    and in the emptiness between us.
    falling and rising.
    the shot is lined up and taken.
    ka-pow!
    ancient ritual the white glow skin faced madonna and her dead child skull in reverse and pathetic being people staring down the long tunnel from a life after life dream laughing without wonder ending in a borrowed chalice cracked at the point of departing glances from the train to jordan and east into the realm of mind without memory erupting into itself always inside a moment talking among ourselves about our new freedom.
    edit.
    crawl across the floor left behind speaking a thousand names for every thought crossing the threshold of pain. and now we do return to the moment of our birth death we look into the open mouth of a god uttering a long moan of anguished joy at what was formed from the chaos of its heart and mind. we are alive here and now in space and time. the face speaks on television. the words are words of silence. the music drifts through our secretly opened minds. every person has a story. every story has a happy ending if one waits long enough though it may only be death. a kiss on a great big movie screen. it eats its own lunch snappy fingers. bringing up the embarrassing some such. too much time for nothing to do in the hidden rooms as the mind turns upon itself in its attempt to reach another mind. fill in the blank. create the god of one's own choosing to bring about the quick connection and name the nothingness as a result which surrounds our consciousness. we are the center of reality. give it a name. and from the pits of darkness beneath our very minds. another joke. and from all of this we create out of images of our nightmares when we are alone.
    silence and the magnitude of silence we are born into and breathe the air. centuries in dreamland. the wicked are punished. the punished are wicked. and around and around we go again until our heads spin in a confusion between faith and doubt. calling out the names no one answers to. one from one. through purple haze skies down to the burning earth where war rages on. this is the same as it always was. this is the same as it always will be. the hatred fermenting in our hearts for evil twisted into the fabric of our lives. we cannot control our actions chain reacting around and through us. the open and shut case of love without love. the emptiness surrounding everything in space and time as one big hole in the sky.
    and how to tell if inside is out or outside is in when everything is acting like one big fat dream we dream together. and lust within it all. and from one end to the other. and a dream of a world. everything seemed to be whatever it was. fools playing a fool's game. broken promises when promises should not have been made. we dance on through the night. and what does it matter what happens? what does it become but what it was before?
    with something like light coming around where we were before. something we hadn't remembered in a long time. something we thought we didn't know. fires in the night. fires gathered with people misplaced from the modern world. the 15 minute antichrist in the future which is now. children who know more the less they are taught. like digging a hole in water. breathe the sky. and whatever else it would take to unlock us from the dream of the world within a world we have created with our god. to see the world as a reward and not a punishment.
    out in the desert. out in the western lands where everything goes to die. the masters of death their grim hands weaving through lives of the countless turning the rivers to blood and the air with foul stench. nothing remains where their shadows have fallen. the ruins which are the tombs for all the life they despise. any expression of life is extinguished. their minds cannot tolerate anything that changes or evolves.
    we live in this world. we give these masters of death power over us though they are few and we are many. they know how to poison our minds with the desire to kill and destroy. we respond to the call of animal urges when all else fails. we act out their fantasies.
    death birth scream heaven. crossing the desert on the ocean waves where the moon can capture us in dream light as we exist in our imagination apart from all else within its deepest heart - the heart of god.

    calling out to the wind blowing in another direction from here where we are as we are being whatever identity was given to us. the cycles continue for what passes as forever in human terms - yet is only a moment to those who lose control. such a waste of time though time doesn't exist anyway as it might seem to those who lose control. how many layers do we want to go? can we tell who's who? and time without a place and a place without time. how much is held by either? nothing is changed. no one moves. we exist under layers and layers with layers and layers beneath us. the clocks don't work.
    and what does it take to know what's going on around us? does anyone want to know or just keep reacting to whatever comes along? life is such a complicated mess - or is it just us who complicate it? it turns this way and that way - any unexpected way it can go.
    and the clocks don't work. they haven't worked for many moons. to believe is to become. and deep in the forest of the city to be alone among one's own kind - or are they? who are they? who are we? no words make it from mind to mind intact. the essential is lost. we receive blank stares or expressions of menace. we are alone among our own kind.
    and this is old shit. the alienation of human kind. how ho-hum. we've lived in these cages a long time. much has been written but still here we are.
    searching through the ruins for something worth knowing. we find only the remains of those who have searched before.
    and he has found nothing within or without. experience is only experience. it says nothing of anything else. he cannot put together what has been taken apart. he cannot take apart what has been put together. he might as well not be here at all.
    the time of the moment goes by. he waits. nothing appears to him. he looks into the depths that surround him and that he surrounds. which is in and which is out? he has become accustomed to the darkness. any light is blinding.
    and to be no one in this world - this world filled with no ones. the absolute loneliness of being. we try to escape but cannot. it is everywhere - in every corner - in every crowd. make believe you have a name. make believe others know who you are. and he writes this like something else might be possible. what is it? there is nothing.
    out where there is nothing left. here we are on the edge of ourselves. on the point of becoming something or someone else. maybe.
    he is tired. he sleeps. he has no dreams. what else is there to dream? he could die and he wouldn't even know it.
    this place has been reached in its own time where everything has ended yet we keep it going because we think there is nothing else to do. how do we break out of these cycles? he cannot break them. we can only break them together. yet where does it all start? where do we begin in what has no beginning and no end?
    and if he sleeps he has no dreams. there is only the darkness and the loneliness of being. and there is you. you speak of fear when you speak of love. he cannot get anywhere near you.
    logic never fails.
    and from zero - if zero can ever be zero. waking from the dead. life after life. day to day. and on television. and on whatever else there is everywhere. on a bicycle riding over the hills and far away.
    drop it down.
    crack it.
    zero.
    and as we try to carefully inform ourselves about the events and the meanings of events around the place we lose the details and follow the trends. bugga-boo. and this is our knowledge and our knowledge of our knowledge. the more we know, the less we know. and we wonder why no one knows what's going on and things seem to be falling apart no matter how much we build on to it falling down. and people grabbing power all over the place and those who are first will be last and as one falls another takes their place and as such things are as they are continued with everybody in on the act from top to bottom and even in the streets among the shopping cart patrols with stab in the back politics everywhere.
    and it is said there is a new world coming. but what that new world will be is a source of endless argument though if it is to be a new world it must be something we all can agree on otherwise it's just something else crammed down our throats by whoever has the biggest fist.
    so he dreams of the new world though he has no dreams. he observes those around him and tries to see the common elements to what they say and do. he thinks he sees it sometimes but he knows that they don't. they agree that there is good and evil but what is good or what is evil they will blow up the world rather than change their subjective opinion they believe is god's truth. it's so close yet so far. the forest and the trees and all that sort of jazz.
    so how does it come around? all the elements are in place to build the world into paradise. so how do we take it apart without resorting to out and out wild free for all destruction? - or maybe that is what needs to happen.
    and then put it back together again without forgetting and repeating history of this whole mess - including the history of forgetting and repeating history like an escher maze thingie crawling with lizards and hands drawing hands and people endless climbing towers and then some up and down that line.
    yeah - let's contemplate a few more things that have no answers. yeah - let's see what happens. let it slide away. let it fall. maybe it knows its own direction better than we can direct it. it's the mix and match mish mash of all our individual actions based on our individual ideas. who is to say what's right or wrong or if it's the interaction of the two together that result in what is to be as it is to be? all action and reaction, or whatever.
    so what is right action? what is wrong action? how are these balanced into the whole that is the result of all action? mirrors of mirrors of mirrors. was there ever an original image? will there be an original image? or is it the combined reflections that create the illusion of image?
    and maybe the point to this wandering pondering is erased by its conclusion. there is no need to wonder about questions. the whole made up of diverse and contradictory yet complementary parts with none being able to be singled out as wrong except by its opposite which is just as wrong to it from its viewpoint. and what sort of conclusion is that?
    how does that help anyone toward whatever they are moving toward? is it supposed to help? - or does it just get in the way? does it help by helping or by hindering? if it helps by hindering then is it really hindering? and how does one know what to do or not when even the wrong may be right and one step backward may be one step forward? what is to be followed? what is to be avoided? what are we even moving toward? how does one do one's part? what do we deny? what do we not deny? how does he stop asking these stupid questions? leave the others to kill each other about it. let them try to keep all the boxes lined up straight.
    living between the lines. seeing the forest and the trees. tip-toe through the fog. keep it moving. let it live. let it die. let it become or not become whatever it will or will not. we are the sun. we are the rain. we are wheels turning on wheels. let it come and let it go as it will. bring ourselves to where we are. exist in our being in the existence and being of it all. being the forest and the trees.
    and the song that comes from the true heart - or what seems to be true - without knowing why or quite how it is we feel the way we do except we've tried to follow the path through the obstacles set in our way - the remains of...
    it falls down to us. it comes to us with every name on its lips with sweet long kisses of fantasy luring us back into our sleep where dreams continue from our mind's imagination.

    and from wherever it comes from and wherever it goes. eat and shit. live and die. breathe and speak. from one into the other repeating as we are repeating this observation from this time to that time. listen to the sound it all makes - the noise it becomes as we hear it as itself as what it is. the hand and the movement of the hand. the word and the thought the word expresses. and true life adventure. and the people who are led easily from one attraction to another. he doesn't know who they are. he doesn't know what their purpose is - if they have a purpose. theirs is just existence. everything is absolute. everything is solid and divided from everything else. their world is concrete.
    and under a dream. and under a spell from a word beyond yet existing with us. we hear our names vibrating our souls. the expression of the thought of the word.
    he despairs for these people. he walks the streets of babylon and feels their pain emanating from every direction from everyone. how did they do this to themselves? what were they trying to accomplish building this city that has been a curse throughout the endless ages? they talk out of both sides of their mouths. they say they want one thing and then create a thousand reasons to keep themselves from getting it. what's with them?

    and it seems confusing but it is not. what confuses the issue is our idea that the world is divided between what is this and what is that. it is and it isn't. this is only for our convenience. without divisions we would perceive everything as nothing. out of one came space and time and all else involved in defining what exists in space and time - and the experience as well. space and time are nothing without being experienced. this is the experience of space and time.
    and what is one unless experienced as more than one? how is one to be experienced as more than zero? - which is the true real one. nothing and something exist only in relationship to one another. one without the other is inperceivable and nonexistent. what is something unless it is divided from something else. how does it become one without the other? - being what the other is not. so if there is one there is two. if there is two, there is many. if there is many, there is infinite. this is how this and that come into it with the fundamental idea of creation from the simple dividing of existence from nonexistence to the infinite of all existing and nonexisting and on into all possibility. this and that become as complex as complex can get while ultimately remaining simple.
    existence is dependent upon perception of that existence. all perception is imagination as all creation and existence is imagination. existence is the reflection of consciousness. consciousness is the attempt to comprehend existence. god looks at itself in a mirror. we are god looking at itself in a mirror. maybe. maybe not. or we can go with the idea that we are created in sin and are doomed for destruction except by this god's whim. but if this god looks into the mirror and sees part of itself that it hates then how perfect can this god be? a god of self-hatred. how can there not be perfection? what else is there to be perfect other than what is? how can we be other than perfect? how can we be other than god?
    that which goes and returns to itself because there ain't no place else to go. yet it returns changed from as it went having gone. and infinity is composed by an infinite number of finite expressions which are only finite in how they are perceived and experienced. one plus one plus one plus one...
    when the logic turns in on itself - rationality cannot describe the irrational. one cannot know the infiniteness of itself without becoming many without limit except the limit of one.
    how far does this go? how far does it not go? and here we are in the everyday quite apart from any of that with our everyday experience in the divided finite universe where one thing is this and the other thing is that and the two are not to be confused. but the finite and the infinite are one. they merge into our consciousness and imagination. do we need years of study and meditation to understand? or can any lovestruck beer drinking fast car driving ordinary citizen comprehend it if one should so choose? what are we doing? are we just reacting to stimuli or are we actually thinking about anything?
    and what about all these spaceships all over the place?
    and baseball scores.
    what about 1+1=2?
    one of what?
    two of what?
    and the time between the time between the time between the time...
    the waves of reality keep waving on. we are drawn toward and away from the infinite center toward and away from the infinite reaches.

    jesus with a broken leg.
    jesus with a lisp.
    jesus with a cauliflower ear.
    jesus down on his knees sucking off his disciples.
    and it's all money from here on out.
    jesus with a six pack.
    jesus with a joint.
    jesus delivering a pizza.
    jesus mailing a letter.
    jesus riding a skateboard.
    jesus as a billionaire.
    jesus as a service station attendant.
    jesus as a lesbian mud wrestler.
    jesus as a whore flying a kite.
    jesus painting a house.
    jesus here.
    jesus there.
    here a jesus - there a jesus.
    where is jesus?
    come out - come out - wherever you are...
    come out, jesus, come out.

    and it joins one from and to another as it meets in mutual space and time that is nothing and everything except the kitchen sink - or what?
    and then a rug.
    and then an ashtray.
    and then a red car, said the woman drinking a rum and coke at the next table in this bar he was sitting in doodling these words around.
    a soapbox.
    and waking up from a billion and more dreams of lives lived through all the horror and the wonder.
    until we dance.
    until we dance naked again in the garden.
    is this just another dream?
    is this just part of the general madness?
    and those who go and do not return. we will call their names and no one will answer. and those who never existed at all. those who were reflections of ourselves. we will gather their scattered dust and ashes with the attraction of our newfound love.
    nothing will stop our love. our love will rebuild a world destroyed. our love will bring a dawn that has been spoken of for thousands of years. our love will kiss everyone awaken again. our love is life itself. our love will beam from every particle of matter and the stars in the void. no place will be in darkness.
    our love will let everyone recognize themselves again as who they really are, not as they dreamed themselves to be.
    dance through the morning mist rising and burning off as the sun warms the earth again remembering.
    and how can we say now what it will be? - wonderful and with undying beauty though all must die. and nothing will have changed but our minds.
    dance through the opened spaces in our minds no longer having to ask questions that have a thousand answers being now what is. being a star diamond thing radiant and reflecting radiance. bring ourselves to the shores of the island of the gods who greet us.
    and we awoke. and we were lain upon the beach with a morning sun gently beginning to warm us. memories of a storm tossed night. waves that had lost their rhythm crashing over the deck of our ship - a ship that would sail for a thousand years we had proclaimed with loudspeakers and brass bands and all sorts of sundry processional and ceremonial pomp and circumstance we could muster and even a solemn and silent crowd with heads bent long echoing prayer by the highest priest we could invent to beseech the whim of our almighty god we long trembled beneath to have kindness and not judgment upon us with this our final voyage.
    and down it went.
    and so we awoke.
    a world that had gone insane in one spontaneous combustion with riots in every country, every city and town, every house, every mind. the screaming violence broken loose from every bond and cage  killing and killing and killing and wanting to kill again and again. there was not enough death to satisfy our greed and hunger for death. this greed and hunger for death that welled up in every heart. everyone had an enemy to destroy - the evil oppressor denying them everything and torturing their lives and keeping them from all they desired and felt they needed to find happiness. no questions asked.
    and so we awoke and rose up. and so we found food and drink. and so our wounded bodies and minds were ministered to during the day by those who came to us who we did not know who seemed as angels but who were only but we ourselves. we did not need to beg. we did not need our credit cards. we did not need our stock portfolios.

    and whatever jesus wants, jesus gets.
    get down on your knees.
    green light - screwdriver between the strings.
    jesus eats his lunch by the moonlight.
    we depart.
    candy bar blue licking off the wet chair absorbed in through the mainframe.
    visitor.
    call it out.

     snap.
     the camera shot.
    reality.
    grip the bones no longer hidden with flesh.
    eat your teeth.
    mother and sister.
    daughter to moons ever circling over cool rivers.
    pick it up.
    father and brother.
    son to the sky of clouds and birds.
    snap.
    back again.

    no one's memory.
    a horse.
    a house.
    a mouse.
    an elephant bringing the sign of plenty to the village.
    a sword drawn gleaming in the desert sun.
    a beginning.
    a moose.

    as more and more draws to a close and more and more opens. forget the details. forget the veneer.
    where we connect into and from each other that we close up and deny. we form our love into fear and hatred. we kill in so many ways.
    dance it out.
    bring back the rhythm of yourself.

    another day of this pointlessness. the sharp defined edges of this world. what is and what is not - whole parts of our experience denied while the remaining parts are static and lifeless disconnected from its other self. how much longer is this maintained? how much longer do these people lead their crippled lives while crippling others? how can they not recognize what is happening and not happening? they would rather suffer through it with the denial philosophy of that this is what is and it cannot be changed. they shut off most of reality into the limited reality they then complain about it not giving them what they want. it's like complaining that salt is not pepper after not allowing pepper to be set on the table. this is some sort of bizarre and mad joke.
    and their madness continues. he sees it everywhere. the buildings they design. the cars they drive. the clothes they wear. the music they dance to. the books they read. the television they watch. the movies they see. the toys they play with. the work they do. the words they use to speak. there is no escape from it. there is no other world to go to because the "other world" is this world in its greater form. it exists in the same space and time. it is the real world as opposed to their fantasy world. their madness won't let them recognize this because their madness feeds on this one eye closed perception and consciousness. their madness would cease to exist otherwise. their madness wishes to survive like every other living thing.
    and whenever there is nothing but silence. inside rooms forgetting everything about what we were dreaming. and we were dreaming. at least we thought we were dreaming. maybe we were, maybe we weren't.  and as it passes from one to another. as it begins as it doesn't begin. he tries to keep it within some framework without putting any sort of limit on anything. how does he know what will turn into what? as the others divide and channel it this way and that way and with every choice they cut off part of its potential eventually leaving them with nothing in their dead end world he must try to survive in.