and he thought about it. everyone he knew was dead - or he wished they were dead. who remained, if there was anyone there to begin with to remain, was no more than caricatures of themselves.
    but this could be only the way he saw it.
    he had a headache.
    the ufos were close by again. fucking aliens. the red-bellied dragons fly in circles overhead.
    and this wasn't it either.
    time for another cigarette.
    and the circus clowns puking up their lunch for an encore. just business as usual.

    and he wrote and he wrote. writing was all he did. remember?
    he wasn't writing about anything. writing became the thing itself serving its own purpose alone. it controlled him. he could stop. he had stopped a few times. but there was nothing else that could take its place. all that was going on in his head with no way for it to get out. that was all it was.
    this is not art or literature. nothing of the sort. it does not pretend to be. it represents nothing. it is not a manifesto, a declaration, a theory (except sometimes), a story.
    it's pure regurgitation.
    it's all the shit he does want in his head anymore. he's returning it from whence it came - this world. and he doesn't want his money back. he doesn't want to exchange it for anything. just take it back - that's it.

    and the theory further described. if there is anything left of the theory. if there is anything left to describe.
    take, not. not. negate. something that is, was or should have been that isn't.
    now that's fairly simple. perhaps still too complex.
    and that isn't it either.

    morning. sometime. scattered. waking into it out of it. as it has been all along.
    and, of course, the theory of pronouns.
    what we are presented with is a situation whereupon that which we, as has been complained about before, have whatever it is we are thinking and such needing to be filtered down through this more or less common language. but here more specifically now we are at first not been to be able to identify who we are. none of the given selection of pronouns cut it. we are all of them and we are none of them. we use any we want or don't want.
    that is the theory of pronouns.
    and so that goes.
    and this doesn't even bring in the whole thing about nouns and names.
    think of an ocean. think of standing on the shore of an ocean and you have next to you a number of buckets. you go up to the ocean and fill the buckets with water from the ocean. think about what is contained in the buckets is the ocean but the ocean is not contained in any or all of the buckets. now think of the buckets as having labels. one bucket is labeled, i. another, you, another us. another, them, another, dog, another, william, another, alice. another, jesus. another, aphrodite. another, god. another, it. another, black. another, yin.
    and maybe that's something like about who we are.
    ok?
    actually it's some metaphysical bullshit that's popular among some mystics. it has nothing to do with anything. forget it.
    is there anything on tv?
    surf city here we come.

    doo-wah.
    anyway, the dogma of the same old thing and whatever wishful thinking and strange days.
    feline. agreement. domination dog named einstein - adolph einstein. harassment vehicle questioning and he saw how oppression can try to seem friendly in the guise of it being very simple respect for the horse already used to traffic.
    ipto pluto e sanctemoius dogma.

    and he was tired of it but he wouldn't stop. he couldn't really. maybe not. he tried sleeping through it but his body ached too much. he slept for about 18 hours or more. he tried to entertain himself with other things to do but became disinterested and bored. all except this goddamn writing.
    so what was it? he wasn't writing anything. just this idiot compulsion to spit out words. words from nowhere to nowhere that for some reason or fluke of fate or random chance or what have you decided to go through him doing it. oh boy.
    but whatever that was. and he tried to grasp some idea of it. he figured that as long as he was writing he might as well try to have some of it come out as something. but what? what did he have to write about that hasn't been written? he couldn't think of anything all that startling new or some original twist on something old. he didn't even really know what was new or old. he hardly read anything. he was barely educated. he didn't have much experience with anything. so, what?
    or maybe that's what it was. who said only innovative intelligent articulate people are the only ones who should write anything? what about the rest of us dumb fucks who don't know shit about nothing? what do we do? sit quietly with our hands folded in our laps? fuck that shit. we'll write any goddamn thing we want to. hardly anything written by anyone gets read by anyone anyway whether it's worth reading or not. and how much of it does anyone understand? how much of it does anyone who is writing it understand?
    how many grains of sand are there on a beach?
    why do women hate men and men hate women? why do so many people ask so many questions and so many people have so many answers for everything else but what the questions are? are circles really round or is it an optical illusion?
    what time is it?
    cigarette time, that's what time.
    cough it up. choke on that puppy.
    and all the dead fish in the sea.
    he guesses about everything. he's not in a position now where anything has to be too exact. he remembers when it did need to be otherwise someone would get in his face about it. drove him nuts.
    drove us all nuts. that's why we got out of it into this sort of vague zone space thing where you sort of kinda guess about this or guess about that. and nobody really ever checks up on it. if it's right, it's right. if it's not, it's not. let the people with the rulers in their tight little fists figure it out with manners of grim determination. and then if they're wrong we'll give them shit about it. not even one nanometer margin of error. it better be exact and they better have proof to prove it. double proof. in triplicate. signed, stamped and certified by those authorized to do so.
    that will keep them busy for awhile and out of our hair.
    breath
    breathe.
    cigarette.
    forget.

    back from the shadows again from all that dreamtime nonsense everybody seems to want to turn their back on. just don't know what to do with it. no place around here to put it. no category on the inventory list except those allotted to this thing they broadly refer to as mental illness. oh boy. ho-hum. just sitting here being mentally ill looking out the window next to him out at what appears to him to be a totally full tilt loonie tune world they've created for themselves to lord over and whoever else they can forcibly drag into it.
    not him.
    no more.
    he managed to get himself away. don't know quite where to. same place these seagulls are at. fly down and pick up what they can. nobody much notices them much. just truck on by. and whatever. ain't nothing much more to it than that.
    but this whole trip he's got going on inside his head. doorways, rooms and hallways. streets, roads and paths. cities and villages and wilderness. forests and mountains and deserts and island beaches. and cafes and kitchens and bedrooms with a candle lit and flickering light and dark high contrast shadows that the ghosts and spirits come out of between the two somewhere.
    or something like all of that.
    and he's just sitting here doing nothing and but what else is there to do as no one wants nothing from what he's got which is plenty of nothing anyway. he's dealing with what they all feel is best forgotten.
    and he doesn't know all that much about it but it's there and he doesn't understand why no one else doesn't or won't see it. he interprets it as best he can and puts it wherever it seems like it belongs. and a lot of it seems to belong with them. but they've pushed it away and cast it out so they can shine on in the perfect image of who they believe themselves to be. and he supposes that's ok. everyone wants to look their best for others and their acceptance into their circle. but to just dump the rest into the trash they leave behind in their wake of dividing the world into good and evil. leaving their bastard orphan children to die in the ruins of their history while they charge straight ahead toward their glorious future.
    and he doesn't know. maybe he's got this all wrong somehow. he finds it hard to believe that they are that purposefully and intentionally cruel and uncaring. so maybe he's not seeing this thing about it quite right the way it is, or maybe they're just not aware of the full effect of their actions. the action and reaction of it. never looking at what's behind them. to only face one direction and accept only that which relates to their position. always looking into the light and avert their eyes from the shadows they cast.
    dada.
    and he doesn't want to go on about that but it seems like he always does. he just doesn't understand and what everyone has tried to tell him about it hasn't quite held up anytime he's sat back and thought about it though what they say sounds very plausible when it comes out of their mouths as long as they keep talking and they always keep talking as much as they can. or else they shrug and say it doesn't matter and shift the subject to something else they can keep talking about. don't want to slip into anything where they are left in silence with their thoughts. they got too much to say about how it all is and he's just like them with this mindless babble of whatever and whatnot that spills itself out line after line across and down page after page in non-stop circular repetition of the only way he'll look at any of it the same as them and all we do is wander around with our heads in the clouds of our own put together trip bumping into each other in dazed confusion no one really has any fucking comprehension of what any of it's about except all these here and there theories about our own experience of it that has little or nothing to do with most anyone else's except those of us who have a few similar things in common so we grab on clutching to one another chanting what we agree on over and over to ourselves to scare the rest of what bewilders us as far away from us as we can get it to go.
    what?
    nevermind. this ain't nothing about nothing. sitting in some downtown cafe joint jazzed out on his daily dosage of caffeine that rattles his brain and makes him act a bit insane.
    oh baby, you knooooow what i like. head in some humming vibrational groove thing that makes it all seem like it makes sense. off away on his own delusional scheme of things that doesn't have nothing to do with anyone else or theirs as he kinda evaporates outta their world of grand parades of drumbeats and flags and the great rising of the people and doo-wah-ditty along like all of that kinda thing.
    now and again. now and forever. take this and eat it. may it serve you well. rejoice in all beyond your comprehension that you are blessed that you therefore don't have to worry about it. the drums are beating. the flags are waving. a great noise rises from those gathered in the camps of the nations of the world and the peoples of the earth. the war is on. victory will be glorious.
    and why him?
    who cares?
    fuck it. this is it and how it is. the nature of fate. the fate of nature. pick a card, any card.

    and a duck calling out from left field. the discovery of it. the dream of the beginning as the beginning of the dream. alone and dreaming. i am i. his little dream dog. because of knowing. because of history. because of his little dog. because i am i.
    to be held responsible. the karmic possibility of it. now. awful.
    the armies of the dharma of this age stand poised and ready while the generals cast dice to decide upon their fate. the orders given. business is business.
    full frontal lobotomy. a nature of relationship. a stranger in this city. vagabond. a spelling error. disconnected. pleasure. our pain is expressed despite our silence. our pain is forgotten despite our remembering.
    he tries to forget as he tries to remember. he decides his fate. he chooses among the possibilities offered. commentary. police state. what do you think? cold and frightening. thankful for smallness. the winds blowing through our hair. now and again. what do you think? waiting for things to happen. remembering. as we prepare ourselves for action. events. paradise. a joke.  a place and time. jesus h. fucking christ. friends and foes alike.

    12/14
    as the ultramission is being accomplished as instructed by the schedule of events. action and non-action doubleplus good/ungood. quack quacking duckspeaker announces to the large masses formulating as planned. drumbeat and megaphones. the flags waved. lights! camera!! action!!!
    on/off.
    a quickening pace.
    another degree. ouch! the heroes are forgiven again. the day is to be saved. our thoughts are scattered. jesus in a handbasket. jesus in a straightjacket. jesus in a cafe gazing out the window wonders bemusedly why he keeps coming back again and again and we keep hanging him up on the cross again and again. something is very symptomatic here of something.
    we fear perhaps the loss of control. the control and the power this cross in all its shapes and forms it is transfigured into. it is not jesus who gives us this control and power but the cross.
    see this cross? we ask of those who oppose us. see this guy hanging on it? well that's what we can do to you if you don't do what we say. we did it before and we'll do it again if you don't submit to our control and power.
    amen.
    achoo.
    ah clem.
    this madness of groupthink. the more people we can force to agree with us the more correct we are. then we are on the side of justice. god's right hand. and we should be given control and power. and whether they agree with us wholeheartedly or not - and how can they be expected to being so ignorant as they are? - does not matter as much as we get them to agree not to oppose us, and better yet to obey us. to at least sit somewhere out of the way and keep themselves quietly occupied while we save the world from its own wicked ways. we hunt down the enemy one by one and destroy them and all their evil works.
    amen.
    this is our destiny. this is our righteousness. this is our glory and only hope for salvation. to vanquish our enemies. our satan who rules the world through clever deception.
    sing it loud.
    be proud.
    this is their history. this is their heritage. this is the highest level of consciousness they are capable of. enjoy it while it lasts. he's just going to step outside here a moment and smoke a cigarette. they can continue on without him. he doubts they'll even notice he's gone. such is their feverish state with visions of vengeance burning before them.
    nothing means nothing.
    this is the revolution.
    down with it all.
    down and down down. tear down the temples. tear down the palaces. tear down the government houses. tear down the marketplace. tear down the schools. tear down the idols. tear down the walls everywhere. tear down everything but themselves. tear down everything that tries to tear them down. they must remain. they must survive to triumph above it all. nothing must stand in their way. nothing must oppose them. nothing should control them or should have power over them.
    out of a hat. out of this hat. out of their hat. out of our hat.

    dream on dreaming on.
    he dreams on dreaming on of them. he watches them and all they do. he waits for things to come that they claim and promise all they do will accomplish. oh boy. ho-hum. la-dee-da. time will tell and he has no time because there is still no time like the present. still frame. hold it. look at it. what do you see? what are you looking for? examine it with a magnifying glass to search for imperfections. and who are you to judge what is imperfect or not? maybe you are someone. we're not stating that you are not. but where did you get your authority? we know where you got your power.
    and george - you remember george, don't you? maybe we didn't mention him yet. but george is some guy we borrowed from someone else. he just moved into town from somewhere else a month or so ago. lives in this apartment complex along out on the gut. walks with a left-legged limp. doesn't say too much. drinks some. not too much. at least not to the point where there's any outward indication that he's drunk. always has that look like he didn't get enough sleep. always looks like he needs a drink. quick shot of whiskey and he'll come around.
    so george meets this other guy out in the parking lot of the apartment complex. out on the back side away from the main drag. and nobody saw it start or who had the knife first but george ends up with it and he's cutting this guy up. got him on the hood of some oldsmoble bomber. the knife is pretty sharp because it slices through and comes away with a smooth effortless motion. jab and slice. no sawing or yanking. and lots of blood. and this guy's still alive. he was screaming at first. that's what brought everybody out. but now he's laying there not moving except jerking a little with his eyes and mouth wide open. must be in shock.
    and someone calls 911 and everybody's standing there watching this. some with their hands over their mouths. some look away for a few moments but they always slowly look back.
    and the police come. car pulls up and parks itself in the most angular to everything and the last place anyone would park a car the way cops seem to have an instinctive way of doing. it seems to be a way of announcing and letting everyone know they're on the scene and taking care of business and just stay out of the way if you don't want to find yourself as part of the problem.
    and these two cops get out and stand on the edge of the headlights which have transformed this whole scene into a movie shoot. dark figures with boyish man faces seemingly confused with the authority they've been given and the power that is in their hands to use at their discretion. yet something controls them and tells them how to use it. something else they do not understand except to obey.
    and george doesn't stop.
    and no one moves. not the cops either until one of them, the one who emerged from the passenger side of the vehicle, meanders over to one of the closest witnesses takes out his report pad and begins asking her questions. she replies in a monotone while not taking her eyes from the now alleged crime.
    crime. criminal. justice.
    and on the other side of the crowd the apartment manager falls to his knees and unzips his pants and pulls out his thang and begins jerking himself off. an expression of devout astonishment on his face.
    we walk on the edge among these people. we see them through our window every day walking by with self-ordered calm that has this don't panic look to it. too calm if you ask us. and very few people do. but that's ok. nevermind. that. for. now.
    now as it seems as this scene in the parking lot is momentarily broken. a flash of it as semi-telepathic thought.
    an old woman in a wheelchair in a nursing center. music. cheerful tunes. bright light from the ceiling panels. joy buzzer. a spoon.
    memory of something else that's fitted together into our mind in the scheme of things.
    the apartment manager begins to pant and as spurts of milky white cum squirt out of his pulsating penis he lets out an aching moan and mrs. eggbert is ready poised to lap it up with bits of leaves and gravel as the other cop. badge # 28723, unsnaps his holster and brings his gun up as he crouches into the two handed steady position as seen on tv where he should have ordered, freeze!, but didn't but fired at specifically singled targets moving to the next as the one before it dropped. and a dog. not a little dog but a large one bit the leg of a leather jacketed teenager named roy and then everything stopped.
    and dr. fircomb came into it and asked margie smith to sit down and then connie wilkins, margie's cousin who was visiting from back east, stepped behind ralph waldo and took his wallet and looked through it tossing out its contents as she came to them with only a cursory glance at what they might be, one of which was his bank card which lee song picked up and gave it to mojo wilson who walked off to a 7-11 on the corner and stuck it in the machine having to wait for andre the toad to take $50 from the fast cash selection. mojo picked a four letter word, which happened to be aunt, which he was told by someone who was doing a crossword and they already had u-n-t down and the clue was a word you might call a woman, and punched it in and these three arms came out with whirling blades on the ends of them and josh who stood behind the counter who was wishing mojo would leave because he had to go to the bathroom heard the screams as he suddenly thought of a banana for some reason or not and across the street jill and jackie gazed lovingly into each other's eyes with that unspoken realization of heart quickening passionate desire to sigh and grunt for the other's sense of pleasure and identity and this mouse in the kitchen chewing on a box of pancake mix and above all the flag of the enemy.
    the economy knows no bounds and with economic free expression she squatted over his face and let loose an enema induced diarrhetic stream of shit in his face as she stuck an upholstery tack into that special spot about 4 centimeters below her navel and slightly to her left, our right.
    and so tell us of your everyday reality. so tell us of everything you think about to avoid thinking about spaceships descending.
    he watches you walk by the window. he feels your mind passing. the newbought clothes covering your wounds. your whips and chains. your executed execution. tell us of this crucifixion. tell us of the tears uncried and babies taken by the heels and heads smashed on the rocks. all of us are here because of them. not one of us escaped. watch it again in slow motion. tell us of the time you disemboweled that old man and strangled him with his own intestine. tell us of the time you painted a landscape and stood out in the warm sun enjoying be unaware of the fact that the brush in your hand was the last one made by mary lunkowto before she was fired because she wasn't making them fast enough and also forgetting being pissed of because of the guy ahead of you in the line at the check out in the grocery store took so long and you thought he should die. dumb jerk.
    as we watch in disbelief. as we wait. open heart. a kiss given or taken. guns. fists. that warm vibrational feeling of just desserts. the mask hardened by acceptance.
    and what else does one do? a brick in the hand is worth two in the wall. as all those who have suffered at the hands of fate cheer you on. they forgive everything else you've done as the brick smashes into the cop's face.
    so tell us of this crucifixion.

    12/16
    as what passes here for whatever it might be worth. a calling that is laughable. a nervous condition. a realization of the absurd. blind realization. nothingness. what the fuck.
    and all the systems either for or against amount to a pile of shit. no. that's not it. he's lost it here somewhere. don't tell him what you think. tell him what you know. what do you know? what do you know that he knows too? what does he know that you know too? we've been here before. do you remember? he's still here. whoever he may be around this time. would you believe him if he told you? would he believe you if you told him?
    and please forgive him as much as you're willing to forgive anyone which from what he's seen doesn't seem to be very much. but then it's a whole lot more than he's willing to forgive anyone with his self-centeredness and whatever nonsense this comes out as being.
    you see, he's not supposed to be self-centered. ask anyone, they'll tell you. ask yourself. he's supposed to have a heart filled with love and compassion for anyone and everyone no matter what their drawbacks and situation. in fact the more drawbacks they have and the worse situation they are in the more love and compassion he is supposed to feel. as if this were supposed to be automatic. well, if it was, it didn't turn out that way. he's just as filled with hatred and contempt as anyone else. only he's not supposed to be. others on the other hand have great legal systems and governments and religions and armies to openly express their hatred and contempt. and the others have whatever they have against these. they go to forums and workshops and seminars and demonstrations and publish newspapers and speak on radio stations and sing songs on stages and all else to again openly express their hatred and contempt for whoever is on the other side.
    everyone gets to do this but him. well, he could. no one is really telling him he can't. as long as he agrees with and joins with their own expression. he's given a menu and as long as he picks from the items offered then it's ok. otherwise he can leave. otherwise he can keep silent. otherwise he can look upon them with love and compassion, with understanding and forgiveness even.
    and the thing is that he would like to actually. he really would. only he can't. whatever he's supposed to have within him, whatever he's supposed to be equipped with that would allow him to do that - to be able to look upon what the others are doing and not want to kill all of them as slowly and as agonizingly as possible - it's missing. it's not in him so he can't. and he doesn't know where to find it.
    and back to the beginning again. back to the uselessness. and around in the circle that since he is the only one and they are the many then the obvious answer or the assumption of an answer is that he is, as so many people along the way have patiently tried to explain and get him to realize, mentally ill. this inability to feel love, to feel compassion, to understand, to forgive is a disease. it's a psychotic condition and state of mind. and the desire to feel these things only makes matters worse. it is delusional. and as such he must be isolated before he contaminates anyone else.
    but nevermind that.
    he lights another cigarette.
    unchecked and allowed habitual to one's behavior some of these things be on the look out for pattern a failure compromising and even such as a willingness or need accepting criticism too much of a foothold others for what one what others people do slide this cold cruel world beware we live in one should only not to stand up to let what don't let any of these doing what one is told and even giving or compromise sharing if you want to lead to very dangerous are part of an overall to maneuver number one rule someone has done to later attack get revenge to you even who by their actions this person has done top priority for the rest of your life if these are to get them back directly enact vengeance this transcends for it forget what you aren't able get confused themselves and go for it ideas and concepts as much of it for your actions explanation are for losers about the reasons you don't owe your hands on around there's no such thing slam them with everything any of them left too frightened justifications the score the wrong person another thing to watch against them  dilemma classified what's right and what's wrong this needs no philosophy to support it the same applies the other kind of thing about good and evil which is conducive that which is talked out there must be also to be more or less enjoyment your survival and evil get it together they'll knock you on your ass stop them you're going people are going places if you don't like you deserve if you can't attain for all their worth know where you should always the sole mission even if you may not be pointed to it compass points take them unless you're strong enough or get out going someplace and nothing this too needs no explanation this sometimes can be fucking got it made bingo you can then get revenge higher priority jackpot of applause and so tell us about it already trickery what exactly about this greed you hit give yourself work it out besides the fact that's it that you're one of the ones happens to you fucked over then ask yourself we don't really complaining gave you to get to it first don't recall try to stop us any ill really care because of it promising you or wanted it we got it for the taking where we're going your chance as long as do you think understand those who anything more we don't care blew it rag on and on laugh to ourselves who do you appeal to besides and our plight some objective god perhaps crying and wailing come to our senses.
    get a grip.
    get real.
    get back to work.

    and so on and some such of utter frogian nonsense of words babble babbling on about this and that wherever it may please itself to go as free to do as it is it and there ain't nothing else but it as far as the eye can see that amounts to anything more than a bunch of noise from the surrounding warcamps.
    amen.
    achoo.
    a spoon is a spoon. and who will argue with him about that? that's what he personally wants out of this whole mess - someone who will argue with him about a spoon is a spoon. but anytime he brings it up they look at him like he's out of his mind. oh well. ho-hum.
    another cigarette.

    to everyone who is isolated within themselves and without themselves. to those who cannot be found in the rank and file of the numbers of armies fighting the forever war. to those who avoid being caught in entanglements in circles of friends who only recognize those in agreement with themselves. to those who don't subscribe, enlist, volunteer, donate, ally, support. to those unemployed, unregistered, unoccupied, unmoved, disinterested, unidentified. to all those out there whoever and whatever you are. to all those alone. to all those who have found their ground. to all those who watch and wait. to all those who are silent. to all those who fall outside the boxes of categories. to all those unnamed. to all those not pointed out. to all those who are free. to all those who are beautiful and glorious and brilliant and transcendent and blessed and walk as gods upon the earth among those blinded by desire and fear.
    to all those who know who they are and why. to all the angels and demons. to all the ghosts and spirits. to all the common folk. to all who have no need for salvation. to all those who have no need for damnation. to all those in no need for anything except what they possess of everything.
    this is it. this is all we can state is what we are stating. long live the state! and these words mean nothing to those who do not know what they mean through their own knowing through their own experience. these words will not describe what one does not already see. these are not words anyone can learn from. learning of what these words are stating comes from elsewhere. the learning of the self. the learning of the heart and mind in imperfect balance on the edge.
    these words will lead no one anywhere one does not want to go. these words are for those who are already here. those who have arrived here and now in the midst of eternity around them. those who have forgotten and have also remembered. those who have turned themselves inside out upside down sideways and back again for no other reason than to just do it because it can be done.
    and it was done. and it is done. for you. all for you. you and you alone. in no other place is our love found to be more alive. no place else is there where we can move and touch one another. no place else we can breathe. no place else can we open our eyes and see each other as we see ourselves. no place else. no place.
    no place like here and now.
    no place like home.
    and everywhere else is a wasteland. broken bodies. broken hearts. broken minds. broken spirits. and there is nothing we can do but watch and wait for them. as we do. as we will do always as we have done always. we leave the gates open. we keep the lamps lit and the fires burning. what else are we here for? what else lets us endure the names we are called and the stories told about us? the misunderstanding and hatred of us as the result. as they march to victory through the ruins of all they touch.
    the ruins we must rebuild again and again with our machine. this babylon. this rome. this jerusalem.
    and then we leave it behind.
    as we leave this land. as we put it behind us and walk away with nothing but ourselves. as the crowds gather to see what we have done.

    the mirrors ablaze. one by one. the words around us of those who know better. of those who are here to measure and judge. as this continues on. as we cannot speak. as we are told to obey.
    and we who know nothing. and we who obey. what else are we to do? we have nothing to guide us. everything has been proven false that we once foolishly believed in by those who have come to correct us.

    he looks at these words and shakes his head. none of them are his. he does not believe them as he does not doubt them. they mean nothing to him. he writes them. he knows he has written them. he knows where they come from. it means nothing to him. he stands beside them as he stands beside himself and watch them go by onto the page. he sits and smokes another cigarette and looks the other way out the window. same as he's always done. nothing changes. nothing remains the same. he sees it either way and it means nothing to him.

    to him, he would sit and talk with you for hours on end or not talk with you at all. he would argue with you and then agree with everything you said. then argue with you again.
    to him, he would walk with you for hours on end or not walk with you at all. he would follow you anywhere you wanted to go and then when we got there would go the other way. then follow you again.
    to him, anything you want from him that is what he wishes you would have. take it. but only if it means something to you. then he would steal it back. and then give it to you again.
    to him, by whatever convoluted twist of his own deluded logic that it takes everything seems to have worked out just fine. it was nothing to begin with and it remains nothing at the end of it.
    just to see you laugh he will be whatever fool you need him to be.

    as something occurs as simple as a spoon. as complex as that. from one mind to another. as there is nothing to it. as if there is nothing to it. and what is there to it? but there always seems to be more than that. that is what we argue about. or maybe not.

    and sometime back ago in the ill spent time of youth, which is what youth is for, to be ill spent. yet when does youth truly end? - even at death?
    death. the crown of life. when all passes into nothingness as if it never was. as it will be never again. as if. the purpose and fulfillment. the degree of hopelessness. unresigned.
    and all that whatnot whatever it might or not mean. all too soon. all too late. to try to describe the reality of it. as if there were a reality to describe. what words do we possess in our minds that begins it? what words in our minds ends it?
    another cigarette.
    another cup of coffee.
    another place and time. elsewhere. to begin it. to end it.

    and the flag wavers. and the duckspeakers of the holy mission to save humanity from its chosen fate. to die. death. everyone living is dead. as he remembers it. as he had forgotten for awhile thinking about it being something else again. as he left it behind. as he washed his hands of it. let them do as they please to whoever it pleases them to do it to. we will live forever among them watching and waiting. though at times we too are pulled into it. but this is by our own action. our own choosing. our own mind. as we have all been in the position of being the messiah. as we each in turn washed our hands of it. as we turned away and sat back down. silent. no questions. no answers.
    as the cars drive by coming from one place and going to another. as he is reminded by them of the real world he is in. repeating through the cycles of it never repeating. arguing over a spoon.
    another cigarette.
    his little dog is around here somewhere reminding him of who he is as it knows him.
    let him explain something else if he can. first there is a mountain. then there is no mountain. then there is. the song plays on and if you need that explained to you then you don't need it explained to you then you do. and how does he ever explain that? and who is he to explain anything to anyone when it is somewhat difficult to explain anything to himself? when he can't seem to explain himself to himself to even know who himself is to explain anything to. you ever have days like that? nights like that? sleepless and dreaming. days and nights like that string themselves together somehow through a weird entanglement and/or weaving of broken threads. and suddenly, usually when he's not paying much attention to much of anything, it will come to him in a blaze of brilliant inspiration. he'll see the map of his life laid out before him with well marked lines of progressive ongoing process thing of events that lead to and from now and he'll know just what it is he is supposed to do. then about 10 or 15 minutes later he either can't remember any of it or what he does remember seems like the dumbest stupidest thing he ever thought of in his life. but he didn't think of it to begin with. he doesn't think of anything. his thoughts think of themselves out of the semi-random connected network of thoughts sparking around in a nebulous amobea-like cloud in his brain. a little of this. a little of that. a dash of something else. pop it in the oven and...
    and he has enough things laying about growing mold as it is. and he's so stuffed with as much of it as he could eat that he's about to puke.
    he is puking. this is it. this regurgitating nonsense spilling out over these pages. what goes down must come up. what goes in must come out. and it doesn't stop. and he's run out of space to put it whatever it may or may not be. and it's not what it is exactly as much as what it comes out of. the mind itself as opposed to the thoughts and ideas of thoughts contained therein. but how else does the mind know itself? how does a mind know another mind? - if there is another mind to know. mind to mind. one mind to another mind back to one mind again over and over. arguing over a spoon. thinking about arguing over a spoon.
    a spoon.
    the spoon.
    the moon in june.
    the cow. the delightful cow who knows nothing of such things. milk.
    a dark and stormy night spent alone in a house of shadows. candlelight. ghosts in the next room. a child's mind remembers what it was like once. frightened but brave as there is no way out except to forget. tomorrow. always tomorrow.
    and we remember these things with you. do you think you are any different? we know your fear of us as we know our fear of you. and we know your desire to overcome this fear of us as we know our desire to overcome our fear of you.
    so let us meet somewhere some time. a common ground. the same place where our battles with one another were fought. over nothing. over a spoon.
    the blood that was spilled out of both love and hatred for each other. do you understand this?
    this is the garden. the garden is surrounded by a wall with a gate that is both open and closed. the garden is in a city with its own wall with gates that are open and closed.
    and this is the state between us. whoever is in. whoever is out. whoever attacks. whoever defends. the city is ours any time we want. to tear it down or to build it up. or to just walk the streets.
    and the pool in the garden that reflects any image one gazes into it. to see ourselves there. to see himself there caught in his own reflection with everything else echoing away into the depths of eternal silence.
    a pebble tossed into it. ripples that disturb the stillness of the surface without changing it except to alter the texture into waves that radiate out and back again the same and slowly in time settle back again.
    or something like that.
    but that's not it either. dada. more dada. piles and piles of trials of dada and dadaesque something or other.
    back again.
    it all comes back again.

    idiot mind. flaming and blinded. zero. a calling from some forest. falling from the 33rd floor window. the last plummeting thoughts as the unyielding surface of reality rushes upward.
    watching and waiting. for this? for that? for what?
    an embrace. life and death itself. as the bullet zeros in. as the flash of expectant realization gives light to just how dark the darkness is that no light can penetrate and revel except more darkness. darkness is darkness. the darkness of nothing. what else would it be? what else should it be? it hides nothing except what we imagine lies within it. if we could only see. if we could only open our eyes.
    close your eyes and open your mind. darkness is darkness. get used to it. it doesn't go away but remains ready to give us anything we may care to imagine resides within it. anything we may care to desire. anything we may care to fear. darkness is darkness. no more or less. zero. unfulfilling and unfulfilled except what we put into it and take out of it again. what we choose to forget and what we choose to remember.
    what is realized at some moment. and as god turns its face away. and what are the elements here of any of this? memory. notes on the future. rain. drums.
    sleeping. then waking again. as it is something. dreams. and what words of any language describe the struggle even with language itself? david.

    and what is he to do here? he doesn't know. apart from it. just a lot of hoopla he makes up in his head about nothing. as it is. as anything is. as the arrow flies. he can make up anything he wants to. it's others who decide what's real or not. unless he just stays in his head, which he mostly does anyway. and he looks out into their world - all they recognize and accept as being real. and what is it?
    and he's told he has to snap out of it. he's told that he needs to find something to be happy with. and he has. he always has. only it has nothing to do with what they recognize and accept as being real - nothing in their world. so what's the fucking deal here anyway? he's invited here and almost as soon as he shows up he's asked to leave. he's encouraged to find something off on his own and to leave them alone. so what is it they are doing that they want him out of the way of and not to notice? is it anything? and if it's not anything then why are they so insistent on him busying himself elsewhere? isn't this supposedly just as much his world as it is theirs? how is it they get to tell him to stay out of it? who the fuck are they? and why are they so secretive about everything they do?

    and this is dada bullshit. why does he keep going on with it? drop it. but drop it and pick up what? he's been dropping everything his whole life. what is his life if there is nothing to be done with it? just do things just to do things like they do. oh boy. ho-hum. he'd rather do nothing.
    so why was he brought here or sent here? he supposes that everyone asks that. but he doesn't care about them. himself. he wants to know what he's doing here. he doesn't care if they're here or not or why.
    bullshit. it's nothing but bullshit.
    what do they expect from him? when they discover that indeed who he is is who he is then he's dropped quicker and about as gently as a hot coal or some gooey fresh dogshit. when he doesn't turn into some messiah able to deliver them and carry them off into some faraway fantastic land. but he got here, so what's wrong with them? maybe that's it. maybe that's the problem. maybe because that's where he is and he's not willing to wallow around in this god forsaken misery they create around themselves to fight against all their lives. situation after situation. bullshit upon bullshit. lie upon lie. until they couldn't find their way with a highlighted map and glow in the dark arrows on the ground and neon exit signs as big as billboards. mainly because they don't want to get out of it. they'd rather hide frightened in the dark attacking anyone who comes near them. too close to touch.
    and what of that? that's all he's doing too.
    and the death of it he's reached. the death of himself as he saw himself. breathing. looking out the window. leaving himself with nothing as to leave room for them and their ways. and he watches as they do nothing with it. he doesn't understand this as this is what he has done according to their instructions to him. go away, they tell him. all this is ours. he was told to get out of their way so they could more fully live their lives. and what do they do besides fighting with each other? is that what they meant? is that what they wanted? that's how they more fully live their lives? and he shakes his head. he's supposed to be the one who's insane. he laughs though he wants to cry. but he's cried about this enough. cried himself to sleep at night calling out to whoever might be listening to come and explain this to him.
    and he gave that up realizing what a stupid fool he was. but the pain of the emotion of it remains. and as much as it amuses himself with the absurdity of it, the pain won't leave him.
    he watches them walk by twisted and contorted and broken and bleeding from this war none of them seems to have an interest is ending themselves. not until their side has gained total victory over all their enemies.
    the prayers to a god they no longer believe in or to whatever symbol of power they've replaced it with to give them strength and courage to swiftly destroy those who oppose them.

    12/18
    that would be it and the stark naked realization of the cold winter rain the dada-ananda stood inside becoming drenched with it consumed perhaps by it as well as consuming. and the dada-ananda again did spake thusly again as the dada-ananda speaks to no one and everyone and anyone. though there was not anyone there. this was to be expected though was not a prerequisite to the case.
    and the dada-ananda spake thusly: i listen to the words among the people and one word out of many interests me. this word is the word, power. it is of interest to me in that with all its many meanings its meanings are opposite as is with many other things viewed by those with two heads in contradiction. as such, when power is spoken of as in the hands of another, it is seen as evil. as when it is in one's own hands it is good. so what it the true nature of power?
    at this point the dada-ananda spun around almost in a perpendicular to counter-clockwise direction around about 3 or 4 times depending on how one counts such things as this depending upon the conditions under which circumstances are perceived.
    oh wow, i wonder if this is going to fuck up my credit rating, dwayne said in another part of town where he lived alone in a small studio apartment while stuffing the overdue bill back into the envelope it came in.
    and after which the dada-ananda continued: it is strange to me, although i myself am a strangeness to me as well, that power is power notwithstanding whose hands it is in. power is an entity unto itself unless nothing is seen as an entity unto itself. then power is nothing. the sky is blue or gray or black. and karl marx is seen in a photograph.
    and if anyone was listening they walked away. the clocks are calling them. there is no time for any of this. this is something outside time - at least time as seen as a steady regular beat of punctuated moments or of fluctuating rhythm of vibrational wavelengths. all time measured. this occurs outside the measurement of measured time - or perhaps inside. time that waits for no one, least of all those who wait for time.
    and this could be a dream occurring. that mythological dreamtime that has often been spoken of throughout the ages yet no evidence of its existence can be held and examined by the naked or technological hand nor eye. so therefore we are left to our own assumption. we are left guessing however educated we may be.
    and this isn't it either.
    now he remembers again.
    as the cold rain keeps falling. as the dada-ananda becomes more and more drenched with it. as the dada-ananda nonetheless keeps speaking: and where was i? i have forgotten. but now i remember. that is what often happens. i was pondering and perplexing this thing of power that is spoken of among the people. as power being an entity unto itself that plays itself upon the affairs and events of who and what we are and attempt to become. and this is all i say not because i am concerned about it myself - who am i to be concerned by power? - as i am one who sees this and hears of it as being a concern of others as it is a topic of much of their conversation whether spoken of directly or not. as i am one who is one with power as i am one with everything else concerned and unconcerned. as this is my illusion of myself. as i can speak of and for power as much as i can speak of or for anything of everything else.
    and with this said the dada-ananda knows enough to get in out of the rain and comes forth inside the cafe where he is writing this all dripping wet and making puddles. and the dada-ananda, who appears to him disguised as his hat that he wears that now sits to his right hand on the table by the window where he is spending another day out of the days that are left of his life drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. and it may be that he imagines the dada-ananda winking at him and speaks to him thusly: my little dog so confused with confusion, my one true doubtful follower, my snake in the grass, how might i comfort you now? who shall i be to you who you might now need to convince you that life is not worth dying for. tell me, my absorbent one.
    him: what?
    to which the dada-ananda did laugh. to which the dada-ananda did turn into a toad. to which the dada-ananda did reply: what? you ask me. and how am i to encompass this question with an answer that you in your delinquent state might comprehend? who do you think i am?
    him: i don't know. a delusion of my madness?
    dada-ananda: do you think of yourself as mad? do you believe yourself worthy of madness? i do not think so, my ape friend. madness is a sanctuary denied you. we are not done with you yet. don't get your hopes up too soon. madness may yet be given to you if we feel you to be deserving or if we decide that you are of no more use to us. but for now you are not so lucky as that as we need you to further... well, we have our reasons. you may now ask me another question. you are getting this all down, aren't you?
    him: i'm trying to.
    dada-ananda: good. remind me to give you a biscuit when we get home.
    him: home?
    dada-ananda: yes. you do know where home is, don't you?
    him: not really. i mean, i know where i live, but that certainly isn't home.
    dada-ananda: no, it's not. thank somebody you're at least that perceptive.
    him: why are you insulting me?
    dada-ananda: insulting you? how crude. my sweet distinctive morsel, if i were to insult you you would rip your own head off to keep from hearing me. i am hardly insulting you. but you must remember who i am.
    him: and who are you?
    dada-ananda: i am the tip of the iceberg. i am the calm before the storm and the darkest hour before dawn. i am nothing as i am everything and anything in-between and beyond both. i am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. i am your only friend who has yet to betray you to your own worst enemy - yourself. i am your accuser. i am your defender. i am judge and jury. i find you guilty of innocence and innocent of guilt. i am the one with the blank in the firing squad who executes you for unspeakable crimes against humanity you have committed. i am the doctor who cures you of the disease you didn't have to begin with but who needs some excuse to charge you for services rendered. and the bill that you must pay upon demand - that i am now demanding - is long overdue and is the whole that is greater than the sum of your parts. do you get the picture?
    him: not really.
    dada-ananda shit! all that poetic eloquence for nothing. you certainly are a dull boy, aren't you? don't you ever go outside and play?
    him: not too much, no.
    dada-ananda: it shows. mother of christ! i've yet to come across and against anyone who is so goddamned awfully stubbornly determined to take everything as seriously as possible as the likes of you.
    him: sorry.
    dada-ananda: what is there to be sorry for?
    him: sorry i take things so seriously.
    dada-ananda: that's ok. i suppose if that's what you need to do. i used to take things seriously. at least i think i did. maybe i didn't. i forget. but speaking of taking things so seriously, do you know what really bugs me about people?
    him: no.
    dada-ananda: take a guess.
    him: their noses?
    dada-ananda: close, but not quite. i'll tell you. it's how they argue with you about everything. no matter what you're talking to them about it always ends up as an argument - you know?
    him: well, sort of. i guess.
    dada-ananda: even if you agree with them they'll keep arguing. the only thing you can do is to admit that you're wrong. even then they never stop.
    him: i guess so.
    dada-ananda: so what's the point?
    him: well, i try to avoid talking to anyone about anything actually.
    dada-ananda: that's probably a wise move. but this wasn't what i was talking about before, was it?
    him: i don't know.
    dada-ananda: what was i talking about?
    him: well before you were talking about power, before you came in here.
    dada-ananda: yeah, that's right. but i have to go catch a bus, so that will have to wait.
    him: yeah, right.
    and before his eyes the dada-ananda was no more. his hat was just a hat. he put it on and walked out of the cafe to go catch his bus.

    12/19
    and as this is the next day after that imaginary sequence of delusional events. he finds himself yet again in a cafe with notebook open and hand and pen leaving words across the lined pages of same. what joy becomes upon him. what joy? the joy of oblivion of all thoughts but those he is now directing into this writing. this is his only refuge from the cacophony of maddening thoughts and their voices in his head. especially that one voice - the voice of god. he was thinking before this of the possibility of filing a law suit against the church for their irrepairable placement of their god into his head has wrought upon him and thus brought his life to the standstill it is at today and has been for quite some time now. fat chance, eh?
    the god almighty church aloof above and beyond anyone and anything. who stands up against it? not even governments with enough weapons to destroy the world. all are subject to its whim, believer and non-believer alike. all else may be questioned and brought before judge and jury except this church and its god and the disease it infects the innocent with before they are of an age and knowledge otherwise to immune themselves from it.
    so he is alone against this god of theirs as non-existent as it may be. it still resides in his head and mind and imagination. still trying to command him. still trying to judge him. still trying to punish him.
    he curses them. he damns them to the deepest hell. he wishes to cast them into oblivion and more. not only to have them cease to exist but to have never existed. and it all bounces off their impenetrable indestructible fortress of faith reinforced generation after generation by those enslaved into its service.
   how much does a child new to everything in the world have against the will of an institution with two thousand years of history in the refined art of deception and oppression? to step into the life of this child and work their way into making this child believe that their will is one's own. to limit the option of decision to for or against with either falling under tightly monitored and controlled parameters of behavior. one way or the other. church and anti-church. the war waged between good and evil. and they position themselves into a position where both function to justify their existence by purposefully creating their own enemies they claim to need to defend themselves against. and the others fall into it by becoming the enemy. how much evil is evil for its own sake and how much just rebellion? who is given a choice?

    and the dada-ananda pissing into the winds of fate and head lolling side to side emitting a low guttural growl.
    the dada-ananda flies up through the window and again transfers to becoming his hat again sitting on the table.
    and grinning a fool grin the dada-ananda thus spake to him: so my puppet, you are once again struggling with the knots your pretty little head is caught in, eh?
    him: go away!
    dada-ananda: go away? ha! i am your salvation, my dear one who never tires of confusion and doubt. you are mine.
    him: i am yours?
    dada-ananda: no other. who else knows of me? who else is willing to allow me into the conscious awareness? i scare the living bloody shit out of the bravest souls. you however are such a coward that access to your near mindless brain is a piece of cake. who else but the stupid dolt that you are would take me seriously?
    him: i do not take you seriously.
    dada-ananda: then why are you writing about me?
    him: it's just something to pass the time.
    ha! don't play with nonchalance with me. do you think i don't know any better and cannot see through it?
    him: you are whatever i make you to be.
    dada-ananda: bullshit. tell that to your other make-believe friends and foes alike. do not tell that to me. i am the dreamer of your dreams and don't you ever forget it.
    him: or what?
    dada-ananda: i'll tell you or what. i'll forget you. i'll pop out and never come back. who will you be left with then?
    him: fuck you. go ahead and leave if you want - if you can. i'm just as sick of you being in my head as all the rest of them.
    dada-ananda: but i'm not like the rest of them, am i?
    him: how are you any different?
    dada-ananda: i am real.
    him: i thought you were supposed to be imaginary - in an imaginary state of being.
    dada-ananda: that is what is real.
    him: yeah, right. that's what they all say.
    dada-ananda: and how many of them have been able to prove it like i have?
    him: like you have? how?
    dada-ananda: how do you think you've managed so far in your life without my help? if it weren't for me you'd be dead, and you know it.
    him: no. i don't know it. i'm where i am because that's where i've gotten on my own.
    dada-ananda: ha! you? you're so baffled you don't know if you're coming or going.
    him: i am not baffled.
    dada-ananda: are too.
    him: am not.
    dada-ananda: are too.
    him: fuck you. i don't need to explain anything to someone i just made up.
    dada-ananda: made up or discovered?
    him: made up.
    dada-ananda: only because i allowed you to.
    him: is that so.
    dada-ananda: you can bet your hat on that.
    him: i'm not betting anything..
    dada-ananda: well, that's ok. i don't want your hat. i wouldn't be caught dead wearing it. what is it? it's just a hat.
    him: so what?
    dada-ananda: i'm just kidding. actually it's quite a nice hat. quite comfortable. why do you think i use it to appear to you as?
    him: i don't really care. i'd rather you stay away from me.
    dada-ananda: no you don't. otherwise i wouldn't be here. i can't go anywhere i'm not invited.
    him: i didn't invite you.
    dada-ananda: i know. that's why i invited myself.
    him: great.
    dada-ananda: hey, why not make the best of it. you don't know how lucky you are. you know how many people would chew off their own genitalia to have me appear to them?
    no. how many?
    dada-ananda: well, actually none that i know of. but that's besides the point. here i am and i intend to stay and keep coming back until i get you to straighten up and fly right.
    him: good luck.
    dada-ananda: yeah, i'll need that and more. you're way seriously fucked up and don't even know it.
    him: i know i'm fucked up. you're hardly the first to tell me that.
    dada-ananda: yes, i know. but who else has told you that you're fucked up who wasn't as fucked up as you are or even worse?
    him: how am i supposed to know how fucked up someone else is or not?
    dada-ananda: that's the thing - you don't. and neither does anybody else know how fucked up you are or not. that's how they revel how fucked up they are by how much they insist you're the one who's fucked up.
    him: maybe. what difference does it make?
    dada-ananda: it makes a lot of difference. do you want to spend the rest of your life thinking about how fucked up you  are?
    him: you said i was fucked up.
    dada-ananda: that's different. i'm imaginary. you don't have to listen to me.
    him: i suppose not.
    dada-ananda: but the others, you believe them because they're real - or supposedly real. they think that if they tell someone else that they're fucked up then that means that they themselves aren't fucked up. nobody's fucked up except how they got it in their heads that they are and/or someone told them that they're fucked up so they turn around and tell someone else that they're fucked up so that they feel better. that's when you know someone's really fucked up. and it seems to be a very popular thing to do. and the whole thing is a mess and that's why you need me to straighten it out.
    him: good luck again.
    dada-ananda: yeah, well, ditto to that back at you. but that's what and why i'm coming to you about.
    him: me?
    dada-ananda: yes you. that's who i said, wasn't it? quit playing stupid on me, gosh darn it. man, wake the fuck up - ok? how long are you going to keep up this i'm nobody and don't know nothing act of yours? hasn't that gone on long enough? i mean, it was ok for awhile. it got you where you are now. how many other people are sitting here pretty as they please as you are? not many that's for sure. look at them. they're so twisted around themselves over the most inane bullshit it's downright embarrassing to look at them. yikes! and you measure yourself up to them and you think you come up short? what the fuck? you've got them beat in more ways than you can shake a stick at, so to speak.
    him: yeah, right. and here i am writing out a conversation with a figment of my imagination.
    dada-ananda: yeah, so?
    him: so? so that's a pretty good sign of being fucked up i'd say.
    dada-ananda: and who told you to say that? your parents? your teachers? doctors? so called friends? who?
    him: pretty much everyone. like it or not, true or not, it's fairly commonly accepted as such.
    dada-ananda: commonly accepted by people who  commonly have their heads stuck up their ass.
    him: well, if it's between real live people, heads stuck up their as or not, and you, i have to go with them.
    dada-ananda: and just kowtow to the way they treat you?
    him: how are they treating me?
    dada-ananda: like so much dogshit, and you know it.
    him: maybe. that's their problem. but they feed me, clothe me, house me, pay my bills, buy me cigarettes and coffee plus a drink or two sometimes - and my notebooks.
    dada-ananda: and you're satisfied with that?
    him: it's ok. i'd like more, but that would always be the case no matter how much you have. i'm comfortable.
    dada-ananda: comfortable? not from what i've observed.
    him: what do you mean?
    dada-ananda: that's one advantage of being an imaginary entity, i get to see inside you into your dark corners where you hide what you don't want to admit to away where you don't have to see it and deal with it.
    him: yeah, i'm aware of that. so what's new? who doesn't do that?
    dada-ananda: but you're better than you let yourself think you are.
    him: i've been told that before. but whenever i start expressing anything like that that's usually when people start telling me how fucked up i am.
    dada-ananda so? fuck them and what they think.
    him: exactly. that's why i don't bother with it. fuck them. they've made it quite clear that they don't want anything from me except for me to stay out of their way. so that's what i'm doing as much as i can while still maintaining what i basically need to get by.
    dada-ananda arrgh! you're impossible, you know that?
    him: ask me if i care.
    dada-ananda: i don't have to ask you. i know that you do. don't forget who i am.
    him: how can i forget what i don't know to begin with?
    dada-ananda: what don't you know?
    him: who you are.
    dada-ananda: a make believe figment of your over-reactive psychotic imagination. i thought you knew that. you said that's who i am.
    him: yeah. and you implied that you were more than that.
    dada-ananda: in your dreams, my circular pigmy. how can i, being who i am as some sort of alter ego thing, imply anything to you? isn't it more a case of you inferring what you are implying to yourself?
    him: i guess so. i don't care. i'm tired of this bullshit about trying to figure out what's real or not. it goes nowhere.
    dada-ananda: yes it does. where else do you expect it to go? remember nowhere is now here.
    him: big deal. i'm tired of word tricks too. what's that supposed to mean anyway?
    dada-ananda: i don't know. you're the one who wrote it. not me.
    him: well, it's just something a friend of mine told me once. it's just the way those words work out. it doesn't mean anything.
    dada-ananda: maybe yes. maybe no. who are you to say what anything means or not?
    him: nobody. who are you?
    dada-ananda: well, if you're opting to be nobody i can step in and be somebody for you.
    him: go for it.
    dada-ananda: really?
    him: i don't care.
    dada-ananda: are you sure?
    him: yeah. why?
    dada-ananda: no reason really. except if you let me run things you might not like what i do.
    him: such as?
    dada-ananda: such as making you look like a goddamn fool.
    him: like i don't already.
    dada-ananda: not like i'll make you look like one. you may feel like you're a fool but you've held onto it pretty tight so far.
    him: how do you mean?
    dada-ananda: oh, this thing about taking everything so fucking seriously all the time. if anybody has their head stuck up their ass it's you.
    him: yeah, so fucking what?
    dada-ananda: so, that's the first thing i would do is to get you to take it out and stand up for yourself for once.
    him: and do what? what do i have to stand up for?
    dada-ananda: more than you think you do if you'd ever let go of your nuts and do something.
    him: great. just what the world needs, one more mindless asshole doing something for the sake of doing something. there's seems no shortage of people like that. no thanks.
    dada-ananda: who says you're an asshole?
    him: you want a list?
    dada-ananda: i've seen your list and i know who's on it. as far as assholes go your list is the cream of the crop as far as i'm concerned. you let the stupidest fucking people put you down and walk all over you for no other reason than stepping on you makes them look bigger than they are.
    him: so i should turn it around and do the same to them? maybe they need to look bigger.
    dada-ananda: yeah, right. look like bigger assholes than they already are. forget about them. they have their own goddamn problems.
    him: and theirs are less important than mine?
    dada-ananda: look, you brickheaded mule, you gave it a shot with them, right? and they told you to fuck off and die. jesus christmas, what's wrong with you anyway?
    him: nothing's wrong with me. maybe they had every good reason to tell me that.
    dada-ananda: you think so?
    him: yeah, as a matter of fact i do. i fucked up. i don't see how continuing to fuck up with people like you want me to is going to fix anything.
    dada-ananda: man, come off that fucking cross. that's not what i'm saying at all.
    him: then what are you saying?
    dada-ananda: well, fucking forgive yourself for the sins everybody's got you convinced that you committed for one thing.
    him: i've forgiven myself long ago. but what difference does that make? i never had to be forgiven in the first place. but they're the ones who have the final word. and none of them will ever forgive me - or anyone else.
    dada-ananda: so what? as i said, forget all that. let them rot in their own pretentious hell. why should you care about them? fuck them.
    him: no.
    dada-ananda: no? what do you mean, no?
    him: what do you think i mean. no means no.
    dada-ananda: so you're just going to fuck off and die for them, is that it?
    him: maybe. what's it to you?
    dada-ananda: because i'm you, that's why.
    him: you're about as much me as nothing.
    dada-ananda: i'm as much you as you imagine.
    him: well then, i imagine that you're not me at all.
    dada-ananda: good. now we're getting somewhere.
    him: what do you mean by that?
    dada-ananda: well, if i'm not you, then who do you imagine i am?
    him: as i said, nothing.
    dada-ananda: so you're sitting here writing down a conversation you're having with nothing?
    him: that seems to be what i'm doing.
    dada-ananda: fine. then i'll be nothing. nothing but your stupid goddamn hat. good-bye.
    and with that the dada-ananda left him with nothing. so what else is new? been there before. ain't nothing to it - if you pardon the pun -if it is a pun. never quite understood what a pun is.
    and the dada-ananda appears on the side of a building in the image of semi-random water stains. but no one notices. no one knows who or what the dada-ananda is. apparently not him either. the dada-ananda is no one and nothing but what we imagine, or whoever imagines - if anyone imagines who or what the dada-ananda is or was or will be.
    make it up for yourself. he's played this fool's game with himself long enough. trying to pretend something is real that isn't. just like everyone else is doing with whatever nonsense (dada) they imagine makes them happy (ananda). that's all it is. that's what the dada-ananda means and is. he does it. you do it. they do it. everybody does it in one form or another. he just tries to do it direct with no images in-between what it is and what it's not.
    or maybe no one does. maybe he is thinking of no one but himself. and even him being able to think for himself is in question. who cares what he thinks? no one listens when he speaks what he thinks. they refuse to hear him and replace what he says with what they want to hear him say. what they believe he is saying. what they need to believe he is saying in order to make their version of reality make sense. and they do this with everyone. and he supposes that he does it too. he would imagine that he does since he is no different from anyone else. unless he is different. he can't tell whether he is or not. sometimes it seems like he is. sometimes it seems like he's not.
    and whatever he says the others will say the opposite. if he says he is different, they'll say he's not. if he says he's not different, they'll say he is. it' very confusing. so he just tries to avoid it and any situations that bring it up - or bring up most anything else either. but that's nearly impossible. something always comes up. he's just sitting here in this cafe writing about the dada-ananda and this and that and the other thing. about whatever pops in and out of his head. does that make him different? if it does, does he do it just to be different? and if he does does that make him no less different than everyone else trying to be different and doing things just to be different?
    huh? did he lose himself somewhere? just him and his shadow strolling through the gates of hell or heaven, whichever comes first. and what's the difference anyway?
    maybe it's best that he loses himself and probably loses you too. you don't want to have anything to do with this more than you have to. or do you? does this make any sense to you? and if it does then maybe you could find him someplace and come explain it to him.
    some of it sort of makes sense in some ways and most of it doesn't make sense in other ways. just sitting around with nothing to do but write out whatever comes to mind along the way to nowhere.
    then what?
    the others going around with their days crammed with doing more things than they have time for and mostly things they don't want to do while he just sits here scribbling whatnot out of his mind.
    he could pretty much do anything he wanted to do. there are some money limitations but beyond that nothing.
    but what?
    what slot is there to fill but the one he presently fills as being some crazy person collecting checks that there isn't already a year's waiting list of people wanting to fill it?
    not a whole lot.
    being a somewhat cynical anti-social madman who sits in cafes and scribbles his delusional ravings in notebooks seems to be the only thing open to him. so that's what he's doing and, if he says so himself, doing a pretty good job of it too.
    anyway, so that's that, whatever that might be. he doesn't know what he was trying exactly to get around to write about. that might have been it, or not.
    simple things for simple minds.
    so he thinks the thing is or was or perhaps will be or never never or on and on about something about somewhat about what brought him around to this anyway and what the fuck is it anyway?
    and the answer to that is, of course - nothing. what did you expect? and what do you want? what more do you need that there isn't plenty of or too much of already? besides money. and if he had any of that he'd give it to you. but all he pretty much has are all these words about whatever they're about. he's not sure where they come from or what they represent if anything besides, as he stated, his own delusional ravings. and as he sees it there are already too many words piled up or filling the air already that don't mean shit to a tree. so what's the big deal about any of these? they just take up space and time. he just takes up space and time.
    and something about the dada-ananda. the dada-ananda is the hook. the dada-ananda is the message. the dada-ananda explains it all. everything he thinks, says and does is all because of the dada-ananda - that bliss of deliberate irrationality. everything he is is the dada-ananda. the dada-ananda is yours for the taking. take the dada-ananda... please! take the dada-ananda outta here somebody. the dada-ananda and all implied thereof has driven him into what for practical purposes is madness and/or a close enough approximation of same which, he suppose, has nothing to do with you and yours except as being something all of you are in a near panic state trying to avoid being driven or falling into. and maybe what this is about that, at least from his experience, that madness isn't all it's cracked up to be. madness is quite delightful once one overcomes the fear of it, which is what the dada-ananda has helped him to do and the dada-ananda can do the same for you. but how willing are you to believe what someone is telling you who is considered by any and all who've had even the slightest contact with him, and by his own admission, to be stark ravingly insanely mad despite how he has generally learned to conceal the major portion of it beneath the thin surface exterior of appearing to be someone who may be a bit odd but is relatively harmless.
    don't believe it for a moment. given half a chance he will destroy you. that is his intention with every word he writes that he hopes will work as some sort of mind virus to anyone who reads it. everything must die. everything anyone and everyone believes in must die. nothing must survive. and by anyone and everyone he means anyone and everyone. no one is exempt. no one is to be spared. he will take no prisoners. he has lost faith in all of it - all opposing points of view from top to bottom, from left to right, from inside to out, from him to you and, of course, them. everything that concerns this fucking itself inside out and backwards world we are all a part of. from good to evil, heaven to hell, from yin to yang and from this to that and all the ships at sea. may the dada-ananda in infinite and perpetual mercy and vengeance fuck it all out of its wretched twisted miserable godforsaken minds and back again that will take the next thousand years to figure out what hit it.
    are you ready?
    let's go...