so begin here...
    begin with it as it begins always beginning as it begins. the shadow of horses.
    he writes and writes. he doesn't know why. it's in his blood. he's not a very good writer. he doesn't write about anything much really. he barely knows grammar and doesn't have much of a working vocabulary.
    he lights another cigarette.
    what he wants to write about is everything. he wants to connect it together in a way that makes sense. fat chance on that one. he's the last person who will write anything that makes any sense. so he leaves that to others.
    what he can do is write about everything in a such a way as to make no sense of it anyway whichever. or at least so it seems. he can't make much sense of it and he's the one who's writing it.
    what is he writing? what is it?
    he writes from nothing toward nothing. just writing whatever falls out of his head that seems like that is what he should write.
    he would want to write something that might help someone who read it - or at least amuse them. but what could that be?
    he'd like to write out something that would cut through it all and exposed our common experience. he wants to end the fighting. what would do that?
    so many have tried this and failed. so many who were far more articulate than he is. so many have only succeeded in creating yet another faction to join the fight.
    fight. fight for one's rights. but what right beyond the right to fight? and when the fight is won and the dust settles it's the same except with another group on top.
    big deal.
    how is this cycle broken? what is at its heart?
    our division from one another and from the world - the original world that we've built walls against. the garden.
    we lock each other in and out. it's all relative. who's the good guys and who's the bad guys? no one fights unless they think they're the ones who are right even if in most cases they've been convinced they're right by someone else.
    it's us and them. who is us or who is them doesn't really much matter. the fighting continues.
    fighting over what? does anyone remember? what started all this? who gains? what is to gain? why have more than one needs when someone else has less because one is always going to have to fight to defend what one is holding onto? they're always going to come after it and eventually they become strong enough and/or figure out a way to take it. then it's one's turn to fight for it back.
    and on and on that goes. an old old story. our story. our history. the history of war on each other and ourselves.
    and now here we are at the point of blowing up the planet or ripping it to pieces with our greed.
    none of this new except the power of our weapons against each other. and we continue.  we all take part directly or indirectly. there's those with the power and there's those who give them that power. it takes two to tango.

    a spoon. a spoon on the table. he sits at a kitchen table in the house on the island.
    he's at a table in a cafe downtown. there is a spoon in that table too.
    he comes here to write and drink endless coffee and smoke cigarettes.
    there's a cup of coffee on the kitchen table too.
    he lights another cigarette.
    and some time forever. and some time never. he waits here a moment or few. always between one moment and the other. always moving while staying still.

    singing many songs as one. the exploding silence. underneath all the graves. underneath all our chairs. underneath our teeth.
    and as soon as it comes close we turn away - back down. or push into it - back it down.
    one or the other. the war goes on. we are the enemy.

    does any of it seem real? the old man asked.
    any of what ? he replied.
    any of what you're writing about.
    does my writing seem real to whatever else or does it seem real in and of itself?
    either.
    sometimes it's hard to tell. there's lots of layers to it (he sneezes) sometimes my writing seems more real than what i'm writing about. not the writing itself but what i imagine as i write it. like this. you. you seem real, or possibly real.
    do i? the old man grinned. that's nice to know.

    and whatever.
    and from between a time and another time.
    look up.
    why are we fighting with one another? not just the wars but all the ways and means we fight one another. who gains in all this? where does it all go? who feels pleasure from all the pain? in a world of opposites we can't have one without the other.
    stand on the line between the two. unite the division between us all. neither give not take in giving and taking. one hand and the other. the logic fails. our logic minds spin apart chasing themselves.
    the magick of the ordinary. go home. let it go. remember.

    and an exploding mind. nova head. laughing. remembering a thing as laughter.
    but we use laughter as a weapon too. as much as he wants to hear another's laughter he fears their laughter. he's been shot down by laughter before. he's hidden himself away from their laughter. laughter aimed at him. to cut him down. off with his head.
    and his only crime was being human. judged by his fellow criminals. judged by other humans whose only crime was being human. all too human.
    let it go. what crime? the crime of judgment?

    the ticket said green.
    the queen danced on the head of a pin.
    the telephone rings. who could it be this time?

    smerg-da.

    find it out oneself. find oneself out. what could it be this time? what time? envelope.
    this is ugly. an ugly mess. how do we get out of it? do more drugs? build more prisons? he doesn't know. does anyone?
    and sometimes he sees it and it looks beautiful. how does that happen?

    and zero. carry the dog. some like it hot. and no one will agree on anything. so he sits here anyway. waiting. waiting for something. a chance of a lifetime?
     he can wait. it's one thing he does best. he's always waiting. he's used to it though he'll never be used to it.
    he watches all the people doing things. whatever they are doing. he doesn't do much of anything. should he be doing something? a lot of people tell him he should. but it seems things are under control and working just fine without him doing anything at all.
    he used to do things. but they were the wrong things. or if they were the right things he did them wrong. so he was told. so he gave up.
    and now all he pretty much does is write. he doesn't know if anyone will ever read it or not. it'd be ok if they did, but if they don't then they don't. there's probably not all that much in it for them.
    but he writes as if someone were reading it. why else would he be writing it?
    liquid blue.
    as it comes and goes.
    he cannot change anything. does he want to change anything? he doesn't want to change anything no one else doesn't want changed. and if they wanted it changed they can do it themselves - right? so he leaves it up to them. this isn't his world. he doesn't know how the hell he got here. he's just here, that's all. acting out some biological/social/cultural program. who knows why he does some things and not others? he doesn't. he just does it or doesn't do it as the case may be.

    the sky is blue.
    and there's a joke to it all when he can remember that and not get caught up in the misery of it all involved in it.
    the misery comes from us forgetting that it's a joke.

    it's just a joke.
    what else could it be?
    yeah, he knows about all what's going on with all the horrible things that happen in the world. but so what? what does one want him to do about it? stop it oneself if one doesn't like it so much.
    as for him, he refuses to take it seriously anymore. he spent years banging his head against that wall trying to figure that out. all the hows and whys. and he just didn't get it. so he quit. he just quit.
    and he's tired with everyone fighting with each other and themselves about everything. there seems to be no way to stop that without getting into the fight oneself and he has no interest in doing that. they can have it all and what all comes from that that they want. leave him out of it.
    he was going nuts trying to keep up with it without being run down by the stampedes. he has gone nuts - over the edge - around the bend. or maybe not. but he came as close to it as he would like to.

    another cigarette.

    so here he is. that's it. he just thought he'd write this out for anyone who might be interested. probably only himself and me, myself and i. it doesn't really matter whatever.
    he just wanted to tell everyone that he thinks they're all crazy - each and everyone of them - from one end of the spectrum to the other. no matter which way one cuts it into whatever definition or category it's all the same.
    what's the deal here? what are we all doing that is so gosh darn important that we're killing each other and ourselves over it? he doesn't get it.
    and everyone points their finger to blame someone else. but it's all of us together. no one is forcing us to do it but ourselves. the supposed overlords only have power because the rest of us - the majority - give it to them. but that's not all he's writing about. it happens at all levels. each of us is responsible.
    or maybe not.
    he just feels that people at large suffer from some sort of mass psychosis and that civilization is no more than a mutually supported denial mechanism that feeds a common delusion that all of this is necessary for us to be able to survive.
    ha!
    98% of human activity has nothing to do with survival but is just anxiety driven activity for the sake of activity. a dog eat dog - maggot eat maggot - heap of everyone trying to be king/queen of the hill.

    so he's out. he does nothing. he doesn't care. he's not going to participate in this madness anymore as much as he can get away with until it's straightened out into something where everybody's no longer hitting each other over the head in some form or another all the time no matter how subty they do it or deny doing it. or how that's the way to get things done around here. if that's the way it gets done then how important is it that it gets done?
    it makes his head spin.
    all he knows is how he feels and when he looks at this world going on around him he feels like he's gonna puke and the more he was involved in it the worse he felt. until he finally did puke by going mad.
    he got out the only way he could. he went out of his mind - the mind that was put in his head and he was told was his. was it? were all the things it told him he wanted to do the things he actually wanted to do? if so then why did the things it told him he wanted to do make him feel like dog shit when he did them? he was functioning but he wasn't anywhere close to being happy. the best he could hope for was to not be bored. but he was bored. everything his mind told him to do was boring. he had no interest in it whatever. it was just what he was supposed to be doing - somebody's idea of what he was supposed to be doing.
    what he wanted to do was nothing. but doing nothing is a crime against humanity and is punishable by exile and isolation.
    it wasn't that he wanted to do nothing but that he didn't want to do what others told him to do - especially his own mind.
    and this isn't to offer any solution or even a proposal of a solution or even a hint at a solution. it's just what's he's doing once he made up his own mind. he doesn't care what all the others do or not.
    they can keep on the way they're doing. who knows? maybe it's ok and he's just some lazy good for nothing troublemaker. he doesn't think so. it doesn't look like things are ok to him. but what does he know? he's sure they consider themselves better judges then he is. but all he hears from them is constant complaint. but they also have their big plans to deal with it somehow.
    good for them. go for it. they can knock themselves out. get in there and fight for what they think is right like all the rest. good luck.
    he's just watching and waiting.
    for him it's just a joke. and if they get the feeling that he's sitting here laughing at them - they're right. it's a great time to be alive. he wouldn't miss this for anything.

    and so much time. space and time. so much of it all. and dada - whatever dada is. tao and toto too.
    and it.
    let's not forget it.
    the it of it all.
    and he was told once by someone to look out for people who wore turquoise, that they were evil. is this true? he doesn't know. she might have been insane. it's so hard to tell who is insane and who is not.
    and he writes this out for someone for the heck of it to give them something to think about or something to ignore or something to worry about or whatever. there's nothing to it beyond that - whatever that is. he has nothing else to do so why not do this?
    actually that's not really true. he's doing this because he has no choice because he's been taken over by the the machine who/that is bent on world domination and control. he is a mere tool - a pawn - in a global master plan that has been infiltrated into every level of the world system. in fact it has designed the very world system it is infiltrating to begin with. and there's no way to stop it. who knows even where it is or what it is?
    he does. but he's not telling.
    guess again.
    but if someone could stop it maybe they wouldn't want to. maybe one would want to join it - like he did. at least he thinks he did. he doesn't know for sure.
    it's not so much a matter of joining it or not. it doesn't need anyone to join it. it joins who it needs whether they know it or not. who really knows why they do what they are told to do or the motives of whoever is telling them to do what they are told to do? as long as they get paid.
    sometimes it lets whoever know what they are actually doing. most of the time not. with him it did - to a certain extent. it wanted him to write this for some obscure reason it hasn't exactly entirely let on why.
    but what is it? what does it want? does it come from outer space? another dimension? from the dark nether regions of our own minds? yes, yes and yes. all are true while none are true and more than that is true. does it matter?
    it's here to transform the world - to get us to transform the world. and it knows that we won't do that unless we're forced to. that's what it's doing - forcing us to take a leap we'd been too frightened to take otherwise.
    a leap to where? who knows? who cares? anything has to be better than this, right?
    this is the place and this is the time. this is where and when it happens. this is where and when it always happens - here and now. we are being born and just as a baby has little idea beyond some vague impressions of the world it's being born into neither do we or even if there is one.
    we've been in this embryonic state. we've been living in a supportive womb on this planet being nurtured and provided for with everything we needed to get us to this point. now it's time to go. if we don't, we die.
    the "contractions" have already started. everything has been pushed to its limit and is breaking down. what we've known as our world will be destroyed just as when a baby is born the supporting womb is destroyed because it is no longer needed. it's done its job.
    so this is it. maybe. maybe he has no idea what the fuck he's writing about. remember he's supposed to be crazy. but one might want to hold on because it's could be a rough ride. reality itself will shift from the present one to another as the process occurs. a new world will open around us from the ruins of the old.
    so what else is new?
    it comes and goes.
    don't say one wasn't warned.

    but one need not pay any attention to any of that. maybe it's true and maybe it's not. he doesn't know. he doesn't even know if that's what he was supposed to write or if he was then why? why not?
    if it wasn't then what was?
    little blue monkeys?
    who'd believe some crazy guy sitting in a cafe all day anyway?
    but anyway, this is sort of what he means by the mind shift/ship thing.

    dancing on the edge. space/time where the edges are everywhere all at once. we are in a constant state of crossing the line because there really isn't any line to cross. one can't get there from here.
    we are elsewhere. elsewhere from and to each other. we cross lines all the time.
    nonsense. that's how one gets to it - nonsense.
    we divide the world around us into units our rationalogic minds can understand. do we understand? what sort of understanding is that? we dissect the whole into bite-sized pieces and call that understanding. understanding of what? understanding of what we understand. what about the rest?
    how close to the infinite can our finite understanding get no matter how much it comes to understand? and rationalogical understanding will always be finite by definition. it is a grain of sand on a beach.
    so on and on it goes like that.
    and we enter into it beyond ourselves - beyond who and what we define ourselves to be into who and what we are becoming.
    crossing the line.
    to go from zero to one we first reach infinity.

    and so that's it - whatever it is. if it's anything. does anyone know? does he know? he hopes it means something to someone. if it doesn't, don't worry about it. things are being taken care of whether it appears that way or not. or maybe not.

    to be alone. the sense of isolation - apart. different in some unspeakable way.
    him.
    himself.
    me, myself and i.
    we are alone now. others are alone too. now. this moment we share together alone. we do not know what to tell anyone who might be reading this. they are not here. we do not know who they are. do they know who we are? does that make any difference? are we anyone unique from the others? our only sense of that is when we are alone. but that is not unique. others are alone too.
    a lot of people can't stand being alone. they seek the group. they seek someone - anyone. we don't always like being alone but being with a group doesn't really do it either. we still feel alone. self aware. we can't drop the self and be part of the group. we may enjoy being with them but can't really get into them or what they're doing or talking about much at all. we watch. we don't mind watching but they don't like being watched. they feel like they're being judged. and maybe they are. maybe we do.
    we do look for - or maybe not look for but notice - errors. contradictions. but they're not errors, are they? we're just human. it's human nature to be contradictory. the error comes into it when they try to pretend that they aren't contradicting themselves - that the things they think and say and do make sense.

    listening to everything happen all at once like the big bang itself that he supposes that it still is in continuing vibrations of that singular event. he moves within the vibrations creating his own vibrations with them. he thinks of an ashtray or a rug. he's been thinking of an ashtray and a rug for years now. also a spoon. but the spoon is obvious. but what is it about them that they pop into his mind every so often?

    but meanwhile down in the cafe downtown where he sits most of the day scribbling in his notebook again and again he's thinking about whether he's happy or not. isn't that what the things we do depend on - happiness? whether they make us happy or not. or promise to make us happy.
    so does sitting in this damn cafe all day writing and drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes make him happy? he supposes it does. he can't really think of anything else he could be doing that would make him any happier. he doesn't feel real happy. but he doesn't feel really that bad either. he feels indifferent, he supposes. there's a certain amount of joy in that.

    the knife cuts deep. the blood flows. this was in some sort of dream though he never had a dream with knives and blood.
    he dreams about water. being in water with big ocean-sized waves rolling. he's almost going under. he had these dreams until he imagined that he was washed ashore on an island. he no longer has those dreams. he dreams now of sunny skies.

    a sigh.
    another sigh.
    then the old man glances at him and chuckles.
    what's so funny? he asks him.
    the old man chuckles again then says, it's all funny and none of it is funny. but if in the final analysis of it despite what comes and goes in-between if it isn't amusing then what good is it?
    i don't know, he says, what good is it?
    none that i can think of. that's why i try to see the joke in everything.
    and what if there isn't any?
    i keep looking for it until i find it.
    and if you don't find it?
    i always do.
    how? i know lots of thing that aren't all that amusing.
    no - in and of themselves they aren't. it's the whole we're after.
    so the end justifies the means?
    if the end amuses us, yes.
    the suffering and pain of billions of people justifies an end that amuses us?
    it's totally unconnected. the end - or the whole - it's not really the end - is amusing. that's it. the whole and the means of the whole are the same. it's just that the whole is more than the sum of its parts. that's what makes it amusing.
    that doesn't change anything about the suffering and pain.
    maybe not. but name something else that does.
    well, nothing that i know of.
    exactly.
    exactly what?
    exactly nothing.

    he became tired of this and he got up. he picked up the fire poker from next to the fireplace and turned and swung it and smashed to old man's skull in. the old man fell out of his easy chair dead.
    he laughed. it was amusing. the old man was right after all.
    he turned again and left.

    stop, a voice said to him and from out of the shadows came a metallic green cube about a meter square. it rolled or hovered about a inch off the floor. it made an ever so slight humming sound as it moved.
    yes? he said when it stopped next to him.
    did you kill him? it asked.
    yes - i believe i did.
    why?
    because our conversation was going nowhere and since i made him up to begin with i figured i could kill him if i wanted to. i wouldn't have if he was real.
    he wasn't real?
    no - and neither are you.
    i'm not?
    no.
    i thought i was.
    we all think we are.
    you're not real either?
    more real than you. i made you up.
    i thought the old man made me up. that's what he told me.
    he was right. that's how i made you up.
    oh. why?
    i don't know. just to see what you would do - what you would say.
    are you going to kill me too?
    i might, but i doubt it.
    why not?
    you're more interesting than he was.
    i am?
    yes.
    how so?
    well, for one thing you can change into anything you want.
    i can?
    yep.
    how?
    just do it.
    and it did. it changed from a metallic green cube into a black swan.
    you're right. i can, it said.
    i told you.
    but i'm still not real?
    you're more real than you think.
    i am?
    don't you feel real?
    sort of. but i'm not sure i know what real is.
    nobody does really.
    i thought the old man was real.
    forget the old man. he's dead.
    but he made me.
    but i made him.
    i guess.
    so what's your name?
    he used to call me thing.
    oh.
    so i guess that's my name.
    ok.
    can you bring him back to life?
    if i wanted to.
    don't you want to?
    do you want me to?
    yes.
    ok. i will.
    they went back into the other room where the old man lay in a pool of his own blood grinning like an idiot. he walked up to him and gave him a kick in the ribs and said, hey. get up. and he did. but still with a big gaping gash in his head. go upstairs and fix yourself up, he said, and don't come back down until you're halfway presentable. and he did this too.
    is that better, thing?
    yes. thank you.
    he's going to die sometime soon anyway, you know. and i won't be able to bring him back.
    why not?
    because he's sort of real.
    sort of? how?
    i'm not sure. but i didn't really make him up.
    you didn't?
    no. he was here when i got here. i don't know where he came from. in some other conversation we had he was trying to convince me that he was as real as i was. i killed him then too, to prove him wrong.
    you killed him before?
    before or after, i can't remember. i've also run into you before too.
    you did?
    yes.
    i don't remember.
    it doesn't matter. this can go any way it wants to. it's all made up.
    if you say so.
    i say so.
    if i'm not real, does that mean i'm not alive?
    i don't know. why?
    i feel like i'm alive.
    well then, maybe you are.
    i think therefore i am. does that mean anything?
    it depends on whether you're saying it or if i'm making it up that you're saying it.
    i think i'm saying it.
    ok.
    so i'm alive?
    sure, why not?
    and the old man is too?
    we'll have to ask him when he comes back down.

    they waited not saying anything until finally the old man came back down after having fixed himself up a bit.
    are you alive? he asked him.
    huh? what? said the old man.
    are you alive?
    what do you mean?
    we were just wondering whether you were alive or not.
    we?
    me and thing.
    thing? who's thing?
    i am, said the black swan.
    oh. where'd that come from?
    it says you made it up.
    i did? well, maybe - it was a long time ago. i fancied myself an inventor. i had a laboratory where i used to spend time tinkering things together. i remember making up this metallic green cube who i called thing...
    that's the same thing, he said pointing at the swan.
    it is?
    yes. it can change shape and form.
    it can? how?
    because i made it so it could.
    you? who are you?
    i'm the one making all of this up.
    oh yes. now i remember. we had an argument about that once, didn't we?
    yes. then i killed you.
    again?
    yes. or before. i can't remember.
    it doesn't matter.
    no it doesn't.
    so you come here to play god, eh?
    well, no...
    it seems that way to me.
    well, maybe...
    more than maybe. definitely. why don't you get a life, as they say these days?
    fuck you.
    you going to kill me again?
    i might.
    well, before you do, i'm leaving.
    and the old man split.
    him and thing went to the beach.

    and we once again begin again. begin again anywhere as everywhere is beginning everything. or something like that.
    and also the end. the end to it all. a moment suspended between two possibilities - eternity and now.
    and we remember. and we forget. passing the time living.
    a dream. it could all be a dream. which makes it no less real.

    and he imagines himself sitting at a kitchen table in a house on the island. elsewhere. he's imagined his whole life this way - elsewhere. a dream of himself dreaming. no less real.
    he's misplaced something. he's misplaced where this begins. so he begins it here. begin trying to locate the beginning. it's a game he plays. a game of metacosmic proportions and a game only in his head.
    he leaves it behind. he forgets.
    he remembers. he plays the part he's written. he's forgotten he's written it. he imagines he's written it. he imagines that he knows what this is. he imagines himself knowing what he can't imagine knowing.
    so he sits at the kitchen table he imagines he's sitting at. he writes the part he is to play of writing the part he's playing. if it's not written, can he play it?
    this is somehow somewhat how it begins. here and now. always beginning here and now. this is the part where and when he writes the part he plays. he imagines he writes the part he plays.
    he imagines himself at the kitchen table again. why there? why not where he really is? he sits here and now in his attic apartment imagining himself sitting elsewhere.
    but it's only a story, isn't it? what is it if it's not? words. the meaning of words. the imagined meaning of words.
    he's just woken up. he fell asleep in a chair. it's almost midnight. we enter the time he loves the most - midnight to dawn. the open space without the psychic noise of all the other people being awake. they're asleep. it's quiet. their madness in temporary lull.
    is it really madness that they do what they do? or does it just seem that way to him because he is the one who is mad?
    whatever.
    the same strange faces. a mob. all thinking group think. marching to the beat. frowning despair. twitching fear. sparks. high electric humming psychic tight enclosed space. withdraw. pain.
    another cigarette.
    easy.
    he gets up and gets another cup of coffee both in the kitchen and in the attic.
    we come from the beginning. but we were already here when it began. so where do we begin?
    we imagine a beginning we cannot remember.
    something like a god thing.
    mind to mind.
    a kitchen table.
    coffee and cigarettes.
    a window.
    a certain amount of information. we can imagine the rest. but we're not sure about what we should imagine. is it as limitless as it seems? or are we confined to the familiar no matter how much we try to change it?
    to imagine more than what imagination can imagine.
    is it fear? is it the nothingness of unlimited possibility? is that what even god fears?
    we can only glance at that. we can only hold that in our mind for a brief moment. any longer and we feel we would be pulled away by it into never never. are we ready for that?
    would it be like this, imagining ourselves imagining?
    this after midnight. this space and time. alone. imagining. with whoever might be reading this imagining.
    here and now.
    he watches and waits.
    who?
    it's a game he plays with himself. imagining being who he wants to be who he can get away with being with no one around to tell him he can't.
    without the other.
    fuck the other.
    fuck all the others.
    let them sleep forever.
    he seeks this space and time because all that holds his existence together is his existence itself. there is nothing else to define it for him. him and him alone. it's here and now he can laugh at everything else. what else is there? all the people far away sleeping. do they dream of him? does he dream of them?
    he imagines himself imagining them. is that just his imagination? is it real? does it have any shape or form beyond his imagination?
    only another can tell him that. but where is this other? does he imagine this other too?
    does he want to go there?
    is that true madness? the madness of god imagining a whole universe to keep itself from going mad?
    he can know he exists. is that a possibility or an impossibility? he is here and now. he can know this. how far does his existence go? as far as to someone else - the other - who says they are not him? who are they then? how do they and him exist in the same space and time?
    we are all other to the other. we are all not the other. the other is not us.
    this is nothing new but we forget about it. it all seems so normal with familiarity.
    remembering. remembering who we are. who we become. who we define ourselves and each other as being.
    it's a game we play. we imagine ourselves as being who we are. who else is to tell us who we are or who we are not? certainly not such a thing as god. god is insane and has its own problems.
    we are human. who told us this? why are we not the gods we imagine. who is to tell us we are not? certainly not them. they are our creations. who is to say who we can or cannot imagine ourselves as being? how far does it go? how real is it when we get there? as real as we imagine? how real do we imagine it being? how real do we have to imagine it being? what is real enough? what is a little too real?
    do we imagine this what already is? or is this the clay we are given to imagine into something else?
    and remember it all happens here and now.

    being here and now as he imagines himself elsewhere - sitting at a kitchen table. in both places he is writing. his hands move at the same time writing about himself writing. how solipsistic does it get?
    as far as he knows nobody's offered a proof against solipsism.
    great.
    so how real is it? how real does it need to be?
    what path does he follow now? how does he know where it leads to - where it came from? is it more than madness? or is it only his madness that he follows? is there anything wrong with that? is there any other option for him now that he is mad?
    he keeps himself apart from the others so that he knows his existence as himself existing. he does not need them to reinforce it. let them sleep.
    who are they? they are asleep now. but even when they are awake they are asleep.
    this is just a game he plays. he has gone mad - or so they say. perhaps he's always been mad. maybe his existence is only a symptom of his madness - of god's madness.

    6/19
    and it is nothing more.
    and it is nothing less.
    he is who and what he is. one is who and what one is. we are other to each other. we are defined as other to each other. we exist as being who and what the other is not. we cannot exist as one.
    or maybe this is just him. he has no idea what the other thinks besides whatever the other tells him. what does one tell him? he does not know who one is. he may never know.
    did we come into this together? sometime in a beginning that does not begin? together being alone and apart?
    or again maybe it's just him. he is apart. he is not part of. the other may be everything but him. he is not a part of the other or anything else. he is alone. apart. a whole to himself and himself alone.
    and he writes about this without regret or sadness. he states fact which may or may not be fact. a possibility of fact. it is all he knows or can imagine knowing. all he knows is his own existence and that something else exists other than himself which he is not a part of and is not a part of him.
    the other.
    the other knows itself as he does not know it. is it knowing itself as he does not know it the same as him knowing himself as it does not know him? how can we know? does it matter if we do or not? it doesn't seem to. nothing changes.
    but maybe it's changed from a time when we knew each other as we know ourselves. does that matter? it is not that way anymore. does it matter to the other? or is it content with us being divided for what may be forever? existence known through the contrast and interaction of opposites.
    he tries to reach within and thereby to reach without to the other. he tries to reach that common existence that we both must share. can this be done? can this sense of common existence be communicated to one another no matter how far we are from each other otherwise? how do we know?
    how do we know that what existence is for one it is the same as what existence is for the other? does it need to be? would that be boring? ho-hum.

    why is he so stuck on thinking about this? is it something wrong? he's been told that there is something wrong with his thinking. is this it? how can it be wrong even if he is the only one who does it? if he is then that is who he is and what he does. so what?
    he doesn't think he is though. others might not spend as much thought and energy with it but it has to occur to them at some time - yes? unless he is someone unique and different which he cannot believe. what would be the point of that? but maybe there doesn't have to be a point.
    he feels or would like to feel that he reaches something basic in being human that exists in everyone no matter who. but maybe he doesn't. does anyone else reach for it or wonder about it? no one sits in a cafe all day writing about it. they have such busy lives. they're all skating on the surface it seems to him. would many of them find this absurd? would any of them find it interesting? or maybe this is what is wrong with his thinking. he doesn't know.
    it doesn't matter who anyone is. they are the other to him. how different is he from the other? how different is the other from him? does he write to impress them? to influence them? to change them? to inform them? to just communicate with them?
    does he make them laugh?
    yeah - somewhere in all this is something to laugh at. or maybe the whole thing together. his whole life. nothing more than for something for others to laugh at. it would be worth it. to picture whoever they are laughing. are they? are they at least smiling?
    this is funny to him. this is the highest absurdity of what it all comes down to writing the part of writing the part to be played writing the part and on and on in that mirror maze of shattered identities. madness. the sound of laughter or the sound of screaming.
    he was afraid to think about it too much at all because he was afraid it would be the latter. he felt a scream rising in his throat for years and years - for almost as long as he could remember. whatever he does remember. he pictured himself alone in hell screaming. screaming alone in a forever void. just like god.
    but why? what the fuck for? why not laugh? screw all the pain and suffering. that just makes it funnier, doesn't it?
    probably not. the others take everything so very seriously. their grim faces going over these words with high disapproval. nuts to them if that's who they are. if they're not laughing then they're the ones who are worthless, not him. he doesn't care what else they may or may not do - cure diseases, end war, whatever. if they aren't laughing it doesn't mean squat. a dead horse. everything is a dead horse. the flies are laughing.
    and a spoon. a spoon next to the cup of coffee on the kitchen table. he thinks he'll make some pancakes. does anyone else want any?
    cracked.
    cracker.
    donut.

    and he and his words will die and fade away as if not having even been here at all. so why write them? but why not? what else is he supposed to do? cure a disease? end the war? what other use and purpose does he serve if not this however meaningless it might be? someone has to do it. or maybe not. either way here he is doing it.
    he laughs at that. an absurd waste of a life. a bad joke. isn't it funny? can one laugh at that? actually maybe it's not funny at all. but to imagine himself screaming isn't funny either. or maybe it is. does it matter? it doesn't to him. does it to anyone else? why? why not?
    what can be done? here he is in real life. this is what he is compelled to do to the exclusion of all else.  maybe if this is read it will serve as an example of how twisted things have become that someone would live a life such as this.
    maybe not. he doesn't mind. he's doing ok. he's not bothering anybody - much. this is the least offensive thing he can think of to do and of living. there's always suicide. that'd solve a lot of people's problems with this. but he can always do that anytime. there's no hurry. for now he keeps writing. it's what he does no matter how worthless and useless it may be. it passes the time. it's easy and fun. it takes no talent or skill. but it could possibly have some worth and use and even meaning to someone else. maybe only as something for them to do to pass the time. are they as bored as he is? do they find everything else to be as absurd as he does or just too much trouble to bother with? people. other people. what do they do? why are they doing it? he doesn't know. he doesn't care. as long as they leave him alone.
    or is that what he wants? does he want them to pay attention to him? he likes it when some of them do. talk to him. a few do. they invite themselves to his table and sit down and starting talking. he doesn't always have much to say to them that he feels they would be interested in. it comes and goes. he doesn't look for it. he doesn't need it. but he likes it when it happens. in the meantime he writes to someone else.
    helter skelter.
    police.
    what would happen if we met - him and this other who may be reading this? would we have anything to say to one another at all? would it be the same confusion? what would he want from them? what would they want from him? would we realize that what he writes and what they read is not the same? more disagreement? and it's how much we can let our disagreement slide for the sake of something else. but what? trying to find some common ground. and maybe finding none. but isn't that common ground that we have no common ground? sharing the same space and time opposite one another confused but amazed. how can this other possibility exist contrary to one's own? what is the point of it?
    to stare dumfounded at one another - astonished - unbelieving. yet here we are. now what?
    he lights another cigarette.

    and to go on. and to perhaps begin again. an absurd thing. nothing to it. to watch his hand scratch these words across the page.
    to complete a cycle otherwise broken. or is it complete? can it be completed? is it different each time around around? does the other complete it? does he need to other to complete it? does he need more than imagining the other completing it?
    can this be stated to be communication at all? what does he have to communicate to anyone? is it something as simple as his loneliness? and what does his loneliness mean? does his writing of his loneliness creates his loneliness? yet he does not feel to be alone. even without anyone. or his loneliness doesn't matter. it is what it is. nothing changes it. he only can change how he feels about it. he can be surrounded by people and still feel alone. he can be by himself and not feel lonely at all. it happens that way. to look into his loneliness and feel the extent of it and be overcome by it and laugh. wasn't god alone? isn't god still alone? he's run before. he turned and ran. and now he stands his ground and faces it and laughs. like a god. some idiot god.
    to hear his laughter disappear into a nothing void of loneliness. not even an echo returns. dead silence.
    but then there's the other. did it hear his laughter and wonder would could be laughing?
    or was it a scream? he's tired of screaming. he's tired of laughing sometimes too. he mostly sits silent in wonder. blown away. wind in his hair.
    to watch it all come and go for no reason. how amusing. amused.
    with all that goes on in the world. all the pain and suffering. he sits here writing this pure nonsense for nothing more than his own amusement. and the other's.
    but the other is probably not amused. or maybe they are. he doesn't care. either way is ok.
    it is enough to amuse him that the other is not amused, that they might find this useless and absurd. maybe even harmful and destructive. it should not be allowed.
    or maybe of no interest at all.

    and he could write this a different way, in a story or whatever. something publishable. ha! others have offered suggestions but he wants it to stand as it is in this pure form whatever that may be as it comes to him and goes out from him. he merely writes what comes to mind. what is it? where does it come from? where does it go?
    a little like life itself - perfectly useless to anything other than but life itself. or not.

    a life spent with not much more than living to write about oneself living. all these other people with so many other more important things to do. look at them go.
    he lights another cigarette and watches them go.
    how amusing.

    and what an introspective introverted twit he is.
    and he is left with notebooks filled with his words and not much more. what a waste. but maybe not. what would another think? but he could not ask that question unless he was writing. there would be nothing to ask the question about. and he does not depend on anyone for an answer. he answers for them. he imagines what their answer would be.
    he imagines them not thinking it's a waste. but maybe that's only for his own sanity, or what passes as such. maybe it means more to them than it does to him. for him it's only something to do to amuse himself doing nothing otherwise.
    he can't count on anything except his loneliness - and his madness. maybe his writing is his inability to be able to face that. that he needs to imagine someone sharing that loneliness and madness with him. how amusing that thought is. he laughs again. how sad and amusing.
    one thing he can't imagine is not writing - to not having written anything at all. what would become of him then? then he really would go mad.

    does he come back here and now to the everyday? does he look out the window and what does he see? people and cars. bums. drug dealers. cops. anytown usa.
    he finds it hard to trust anyone. what do they want? they always want something. too many traps. too many deceptions. he likes being around people. that's why he comes to the cafe instead of staying home. but they make him nervous. they're always up to something.

    6/20?
    negative violent energy. all this pent up bad vibe stuff. yet on the surface it's all so civilized - easy listening music on the radio - polite conversation. what's so wrong with this? why does it drive him nuts?
    he picks it up. he feels it. he can't hide it. so he gets the blame because he doesn't go along with the show - the charade - that everything is hunky dory fine as can be. it's not, but one is supposed to act like it is. no reaction.
    some people are on fault lines of all the pressure held under the surface and they they get the blame when it actually comes from everywhere and everyone. everyone else holding it down.
    they look at one and say, what's your problem? what's wrong with you?

    break it up. let it go. we've held onto it long enough. held it down. and now it's ready to go in all out world destruction. but maybe that's what needs to happen. maybe that's the birth.
    too many things that don't fit. too many people who don't fit but have to shove themselves in somewhere somehow to survive or get pushed aside, get pushed down.
    we're struggling for survival against nothing but ourselves. does that make sense? but how is it stopped?
    he slides through it the best he can. he keeps low, out of the way. make connections with who and what he can. if he can. if not - oh well. there's always his notebooks to pass the time writing about whatever comes to mind.
    it's someone else. it's somewhere else. elsewhere. now one sees it. now one doesn't.
    it. it comes down to it. it is what it is. it is nothing and everything. it comes and goes.
    whatever makes him happy. does he know if he's happy or not? how does one know? people can fool themselves. is he fooling himself? we do things we have to do without thinking about them making us happy or not. keep oneself busy enough so it doesn't come around to asking oneself if one is happy or not.
    he guesses he is happy. he's got his notebook, coffee and cigarettes. he has a place to live. he has a place where they let him hang out all day doing nothing.
    he is at least amused. is that the same thing as being happy? can one be sadly amused?
    and one sits back as cool as can be writing about basic point blank existence and pretend that does it for oneself. but it cracks. there's a big gaping hole in the center of it.
    do other people feel this? they certainly don't act like it. but there's the sadness in their eyes. even when they're laughing. especially when they're laughing.
    and he does the same. he is the same.
    and where does it break? where is this big gaping hole?
    he's tired of playing guessing games with himself but that's what it turns into. what's going on? what is he doing? what is everybody else doing? what's right? what's wrong? etc?
    dance away into his head. into another dream away from this madness. this madness surrounding him - within him. he can't tell the difference between the two.
    and is he the only one or are all these other people up off into their own heads?
    we all live in our heads - in our dreams. who really cares what the real world is about as long as they have a way out?
    we're forced to be here. born into it. trapped in the world by our physical bodies that constantly hunger. yet is that all we are? are we more than that?
    the karmic wheel of desire. what do we desire? what more than what our physical bodies hunger for? the pain.
    we get away - up off into our heads. we imagine another world. we create another world. we don't want to be here.
    and the world that is has been created by us not wanting to be here - not wanting to have anything to do with it. just a place to dump out the garbage we don't want in our heads so we can have happy dreams of elsewhere.

    it.
    he begins it again. it is it. it comes down to it. there is nothing else but it. it is what it is and also what it is not. the basic component of existence and nonexistence. but what is the connection between it and what he sees outside the window?
    the connection is that the divisions break down. he no longer sees the world divided but as a solid breathing whole. but in seeing that his connection to those who perceive and operate the world as divided is broken. what does he say to them that means anything?
    that's a nice pair of shoes you have on there?
    he says nothing. he keeps as cool as he can.

    and the feeling somewhere sometime that it's different than this. we are not really here at all. this is not happening except as in some twisted nightmare we're all caught in. what else could it be?
    it's a joke. an idiot joke making fools of us all. as we believe in the magick show reality of it all. don't question. questions lead nowhere but madness. madness is the only answer one can comprehend.

    and it was somewhere else. it was another time. it was someone else. who is he this time? who can he be? we divide it down to something we can handle and deal with. does he want to do that - or swim in the tides as any which way they go?
    he can't get in and he can't get out. he's caught between the two or three of everything. not the one or the other or the other thing either.
    himself shatters everywhere at once. is this anything at all? should he let it go or try to find and gather what pieces of it he can?
    a shadow of space and time and endless nonsense from there.
    he hides away he cannot look at it too much anymore. he slips away up into his head. this is all he can count on. everything else fades away, except the pain - the hungry pain.

    and the only way to get away is to dive as deep into himself as he can. bring himself to another here and now spacetime thing in his mind as far away as he can get.
    divide it down to one. bring it back to its source. begin again. one and only one. existing in and of itself alone without any other to worry about. no need for there to be any other. always trouble. what for if the one is complete in itself? that's all there is. forget everything else. it's all no more than a bad dream. desiring what can never be. what else can be but the one?
    yet he remains only human. he remains with all the things he is not. he remains divided and shattered. he remains washed up on a beach somewhere else.
    he wakes up. he stands up. anything he wants he can have. it's all in his head anyway.
    is this where he wants to be? is this all he wants it to all end up being? lay down and dream himself away?
    if he goes far enough it will be all that is. forget that there was ever anything else.
    sort of like god.
    but he has not done that. he comes back to the world. maybe there's more here than meets the eye. or maybe not.
    he circles around again. begin it again. what is it? what is he missing?
    to go through the cycles of it again. chasing dreams and running away from nightmares. what is the balance between the two? realize the dreams are not as great nor the nightmares so terrible as they seem at first? when the dreams create the nightmares and the nightmares create the dreams.
    how crazy is that?
    and so how does he really know which is which or which direction he should go in or away from?
    face them down and get them both to revel their true nature. what do they both mask? why does he desire his dreams and fear his nightmares? and what is reveled by playing tricks on himself?
    and he is left alone. he is himself and that is all he is. but there is so much that he is not. there is the other who is not him. what is it? should he even bother with it? in the world of the other he may not even exist or need for him to exist. what is he but what the other is not?
    and what does any of this have to do with anything resembling everyday life? everyday desires and fears. the world of billions of others.

    clown #2.

    and another beginning. let's see where we get to this time. circling around it again. whatever it is. he cannot imagine.
    flying. and this is nothing. it is all sacrificed. down limitless.
    a glass of water. a dream within a dream. we don't understand. and we forget.

    can't fight it.
    didn't come here to fight nothing.

    space age.
    laughter.
    who laughs in the space age?
    who can dream in the space age?
    what is the space age?
    who were we? who did we become?
    the machine. the thinking machine.
    and outside of this. and inside of this. we are who we are.
    it goes on and on. escape again. follow the distant path.

    and what he wants to know now is anything at all. who is it now? control.
    we are the dreamers. we dream of everything we can imagine dreaming.

    and so where does it go from here? who are we now? and he comes away with nothing which is maybe as it should be. it takes a lot to explain. the individual alone against a world of individuals. individuals struggling against one another conforming to a group in order to survive.
    and he is writing nothing. the individual is dead. the individual is death. we each die alone. between birth and death.
    it comes to death. we stare transfixed by the image of our death. we turn away. we survive. we live our lives any way we can. it comes and goes.
    abstract. meaning. a god who is worshipped. a great god to whom we are nothing. a great mighty god who forgives us our being born.

    begin again.
    here it is. here we are as we begin each moment now. we look at each other. what do we see? someone passing through our lives. a glance and nothing more. who are we? is there a we for us to be? where is our common ground? this tortured earth with all of us chained to it? is this the only way it can be?

    it is it.
    this is it.
    that is it.
    it is this.
    it is that.
    it is whatever it is. what more is there?
    it becomes what it is not.

    a shape.
    a shape of light and shadow. and this is what we have become. we are alone or not alone as whatever the case may be. who do we think we are?
    all these people looking for something - someone. what/who do they see?
    he hides. he doesn't know them. he cannot imagine who they are. he cannot imagine who he is himself.

    and something else. and something more than whatever is. he gets so tired of it.

    and it begins here. we see it now. we see nothing. he sees nothing. he is divided from it. logical conclusion. place and time. we have forgotten.
    and from zero to zero. what else is there? we have forgotten what it is and what it is not. he's lost his reflection. he cannot see what face he wears - what mask.
    it is nothing. a shape of nothing. and something now. and something else.
    dreaming.

    toward home. a home. no place like home. where do we go now? how do we find the space of ourselves? our being?
    where is the common ground? how long does this go on?
    too many people around him.
    a dream. a strange dream.
    where is the common ground?

    it cracks down.
    a memory.
    the armies that still gather and cheer for war. still the pride that comes from death and destruction. where killing another is the price of honor. how much longer?
    he has a memory of something. he has a memory of a common ground where we are. he cannot remember when.
    is the only common ground the battleground?
    is our only love for one another war?
    he has a memory that defies this reality. he challenges the whole world with this memory.
    a memory of us undivided. a memory of us in a place - a common ground. and we are all there together. we do not wear the masks we are hidden behind.
    dream this again.
    and this is easy. it is easy to claim a memory of something better than this world and what it does to us and to not remember where or when this memory comes from. it's easy to imagine a perfect world.
    eliminate this person - that person. perfection through the process of elimination. easy.

    it cracks down.
    he claims nothing. he has nothing. they can go on with their lives just the way they are and what they are doing. what could be more perfect than that? does anyone know?
    what perfection do we strive for? who is eliminated to create our perfect world? who is them? must it always be this way?
    it's easy to imagine. it's easy to dream a memory. what is it more than that?
    quick - think of something. time is running out.
    it cracks down.

    turn it away from itself.
    he has is he gone going mad. he laughs at that sometimes as people's faces seem stranger than life as he knows it.
    flexible masks.
    he is amused by this. should he be? what's wrong?
    should he be amused by any of it? all of it? which? what?
    dividing. we divide.

    and so long ago - or maybe not so long ago - or maybe sometime from now - whenever - there's this...

    6/21
    naked.

    and there's no story but he imagines himself and many others living in prison camps. does he escape this? how? and what of those who don't? what of those who don't now?
    either way it happens and is happening now and will happen. we have what we have now because there are people in prison camps. because people are dying in wars. because people are starving. and we should want more for ourselves? we just live our lives as if none of that were happening?
    but he does just that. he survives. he is able to survive. he survives at a minimal level. that's the best he can do for anyone else. try to survive on less than his share so that it might come out someway that one less person is imprisoned, killed or starves. it probably doesn't work out that way at all though. it probably just gives that much more to the greedy.
    what about the greedy? what about them? how do we shake ourselves free of these parasites? who are these parasites? aren't they all of us? the more we have the more we want or feel that we need.

    divided diamond.
    he is twisted inside out and outside in. he doesn't know what to think, say or do anymore. not that he ever did, but now he really doesn't know.
    he doesn't know what everyone else is on about. what do they want? what do they need? he wants and needs more than this but whatever he sees is not it. he doesn't know.

    he's scared and he doesn't know quite why. he feels like he's completely losing everything. he feels like there's nothing left. he has nothing to offer anyone that they want or can't get from someone else or provide for themselves.
    there's people ready to shoot one down as soon as they get one look at who one really is. who is anyone? how does one ever know?
    he feels so apart - divided out. alone in a world of confusion. does anyone know?
    and he echoes these words over and over and nothing comes from it. he cannot touch. he cannot feel what he feels. he's scared and he doesn't know why.
    a world of isolation. no one knows unless they've been here. they follow the rules of the game and are admitted inside the appropriate group. try saying no too many times...

    isn't this what he wanted?
    isn't this what he lived for?
    does he really care?

    away from it.
    he doesn't want to feel this dead end pain anymore. he's being torn inside out. but it seems to be what life is about. one doesn't get what one wants. one is lucky if one comes away with what one needs.
    and it gets all twisted up with other things. who knows what's what and what isn't what? mommy. daddy. turned over ground. graveyard garden. how many more must have come this way?
    and how much more does he keep writing without having the words to explain? he is drowning in silence no language can describe. he hasn't any idea where he is or who he is. just silence.
    he doesn't know.
    he feels so twisted around and around. it's impossible to put anything into the straight lines of logic they demand before they'll even attempt to try to understand what the fuck one is trying to say.
    but he can't believe that he is so unusual that what he is going through is so alien to them. don't they feel this? how could they not?
    or do they avoid and gloss over it with their busy lives? never look down to see there's nothing under their feet.
    he can't just be writing about nothing. or can he be? he doesn't believe that what he feels isn't common experience. common pain. and he doesn't know exactly what it is but he knows all the things that not only don't get rid of it but aggravate it. all the things they're so keen on. all the things they hold their world together with.

    and all the time between time. and he doesn't know what he's going on about here. just begin again.
    hello?
    the city is burning. what? everybody's eating themselves alive. and he doesn't know what he's going on about here. he just goes on and on as his life goes on and on though how that all happens he doesn't have a clue.
    he's filled these goddamn notebooks with shit. angst dada. what a joke. what a laugh.
    and he waits for them to figure it out. they've got the money. they've got the power. they've got everything. but they haven't a clue.
    some chemical in his brain he's got too much or not enough of. or something. it all makes perfect sense.
    and it's this person or that. and it's this group or that. he's just trying to hold something of a life together and it's like digging a hole in water. but it's the thing to do. this is what they tell him to do.
    his emotions and thoughts are flying all over the place. he can't think of a song to sing. it comes close then falls apart into a thousand pieces.
    everything coming outta his head is nonsense.
    it's a long long time. another night here cruising toward dawn. not a wink. his brain's trying to hit some smooth ground. it's coming close. or maybe not.
    he just wants to feel like he's home. he wants to feel that things make sense. he's tired of computing endless dada data. he's tired of fighting everything and everything fighting him. over nothing. he's just tired period. he wants to poof outta here - out of existence. he just wants to stop feeling like he does. he tries to fit keys into locks and nothing fits or it doesn't open the right door. another booby trap.
    begin again.
             again.
             again.

    and others seem to slide on through. they live their lives like nothing's happening at all. nothing to be excited about or concerned with. nothing unusual. they deal with the day to day everyday. he doesn't know if that's ok or not. he just knows that he doesn't seem to be able to get into it.
    he doesn't know what he does for anyone. sometimes provide momentary entertainment if they're in the mood for it. if not, he's out the door.

    everybody pushing themselves faster and faster. life in the fast lane to nowhere and everyone wants to get there first.
    pull it over. find a nice shady spot and cool out. watch all the other fools hurry about all over doing this and that. superhuman autobots hooked on stimulation anyway they can get it.
    he doesn't see it. he never did see it. yeah, there's a certain amount one has to do to get the basic necessities - food, clothing, shelter. but that's nothing doing that. so what's all the other noise about?
    we were born to relax. we're the crown of creation and we're working ourselves to death for nothing more than making ourselves miserable doing it.

    and who's gonna stop it now with people making money right and left hand over fist faster than they can print the shit at the same time as the whole trip is going belly up?
    no one.
    nothing to sneeze at. and meanwhile where is he at here anyway? going crazier than nothing and then some because he's the sanest person on the whole goddamn planet and he doesn't have to prove it to nobody but himself and he doesn't require any proof at all - so there! program that into their computers and watch them smoke.
    zap!
    somebody pull the plug on that thing before it gets us all into trouble. that's right - we're not screwing things up bad enough that we need some gizmo that thinks faster than we do but doesn't have sense enough to come in out of the rain unless someone tells it to.

    6/25
    let's begin again. careful now. eating our lunch in 4 parts. no, 3 parts. maybe.
    keep our lamps trimmed and burning.
    trash. no nonsense now as we vibrate along somewhat similar lines clear as mud. what? ok -
    dreaming. being more positive. pick it up. laughter. no nonsense now.
    how does he explain how funny it seems now to be that he needs it to be funny? who put the joke in? did he? did anyone?
    hello?
    sorry about those left out but they'll get it in time - maybe by this time.
    can you give me a good example of what you're ranting on about? asked the queen of our schemes.
    donut, replied mr. hamencheese. i am donut. i sacrifice myself for the purpose of maintaining the extreme circumstances. i deliver the emergency. i am not your average spare change.
    the wicked thing laughs.
    the rain starts here misunderstood as wet. a dog barks. here we are. those are the conditions. the rest are someone else's.
    stay apart from it. stay away. it's life or death - or maybe even birth.
    take the garbage out and what does one have? someone else's treasure? it seems like a long time. drink the wine. it's ok. no one's looking. no one's even there. steady. a rock of ages. a river of the moment.
    the assaultive kiss. the dreaming eye. and one nature of this big plan is that it is never ever quite discussed openly. keep one's mind doth opulent.
    the chief aim here being world conquest. but that's a joke - right? are we laughing? are we aware of our laughter?

    part six:
    it's clean. the usual amount of organisms. the usual amount of data. involved. henceforth we perceive no more or no less than what might be disclosed information about garden worms.
    we are naturally amused. we are diconnected from possibility.
    now let us try to understand something about the development of this disease.
    first of all, what disease are we attempting to understand? perhaps the system of our birth. perhaps the apprehension of our returning death.
    calling all cards. trendy diplomacy. exciting. the robots come out in style. let us prey. let us give to each other our true worth.
    and we speak of the difficulty of designing something responsibly constructive when words fail our minds. we quickly stutter out some unrefined comprehensible logical sounding speech on about the spitting image of our imagined paradise.
    a parade.
    and now we can maybe begin to discuss not just the disease but our relationship - perhaps casual? - to it and ourselves.
    this should be obvious by now despite whether or not we know of that which we speak here written thereof. we cannot and are having some amount of difficulty transcribing the formal protest of it all.
    across our minds in a day plus whatever comes with it. visions of cheap imitation rainbows. various disposable items. blind trust.
    he cannot begin here. he cannot amuse himself this way for long. turn away. goats. filthy. what a word is that - filthy. smut. disease.
    and here we are back again. see how easy that was?
    and he might add here that if anyone is having some trouble following this, please imagine his concern leading the way into this way of his ignorant bliss. what shall we discover together? for this is just as new to him as it is news to anyone else. formulate a disguise.
    disguise plus disease and we have what is left of our confusion. and what exactly are we confused about anyway? why nothing at all actually. of course. this is the modern times age. we're not stupid. what we don't understand we put off until tomorrow. what a plan.

    and this is all to whomever it may ever concern. others may reserve the right to ignore whatever they may or may not perceive as this nonsense for what it is.
    what for?
    how?
    let's state that there may have been a change of plans. let's also state that this so-called change of plans actually did occur. what were the plans to begin with? a disease? a disguise?
    and this is the actualized and fully attended. attuned toward a grape.
    a grape?
    what else will we throw into this endless sink of dirty dishes? what form is the disease disguising itself as now?
    as we describe ourselves. as we disguise our disease. we are disease. an awfully uncomfortable itching burning sensational headline.

    part 18:
    not that there is division. but we got into that elsewhere. a song ago.
    useless hearts.
    a theory now.
    the theory is that such that the disease is part of the disguise that is part of the theory.
    the theory is disguised unto itself. itself is disguised upon the theory.
    the theory is the disease.
    now if this will help explain let us state that it's a simple fact that grass that is black is green is blue for however it is.
    discover.

    part 13:
    to begin again.
    we were labeled dreamers so dreamers we became. o' glorious dreaming. and our disease was caused by our clear confusion that others saw not where we were. maybe perhaps we were hiding in disguise on top of all else. yes - we were.
    idiocy.
    thick as a brick, as it is said.
    the wiseman's fool who misunderstands the directions given and taken. lost to be found in the romantic bliss of ignorance.
    the project was performing finely disgruntled hope.

    and back to the rules. the hoax of authority pulled over the heads of the ambivalent. refrigerator.
    oh! show us one's wonders. dazzle us with the new and improved. the techno-development that cannot keep up with itself chased by dogs of obsolescence.
    ha!
    save oneself from those who know nothing. those one keeps at arm's length. one's knowledge breeds ignorance in its wake. if one stops - if one even pauses - the waves of the masses will overtake one, tear one apart for all one has promised that they cannot have yet dangled in front of their reach.

    doing nothing and almost loving every minute of it.

    and now about the project.
    we receive the call. yet we are not ready to leave. why not? fear. we fear. but the call keeps coming in. we have time. it's never too late - or too soon.
    psalm.
    what is formulated from this?
    always some sort of formulation.
    stabilize.
    a place. a home. a home removed.

    and a story something about what comes not. what who?
    let's pretend that first there's this rabbit. a multi-brown regular old rabbit. as old as rabbits are.
    let's forget the wasteland about us with so few places to hide away from it anymore. and let's think about world peace somehow appearing out of a rainbow. we can hear laughter now. what comes out of laughter? what does laughter come out of?
    laughter. delusional psychotic laughter. or does it just seem that way because we do not believe in such things. what who?
    actual size.
    now about that rabbit. where'd that sucker go to?

    circles flying up into the sky to disappear into the blue blue.
    and to think of something again that comes in and out. he knows something of all this that no one else does. it's a trick. but maybe someone else knows something after all.
    he was writing a story before about a rabbit. actually it wasn't about a rabbit but a rabbit was in the story he was writing.
    the story was about world peace appearing out from a rainbow. how absurd.
    but how else is it supposed to happen?
    but he heard laughter as he lit another cigarette.
    and we write this for everybody's birthday. but for more than that. for everyone for how beautiful they are. for as beautiful as we see them. as they don't believe that we see them. do they see themselves as beautiful as we see them?
    and the words and words and words go 'round.
    one and the other. apart and together. and now let's get back to that pesky rabbit.
    the continuing story. a story that continues. a rabbit.
    when we last saw the rabbit it was under the kitchen table where he's sitting writing this. he looks down. it's not there anymore.
    and actually he's not writing this at a kitchen table. there is no kitchen table, just like there is no world peace.
    actually he's at the cafe sitting at table #15. 1+5=6. 6 is the number of creativity or home.
    he finds the rabbit gnawing at the sofa leg. he picks it up and puts it in his lap.
    we seek the other half to ourselves. or maybe not. is this the project in mind? anything makes sense to us now.
    a rabbit in his lap makes sense to us. an imaginary kitchen table. another cigarette.
    making sense out of another cigarette.
    idiot mind going any way and how it wants to. making it all up as it goes along.
    it's own rules.
    rules? what rules?
    a rabbit. now a rabbit. now a not-rabbit.
    words. a confusion of words articulating confusion. the language and mind are one. anything makes sense to us.
    and what is anything but confusion? making sense of confusion is easy. it's our relationship to confusion and how we feel about it that makes sense or not. the fact of confusion remains.
    and not only does anything makes sense to us but it amuses the hell out of us as well given the time to sink into it.
    with world peace just around the corner. visualize world rioting.
    time. it's all a matter of time. space and time. room to move.
    and maybe when the irresistible force hitting the immovable object is when the whole shit house exploding into what we have here and now today.
    or maybe not.
    amused.
    a fine pair of ducks.
    and it takes all this to explain nothing.
    count backwards from 100 by 7...

    he writes about himself writing about himself writing like the escher drawing of a hand drawing a hand drawing a hand.
    the maze of mirrors.
    amusement.
    anything making sense. and there's a big difference between something making sense and anything making sense. for something to make sense it's a lot harder than anything to make sense.
    trapped in a maze of mirrors with each image reaching for the other and trying to get it to do what itself does.
    and on and on like that.

    shoestring.
    nothing can touch us now. almost. diamond eyes gazing nowhere. and anything can mean anything but something must mean something.

    bring it up. sing along. look at the people in the street. they know something else is happening they're not aware of yet.
    and the first time. he doesn't know. what happens now? we all predict our lives against one another. drown in it. absorb oneself face to face in the dance of creation. see it alone for all what it is. the possibilities explored. the moment now being everything at once changing forever into everything else. no more - no less.
    and sometimes we're here with all the words spoken and written. and sometimes we're not. either way. nothing without the pain. spoon.
    let's begin it again some more. begin with a spoon. there's a spoon on the table now. one out of how many? more spoons than people? who knows? how many spoons in the world today? is that an important question to ask? why? why not?
    and it takes all day - even when we sleep - those of us who do. those of us who don't watch it begin again.
    getting better.
    the simplest of concepts. most of us are greatly confused. the rest just don't admit it. amused. we come and go. do we need to know anything at all? what do we know about a spoon, for example?
    a disease of spoons in disguise.
    and war. let's not forget about the war.
    hot dogs for christ.
    yum.

    6/30
    and what is desired and what is not? ego. who?
    and now...

    the world is broke and we don't know how to fix it. how did it get broke anyway? who done it?
    it doesn't make sense no matter how we mix it.
    or maybe that's what's wrong to begin with - we mixed it up and don't know how it goes back. how it reconnects.
    it's funny about that.
    and there's not much to do but to work with what's left.
    and so with things being what they are, what do we have left? what is there to work with or not?
    an experiment.
    with fewer and fewer things to write about. to enter the dance. the dance of spoons.
    surrendering.

    the project -
    to begin. to have begun. to begin into something that is continuing. something that continues. the project.
    something everyone can be and is involved with no matter what they are doing. to think about what one is doing being involved in what everyone else is doing directly or indirectly as part of the project.
    here it is now. it is happening as it happens. familiar and strange. we are into it as it is into us.
    and as something else. and as what the project is or isn't.
    and the project is not our own. we did not begin it. the project comes from others of our kind elsewhere in space and time. we merely begin our involvement with it. or perhaps more accurately, the recognition of our involvement with it.
    and this involvement does not require involvement as in the sense of any predetermined course of action to follow. everyone's involvement with it is different.
    but that doesn't matter because one is involved whether one knows and recognizes it or not.
    nevermind.

    and whatever it is or not.
    now there are those who remain unaware of their involvement.
    nevermind that.
    he has made up the project. he made up the idea of the project. it is nothing more than his imagination of it but it is beyond that by now both backward and forward.
    forget about that.

    imagination.

    no one knows what to do. we do not know what to do. we go through our everyday lives. what is anything beyond that?

    it exists in the research lab.
    it exists in the kitchen.
    it exists in our actions.
    it exists transcending our actions.
    it does not exist.

    he sits at the kitchen table with a rabbit huddled in his lap.
    the sandled foot. a walk through a ancient forest - what's left of it. owl.
    putting pants on one leg at a time.
    and the imaginary city too.
    and of course the machine.

    and a spoon again.

    as what is realized or not realized. it becomes a process of industry.
    1994
    23
    5
    wake up.
    and he could describe what a flower looks like but it would not be a flower. a flower is not the description. a static dissection of moments. so what of the project?

    and he again wonders about the state of his sanity. divided. yet this is a feeling of being divided that is external. inside he feels quite whole.
    he lights a cigarette.
    next to the spoon is a knife and fork. they are placed on a paper napkin. the napkin is stained brown from coffee remaining on the spoon after stirring cream into his coffee.
    and his notebook.
    and the top of his pen.
    and his cigarettes.
    and other stuff.
    he passes the day here measured in hours each day.
    he watches people come in. he watches them as they leave. he remains.

    a dwelling. the pleasure and romance.
    we were always elsewhere. we were dying. gone.
    death is being some place else. some place else when we can no longer be where we are. time's up. whether or not. we can't let go. we can't hold on.
    the place and the time of the here and now some place else. memory. mortal. and life involves death. and death involves life. to divide the two is absurd. to divide anything in two is absurd. a disease of the human mind.
    disease.
    here we are back at disease again. what did we decide before? a disease in disguise?
    here we are.
    the 20th century coming to its end. death. a lot of hoopla about that. everybody talking about the end of the world (as we know it). jesus is coming. spaceships landing. economic collapse. computers breaking down. wars and rumors of wars. all that sort of stuff.
    and rebirth.
    somehow out of all this madness comes some sort of rebirth. that's his own theory.

    to be alone with the night while all the others are sleeping except for those who are alone with the night too. awake. alive. to know secrets that can only be reveled here alone. secrets he already knows he knows.
    it's him and the monster. the monster who is lonely too. the monster who hides away because it's been told how frightening it is.
    he's never seen the monster so he wouldn't know. the most frightening thing about the monster would seem to be knowing it's there but not seeing it - in a closet - a dark hallway - under the bed - outside the window.
    it's what we imagine the monster to be that's so frightening.
    he's always talked to the monster wherever it may be. he asks it to come to him so he won't be afraid anymore.
    it won't come out. maybe it's afraid too.
    and now it's dawn.
    we turn toward the sun again. the monster recedes back into its place in memory. harmlessly stored for another time. he protects it. the monster is a child. the monster with tears in its eyes. alone. frightened. friendless. despised and chased away.
    as he is drawn unwillingly into another day. another day to endure with all the fucking people running about making noise. the business of the human race. always doing something. can't stop. can't leave well enough alone. he cannot keep step with their frenzied dance. he falls out of time. he stumbles and trips and falls. he tries to stay out of their way.
    another fucking day.
    they push push. nothing is ever good enough. it can always be better. take it apart and put it together again. throw it out and get another one.
    building towers toward the sky and roads toward the horizon. how high is up? how far is out? no one knows but they keep going there anyway. away from here. here is no place to be. they do not have the patience for now.
    he's been there with them before. before he went crazy. or before he stopped being crazy.
    he tried to do it. he tried to keep up. he tried to dance with them but he couldn't figure out which way they were going when.

    now he's become amused by it. he sits back and watches it all. he's always watched it all. he tries to see the connections, the purpose of what they think, say and do. what is it?
    it all seems mixed up and backwards. but none of them seem to see it that way, so it must be him.

    and this could be about the machine. and this is about all of us. he has nothing to teach anyone. no one has anything to learn. it is what it is. machine or no machine. we experience what happens together and apart. it never seems the same.
    if it were the same what would be the purpose of there being one and the other? why would we need one another?
    we're drawn to it. we are drawn to the place of the moment. we come to it with our expectations and we leave it with our disappointments. all that wasn't said. all that wasn't done. we agree to try it again another time. we practice.

    and the machine always turning parts of itself in various ways and relationships to one another. repeating in cycles yet never coming back the same way twice. space and time never repeating in changing changelessness.
    we are alive. but we could be dead. it comes and goes. the place and the moment never the same.

    and listening. and becoming one. he is one. yet he does not feel complete. he searches for missing pieces.
    yet does he want to feel complete. isn't that death? static. to feel to be one without quite being whole. to feel whole with the whole. all that is surrounding.
    yet he feels the whole is whole to itself. what does it need from him? what part of the whole is missing that he can fill to make it complete?
    but once it is complete, what then? what is its purpose? how does it continue to exist?
    to feel one with the whole without fitting in as part of the whole. as long as he does not fit in the whole is incomplete. symbiosis.
    or something like that.

    he dreams. and in his dream he chooses what is real or not real. how does he choose and why? what makes him choose one thing over the other? what makes god choose one thing over the other? does god choose?
    he believes in the dream he weaves about himself. he protects himself with this dream. he cannot face what is real - the common reality.

    and he wonders who he is. he wonder who anyone is. he may know them or not. who knows who?
    and this god they talk about supposedly knows. big deal. it doesn't do him all that much good knowing that even if it were true. unless he is this god. yet how can he be? he knows nothing.
    so he waits. he still waits. he waits still. he lets it go by watching for clues. what clues about what? are there clues? is there anything for there to be clues about?
    there seems to be because every once in awhile he picks up one or two or however many. or at least that is what they seem to be. maybe not.

    he tries to balance himself between everything. we are told there are lines crossed between this and that and the other thing. who tells us this but ourselves? who else is there but ourselves? the gods who supposedly populate the nether worlds beyond our perception?
    we search for clues.
    we try to fit ourselves complete into a whole. and we break apart from ourselves. we can think of no more. we cannot take another step toward it as we are already where we suppose ourselves not to be.
    it's here and now forevermore. we are dreaming. we write songs of love every day while we hate ourselves.
    no time yet to come.
    no time left for tomorrow. tomorrow is today when it comes.
    it's all such a pretty thing to think about.

    and he imagines himself here writing this to someone - anyone. as he imagines someone/anyone reading it and having no idea whoever they may be - whoever they could be.
    life on mars. campfires under the moons. we talk to one another as we pass the pipe.

    and not much makes any difference. we never knew what hit us. the wisest among us are fools. the leaders are followers of fashion. come one and come all. we will dance on these graves someday beneath the shattered moon.

    and what i want, shouted the biggest fool of them all, is to bring down heaven and raise up hell and put them both to work.
    no one heard him. he shouted this to the walls of his room alone. he was mostly always alone. he almost didn't mind anymore. after all these years and years. he didn't understand. maybe this was what he wanted after all. who needed anyone anyway? born alone. dying alone. what matter does it make what happens in-between? he didn't ask to come here. he didn't know why he was here. what did these people expect him to do? he tried but it always seemed he was wrong.
    they told him he could do anything he wanted - anything that made him happy. they just wanted to see him happy, they said.
    he was happy as far as he could tell. the only thing that might be keeping him from being happy was to see how miserable all of them were.
    he didn't understand this at all. maybe he was mistaken about how this was. maybe he was the biggest fool of them all after all when everything is said and done.

    he laughed sometimes. it seemed that when he was the loneliest and everything looked the darkest that he would start laughing - laughing at nothing at all.
    he could have been rich. he could have been famous. he could have been popular. he supposed this was true. now he'll never know.
    he could have been all those things and more. he had more than enough opportunities. he had let them all go by. none of that was what he wanted. he didn't know why. it seemed anyone else was willing to surrender any part or all of themselves in order to get close.
    he didn't know what he wanted. he wanted to understand. but understand what?

    and we who always reside outside this cult of leaders and followers. we laugh to ourselves. we watch them play their mindless games with one another. that is the only way they recognize another, by the games they play.
    we who always reside outside. outside of them. outside ourselves. we are the ones who perceive the web they weave and keep on thinking free.
    to them freedom is just another product coming from an assembly line. the clock strikes the hour. one is free now but be sure one is back here tomorrow. on time.
    out of time. out of their time.
    we exist among them but not with them. we who always reside outside.
    we are them. we are those who are not them as they think of themselves as us. it is they who call us them. so, we are them. yes?
    now the time is come for them to go. they've done their part and now they and their kind are embarrassingly obsolete. primal grunt. possessive power control authoritarian behavior.
    this was needed once to build what has brought us to this place and time. we are here now. we are born into the moment of immortality while death still breathes within us.
    we are beyond contradiction. we know who we are and who we are becoming.
    new.
    nothing ever seen before from the ashes of the old world burning itself out.
    we fly all the flags. we wave them high. we dance on our graves of the bodies we have gone through to carry us here. so much pain and sorrow. but we all had our hands equally in that.
    and now what is left to forget. forgive and forget. there is so much else to remember.

    he comes around and goes around again. he circles through their world which is his world too - somehow. he doesn't know exactly what sets them apart or what ties them together.
    we set ourselves apart. we look into each other's eyes as though we do not know who any of us really are.
    he looks into another's eyes and tries to see who one really is. he forgets which one of us turned away first. he thinks he laughed. he thought it was all funny. some sort of idiot joke. then he saw how the other took it all so seriously. no more crazy diamond. no more moon in one's eyes.

    and it's all some place out of time in and out of time. or some rot as that.
    just some crazy dream.
    and meanwhile back on earth nothing has changed. the human race locked in love/hate combat day to day. everybody trying to strike it rich somehow.
    or is that all just him? is he not seeing it right or something?
    he doesn't know.

    and so now he's got this mess all turned around inside out. a state of confusion few can tolerate for long. yet what creates the confusion but our need for order? our demand.
    we shout out the names of gods to come to our aid. none seem to listen. maybe there are none to listen. even less than deaf ears.
    and he knows this may not be true. sometimes he sees it, sometimes he doesn't.

    7/2
    something human and common. no heavy deep dada about anything at all. what is understood here? what do we say to one another? noise on the radio. unreal. images on tv. newspapers and magazines and books full of words that don't mean anything.
    what more? what less?

    so he doesn't know where he is. he doesn't know where he could be. pick and place - any place.
    he wants to be home. he lives among strangers here. he doesn't know them and they don't know him.
    there's no home for him here. it's some place very far away. here and now.
    he cannot look into their faces. there's something wrong. he doesn't know if it's them or him or both.

    something or the other. what we divide ourselves from. the change in the weather. to look into a familiar face and see a stranger. to feel so very far away. to feel that emptiness echo inside.
    writing around and around in circles. he's lost himself. in fact, he never showed up to begin with. he doesn't have a clue. he didn't know he was supposed to have a clue.
    others put on their given identity no problem.
    so what identity was/is there for him to put on? who does he please? who does he try to make happy? himself? but what if he already is happy with whatever identity or not? he doesn't need to impress himself with who or what he is. he knows all he is is nothing. big deal.
    he refused. he took a long look at who and what he was being groomed to be and turned away. or did he?
    everything he did was so predictable. predictable rebellion. nothing new here.
    so whose identity did he take on? this mythological idea of individual identity? what more is that than anything else? it's all the same game we play with ourselves.

    7/4
    acid.
    just a drug.
    a kick in the pants.
    and somewhere else. he remembers. he wants to remember. he wants to feel. even the pain is better than feeling nothing at all.
    they don't feel anything - or they don't show it. they just go on and on through their lives doing whatever they do to keep functioning. functioning above all else. above feeling anything. no time for anything else.
    he looks at them and wonders how they do it. he never could. not very well. he's found his place apart from them. does he want any more than that? he watches them do what they do.
    he is dreaming. no one wants to know. removed. he observes. nothing more. open wounds. it's just some 3-d movie or something. holodeck. all projected on the walls of his cell he can never leave alive.
    crippled. limping. bleeding. the curse.
    or is it being human itself?
    sacrifice. love. forgiving.
    he has yet to read or hear of a philosophy that wasn't based on screwing somebody over.
    what a joke.
    dog eat dog structure of our lives.
    the human race killing itself to live.
    dead end.
    he gets screwed.
    he feels the pain.
    acid tells him the punch line.
    he laughs.
    no one and nothing touches him then.
    nor now.
    nor ever.
    forever.
    eternal bliss consciousness.
    dada.
    dada-ananda.
    he walks the streets of babylon. he sees the hell they create for themselves and each other.
    he laughs.
    he walks alone.
    born human for all that human is. but he remembers something else. he looks for something else. but don't we all? to call the name of god to oneself and to be filled with pure existence eternal in every moment. to feel the mortal pass away, blown away as dust in the wind he becomes. i am that i am.
    to be filled with light. to be the light one is filled with. living light shining out into the shadow world around oneself.
    he sees them wonder. he sees them turn away. who is he to them? a question asked a thousand times. he is the one who sees them all and what they do. they cannot hide from his vision which is not his but comes to him from another source he cannot claim credit for. it comes and goes.
    it has given him acid. it has given us acid. for us to remember who we really are. the spirits in the night, in the material world. dancing on our own graves.
    and is this anything new? is this anything unknown? yet where is it in our everyday lives? we fight with one another trying to come out on top, to have the last word which becomes the word of god.
    and him too. if anything he is the worst of all. he is only human. human is all there is to be. anything else is mere imagination. delusion.
    he imagines everything else. he imagines all possibility. he imagines a perfect world. it is a world not there far away in space or time, but a world here and now. if we want it to be.
    and why don't we?
    anything can be if we want it to be. it already is. but we convince ourselves it's all out of our control. how absurd. if we could open our eyes and see it.
    what does it take?

    if we could reach out our hands and touch it. he stretches out and out. stretch. almost - almost there. almost here. just a little more...
    another cigarette.

    it takes another cigarette. another cup of coffee. another page to write words out on.
    about it all.
    he doesn't know what any of it is about. he tried and didn't seem to get it. maybe there's nothing to get. he cannot explain. he can only feel it. the pain of being incomplete. wanting what cannot be had. to have to let go. he just goes on through it the best he can. try not to hurt anybody or be hurt by them. that's all that can be done. live as if living in the best of all possible worlds.
    to want to be one with the other. that is the nature of creation that divided us apart. it being both this and that and this and that wanting to be it again. but it's always out of reach.
    but it comes together somewhere at some time. in the eternal here and now moment of space and time. one and only one.
    but what is so great about that? if it was so great why didn't it stay that way to begin with instead of creating all this out of itself divided in pain and suffering? ah - the cosmic question echoed through the ages.
    that is what it is. something we as being human can barely imagine. maybe it is. maybe it isn't. can we ever know for sure?
    and life. what is life but the misery and pain of isolation from one another? we keep living and hope for more. a better day than today for ourselves. and we can fuck ourselves silly and not get it. that's as close as we come.
    all our schemes for tomorrow have fallen through. now we have to face the ruin of the world around us we have made of it. what have we done in all the time we have been given? we live in paradise and we trash it with our ego inflated conceit that we can and should make it better than it is.
    we are born to dance and are chained to rules and regulations and codes to make what doesn't work for anyone appear to do so. ask no questions is rule number one. do what we are told by those who know nothing more than ourselves but who create a structure around themselves to disguise and hide their ignorance.
    it's a joke. nothing but a joke. he looks at them and laughs. he looks at himself and laughs. when he is not crying. he feels both in his heart. he doesn't know what to do. he doesn't know what can be done by himself or anyone.
    it takes all of us to realize the absurdity of all we do in order to stop doing it. and maybe we do realize it. but we each feel we can do nothing so that all of us feel we can do nothing. we get lost in the crowd that itself is lost.
    to live one's life apart. to find as much as one can for oneself. to hold it to one's heart and live as close to it as one can.
    to be filled with light and reflect it into the world. no more. no less.
    to seek the common ground. to neither go to someone else nor ask them to come to you. balance.
    we are not anyone else but ourselves. we are who we are. names do not apply. none of it can be described though attempts at description abound. we have sought this from the beginning. to find peace among ourselves. to share the common ground.
    to let it all go and laugh. to have today be the one day we look back and laugh.
    he laughs but he laughs alone. he looks at them and laughs.

    and so where is this at now? where has he been? what has he written that hasn't been written by those before him? did he miss anything? did he add anything? what more can he write as he keeps on writing anyway? or has he written too much already?
    the words go on. he arranges them and rearranges them. he takes some out and puts others in. what does any of it mean and come to? does he cry? does he laugh? does he scream? does he absorb into an internal eternal silence of noise?
    he writes to anyone and no one. only they can say if this makes sense or not. he can only give them what he has for them to take it or leave it. does it make them cry? laugh? scream? hope? despair? what? anything? do they remember the pain or have they forgotten? does this remind them or help them to forget? which is better?
    he wants to pull them into this with him. misery loves company? he wants them to cry so that they will understand the gift of laughter.
    and he's begun it countless of times. and he's written it and rewritten it countless of times. he doesn't know why. all he knows is that he can't write it. but he cannot not write it. he expects nothing from it. he does not write this to change anyone. he doesn't even expect anyone to read it. and why would he want to change anyone? do they need to be changed? others would think so. but he is not them. and what should they be changed into? he only writes to amuse. is any of this amusing? he writes out words hoping by chance that they might mean something to someone. whatever they mean he doesn't really care or bother with. whatever someone else needs them to mean. it's worth nothing to him - except as something to pass the time. he eats and digests experience and shits words. that's all.
    and communication? what is communicated here? can words even do such a thing? he doesn't know.

    7/5
    so this is an account of something. it is neither more truer nor less than any other. except that it is mostly lies. it is his account. and that either means something or it doesn't. he just writes this out the best he can to think of to communicate whatever can be communicated with words.
    he seeks the common ground. some place and time we can be together without fighting one another.  but he claims nothing. and it doesn't seem to exist in this world. we exist together in fear of ourselves and each other. how is that overcome?
    and this comes and goes as does all the rest of it in time as time glides through us and around us as we move with it and it with us. one measured by the other in and out of our minds. our bodies in dance with its rhythm in one flowing moment to another as both are one the same now bending and twisting through paradox mirrors creating the illusion that there is an illusion to be created and is thus created by us believing in the reality of the illusion created for and by us to believe in moment by moment always now.
    don't stop. don't think about it. don't miss a beat. dive into it.
    and he is the one who stopped. he thought about it turning his poor brain inside out and backwards sideways to find he was only chasing reflections of himself in the maze of mirrors.
    he missed the beat - even to his own different drummer. he's stood on the edge watching and waiting for the right moment to come along - conditions to align themselves.
    and so it goes. and so it went like that. what was he watching and waiting for? what held him back?
    basically he took a good look around and checked these other people out and they were all nuts. most of what they did and wanted him to do with them also was senseless activity for the sake of activity. their days overbooked with things they had to do and then bitching about not having time to do what they wanted to do.
    gotta survive, they would say when he questioned them about this. but what they do to themselves and each other goes far beyond that. the only thing threatening their survival is themselves. ourselves. he keeps forgetting that he's as much a part of this as anyone else. not part of the solution is being part of the problem, as they say if they see one sitting around doing nothing.
    that bugs them out of their minds. one can do pretty much anything one wants and/or can get away with as long as one is doing something. they cannot understand or tolerate anyone doing nothing. because we're all going somewhere and ass, grass or gas - nobody rides for free. and it doesn't matter where we're all going as long as it's outta here. this sucks. this is hell. and on and on. here we go around and around chasing and being chased by shadows that exist with us together in this world as we perceive it.

    so this is his report and account he leaves to whomever it may concern in whatever way they may find it. take it for what it is and may it serve one well.
    he is considered to be at best eccentric and at worst insane by the rules and standards of the operating culture at large of this place and time he is born into. this was not of great concern to him except as it was somewhat difficult to transcend the state of mind imposed upon him that was the result of self-perpetuating social maladjustment conditioning that automatically occurs.
    the humans of this time are up against the paradox of being created and creator. the contradiction of the instincts of the animal and the whims of the gods.
    of course this is not it at all but his own interpretation of things he himself does not understand. this is why he writes. not to inform one of what he knows but what he does not know. one needs to determine what is missing and needed in order to complete the picture he can only make rough sketches of in his own crude fashion.
    he has retained as much of his original state of ignorance as he could and still survive and function at a minimal level among those around him and the methods they have devised for themselves to succeed above and beyond others.
    he has not sought knowledge about anything except what was needed to remind him of who he is and what his purpose here was. this part has worked. he understands the code evolved by us to communicate with one another while not giving ourselves away. it's nearing time when we will no longer need that but will be able to be quite open as to who we are. maybe by the time one is reading this - if ever - that will have already have happened. he feels it is to come soon. all appears to be very close to being ready.
    is he making this up? what does one think? what does one know?
    do not judge too quickly. we are all here the same. not one of us has anything beyond the other. we each play our part. he plays the fool. the fool is dismissed as not having enough common sense to partake in the actual real business involved in running things the way they should be run according to the rules of the scheme. this is what gives the fool carte blanche in disguise as one who knows nothing.
    if one is confused by this it is not intended to do so but he uses confusion to lose those these writings are not intended for. he deceives in order to revel. he lies in order to tell the truth.

    and so he sits at the kitchen table of his own invention. he can do this because he wants to. we also need a place to meet and he has found that kitchen tables are the best places for this.
    he will not describe much of it so that one may imagine it as one wishes. this can be a common ground. bring to it whatever makes it one's own space as well and so one will feel comfortable.