the question of suicide posed by camus as the only serious philosophical question still stands its ground. it has always stood before him in all that he has done to divert himself from it in all his dishonesty.
    but is it as dark as all that? is it darkness or is it light? and what of the life he has brought into this world to stand before this question? - his children.
    there is death but there is life. death is individual. life is collective. death happens. life is an act of will. but that's not entirely right, he doesn't think.
    we had allowed ourselves to believe in individual salvation - the eternal life of the individual. eternal life is the life of the collective - the people. life is ongoing despite death. what does death change?
    but where are the people now? what has become of them? what has taken their place is the mob - the mob of individuals. or have they always been such?

    what comes to us in space. what comes to us in time. what comes to us out of never never. what comes to us out of our minds.
    these are our waking moments when we open our eyes to realize we are here and it is now. and what is it?
    how long have we wondered about meaning? we saw meaning in the earth. we saw meaning in the sky. we considered that meaning must come from something and some place beyond ourselves. and now we look and listen out into the expanse of space and time and we peer down into the fabric of energy and matter and we find ourselves still alone. yet alone with each other alone.
    and we have invented a host of gods to protect us and smile upon us - mommies and daddies. and now this single god who is as alone as we are. should we pity ourselves who have at least each other for company? this compared to the true solipsist. no wonder it craves our love. no wonder it tries to bribe us with golden paradise. does god think of suicide? it would seem that this god must be existential if not nihilist. from where and what does this god find meaning? how does it overcome its own angst?
    how easy it is for us if this god exists. how easy it is for us to have faith - or even doubt - that we will be remembered. but how horrifying it must be for this god. how horrifying for any number of gods. they know there is nothing but themselves. they do not even have death to look forward to. the horror of meaninglessness - the nausea. there is nowhere for them to look for meaning. beyond them exists the void.
    how horrifying for us with or without god or gods. without them we are alone. with them we are created by them because they are alone. we are created so they will not have to face camus' question. we are created for their amusement.
    as such, we could not have been created good or perfect. what is the amusement in that? we must have our bungling failings. we had to be created to always be involved in problems and dilemmas. what need would we have of gods if we were not created defective?

    it is the question of death. it is the question of meaning. we with our knowledge and technology have pushed death back. we have extended our lives. yet we have not found anything that answers the question it asks us. we have not come up with any more meaning to our now extended lives. all our extended lives mean is that there are that much many more of us here than there were before.
    and now he is here. a product of knowledge and technology otherwise he would have been long dead. he writes this business to amuse himself. he amuses himself to avoid the question. he has nothing but his own amusement to answer it - that and his cowardice, his fear of death and oblivion. so he remains alive thanks to knowledge and technology through his own amusement and cowardice. he expects no other answers.
    he wonders about death and oblivion. but how can one wonder about it except to wonder whether or not they exist? death certainly exists. he has seen others who were alive once become dead. he assumes the same will happen to him. but is there oblivion? we may think so. we may not have any reason not to think so. the evidence seems to fall in its favor. it should be as the oblivion before our birth. while we are alive we can remember when we were not. we can trace our existence back into darkness out of which it magically appeared. with death there is no remembering - no memory of either existence or non-existence. or so it would seem.
    we know nothing about death. we are and always have been wholly and entirely ignorant about death. we witness death. we know the dead no longer function, no longer have will. their bodies lie still and begin to decay, eaten away back to the earth.
    all we know about death are stories we made up. however all these stories have been made up by the living. the dead do not speak or write no matter how some of us wish they did or imagine that they do.
    and what about these supernatural being who supposedly communicate with us? we do not argue whether they do or not. we argue that they do not know anything more about death than we do for in order for them to be able to communicate with us they must be living. they might be even more ignorant about death than we are for supernatural beings are supposedly immortal and what is the most ignorant about death than that which is immortal?
    and he thinks about how he should not be here. having been born he would not have lived more than a few weeks without modern medical assistance. he could only have been born and survived in this world in this time. he is a product of the age. he would not be here wondering about this question if it hadn't been answered by others with their affirmation that he should continue to live. but why did they decide this?
    it is not much more than our instinct to care for our offspring. not all feel this but enough do to keep the human race multiplying for good or bad.
    and the question remains unanswered. it hangs in the air.
    he leaves it there. let it answer itself. he decides that it is not dishonesty or cowardice that keeps him alive. he has the whole of eternity to be dead. he only has this extended moment to be alive. he is alive now. that is the only knowledge he can be sure about - though many would probably argue that he cannot be sure of that. fuck that. he is experiencing it here and now - whatever it is that is supposedly this life even if it is illusion. and it hasn't been too bad though it's had some bad moments. the decision to live has no meaning except it is a decision to keep experiencing that which may be entirely meaningless. perhaps to experience meaninglessness in its fullest. to experience the absurd in all its glory. death will have its time. who is to say if it's better or worse?
    is there something so more important he should be attending to otherwise that only suicide will suffice in its attendance? is there something waiting in death today that will not be there tomorrow? he doubts it.
    this may be dishonest - when did he claim to be honest? who expects him to be honest? what meaning is there in honesty? and it might be cowardice. again, when did he claim not to be a coward? for whom is he supposed to be a hero? and what meaning does a heroic act have? let philosophers be heroes. let them do the honest and honorable thing.
    however, death does fascinate him. what is it really like? is it really the end, no more conscious awareness?
    he has tried to imagine it. what lies beneath his conscious awareness - or above it? did it really arise from nothing? is it really only a product of neuro-electric activity in his brain that came to know itself somehow as him? is it all just conditioning?
    what an idea.
    it seems so utterly implausible. as implausible as thinking that one's conscious awareness is anything other than that - that it might be an entity unto itself.
    it is curiosity about existence and death that holds him to camus' question, not any sort of bemoaning about absurdity. camus was part of that generation that experienced the first shock of meaninglessness. the opiate of meaning was torn away from them. meaning became insupportable and collapsed, not unlike the economy during the depression.
    he comes into this later. meaningless is not a revelation, it is a given. and along with life no longer having meaning, death has been freed from meaning as well.
    meaninglessness, or the loss of meaning, is freedom. it is the freedom to think about things like life and death as they appear to be, not as they as are dogmatically imagined. and the existentialists, the nihilists, the absurdists all can be just as dogmatic as those they have overthrown.
    all has become physical, sensory, empirical. all is denied that cannot be perceived or supported by at least one of those three. the mind is merely a function of the brain. the sense of soul is a product of the mind coming into existence from the firing neurons.
    he cannot remember back before his birth. he cannot remember back even later than that, from about when he was 3 or 4 years old. he has no recollection of much more recent time. he remembers attending a black sabbath concert a few nights ago. he remembers leaving and boarding a train to go home. he cannot recollect much of the ride. so did he exist then or not? does he pop in and out of existence periodically throughout his life only able to recall those days or hours or moments when he is actually consciously here? did he not exist for the first 3 or 4 years of his life or before that from his conception? he is told by others that he did. does he believe them?
    what is existence? is it only that which we are able to recollect? - only that which we are aware?

    and then he loses the sense of what he was writing about. it happens. just more mere meandering along whatever line or two or three he has meandered before. this well worn path through the forest.
    something about death.
    he, like everyone else living, only knows about death in terms of others dying. he, like others, has had close brushes with death - the tunnel and the light and all that business. but, like all who are living, and even those who have lived in the past, he has no direct knowledge or experience of death - about non-living.
    he has kept his curiosity about it in the background while he went about doing whatever in his life - experiencing what there is to experience in life, meaningful or not.
    he really doesn't understand the question about meaning. life is experience. one comes into it out of whatever. one is thrown into it, as hiedigger puts it. the question of meaning does not arise until this occurs.
    he understands wondering. but that is not the same as pondering meaning. wonder is amazement that things exist including oneself to exist with them, to imagine them. there are questions about what all of it is and how it came to be - but meaning? what is that? he does not understand what this thing meaning is that others find so important. so he does not notice its absence.
    as for death, he doesn't need for death to be anything. he is merely curious as to whether it is anything or not besides the cessation of life. and now as his life nears its end and he has done those things that, he supposes, had meaning for him, the matter concerning death comes to the forefront.
    it does pose a question. the question is, what is it? what is the experience of it, if any? at the very least, what is the experience of dying?
    is it like falling asleep or blacking out? but he only has knowledge of these experiences because he has come back to consciousness afterward - back to the consciousness of the living. what about when consciousness is not returned to - not living consciousness anyway?
    it is believed now that mind cannot exist without a physiologically functioning brain. no brain, no mind.
    but is that the only source of the mind? can it not be the function of something else that is being received by the physiologically functioning brain - as a radio receives a transmission from another source than itself? no brain, no reception of mind transmission.
    or something like that.
    he is now tempted to find out - now that his life has been played out and is beginning to endless repeat itself and the cigarettes he's been smoking are rapidly killing him. he does not wish to suffocate to death. he rather it be quick as a bullet. he'd rather be conscious at the time of his death. conscious one moment - bang! - dead the next.
    he has imagined that moment. he imagines it in slow motion, the bullet traveling down the barrel impacting and disintegrating the flesh of his brain, the neural network that produces or receives his consciousness disconnecting synapse by synapse until that critical point when he is dead. when would that be? not when his heart stops or he breathes no more. it's the mind that matters. when would his mind be no more? when would he no longer experience himself existing? when would the i no longer be?
    this is how he would want it to be. now he is here. now he is not. his death will only come once, he does not want to be unconscious or distracted when it happens - or when he makes it happen. he wants to be looking directly at it, to see it coming.
    this is his meditation. he wonders what that last moment of consciousness would be like. would he notice it or would it go by too fast?
    but what would time be like then? could that moment take forever relative to anything else? what about relative to him?
    there is only one way to find out. all thinking and wondering about it is pointless.
    obviously, he hasn't done it. he's bought the gun. he's ready. why doesn't he use it? this is the one great moment of his life - maybe. but he must admit to his fear. all living things fear death - maybe especially those who commit suicide. but he is not quite ready to give up his life - his good meaningless life. it may be the only one he gets. there may be no transmission of his mind from elsewhere to where he could possibly return when he's dead here on earth. he enjoys his life. he enjoys overcoming the frustration of it. he enjoys sidestepping the meaninglessness and pointlessness of it. all the little diversions he devises and employs, such as this, his writing.
    his own life is connected and integrated into the continuance of life. his dna and his influence is passed on for whatever it is worth. who knows what any of it may become? he hopes it becomes something others may enjoy.
    there is the genetic information he has given his children that now has been passed on to grandchildren. and it mixes with other genetic information into someone always new. he has been who he is in various other people's lives however way that may have impacted them. even if has been for the worst, as it often has, that can lead to improvement on the part of the other - or it should. it has for him. at the very least he knows who to avoid in the future. they know to avoid him. they know to avoid him often without meeting him to begin with. just look at him.
    maybe they will eventually track down and eliminate his dna as well.
    whatever - it's not his problem. he tried what he could to work things out with others, to meet at some compromise. but most would not move an inch. they were certain of the correctness of their position and destination. they would settle for nothing less than absolute victory. compromise for them is giving in, a weakness, defeat. and there was always so many more of them than him. and they often held positions of power, even if only in a small pond, or had the protection of those with power.
    however, all in all, it was a game. he managed always to get what he wanted out of it for himself. all he wanted was to be able to survive, and to create, and to expose others for what they are.
    who they are are people who need to have someone like him excluded from their elite circles balanced on the top of pyramids. they are greedy consumers of property. they hide themselves behind walls. they use or depend on weapons to protect and maintain their selfish interests.
    and who is he? is he not the same as them? they obviously don't think so.

    but he has lost faith. he once had faith in a future. he thought everyone had faith in a future. he had thought the human race was in a process of evolution always improving itself. that was why he had children. it wasn't much but he thought he could help move the human race forward just by a little more increment. that was how he lived his life.
    he believed in leaving as much open as possible. but those with power abhorred anything left open-free and out of control. everything he tried to leave open for possibility to enter into it they clamped it shut again with laws and decrees. to open it again he would need an army as numerous and well armed as theirs. many people took this route. he would have had to meet them and defeat them the battlefield of the world - their world. he thought he could maybe reason with them. but how does someone reason with anyone who hides behind guarded walls? so he gave up on that.
    he was rewarded for giving up. he was allowed to live at their expense with no demands except the demand that he not bother them again but keep himself silent.
    and silent he has been - except the noise of his constant scribbling. but that will be kept silent as well. he knows nothing he writes will ever be read. why should it?

    notes in a cloud of madness. notes to oneself that no one ever reads again. boo hoo.
    suicide.
    the mind goes back to itself - maybe...
    he gazes into the darkness and wonders what is out there. what becomes of those who do not return? it has always seemed absurd to him that it just ends. if it ends then how did it begin? how are these few moments of years conscious of themselves if they just vanish? what is a dream that one does not remember? did it ever occur?
    he remembers this. of course, he is still dreaming...
    he might be forgotten by others but how does one forget oneself? and if one forgets oneself and never remembers again, then did one exist to begin with?
    to exist is to be perceived to exist. who perceives him to exist but himself? that is all he can count on. what mind exists that perceives not just him but all that makes who and what he is possible? what brought about the social, cultural, economic, political, technological environment in which he exists? - the only one in which he could exist. in any other he would be someone else or not be at all. that may not seem to make a difference, but it does.
    and should he be here anymore? has he been here too long already? how does one answer those questions except with a shot in the head? if there is more to this then it will not end. but he may be wrong. he probably is wrong. what could be so important about him being here that anything would interfere with his leaving?
    he wants something to be that important. this is the megalomaniac solipsistic aspect of his madness. this is what they call magical thinking. he believes that something would intervene. he believes that there is something important about him being here.
    maybe not.
    whatever...
    it is more likely that his madness will only act to eliminate itself. but it is too late. it has been passed on. it has already had its influence on the others either subtlety or directly. there is not really that much more to add.
    and if and when he dies then does all die with him? how does it continue? how does it linger unless he perceives it? his is the mind that perceives. his is the mind that knows. his is the mind that remembers.
    he has kept himself limited to this dream human form long enough. as interesting as this play has been he now becomes almost bored. it no longer amuses him, sort of. has it ever amused him? has it ever been anything more than a frustrating mess? but such are the laws of nature and all that action/reaction order/chaos business. everything in a constant state of activity fighting against itself and not getting anywhere. though always transforming, it never changes from its fundamental forms in ongoing opposition. that is how things are defined. that is the definition of defining. it is the nature of this and that. one thing is not the other.
    or maybe that's in our heads. it hardly matters. what is in our heads is in the world we perceive ourselves existing in.
    and again this senseless dada he spins himself around in. he is tired, weary - exhausted. he wants out. but what holds him here is some tiny bit of doubt that he is wrong in his judgment and that he might come upon that which proves him wrong and he will come to perceive that the world and those in it are wonderful and blessed.
    but he does already. how can one see it otherwise? that is what it and they are. but who else sees it this way? who else sees it without ugliness and evil? who else does not divide between what is desired and what is abhorred? for what he can tell even the gods do not perceive things other than as such.
    all are concerned with their petty miseries. they radiate them and transmit them to all around them. if there is an evil then that's it. evil is the belief in evil.
    all is a product of what is - even the gods, if there are gods. and what is not a product of itself? - though it is not ever really a product since it is the indivisible components of what exists, of all that is produced. (what?) and can we judge that good or evil? we can, and we do. we can pronounce anything we wish to pronounce as anything we might pronounce it as being. however what we pronounce has no bearing on that upon which we pronounce it. what we pronounce has bearing only upon ourselves. we create a world of good and evil as soon as we pronounce that there is a world of good and evil in our own minds.
    and la-dee-da...

    there are the imaginary spheres of nonsense. one goes through them without clear understanding. one comes to a knowledge of things others refer to as madness.
    the others do not know this knowledge nor understand it if and when one might revel it to them. however, they are the majority, and when they are not the majority, as they are often are not, they hold the majority under their command. they control who is who and what is what. they do this through power. they are heavily armed and have demonstrated that they will not hesitate to use those arms against any and all who might oppose them. this use or threat of use has allowed them to usurp and assume authority even over reality itself.
    but they do not possess power, they are possessed by power. it is power itself that is in command.

    the dada-ananda was rumored to have been standing on a apple looking upon crowds of people walking by.
    the dada-ananda spake thusly: i consider myself to be far more important than any of these who pass before me as cattle. look at them. they even wear brands displayed on their attire. some have more corporate logos on them than a race car. are they sponsored? are they being paid to serve as a human billboard or do they offer this service for free? or worse yet, do they buy these logos from the corporations and pay for the doubtful privilege of displaying their advertising on their bodies? no wonder the corporations are so wealthy and powerful. as long as people are willing to turn over this wealth and power over to them i am confident that my investments are secure. but once these people start tearing these marks of the beast from their clothing i shall quickly sell all my holdings as the revolution may be at hand. but what chance is there of that ever happening? none that i can see. where is the revolution when even the ideas of revolutionaries themselves have become the property of the bourgeois? yes - this is a wonderful world for me. i don't have to do anything i don't want to. nothing can touch me. i could lose everything and still be content. but then, i am imaginary...

    and another time it was rumored that the dada-ananda came upon those who were discussing philosophy. the dada-ananda spake thusly: here you are. this is where i find you talking behind my back about me. do you think i am a fool that i do not see through your deception of words? you believe you are able to conjure anything into existence - or out of existence - with them. you feel that if you can speak its name then a thing must be real. how much about reality you do not know that you do not have words for that you cannot even discuss let alone explain. the shadows over your eyes are deep. they blind you to your very soul - and do not argue with me about that! - from whence should come radiating light. you have practical nature. you know how to count objects and parts of objects and parts of parts of objects from the outer spheres to the inner points. you have demonstrated that you can count everything from the infinitesimal to the infinite. you have built machines that can count where you cannot in your sweet short lives. but what of the uncounted? what name have you given it? what number? look at me. i am not here. i am that name and number. and while i have been speaking none of you have heard me as you continue to babble theories. how has this knowledge escaped you? have you ever possessed it? because you do have a name for it. the name is nonsense or madness. you do have a number for it. the number is the irrational - a number never repeating itself once. there is a way in but there is no way out. who among you dares to venture in here with me? hello? anybody home?

    and once a doubtful follower of the dada-ananda did ask: why do you want us to appear like fools? do you have nothing good or kind to say about us?
    the dada-ananda spake thusly: i find your foolishness to be good and kind. who is good and kind among you but the fool? yes, i do want you to appear as fools to one another. you fight so hard against it with your pride and boasting. can you not see that this is where your troubles begin?

    the dada-ananda was attending a gallery show opening. amid those seeing and being seen the dada-ananda spake thusly: i have just now thought about a potato. i have just now thought about a porcupine. i have just now thought about a spoon. i have just now thought about light. i have just now thought about a river. i have just now thought about a disease. i have just now thought about a baby's scream. this is a wonderful show.
    and a doubtful follower of the dada-ananda asked: do you show us by saying these things that we should attend more to what we imagine than to what is portrayed from imagination?
    and the dada-ananda spake thusly: do you ask me for instruction? will you obey me? may i lie to you about many things and have you still trust me and think it is your ignorant misunderstanding that what i say seems not to be the truth? where is your doubt? come to me. bring yourself closer to me. i have much to whisper in your ear that will revel the nature of the beast that is called enlightenment. i will show you the magick tricks that it plays to deceive those who are said to be wise. i will give you the greatest of all gifts that none of the wise possess. i will make you a fool.

    the dada-ananda was rumored to have been pushing a shopping cart through a shopping mall. a security guard came to ask the dada-ananda to leave. when the dada-ananda asked her why, she replied that shopping carts were not allowed in the mall.
    the dada-ananda laughed and danced and spake thusly: this is a delicious delight. the contradictions prevail. east meets west and the question is answered with - what? this is such a joy. everything is working perfectly according to plan.
    outside the shopping mall, one who was with the dada-ananda asked the dada-ananda what was the plan.
    the dada-ananda spake thusly: the plan is perfection itself. perfection is so perfect that it allows for imperfection. that is the plan that is not the plan. there is no plan. perfection is often believed to have no imperfection. when it does it is seen to be flawed instead of having reached a higher order of perfection. what is the use of that? is it not better to have all imperfection be perfect than to have perfection be imperfect? listen to me so that i may tell you more lies. the plan is known to no one but oneself. it is oneself that is the plan. that way it remains perfect. the plan is at the very heart of things. it cannot be divided from them, not even to be spoken. know this and know nothing.
    and someone else came along and said: you are all alike. you speak in riddles that can mean anything.
    the dada-ananda spake thusly: i will tell you something that is not a riddle.
    what is that?
    it.
    it? what does that mean?
    it is it. all it is is it. no more, no less. nothing other than itself as it is.
    that's just nonsense.
    would you prefer a riddle? how many pigs does it take?
    take to do what?
    whatever you would like.
    i don't want them to do anything.
    then how many pigs does it take?
    to do nothing?
    to do whatever you would like.
    none.
    is that the correct answer?
    i guess so - is it?
    you tell me - is it?
    what are you getting at?
    i'm getting at how many pigs would it take.
    yeah - but what? how many pigs would it take to do what?
    that's exactly the question.
    fuck you.

    another time it was rumored that the dada-ananda was sleeping. another rumor is that the dada-ananda never sleeps.

    it is all imaginary. to many - most - the imaginary is not real. to ourselves, what is the real but imaginary?
    some believe that if the real was imaginary that we then could make it into what we desire.
    but what do we desire? do we control it? could not the real be what we all collectively desire - or is the result of our collective desire?

    we who have been guided by the dada-ananda, though the dada-ananda seems to refuse to be a guide for anyone, have reached through our doubt to a state of not knowing much about anything. this may be a good thing, or not so much a good thing. it may not be much different from our original state. we may have only become more knowledgeable about the full extent and expanse of our ignorance. many seem not to know this about themselves. they focus on what little of the world they do know about and that is their full knowledge. and that is what they discuss among themselves over and over.

    we are attempting to reconstruct the byblia dyslexikon. it was lost many years ago when we were attacked by satellites from space. we were forced to hide in bunkers and hold on to what we could. it was a dark time. much was lost. many were lost. we became separated. it became ill-advised for us to meet together at one place at one time.
    yet this has made us stronger. it was a radical pruning back to a few sturdy main branches. this is the new blossoming. this is this first outgrowth since then. this is the first transmission since the attacks. and now there are new means of communication.
    he devises these imaginary schemes. he is aware that they are imaginary yet is aware of the imaginary nature of other people's schemes. he is aware of himself as opposed to them - as they are opposed to him. he is aware that it is their schemes that become the scheme of reality and it imparts power to those who maintain its structure.
    this is where he tries to get to it. this is the entry point. this is where the collective decision is made - at the point of superstructure which is not as artificial and lifeless as many imagine. it is not just a bank of clay for us to mold what we want from it.
    as such the church decided what has become the bible. they had every opportunity to create a bible that would justify their existence. yet they did not. there is no justification for the church in the bible and much to justify that the church should not exist. many of these points were discovered by people who began reading the bible on their own and who rebelled.
    were the founding fathers of the church that stupid? could they not see the seeds of revolution within the very text of their institution? why was it left the way it is? why when even a scanning perusal of the bible one could easily see justification for the destruction of the church?
    nevermind that. it's history. but history is alive today. we are our own history. the seeds of revolution still exist within the the same superstructure forms as they have always been.
    there is something else at work here. this is why he thinks of power as possessing instead of being possessed. if those who supposedly have power are in as much control of it as it believed that they are - by themselves and others - then why are there so many holes left in it - holes that allow others entry to overthrow them?
    power itself wills. power itself acts. and it wills and acts in its own interest and self-preservation. it brings those to itself who are strong. it then feeds upon their strength until they become weak and useless. they are cast aside for new blood, new energy and strength. this comes from those who have proven themselves superior on the field of battle against all others. this superiority is only measured by victory. power is not concerned with how this victory is gained - whether by moral courage and determination, deception and trickery, ruthless brutality or by chance of fate. there are those who are victorious by whatever means that have proven to be superior to the means of others. and this is highly situational. the means that bring one victory today may not bring victory tomorrow. or the same means that bring victory to one may not bring victory to another.
    victory does one thing in all situations. it brings those who gain victory to power. power awaits them. it is as hungry for them as they are for it. yet the difference is that it is the prize, they are only those seeking the prize. they are replaceable. it is not. and that makes all the difference in the matter of control.
    there is the the one who is the object of desire and there is the one who seeks that object. which between the two has more control over the other? often it is believed to be the one who desires. that is the one who acts. the one who acts is the one who appears to have control. yet what is the motive for this one's actions? the motive is to gain the object. it is that motive that shapes the actions. the one who acts does not do so by one's own free will. this one's actions are confined within the parameters of what will lead to the object this one desires. this difference is subtle but important.
    the one who is the object of desire need do little or nothing except be what the other desires. and in this position one must not allow what the other desires to be something tangible that the other might gain and take away. it is a human trait that when one gains what one desires that one then no longer desires it.
    so power is the object of desire. it is the object of desire for many who then compete for its possession, or what they believe will be its possession. is it ever possessed or does it possess? as an object of desire it controls the actions of those desiring to possess it - or be possessed by it. it is the holy grail, the golden fleece, the garden. it is beauty, forgiveness, salvation, equality, immortality. it is anything and everything. to become that which others desire will bring one more power than anything one might desire. by becoming that which others desire one becomes power itself.

    another day with x-number of people feeling submerged and drowning in despair and desperation. others are floating around in a giggling bubbly state of manic happiness. still others wander around in-between more or less content and complacent gathering to have conversations like cows chewing cud.
    this is as it is with the human race. once in awhile events transpire that shake and stir this up. enough to keep things from getting too settled, but not enough to transform. what magick of alchemy would do that? some say the messiah. but even the most skilled artisan is limited by the quality of the material one uses. what is it that the human race has the potential of becoming without the majority of it being lost in the process of refinement, smelting and forging? we may have gold and silver within us but what of the ore and slag? what about the vast majority of us?
    but a messiah may very well come and separate the wheat from the chaff. there is a great deal of chaff to produce even a small amount of wheat. and the messiah will wish the chosen away and apart from us who will be cast aside, burned and plowed under again.
    better luck next time around, the messiah and the chosen will laugh. so long, suckers.
    and as with all the other cycles of the earth and universe will there be a next time? straight lines with beginnings and endings seem to occur only within and from the human imagination.
    but all of this is and will be or it is not and will never be. he always seems to wander off into speculation. what is there to speculate? there will always be that which is and that which is not - that which occurs and that which does not occur. our speculation is irrelevant except to place ourselves in what does and does not occur and survive and become wealthy and powerful and stuff like that.
    simple.
    climb up or fall back down into the maw of the masses never to be seen or heard from again.
    better luck next time.
    and this is not revelation. this is just amusing thought anyone might think given the space and time - and inclination (madness). there is nothing here that needs to be preserved for any reason. nothing will be lost by its loss.
    as he still tries to think of something no one else has thought of or would not think of given the space and time.
    but what would that be? would he recognize it if by chance he did happen to scribble it down in the mix of whatever else he scribbles down? it's doubtful. he hardly has much more than the remotest flickering idea of what others may have thought or not. how many people do?
    there are many who make it sound and appear like they do. they throw in the facts they've memorized with conversation about themselves in the big parade or about whatever being so wise. and who is left to challenge them? they are challenged by their so-called peers in grand debate but what about the challenge to the foundation of the whole thing in general? something obscure like that. it is all so easily ignored.
    but so again he tries to circle around to some point from which all of this might begin. where is the starting point? where is the point of departure? where is it where what he is writing might be original enough to be worthwhile?
    everything so many years ago and here we are. the seasons have turned around so many times. listening to songs recorded new when we were young and we felt very old. now we are old and we were so very young back then. we pass through life so very quickly, but agonizingly slow.
    these words too have been written very many times. how many have come to sit on this shore having lost count of the waves rolling in? the faces seem unclear who we used to see every day.
    he remembers writing these forlorn poems long ago out of the mediocrity. the candles in the dark winter. where has that all gone? those notebooks were burned in a sacrificial fire of no return. he gave himself up for us. we gave ourselves to him so he could rid himself of himself. who was he? he was someone entirely alone and abandoned on a planet without memory of where he may have been from, knowing it was not here.
    we threw him onto the fire. but perhaps his ghost still remains haunting. it lives in the shadows in that same darkness little light can be allowed to penetrate without destroying him blinding and burning.
    it is his dreamtime soul. we left him in his own dreamtime. this was our victory over him - his victory over himself. there are no distinctions made between the two. the individual has no place among us. we are collective. we must be in agreement as diverse as we might be. without agreement no one survives.
    as memory increases and experience wanes. as the days behind one are more than the days ahead.

    again into thoughts. being here thinking about whatever. filling in the empty spaces when nothing else is happening. he is not someone who thinks of anything all too unusual or that very interesting. but still he writes it down. there is no purpose to it other than to have it written down. there is no agenda. there is no manifesto. there is no philosophy - except that things should be what they are as much as possible. but how do we know what things are? we change them with our descriptions.
    what goes on in our minds? what lies within another's silence or even behind the words automatically coming out of one's mouth?
    there is no great importance to this questioning as it is very common and ordinary. it is so common and ordinary that it isn't discussed. that is why so few people know how common and ordinary it is. or is it so common and ordinary? do others think anything along these lines? should they? are they as superficial as they seem? but what does that mean? is it just being in the world? being in the world without a thought about what the world is, what being in the world is. what everything is comes from direct experience of it not deep thought about it.
    and what about those of us who involve ourselves in this "deep thought" about the world and those in the world? what does all of that amount to? what do we amount to? and how did we arrive here again in this examination and analytical mode? do we ever drop it for a moment?
    he looks about himself where he is at now. it is the lunch hour and the cafe is filled with office workers. they eat and chatter. and he sits among them writing this. there is a difference between him and them. they work and make the world go. he lives off their work and tries to make their world stop.
    what does he have to offer them? they work and consume. could he give them something to work on? could he give them something to consume? their work and consuming is unending. they work and consume without getting what they want for very long. but that seems to be what they want. the very act of working and consuming is what they desire. the objects of their work and consumption are transitory, symbols of the act. there is no more meaning or purpose than that. there need not be. to look for meaning and purpose beyond that is to enter into the realm of "deep thought". within that realm lies madness and enlightenment. which is which is entirely subjective. one goes with the other. both are a matter involving the self. one either feels oneself to be mad or enlightened. what others may perceive may be just the opposite. one's madness may be perceived as enlightening. one's enlightenment may be perceived as madness. or whatever. then there's always the other thing.
    that moment of madness. that moment of enlightenment. the sound of one hand clapping as one is slapped in the face. there it is. here it is. this is the moment. the moment is now. the one in the moment is now stripped of memory and expectation, stripped of regret, fear, disappointment, hope, desire. just that moment. just this moment.
    and when it is not just a moment but when this moment is forever - when forever need not be more than the moment. one gains eternity when one forgets about eternity. the journey beginning and ending with the first step.

    just pages scribbled with words. not like a bomb or a gun. not like a tank or police cruiser. not like a robe or a badge. not like a hat. it's nothing like that.
    it's not like the bible or koran or the vedas. it's not like mien kamph ot the communist or scum manifesto. it's not like nietzsche or kafka or foucault or derrida or daly. it's not like the evening news or a talk show or a game show. it's not like the sports section or a coupon book.
    it's just someone's existence who sits about writing about it with not much to write about. blah blah blah doo-wah-dada-doo.

    following from a distance within one's own mind. following through the world. one does not always arrive when one does arrive. and then it's gone. one does not know what it is except by feeling its absence. one does not know if it will cause one joy or sorrow or whether it will add or subtract from oneself. one knows that one is following. and while one may be far ahead of the others one can never be ahead of what one is following. how could one be? what would there be to follow then?

    and returning. what does one return to? what is it within oneself that one remembers? is it joy or sorrow? is it something that pulls or pushes? is it something good or evil?
    how many flash through it all not pausing to think which way they might be going? is there more than one way to go? how many sit still listening to what thoughts might not be their own? how many are lost in the masses?
    and what are the masses? we look at them as a herd of cattle so easily confused and frightened, so easily comforted and led. but each face reflects our own in a different set of circumstances. there but for the grace of god and all that business. there we go. that one going by for whom we feel pity or disgust, anger or hatred. we forget that all have come from the same mix of swirling particles alive in motion.
    but something happens when it comes together into one of us. we become who we are. we are someone for whom others feel pity or disgust, anger or hatred. we do not know why. how have we deserved this? are we not human like the rest? who has lived in our circumstances other than ourselves? who even stops to imagine?
    something breaks us. something we confront is too much for us to overcome. for each of us it is different. it pushes us down we cannot rise above it.
    for some of us it lets us go without too much harm done. it's just another lesson in humility we have learned. for others it does not let up. each way one turns, there it is. these do not learn humility, but shame. out of humility comes compassion. out of shame comes rage.

    so many have come here where he finds himself. here where everything is uncertain, where one has nothing but doubt. the doubt is as solid as a rock. what faith one might have had is a wisp of smoke. one comes to doubt even one's doubt. is this the way we should have come? one comes to doubt even one's most reasoned thoughts. is this madness? and what has led one here but  reasoned thought? was it reasonable enough or did it become confused with emotion? the emotions run deeper than thought - certainly deeper than reason.
    and this doubt is the angst and nausea that is the basic and common human condition. is it that which we have tried to imagine our way out of for these thousands and maybe millions of years? is it that which we have sought opiates to cure?
    and what can we do but fly away on wings of imagination? we circle around above where we fear to land but must when we tire.
    we return to the stage of the burning theater. we come to act out yet another portion of our lives. we have our conversations about this and that of nonsense and inspiration. the plot is always the same. we speak of the moment. we speak of the eternal. we speak of the mundane. we speak of the sacred.
    and we disagree on so much. and we dislike so much. he overhears these conversations. all the complaining. all the expectations. all the lies. for every for there is against.
    but maybe this is a set up. we are confined within our language. our language is designed to describe a world we feel trapped in - thrown into. what else is our language going to describe?
    but what are we trapped in? what are we thrown into? is it not a world of wonder? can't our language also describe that? if we could only get that into our heads.