as we create our world around us. as we become who we are or not.
    as this is all happening. as it was - as it is - as it will be.
    it's never too soon. it is always now.
    this is the moment of moments. this is the place and the time. whatever is and whatever is not.
    this is it.

    the gods look up and see us flying above them. they are only gods. their being and existence is defined by our experience of them.
    our being and existence is defined by our experience of ourselves. it is unlimited as we are unlimited.
    we are the consciousness of the universe. the universe is whatever we experience it to be. it is shaped by our perception. who is to tell us different? let them come now to us and even that will be because that is how we designed it.
    god is ourselves reflected in one image. it is us as we are it. one cannot be without the other.
    god had no choice but to create us and we had no choice but to create god. we are each aspects of the same act of creation.
    if god is to judge us then it is we who judge ourselves. who among us is not guilty of being human? we demand a trial by our peers - humans. god has nothing to say about our imperfections it created us with.
    let god come out and walk among us - not as god in human flesh but as human in human flesh.
    a thousand crucifixions cannot begin to equal the pain to this god what even a splinter in our finger is to us. who is it kidding?
    so keep that god away from us. who needs it? let it float away forever in its heaven. we have our destiny to fulfill. our destiny as human to be whatever being human might turn out to be.

    and as it is called or not called. and to be whatever it is. and to be something or nothing.
    and it comes around to whatever it will be toward whatever it will become.
    we sing a song no one knows. we sing a song in the mountains. we sing a song in the city. is it the same song?

    and whenever it seems to be one or the other as we try to explain to ourselves what is or what is not driving ourselves around in circles again and again sitting in the dark corners where the spiders play in our minds under a spell of innocence.

    and another story about whoever the story might be about as what's on tv is central to life on earth circling the sun in a dance across the universe steadily expanding.
    numb.
    and whoever is who they are. and wherever we came from. the beginning is the end as the end is the beginning around and around again and again.
    nothing here to capture the heart - nothing here at all.
    in silence which becomes us. we don't even look upon one another. we close our eyes and dream another dream.

    dark scarecrow dance dancing without anyone giving it a name where names are unimportant because there ain't no more money. there ain't no more money.
    B=||||=||||=||||=||||=

    crying through the night about all the shit happening in the world.
    and...

    not much to write about except he's been writing that for quite awhile now and so what?
    everything's been torn apart and it's not going back together again - not that it should or shouldn't but that we weren't exactly prepared for things to change. we thought we had it down. we thought we had it under control and then it slips through our fingers.

    and he's tired of this same shit all the time - whether it's in his head or not doesn't matter.

    and love that never dies because it's never born. it shines through everything because it is everything. love that we deny even with our love. not love of, love with, love in - just love.
    yeah, yeah - sure thing. show him anything like that in the world.

    10,000 words that turn day into night and night into day so many times around no one knows which is which and what is what.
    and not too many seem to care. they just believe what they believe is real. and what they believe is real unto itself.
    and basic bullshit like that because nothing ain't coming out tonight as he hangs out in one place and then another trying to fit into whatever vibrational doo-wah might be happening except it's all tuned into the wrong station and he can't put the pieces together.
    and they fight their wars within and without. others attack them for things they've never done. it all turns back again. the rain darkens the night. wet shadows that should have names but don't. they do not speak. we do not listen. silence is the only command.
    silence of the mind which overcomes everything else. we stand our ground. we do not move one way or another - neither forward nor back, right nor left.
    the silence in the words we use to protect the silence.
    the silence within us and around us. the silence of silence and the silence of noise. mute silence and silence that screams.
    radio silence.
    tv silence.
    silence everywhere.

    and to break through and join hands together touching flesh to flesh from one image to another in a reality that otherwise is a dream.

    split the device.
    break the silence.
    we dream - we dream of dreaming.
    the awakening to come in some sort of way we all will recognize. it is here and not here at the same time.

    and sometimes when a bowl of ice cream becomes a horrible and strange thing that seeks to absorb us in its melting self. cigarette blues and so many angels.
    and here again with himself and i. and none of us can agree on a thing - so we end up doing a lot of nothing.
    and there's a lot of nothing to do.

    and it happens so fast. it's over before it's even seen. we dream our lives away - there isn't much else to do.
    all in a dream. dream images of each other.
    as the night wears on toward nowhere - and there's any number of things he should be doing now.
    and what's the point to any of this but to keep dreaming life away?

    and all these people dreaming of heaven. all these people dreaming of this jesus guy coming down to earth and rescuing them from what they cannot pull themselves out of themselves.
    is he any different?

    and he doesn't understand anything about this life. he doesn't know what he's supposed to do. what do these people want? he's willing to do just about anything for anyone but what good would any of it do?

    all the blues in the world. children beaten to death and all stuff like that. yeah - and what is he supposed to do about any of it?
    and how many words does he have to spill out before he comes across the right ones?
    someone who knows nothing about anything at all.
    someone who knows what comes around again.

    hide it away with everything else that comes and goes. everyone says good night. everyone caught in their own dream when it could be one dream with all of us being able to fly.
    but all we are is these stupid ape things with certain bio-patterns in our heads. there is no heaven or hell - just war and destruction we bring upon ourselves because we can't help it.

    and being in the moment we lose the moment when we try to make that moment or aspect of the one now moment last forever.
    we lose the sense of now when we try to always keep it going like it used to be.
    is this obvious?
    does everyone know this but him?

    and where and when does it begin? and where and when does it end? except it begins and ends now in a moment stretching out forever. the same moment the universe began. the same moment that it will end.

    it.
    it becomes this and that and the other thing.
    this is what that is not.
    that is what this is not.
    the other thing stands by in case of confusion.
    thus the universe is born.

    slipping out.
    laughter from the other table - something about golf or something.
    slipping into another dream from another.
    throw away the keys.

    we are not us but we are many alone together fighting with each other and each ourselves without realizing the same difference between us.
    what will open our eyes? what will open our minds? who do we need to become?

    spilling the wine. and when we have discovered... discovered what?
    nothing.
    discovering nothing more than what there is - and nothing less. no end to mystery. it's all here.
    watching the water go by with faces. a thousand faces with each moment and every moment being the same. all words. all speaking words into the general noise. the noise of the water.
    spill the wine. the communion is over. we have lost our sense of one another - or maybe we never had it to begin with.

    and gottok went to his grove back into the cavern. his people had been dispersed. they had gathered around each other with music and dancing and fires. the armies of kottog had come and scattered them with clubs and shields and tear gas. she had sent her agents in among them to spread rumors and anxiety.
    gottok now went back to study the books he had collected with him. there was so much he did not understand. he didn't even understand what he did not understand.
    he felt that he was only taking up space. he felt that he was only an irritation to those around him. he only wanted them to be happy. yet this was something they did not seem to want for themselves. this was what he did not understand.
    they fought against their happiness. when it was right in front of them they would push it away and turn away from it. this was when his sister kottog would find them.
    all the noise. all the frustration. this is what kottog fed on. she needed to keep it alive in order to keep herself full. yet she was never full. kottog herself was never satisfied. she was never satisfied because she felt that she could only be satisfied when she was full and complete - and in control. she could not understand that wanting was satisfaction in itself.
    there is always more. nothing is ever finished. to be finished is to be dead. dead more than death that is rest but death that is death - full and complete.
    wanting it all. wanting it all to be finished.
    there is always more. nothing is ever finished. there is always more to be amazed by and wonder at. there is always more to be confused by.
    we have been here before. we will be here again. we are here now.
    gottok went back to his books. the books with words that never ended with meaning. words that could be read once or twice or a thousand times.
    there is always more. nothing is ever finished.
    yet the distance between people was one thing gottok always had trouble understanding. no one was really alone yet they acted as though they were alone. they believed their individual identities as being real rather than as being facets of the one.
    the one being as all being. as all is, one is.

    and the words spin themselves into a frenzy. the meanings blur into impressions rather than definitions. and that is what they are. yet this world wants cold hard-edged facts. it wants absolute truth that is always the same and never changing.
    the truth is always the same yet ever-changing.

    the broken mind. the mind split from the never changing.
    and in this world this is seen as something evil - diseased. in this world the unbending is valued as the highest good - a good stiff erection.

    when gottok got to his books he stood before them. he suddenly began crying.
    he cried for everything.
    he cried for nothing.
    his crying became a hymn - whatever that means.
    he never felt more alone.
    he never felt more at peace.

    and as it changes. and as it never changes.
    tasting what remains untasted. leaving what cannot be left.
    the words go on forever.
    the world goes on forever.
    and the pain remains.
    what is the pain?

    dogluck. circles of coffee on the table. an ashtray filled with crushed cigarettes.
    nothing is ever finished. there is always more.
    we can close our eyes for a number of moments and the time comes when we have to open them again.
    what do we fear?
    what do we not fear?

    we each are centers to the whole. the difference is the same between us. it's the contrast of opposites that makes the perception of creation possible.
    and dada like that.

    but the idea here is that we have to set up this space and time to be open to improvisational rituals.
    and the idea of that is that it is the idea of that.

    and when it's up it starts coming down again.
    and then it starts doing both at once.
    circles within circles.
    circles around circles.
    it doesn't really matter one way or the other.
    and it turns between one and the other.

    from the belly of it. speaking out of time with angels who are disguised about angles. and somewhere in france where no one lives anymore - or so we have heard.
    we stand across a great plain plane when the clocks were wounded by themselves. tricks. forced behavior. touching against the strength of waves moving away from the beaches where the sculptors of the older gods stand rusting with an eternal grace.

    bringing it down and bringing it back up from the idea of it where it stands alone with nothing to stand on - without even the idea of something to stand on.
    neo-form. existing ever new each moment of forever.
    time without end.
    the deep sea that out of arises the face everyone wishes was theirs. waves.
    nothing but waves of ourselves.

    and out of the time that was the time that will be the time that was never the time that will forever be the time.
    or something like that.
    and from the mythological sacrifice beginning to the end. and a little bit of game show music.
    and from where we stood (standing again). and from the point where the drunken man staggered down the stairs.
    we stood our ground - what little of it was left. we were nothing. we were everything. we were all that we were at once.
    and whatever comes from there. and from nothing to nothing.
    and we forgot everything and now we are remembering it again.
    and who is who?
    and what is what?
    looking up to a distant and empty sky. we give names to the parts of the unknown that we think we understand.

    3/24-25
    and as it circulates around whatever it circulates around. we being whatever we are until whatever we are stops being whatever we are and the night becomes the day and between the two is no difference as one fades into the other into the other into the other...
    yet we generally can tell the difference between the two - can't we?
    one is dark and the other is light. simple. yet the simple quickly becomes complex when one looks beyond and past the surface - when one looks around the edges.

    and what comes out of this in the long run? and how long does the long run have to be? as one spins into chaos it generates new variations upon the theme or three or thirteen or infinity which they themselves spin out into through the chaos.
    melting from one to the other. turning on small wheels and big wheels and no wheels and all wheels.
    and what is spoken becomes part of the wind blowing through our hair. and each breath we take to speak other words or just to breathe another breath that says nothing in words but in the air it pulls in and pushes out we breathe all this speaking.
    evaporating from one to one. dissolving through each moment as each moment is now. a horse. a house.
    and in the moment. and out of the moment.
    and nothing is the same as it was or should have been. as everything disintegrates around him. he needs to be here to play a part but it doesn't matter if he's here or not except what he does wouldn't happen except what he does doesn't matter. or does it? how does one tell? does it matter if it matters or not?

    and what it is and what it is not. and each moment flashes between the two. yet each moment is the everlasting moment - everlasting in the moment that it is and the moment it is not.
    and what does this have to do with everyday real life? these everyday mind people who control and rule this world and make it near impossible for us to realize and know who we really are.
    the only thing left is to stay apart. stay away from these doomed souls who have gained the moments of their lives at the expense of losing the moment of eternity.
    if they could only see and understand - but they don't. if they could only see and understand that eternity doesn't begin at some future date and time but that it is here now with us always. if they could only see and understand - but they don't.
    but they don't.
    they look for the complex when it's so very simple.
    as simple as it is it - it is what it is.
    but they build up walls and walls and walls. they confine themselves in fantasies of reality.

    one bag inside another and a cold good-bye and laughing with someone across a room or some other whatever it is as it is as this is what it is.
    and from one to one as it twists and turns in and out around itself over and over through cycles returning on themselves different from how they began. everything is a chance. everything is a mystery though it is only itself.

    and what he doesn't understand is people fighting over all this like it was something real. and they let the real reality slide away through their fingers grabbing for whatever stimulates their nerve ends and brain sensory dada.
    what fools they are. how stupid can they get?

    and their invisible clothes won't make it. and vacuuming up the chaos around them won't make it.
    and their minds won't make it.
    all their money no matter how much or how little won't make it.
    but they'll make it by themselves. they'll someday discover how worthless all the things they value actually are.

    work on it. turn it around to face oneself. as one faces it.
    bring it up and bring it down. do it anyway one can, but just do it.

    we are waiting - waiting for the others to wake up.
    they call us names.
    they spit on us.
    they lock us up in prisons and hospitals.
    they torture and kill us.
    but we will always wait for them. it will never be too late.
    one day it will all come apart and then go back together again and they will realize all they've been missing.

    and as he is surrounded by angels who tell him their secrets.
    and as he is surrounded by people who tell him their lies.
    and in this world he suffers through madness created by others' fear and misunderstanding. when will they wake up and come around? when will they see all the destruction they create with their static controlled lives?

    and he is who he is. he is complete to himself and to his being. he has only what he can give - yet no one wants it. they'd rather agonize through their damned lives.

    calling out his own name he remembers now - and it echoes in the noise of the void that surrounds him.
    he knows nothing.
    he is nothing.
    there is nothing else to remember now. we bring our dreams together. we fall apart.

    and the endless argument between what is and what is not.
    it all breaks down here.
    he watches who and what.
    all these people who are who they are. all the lonely people.
    all the words and all the games. all the whatever it is.
    all in what is all.

    the diamond flag - and how many people are there who know themselves as the fools they are?
    we are who we are. we are the ones who know we are the fools we are.
    and we have taken our foolishness into our own hands like a flag waving in an ocean breeze.
    coming in and going out.

    out of the dark into the dark out of the light into the light. understanding through not understanding.
    nothing can be said about everything.

    and as it plays out one cannot wake any of these people up. turn around.
    how important is it?
    how does anyone tell?
    it's lost long ago. it's from one to another. it's just another mad plan.
    how does one read it?
    how does one tell who's who?
    when it comes down. when the tide turns.
    another mad plan devised.

    3/31
    what is transformed from nothing into nothing.
    what is unchanged in its constant changing.
    what is transformed from everything into everything.
    how does one describe what this is to anyone else?
    the manipulation of form. the desire for form.
    the non-existent line between the fictions.

    where does it begin and where does it end? yes - that is an old question and we all know the answer yet we consider the answer unimportant. we leave it to our gods to stand guard over those mysteries. we keep ourselves human. we would rather be surrounded by walls of our perception.
    step through the door into the ever-lasting moment. see the real for what it is.
    or something like that.
    looking for the point of light. looking for the one that is all.

    and words are only words of what they are seeming to be what they are not. only ink on a page or vibrations in the air.

    on the shores looking into each wave stands the dada-ananda who is and is not puzzled by space and time like the sea itself. this is a surprise. so is someone's name. this the folding and unfolding of chaos and order in and out of a whole that is it and it itself. the arrangement of a space and time against the existing space and time. water against the rock must give way to the rock as the rock slowly gives way to the water.
    is there any understanding to come to? is there any question that can be answered?
    nothing without mirrors.
    the dada-ananda dances in the green moonlight.
    and here it is now. the world of rocks with water splashing against them.
    people's minds breaking and reconnecting from one moment to another which is the same moment now forever existing as it is as everything and nothing.
    there is more. this is it. there is more. should it be everything? should it be anything? should it be nothing?
    between the lines. between the dots.

    4/3
    as everything turns. as it begins and ends in the same moment.
    but how important is that to our everyday lives? how do we realize this?
    our structures are very old and there are those who would wish to maintain them as there are those who would wish to destroy them. which is right? which is wrong? is there a chance that both are neither but can co-exist as an ongoing experience of life?
    the new needs to overtake the old yet not always through the ultimate destruction of the old. the old needs to be maintained yet needs to grow instead of remaining static.
    or something like that.

    as it is and as it is not. we become who we are. bending waves of light integral to the shape and form of the world and universe we create and are created from moment by fragile moment.
    the silent noise of it all happening at once. as we happen with it and it happens with us.
    and it becomes as it becomes.
    and one dusty day the dada-ananda was asked about the constant struggle that exists between the rational and the irrational modes of thinking and perception and experience.
    and this was close to the dada-ananda's answer: do you mean by this the struggle that exists inside each of us or the struggle that exists between those who favor one over the other? in the first case, all of us are in war with ourselves as to how we determine what is real and what is not. most of us remain in this sitting on the fence state which produces high levels of anxiety. a few fall one way or the other and this produces the anxiety within the group and between groups. if this produces conflict then both seem to be wrong. what is the alternative?
    by this time those around the dada-ananda had lost interest and had walked away toward a nearby carnival.

    the falling of angels. the grace of a non-existent god above and beyond anything human.
    and now we stand on the peak. we can either fall off or fly. we can become the gods we worshipped in our youth.

    and as more time passes between us. as we fall away from each other. the threads get thinner. the messages get confused.
    as the armor is built up thicker and guns are pointed out through peep holes.
    dreams are forbidden unless they can be turned into enterprise. we live in a desert. we crave for all we deny ourselves. we keep our desires in boxes and closets until they are twisted into grotesque shapes and turn on us when we let them out.
    there is no proof for our existence except our existence itself. it is as we are.

    and he can't get into it. he sits here in this goddamned place talking to himself trying to write. and it doesn't come.
    what does it take? what more does he have to lay down?
    and people laugh at him. they take him for a fool. and he wouldn't care if he got anything in return. but he gets nothing.
    all he wants is something to give them.

    and all the time that is contained within a...
    there is nothing. there is everything. there is this. there is that.
    singing in many colors. and we had to destroy the world. and we each sat alone in a corner. and it doesn't matter. and it doesn't make any difference.
    crawling from one thought to another. slow mind. sub-human.
    and the morning never comes. it turns from black to gray back to black again. there is no light.

    and how much do we want? and how much do we deny? what is the difference between the two?
    and the same songs keep playing all about the eternal flame on the tomb. the heart images.

    he doesn't know what to do. he doesn't know which direction to take that will best break through to them.
    the crying is done and he doesn't have much of anything left.
    the burning of human flesh screaming alive.
    do we even care?

    how does one compete with the divine image on tv the ever-present radiating savior of all the human race that everyone sucks onto?

    and the magick kiss. and the words from the mouth from someone one loves.
    and what else is the dada-ananda? what else is anything at all?
    and did one ever wonder if one was going out of one's mind or what? here one is surrounded by real live people who are increasingly strange.
    and one writes about it in a notebook.
    and one lights another cigarette.
    and there's nothing else because no one wants anything else. so fuck it. trash the whole thing. fuck them all.

    the time was/was not frozen. the gathering of idiots speaking wisdom. the movers and the shakers moving and shaking. the possible development occurring from another point of being.
    circles circling circles. a tune no one could quite remember edging out of our minds producing a glow of thoughts we could not think.

    and whatever is next. and whatever is not next. and whatever is whatever.
    to be or not to be - that is always the question.
    to realize what is and what is not. to split between the two - between the three.
    in the beginning there was no beginning. it began as it was and as it will be. it is here and it is now. this moment is the moment. this moment is the beginning as it is the end - the good old alpha omega.
    time is the progression of this moment as it changes without changing.

    bringing down the sun and the spheres. lifting our hands to the sky. worshipping the gods who are ourselves.

    from time to time to time to time. moments passing around inside themselves.
    and all that we think and all that we feel. anyone and everyone. we make it what it is.
    pigs. all the pigs in the world. it doesn't matter what happens to anyone as long as they get what they want. shut it all down. control it. make everyone pay for it.

    4/8
    waking up from sleep. wanting. all these people talking and talking. one thing into and after another.
    have another beer. have another excuse.
    he wears a hat. there's another phony western on tv.
    another phony world around him. he hates/loves these people. when will they wake up? all they are are programmed animations.
    but what is he?

    a logic system that never fails. kiss it. fuck it. but never call it by name. never recognize it for what it is.
    hell. fucking hell.
    what more does anyone want? this is the world we created. we drew it all out on paper and built it piece by piece.
    and someone to talk to. there's no one to talk to unless you got money in their pocket, then they'll talk to you all day long and into the night.
    in a bag. it's all in a bag.
    and they don't know what's coming. and it is coming. it's gonna crack their shit wide open like everyone in the world being dosed on 20 hits of acid.
    and he'll be laughing. he's been through that. he's taken the beast by the throat and made it tell him its true name.
    and all these fools who put on their designer clothes with labels and slogans and parade around and act like they got it down. he's gonna laugh in their face when they're crawling on the floor, when they're swimming in the sewers filled with all the shit they've been trying to flush away all this time.
    but now all he can do is come here and get himself drunk and talk to his imaginary friends. go slowly mad. twist in and out of himself because no one wants anything from him. but there will be a day when they'll be offering him and his kind all their jewels and gold, and silver and cars and houses and even themselves and we'll be laughing in their face.
    but now the gun is at his head, the blade is at his throat. he cannot stand the world they create around themselves.
    all the walls and barriers they build to keep it from coming in.
    and money.
    and money.
           money.
           money.
           money.
    a bunch of fucking whores. just gimme your money.
    it twists and turns. there is no love. there can never be love in this world.
    they deny it but it shows up in everything they do. got money in your pocket and they'll get down on their knees.

    he never asked to be born - that he remembers - but here he is. he's sitting here looking at all these people and listening to all their noise.
    another cigarette. more money for another cigarette. more money. get down on your knees.
    power.
    control.
    flush it all down the sparkling clean toilet. fill the sewers. poison the earth. eat their own shit. fuck them all.
    bleed.
    bleed to death. just have money in your pocket.

    fuck all of them.
    here he is - where are they? sucking up to someone with the bucks, someone who can buy them a drink, someone who puts on shows on their tv, movies in their theaters, singers in their clubs.
    and they'll follow it wherever it goes with their reptile brain all aglow.
    fuck them all.
    here he is. where are they? he is waiting here alone. but all he has is love. he has nothing but love. but love don't pay no bills. love don't give you no thrills. and blah blah blah. and an ashtray. and he lights another cigarette.
    forget them. forget their world. they deserve the hell they've created for themselves. and they can't get out. no matter how much money they make they can't get out. in fact, if anything, the deeper they get.
    rotting brain death hell repeating worn out tricks over and over.
    and here he is. where are they?
    he is alone as he has always been alone.
    their gods drink the blood of all who have been sacrificed in the name of their perfect world where everyone can be king or queen if they are selfish and cruel enough.
    he and his god can only offer them love. the love they don't want. the love they deny themselves and each other.
    yeah - yeah - yeah...
    keep dreaming, you fool, keep dreaming. what do you know about love or anything else? give up.

    it all comes and goes. it changes and remains the same. the train of thought derails and smashes up and bursts into flames and we dance around the fire naked as we really are.
    logic. 1, 2, 3, 4... forever counting out the money we've been paid for keeping our mouth shut.

    a small adjustment. a tweak or two and it all flies apart.
    laugh.
    laugh with it all as the structures collapse into the chaos they were designed to deny.
    the machine growls.
    and all the whores who have mainlined themselves into it crawl on their hands and knees.
    nothing can be done but laugh.

    the time foretelling itself as it comes. the time when all their machines fly apart. the time when all their costumes and masks are torn away and there they are naked as can be. no money in their pockets. no pockets to have money in.
    welcome back to the garden. the garden they've perceived as hell and have sought to destroy all this time. the garden kept in the shadows and darkness of their minds.
    welcome back.
    now tell us who's who.
    tell us who's the king and who's the fool. tell us who is weak and who is strong. tell us who is sane and who is deranged. tell us who is rich and who is poor.
    tell us.
    where are their boxes they filled with this and that? see their contents scattered in the forest and the streets. tell us which is which.
    what is of value now? what will they sell their soul for now?
    where are the lines they drew to mark off what belongs to who. where are the uniforms? where are the badges and the trophies? where is the menu and the wine list? where is the country club? where is the ghetto?
    tell us.

    this is it.
    this is all they feared and hoped they could protect themselves from. this is all the unnamed and unspeakable. they dismissed it from their world. they dismissed it from their language. they dismissed it from their thoughts.
    this is what their nightmares have been trying to tell them but they just took another sleeping pill to forget what they should have remembered.

    surprise!
    what is that?
    where has he been?
    does he look ok?
    do they suspect?
    are they talking to him?
    is this a trap?
    what is the answer?
    did he already answer?
    is this the next question repeated?
    maybe it wasn't repeated but he psychically foretold its coming before the ever-world in existence like endless cars on the freeway.

    to the skies and back. to the earth and our kind to open each and every one to wonders anyone can grasp and comprehend.
    the wounds in our senses will heal in the basking flow of the waters among us.
    are you with us? with you are yourself as we are? do you tell us apart from yourselves?
    we depart not from you to whom we speak with in diverse and weird form.
    to you we speak to you as the gods we all are within and about ourselves.
    let us connect together - individual and divided in and out of our greater selves.
    until the end.
    each struggle sets us more free than the last. if this can be a cry for us all at once.
    this is it!?!
    a banner waved from everywhere from everyone. we shall live individually at peace. this will come to pass in its own time. there shall be no declaration and everyone will know, even the ones who don't.
    the dada-ananda walks forth from every mind, heart and soul. this is the ideal we seek.
    and as all ideals it is imperfect - yet this is an ideal of imperfection, ergo, it is perfect.
    the laws of inconclusive denial of reality except in its most basic form are ready to burst apart at any given moment. worldwide state of mind born to a chaos where now they decide which is real and which is not - we decide.
    who us?
    yes!

    and what of this primitive brain that has erotically developed this prototype of horde behavior resulting in the distress in multiple expression of group gathering based upon fundamental biological functions of which to describe them with the socially negative culturally adapted and ascribed words would be to say - fuck -shit -piss -cock -cunt - asshole - and their 2nd generation forms of motherfucker - shitface - pissed off -cocksucker - asswipe...
    or something like that.
    or something not like that at all since we do not try to distinguish one from the other as did our distant ancestors who distinguished them unto many generations who took what is given to be the truth.
    yes - this is it!?!
    who we are now when the world ends today a little later on in the next moment which is now...
    zap!
    gone.
    who are we now?

    out in the desert again. sun cutting out the lights in mountain range jagged geometric pie slice across the whole sky dance in the good-bye time.
    reaching with one toward the other - chain link - chain reaction exploding around the earth in hours.
    it goes on and on.
    it continues on after any and all.
    dance to it inside and outside yourself wherever you may be positioned.

    call it out by whichever name we choose. we dance alive with it. we describe ourselves with our being, our misery, our hope.
    we oppress ourselves. we hold ourselves down. we deny our humanity to express the god which is our source as it is ourselves whoever we are and began as.
    we are fliers. we are those who walk the earth with flight. our minds singing with each moment.
    butterflies.
    each breath is exchanged between us. our common disaster and/or salvation.
    our waking.
    our birth.
    our knowing of who we ourselves are and who we become in moment passing moment.
    we see this every day around us. we know this already. we are calling out our own names when we utter our curses to the gods.
    we are who we are. there is no rank or title upon us in this heaven we now possess.
    we are in the garden. we have done our will with it in the manner the shadows of our minds declared.

    laughing with ice in their mouths. the grin that cracks their face.
    their mind in a holding pattern protecting itself from all it came upon that it didn't understand - the ever-changing things of existence.
    and what reality do we proscribe now it's flip flopped a dozen dozen times each time?
    what do we make of each other in this time that is somewhat peculiar and perilous balancing our act with winds and tides ever flowing around us?

    living and dying with each moment as it passes through whatever it passes through. we become and not become at the same time which is the line between this and that. coming and going.
    another time when we are ourselves again - whoever this is.
    we are more than life and death that flickers around us and we around in it. which are we? are we the life or the death?
    and it is with us always as it is us always being us whoever what we are.
    the stone keeps rolling. the moon circles the sky. we are not anyone we might name ourselves.

    4/10
    and what time is there? what time is this? past? future? now? what moment of all moments do we choose to remain? a snapshot.
    a snapshot of us in a grimace caught from the fluid motion.
    even a snapshot is ever-changing.
    nothing.
    what is nothing?

    and here.
    and now.
    what else do we expect?
    what else can we count on?

    and by himself alone - and all of us by ourselves alone.
    what is our common mind?

    and puzzles.
    and puzzles.
    and nothing more than this. and everything. and all that we imagine.

    and from far the mind holding its own image before itself in eternal contemplation wondering about a dream passing as it dreams a dream unfolding and folding throughout everywhere imaginable weaving the dust through changing patterns vibrating with the underlying rhythm the mind sings to itself in remembrance of its own being as not being.
    and we awaken.
    and we hear a name called to us. it beats in our hearts. it crackles and sparks in our brains.
    do we remember?

    what is to be remembered of ourselves as we swim over the waves for as long as we can?
    what is to be remembered of anything at all?
    today - tomorrow - yesterday. moments in a web of moments.
    and everyone is born. and everyone is living. and everyone dies. what is to be made of this?
    what is the moment now? what is this we are as we pass through what is created?
    is anything anything?
    is everything everything?
    is nothing nothing?

    and laughter can be heard. and silence.
    and all of what is. and all of what is not.
    he is not here - is he?
    the laughter is his. the silence surrounds him.
    there is more than he can possibly imagine.

    all that is denied and all that is accepted. we breathe. we are living. we are as we are.
    he does not know what more he wants than this. what more is there?
    this is his life as he lives it. it means nothing. he could die now and not even know it.

    and whatever comes of the others. and whatever we do together in one mind.
    and here he is. and whatever remains. and whatever leaves.
    the sky of birds. the sky of sun and moon - clouds and stars.
    the sky of satellites. the sky of jets and missiles. the sky of radio and television.
    and we run but cannot hide. and we wait for the time to come upon us when the decision will be made.
    or something like that.
    or whatever he's writing about.

    and from one to the other. mix and match. and wherever we are now in this day and age. some say this is the end. some say this is the beginning. some say this is just another day and age. some say this is bullshit.

    and if he could put down anything that made any sense whatever.

    down under the ice where we live with eyes closed. we dream a thousand dreams about whatever we dream about.
    what do we dream about?
    what is real and what is not?
    a rock is real. no argument there - well, not much. but what about love?
    and he watches what goes on with these people and he cannot believe half of what he sees. what is real and what is not?
    and he supposes it really doesn't matter...

    and a thousand blues for you. he cries without crying. he doesn't know how he feels about anything or anyone.
    a woman drunk reading her poetry around the bar about whatever.
    fuck it.
    it doesn't matter.
    let them all die in their misery. let them die in peace. let them die in a instant while they think they are happy.

    and what does he write anymore? there is nothing he can do to change anything in this world. there is nothing he can do to ease the pain the others feel and he feels too.
    nothing.
    he just watches it all go by. he cannot touch it. he cannot feel it. he tries to be concerned about their petty concerns and he supposes that their concerns are important since they're advertised on tv. he tries to feel what they do but he cannot.
    so - what's the point?
    what's he doing here?

    and in all this time primitive emotion making command decisions grunt mind clubbing down any opposition lock the doors guard the perimeter always under attack but by nothing more than our inner fear.

    and in tomorrow's world. in tomorrow's world today. and in tomorrow's world yesterday. all the possibilities that arise.
    and today's world of some future time adopting ourselves to what someone thought it might be.
    who the hell are they?
    ancient wisdom is one thing. ancient stupidity is another.
    and what decides which is which?
    who are we?
    who is anyone?
    yet we divide ourselves up and march around with yesterday's slogans.
    sure - yeah.

    and if - what?
    what?
    and if anything at all. just a lot of noise. the more noise it makes the more important it is.
    they who make the most noise...
    yet what greater noise is there but silence?
    silence which all noise generates from because there's nothing that states that silence can't make noise except whatever words we make up along the way to describe our madness.

    4/11
    and all that fails. zoom. and all that...
    from one tree to another. a mind. something.
    he was thinking about something. a tree. and he was sitting on this beach. mind. and he was trying to remember. the ship on the raging sea. waves crashing. bigger and bigger waves. was it a ship? was it the raging sea? or were these symbolic images? mind. tree. and was it a beach?
    he was some place else.
    is he where his body is? - or his mind? or a tree?
    memory.

    the beach was warm. it was late morning becoming afternoon but not for a few hours yet. sun. shadows. trees behind him as he sat facing the waves. the waves were smaller now but still pretty big. big enough.
    the house beyond the trees. he could see the roof of the house if he looked. did he look?
    and then someone said, come in. a fire. he was at the door. heavy oak old wood carved intricate design of spheres and stars and moons and suns and and angels and worlds. it all moved as it all stood still.
    as the door opened.
    we were sitting around on the beach. it was dark. a fire. crying.
    a tree. from tree to tree.
    he was sitting in his van in a parking lot. he had just bought something? food? oil? it was night. it was dark. it was raining. it was dark.
    dark.
     ark.
    rain.
    lights in the sky. silver seed. the doctor of space. the space doctor.
    come in, they said opening the iron and brass gate. spheres - stars - moons - suns - angels - worlds.
    we spoke a long time. we spoke of many things.
    some guy came up and asked him for spare change. he shook his head and rolled up the window.
    up?
    which is up?
    gravity. that's all it is is gravity. it fucks up the whole thing.
    or maybe it isn't gravity.

    he's writing this big long book of books. but mostly he's not writing it. he's just writing words.
    he doesn't know what the book is about.
    some sort of madness.
    the book could be called the byblia dyslexikon.
    perhaps not.

    the spiders. and the webs the spiders weave. the spiders - the spheres - the stars - the moons - the suns - the angels - the worlds - the endless waves eternal in and of themselves without the need for eternity.
    time is time. eternity is one moment. eternity is two moments. three.
    and on like that.

    and where it all could come from. and where it all could begin.

    beginning. ending. this is the fool's game. juggling the meanings of words as the reality they describe keeps changing.
    and as people kept coming up from the beach. come in, we said.
    light another cigarette.

    and wherever it goes on from here as he tries to maintain some interest in keeping this thing directed somewhere.
    where?
    where is where?
    from tree to tree. light another cigarette. fake it until the end.
    on the beach. dug in. under fire. the dogs. the tree.
    flashing thoughts.
    waves.

    birds in a corner. and as things in general fall apart. disconnect. distance.
    he sat on the bank of a pond where there were ducks and plastic bread bags floating. he watched seagulls flying in circles squawking existing surrounded by the air.
    to state that things in general are falling apart is to state nothing.
    if you got the look. if you got the money. if you don't challenge anyone to think. you've got it made.
    otherwise you're just causing a bunch of trouble for everyone and they maintain police and prisons and doctors and hospitals for people like you.

    and he doesn't need any of these fools. let them rot in the hell they create for themselves.

    please be pleased and all that dada in-between.
    and what does he get out of all of this? why should he expend an ounce of time or energy for these flaming assholes to pull them out of this goddamn hell they got themselves in? this is the world they want. let them have it.
    and the twists and turns of this whole mess and he's supposed to take it on? someone has to be the first and he doesn't see anyone else taking the chance.

    all the broken hearts bleeding all over the goddamn place. gotta be strong to survive in this world where there's these people who are frightened of their own shadows running the whole show. they gotta control it all.
    and they're afraid to let any of it go because they've held it all in twisted inside themselves for too long that it's ugly deformed demon shit their nightmares are made of.
    and if you try to tell them that the same shit is actually the same stuff their dreams of some sort of paradise are made of if they would only take the time to look at it instead of cringing in fear they'll cringe all the more.

    and there's this ship he remembers or maybe sees as some sort of symbol image.
    and this shit comes on any time he gets a little altered or whatever...
    but this ship is headed for the rocks and there's this beach and there's these trees and there's this house.
    and this happens in time out of time.
    and the house has many rooms. rooms enough for each of us to have our own. and the rooms are interconnected in many sorts of ways. it's always possible to go for one to any one of the others.
    and the house has a garden.
    and in the garden is a tree.
    and the house and all the rest are symbolic images for - what?
    what do you see? what does he see? what do we see?

    and maybe all he's trying to do is get back from feeling all the personal pain and frustration and maybe find this nirvana shit everyone talks about and that's he's read except that seems a lot more lonely than what this is to begin with.
    or something like that.

    and the obvious point about people are sheep.
    and if one is smart and clever enough one can become a shepherd or a wolf. and the one thing that the shepherd and wolf have in common is that they are dependent on the sheep remaining sheep. if the sheep stop being sheep the shepherd and the wolf are out to lunch.

    4/14
    and they've given up on the ideals and have sucked onto the fantasy real world they've created around themselves. they're scared to death. they've convinced themselves that it is insanity to see other worlds - unless you can figure out some scheme to make money at it.
    this world is hell and they are the demons themselves.

    smashing the dreams. dreams need space and time. they've put up walls everywhere.

    this is the end. this is the end of the line. zap.
    too many people have given up. too many people have said - fuck it, it doesn't matter.

    inside as it exists inside us all whatever it is from dna cosmic structure happenstance to breath of god plan. it is the it of all that can be it even as not it can be it.
    a breath of structure.
    a structure of breath.
    a happenstance plan.
    as balance is placed into not balanced or not balance is misplaced into balance.
    all opposites apply, otherwise they are not opposites.
    live or die.
    death or life.
    all of it must exist otherwise it is not it which is to state that not it is it.
    who?
    who becomes the mind of this all of it if ever a thing should be?
    brilliant storms unearthed. liquid sky split. earthling blues. fits of jealousy. emotional bio-locked chemical twinging.
    days.

    piccolo sheep. umbrella head. devout punishment/reward system hostile life support systematized entrapment of faith. where we shit is where we live. a particular confession of sin due down the tubes in a wink. good-night most of you. maybe us.
    actually it will be us in that it will always be perceived as us by those it happens to.

    movement.
    sky.
    dove magick.
    a chance in a zillion against any change in forever as we know it now.
    now and forevermore.
    the forever flag. we claim eternity as it is and always was and will be this moment now.
    you can worship your death/life static solution to future magnitude.
    menace the face of the earth.

    the shores of all nations radiating into each other feedback reality communication system operating in a mode they do not observe as operating because they think it's maloperative. spurts of random and not random garble and changed information.

    calling out for another buddha. one more could be the one. and what does that do? and what development does this inspire in the human mind?
    flying colors. flags flapping in winds of wonderment.
    calling out the names. calling out who's who and whatever is the change in climate.
    holding the tangled webs in our hands. the fools who don't know any better.
    playing with riddles on a field where colors are observed changing the wisdom of each moon turning forever with a balance not of balance but an unbalanced movement toward balance and/or a balanced movement toward unbalance.
    or whatever you choose.

    bringing in the sprits out of the blue thin air where lies the mind over matter.
    singing a thousand voices.
    and dada like that.

    operating on ingrown system information.
    what?
    as the thing "malfunctions" in degrees fondling the silver minds chosen for this moment as all moments are this moment as the same now exists as it is when now is around you.

    and nothing about anything. and no one around here looks like they're going to wake up any time soon.
    and what is he doing here at all? who called his name?
    yeah - yeah - yeah...
    and can't he write about anything else? he's waiting for one more person to open their eyes. just one more so he will know that he's not here alone.

    and as it all closes in on itself. as we turn away from the source. as we twist inside ourselves in fear of what is only our fear of what we should be in delightful awe of.

    and he just wants to leave. but if he leaves he'll remain alone. if he stays he'll still be alone but there's that small chance that one of these he's been working on will finally wake up - but he doubts it. if it hasn't happened by now...
    so what does he do? what can he do to get them to let go of their fear? if he acts they become afraid of him. they hold onto everything they can get their hands on. control let's them pretend.
    and in every way and in any way how their control over everything has become the accepted norm and way to go that no one notices just going along in their everything is hunky dory mode of mind insanity.
    as long as money can be made. as long as they have some way of setting themselves apart from everyone else.
    they lock their doors and have nightmares behind them.
    can't they understand?

    just a goddamn fucking dream world they've built up around themselves. sucking onto it. and anyone who dares to come close to reminding them of that gets shot down - no questions asked - both barrels - dead on arrival.
    arrival to nowhere - there's nowhere to arrive to.
    they kill anything and anyone they cannot control.
    they close their eyes and pretend everything is alright.
    are they stupid? what the fuck is wrong with them?

    and it's coming real close. he doesn't know how much longer he can keep holding onto this.
    they glide on by. they move with their eyes closed in tight little circles. fear. control.
    what is left?
    what will turn any of these people around? what makes them so blind to what is obvious? their petty bullshit they worry so much about while the rest just slides away.
    have they no minds at all?

    the manufacture of reality by our combined minds. and we do not believe.
    a thousand voices in his head and whatnot whatever is and is not.
    x=x.
    from the basic turning point into egypt and something about the sorcerers thereabouts eating their own hats at the end of it all. arf!
    barking meat. non-sexual. open mouthed buddha dancing around a fig tree. what is the meaning? what is the purpose here?
    and he connects to nothing and no one. he knows nothing of these other worlds. he knows nothing of this one.
    he believes anything and anyone. what does he know? what does he not know?
    and the god or gods or whoever or whatever. and control. and all the people who worship all the different forms of it.

    praise it!