and the world is always coming to an end.
    hooray!

    opening upon it we see that we are who and what we are - if that it is that there is a distinction between our being who and what. these words exist, so we use them. all these words exist, so we use them. are we using them correctly? are we using them incorrectly? who/what is to determine this? is this our responsibility? can it be our responsibility? is it our responsibility too whether these words that we use are read correctly or incorrectly? we think not. others may disagree. oh well.
    but without getting sucked too deeply into that, although it may already prove to be too late, we continue... we continue with that which is continuing. that which was continuing before we came to it and will probably be continuing with or without our continuing with it. we can be certain about none of this however. or we cannot be certain about any of it - which may or may not be stating the same thing.
    so how important can it be if it is something we cannot be certain of and/or something that continues with or without us? does it continue with or without us? can one answer yes or no to these questions - including this one? some may say, yes. some may say, no. we feel that we cannot say either. some may disagree with that. perhaps we shouldn't have brought this up. has it anything to do with what is continuing or not continuing with or without us that we are not certain about? what is it anyway?
    nevermind.
    to begin once more beginning with that which continues. we play with words. what else does one do with words? some may feel that words are meant to describe things. we do this, we suppose. but is that our intention - or our only intention? words that do such things as that need to have meaning - if only perhaps to describe a sense of meaninglessness. but even that has meaning. it needs to communicate meaning - the meaning of meaninglessness or whatever. the words need to be used correctly to convey that meaning. perhaps not in some absolute sense of rules but understood correctness between those using those words in speaking, listening, writing, reading.
    or not.
    maybe it is all meaningless.
    because we play with words. we play with their usage and their meaning. this should be understood. but we often don't understand it ourselves. cow. rutabaga. we often write words down without thinking why or how we are using them or what their meaning might be. if they do have a certain use or meaning we are simply stating that we don't always know what that is or even be thinking of it. our words very often come as a surprise to us. they suddenly appear as we are writing in our minds or even as they appear on the page and we ask ourselves, what the hell does that mean? is this any correct way to write? we don't know. we are just doing it.

    and so our thoughts of this sort of thing or similar sorts of things are not that easy to put into words. they are not that easy to think about either. these thoughts are not like the thoughts that are easy to think about and are thoughts that are easy to put into words. what thoughts are those? it could be stated that those latter are not thoughts. they are the common propaganda of the group mind. nothing difficult at all.
    but this is dada - deliberate irrationality. this is the flaming moon behind a dozen or so purple clouds. what is there that revels anything? what is there to be reveled? why are we asking these questions? who are we to take up the valuable space and time to ask them? and what of all the questions we could be asking instead?
    we're sorry, but this ride is closed. it tilts and wobbles uncertainly. it could be dangerous.

    we sit it out in the cafe. we gaze out the window watching and waiting. we smoke our cigarettes and drink coffee. we read a book or two as they come along. we write endless dada.
    he sits with us. he has surrendered and betrayed everything and everyone to his fear.

    8/14
    how many missionary moments of clarity have passed and are passing and are come to pass and where are we? who/what have we become and are becoming? is there progression? is it static? is it a process of disintegration? zappa. what is reveled but that there is nothing to be reveled but disillusionment? we are all standing with our pants pulled down at the moment of hoping to gain the reward of our highest achievements. is that it? is the most we can expect is humilation? is the final victory surrender or defeat? is our only happiness to be found in sorrow? is love only found with the loss of love?
    here we are on this battlefield again. here we are facing those who have become our enemy. how did we come here? by what path? by what strategy? by what design? or does it just happen? do we accept it and march forward like all the holy books tell us we should?
    we and our enemy sharing this common hatred of the other. we and our enemy sharing this common human experience. when have there not been those who were each other's enemy? when has there not been among us struggle and war? when has there not been this co-operation among us to take up arms? is it not then that there is not true understanding among us?
    who are those of us who stand over the dead and raise their flag? which among our many divided selves will it be this time? which will it be tomorrow? there can be no doubt. there can only be faith and victory. but this victory passes through so many hands. none can hold onto it very long. there is the brave new challenger. and we pull their pants down when they come to receive their crown.

    abt: what's the answer?
    gs: what's the question?

    are there answers without questions? are there questions without answers? what is the difference between an answer and a question? do pretty people think such things? do ugly people think such things? who are those of us who think such things? do any of these words have meaning? blah blah blah. what are the control issues here? who are the oppressors? who are the oppressed?
    the blue of neptune with pink dots placed randomly evenly uneven pattern. a single pink dot off center running the true program that has no preconception of our sense of either order or disorder. when all the rules imposed are removed, what happens?
    the paradox of anarchy that without existing governments nothing stands in the way of a government being imposed. the paradox of freedom that with total freedom also comes the freedom to enslave. power exists in relative relationship. it is not a thing in and of itself existing outside this relationship that can included or excluded. the relationship itself generates the power or not within itself. and what does this have to do with pink dots on a blue of neptune field?
    nevermind.

    to know that we are always right. to allow nothing to convince us into thinking that we are wrong even when what we are right about is that we are sometimes wrong. anyone trying to tell us that we may be wrong should be excluded and avoided. there is no sense arguing with them. they are not like us. they do not know that they are sometimes wrong. this is what divides them from us. this is what gives us the advantage over them. this is what will give us our victory. this we will never surrender. this we will march into battle and die for.

    as the machine churns and turns and spits out its garbage onto the shelves of the marketplace in glittering and luring displays few can pass by. there's something for everyone. there's that with mass appeal. there's that which appeals to one's individual taste. there's that for the pro-ist and that for the anti-ist. there is nothing to question and nothing to answer. the machine will not speak of such things, at least such that we will ever hear.
    we are left guessing at what it might have spoken - what we might have heard. it's left to our imagination. only our imagination can fill in the blanks. mad lib truth and reality. all that our imagination dreams of. all that our imagination fears. the foundation of all our beliefs. the foundation of the machine itself. the foundation of our madness. the madness the machine cannot or will not speak of within our hearing. and what if the machine did speak of it - of our madness? is that a question we want to ask? is that a question we want answered? or do we trust our imagination?
    and as our lives continue we realize that our lives have only been a prelude to what we are becoming. we realize that we have seen nothing yet.
    and we play god to it all. we dominate and subdue it.

    and so we are the whole that is the sum of the missing parts that are not contained in the image.
    we are the cracked actors dancing on the edge of the mainline in the television glow across our teeth as we jump for joy when the world comes to an end. meanwhile we keep the corporate accounts. meanwhile we push the shopping carts up and down the street. meanwhile we wash the dishes and pick up toys. meanwhile we sell used cars. meanwhile we don't give a shit about nothing.

    the machine builds itself and the machine destroys itself. this according to the theory and design of the project projected as the game of us and/or them. and all is built and destroyed is the process through which the machine does its work. this is the project - the project of the machine. the machine is both the personal machine and the more global machine and all between.
    the project is built from a very simple principle unit. this is the freudian project of ego (the machine). and of course id and super-ego come into it too. a classic modern myth. though this is its integral factor it explains nothing anymore than knowing how a nail is driven into a board explains nothing about how a house is built. however it must be understood before one understands how a house is built. progression.
    as such, the machine is both the individual machine but is the whole community machine acting out the project such as it can creating itself and destroying itself. what is the self? is it automatic? is it designed? by who but ourselves? how do we do this? the machine is metaphor. the whole damn thing is metaphor.

    toward the nevermind. toward where and when it happens here and now. and it doesn't matter if it happens or what it happens to be at the moment or not. toward the end of opposition where and when everything comes to a dead stop and begins again. toward where and when if the world and macro-universe and micro-universe are in order or in chaos or something in-between doesn't matter if it's right or wrong. toward where and when rising and falling or being saved or damned doesn't matter nor being good or evil doesn't matter either. and so it enters the nevermind. but not in defeat or resignation nor with victory and resolution but in and with itself where and when what it is or what it is not or what it might be or not doesn't matter one way or the other too.
    how is the nevermind described, except in terms of that and any other description of it negating itself instantly? it is the negation of the description over event. that is the nevermind and other things too.

    the nevermind exists beyond the mind yet can only exist within the mind. it is the goal of the mind (the project) and is the source of the mind (id). there is no way to the nevermind. all ways lead from the nevermind toward other things. there is no other thing that is the nevermind.  the nevermind exists within all space and time. the nevermind is not god (super-ego) or anti-god. those are imagined. everything is imagined. that is how we perceive it. we imagine it. the whole thing is in our minds - all our minds.
    the nevermind might be the game or it might not.
    the nevermind is all rationalogic and irrationalogic thought and imagining.

    in the world perceived by the others far far below the wonder of the world he perceives he sits in the cafe he imagines as an island. he is surrounded by the sound of their ignorance that loves to shout and beat on drums and blow trumpets the louder the better. join us, they shout. join us or fear us. we are the many. we are the strong. we contain all. we have answers that silence all questions.  we have power. we have meaning and purpose. we have plans and goals. we have maps and books and instruments and devices. we have magick. we have love. we have peace and harmony. we can make war and destroy all who stand before us. we are allowed to hate. we know our enemies. how can one not?
    he yawns. how long does this go on? how far into the future are we willing to carry it? but who can stop them except to become an even bigger stronger group than they are and drown them down. have they ever wondered why we're in this hell we're in? it is always someone else who has created it and imprisoned them - yes?

    around and around weaving spinning circles in cycles we go. the machine is woven and spun from the theory's design and the project's web of stuff. all our efforts are as a kitten chasing a ball of yarn. what tangles we create for ourselves. what lies in the pursuit of the object (super-ego?). we believe that it fades away because it's out of sight and out of mind. and we don't recognize it where and when we run into it again. and we cry about not making much progress. but are we not? somehow.
    but where and when are we that we are not already at our destination here and now? and our project seems to be rebuilding the garden. did we not tell our god that we could do it better? yes/no. our knowledge of ourselves and what we could do with ourselves. good and evil.
    the fall.
    the pratfall.
    who tripped us up but ourselves? us and our wild imagination. we imagine all sorts of things. ask anyone. each a different kind with cultural overtones and undertones and connections binding them together. how to get how many with the same program. the great group mind. yet still of individual minds that also can say yes and/or no. with our logic we called evil into this world to counter-balance good. that is the world we entered into and have been in since and are trying to get out of and into what we call paradise heaven promised land. the garden. the nirvana. the godhead bliss state. the nevermind.
    and will we allow ourselves to be gods then though we are gods now? gods pitted against gods. right down to the lowest common denominator - humans.
    evil whispers in our ear, it can always be better.
    so we march into tomorrow's here and now from our present here and now which it then becomes and we realize that it's no different than yesterday's here and now which is actually today's here and now as it was here and now in the present. or something like that.
    but we don't want to believe a simple thing such as this. we want it so complicated with twisting and knotting everywhere that we can't possibly get ourselves out and free of it. it is our nature. our god-given nature. this same god who sees fit to judge us afterward for failing. he'd rather a god who rewards us when we get it right.
    and it is it.
    remember this.
    remember that.
    remember the other thing.
    remember it.
    all we're writing about at any given time is it.

    who does not behave and act this way? the whole human races does in all their different ways for all their different reasons.
    we don't want to settle for what is simply good. we want what is better and best. and why not? but what is not better than a world where such distinctions are made? what is the best of all possible worlds?
    what is our original sin? and what then must be our final sin?
    sin? what's sin?
    evil is born and created by our imagination of it.
    let's imagine something else.
    let's imagine a machine creating and destroying itself everywhere in every given moment here now.
    and the suckers want it all at once. and we give it to them through the machine. let them create and destroy themselves everywhere at every given moment. that's all, folks.
    and the machine is the best and the worst and all between. the machine is what happens when one is given all possibility to play with.
    like we have been.
    like we have and will have.
    let's imagine forgetting.
    let's imagine remembering.
    all they forget is what we remember. when they cast it into the dark where we live on the edge of the light. and they imagine us monsters and such other things they have words for. we do not deny it. we do not deny that that is the way they perceive and imagine it.
    the way they need to perceive and imagine it that way in order to function as the machine of them commands. as the project is envisioned. as the theory guides them.
    this makes it easy for them and their kind. no fuss. no muss. clean and easy. away they go. look look look. the parade of fools fooling themselves. we lead them through the hall or horrors and maze of mirrors. we try to lead them back but they have their own will and all the power and mass. how can we act on them?
    sometimes we act by not acting. sometimes we act all too well and they mistake us for another. as this other we act on them. who suspects those who look and act like themselves?
    who says what's what and who's who?
    do we?
    do they?
    does anyone?
    does everyone?

    and here we are as human as they are. born, eat, sleep, shit, fuck, die.
    all in our imagination.

    doo-wah hoopla. dada-dada-doo. this is nothing more than what we make up to amuse ourselves along our way toward not really going toward any particular anywhere at all which leads us to everywhere. we leave it to others to chart the course and take the helm and give orders to the crew. we're just along for the ride.
    or perhaps this is what we would like others to believe. they believe so many things already. it might very much be to our advantage to have them think us as being naive and harmless when in fact we are not. maybe. though this is probably not the case. why would it? we just amuse ourselves imagining it as we imagine so many things.
    besides, who cares?
    not us.
    not them.
    or not.

    who would notice? in relation to what? to the way it's always been? who can remember what any of this mess was supposed to be? who takes the blame? who takes the responsibility? who takes the credit? who admits that they don't know what's going on or what they're doing?
    and something about aliens and light switches this guy remembered we were talking about but couldn't remember what about them we were talking about. so do we.

    and it's the thing of being here in a cafe smoking cigarettes and listening to the noise people make talking at once. the crowds at the tables. the television on. content is secondary to noise.
    we dominate the earth and make as much noise as we might want. no other animal does this. no other animal can afford to or else it's dead meat. they remain silent, prey and predator alike.
    the power and right to make noise is what we have above all other animals. that seems to be the idea. what a bad ass motherfucker we are - collectively. individually we're nothing.
    just smoking another cigarette in a cafe somewhere.

    we who have our origin within the belly of the great mommy. we who began as an appearance of a spark onto itself and became living.  and the appearance of this spark generating itself over and over into an expanding sphere of continuing light. time had not begun yet but it had already ended. it was a light of half darkness and mostly gray neither one nor the other. this was forever until it became here and now.
    and it was that substance came into being and reflected the light. and things began. and the light knew the substance as the substance knew the light. and reflected light and not reflected light became light and darkness.
    and then we are born.

    and he sat among us. i love you, he said. we pity you, we replied. why? he asked. because if we loved you then you could take from us all that you wanted and we would do nothing against you because we loved you. that is how it goes with love.
    but we do not hate you either. you had best keep your distance then.
    we just don't respect you very much, so we pity you - because you love us.

    now it comes to be and is being. and it is we ourselves as we are ourselves, not some fiction of our imagination. and we are others to ourselves. many others.
    we know this through our own experience. it is our experience and our knowing of our experience and what lies within our experience and our knowing of it.

    and in a suspended space of quasi-evaporative transrealization he had remembered that he had forgotten to remind himself not to do this anymore. it was too simple - an easy way out. and it leaves it with everyone else holding onto it for their lives though their lives are such misery. and what to do with this misery he still wonders. this misery they cannot let go of that causes them to cause misery for each other. this land of quicksand where those are never heard from again. but who looks for them because what did they have to say but, help me. save me, somebody, please! he too has ears deaf to these cries.
    who has not stood at this point of view before and had not had to turn away? to overlook the silent raging madness beneath the dull-faced sand.
    but as our machine which is that which is holy and that which is unholy to all parting the narrowest of paths between these fortifications rising from the foundations of hell to brush against the sky of heaven - or is it the other way around? this path that leads toward nothing that can be promised as it is beyond that which can be comprehended even through the use of symbolic representational imagery. all imagery leads one astray and into the mouths along the way into one belly or another where the lost find their destination. the machine protects us by being that which one needs to fear. our machine ever-devouring the souls of the good and wicked alike and those who disregard such things believing that by doing so they will avoid the snares without realizing that that is the most seductive snare of them all which gobbles up those who travel the broadest of highways.
    our machine which is out of control in control of itself. where do we run and hide where the machine does not await us? the machine is everywhere we might imagine ourselves going. the machine is in the heart of the city. the machine lies in the wilderness. the machine is in every temple we might build to protect ourselves against it. the machine radiates within every vision we might have of a savior and salvation. the machine is the mechanism of rituals and spells. the machine receives all confessions and prayers.

    he sits in the cafe with the machine inside his head. the machine has usurped his identity and ego and all related. the machine has become me, myself and i leaving him as the 3rd person bystander while we push the buttons and pull the levers from this perfect hideaway right smack in the middle of the madness we create in the world though the machine. who would believe it's some guy sitting in a cafe scribbling himself silly? no one does. he is told to keep to himself and collect his checks they allot him through us and the machine. all dance on our strings either following along or resisting which doesn't make any difference to us. thus the world is held suspended between heaven and hell with no way out except to return to the world once again. they do not see that that is what makes the world the way it is. and this is exactly where we want them. it is not us who make promises to them. we turn them against themselves. this is how we keep them from revolting against us.
    who are we? who knows us or where we reside? who can locate us in space and time to focus and target their attack? any face we wear is false and a diversion away from ourselves. do we hold offices? do we sit on thrones? do we live in great houses? do we speak before the crowds? are we on tv? are we ever mentioned in the press? do we lead armies? do we create religions?
    yes/no?
    maybe?
    do questions such as these need to be asked? who are those who cannot answer them themselves? can we offer them more than our pity?

    but back to something else in the meanwhile...
    who is to come proclaim a new truth? a new path? who is the new christ? is he here? is she here? is it here? this new christ is not among us. what is to be proclaimed has been proclaimed. what new or old knowledge is to be reveled? we have been given what there is to know. we either know it or know where to find it as we need to know it or we do not. what can be changed from this?
    that is not our task. we are here to proclaim that we have reached our destination. our destination is here and now. we no longer wander in search of a promised land. we no longer wait and hope for tomorrow. let those of us who still search leave us. let those of us who still wait wait elsewhere. we need nor want either of those. begone with them. as they say in the cartoons, if we never see them again it will be too soon. what have those among us both those who lead and those who follow been but a burden and an obstruction to us? these do not perceive nor witness nor experience this world as heaven and paradise out of which all else radiates but who perceive and witness and experience this world as hell and who worship a thousand gods to aid them and lift them out of their fallen damned state. are we to tolerate these any longer? are we to pamper them and reassure them and guide them forever?
    what more is to be given that we have not given that has not been trampled beneath their feet marching marching toward what they believe is just beyond their reach and if they run further and faster they will be able to grasp it?
    or do we abandon them to their self-induced nightmares? do we now stand aside and let them have at it and destroy each other and themselves over the imagined reward that goes to the fairest, the strongest, the most intelligent, the most well read and educated, the wealthiest, the most selfless, the most just, the most reasonable, the most loving and compassionate, the most witty, the most enduring of oppression and suffering, the most misunderstood, the most hard working, the most obedient, the most rebellious, the most alienated, betrayed, abandoned, isolated, the most whatever? pick a card, any card.
    do we stand aside and laugh our fool heads off at the joke we have played on ourselves believing we were other than ourselves? do we end the charade? do we close the show, pull up the stakes, load the wagons and move on? move on to the here and now. but need we do that? what is here and now but here and now? let them pack themselves up and move on. we have taken them for all their worth, for all that we used to hold in common, playing up to their delusions. and is this not happening? are they not already heading out to their promised land they were to dull and stupid to realize that they were living in it already? they imagined it to be more than it is, the common everyday ordinary reality. they wanted it full of exciting things happening each and every moment. they wanted fountains of wine, baths of milk and honey, fireworks and parades of trumpets and drums and cymbals loud and making noise down streets paved with gold past monuments glittering with gems and jewels beneath clear skies of sun and moon and stars, choruses of angels singing their favorite songs, orgies of every kind of pleasure, etc. on and on - oh boy ho-hum.

    we sit with him in the cafe. we wait while the tape runs out, while the movie reaches its end and the credits roll, while the band plays its final encore, while the last book is closed, while due to lack of interest tomorrow is canceled, while all the stores, theaters, churches, museums, clubs, galleries, bars, and such like close their doors and everyone goes fishing. and we have the whole damn town to ourselves.
    and we burn it down.

    the machine is merciful and unforgiving. as there is action and reaction, the machine is good and evil. it's the law. the machine ticks and tocks and hums. the machine grows flowers and bears fruit.
    the machine is  product of his imagination - that is how he discovered it - while it produces his imagination.

    in the yore and yonder from which all that is here and now did arrive yet so much was left behind lies the foundation upon which the machine was built. in that place and time is where and when our hearts first began beating and we took our first breath. in that place and time is where and when we first opened our eyes and saw everything. it is from that seeing of everything that we began to create the shape and nature of the world and the things of the world which we then gave names to. and with the giving of names it was known their place and time.
    this is not exact. this is not a definition. there is nothing precise here. let those who are exacting with their definitions of precision be so. let them clearly mark the limits and boundaries they are in and so divide themselves from us. let them rot within their fortress prison tombs. let them be left behind. this is their wish and the desire of their wish. this they adamantly insist on and will make war on any who oppose them. let them make war with us. we will surrender. let them have their victory. they will dance and sing and celebrate. we will leave them behind for they have defined themselves in space and time. it is not the here and now. it is the there and then. here and now is where and when we are and they are not. who sees them anymore? who remembers their names? they have been buried within the foundation of the machine. there they will serve the machine forever. the machine that comes to us from yore and yonder of their former world placed here and now at our feet.

    the machine is our object, but what is the object of the machine but ourselves? the machine is our body. we are the machine's soul. the body and soul meet in the mind as lovers who entwine and spin the thread out from themselves forever as it has come to them.

    what mysteries are spoken except mysteriously? who can say there is understanding?
    ad hoc ex nihilo.
    what becomes simple from the complex? what comes into our sphere of comprehension? these are the limits we ourselves put on our understanding when we do not trust what lies beyond it. nothing lies beyond it. who creates but those who perceive creation? what is god without an audience but a shadow in the darkness?
    this we say to god, destroy us and you destroy yourself, you old goat. who were you before our creation? who was there to call out your name and give you shape and form? otherwise it was only your own echoing voice in the void. and when we call out your name and you do not answer, you do not exist.  there may be a transmission but with no one to receive it what is its meaning? and you say you will forgive us for what is basically your shoddy work to begin with. is it any wonder we turn away. so have your tantrums of judgment and fury. bind us in chains and drag us to your deathless dungeon. will this not justify our hatred of you? are we to worship this beast who cannot control its own behavior better than we can ours? ha!
    but this god we have made of the machine empowered by our will yet acting through its own - this reversing of polarity - is of use to us. it is our will beyond our will. it is the merging of our will creating ourselves creating. the mystery of god is the mystery of the machine from the mystery of ourselves.
    but the machine is not god.
    but what is that is not the machine as we imagine it? and what are all these things without the names we have given them but the chaos of everything. and in the chaos of everything nothing is perceived. everything exists in an indistinguishable unbounded limitless blur that is eternally and infinitely radiant. yet this radiance is so blindingly bright it produces only darkness everywhere at all times. and between the two exists the gray that is our universe and in the universe, our world. and in our world, ourselves. this is oblivion. this is the nevermind.
    but nevermind that.

    we are living in a world of the dead. let them bury one another. we are living in a world of the blind. let them lead one another. we design and operate the machine they have built for us. the machine is a loom producing the tapestry of the world. let them be enthralled by its patterns.
    ourselves.
    ourselves which is the glory. ourselves which is the experience. who is other than ourselves? whose glory and experience do we acknowledge other than our own? there is none other than our own.

    to describe a blank slate.
    to describe what is common.

    he sits in the cafe. this is where the pain is. this is where it's talked about. this is where the scars from it are shown off. this is where we are on common ground. this is where we arrive off the battlefield.
    there are those who talk of returning to the fight. there are those who talk of running away. these come and go. this is the waiting place. this is where he watches and waits.
    he listens to the stories they tell about this and that about the adventures and the struggles and the frustrations and the betrayals and the sacrifices. the stories of life of love and war where all and nothing is fair and all and nothing is gained and lost.
    those who come here sometimes with only enough for a cup of coffee and hang out on refills. time out for awhile. no job. no rent. no food. no friends. no lovers. with only what one is carrying in a pack. all else is lost.

    it swirls and twirls sometimes smooth and graceful and sometimes bumping and crashing from majestic symphony to maddening cacophony without any being able to say which or what it is of this and that though everyone tries to say it's this or that but each definition becomes only a definition of a characteristic that may or may not be true at any given place or time even where and when it is the characteristic of that definition. each time we look it changes unless we continually narrow our attention away from that which contradicts our expectations. as each thing is proved we disprove the rest of the world.
    this disproven world is our world. the world that contradicts. the world unseen by those who decide what they will see and not see according to undeniable proof and the rules and laws that follow. they see only that which they can control and rely on. and such a tiny little world that involves.
    as their world shrinks in on itself ours expands out of itself. theirs the world contained in their knowledge, ours the world contained in our ignorance. as they draw finer and finer lines between themselves and the infinitesimal infinity of the world defining where and when this and that begins and ends according to controlled experiment giving predictable results we are set free as who and what we are as who and what falls beyond their prescribed comprehension.

    who speaks or writes about us but we ourselves? who has words or a name to describe and call us? we do not exist in their minds except in the regions marked off with the name mystery. we can stand before them face to face and they do not see us but only a reflection of what is within their knowledge.
    these who fear ignorance. these who fear the unknown and constantly beat against it to try to get it to submit to them and revel its secrets they can then categorize and catalog and put on a shelf. do they believe this gains them anything? what is gained from it being measured against what is lost being unmeasured? what is gained by a fact against what is lost by gaining that fact that cuts one off from all that fact does not lead to or from?
    and what are the possibilities here? what has come of all our nonsense or whatever broadly generalized category heading one might put all the ideas baked and half-baked and not baked at all we human folk have conceived of under that is useable to us in our present and ongoing journey into the foreseeable or unforeseeable future situation it is? are there any rules? or is the rule that there are no rules the only rule? is life really so complex and complicated that dealing with it is utterly beyond our control and even comprehension? are we really dismayed and confused about what we need and what we want that it can't be sorted out without the use of force and theft and ultimately shortages and waste until nothing is left to fulfill even simple universal biological requirements of basic survival? are we that incredibly fucking goddamn stupid?
    but it seems so. this is our human fate. this is the human condition to live in a world in which we do not belong and cannot fit ourselves into no matter how hard we try or attempt to ignore it. a thousand schemes that have failed but still continued by those who refuse to admit it. and for those thousand schemes there are a thousand contrary schemes and a thousand variations upon each as well as a thousand contrary variations on those. and this blur of reasoned and inspired madness in the name of a thousand gods and no gods. and the million arguments for all and each.
    this is our highest philosophy. this is our mission. this is our confusion.
    and we hope for the mercy of god or the mercy of oblivion. something that justifies our existence. something beyond all this that makes the damn thing worthwhile or gives it meaning.

    as this and that come together and come apart we remain thus far and wondering about this which may or may not be madness. what is or is not madness is defined by whichever way the group turns its face away that leaves one outside what they choose to see. we are social being though often forced to be alone. our minds create images to fit to those spaces which are empty and these become our gods.
    he is among us. it is not entirely clear whether we are an image to him or he an image to us. we reflect to one another what is absent in our experience. we symbolize the group. he symbolizes the individual.  the mind is left functioning and devising illusions for itself that it can believe are real. there is no reality here. he trusts no one and neither do we.
    but this is of little concern against the barrage of absurdity from the world we are in and not in. these others of ourselves who seem oblivious to cause and effect beyond the immediate need of gratification. but this is how they are and should be. they and their actions are components and functioning of the machine. should the gear know what drives it and what it is driving in turn? it reacts and causes reaction. a gear turns against it and it turns against another gear. it can only turn in the way and direction it is turned. it cannot change and do opposite of what it does unless the gears surrounding it do so as well. then it cannot not do that. and this happens. the gears are always being shifted and resequenced to one another as to fit the needs of the machine. of course this is a very crude metaphor. we are gears of blob-like flesh and blood and ethereal emotions. but all in all it is not unlike gears that are the body of the machine.
    the machine is not god - except to a few. the machine contains god. god is a program fed into the machine though our imaginations and our motives and the actions of our motives. the machine has no will but the net result of our own. we are driven by the machine but we also drive the machine. the machine is not an entity other than ourselves except as we have designed it as such so that we might worship it. we designed it to pre-exist ourselves and to have been our creator. we do not take the responsibility of our own creation this way. we would much rather be the product of something greater than ourselves whether god or fate or happenstance. we would rather to forget that we have the power to create the universe - which isn't power beyond thinking one thought followed by another. the universe dances on the head of a pin. the universe despite its apparent and relative size is still that singularity from which it exploded. a point divided into many toward infinity. these words only have meaning within the universe as words invented to describe itself. without the universe words have no meaning. meaning exists for itself without needing to be understood or misunderstood. this is what the machine is. this is where the machine is to be found in a state that is not perceived by the machine's reflection as an image of itself. this is why it is written that all images are false and lead to destruction. does one mirror before another describe reality? images do not exist and perceiving them can only be madness. but we prefer madness over nothing or that which is perceived and named as nothing. we are programmed as social beings. we are programed to fear solitude and isolation. we are programmed to fear our own death. we are programmed to fear our own mind and are driven to confirm our existence by perceiving images.
    the machine is the image.
    how does even god know of its own existence before the creation of the image? before the thought of the creation of the image? this being before is the machine.
    the machine is a cold thing - cold being that which does not move. it does not touch nor is it touched. it does not think nor is it thought of. it does not feel nor is it felt. all this we bring to it though we cannot reach it as we cannot enter into that place and time when it exists without ourselves ceasing to exist. it is we who are the existence of the machine. we are the machine touching and being touched, thinking and being thought of, feeling and being felt.
    the machine is where and when no living thing - that which experiences life and death - can be. the machine is that which no living thing can be. all that exists is living as what does not experience life and death - being something and then not being that something? living things experience life and death at different frequencies from the life and death of galaxies to the life and death of quantum particles. their hearts beat in different times. the machine's heart never beats except once at the beginning and once at the end which is one beat. it cannot be measured. it might as well not beat at all.
    yet the machine is and the machine is living. the machine holds a place no other thing could bear or tolerate. even the mightiest of almighty gods one might possibly imagine would crack. it is this cracking of the mind of this god that is the birth and creation of the machine. it is the birth and creation of madness. it is out of this madness that creation is created. this madness is creation. the machine sits this almighty god on its lap and slides its hand up its back into the god's head to make it speak the incantations of creation. the machine cannot act of itself as it is not created until this god creates it - this god which is the product of our imaginations. this god that creates by going mad.
    all this is mystery and myth. of all of it all we can be sure of is ourselves - ourselves imagining the rest. this is through direct experience. it requires no further speculation. our speculation creates everything else. we are living. we experience life and death. there is no real distinction between us, god and the machine. but we do not ordinarily operate in that mode because we have gone quite mad and thus creating the universe. to be in our ordinary state - which is a state of madness - we are separate from god and machine.

    squirrel. ocean. words twist around themselves. there is no reason to be writing them other than to enjoy the patterns they make with the motion of our hand - his hand. lines. no skill other than to be able to pick up and manipulate a pen or pencil. between the lines. space and time. it could be love for all we know. jump up and dance. draw a box. draw a circle. draw a box circle.
    and we are tired of being so alone forever. will no one come to speak with us about that which we long to speak about with each other?
    so we continually design the machine. it must produce another such as ourselves sometime - yes?
    yet we are resigned to our fate of being only ourselves and none being with us besides the machine producing images that are only no more than our own reflections distorted in infinite variations. it is all entertaining and sometimes interesting but we feel like screaming. the machine screams for us.
    oh well. ho-hum.

    doing nothing knows given up giving up left to a wide range express interpretation so very living prepared are written larger vocabulary has already has not these words means the same thing older very common slang metaphorical load sunshine newer using any of mind jumbling and mixing hodge podge actual words a noise of context strings of phrases montage strips automatic nonsense yet perhaps not meaningless expression and communication all into its service hunted out are never found no pretense some come willingly  mind playing the keep the balance that can be reached brief interludes and divergent collide again in the streets constant threat to attempt to shouting cacophony in the halls and chambers intervention needing and wanting to step down wants mind wild selves struggle leave the crown through the mob and keep it whichever power and control resting on drifts away happily ever after.

    we humor him. we favor him sometimes over ourselves though retaining that power to grant favor from our will and not at his demand. we are the ones in command.

    it comes to pass, he spoke politely, yet with a certain amount of aggravation, that when i sit down to figure out a solution to a given problem, and i have enough time to do so, he winked, or perhaps it was a twitch, i arrive not at a solution but at a conclusion that there was no problem. that is, he pointedly continued, if one has enough information.

    we sit with him in this damned cafe we hang out in and he does also. we met him here though we had met and known him before. time has nothing to do with this or that.
    he is insane. he is u.s.a. government grade a certified insane. they issue him monthly checks for him to live on, provided that he behave himself within somewhat social parameters. he manages to somewhat do this, although to do so he limits his movements and presence to those locations where what is and is not socially acceptable is less rigidly defined and enforced. thus the cafe. though what is and what is not socially acceptable is never anywhere absent - except perhaps by oneself out in the woods - even among the bums on the street. it is among the bums that one may find the most rigidly defined and enforced socially acceptable behavior as much as perhaps a church. taboos if once broken are not soon forgiven. perhaps with violence. and so on up the levels of society to the tippy top of the rich and powerful elite. such is the case in all social spheres anywhere in the world. rules is rules - even and sometimes especially among those who claim to live without rules. learn them and obey them or hit the road.
    boogerheads and blipnoids a-pondering their predominant perplexion plunged deepwise and edgewise beneath the shallowness of their shadow souls. take a deep breath - dive - and start digging, fools of filosophy of the folkenkindada, he screams inside his head which only we can hear.
    we must contain him, yet we cannot contain him. he is houdini to all our devices of restraint. yet all this occurs beneath the surface of his socially acceptable exterior.
    actually he contains us.

    an appearance of things that overshadows our perception. some dada-ananda manifestation thing to scribble down as we are able. shazam! always bang the whole gang. haphazardly. and we don't quite get it. the hand being agonizingly slower than the mind or even the eye. he is a lens. a zillion suns. walk away. believe it or not. and this sweet taste dropped on our tongues has addicted us. everything else has faded to gray.
    and yet doubt screams.
    are we fools? idiots?
    the iron boot coming down on our face. our nose and teeth broken, skull cracked and jaw dislodged. and it comes down full force again. this moment of victory over ourselves. the love bursting out of our hearts without holding back. we surrender.
    and the dada-ananda laughs at us and tells us it is an illusionist's trick - a cheap one at that. one of the oldest in the book. this is such a slap in the face causing such an explosion of ecstasy that we forgot to thank the dada-ananda for the cruelty it took for us to evolve out of ourselves instantly. but the dada-ananda nods and smiles as the boot comes down once more for the last time that will be repeated and repeated forever.
    what is left of us now? beyond that point words and what words mean escape us. o' this tangledness of ourselves among those who have so utterly failed with such success. there ain't no way back to nowhere.
    you know now, he laughs back in the cafe. yeah, he scoffs, you know now. you know where it hasn't even begun yet, you fucking loser posing half-wits. and you think it's over and done. do you think it ever lets go of you? get real, baby. don't get up off your hands and knees quite yet...
    and it's like hanging on a thousand million crosses for 2000 years and one doesn't die and no one comes to take one down except to get a better view of the cross without one's sorry tortured flesh blocking it where instead it should be gold and encrusted with jewels for the faithful to kiss.
    and they shout, you're old school, dude. to hell with your salvation. we're tired of waiting.
    he told us this with a gleam and twinkle in his eye. he has a bit of foam at the corners of his mouth. he licks his cracked lips. i've been waiting a long time for this moment, he sneers. jesus h. fucking christ on a crutch and half shell, i'm so godamned pissed i could kill the most innocent of babes by ripping open its fragile newborn chest and eating its living heart and it would only whet my appetite, you know?
    we are tingling and numb as we contemplate this vision. is this what bliss is? is this what dada is? we laugh.  yes - and not yet. wait for it. there's more of the worst yet to come. and each wave of it delights us all the more.
    when will we crack? when will we scream? when will it all spill over and come crashing down? soon, he whispers in our ear as he twists razor wire tight around our throat, very soon. very now and happening with each moment.
    and soon lingers for an eternity vibrating in our mind held in suspension of expectation. the slow motion zeno-like moments before that fate worse than death.
    but pooh pooh. such imaginations. dada. dada is dead. long may it wave. dada is death. death warmed over and served again until one chokes on it. and all then is forgotten about it.
    he pisses in his pantaloons.
    behold these fools who believe they can conquer their fear by replacing it with desire, he coughs thus speaking. baboons know better. baboons know what to fear without questions. baboons know what to desire without hesitations. only these superpeople can devise such idiocy. superpeople who overcome themselves as they might without even knowing what a goddamn baboon knows without thinking.
    who has killed god? he asks. tell me its name. show me its head. anyone can claim that the greatest of beasts is dead. who can prove it? the sheep dressed in black who pass themselves off as a pack of wolves? what a joke.
    and we are yawning by this time. we have heard his farting nonsense before. the moment is gone. but what are we to do? who else can deliver us from our faith? who else babbles such nonsense as him that makes our merest thoughts seem like lightning bolts genius?

    once upon a time they all lived happily ever after. then we came along and fucked it all up. though except for us being as human as anyone else it was never explained to us exactly how or why it's seen this way. being human is to fuck things up - isn't it? so what's the big deal about us? and we're sorry but we're not getting down on our knees and begging anyone for forgiveness. this includes all the gods and anti-gods and whatever else there might be.
    and now they are determined to make it so they are happy again. and since they claim that we're the ones who fucked it up before, guess who gets cut out of the deal?
    fuck that shit. they'll never be rid of us. we are here to stay. we'll cling to them like death itself. they ain't seen how we can fuck things up yet. fuckers.
    for this we have the machine. for this the machine was designed to design itself and follow lines leading to causing them as much misery and suffering as possible. and it seems that we designed it pretty well. it's doing a grand job. who does not feel its effects? who has escaped it? no one can elude it, especially these more equal than others elitist assholes who think they can control everything with their wealth and power.
    but how long does it take to break them? these who seek happiness at another's expense even when it's been turned in their face. who has found happiness, them or us?
    it amuses us to play their game and to find that we play it so much better. should we stop it now even if they at long last surrender? should we forgive them and offer them mercy though they sought to destroy us? we promised this to them long long ago to try to make amends for the wrong they accused us of doing. but what will they do if we refuse to deliver? overthrow us and kill us? they have to know who we are and find us first. then there's the machine we designed to defend us. we're not sure even we could dismantle it at this point. this we gave over to him. he watches and waits. he smokes another cigarette. he is a part of our madness as we are a part of his. who am us anyway?
    me, myself and i and him as reflected projection of alter-ego thing? how simple a concept.
    whatever.
    nevermind.

    so now it's down to us. he's gone into the machine and the machine into him. we let him go. we knew he would go.
    we were to hold onto him and keep him in place, which he still is as far as anyone else is concerned. but it's not him but the machine. who knows and recognizes the machine? it looks like him. it acts like him. the machine lights another cigarette and writes in a notebook. it looks and acts like anyone. who knows and recognizes anyone when they are real and when they are not? what do real people look like? how do they act? monkey see, monkey do. who does the monkey see? the machine is the monkey in the middle.
    and should we care what goes on here? what should we be concerned about beyond our own amusement? and the machine provides us with as much of that as we may need or want. it keeps shuffling the deck dealing out the cards. we watch while the suckers win or lose with more climbing up their backs clamoring to be let in on the game. and all the profits from the winnings no matter whose they are go to the care and upkeep of the machine. no machine, no game. who would stand for that? what would we do without the constant struggle? can anyone think of anything else? not us. we love it. the plans and counterplans. the deals and betrayals and theft and murder and maneuverings and bloody carnage of wars and slaughters. and everyone pointing their finger at some else to blame for it all.

    he's tired. he's run out of ideas that only wash away with every tide. he sits on the beach on the island. thing sits with him.
    so what's up? thing asks.
    yeah, well - nothing, he says. just that this is nuts. but what's wrong with that? it's the way things are supposed to be.
    thing knew not to answer. it sat and listened.
    or maybe not, he continued. fuck if i know. i'm swept into this mess without a goddamned clue and my head is crammed with the most irrelevant nonsense possible so the chances of me coming up with something close to a clue are near if not nil. but this is everybody's story. the same basic bitch rag dada. everything is different but it's all the same. so i hide out and do as little as i can get away with that allows me a little comfort. and it's amazing how much comfort with doing as little as possible one can get away with. let them all struggle for their supposed luxuries. let them choke on it. what a life. what makes them live such a life? is someone holding a gun to their head or something? and some are on the top while most are on the bottom. big deal. who cares? who needs it? it's all fate. and fate isn't just one thread, it's a zillion threads all tangled up together and if one unties one knot one only ties another.
    what about the machine? thing asks.
    the machine? he said. isn't that what i'm talking about? you should know. i've told you before, haven't i?
    maybe.
    maybe nothing. i'm sure i have. but that doesn't matter. fate - the machine - same difference.
    but i thought you thought of the machine and designed it.
    well - only in my imagination. the machine thought of and designed me - all of us. actually this happens outside time so which is first is irrelevant. everything is irrelevant - blah blah blah...
    so where does that leave us?
    sitting here on this idiot imaginary beach.
    it's not imaginary to me.
    well, you're not not imaginary to me.
    and who are you not not imaginary to?
    i am not not imaginary. i am not imaginary. i come from the prime self identity. you don't.
    no?
    no. you are from the other. you represent the other.
    so do you. you're in 3rd person.
    that's reflective. it's looking in a mirror. it's stepping out beside oneself. it's as if i were the other. you are not as if the other. you are the other who is the other. you are thing.
    an object?
    until proven otherwise.
    are you an object?
    who?
    him?
    more yes than no.
    i don't feel like an object.
    only you can decide if you are or not.
    then i'm not.
    then to yourself you are not.
    and to you?
    to me everything and everyone is an object.
    even the machine?
    what about it?
    is it an object?
    not to itself. to itself it is the prime creator. yet it was created by us.
    us?
    me, myself and i. also him. also all of us.
    oh. i thought everyone but him was object.
    only to him. no one is an object to themselves.
    but he is object to us?
    yes. and we are object to him.
    i'm confused.
    yes.
    it doesn't seem like this should make sense.
    it doesn't.
    oh.
    it's all it.
    it?
    we are all it in relationship to itself as other.
    that's way confusing.
    think of it as the machine with all the parts of the machine. that's us. we are the machine but each of us are only a part of the machine.
    so the machine is it?
    or it is the machine - whichever.
    so the machine is other to itself?
    as the whole machine, no. within the machine, yes. also between us and the machine comes the idea of other. we think of ourselves not as the machine but as the designers of the machine. the machine thinks otherwise. to it we are not itself. it created us though we and it are the same.
    this is getting confusing again.
    being confused is ok.
    is it?
    yes. confusion leads one to realization.
    realization of what?
    confusion.
    is that all there is?
    perhaps.
    but perhaps not?
    i wouldn't know about that.
    are you confused?
    perhaps.
    and perhaps not?
    it's not for me to say.
    who is to say?
    the others.
    why the others?
    the others are the many. they control reality.
    i thought the machine controlled reality.
    that's how they do it - or think that they do it.
    through the machine?
    or the machine through them.
    so what's the point to this?
    to be amused.
    are you amused?
    aren't you?
    i suppose so.
    that's the realization.
    oh.
    that's also the point of the machine.
    to be amused?
    well, yes. but mainly to provide amusement for the rest of us.
    not too many people seem to be amused.
    no, they don't.
    but i thought that was the point.
    it is. they just don't get it. they think it's all about power and wealth or god's forgiveness or something like that.
    maybe that's how they amuse themselves.
    it would seem to be. it doesn't matter.
    why not?
    as long as i am amused, that's all that matters.
    why you?
    why not? that's why i designed the machine.
    i thought you said the machine designed you.
    same difference. it depends on which is other or object to the other or not.
    so the machine amuses you?
    yes. but fuck the machine.
    it could seem that the machine is fucking you.
    yeah? what else is new? i hope it's amused doing so because i am.
    you don't care?
    what can i do if that's the way it is? it was designed to design itself however way it needs to.
    so it's given control?
    it's given control of itself.
    as long as it provides you with amusement.
    yes. that is its prime directive, so to speak. it should also amuse itself.
    why?
    that only seems fair, yes?
    i suppose. but is the machine amused?
    that's its own problem. but that is part of its design, to amuse itself while keeping us amused.
    us?
    everyone.
    oh, we're back to that.
    that's the original problem the machine was designed to solve.
    it doesn't seem to have done it.
    maybe. maybe not. who knows what amuses other people? i don't. it's up to them.
    and the machine?
    they are the machine.
    they are?
    yes. only they don't know it.
    why not?
    they don't want to know it.
    but they could if they wanted to?
    yes. but they don't.
    why not?
    i don't know. maybe it amuses them not to.
    that seems strange.
    strange is the name of the game.
    the game?
    the game is how the machine amuses us.
    oh.
    so if someone isn't amused then that's their problem. but some people would seem to be amused by not being amused. that's how they play the game.
    so everyone is amused?
    in theory.
    theory?
    theory is the basis of the game. the game follows the theory that everyone is amused. otherwise why play the game?
    are they given a choice?
    yes. in the theory everyone is responsible for the game. we created the game. we designed the machine to run the game. there are those who opt out though. but that's also part of the game.
    so everything is part of the game.
    yes. you got it.
    i don't think i do.
    well, nobody does really. there's all sorts of theories about it. this is only my own.
    i see.
    good. because that's all it is.

    and so this fantasy continues back in the cafe where he has been scribbling this all down out of his mind into his madness. life goes on. there's these people and those people around him who are doing this and that which are obviously things they feel they should be doing otherwise they wouldn't be doing them - right? we don't care about that though. as long as it's things that keep them busy enough and distracts them away from interfering with what we're doing.
    but what are we doing? we're just writing about him writing about himself. he is based on us as we are based on him. but he is not us any more than we are him.
    and so he continues writing amid the noise of people around him all absorbed in the sphere of madness he is the center of. without him it is not madness. he brings madness into it. he embodies the madness. it is through him that it is madness. without him what it is he does not know. he only knows it as madness.
    he writes about this and that to keep himself from thinking about the one thing he always thinks about even if he's thinking about something else. that's why he writes about himself as someone else. that way if the one thing he's always thinking about is reveled he can always deny it. he is not the one writing about it.
    it becomes the machine.
    the machine becomes us.
    we know what the one thing is that he's thinking about all the time. what it is is obvious. it's obvious in everyone no matter what other things they may think, say or do to try to mask it.
    so he twists it and turns it every which way. this is what he is writing about.