a ritual explanation of the dreaming of existence from beginning to end to beginning...
    the cycles of alpha and omega completing and become one the same as each moment contains both.
    the point - the line - the plane - everything everywhere.
    we become timeless.
    we become without bounds to ourselves.
    this is what we have always been. this is our creation and birth as it is all created and born moment by moment now and forever more.
    becoming one to ourselves being many. we celebrate our common being. reflections of each other on the waves radiating - mixing and dispersing.
    when we have told the truth to each other and ourselves.
    when we have lived in the moment of our existence and being - continual flow of now unbroken forever.
    conceive this to be the actual reality held in the heart.
    breathe these thoughts into one's own heart. we are one to each other.
    remember ourselves as oneself. look out through each and every eye and see that beneath the jagged edges of our own selves is the unity of one mind and soul that is expressed infinitefold throughout all. there is no large or small that does not contain the balance of the whole.
    we are complete in every moment we strive for completion.

    the exact it.
    the vague it.
    it, the whole it and nothing but the it.
    here we are. we are them - all gods we have shaped from our experience - our wanting soul.
    faces turned inside out, over and under, sideways. the ages passed through our struggle to know the reality of our existence.
    how can it be explained? knowing is knowing.
    and nothing is apart from anything except as everything is apart from everything.
    the simple is complex and the complex is simple. how else is there to speak of this?
    a play of words which themselves are a play on what they describe.
    and too much is too much.
    and too little is too little.
    all is all.

    driving inward and outward at once in the same and opposite direction.
    we are what all is ourselves in continual bursting everyness.
    2+2 remains one. one is infinite.
    and zero.
    and all between and among.
    a pause forever beginning without end and end without beginning.
    the celebration.
    a spiral ritual.

    a formulation intuned to the common oneness of those to which become involved through the action and process of symbolic images arranged in space and time that suggest the language of our being to direct the energy of that being toward what is to be imagined and can only be imagined and realized through imagination to divide the one into many to multiply the many into one as with a trick with mirrors being our minds and hearts opened to receive the knowledge gained through ignorance of the purpose of action and the knowledge gained of the flow and tide of action without conclusion left to happen ongoing.
    the first and the last. the easy explanation divided down to each part unique and the same at once.
    to divide and reconnect. to plug into other sources generating from beyond and within the veil and mask we see of reality.
    this is it.
    this is the place and the time.
    here and now.
    all doors are open - the doors from nowhere to nowhere.
    everywhere.

    and he becomes too easily distracted from whatever purpose this is that is given to him.
    the mind cracked open. the vision of forgotten memories.
    and he believes. he believes in anything and everything. he believes in nothing. nothing but doubt.
    and the cry of doves.
    and the scream of the butterfly.
    and the borrowed words.
    when it's all over. the lights are turned out. death that is never.
    and here we are again. him and his friend who never speaks to him, who may or may not listen to him. does he care? does it matter?
    where rain comes down. where puddles are reflections of the darker part of the soul.

    and it can never be.
    he will never be let go.
    too many dreams he can't forget and he can't remember.
    he listens for voices he cannot hear. he reaches for something he cannot touch. what is it? who is it? is it himself?
    he is dying here breathing this foul prison air. he cannot move. the people are so sad. who are they? who is he? drive it into the ground.
    he becomes nothing each and every day sitting in some cafe drinking endless coffee. there is always pain.
    fuck it.

    crying with the wind and its nearby closeness not caring about all these goddamn people. fuck them all.
    he doesn't need any of this. if he is being taught a lesson then forget it. if anyone has something to say then say it or forget it.

    and the memories of madness that fade. the easy feeling of being able to push it away as he will or to feel it through a haze protecting him from any pain.
    forget them. forget their misery. why should he feel anything for them? what do they feel for him?
    nothing.
    it all comes down to nothing.
    he is so tired of nothing - nothing at all.
    the closeness of them being next to him is something he cannot forget. he should. it drives him out of his mind. and why should it? all these people are dime a dozen. they can be anyone and no one. but there they are all around him breathing the same air. get away.
    they are in his life. it's all a test. a test of all he must give up to gain a higher truth that is always denied.
    he gets used to the abstract - the pen and paper.
    it gets all twisted up. leave it to those who can follow it.
    forget it.
    forget it all.

    as everything turns to so much trash. can't face anyone. they can too easily see through him down to the phony core of his existence. nobody home.

    1/19
    and no more song. the air is dead again. it leaves no trace of sound except the bare noise.
    perpetual.
    the dark and unknown silence around us that we struggle to fill with light.

    one: the meaningless birth.
    two: the fading life.
    three: the forgotten death.

    points between the points to communicate with thought from moment to moment.
    wanting more and more.
    now waits for forever.
    it begins.

    and always something else. wondering with our eyes. out of place. the mind absorbs and forgets.
    he is tired of searching through everything. he is tired of being aware of his ignorance all the time.
    he begins with each moment. crossing lines. he is not alive yet?
    and so why does he -

    19th hell. the night is the only friend he knows. he lets it swallow him whole within it.
    the vision of it.
    the edge.

    and there is something more to be stated about not knowing everything - or even anything.
    and there is something more to be stated about not being in the right place at the right time.
    and there is something more to be stated about all the things to be stated.
    and what is this place?
    and what is this time?
    and what is knowing anything?

    if knowing something isn't knowing everything then what is it?
    what is it?

    a rebirth.
    a spilled gut.
    a time when nothing seemed to go right.
    and then again we saw nothing more to ourselves than what we saw before.
    and we're supposed to be happy.
    and we're supposed to laugh.
    and we're supposed to dance and sing.

    to follow the way one must know the way unless every way is the way.
    and maybe it is.
    or maybe it's not.
    in this then confusion can lead to enlightenment or enlightenment can lead to confusion or any which other way it might be or not.
    in this then every word that leaves our mouth is divine truth or divine truth is only words leaving our mouth.
    or some such.

    1/20
    turning in mad silence.
    mad - to be delivered.
    a measured step toward a destination - 1/2 - 1/4 - 1/8 - 1/16 - 1/32 - 1/64 - 1/128...
    a white paper bag.
    in the bottom - in the depths.
    a ribbon.
    a surprise.
    turning in mad silence.
    turning away from the dark and the light - poetic - action - release -
    a bomb.

    1/21
    whenever we seem to face the... what is it?
    and in this dream i have, the ghost spake, i'm walking across this lake and there's a flock of ducks flying sideways sort of like caught within a vortex and this was thought at the time i was here sitting about trying to come up with something to think about.

    1/22
    and about a half a moon later - whatever that might mean - just being lazy and drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. haven't done nothing his whole life due to lack of interest. and how much does he care about that? nothing and some.
    and the usual nonsense of stuff in his head roaming around trying to make connections.

    1/23
    patterns and variations with the patterns never settling into patterns so that the variations are the patterns and the patterns are the variations except that that never quite settles in either - or what...
    and so a cloud forms.
    and so a car crashes into a telephone pole killing the driver and critically injuring the passenger.
    and we are safe.
    and we eat dinner.
    and the tv flashes light.
    and spaceships land on a farm in wisconsin somewhere under a quarter moon.

    and to dream again. to dream again of someone close - sharing the same breath for a moment that passes just as quickly as all the others yet lingers in relative time existing in the corridors the mind follows opening and closing doors.
    and to dream again. to dream again of life unlived. listening to songs no one has written.
    and what is it? he is stuck and everything spins. yet it is nothing. biological triggering that has been the inspiration for countless promises and hopes that have crashed as quickly as they have flown.
    yeah - so here he is with haunting images. he feels what he feels. he has been here before. he has been here too many times before. he waits for it to all fade into gray memory.

    and to be a part of anyone - the pain that stabs through the heart. is it better to be alone and feel nothing?
    he doesn't know but that is what he ultimately chooses. yet there is pain in that as well. it doesn't stab but slowly chokes.
    and he cannot feel anything. he does not want to feel anything. he will not feel anything.
    detach. float away from hope as well as despair.
    he is not here.
    he is gone.

    there is no art.
    there is no beauty.
    ha -
    whatever it is, it is.
    join the dance. move in the dark. forget oneself. forget one's love. each will find one in time. time with the rhythm of all. countless beating hearts. life living. struggling shapes in the overall chaos. each trying to exist.
    speak.
    speak of one's accomplishments. speak of one's crimes. this is not enough and already it is too much.

    he tries to keep his head lifted up to see the beauty in ugliness. it is his own perception that determines one or the other - he must remember that.
    he falls and gets back up again. he loses his mind and his heart and finds them again.
    what is he supposed to be? what is his true name?
    he is daily astounded by his ignorance. he is amused by his stupidity. he is angered by his -
    what?

    sing a thousand songs. he remembers a voice singing next to him. he was there and now he is here and only echoes remain in his memory.
    a collection of moments that are no different than any other. yet he cannot forget. he plays them over and over.
    he is the fool. laugh.
    he goes about his way through the cold and dark space that surrounds him.

    deep six mind - whatever that could or might mean - guy with a cross hanging from his left ear - whatever that could or might mean.
    listening from behind a wall of iron. we close our eyes to bring it all a little closer. palm with eyeball. noise without meaning.
    or not - he can't tell anymore what is supposed to have meaning or not or what it is supposed to mean or what.

    something or not. wherever we might have been - whoever we might have been. it comes and goes as it does.

    there ain't much more left to begin with and then there were these tables set up over by the fifth column taking place around about now. please watch one's tv set for whatever further information we may decide to inform one of.
    add darkness. and light. and all that lies between.

    and he sits here writing basically meaningless dada outta his mind. meanwhile there's all these people who are around him who he can't talk to. so what is communication and what isn't?
    button, button - who has the button?

    begin here. the music plays everywhere - though most of it is noise and mind control.
    squares.
    idiot men dancing with themselves alone out in the parking lot.
    and so what exactly is he trying to do with all these words that could be any words as well as any other?
    perhaps he is trying to simulate a state of mind he has sometimes now and again. perhaps trying to simulate it within the reader's mind and his own.
    perhaps...
    trigger happy.

    all the cool fools.
    all the flags in the field of flags - count them.
    a moon.
    a son.
    so what?
    ||||||||||
    he is drowning. he is flying.
    he is doing nothing at all.

    dear ed -
    yeah ok - so what else is new? where do we stand? it comes and goes.
    dreams.
    dreaming.
    things are both good and bad. we are anything from severely depressed to ecstatically euphoric. it depends upon where our attention is focused.
    this is quite bewildering to us as very often the same thing causes our depression and/or our euphoria. it seems to be how we choose to react to what we perceive than what we perceive.
    so the causes are probably internal. and this is nothing new.
    so let's drop it.

    somewhere between nowhere and nowhere - past and future - here we are. here we are together now.
    and what are we gonna do? endlessly argue and fight about what doesn't amount to nothing - past and future.
    today is the only day of our lives. don't waste it with regret, longing, hope, despair, etc.
    do it now.
    whatever.
    we know what's what - or we should. we can see how things are now and how they're supposed to be. don't play stupid.
    forget the angst of eternal revenge. who knows where things begin and where they end? and who cares?
    we can call it all even and join together as one. or we can keep ripping each other's throats out making theirs and our lives misery.

    and the message is the message. there is nothing more or less.
    the words are the words. they don't mean a thing.
    there is so much more than this. there is all we can be.
    and what does it matter? either it comes or it doesn't. no more or less.
    a dream or not a dream. either way doesn't matter.
    drown or fly. either way doesn't matter.
    where does it come from? where does it go?

    and in idiot mind forgetting all it knows in an instant of remembrance.
    and we fly down from ourselves as we sing our songs to one another.
    he remembers all the eyes. he remembers the way they looked at him. what was it for? lost in a moment passing without meaning yet feeling more alive than he has in a thousand years - or so it seems. maybe it was just an illusion.
    and he is breaking through. he is crashing through. nothing is real as all that remains is nothing.
    is this the high ultimate state they have told him about? if it is then give him back that moment when he was lost into himself. give him back the illusion.

    and what name does he call himself? whose voice does he answer?
    how does he end the pain? does he need to feel nothing?
    pull him out or let him go. he can't remain in-between like this. where does it go? make him fly or let him land.
    and who is this who does this to him? himself? another?

    and cry, child.
    go ahead and let the wind loosen the hair on one's head.
    the pain is deep and heights must be attained to feel it no more.
    release oneself from the chains we have all put on ourselves. dance up on the mountain.
    he cries for himself no more.
    and this is nothing more than words and words by their nature are lies.

    and why does one always come to him? fallen angel. to torment him? to save him? what does one want?
    yet it is said that it is all up to him. what does he want?
    he wants too much at once.

    and all one has seen is death.
    and all one has seen is life.
    and he wishes... well, he wishes he could hold it all back.
    but life being what it is all we have is this brief moment.
    and he wishes that he could gaze upon the infinite forever.
    but all he can do is hold it in his memory as long as he can.
    and what comes is almost gone before it arrives.
    maybe he tries to hold on too much to it.
    but all he wants to do is stop the pain and is that such a crime?
    it seems to be.
    as his is eased another's increases.
    to feel love is to let go. this is the way it is.
    and he is left alone writing trashy poems to no one.

    and he wants to rise above yet he wants to sink below. he wants to feel it like a kiss.
    and is this what?
    the books written about how this all is illusion. one becomes lost from the way. but what is the goal of the way? what is more than a moment? and which moment when all moments are one? and on and on in that kinda circle shit.

    just abstract. just words. thoughts raging in silence. madness. smart monkeys. genius monkeys. dumb monkeys.
    and we look at one another and say nothing. does anything need to be said?
    what completes the cycle? and what happens next? all internal external. free form.
    twist it down. dance on one's grave for a thousand years.

    and it becomes what it has been and always was.
    to know nothing. to gain complete ignorance. circles.
    we dance alone.
    and to lift out of this life. to see it as a dream moving in its own way.
    the night.

    dear ed -
    yes - here we are still. the attack on the bunker is far behind us though its effect on us is still strongly felt.
    we are scattered. in a way this may have turned out to be a good thing. we are turning mobile.
    and salvador dali died today.
    the bunker gave us security but also hampered growth. now that is gone. though we are more fragile, we have gained freedom. this is more to our cause and spirit.
    in the bunker we collected our strength. this strength was tested by the attacks and has survived. our strength since then has become fluid.
    we are earthworms turning over the garden.
    anyway - it is also becoming harder ever more to tell who's who and what's what. this is the equinox - the age of transition. the tide is turning. it grows darker before the dawn.
    or maybe not. maybe it will just keep getting darker into total oblivion.
    but whatever. we work on the assumption that this is it - this is the dawn. there may be an age coming that will transform the human into god. we will come to realize that we are not only created but the creator.
    this age is nearly upon us as all moments are one moment extended and happening now as now is forever.

    onto the edge. onto zero and into the infinite that zero represents.
    it becomes nothing and everything at once and thereby becomes anything.
    it is the god of god. it is what god is and represents. it is what makes god god. this is the christ - to become nothing when one is everything.
    it becomes what it is and through the process of becoming, it is.
    one.
    two.
    seven.
    twenty-nine.
    thirty-four.
    sixteen.

    the moderate and the extreme. the changing of one to the other.
    what universe could be is it defining what it is not?

    and what about the everyday? asked bumpo,. how does all this cosmic jive assist one in one's daily affairs?
    to whichever the dada-ananda spake thusly, one is one wherever one cares to look. what sort of help were you looking for? what sort of understanding of the everyday are you trying to gain? is it not it?

    1/24
    nothing more than zero. bringing around the time of ignorance. listening to whatever the time may be.
    and whatever seems to be true or not. we were sinking fast. information from the free zone - zero.
    all of ten thousand yesterdays inside static feedback something or the other. and he used to be someone maybe or not until his identity had been absorbed into the free zone.
    the free zone avoiding all possible risks to anyone else who thinks differently - except we have our doubts that anyone actually thinks differently at all.

    and nothing and the concept of nothing and more nothing.
    can't think of a damn thing except everything turning around inside his head.
    baby.
    doesn't anyone know what it's like? he knows someone knows. he knows how others look at him. who is he? can't anyone tell him? he doesn't know nothing at all.

    and nothing and fucking nothing.

    and what more is left to be written?
    who cares?
    it doesn't matter.
    all these fucking people.
    he doesn't know who they are.
    he doesn't care.
    or
    he does care.

    1/25
    and another morning after a night of despair storming through his brain.
    it's all a joke - right?
    he can laugh... right?

    and it's these visions that he sees of a world torn apart. he hears billions of mouths screaming as their hearts are ripped to pieces.
    it's a joke - right?

    how much does he want to see? how much does he want to feel?
    he would take it all on if he thought it would help anyone. it's not the pain - the pain he can deal with - it's the meaninglessness of it that he can't stand.
    he is asked to sacrifice everything in the name of nothing.
    turn it away.
    take him away.
    he does not want anything from this world and this world wants nothing from him.

    1/26
    and it turns and it turns and it turns. does it turn anywhere but in and around itself?
    the great poets were drunks, said someone who was forgotten.
    but not all drunks are great poets. or is that obvious? or has that already been observed?
    so with nothing more to write than that. and what is he expecting from anyone? no one expects anything from him except for him to expect something from them. what does he expect now that the world is ending? what does he want? what does he need? is needing expecting? is wanting?

    down under the ice where we barely dare to breathe. we barely dare to look at one another.
    sit still - don't move.
    just watch the images.

    and to slide away.
    and to enter the deep dream.
    he has nothing more to hold onto. just pretend that he is living.
    sleep through it all.

    watch all the perfect people with their perfect lives.
    he is strange from them. he is nothing to them. they got it all. why do they need anything from him?
    nothing.
    nothing at all.

    and it doesn't change. thousands and thousands and thousands of years and it doesn't change.
    has he been here before? has he seen this all before?
    nothing changing.

    and people so close. and people so far away.
    pull out.
    how does it connect? how do we know who we are? where does the pain stop?

    we are the gods.
    how many times do we need to be told this?
    that is the message yet we have in the past and the future ignored the message while glorifying the message.

    1/31
    sitting here with a bunch of goddamn drunks. gypsy.
    and him?
    who is he but one more fucked up loser dada - he doesn't know.
    all he knows is how he felt once and now it's gone.
    he has nothing for anyone. just time, hanging onto nothing that makes sense anymore.
    and in the last days love will be lost too.
    he has lost his love. he has no love for anyone but himself and even that love is lost.
    just a zombie sitting here getting drunk with the rest of these fools.

    2/4
    and the same abstract thoughts and emotions. what does he think and what does he feel?
    anger.
    yeah yeah yeah - forget that...

    and gottok was worried of his sister kottog. her anger at him and everything was great.
    and kottog was troubled as well as was her brother. she knew rage within herself no other knew - or would at least acknowledge knowing. her brother's calm and peace enraged her and she sought to destroy it anytime and every time she could. to her he was a cage holding her inside herself.
    yet she would not and could not destroy him. she did not know herself except with him. she would always seek him.
    and gottok, though he hated her ways, loved his sister. he would always want her with him. he missed her terribly. he was not whole with her gone. he was whole to himself and as such could spend an eternity without her and it seemed as though that was how it would have to be, but the greater whole, a whole that took both of them to complete, would never be.
    and this was the way it was. gottok and kottog were those who who would always be apart though they would always long to be together though each seeking to change the other and each not wanting to be changed.

    these are the basic elements in opposition. this is the contrast that makes creation possible. purity is static entrophic non-existence no matter what it is composed of.
    for all this there is that and for all that there is this.
    or something like that.

    and so it was that the dada-ananda was walking the streets of babylon. and so it was that the dada-ananda came upon a skull of an elk. the dada-ananda picked this up and carried it through the city in the pre-dawn hours.
    and it was that the dada-ananda came upon a 24-hour dinner and went in and sat down and had a cup of coffee or two or three.
    and it was after the fifth cup that the dada-ananda got up and left leaving the elk skull behind.
    down the street there was a rose bud that the dada-ananda came upon and picked up. this the dada-ananda carried and gave to a policeperson to complete the cycle.

    no one is the dada-ananda. one experiences the dada-ananda and may incarnate the dada-ananda without suspecting. the dada-ananda is all and transcends all. the dada-ananda transcends the one into the many. many are the dada-ananda.

    the dada-ananda walks the streets of babylon. the dada-ananda dances in a garden. the dada-ananda wears a coat of many colors. the dada-ananda wears nothing at all.
    the dada-ananda is light and dark, good and evil, god and satan, this and that.
    the dada-ananda sees everything and sees nothing.
    the dada-ananda sees nothing and sees everything.

    and he writes something about the artchurch which he invented and does not exist.
    the artchurch came into being to bring all the diverse elements of human experience into one expression with many forms. we see opposition as contrast. we see contrast as the medium of creation.
    other churches seek to divide the world and the human race into us and them.
    we seek union of all into one but not by making them the same as one but by remaining many.
    we do not see that opposition means conflict. we see this in the simplest things. what would be able to move if not for the opposites of action and reaction? is one good and the other evil? is one right and the other wrong? what god can judge? what god would be so foolish as to judge?

    as we of earth and world hit a point of leaping chaos when we will become gods.

    2/6
    death lips and tongue speaking household jive and rythmed paranoid fantasy dream language expecting the unexpected to occur in realtime. just a chair in a field of daisies on a hill in an isolated location in space and time. a place found by indiscriminate wandering souls called by voices they cannot hear.
    here is the world between here and there, now and then. here the mind transmits the image instead of receiving it. here are those who talk to their many selves. here no one notices who one is. it's all leveled and then raised to heights past yet within the grasp of our imagination.
    here we are. now what do we do?

    out of the daylights we could have forgotten anything by now or else it was something we could not remember. and the clowns are on the stage, right, left and center. was it always like this? a photo of the members of the higher ranks as they wore somber faces loosely bound with strings that went everywhere except where they were supposed to. and we were observing the stand-by crowd from our windows. what did we see? who are they? bored for awhile until the show begins - the entertaining of the apes in cages.
    a thousand dozen questions on our minds turning one way and then the other. expected words. we stare across the universe our hands in paper bags drawing out the surprise ending.
    freedom from freedom. eclipse. eyes of the moon wearing a bit thin. we dance again forever and awhile and a day or two moment by easy moment gliding along as water in a dirty river seeking to purify itself in the sea.
    changing channels. names are for those who have lost their way. cycles.
    the cycle is complete as it never returns to itself at last in no beginning and no ending. we stand around. we stand our ground. there is hope beyond the hopelessness that surrounds us as what was and what will be opens into what is. how come?
    big feet.
    mouth gaping at the figments of imagination never before imagined. what a laugh.
    a test.
    a sure sign.
    a piece of paper.
    a road that will never need replacing because it's found its own way of getting where it's going. the very description destroys the event. shadows across the mayhem undertow screaming adjective soup in a white smooth bowl found easily in any diner anytown anytime with trumpets reserved for the coming of the lord deep within the hidden grove into the dark wet earth trembling and vaporous sigh as two young lovers become one in a silent tomb bringing new life unto the world of death.
    death with its vacant skull full of ghosts who moan and rattle down hallways of a mind which knows itself no more. did it once? did it ever? what becomes of the dust and ashes we return to? we are a wind. we are leaves on a great tree standing alone remembering the vibrant touch of a forest.
    a star burning in the cold. darkness as its only heart. memory as its soul.
    we are its memory. we lie at the heart on the point of perceiving.
    a diamond of ancient living flesh. a diamond of more mystery than except our fingers turning it this way and that so the eyes and brain may see what they all may become after their implantation burial into the earth. spin on that you homegrown saviors in this desolate land eating its young in a last ditch attempt to preserve its age. to escape the hungry maggots who sing beautiful little songs if one knows how to listen to them instead of retching back from the revolting smell decay they rejoice in.
    decay is life. the ongoing ritual of continuance. we clutch at every straw our wise yet ignorant priests reach out to us.
    how far do we go? where does our denial of eternal life lead us but into the maw of zombie death unawake yet never able to sleep?
    this is the end.
    this is the beginning.
    this is the one.
    this is the other.
    this is death.
    which is which?
    who is who?
    our little bitty human minds struggle with every equation set before us though there is really nothing to figure out.
    this is not a test.
    this is it.

    2/7
    and out of this and into that.
    diamond in one's eyes as one speaks in dreams. is this all nothing but a dream? is it a dream he wants to dream forever?
    he is just who he is. he doesn't know anything about what that is about. he has a cat who knows who he is. he has two children who know who he is. but he doesn't know where it begins or ends.
    he needs something or someone to silence all these damned thoughts raging around in his brain but there is nothing or no one near.

    bringing it all down. people crazy in the streets doing what they think is right.
    and he doesn't know who anyone is. he feels so absolutely isolated. even people he's come to call friends are strangers.
    and those who are supposed to have wisdom say it is god who he should seek but he has no idea of what they're taking about. god who? god what?
    if someone would tell him what is going on. if someone would tell him what all this pain is for.

    2/8
    and the same thing from yet another point of view. another cigarette. another cup of coffee. and life, the universe and everything else goes on.
    and something else about the story in dreamtime. no one wakes. is there anything to awaken to?
    another question. will they never cease? ha-ha - that was a joke - wasn't it?
    another morning sweeps past where he is as the cycles of eternal things and states flow in realtime time lapse.
    a river.
    most of the time he does not notice.

    dream river.
    listening to the sound the mind hears.
    soul.
    heart beating and the countless breaths we take.
    jazz.
    looking out a window. how can he describe what he sees?

    in something which is changed and all things are in balance with each other and contain balance in themselves.
    this is our perception of the universe around us. as to whether this is as the universe is, we cannot tell. yet our perception is the universe. or something like that...

    and every time turning within each moment and people who are happy with life as they know it and who are not confused and face each day with certainty.
    and crazy.
    and the biopic thing - zap

    how each we easy forget all circular round about a square table where we were standing alone and together with open doors face away and a drink in our hands flesh crisscross across the plane against the building in progress.
    a mask. our chairs were bleeding. we watched a movie. we thought about what we were thinking about what we were thinking and turned inside out of ourselves without thinking of a thing.
    zero.
    happening.
    a rope. another chair. donut hole.

    2/9
    and nothing like sleep. and divine revelation on hold. days passing like waves, some gently rocking, others steep pitched foam capped mountains.
    it's so much fun being an idle poet who doesn't write poems. a poet searching for meaning in words of the language of the thousands of years old fascist state after state after state.
    every thought brings into line with the lowest common denominator ideas.
    and there is freedom here. the freedom to become as enslaved as one wants to become.
    so it changes and it doesn't change. the order and the revolution being manifestations of the same pattern of control.

    and as it becomes what it is and is what it becomes.
    and as we are who we want to be and want to be who we are.
    is there any choice in any of this? does it matter if there is or isn't?
    as we move through one day into and from another following the endless cycles of time. it's all something else - some place else.
    he doesn't know if he should feel happy or depressed. he feels both and he cannot feel either.

    who?
    the dada-ananda.
    what?
    the dada-ananda.
    where?
    the dada-ananda.
    when?
    the dada-ananda.
    how?
    the dada-ananda.
    why?
    the dada-ananda.
    what is it that connects us? what is it that divides us?
    the dada-ananda.
    what is it that we desire? what is it that we fear?
    the dada-ananda.
    how can this be?
    the dada-ananda exists in an imaginary state of being. the dada-ananda is whatever we decide the dada-ananda to be.
    a savior?
    a hoax?
    yes - all and more is what the dada-ananda is.
    we must doubt everything about the dada-ananda for the dada-ananda to be the dada-ananda.
    the dada-ananda is the all-purpose one true bogus guru. the dada-ananda is all or nothing and everything in-between.
    the dada-ananda is to be used as we see fit. this has always been. we have been afraid to realize this and take the power and the authority that is ours. we have chosen to hide behind leaders. the dada-ananda leads nowhere.
    and so on like that until the end...