then one comes to oneself sitting in a cafe gazing out the window. one has been playing a game of chess against oneself and is in check. so it goes in such games. even the victor is defeated by victory. it is so simple. one laughs. yet to get to it is an extreme complex process of elimination - it is not this, so it must be that - it is not that, so it must be this - or something else.
    until then one turns around and realizes that the only victory is defeat of oneself or some such crazy business that ends up making no sense whatsoever and then the bell rings and time is up and one has failed miserably. and one laughs again.
    this is where he came back to himself - the here and now out of the there and then. he fell off his chair away from himself. it struck him like lightning but he didn't feel a thing except a growing numb warmness and an enveloping gray light with darkness as the sun going behind a cloud and the cloud is glowing.
    a fairly idiot scheme that arises from murky depths of consciousness to unfold before the enraptured face in the mirror. how horrible it may seem to realize when one is confronted by tortured children throughout history that comes from the same mind as one's own. how prickly becomes one's comfort and what distance one must take on looking at a small world from so far away. one places it in a larger reference - one that does not need to explain minor inconsistencies. but one comes shaking a bone - a small twisted broken bone. look at this. who let this one in the house? who let this one speak? who changes this comedy back into tragedy again? we will not see nor hear anything. have the flashing lights turned on brighter. have the musicians play louder. we lose ourselves to the noise - falling falling falling away.
    and now still he sits in the cafe. and now still he cannot forget what he might imagine.
    there is cruelty in love. love is not without the ability to cause pain.
    all the good lines have been taken. all the lies have been told.
    now he sits here still. does he hear gunfire in his imagination? does he have much more time? does he wear it well?
    there is something that is silent. there is something that might be waiting. there is something nameless. there is something no one has spoken. it runs away from itself.
    he tries to imagine all the possibilities. he imagines the worst. the worst will always bring down the better. the better is pretending the worst does not exist. the worst always exists. nothing appears without its shadow.
    the worst exists for someone even if it is one in a million, a billion - or one in all who have or will ever have lived. the shadow may be reduced to a single point but it will always exist.
    so do we choose to forget? do we shrug it off relieved that it isn't us?
    who is it then? who is it who didn't make it? who is who had to be the one chosen by fate? - if it was fate.
    it is best that we do not know. it is best that we do not have a name or a face. it is best that this one remain a thing to us - a variable in an equation that results in the best of all possible worlds for ourselves. an equation that delivers us to heaven.
    this one is the true savior. this one is the true sacrifice. this one who is eternally damned.
    what peace and comfort is there in this idea? how do we continue our happiness knowing its consequence?
    we must forget. we cannot allow ourselves to remember for even a moment - unless in remembering we find greater joy. do we wish to admit that? is hell created for our enjoyment as long as it is for the other who has fallen from our grace? do we imagine that the one who suffers there deserves that fate? what has this one done that is not in our hearts as well as we walk away laughing?
    we have been granted privilege. we have been given abilities and attributes that allowed us to escape. this one has not. is it that given privilege that gladdens us? the wheel was spun and landed on this one's number, not ours. or else a god made that decision. does it matter? it only matters that it has been decided and it cannot be changed.
    so we imagine that this one is the source of all evil. that makes us feel better. this one is the leader of all demons who torment us. that is how we justify what has happened. that is how we are glad that this one has been cast out and is eternally tortured in constant agony. and we cannot be wrong. our minds would not accept our being wrong. what if we were wrong? what if this one is innocent? we cannot allow ourselves to ask these questions.

    and he sits in the cafe feeling like a drunken pig. he can accuse no one but himself of any evil. others may perform evil acts, but he allows them to act. he does nothing. he may not be able to do anything more than nothing. that would not be so bad if he tried and failed, but he doesn't even try.
    but is that true? he tries to do no evil. he tries to do as little as possible. is that evil? is that allowing evil? he does not resist, but neither does he participate.
    and why is he thinking these things? what is the point in thinking or writing anything about evil?
    evil is or is not. if it is, then it is despite our intentions otherwise or how far we might try to distance ourselves from it. we are interconnected to it with all our actions and non-actions.
    he still sits here. he has set himself apart from the others, in part by their insistence and wholly through their assistance. he is paid to sit here. this is his function in the socio-economic network of the thing from the local to the global. it is a small thing. if he wasn't here, he wouldn't be missed.
    he wonders about it. is this what he is supposed to be doing? is there such a thing as something one is supposed to be doing? supposed to be doing in relation to what? suppsed to be doing in relation to how things are or in relation to how things are supposed to be? are those two different things? how do we tell them apart? how do we know what about the way things are is not supposed to be? what is supposed to be different? and what about the things that are not but could be? how do we choose among them - all the possibilities presented by how things are? who does the choosing? who is it chosen for? who benefits? who must be sacrificed? - and for what? who must be told to stop or change what they are doing?
    are we not already in this process? are not these decisions being made every day, at every moment? if we do not like who is making these decisions, how do we stop them? who do we replace them with? - ourselves? who among us should be given this power and authority? - any of us? who can be trusted? do any of us agree on what should or should not be done? - what is and is not supposed to be?
    he knows he does not belong in such a position though he fantasizes about being in such a position having power and authority to shape the world toward how he feels it is supposed ot be - toward a ideal of how he feels most people would want it to be. but how would he know that? who would tell him? who might be trusted to advise him? or would it be better for him to wing it on his own and to trust his own instincts and inspirations of imagination? how would he know which of them were personal and which were universal? how would he divide his own desires away from the desires of others? which others?
    so he sits here and writes. he avoids doing much more than to survive and keep himself amused and thinking along lines that might come to something that might benefit someone else. but why should he want to do that? is that what he is supposed to do?
    and here he comes around completing the circle. questions that lead to more questions that lead to more that eventually lead back to the original questions. he is an idiot. he does nothing much more than this. he does not know how to do much more than this. he is lucky that we allow it - even support it. we give him enough money to live on as long as he stays out of our way.
    in the grand scheme of things he is nothing. but to himself he is something. he is alive. he is conscious. where does his life and consciousness come from? does it just come out of thin air? is it given from some other source? is it as meaningless as it seems? can there be meaning? does meaning have meaning?
    sigh.
    he writes all this business because he can. it is there to be written. it appears in his mind and he copies it down. he wonders about whoever might read it. he cannot imagine anyone who would. there is nothing written in all that he is writing. is there anything to write?
    what would another want to read? what would make sense to another? what sort of information would another might want to know - or does the other seek only amusement like he does? would another expect truth? fiction? he can spin out most anything. the only thing he does not know is what the other would want to read. isn't that what makes a good author - one who knows what others want to read?
    so he imagines that he does know. he imagines at times he is writing what another might want to read. but who is this other? does it matter whether there is another who reads what he writes or not? what comes out from it - him writing and the other reading? is it more than two people wasting time?
    a lot of time has been wasted with just his writing alone already. that has been done. it represents years - almost a lifetime since he has been writing since he was a teenager in high school. most of it is gone now anyway. should more time be wasted by someone else reading it?
    how many scribble down their thoughts and pondering? how many scribble along the same lines that he does? and how few read beyond what is presented and marketed in newspapers, magazines and books off the popular shelf?
    this is just him sitting here in this cafe he sits in. it is nothing more than that.
    a waiting room. and not even waiting for godot. not even waiting. just being here for x-amount of time. there is no more expectation for anything other than this. one could go somewhere else but it would still be the same. one could go do something but it would just doing something while the same x-amount of time passes.

    2/2/99
    it seems a strange little time. it seems a delightful mystery of so much nonsense. it twirls and bellows as it is becoming just a little warped out from its shape. the random interactive consciousness thing erupting on the plane cutting across the emptiness. now we have come here to the place of our regrets. we turn our faces inside out to avoid looking within. the grimace smile like broken ice gritting we greet one another pleasantly while a bound and gagged voice in our heads shouts muffledly - kill! kill! kill!
    all is calm. all is serene. all is about to explode. all tastes like peppermint candy.
    it seems to be this or that. it seems to be everything. we fill the gaps with imagination to give the world a smooth finish. we will have no holes gaping. we will not have reality polka dotted. we want a place to relax. we want also a place of fun and excitement - big screen and maximum volume - thrill! thrill! thrill!
    meanwhile back in the compound, joe lights up. the orange glow on his face. the gurgling sound followed by the gulping breaths, the closed mouth tight lipped coughs. joe passes it on.
    the cows are mooing. the pigs are grunting. the moon is mooning big and bright as a spotlight. softness settles on the ground damp from a late afternoon rain.
    joe howls. joe jumps up and spins and dances as through his feet were on fire. he tumbles over the picket fence. his left foot gets stuck. he cannot get up. he does not seem to want to get up.
    phil, who had been smoking the locobud with joe, stands up on shaky legs. phil is always on the shaky side of things. his joints bend in more ways than they are supposed to for most people. but most people did not live in the compound like joe and phil.
    the compounds were set up after the riots when everyone went nuts and started killing people not just like them. they were safe havens for people not like most people. those who made it to the compounds ended up staying there after the riots had subsided. at first they wouldn't believe that they wouldn't be attacked again after they left. but they forgot about that after awhile. being in the compounds wasn't so bad. they were pretty much allowed to do what they wanted. this seemed to be a agreeable solution all around. most people did not miss them and really didn't want them back. they were willing to provide them with what they needed and leave them alone.

    so much for everything. so much for even the moon. so much for anything that might make us feel. so much for the songs we used to sing that inspired us into action.
    now the dead have risen and are walking around. no one cries for them. who has any memories?
    when thinking is heavy and one's head reels under the weight. what is there left to preserve? should we remain in these shadows? should we keep dreaming?
    a plate with food that he ordered comes to him. he must eat. he must digest and shit.
    the plate is taken away empty.

    we dream about taking a long vacation though we do not know where we would go that would be far away enough. what paradise have we not spoiled with our collective greed? what people have we not chained to the machine?
    the machine owns us. the machine is us. we are its gears interlocked from the smallest to the largest. the lubrication is money.
    the machine dreams for us. it gives us the visions that dance before our minds of the better life - a life with more money - more lubrication.
    we wish to keep money for ourselves. the machine needs to keep money moving otherwise the machine freezes up. if it freezes up, we all freeze up. we do not often realize that money is imaginary. it relies on our faith.

    we can look behind the veils until we come to the room that is empty. we stand there alone. we have made our way through the symbols of meaning to where the only meaning remaining is our own. what meaning do we give any of it then? what meaning is there to the emptiness that surrounds our existence? it has all been to bring us here to this point of realization. it has hidden this realization from us while all the time leading us to it. we come to be the belly of the beast - to the heart of the machine.
    we come to this point when we are ourselves and nothing else. we come to the throne of god and find that it is vacant. yet outside this great hall angels still blow their trumpets and the faithful continue to arrive. yet it is not just here that we come upon this. it is everywhere. this god now mostly forgotten by most of us, in its place some helium parade balloon coming down the avenue. it is as old as madness, for it is madness. what else is madness?
    there is the peace and comfort of being here. there is joy in it. the world continues and goes its own way. what concerns others might have are not one's concerns.
    so what is the point of writing about it - or writing about anything? one has finished the game.
    to write is to still be alive. to still be alive is to still write, though one may be writing about nothing. it becomes a habit.
    but one has the sense that something has died. maybe it is oneself. how much life does of what one is writing contain? what life there may have been once may be gone.
    what is life but a sharing of misery and rising above that misery whenever one can? one participates along with the others.
    what one becomes to be here, however, has nothing to do with the others. it only has to do with oneself separate from the others. the others become projected images. one also becomes a projected image to them - or so one would imagine it must be. one is not different from the others so what one experiences they must experience as well. or else the first assumption is wrong and one is indeed different from the others.
    there is something to that it might seem. he is the only one sitting here doing what he is doing. but all of us are the only ones doing what we each are doing. everyone is in the empty room - each being here alone.

    and he wonders now what got him writing. he has glanced through some of his notebooks from years ago which mostly remain unread on shelves in his apartment and it's more or less the same gibberish he writes now though it may have had a purpose at one time. he remembers possibly feeling that way about it. it was important to him to write down what he was experiencing - what he was thinking and feeling. he thought it might matter. he thought he might be able to write something that would give someone else something to think about. he no longer thinks that. what few people who have read what he has written come away confused after only a few pages. that is all it is. what he writes does not add anything to what is known and is something most people seem to want to avoid and dismiss. there will be many more who come this way pushed under the wheels of others greed for comfort and luxury. it is supposed to happen this way. there is nothing "wrong" with the system. it operates and functions exactly as it is supposed to.
    we are back to the machine. it is perfect. it is the most perfect thing humans have devised. that is the realization that he has had. he realized that his life and the lives of others are perfect. it is perfect balance being exactly what it is supposed to be. there is nothing to change. it already is changing as it is supposed to change. how does anyone improve perfection?
    what is missing? what more would he wish for that would be any better? he only imagines certain things that might make it better. then there are the others. how would he change them from the perfection that they already are without taking over their free will? if they wanted to change, they would change. if they felt the need to change - and not the feeling that others need to change which is all anyone feels is needed. it is the feeling among most that the world would be improved if others would change. there is a universal blaming of others and praising of oneself. so there is perfection - all those who feel themselves to be perfect in an imperfect world. like he does. all as perfect as humanly possible. others are the evil ingredient. so it all works out.

    it was an immediate sense of consciousness whispered amid the shouting voices. it was a breath amid howling winds that tore roofs off houses and ripped up trees by their roots. it was a dream amid nightmares. it was barely noticed. it seemed as if always present. it was assumed to be always present. it was assumed to be part of the ever-present background of sameness.

    he used to believe in progressive evolution. he used to believe that humans possessed the ability to improve themselves and the world around them. he does not anymore. no matter what technology they might develop, what social, political and economic systems they might invent or philosophies they might discover, they are still apes and act as apes act with primal tribal territorial instinct. whatever intelligence they might attain individually, collectively they remain as stupid as ever.
    and so is this all that remains for him to write about? is this all that he has ever had to write about? all else is pretend - make believe. all else is illusion we perpetuate in order to perpetuate ourselves so we don't all mass suicide - which we're almost doing already anyway. we are the illusion.
    what does it return to but itself? and what is itself? itself is it as being it. it is nothing and everything. it is all that is and is not. it is without definitions that divide it into this and that. without it there would be nothing to divide and define.
    it knows nothing but itself. there is nothing for it to know but itself. it cannot know anything that is separate from itself. to know something that is separate from itself it first must become this something that is separate from itself and as it does so it still remains itself. to become separate from itself is to enter into a false state of illusion. it is no longer itself but only partially itself. how can only being partially itself and knowing only that which is partially itself be called knowledge? it is only partial knowledge. it is also partially ignorance. it has knowledge of being partially itself. it has ignorance of all and everything that is not partially itself. usually ignorance is the greater part.
    yet what is there that is not it? what is there that is not included as part of the whole of it? and where and when does the part fall short of the whole? can it be measured? nothing about it can be measured, except its parts - except believing that its parts can be measured. but where are the lines that divide these parts apart? where and when do we place them?
    and around and around that circle.
    around and around through the circles of one's eternal madness - the madness that is existence.
    it is the madness that is eternal, not oneself. one comes into it, becomes an expression of it - and then one eventually dies.
    the madness stands as madness. it has always been madness and it will always be madness. it is expressed by those who fall or who are drawn into it. it still exists as madness whether it is being expressed or not.
    it is madness because it is called madness. that is how it is understood by those not in it - not expressing it. to these the madness seems a terrible thing. it is a terrible thing. it is to be avoided and those in it who express it should be avoided as well and to be pitied. one thanks the gods that one is not mad.
    to those in it, to those who realize the nature of this madness, it is a constant source of amazement which brings one to the heights of ecstasy and the depths of agony. it is not knowing what might happen next, how one might perceive what happens next, how one might feel about what happens next.
    it is a nirvana of horrors. it is a hell of delights. it creates its own paradise out of itself. it does not concern itself as to whether this paradise created is real or not. it has long ago transcended all reality or the need for reality.
    what needs to be real? what can be determined to be real when what one uses to measure it, including one's own mind, might be part of what is not real? we measure illusion with illusionary things and pronounce the illusion to be real.
    this is not to say that there is no reality or that reality isn't real. of course it's real. don't be stupid. it's that reality is not bound nor we bound by it as much as we might imagine. it is absurd to say reality is not real. what we call real is reality. reality has no other definition than that. to say that it is illusion is not to deny the realness of reality but to expand the realness of reality - expand the definition of reality.
    we do not want it to expand. we want reality to be binding. when reality becomes fluid we become uncertain, frightened. we want reality to remain solid. we want our feet on the ground or to be able to return to the ground after our momentary flights of fancy.
    so we collectively hold reality together into being this one thing we call real. we collectively choose for it to be as it is. we name it as being as it is. there is not another reality except for the one we shape with our minds and perceptions and experience.
    or maybe not.
    is this what he means to write? is this anything?
    here he is writing about the nature of reality as if he knew anything about it. what does he know? he knows as much or as little as anyone else. he is as much stuck in it as anyone else - as subject to it as much as anyone else.
    he is some bum in a cafe living off a government check. he is diagnosed with a mental disorder - a thinking disorder. this all that is written is symptomatic of that. he writes and writes about nothing pretending it is something. he looks at the world. where is anyone who wants anything to do with what he is writing? they seem to get along just fine - or not fine - without it. but this is not about the others or what they want or not. it's about making it up for oneself. what mysteries cannot be unriddled with imagination?

    lost among the others who also seem to be lost. lost within oneself among the others who also seem to be lost within themselves. a whole world lost. a whole world that functions on automatic systems each are a part of. events lead their own way acted out by those involved.
    is this the vision that we have? is it anything close to how things are? we doubt. we doubt our doubt. we are left here in our doubt - our doubting of our doubt.
    meanwhile, the others do whatever it is that they do - what they feel that they need or want to do. without them nothing would be done. we do nothing. we only doubt.
    doubt can be paralyzing. it can bring one down to nothing. one doubts one thing. then one doubts another thing. one soon finds oneself doubting anything. finally, one doubts everything.
    one lives by instinct. one merely survives, though sometimes this too is doubted. but there are still the others. one listens to their conversations. what does one hear? one hears them talking about the everyday, the moments passing, the plans for the moments to come, the memories of the moments past. one hears them talking about how they feel about this or that - liking this or maybe not liking that. and should it be anything else? does it need to be anything else? does anyone want it to be anything else? does anyone want it changed? one listens to the others and it seems that they would like it changed. but wouldn't they have changed it by now? how many chances have they had? how many chances do they need to have?
    it would seem that they prefer it this way - the way it is. it gives them something to talk about. one notices that much of their conversation is complaining about this or that. what would they have to talk about if this and that were fixed the way they would seem to want it?
    this is the human condition. there is no power beyond our control except death. we have controlled our own fate for thousands of years yet have changed nothing about the human condition.

    he wonders about what is the basic fundamental question underlying all this scribbling he does and has been doing for years. how can he write so much about nothing? is it nothing? he seems to come back to this over and over. he comes back to himself sitting in the cafe, writing.
    this is where he has gotten himself. this is where he has been allowed to get. he receives his allotment from the state that enables him to sit here as long as he wants. he has found a cafe where they let him sit here as long as he wants. he has taken advantage of that to get himself here. he's filled out forms, got doctor's signatures, etc.
    but - why?
    why does he have this desire to have done this - to continue doing it? why is there a provision left open for him to do this by the others to allow him do this? what meaning does it have?
    for the others, it keeps him out of the way. it keeps him from creating trouble and problems for them - the people who are functioning. that is the only concern. what he does with his time he is given is up to him - as long as it doesn't interfere with the functioning of others. for himself, he writes down what he is thinking about moment by moment. it is probably no more than compulsion that is symptomatic of the disorder he is suffering from - the need to explain himself over and over.
    in an ideal world of the others there would not be someone such as himself with this disorder. in a ideal world one such as himself would never be born or would be treated and cured. in a ideal world there would be no need to make special provisions for someone such as himself. there would be no one such as himself for whom special provisions would need to be made.
    so he can only exist, only come to exist, in a less than ideal world. that would be the world he is existing in now. he sits here knowing that he, nor anyone such as himself, will ever see the ideal world. for the ideal world to exist he would have to be eliminated.
    so here he is now in this less than ideal world writing whatever. he knows that all that he writes will not survive in the ideal world, if the ideal world is yet to come. it too would have to be eliminated. nor would any writing such as this ever be generated in the ideal world. to the ideal world or to anyone living in the ideal world neither he nor anything he creates would not exist. as it is now neither he nor anything he creates exists for anyone headed for the ideal world - who set the ideal world as their goal and destination. all that he is and all that he creates must be gotten rid of before the ideal world can come or be brought into existence since neither he nor anything he creates is ideal or promotes the ideal. he is in disorder. disorder is not ideal. all that he creates is created from disorder. all that is created from disorder is less than ideal. it therefore cannot be allowed to exist in the ideal world or the world that strives to be ideal. he and all that he creates must first be eliminated before the ideal world can come into being.
    maybe that is why he writes some much. not that any of it means anything but he brings it into existence against those striving for the ideal world. as long as it exists then their ideal world cannot exist - their ideal world from which he must be eliminated along with all he creates. they must ignore it or do away with it in order to achieve and attain their goal because he and it represents disorder that must be eliminated.
    so is that what it comes to? is it as meaningless as that?
    but who is actually suffering from a disorder? is it himself who is someone who is more or less content with the world as is - as much as he has anything to do with it - or them who hate the world and are driven by an unceasing need and compulsion to make it ideal by eliminating all that they perceive as being disordered?
    each, he and they, perceive the other as being less than ideal and as being disordered and needing to be eliminated because their existence makes the world less than ideal. to him what makes the world less than ideal are all those trying to make the world ideal for themselves who wish to eliminate all that they perceive as being disordered and displeasing to them.
    so who is right and who is wrong? both would claim the other to be wrong and themselves to be right. but of course there are more of them than there are of him so that pretty much answers the question right there.

    when it was simple. when he believed it was simple. when perhaps we all thought it was simple. however, maybe it always seems to have been simple when we are past it and looking back.
    something like a purple jesus. something like a flash in the pan - bright, brilliant - gone.
    when all the words in the world say nothing. when there is nothing to be said or written. when we have forgotten what meaning means - nevermind the lack of meaning. when it is forgotten that there is something there is a lack of.

    there was a man on the train today. he was dressed in a jacket and tie with an overcoat. he had neatly cut semi-short graying hair. he had a old brown leather briefcase. he kept twitching. he seemed like someone poised on a window ledge deciding whether or not to jump. to have one's demise self-willed or decided by forces beyond one's control. to be overpowered and cornered by faceless circumstances.
    he thought about his own time on that ledge when he made to leap. he was fortunate in that he did not have far to fall. he was not much above the street as it was. this man, however, seemed to have much more to lose that he had not lost already. he had quite a distance to fall. he might not survive in either body or mind.
    so many who feel that to be without faith and hope is to be in despair. what is despair? faith and hope collapse into reality. reality is whatever is. reality may be illusion. there is no way to prove that it is not. we are mortal. we die. we suffer pain - physical, emotional, psychological. is this despair? there seem to be those who despair. one sees them everywhere. their faces wrenched in anguish or slack with defeat.
    for us, there are moments of despair. we feel at times to be faced before impossible obstacles. we cannot turn from them. escape is not an option - except to make matters worse. these may kill us yet. at some point they will. but for now we are living - living in a reality that is absurd. it will not bear close scrutiny without leading to contradiction - or else it is our own contradiction.
    to be in despair is to be without what one wants and expects. to want and expect more than what reality has shown that it is willing to offer would cause despair for anyone. when one looks to reality and wants and expects only that which is in reality to want and expect one is often free of despair - except those tortured and starving and things like that, he supposes.

    lately on a hook pondering what was left to be misunderstood among the statements from the neopolitique multi-varied spokespeople underlit with cross purposes. he stood up. words were lucky. words were hit and miss. they half depended on what was said, half depended on what was wanted to be heard. there is no new idea here. there is no reason for desperation.

    and back on stage in the burning theater three figures were wandering about. one dressed in white. one dressed in black. one dressed in red. there is a haphazard array of junk and sets and props on the stage. the stage is dimly lit.
    1: is this meant to be obscure?
    2: what is this?
    1: this is what we are doing.
    3: i believe that we are performing on a stage in a burning theater.
    1: then that is what it is - what this is.
    2: so, what about it?
    1: is it obscure?
    2: what about it would be?
    1: it's meaning.
    2: like that it's symbolic of something?
    1: something like that.
    2: it could be. anything could be.
    3: it seems to me to be just what it is. it doesn't need to be symbolic, obscure or anything else.
    1: well, who are we supposed to be?
    2: whoever we are.
    1: whoever we are as actors or as characters?
    3: it would depend upon whether we are following a script or speaking for ourselves.
    2: this seems to be a script.
    1: what is it a script about?
    3: three people on stage in a burning theater.
    1: is the theater really burning?
    3: if it was then the play would probably be stopped and everyone would be told to leave.
    1: so it is not burning?
    2: it could be.
    3: yes, it could be. maybe no one knows whether it is or not.
    1: unless it means something else.
    2: like what?
    1: i don't know.
    3: maybe its meaning is obscure.
    1: you're making fun of me.
    3: no - i'm merely restating your point.
    2: i don't think we're supposed to say what it means, if it means anything.
    1: why?
    2: it's not in the script.
    1: so it's left to mean anything?
    3: or nothing.
    2: it would be up to the author to explain it, not us.
    1: who is the author?
    3: some guy sitting in a cafe.
    1: why is he writing this?
    3: perhaps he doesn't know.
    2: he could be writing this because he's bored.
    3: or maybe he feels it has some sort of meaning.
    1: so, who are we?
    2: just voices in his head - the ongoing dialogue of the mind.
    1: the mind or his mind?
    3: perhaps both are the same.
    1: so what is this dialogue supposed to be about?
    3: it doesn't seem to be about much of anything right now.
    2: it's just the diialogue. the dialogue that we all have.
    1: do you have this dialogue?
    2: me? or my character?
    3: only the character can speak here. we do not know who the real person playing you might be.
    2: no, we don't. the only answer i can answer is the answer written down for me to answer.
    1: so this whole dialogue between each of us is only a multi-voiced monologue in his head?
    3: all plays are that. all books are that. authors invent characters to speak out different parts of themselves. or maybe not.
    2: maybe not?
    3: speaking for him, as each of us are, i can only say what he knows for himself - from his own experience. he doesn't know what the experience is for other authors.
    1: i suppose not.
    2: i want to say something else.
    1:  what?
    2: i don't know. something. something to think about that would bring understanding to those who heard it.
    1: understanding of what?
    2: i don't know that either. understanding of something important - something fundamental and transcending. something that is not about one thing or the other, but about all things.
    3: the truth?
    2: not the truth like capital t truth. something like that though. something that could be understood by anyone. something common and recognizable to all. not as pronouncement, but as a simple direct statement. but a statement that would ring through all else that has been said. something binding without coercion. binding by common acknowledgment. not something to be agreed or disagreed with. not something anyone needs to change and convert to in order to understand it. something that everyone already knows but just needs to be reminded about.
    1: good luck.
    2: why do you say that?
    1: we're talking about humans here. humans love to agree and disagree - to not admit to anything common among them outside of enclosed exclusive circles of mutual admiration societies.
    2: i know that. i'm not saying that what i would say would change that or even seek to change it.
    1: then what the heck are you talking about?
    2: i don't know.
    3: do you think there is something universal among us?
    2: is that what i am saying? yes, maybe i am. we're human. we love to agree and disagree. we form exclusive mutual admiration societies. that's universal, isn't it?
    3: perhaps it is. but how many would admit to it or acknowledge it? maybe many would - but everyone?
    1: why would you want that anyway? one of the problems with people is the idea of universalism. we get it into our heads that there is this one thing that we all share and we must share. nevermind what anyone might say that it is. the idea that there is anything universal at all stirs up trouble no matter what it is said to be - even all of us being human.
    2: yes, i know. forget it.
    3: i think i know what you mean. behind and beneath all else there is something shared by all of us that we each recognize and acknowledge. it may not ever be truly expressed, but it is there.
    2: so, it remains unspoken?
    3: is it important to speak it? with what words? in what language?
    1: the language of being - being what is. being as close to it as one can get and letting it be expressed through oneself. using one's being to be the language. letting one's presence be the expression of that language.
    2: how would one do that?
    1: i'm not sure. maybe one cannot entirely do it - not purely. but to try to do it one would try to be human. try to find that one fundamental and transcending thing you mentioned before. try to find that and try to let it come through and out. and one is able to do this or not. it communicates to others or not.
    2: yes, i think that is close to what i meant.
    3: so, are you doing it?
    2: i think i am trying. i try to look down through myself - through all the particular characteristics and qualities of my own social and cultural identity. not to deny that but to reach down through it to that fundamental human core. then i try to bring that back up through myself. that's the transcending part, i guess. and i am able to do that or not. i communicate it to others or not.
    3: that would seem to be the best one could do.
    2: but i wonder if it is enough. there is something in me that wants it to be more - to communicate it more.
    3: you are only able to communicate what you can and it is received by others only so far as they can receive it.
    1: unless you start a religion or a social movement or political party or some such.
    2: around what? - being human? and besides, it can't be forced. it can't be expressed in rules or commandments or manifestos, speeches and slogans. it isn't something to rally around and promote and indoctrinate. if it's anything - if it's the real thing - it doesn't need all that. it would be transmitted through normal everyday interactions among people. people would see it and want to mimic it. not mimic it really. it would translate into that fundamental humanness within them and bring it out - or something like that.
    3: maybe that is happening.
    2: do you think?
    3: somewhere within all else, yes. but there are many other powerful forces at work also. forces that divide us and separate us apart. forces that create groups of people opposing one another. each group thinks they have the master plan if they could only do away with the opposition.
    2: i'm not envisioning having a master plan. it's not something that needs to change anyone else - or what they believe in. it doesn't transform, it transcends.
    1: again - good luck.
    3: so what would this accomplish?
    2: what do you mean?
    3: it might be transcending through us at this very moment. what is the difference whether it is or isn't if it doesn't transform?
    2: i suppose there wouldn't be a difference except in one's perception and understanding.
    3: wouldn't that transform?
    2: i suppose it could.
    1: you said it didn't transform. now you're saying it could.
    2: it is transforming to oneself - if one is transformed by it. it transforms the self. it does not need to transform others.
    3: doesn't that divide us between those who have been transformed and those who haven't?
    2: it could. but there is nothing really transformed. what is there to be transformed? we are human. that's that. it is perceiving and understanding ourselves as being human, for all that that is or isn't, that is what one comes to.
    1: and if one doesn't?
    2: then one doesn't. one continues on with whatever one was doing before - perceiving and understanding as before. if that works, then that works. how can we argue with it?
    1: we can argue with it if what another perceives and understands is destructive to us.
    2: and we can convince this other to stop it or not. we must also realize that what we perceive and understand may be destructive to them.
    3: this seems to be going around in circles.