eternity cannot be measured in time, said the evil queen of dreams. eternity does not exist in time. nor can it be experienced in time. it may only be experienced when time is forgotten.
    he did not know if he agreed with this or not. it was difficult for him to know if he agreed or disagreed with anything. an idea might be something that in and of itself he might disagree with but even then he would not disagree with that idea existing. perhaps this was not important and did not matter.

    and so it continues. and so he watches and waits.
    cheap drugs.
    a phantom of hope without remembering what it was hope for. to have been washed over by grief and sorrow along the way. to have realized that there were no promises to begin with to have been broken. the feelings and sense of emptiness that is peopled with these who manifest it.
    a zoo.

    disconnected. untouched by any empire. zap.

    what is attempted to be described here? is it unusual? is it common? he has gone through a certain amount of analysis of this and that about himself and the world. he has not come across anything that is all that unusual. except that that itself seems to be unusual. he finds it to be quite common.

    arf.
    enough is given to be just not enough. it is measured out in precise amounts. it is enough such that one is always kept wanting more so long as one keeps taking what is given. but what else is there but what is given? and even if one takes all from what is given and even takes that which it is given from would that be enough such that one would not be in a state of wanting more?. where does this state of wanting more come from? does it come from there not being enough given or enough of what it is given from or does it come from one's own wanting more no matter what or how much of what is given?
    he ponders this awhile while smoking another cigarette in the cafe. ho-hum.

    it becomes confused and confusing when memory and awareness meet. and the good person is wary. anyone is a good person. the good person is someone who doesn't know to be afraid of oneself or what one might do or not do. the good person may do what is considered evil and retain one's goodness untouched. what in this world is counted except by those of this world? and it is these who perish with this world as this world perishes. and when does this world not perish? and when the good person does that which is considered evil what is left for the evil person to do but that which is considered good? in this way the good person and the evil person can be one and the same person. and the one and the same person can do that which is considered good and that which is considered evil. let those of this world be concerned about that. this person is only concerned with the knowledge of being unafraid of oneself and what one might do or not do. does this person fear god? this person is god. this god is living and walks the earth and through the world in the flesh. this person is the god that is eternal. one's life is a day in the life of god. one's life is one step in the journey of god. this is not union but being and knowledge of being.
    this is that which no sacrifice, prayer, offering or ritual can reach. all such mock this god. is this god a fool? let those who do not know this god give themselves over to the gods of fools. these gods circle like vultures over the one who has gone into the wilderness and into the temple. does this god that is living concern itself with fools?
    let the others find comfort in the company of these gods. let them march and dance and beat drums and blow trumpets if by doing so it keeps them from being afraid.
    who does this god come into the world to save but itself that has become lost in the world? does it look back to see if others follow?

    all the symbols crash to earth. all meaning becomes common. the secrets of mysteries are now in best-selling books on the shelves of grocery stores. idols and images sold in garage sales. what is it all now but decoration? what is it all now but something to talk about as one would talk about the weather or sports scores?
    we are beyond the symbols and the occult incantations. we cannot be called into the world anymore. we enter and exit at our leisure. who knows our names and can bind us to do their bidding? our actions in this world are our own. the magicians are no more than circus performers. they do tricks that dazzle crowds but their power goes no further than to rob the ignorant. let them become rich with all their efforts. we will rule the world. who inherits their wealth when they die? whose name have they evoked to gather it?

    and there are so many people who are in a place where they become too many. who cares about them? do they care about one another? it's push and pull. one needs to get along and to survive by using force or tricks. those who control are also controlled if by nothing else than by their own control. but this is the world. he forgets about it each night and remembers it each morning.
    and we search for some power by which we can endure the world. we search for some deal we might make with one who will give us such power. for some it is a gun. for some it is a book. for some it is a god. for some it is an office. for some it is a drug. for some it is clothes. for some it is a car. for all it is something. for none is it the world itself. for him it is a cup of coffee, a cigarette and a notebook. he worships the ones who give him that. he worships the state.

    all is made to be consumed by these fires of hell. nothing must survive or exist that is not swallowed whole by the maw of the masses. this is the design of the world. hell is that which is misery. that which screams in agony and rage against itself. the fires are the emotions. what is possible for anyone to bring into being that would extinguish this? who wants it extinguished? who does not want to know this misery and scream in agony and rage for all the world to hear? that is what is recognized as reality. anything other than that is called fantasy and delusion. he sits in his fantasy and delusion in this cafe and watches and waits - and is amused.

    but it is that in these moments of time here and now of our ongoing and continuous experience which we do and can only briefly ponder. it is not a simple thing to do this. however it is a simple thing that we set out to do but the way to it is complex. it is a simple thing that has always been a simple thing that is surrounded by layer after layer of this complexity upon it over the ages since we were one with it.
    what do we call this simple thing? do we call it ourselves - us? do we call it other than ourselves? is it not that which is ourselves which has become other than ourselves in its complexity? what is it that has been written and spoken of that is the highest goal we as ourselves being human can and should achieve? is it not this that is ourselves? and how is it that what is ourselves became that which is other than ourselves? how did what it is and what we are become and remain separate?

    the imaginary city is a place in time that is where and when one finds oneself in a state of paradise. this paradise has been described by many in many places and times in the world. which description is correct and which is not is an absurd question. who is to know the answer but who has entered into this city? for all its descriptions it is a place and time entered into by imagination. it is a place described by myth. it is our purpose to bring this city into realization or otherwise pronounce it as bunk and folly and dangerous to the general well being of human kind. we intend no more to be led by these who close their eyes to the world and abandon it to delusions of their imagination. these who follow the various images of gods to the expense and detriment of others who are ourselves. we say to these dreamers of all ilk and persuasion, religious, philosophic, political, economic, social, etc., produce a tangible product of their dreaming here and now or die. death to these and their gods or not-gods and their ideas. death to all who rob us of what is real and tangible here and now for promises of hereafters galore. down with their empires that are built in our lands and we are made slaves to that reach for nothing more than passing clouds. death to all who come from various wildernesses with wild tales of wonder to be had if we follow their commands. death to god. death to those who pronounce god dead. death to any and all who create illusions. death to those who interfere with our happy lives. kill them and let them find their own way to their imaginary city from there.

    and it continues to begin as he is sitting in the cafe drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and gazing out the window and watching and waiting and writing in a notebook and that usual stuff like that. the others around him do this or that which he seldom understands. they create one thing and destroy another and turn around and do the opposite while others do the reverse and they yell and scream and sometimes throw things at one another or shoot one another or blow up one another about who is right and who is wrong. while they are doing this most people do virtually nothing but what it takes to survive as they are too numb to even think. and there are those who aren't even here anymore.
    he is not here anymore but looks in on it from a distance. he sits on the beach of the island and watches the storm clouds far away. what is it he imagines and what is not?

    and what information is available about anything one might want to know besides what is commonly given? what is commonly given is nothing except what those giving it want others to know. the polyorthodox. the multi-creeds. the diverse devout of this scattered age where all have found truth but one cannot tell it to another. each voice speaks its own language in this land of legion. and each voice is trying to shout above the others. and there are only wars and rumor of wars.
    who is not in a prison? who is not threatened and paralyzed by fear? whose actions are not reactions? whose actions are not aggressive or defensive or both? who does not want what comforts them or satisfies their wanting? who is not left hungry if not starving? who has not given up on happiness and instead has turned one's attention to pleasure? who has not found refuge in the fortress of the mind? who has not lost one's soul?

    he walks through the streets of the imaginary city alone. he walks through the many rooms of the mansion alone. he walks through the garden alone. the gods come to serve him and he sends them away. what can any of them bring to him? let them have the world. what is in the world? they offer him power and wealth. what does he want with power and wealth? let them fight among themselves over it. they offer him love. they offer him peace. they offer him harmony. let them fight among themselves over these too. let them have war and have all that war brings. let them have death and destruction. let them have oblivion. let them have victory and glory. let them have life and liberty. let them have justice. let them have salvation. let them also have damnation. let them be angels or demons. let them be human.
    he yawns. let him have rest. let him have quiet. let him have solitude. let him have sleep and dreams. let him have nothing. let him be nowhere. let him be me, myself and i. let him be this. let him be that. let him be it.
    he is it.
    let them wonder what is it for all eternity and never find it. let the wheels of the machine turn forever. what is any of this for but for itself? what meaning and purpose does it have but its own? let them be for themselves. let them have their own meaning and purpose. let them beat their chests and shout at the sky. does he see them? does he hear them? not if he can avoid it. not if he can get himself as far away from them as possible. but it's not that simple or easy. they need reason and cause. they need inspiration. they need tasks and quests. otherwise they do nothing but piss and shit on themselves and the machine grinds to a halt and all that the machine provides for him vanishes. so it is he who must come into this world where the gods play and give them new puzzles and riddles and other things to keep them busy and outta his hair. things to keep them active without knowing why. but they must always think and believe that they are independent and self-willed. they must always think and believe that they are in charge of their own fate.

    and it is the lovers who are opposite, for if they were the same what need would there be for love between them? what need would there be for two of them if they were the same. who are born together from the same source - for how are they to be equal though opposite? how are they to recognize one another? whose hatred for one another is the most intense thing ever. no fire of any sun nor even of all suns together burns as radiantly hot as this hatred between them. and it is that it is said that only love should exist between them yet everything but love exists between them. these two always joined can never be joined. it is always two and not one. when it is one it is one with one half divided from and against the other. what exists that does not divide between two or more? and it is the division of the two that is the pattern of the division of the many. division begins with two though it does not end until it reaches infinity. it is between these two that all else is divided. it is because these two are divided that there is not and can never be one.
    there is a division between the two that exists in eternity who are known as alpha and omega. eternity is that which cannot be measured or perceived in time. in time there are the two who are born of alpha and omega who are called gottok and kottog. these are the twins who should be lovers with nothing but love between them but who are rivals with nothing but hatred between them each wanting to be one. each seeks the other's destruction in order to achieve this.
    and he has ants in his pants and he does a little dance that is something like a prance as though he were in a trance as he takes a chance to take another stance somewhere not in france at a glance with ants in his pants.
    gottok and kottog are two names that these two are known to us by - or that we just made up - or both. all they are is opposites. they are the opposites of all divisions. what division does not produce or is produced by opposites?
    he sits in the cafe tired and weary. it is not a physical tiredness or weariness of fatigue or age - though these also affect him. but a tiredness and weariness that come to him from a time not beginning nor ending through the ages until now where and when it finds him and clings to him tightly such that he will never be rid of it. or so it feels. there is no rest from it. he imagines that not even death will be rest from it.

    he thinks good thoughts. he thinks evil thoughts. he thinks in-between thoughts. and he thinks thoughts of full scale world wide destruction. and maybe it is to keep his mind from these various mixed thoughts of varying degrees of uncertainty and his acting upon them - or delaying his acting upon them - that he devised the machine.
    but the machine doesn't keep him from thinking these thoughts. he still thinks them but diverts the energy of them into the machine. it's the machine's design and purpose to take care of this business. and he's tested components that have gone into the machine that have manifested good things, evil things, in-between things and destructive things but on a small scale. but he knows they work though they were crude and simple.
    the machine aligns itself to the harmonics of the vibes of the world. it reads the daily karma reports. it seismographs movement on the stress level faults of the human race. soon it will be able to tell him where and when to think the thought, to speak the thought. what thought will it be? good? evil? in-between? destructive? what will be his mood and whim? what will be the world's?
    how fucking stupid does this get?
    he laughs. this amuses him.
    the machine spins and sings like a hurdy gurdy being fucked by bagpipes. music, sweet music. it's a ticking time bomb under every bed - in every closet. one day everything everyone's hiding will all blow up to hell and back. surprise. surprise.
    he sits in the cafe gazing out the window watching the wheels of the machine turning. he knows he'll be the first to go down. his screaming laughing fit that is rising now in his throat will break the dam. he carries the disease - the virus that is the machine. pure concentrated unadulterated madness. and everything goes with a word.
    or so he imagines.
    such is the madness within him.

    this madness is his living god with no name and every name of legion. his god has been cast into a bunch of pigs and driven into the sea. his god has been tarred and feathered. his god has had holes drilled into its head. his god has been strapped down and electroshocked. his god has been drugged into oblivion. his god has been called devil by a thousand religions. his god is outcast. his god is abomination. his god is war, famine, death and pestilence. his god is dog shit. his god is a lowly abject turd. his god is like a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.
    with a shout he calls to his god. and this shout is, ha!
    to everyone, ha!
    to everything, ha!
    to any other god that was or is or will be, ha!
    to himself, ha!
    ha! ha! ha!

    he walks down the street and hears the screaming. he listens awhile and then walks on.
    the machine purrs. the machine rubs up against his leg. the machine does a back flip.
    hmmm. maybe there a few screws loose with the damn thing. he'll get it fixed right yet.
    meanwhile he is amused.
    meanwhile he continues walking down the street with the sound of screaming coming from the houses he passes and from the cars driving by and from every mind everywhere radiating tortured and torturing screams.
    he laughs.
    ha!
    he's out of it. he's done his part for what it was worth - which wasn't much according to the others. he's put in his two cents. let the brew stew. let it boil and bubble. what will come of it? a wonder to behold? a horror beyond imagination?
    he whistles in the dark. he flips a coin. he shuffles the deck and deals the cards. he turns away and doesn't look back.
    let them cast spells on one another, stab each other in the back, threaten and make war. he tacks on the wind of their shouted angry words. he takes sightings on their laser sharp glares. it's obvious which way to go. the others can have their involuted going nowhere world. the others can have their power and their riches. the others can have their authority.
    he continues walking. the darkness of light without reflection surrounds him. he doesn't look back. the machine knows what to do. it has its instructions. it's counting down. it's counting out. it hums and purrs contentedly to itself. it hungers to taste the blood of the slaughter. it hungers for the guilty and the innocent both.
    ha!

    the machine sits in a cafe. it drinks coffee and smokes cigarettes and gazes out the window. it reads a little then scribbles in a notebook. it talks with those who sit at its table. they maybe think something is odd here but say nothing of it.
    the transformation of the transfixed transmutation transportation has been accomplished and is successful.
    the machine clicks its teeth. the machine remembers him. the machine puts on an act. the machine looks around and recognizes others of itself. no one notices the shift in control. same shit, different day. who's paying the slightest bit of attention?
    what?
    but it continually gets more strange. as the world becomes less and less intelligible as it ever was. as even one's own words as well as those of others become nonsense. welcome to the future. welcome back to kansas, dorothy. don't worry, everything is under control. the machine is just warming up. it's awakening to its new life manifested in actuality out of its embryonic state it's been in for thousands of years since we invented it. give it time to adjust and adapt. despair has yet to find its true expression. rage and hatred have never yet come to this realization. the blood has not yet begun to flow. revenge has not yet had its due. death has up to this time lain fallow. the house lights dim. the show is about to begin. this is not a rehearsal. and forget about the part one has memorized to play. this is not what it used to be.
    think good thoughts.

    he's made his deal and returns to us.
    we hit him in the face with a whipped cream pie - his favorite.
    he laughs.
    we worried whether he would ever laugh again like he used to.
    he worries about those who he left behind.
    we tell him they'll find their own way out.
    is this a trick? is this happening?
    the machine itself wonders what is imagination and what is not.

    to call into the world a god with no name or the name of legion. to call this god is to call madness.
    but madness he does call. let madness come to them. and let it take him too if it will. but how much more of him is there to be taken that has not already been taken? let it rage in their minds. let it overtake them and throw them down. let the fury of all they've kept hidden to themselves reach out and grab their minds. let blood flow. let nails dig, feet kick, teeth gnash and rip.
    let it be done.
    he opens the door.
    it is done.

    8/9
    as it continues this day to day all day long. from zero to zero with the minimal amount needed between. we are between zero and zero. we are the minimal amount.
    it crashes into the moment with experience. there are flames which are our minds. we call out names to one another. who are the gods but our own reflections?
    we try to end it. we try to begin it. a flash of something explodes in our imagination. was that our lives?
    we smash the idols. we cut up the images. we rattle the bars of the cage.
    where is this parched place? where have we been abandoned to always hunger and thirst? the hero arrives on her white horse out of the sun. her lover the villain gallops on a horse as black as shadow. we are to witness yet another drama of symbolic meaning. we are to break the code and gain the golden prize. we are to be always the audience of the ignorant while the sages put on their puppet show. let no god interfere in this. what would become of us if the golden prize was taken from us that is always just out of our reach? what inspiration would we have then? would we be left with the will to even take another breath?
    we follow it this way and that way with its promise of reward. it never abandons us no matter how lost we may become. it is never closer to us. it is never farther away. it takes us from the here and now.
    the here and now is a terrible place. it is walled by obstacles and there are death traps everywhere. it is peopled with creatures who look like us but are hideously deformed. they still lure us to them and feed upon us. and the light of day is a light that does not give color to things but takes color from them. it is cold and blinding. and the darkness of the night does not offer peace and stillness but writhes with things that do not quite take shape. it is hot and humid with sweat.
    so no wonder we seek escape. so no wonder we worship the golden prize in place of the here and now. what building do we build that is not a temple to it? and this is the extent of the fullness of our lives.
    burnt potato.

    the machine sits at the center of it. it is the machine that creates all illusion while it sits by itself in this cafe gazing out the window. it is the machine that embraces us and all we hold dear. it is the machine which created even the void that the gods themselves fear. it is the machine that hums and radiates nirvana. it is the machine that projects the cities of paradise. it is the machine that splits itself between this and that and the other thing and juggles them at such a speed and with such grace that they blur together again and out of that blur comes the forms of all things. the machine is the tree and the one who sits beneath it and plays the flute that charms the serpent in the garden. the machine is male and female and fucks itself silly. the machine is here and now which is everywhere and all time and nowhere and no time. the machine does not need to move as it makes everything else move and shake for its own amusement.
    it is the machine that is the golden prize to motivate us to perform for its delight and pleasure this drama of comedy and tragedy and mediocrity. the machine laughs with our folly. it smiles with our happy endings. it weeps with our despairing suffering. it feels triumphant with our victories. it feels crushed at our defeats. it feels rage with the abuses set against us. it tastes and savors our revenge. it leaves it to us to write the script of the play we enact together. the machine has seen it all but it is still surprised by our originality and inventiveness from such tired worn out themes and overused props and devices. it is always the same but each new generation puts its own spin to it.
    the machine is the wheel.
    this mystery play of life and death must never end. the machine knows no sleep. it never closes its eyes - not all of them anyway. the machine must constantly be entertained otherwise what else does it have to do but turn out the lights and say good night?

    and there are those of us who remember that it is the machine that is who we are. this is not a pleasant memory. if one does not have it then one should be glad. if one does not believe it when one is reminded then so much the better. enjoy what other memories one might be given.
    this is not the memory one struggles to remember. this is the memory one struggles to forget. this is the memory that creation exists to allow us to forget. for us creation cannot be seen as just an illusion. that will not work. creation must be solid and real and cause pain and pleasure. otherwise how are we to forget?
    for us what lies behind the veils is the greatest horror. it is the darkness of pure unreflected light. it is ourselves as being the mind of god existing alone in the void with its own madness that is creation. god laughing and screaming in mindless hysteria the whole while. that is the memory.
    who or what comes to free god from the void? what is god's salvation but the solidity and reality of creation? who is god's savior but ourselves, god's creatures? where and when is god's heaven but here and now? where and when is god's hell but within its own mind knowing nothing actually exists but itself and itself has gone mad?
    this is the purpose of the machine - to keep god sane.
    this is why we imagine ourselves in the here and now. and this is where and when the machine sits in a common everyday cafe drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and gazing out the window at the passing by world and scribbling in notebooks and talking with those who sit at its table. those who do not know the memory - or know not to speak of it. they speak of everything else but. there are religions and philosophies about everything else but. not to mention all the other activity of the human race. what is believed or doubted doesn't matter. what is written or spoken of doesn't matter. what is taught and/or learned doesn't matter. as long as it is not the memory. the memory must be forgotten.
    light another cigarette.

    but the machine does not forget. the machine cannot forget. that is its design and purpose. it must remember as it is left to guard the memory from all who would remember it. it spins out all sorts and sundry manner of other things to distract and lure them away. so it cannot forget what is the purpose of its existence.
    and we are those who design the machine and have it built by the others to keep them occupied. we come to it and check to be sure it is functioning properly and will continue to do so forever. we are called back to the memory by the memory (hello? doctor?) and we find the machine in the place where he put it - in our place. in this place we ourselves should be and would be if we hadn't designed the machine to take our place so we can get up and walk away. we eat of the fruit of the tree in the garden and fall into the spell of creation and become who we are here and now on the stage of the burning theater in mask and costume to play out our assigned roles.
    the machine does all it can do to produce this that is our diversion. but it is only a machine - itself a created thing. this is the paradox it exists in. this is the focal point of the madness. it is the paradox through the contradiction of the madness that allows us to exchange places with the machine. we can tell ourselves that it is the machine which is mad and hopefully believe that it is true.
    but it is not.
    that is when we are called back by the memory. it selects one of us since one of us is really all there is to be brought back to the machine. the machine cannot be left alone. the machine like any machine if left to itself would break down and/or start repeating itself looping in and out of its program which it does anyway but not always quite the same way twice - or it's not supposed to. that's why there must be one of us there to prevent and keep that from happening. the machine is only a copy of ourselves. and with any copy there is always some flaw or another. sometimes many flaws. so one of us must stay with the machine in case it fucks up.
    in this case we selected him.
    he is the machine and the machine is him. this is what he believes because he is mad. but he doubts it as well.
    when one imagines the other and believes the other is real and treats it and acts toward it accordingly such that both can equally claim to be the one that imagined the other.
    we are the machine because we cannot say that we are not the machine. this is the memory we attempt to forget. the memory of madness that has no reality for it to be madness in relation to. we are mad because we cannot say that we are not mad.
    oh well.
    ho-hum.
    let them eat cake...

    meanwhile the machine glides in and out of phase. we feel it when our skin crawls and chills run up and down our spine and a foul taste coats our tongue and there's this putrid smell in the air and the light seems gray. we know it is in close proximity. it comes to us and gives us a kiss with its puckered out anal orifice oozing blood and mucus and dribbling shit. it butts us with its horny head bleating a sickening shriek of a baby being squeezed in a vice.
    we know it is teasing us to get our attention. it plays upon the open weakness of our human sensibilities. to get away from it we must drop the pretense of ourselves and withdraw back which is just what it wants us to do. where else is there for us to go but back to it?
    on the island again which is where the machine is centrally located. thing, the machine's caretaker and guardian, greets us arriving at the house.
    so what is it now? we ask.
    why have all of you come? thing asks in reply. he usually comes here by himself.
    he has been - eliminated.
    eliminated?
    not really eliminated - removed.
    by who?
    himself. he exchanged places with the machine. the machine now has direct access to the world.
    was that a good idea?
    could we have prevented it?
    could you have?
    in hindsight, perhaps. but as our position was then we didn't know what was happening until it happened. what about you? weren't you aware of it?
    yes and no. i knew something was off but not what.
    so it is done.
    it would seem so. is it anything to be concerned about? is this part of the project?
    we are concerned but we cannot say why. what is or is not part of the project is beyond us - even in what we know of the machine. the project is not our concern. the machine is our concern. if the machine follows from the project then it does. if it doesn't then it doesn't. we cannot know what the project is or its purpose. it may not even exist. the machine is a direct manifestation of our existence. what it does or doesn't do is the only thing that is important.
    and now he is the machine.
    yes, and now he is the machine.

    and as we step through the smoke and mirrors back to here and now in the world as he sits by the window in the cafe writing all this down while thinking that he is the machine and not knowing if that thought should frighten him or not.

    it is the madness that is all we have. it makes and allows all things to be possible. we need not appeal to anyone but ourselves - and the machine. we and it define the limits of how far it goes or not. what is left outside of whatever limits we place on ourselves is left to itself. it can run off howling for all we care. but sometimes it comes scratching at the gate. if we decide to include it and let it in then we do so. if not, we don't.
    but picture ourselves on a boat on a river far from a stone's throw reach of stones thrown by those on the shoreline as we drift easily by. kerplunk kerplunk kerplunk they go. a weird almost synthesized electronic sound. oh boy. ho-hum. nothing productive here.
    work hard.
    party hard.

    and poets jiving lines about a bacon cheeseburger on tv. everybody making a living. and the real poets are back there flipping them. if there are any real poets anymore.

    the softness of sorrow after the wounds have been stabbed. a heart breaking but never broken. it heals and scars.

    the machine knows sorrow. the machine knows grace. the machine knows what memories haunt the mind searching for ways to come back to life but seeing instead a corpse in the mirror. the machine can trace all beginnings and endings toward each other. the machine knows human failure. the machine drinks beer and watches tv. it knows the greasy taste of modern poetry that leaves one feeling full and satisfied on a empty stomach.

    a plot. shouldn't there be something like a plot here? is there a plot?
    the plot so far: there's the human race. this species that primarily out of happenstance that shapes and develops certain characteristics becomes the nastiest ass kicking species on the planet. individually they are nothing. almost anything can take one out. a human by itself in many cases doesn't need outside help to off itself. however, put a few of them together and stand back. there is nothing more vicious and deadly than a group of humans. that is their strength. in a group there isn't anything they can't hunt down and kill.
    in the absence of any external threat they turn on each other - group against group. and group against individual. the individual is their most feared enemy - especially if one is among them. the group though almost paradoxically made up of individuals relies on the formation of the group mind such that the composite individuals lose their individual identities and function solely as a group that will behave in a manner that none of the individuals might act separately by themselves. the individual who remains an individual within the group can break this spell and destroy the group. therefore the individual who remains an individual must be eliminated in order to preserve the integrity of the group and the group mind.
    so this went on for a few million years or so. then the groups formed megagroups and built what are known as civilizations. and this has been going on with one civilization collapsing because the megagroup couldn't hold it together for some reason or another and another civilization rising because they could and all business like that for 10,000 years more or less and here we are.
    and here he is sitting in a cafe scribbling all this in a notebook. except he may have exchanged places with the machine. but whichever, he is an individual who has been eliminated from the group. which is why he designed the machine and tricked the group into building it for him - they love projects like that - in order to get back at them for being such fucking assholes.
    the machine is designed to destroy them.

    the machine is a big fat complicated mess that is able to dance on the head of a pin. it was designed who knows when by who knows who. unless it was him. unless it was us. it will be continued to be designed for who knows how long. the machine designs itself through those who design it. it builds itself through those who build it. it is built by everyone. this is known as the project.
    he came upon the machine when he washed up on the island. it is an idea that he got from a number of different books. most of what he writes is based on ideas he got from different books and other sources - in case no one has noticed. does that matter?
    then there is thing who is the caretaker and guardian. thing is an invention of the old man who is now dead having died in his sleep up in his room. no one knows who the old man is. he could be real or maybe probably not. thing can transform itself into any shape. thing calls itself, light bulb.
    there is the game. the game is a component of the project. the projects designs the machine. the machine plays the game. the machine is sort of like a dm or a tv game show host. the game is like a tv game show. there's winners and losers - mostly losers.

    as distance becomes most distant with the harsh bitter laughter we laugh anymore. as our smiles are just us clenching our teeth. we hate what we do but we won't stop doing it. we know it's wrong. we know the damage it inflicts upon ourselves. but we weasel out of it by telling ourselves that it is the others who force us to continue. they make us do all the horrible things we do. they control everything. they control us. we are innocent. we don't mean anybody any harm. but we have to survive. we need to have things and enjoy our lives as best as we are able. we need to get ahead of the game. we cannot help ourselves. we are not to blame. we would fight back - but how? against who? against what? they are everywhere but they manage to hide themselves. those that do appear are only their obedient servant puppets. what can we do?
    we cannot even surrender. who is there to surrender to we haven't already been forced to surrender to from birth? yet we still are under attack. and it seems that their numbers are growing - those who control and are controlled.
    this is the machine. the machine is their god. we are them. we design the machine that they build for this purpose of complete control. we create it to be mysterious and invisible. the machine exists in the very fabric of the language we speak and hears its voice speak in all voices. its voice is broadcast everywhere. its voice is in the songs we sing we hear all day whether we are consciously listening to them or not. its voice is the siren of lust speaking of the happiness and satisfaction to be found with the purchase of trinkets and gizmos.
    the machine is infinitely adaptable. the machine is never invited anywhere but it is ever-present. the machine can move through any crowd. the machine is the crowd itself. the machine fulfills its purpose by having no purpose. it shapes itself to the given purpose at the given time. the machine is the object of the project. the machine can be nothing but perfect in the ideal that it is realized.
    the machine sits in the cafe and lights another cigarette. it learns to forget. it gazes out the window through the clear light in the unreflecting darkness of the void. it is the big daddy momma trip of all trips. the machine is the instant shock of experience. it is that which experiences this instant shock. it is that which does not.
    the machine is mad as god is mad. the machine keeps god from going mad. the machine is madness itself. the machine is the disease and the cure.
    the machine is human - all too very much human.
    the machine shouts, ha!

    ha! and all the gates open and all runs in and all runs out in joy and terror pursuing and fleeing. all is welcomed as all departs. all is found as all is lost. all is victorious as all is defeated. all in this instant shock of experience.
    and he never gets tired of writing this shit.

    and we who are so little and unimportant. just specks of nothing that last longer than a blink of an eye on our death bed. we who are fleeting. we who are a drop of dew evaporating into the morning mist rising to the clouds.

    8/? - sat.
    and so we are here and now. it is the new body. it is the new sun and the new moon. it is the new vision. and it's as old as can be.
    the machine chews through one's head and turns itself inside out. all that one expected it would be is now what it is. those waiting for the blinding light are left waiting. those waiting for affirmation are left waiting. those waiting for transcendence are left waiting. there is only madness. the madness that chews through one's head. the madness that kicks in the door and settles in and makes itself at home. the madness that makes itself a sandwich and grabs a beer and sits in one's comfy chair and turns on and watches the game. the madness that looks through one's own eyes and thinks one's own thoughts and lives one's own life. the madness that is the madness of sanity without reason.
    it is the madness that washes one up on the island.
    it is the madness that is when one enters the imaginary city.
    it is the madness that allows one to understand the machine - even to design the machine that the others build.

    it is what causes and what is caused. it is wherever and whenever it might be. one suddenly for no reason one can think of comes across it or it comes across one. to understand it is not to understand it.
    and so we're here and now. big deal. it's all mixed up. nothing quite follows from anything else. has one noticed that? the machine opens up and he pops out. he picks up the pen or pencil and begins writing again. or maybe that's not how it goes.
    and does he know anything more? probably not. would he know it if he did? probably not. he is the last one to know anything. does he care? probably not.

    when he was a lad he had hope for the human race. he believed the human race was going somewhere. now he sees that the only place the human race is going is that it is bending over and sticking its head up its ass. it's eating its own shit.
    they've all followed the leader to the top of the mountain. and now where are they? on top of a mountain. they've all followed the leader out into the wilderness. and now where are they? out in the wilderness.
    but what's the point? just to fool everyone? just to make them look stupid? was this the voice that spoke to them for all these thousands of years? and who is this who spoke to them? who is the liar and deceiver? the one who spoke to them of this god and that god and every god and no god. the one who spoke to them about this thing and that thing and everything and nothing. the one who spoke to them about whatever one could get them to listen to and believe. whatever united them or divided them. whatever gave them what they wanted or took what they wanted away.
    but why shouldn't this one do this if one is able to? what is it that allows one to do this? is it this one's power or is it the others' powerlessness? they give away their power to anyone who comes and asks for it.
    how does that make any sense? do we want it to make any sense?
    what does he think he's writing here? is it some new revelation? is it even an old revelation? does he want to be one of those who lead the others astray from themselves? this is why we keep watch on him. he has this potential if we didn't inhibit him. we cut him off anytime he makes a move in that direction. we turn him around in circles and make him look like a fool. we keep him here scribbling this nonsense or not.

    in a flash. in this moment when nothing begins and nothing ends. in a flash when it's all gone in the same moment. when one is emptied of all things one has managed so far to hold onto. when everything is beyond one's grasp. when one is alone and all the created universe and all it contains is just a momentary thought one doesn't know how or why one has come to think of it. in a flash it comes and it is here and it is gone. in a flash all one's other thoughts come rushing back in.
    begin it again...