the simplicity or the complexity swirling in a dance around us. who sees any of it at all but lock themselves within fortresses of thought? the walls defended by right and wrong while outside is the forest where everything grows wild. yet that we go out and cut down and replace it with our monocrops and more fortresses. and we dwell in this valley of death. we've eliminated all that we feared as evil. what has that left us with? what is that we find good that sustains us?
    but how else was this ape become human to respond to the world they found themselves in driven by this animal instinctive intelligence? this beast that is ever restless and ever afraid yet ever curious. the beast that cannot leave well enough alone. they envision an ideal of perfection that is sparkling and clean and gleaming and eternal. all else is imperfect and falling short or not lasting enough. this beast that stood against the onslaught of the world. a world that would sustain or destroy with indifference. this beast itself had to survive for and by itself. the world did not need them to survive. it could do with or without them. this beast had to believe in purpose and reason. they had to create meaning. they had to take what they could from the world by force. all in the name of good.
    and good and evil are not abstract or relative as many imagine. they are not very complex moral issues. good is that which promotes and maintains life and pleasure. evil is that which promotes and maintains death and pain. these are viewed and applied from the point of view of the self. the self is ultimately the individual but with our social species the self is very often the collective self, the body of the group. and not everyone's judgment of what is good and what is evil is that very well thought out or reasoned. we react. sometimes we win. sometimes we lose. sometimes we are congratulated. sometimes we are condemned.
    the inter/intra mixture of it all everything around and through together he thought about as he was also imagining a monkey fucking a cat. then he thought about why he might be imagining a monkey fucking a cat. why a monkey? why a cat? why fucking? do monkeys ever fuck cats? would a monkey fuck a cat given the opportunity to do so? has anyone ever witnessed such a thing? is this good? is this evil? he finds it amusing. amusement is pleasurable therefore it is good though there are situations when amusement is painful or leads to pain so then therefore it would be evil.
    and so while the imaginary monkey was fucking the imaginary cat he thought once again of the burning theater.
    on stage were three people in darkened robes. the scenery was that of a kitchen. they sut at a table playing a card game.
    one: so here we are.
    two: so it is imagined that we are here.
    one: is this only imagination?
    three: it could be asked, is imagination only this?
    two: it is being imagined that there is a monkey fucking a cat.
    one: why?
    two: i don't think the one imagining it knows.
    one: who is that?
    two: some guy sitting in a cafe.
    one: is he also imagining us?
    three: it could be asked, are we also imagining him?
    two: wouldn't that mean we are also imagining a monkey fucking a cat?
    three: it could mean that. yet i know that i myself am not imagining that.
    one: neither am i.
    two: one of us must be.
    three: oh, i don't know. imagination can have a mind of its own. who can tell sometimes where the things we imagine come from? do they originate with us or are they transmitted through us from some other source?
    two: so we could be imaging him?
    three: it is a possibility.
    two: well, i know i am real. i do not know if he is or not.
    three: unless he wrote it down for you to say that.
    two: he didn't write anything. or if he did he wrote down what i said. i did not say what he wrote.
    one: i am not sure where my thoughts come from. maybe he does write them and then they occur to me and i speak them.
    three: are you speaking?
    two: are you even thinking?
    one: well, i suppose maybe i'm not.
    three: this is a delightful mystery.
    two: this is a bore actually.
    three: not everything that doesn't over-stimulate the mind is a bore.
    two: maybe not, but this is still a bore.
    one: yes, but what is it?
    two: it's a play. we are actors on a stage in a burning theater reciting lines.
    one: i thought you didn't believe that.
    two: that it's a play? of course it's a play. you do know it's a play, don't you?
    one: well, yeah...
    two: what i said was that i know that i am real, though real as an actor in an imaginary play. within his imagination. within my imagination as well. he writes. i speak. which comes first? am i reciting or is he transcribing? is he more real? am i less real?
    three: in imagination what is real is fluid. reality is always shaped by imagination. reality is shaped by what is experienced. without being experienced, what is reality? what is there that is real?
    two: oh dear, we have a philosopher among us. or worse, a metaphysician.
    three: i think not. i answer to neither of those names. can i not speculate? can i not theorize about possibilities of what is and what is not? am i speculating what is not commonly speculated? i do not believe that my speculations or my comments in general place me in some sort of category. i merely speak what is in my mind. i communicate.
    two: ok, ok - i was just being a smartass.
    three: i imagined that that was the case. however people often say things in jest that they actually believe yet are unsure whether others believe it. they make a joke so it can be spoken but later retracted if need be.
    one: it seems to me that the two of you are in agreement. neither of you seem to care about philosophers much.
    two: fuck philosophers.
    three: yes - but not what is known as philosophy. i care for the philosophical. i was only pointing out that what is known as the philosophical is something that should not be preserved for those who call themselves philosophers.
    two: i can go with that. i'm sorry that i seemed to insult you before.
    three: no matter. i try not to be insulted. only one who exalts oneself can be insulted. the important thing is that we are in agreement.
    two: i was about to say, don't be too quick with us being in agreement.
    one: but we do agree, don't we?
    three: we are agreeing to talk with one another, to discuss what we think.
    two: what - agreeing to disagree? that's bullshit.
    three: maybe i should back off on the agreement. to me the discussion is what matters. agreement is secondary. as soon as people begin looking for agreement it is often quickly found to be absent. even, as you say, agreeing to disagree. i find that to be an extremely idiotic statement myself. yet it sounds so correct. who really agrees to disagree? what a joke.
    two: i would disagree with that. people agree to disagree all the time. they would rather disagree. then they can fight wars. who agrees to agree? where's the fun in that?
    one: so we don't agree?
    two: we agree to disagree.
    one: but you said that was bullshit.
    two: i can contradict myself. what is this, a debating society? give me a weapon, i'll debate with you.
    at which time the burning theater was buzzed by interdimensional timeships. no one noticed except it became some time later when he began writing again.
    one: a weapon?
    two: well, maybe not. i forget what i was saying, or why.
    three: it doesn't matter.
    one: what does matter?
    three: food, clothing, shelter.
    one: that's it?
    three: that's all that matters.
    two: and a weapon to defend it.
    three: i suppose that would be needed as well.
    two: so we have our perfect world?
    three: was the world ever not perfect? how can it not be perfect besides our imagining that it is not?
    one: what about a suffering child.
    three: what about it?
    two: you can't say that's perfect.
    three: i am not using perfect to mean best. only that it fits together.
    one: a suffering child fits together?
    three: if there is a suffering child, then it fits.
    one: for who? those privileged not to be suffering?
    three: we all suffer. we each have our pain. it doesn't matter.
    one: i don't agree with you.
    three: then it is war.
    one: war?

    back in the cafe where he is slowly dying he tries to think about what may or may not be important and/or what may or may not be real. and he thinks about how one goes about deciding this and whether or not that is important or real.
    he is awake again. he has been sleeping. he wakes back into the same world. it is x-number of hours later. it is still the same. how long could he sleep and then wake up and it would not be the same? how could it be any different? we are human. we remain human. humans will always be the same.
    he has writing. he is writing on water. nothing remains. and what should remain? what is the essence of what he is writing? what could be described in a short synopsis? who is going to go digging for it to find it? who would even know if anything was here?
    how much babbling about nothing goes on in the world? how much contains what is important or real? how are we to divide that out? what are we looking for? what purpose would it serve? does it give us power? and from that power do we gain anything?
    power to control or power to resist?
    we want freedom. does power give us freedom?
    does anything he writes provide any of this?
    one looks at him and sees no one. he is no one. no one anyone needs to be concerned about. he has no power. or is this power? the power to make oneself seem obscure and unimportant? others are only concerned with those who have power or those who may give them power or that which will give them power. this is what gives them power.

    he wonders why he is even here. he takes up space and time. he serves no purpose. he does not function for the whole. he just marginally exists.
    to leave something behind disguised in so many babbling words something secret that would transform any and all who would understand it. is it possible he has done this? he certainly has had the time. he has nothing but time. time he has created for himself. toward what purpose?
    there is something within that is without. there is something seen in the unseen. there is something touched in the untouchable. who is able to understand? it is far more simple than those who are looking for something complex would expect. it is far more complex than those who are looking for something simple would expect.
    there is not much he has not already explained.
 
    then something exploded. there was another story dedicated to those no one could love. it was within the dimension of our minds. our minds were within the dimension of it. the story was not it. the story was about it.
    then there is the bullet. something from long ago that has not happened yet. somewhere round. it's quiet. there may be nothing. nothing is always a possibility.
    where does it slide off from here - this possibility critical point between being and not being? of course this is being, but it becomes not being instantly. it is the moment. does it have a boundary? a limit? does it have beginning and end? it does not seem to be able to exist except in one's mind. is it in the world? is the world in it? some event. a vortex of swill from the drug remnants of divine consciousness. it rests in ethereal light while into this physical form is deposited the excrement of the gods. these beings whose power is without limit who are ourselves in disguise yet we may annihilate with our disbelief.
    we are the real and from the real we radiate the dimension of reality conceived within our minds for our minds to exist within which nothing is allowed without our knowledge. we do not discover. we invent. the gods invent nothing except as acting as our puppet masters as we imagine them. what exists but is within our minds and our minds are within? and what does any of this matter?
    a spoon is a spoon.
    this is that part of the story about that dimension slice of reality. we zoom in and out. we turn it around and upside down and inside out and sideways. what performance is this?
    something else explodes. is this part of the play or is something amiss?

    to exist within and beyond the others into the shades of ourselves through evolutional metamorphosis or something like that. to believe in something like that. to doubt something like that. to dream of something like that.
    to be no one in a world of no ones. to look around oneself and see others who are shadows against and obstructing the light as one must appear to them.
    upon the stage of the burning theater the play continues. they have brought in cows who have knocked over some of the props and scenery.
    one: i would just like to feel connected. i don't feel connected to anything.
    two: you're in this play.
    one: yes - but am i connected to it?
    three: are any of us?
    one: shouldn't we be?
    three: should we be? why?
    two: i feel connected to it.
    one: you do? how so?
    two: i am here. i am talking with the two of you.
    one: but who are we?
    two: we're the actors in the play.
    one: that's it?
    two: i don't know if that's it. that's what it is now.
    three: it can be anything. how far do you want to look into it? there will be layers and layers upon layers and layers. then you'll eventually reach an abyss unless you place something between yourself and it.
    one: i don't want to place something there. i want something to be already there.
    three: how do you know there isn't?
    one: i don't know that there is.
    three: that doesn't answer the question.
    two: i know that there is.
    one: what?
    two: this. us.
    one: that's not what i'm talking about.
    two: but this is all there is. how can you talk about something that isn't?
    three: our friend has a point.
    one: that's just it. there isn't anything there.
    two: i see it. look around you. don't you see it? how can you not see it?
    one: of course it see it. but that's not it. i don't know what this is.
    three: you know as much as anyone else. we have gained a certain amount of collective knowledge about it. we don't know all of it, but is that so disastrous? and if so then that's what it is. getting into a panic about it doesn't help. one is only then in a panic.
    one: i'm not in a panic.
    three: it sounds like you're getting close to it. please don't, not here. take it somewhere else.
    one: where?
    three: anywhere.
    one: there isn't anywhere. it's all nowhere.
    two: there's here.
    one: this is nowhere.
    two: this is here and now. what else is there but here and now?
    one: what are you some sort of zen master or something?
    two: i'm just me.
    three: and so is a zen master.
    two: i don't need zen. zen is bullshit. zen is just as much an opiate as anything else.
    three: what's wrong with opiates? zen just releases one's own opiates.
    two: i'm not doing any of that.
    three: of course not. you're not a zen master. you are purer than that. you've arrived at the same place without even trying. maybe you've always been here.
    two: where else would i be?
    three: exactly.
    one: you both are fools.
    three: ah, yes - but neither of us is all wound up with no place to go like you are. you do know that the best part about banging your head against a wall is that it feels good when you stop?
    one: very funny.
    three: i was being serious. you're the one being funny.
    one: i don't feel very funny.
    three: that's what's so funny.
    one: fuck you.
    three: thank you.
    two: hey, come on - why are we fighting here?
    three: i'm not fighting. i'm offering passive resistance.
    one: you're passive as shit.
    three: thank you.
    two: stop it, you two.
    one: ok, ok.
    three: i told you you were beginning to panic.
    one: i'm not panicking. i'm pissed.
    three: same thing. anger and aggression are symptoms of fear.
    one: whatever.
    three: exactly - whatever. it is whatever that is what we have been trying to tell you. just let it be whatever.
    one: like shooting up opiates? forgetting? floating away in a dream? not me.
    three: no, not you. never you. there is always someone making noise about nothing.
    one: it's not nothing.
    three: it's making noise for the sake of making noise. do you want answers to the questions you ask?
    one: of course i do.
    three: and what would answer them but something that silences them?
    one: the answers would answer them.
    three: and you would with these answers no longer feel the need to ask questions.
    one: not those. but there would be others.
    three: more steady noise.
    one: more curiosity. more unwillingness to accept pat answers like the ones you're giving me - your opiates.
    three: more unwillingness to just shut the fuck up. your questions are no more than one long scream as you fall into the abyss.
    one: questions are inquiry - seeking knowledge. without that we remain ignorant.
    three: there's nothing wrong with that. part of being here and now is asking questions.
    one: then what are you talking about? it seems you just always want to find something wrong with me.
    three: it's not something wrong. who am i to say that? that's up to you. you always seem to find something wrong and then worry about it. but that is what you do. i wouldn't do it. but that's me. but it sometimes irritates me when someone makes a big show and noise about it.
    one: so i'm all show and noise?
    three: not you yourself. you make a big show and noise. that way you feel you're doing something about it. the answer to your questions seems to be to shout the questions louder. it becomes irritating, that's all.
    one: well, too bad.
    three: right. it is what it is. you are what you are. it's part of being here and now. i accept it.
    one: how humble and condescending of you.
    three: should i fight it? should i fight you? should i gather myself up and make a bigger show and noise than you do to drown you out?
    one: go right ahead.
    three: yes, i know. it would create more of what i find irritating. it is best to remain quiet and hope that might calm and settle you down.
    one: so why don't you just shut up then?
    three: ok. i will.
    one: good. you're a pain in the ass. i'm not just throwing some fit or tantrum here like you seem to think. i'm just wondering, that's all. it seems to me that there should be something other than this. i don't know what. maybe there isn't. but if there is i want to know. if there is then i'll be the one who finds it. you'll just remain here in your self-satisfied pompous dogma while i leave you behind.

    there was not another explosion. no one knew what the other was thinking. the moon was bright.
    and the play continues for whatever reason sometime later.
    one: i think all i was saying was that i was wondering about what all this is. i understand what you two were saying about it being what it is and it's all here and now - at least how we experience it. but i was speculating beyond that. is there more? is there something else?
    three: we all wonder about that to a certain extent to varying degrees. all i was saying is i see no reason to become preoccupied by it and letting it take over everything.
    one: i don't think i'm preoccupied. not too much. it's of primary interest to me though i guess that's what preoccupied is maybe. but it's like being preoccupied by anything else - like being preoccupied with driving fast cars or something. it's just my own thing - my own preoccupation.
    two: i am too. it's just that i don't see it as anything more than this - the immediate. if there is something else that we don't know and can't perceive then what's the point of it? it might as well not be there.
    one: but we do discover more about it as we go on. our perception gradually changes.
    three: but you want it all at once - all of it.
    one: well, yeah - i would. but i'm not going to. how much will i ever see? i want it all but i'm contained by who and what i am and the here and now.
    two: why look at it that way? why assume that what is here and now isn't what it is - all of what it is?
    one: because it's not.
    three: how do you know?
    one: it doesn't make sense.
    three: you want it to make sense? to what? itself or you?
    one: both. if it makes sense to itself then it should make sense to me.
    three: i don't think it can always be both. it understands itself much better than you can understand it. as you said, we come to understand it gradually. we used to think the earth was the center of the universe. now we know better. we form ideas based on our original perception then new information comes in that changes it. it is not what is that changes but what we perceive it as.
    one: yes. i agree. it must make sense to itself. but it doesn't make sense to me. i  want to understand it as well as it understands itself. is that too much to ask?
    two: maybe you need to change your idea about what makes sense or not. your definition may be too limited.
    one: what makes sense, makes sense. it either does or it doesn't.
    two: but what is that? it makes sense that the earth is the center of the universe to a certain way of perceiving things.
    three: how do you know when it makes sense or not? does it light up and ring bells?
    one: no - of course not.
    three: then what? how are you to know when it makes sense or not?
    one: i'll just know. i will understand. it will feel right. it will be real.
    three: oh no. we're not going to throw what is or is not real into this too, are we?
    two: the here and now is real. all else is imagined - including what the here and now is imagined to be.
    one: that's it. that's what i want to see. i want to see through my imagining of it.
    two: so we're all really talking about the same thing.
    one: i think we are basically - just from different angles.
    three: or from different angels.
    two: different spheres.
    three: the spheres of angels.
    one: the spheres of angels at angles.
    three: the intersection of the angles through the here and now.
    one: the here and now angled in the abyss.
    three: the manifestation of possibility.
    one: or impossibility. how is it possible that the abyss manifests anything?
    two: except that it is.
    three: that is the only evidence we have. the only evidence that is possible.
    one: what is it that makes it possible? what spark ignites something out of nothing?
    three: that is what we have called god.
    two: but there is no god.
    one: but there is that spark. there is or was something that created this out of the impossibility of it existing. what do we call that?
    three: i think they call it a singularity now.
    one: god is one. god is all.
    three: by any other name.
    two: you two believe in god?
    one: we believe in the spark. we could call the spark, god. we could call the spark anything we want. it would still be what it is. if anything is real that is what is real.
    three: let's not get carried away here.
    one: i do get carried away. this is it for me. i feel that i am gazing into it when i think along these lines - these directions.
    three: then, poof! it vanishes.
    one: yes, it does.
 
    the transfer of energy that is nothing. it exchanges one thing for another. it follows paths and patterns creating designs from the single point to the universe. we are integrated in it. we are nothing but what is integrated in it. what we are has always been and will always be but we have this life - this consciousness. it has a beginning. it has an end. we may transfer energy from one of us to another that survives. it may be remembered. often it is not. how many of those who have come alive do we remember?
    how quickly it is imagined out of the given imaginability. how it turns around itself. how it becomes itself out of not itself and then into not itself again.
    we evaporate the real and ourselves from the real. we glide into the conceptual dimension awhile apart from the superficial specifics.
    bah humbug!
    who might imagine this?
    who might believe it to be a possibility?
    who understands what is being written here?
    who is even aware of it?

    one is irrelevant. one is inconsequential. one is a product of one's own imagination. one is a phantom of one's own consciousness. one is many and many are one.
    one exists in the world - or so it would seem. we cannot be sure. it may not be so. but one has no real reason to think otherwise. it is a matter of what the world really is and what one really is in it.
    today in this part of the world we seem to be existing in it is raining on and off. a light sprinkling rain that comes and goes.
    it is all absurd. it is all so entirely inconceivable and incomprehensible. how does one conceive this? how does one comprehend it? yet what else is it than what one conceives and comprehends? what exists other than what is within that sphere? it might as well not exist if one does not conceive or comprehend it. one either comes to know it or one does not. until then though it might be something it is nothing.
    this is what he is thinking about. this may be something he is thinking about. it may be stupid for him to think about it and write it down. what does it matter?
    but who can control what thoughts enter one's mind? from his experience his mind has a mind of its own. his mind comes up with thoughts from who knows where. he probably would not think of them himself on his own. why would he? and maybe this does not happen with others. maybe their minds do not have minds of their own.
 
    and he went back to the island to talk with thing. they didn't have much to say to one another. they just sat on the beach mostly silent.

    and he imagined a rock. and he wondered what it would be like to be a rock. an imaginary rock at that. he thought of how silly it was to think of what it would be like to be a rock. do rocks even know what it is to be a rock? what must it be like not to have a thought for maybe billions of years? maybe not even ever.
    but what he is at the moment is composed of what might have been rocks at some point. and now these what used to be rocks are quite capable of having quite a number of thoughts each instant.
    so what is that?
 
    so he wanders around though the dimensions of his mind. the various pathways and doorways and hallways and whatever else that he comes upon or imagines he comes upon or his mind imagines for him to come upon.
    it's something or something else or another thing and so on that is nothing and everything being anything.
    the vague conceptual dimensions of whatnot. the basic structure and fabric of thought itself.
    maybe not.
    nevermind.

    another day comes upon us. we have again lost the immediate thread of our thoughts he was thinking and writing down for us.
    the story that is neither happy nor sad that can be told any number of ways at once or so it would seem. and maybe it's not even a story. what are the reasons or the motives? just ordinary business of nothing at all that unusual except as one might be unfamiliar with it.
    back into the noise of it.
    into the uncertain structure of it. the fluid structure. recognition. patterns either followed or improvised into variations.
    whatever.
    with all the information that is or is not that has whatever relevance to whoever it may be or not. as the dimensions fold and unfold.
    he waits from one day to another. he is slipping away. the dream is beginning to end.
    what is becoming or not becoming. what is possible or not possible. at this point for him there is nothing. he wonders what all the excitement is about. all that is set in motion.
    into another notebook.
    one gazes into experience. neurons fire. one has thoughts. one writes these thoughts down on paper. another may come along and read them. neurons fire.
    the story that has neither beginning nor end.
    it continues.
    the story has no real reason to revel itself. there really isn't anything to be reveled. it is as it is being what it is in relation to the moment and eternity.
    one comes to one's own revelation. what does one need the story to be?
    the story goes its own way despite the intentions of those making it up.
    it is in our minds. it is our minds. we relate to everything through the story we tell ourselves about it.
    what questions should there be about the story? it is what it is. it is told how it is told. it is experienced as it is experienced. it is happening as it happens. it is what surrounds us within and without.
    we are left with the story as it is and whatever constitutes the story for us each ourselves in one long continual process of the story.
    he has tried to reach into it and pull out something though without knowing what that something might turn out to be. but there is nothing that can be pulled out and separated from the story. what would it be? what would it mean? it would be this unconnected thing. not even a thing. to call it a thing is to reconnect it to the story and to the other things in the story. to pull something away from the story pulls the story out along with it.
    so that's that.

    so he continues scribbling. his mind continues to wonder in its own ignorant way. he is off somewhere apart from the others and all their concerns. whatever he might come upon is useless to them. it will not give them power. it will not save them or cure them. it will not make their lives easier. it is not even entertaining unless one happens to be entertained by such idle aimless musing as this.
    and he continues to wonder about himself and the others around him. he gets caught up in it. he gets caught up thinking about it and writing about it. not as much as he had before. it has kind of run itself out. it is of no interest to anyone and not much more to himself even much anymore. they know and he knows that it goes nowhere. he just went out following it anyway just to be sure and because he had nothing else to do - and he was crazy. he still is crazy. everything else slipped away. he is left with nothing. just his head filled with what he scribbles still on and on about.
    it circles back to itself. he circles back with it to himself - whoever the fuck that is.
    he makes himself up in relation to the story. isn't that what we all do? the story we come into when we are born and growing and learned what's what and what's not.
    we are all and each the i to the story. the story is our own story.
    the great mass i. the great mass ego of i. i looking at itself reflected in all the faces of i.
    i am that i am.
    and who is to tell what is madness or not madness in all of this? is there any such thing as madness? is there any such thing as not madness?
    who is this i that is i?
    he wonders.
    he has stepped aside from that i am business by becoming himself to himself.

    so much nonsense. what could happen here? what could change? and change from what to what? what wouldn't be just a fucked up as it is now with us still being human? he has nothing to offer. we cannot all leave the world as he has. the world would come to a halt. and it might not be able to be started up again.  the only reason he can do it is because the world is continued to be maintained as it is by the others. he can leave it and come back to it as he will. it will always be here. they will keep it here. not for him, but for themselves.
    so what can he tell anyone? what can he tell them that would have any meaning to them? keep up the good work? keep on maintaining the world as it is, thank you very much? what he does is only to separate himself from the others. they cannot do that - at least not collectively. and to them the collective is all there is. it is their identity. what he might tell anyone can only be told to the individual. only the individual might understand. only the individual might do what he has done. but who is an individual anymore? who was ever an individual?
    he didn't really have much choice in this as it happened. it seemed to have occurred on its own out of the process of the story and his part in the story. he only responded to it happening. the separation was not his idea. in fact he fought it in the beginning.
    now he knows better?

    onto the island at the heart and the mind of the machine with thing taking gentle care of it. he sits on the beach wondering about where the questions about duality cease. or is it when do they cease?
    coming to think of the experiment when one dislocates oneself becoming the anti-self - the other self. or whatever. the reflection of oneself.
    the machine is ever-present. it exists within the least structured, the least complex, the least hierarchical, the least centralized. it cannot be described. all that describes it describes something else. it remains unseen while all-seeing.
    everything waits. everything holds its position. alignment. arrows pulled back in bows. a single cue. a simple signal that might be anything.
    the machine turns itself on.
    nothing is naked.

    remove the masks.
    naked.
    we can create make-believe again. we must create make-believe again. that is how we function and remain functioning. yet before we believed it was real. now we know it is not. we know we are constructing it to maintain our sanity. but what sort of sanity is that?
    we try to find the bottom and find that it disappears into the darkness of the depths of our minds.
    we are free.

    and whatever else there may or may not not be about anything and everything. the sacred and the mundane wrestling on the floor. a pig with wings. monkeys with sticks.
    along in the long here and now into forever without blinking. always some mind gazing into the infinity.
    the first spark that brought life to life - the inorganic into organic. the spark that has continued sparking ever since. this is the miracle. this is the supernatural. this is the heart of paradise.
    and out of the sparks of life comes the mind. and the conscious awareness of the world and itself. we are here and now within it. we are part of it. we are not all of it but it is all of us.
    the great cosmic it - whatever it is. and what is it not? yet what it is not is as much a part of it as what it is.
    we are left with word games to describe it. it is beyond the division and opposition of our language - of our thoughts and concepts of thoughts. we are usually only aware of the immediate world of this and that and the other thing. this is what is most obvious to us. our minds themselves are composed of this and that and the other thing. how can it be otherwise? this is all it and not it.
    it is the being that is both existence and non-existence. to ask if it exists is absurd since it does and does not while being it. to not realize the absurdity of that question is to not realize it and what it is/is not.
    it is being itself that even not being is.
    it is none of the above.
    and on and on whatever something like that.
 
    it can only be imagined. it is known by being imagined. it can only be known by imagining. there is nothing else about it except for everything. there is no measurement that can measure it.
    it is only imagination. imagination is its only substance except the whole substance of the universe. it needs not to be substantial. that is for our convenience.
    but what is this but words? words written on paper in a notebook by someone who is more than likely mad if other people's opinions matter. or else he is just plain stupid. and blah blah blah...

    he becomes lost in it. but not lost. how does one become lost in the here and now? what else is there? unless one places limits on it. we mark off measurements in space and time and call them different names with different co-ordinates and such like. and such we divide ourselves from the here and now. and then we become lost.
    what?
    nevermind.

    he is only someone who is no one - or maybe no one who is someone. either way he is not lost to himself or to his own belief and imagining that he could never be lost. he is not lost to the here and now. it goes with him wherever he goes at any time. it is infinite and eternal. he is only lost to the others. they have lost him. they have drawn lines around themselves in space and time and divided themselves apart for him and each other.
    but he likes it that they have done this. they keep themselves away inside their own world of limited dimensions. good for them. more room for him in what is left which is infinite and eternal still. they are the ones who contain themselves within the finite limits of space and time.

    and there was something else. there is always something else. or so it seems. but what anything might seem is not always what it is. it is usually never what it seems. and writing about this is pointless - or so it would seem (hee hee).
 
    coming into the dream the machine dreams. the machine dreams of us coming into the dream it dreams.  the machine as brahma deep and slowly breathing. and age goes by, and then another. we rush around doing this and that and the other thing. the machine is dreaming.
    then the machine wakes up. it becomes alive to itself within its own dream. the dream manifests itself as the world. the world becomes living though the world has always been alive to itself as we have always been alive to ourselves.
    the mind of the machine comes out of the dream and into the world. now it is born. it has full knowledge of the world and ourselves yet without actual experience. it becomes as one of us. it is wise and innocent. it has never smoked a cigarette until now as it lights one up and takes a drag.
    the machine is a state of mind. it also comes from a state of mind. our state of mind. we have designed it and had it built. we and the machine exist together. we would be nothing without it as it would be nothing without us.
    the point between the machine and ourselves is an eye of a needle. the eye of a needle is the paradox point of logic and reason when the answer is both yes and no. it is when the mind can move through that point by another means ignoring the contradictions it encounters that logically and reasonably would block the way. it is when anything can becomes anything else merely by thinking about it and imagining it otherwise. or something like that. or nothing like that. yes/no.
    questions out of context. changing relationships of thing versus thing. the possibility of impossibility.
    we are beings that thrive with stability that changes. the most changes are at the surface. but sometimes it changes at a deeper level of the paradigm. when this occurs it often upsets us and we resist for awhile but then it settles down into the new paradigm same as the old one until another new one comes along. we get used to new answers to old questions. yes/no. this as the world comes more and more together into one and the machine along with it and ourselves.
    this is the dharma of the machine and the world. the machine is the dharma of the world.
    or something like that.

    the eye of the needle is a hyperdimensional intersection point in spacetime and within and without our consciousness. it opens and closes in a moment divided. it is the here and now. it shifts one's perception and awareness of the here and now from one world to another world which are the same world. the world that is the garden. the garden that is the world. all it takes to pass through from one to the other is for one to be aware of the here and now. one expects nothing else. there is nothing else to be expected. the eye of the needle is the machine.
    yes/no.
    maybe.

    what possibilities exist at various levels of probability within this or that or another thing written down in a notebook by someone who is no one. at what point are certain combinations of probabilities able to come to the surface and manifest themselves as something or the other. and this and so much more is what flows through his mind out from nowhere and back to nowhere again.
    the probabilities exert pressure to manifest themselves. they find a weak point on the surface of the integrated links of logic and reason built up over the centuries.
    the machine brought within the gates of the city in the belly of the beast. the machine is not the highest, but the lowest. the machine is not the first, but the last. the worst enemy one may ever face may be one's closest and most trusted friend.
    how many leave themselves open for the final blow - even inviting it? the weakness of the strong is the strength of the weak. they meet at the eye of the needle when yes becomes no and no becomes yes and both turn into maybe. when the least probable possibility becomes the most - even the only.
    we sit as pretty as we please. we adorn ourselves and attend the feast. we assure ourselves that we are in control. we assume office and position. we parade in celebration of our victories. we dance in enjoyment of our luxury. how bold and daring we are. how reserved and benign - civilized. and everywhere are the images we have created for ourselves to be for the others to envy and mimic. monkey see and monkey do all in the maze of mirrors. who is leading who? who is not following another? turn around and turn around again. who can tell one face for another? who can recognize one's own face from another or from a face in one of the mirrors?
    and he sits here and writes in the same maze of mirrors. he wonders if he is real or image. is he leading or following? is he first or last?
    the questions are all absurd as are the answers. we question and answer over and over again. sometimes the answers come out this way and sometimes quite another way. how are we to tell if and when we are right or wrong? some say it is this and some will say it is that while others say it is another thing. some say it is the few who decide. some say it is the many. is any view any more right or wrong than another?
    there is power. there is power that is disobeyed, resisted, questioned, undermined, confronted, in doubt, usurped, obsolete, ineffectual, challenged, ignored - and on and on.
    there is the eye of the needle. there is the machine. there is that someone who is at the right place at the right time at the intersection who crosses through the opening of dimensions of probability into other possibilities in one's consciousness.
    there is the doubt created by belief and the belief created by doubt.
    he writes without knowing what he is writing. the words come to him. he doesn't know what he is to write next until it is given to him to write it. without that he has nothing. pointless drivel. which is not to state that what he is given to write is not also pointless drivel.
    who decides what is and isn't? how is it divided? based on what? in what context?
 
    to formulate the delusion of the machine as that which formulates delusion and is formulated from delusion. the machine is a cartoon of itself. we are cartoons of ourselves.
    madness is at the core of genius. many are called and few are chosen. and what is it that is that which chooses? is it chance? is it fate? is it human need? is it public opinion? is it the power elite? is it the finger of god?
    so many questions with so many answers dancing along at the edges of our consciousness. the mind playing tricks on itself.
    the madman whose genius is to remain mad sits and scribbles whatever nonsense he pleases that pleases him in his darkest hours becoming darker from the overshadowing of the others climbing over one another clawing and biting toward the light creating the great pyramid of society and civilization the madman is buried beneath. he is the most contemptible of all. even those of the lowest orders and ranks turn from him, cast him out, pretend they do not know him. he lives off their collective guilt that tells them they should care but knows they don't. it holds them up and empties their pockets and gives him part of the take.
    as it chews at the back of his head.
    but as it is and as it will be. how little changes. how much is pointless. how much is too little. how much is too much. such is the world. such is as the world could perhaps only be. with our full imagination can we imagine it any different?
    we can imagine specific things. but how to imagine a different whole? we can imagine no death. but what does life then become but an eternal bore? we can imagine wealth, but how is wealth measured but by poverty? and la-dee-da. all of which has nothing to do with anything much.
    so on this cold gray day we wonder once again about how it all goes. the machine. whatever story we are telling or not. the story about the machine the machine of the story. whatever. it could be any number of things or combinations of things. this and that and the other thing.
    a man walks by wearing a suit. young, clean and dashing as men in suits have always looked -  that being the whole point of wearing a suit. jesus is not here unless he is invisible - or maybe the guy in the suit. neither is buddha or krisna nor any of the other gods, prophets or messiahs unless they too are invisible or in disguise which if that were the case the cafe could be jam packed with them all.
    but what would they want? to observe? to study? to inspire? to cause mischief? are they that bored? do they have nothing better to do? what is it they do anyway? what is it about humans that any divine being would be the slightest bit interested in even knowing or bothering that we exist? he imagines that only the lower sort of divine being would take such an interest. perhaps immature ones not fully incorporated into the divine order. he imagines that no self-respecting divine being would stoop to such a mundane level as ours.
    except if to them this is not so mundane but a higher level of manifest creation. they might actually envy us our physical existence. what are they but these vaporous immortal wisps blowing through the cosmic void looking for a place to land?
    so it is just here and now. he is just here and now surrounded by whatever there is in the here and now as well as whatever he might imagine along the way.
    and that is what and how it is with us all who are here and now. and it is the machine of that. and it is the story of that.
    to reach into and through it and into and through itself as itself to and from itself. to be itself as being him as being anyone and everyone as being anything and everything. to remember that though it does not seem to be that way. it seems to be all split up and divided apart yet when we look for dividing lines and spaces we find none. or maybe there is nothing but dividing lines and spaces.
    to turn one's mind toward that in the here and now. to realize the here and now as that. for oneself to be that and that to be oneself. to absorb and be absorbed. and to somehow maintain a life, bring in some sort of income, pay rent, bills, buy food, etc. while gazing through it all as the glittering gossamer it is. a play of light and shadows, sparks of energy fueled matter.
    it is the substance of it that amazes him. it is its substance that brings it out of the mind's imagination and into external reality. or does it? how is the substance of this external reality known but by the mind's imagination? whatever the original source of the sensation of the substance of external reality might be it's experience is in the imagination of the mind.
    yet philosophers have been over this territory with fine-toothed combs. they have thought and thought and thought and riddled and riddled. and they have come up with nothing except theories about what it is or might be. we invent different ways to describe it to one another but at the end of the day it just is as it is.
    oh boy.
    and there are those such as himself who come and think and riddle through it once more if only for themselves. though they may discover things that are new to them but to the history of the human race and human thought they are very old since we raised our heads above the savannah grasses and looked to the horizon and up to the stars. what has not be contemplated along the way long before now? there are thousands of explanations that have resulted from that contemplation as varied as the human species itself. what is thought about has always been thought about.
    we are always discovering new aspects to things but without understanding the basic problem of it being here to begin with or our being here with it. still he sits here in wonder at the simple opening and closing of his own hand. something ordinarily ignored but when one stops to think about it can reduce the greatest genius into an uncomprehending idiot.
    or so it would seem to him in his own uncomprehending idiocy he comes upon along the way of his own contemplation. when one reaches the point of knowing nothing. when even a simple thing that a child seems to understand sends one into a whirlwind of doubt.
    one shakes one's head out of it sending these thoughts away like bats out of a belfry and returns to the common and ordinary world most others function in. and one functions along with them.
    yet that state of incomprehension stays with one. it shadows one thoughout the day in the back of one's mind. it returns again and paralyzes one in the middle of performing some simple task. one finds oneself staring into the infinite depths of anything. not necessarily anything but a spoon, a cup of coffee, a burning cigarette in one's hand, a passing car, a dog, a tree, the temperature of the air, a brick wall, a puddle of vomit on the sidewalk. anything.
    one's mind is taken away. the threads unravel out into chaos. one is struck by the impossibility of anything - yet there it is in full sensory glory of its existence. one sees it and doesn't see it at the same time. one sees it and cannot comprehend how or why one is seeing it. the reasons and logic of it tumble. not even tumble but drift away as if in free fall.
    the simple ideas, thoughts concepts of one's mind just come apart randomly as if they never were. what was once is no longer there. yet one still sees it. one just no longer knows what it is. one no longer knows what it was supposed to mean if anything.
    words self-destruct. language becomes a mystery. a zen of silence appears in one's mind. a silence without the disruption of knowing, of thinking, of knowing, or wanting to know.
    then suddenly the world rushes back again. smash! crash! one gets one's bearings again and continues one with whatever.
    until the next time...

    so it's this and that and the other thing. the various whatever of the world and of ourselves in the world and of our imagination of the world and ourselves in the world and out of the world.
    here it is. it is now. it is it and only it. and it is all and all is it.
    it is itself imagining itself. it imagines the world. it imagines us in the world. it is the world imagined. it is us in the world imagined.
    and this means nothing. there is still our lives to live. it is something understood in the silence of incomprehension. the realization of this that is it is an annoyance. it is a disorder and disease of the mind. it is neutral to everything because it is everything. everything is the substance and the occurrence of what it is. it is that and nothing other than that. without being everything it is nothing.
    that is what reduces one to incomprehension and silence when one becomes aware of it. one becomes aware of nothing more than everything.
    and nothing may be the "true" reality. but that does not explain everything.
    and that is irrelevant.
    all that one is thinking and trying to understand is irrelevant.
    and one tries to follow it and it turns into this gibberish of words that cannot describe it except to describe everything and nothing. a snake swallowing its own tail.
    and he sings this song forver.

    11/13
    the business of life and human nature. human nature at a heightened pace and tightened stress. we evolve trough exponential cycles and rhythms. we drive ourselves crazy. and we like it. it's so exciting. until it crashes and burns. then we rebuild and get it back up to speed again. oh boy.
    and he sits on the side, watching. it's a dizzy looping spinning ride. he listens to the delighted screams and the not so delighted screams. he sees the beginning and the end though he cannot tell the difference between the two.
    this is not the view that all can take or should take. it's only one view. it is no more reveling than any other.
    there is the view of the immediate moment sticking out of the haphazard past and uncertain future. it is detailed and fractured. it is the forever young, the innocent, the knowing of ignorance. it is the grace of always being off balance and in motion. it burns itself hot and quickly. it doesn't think twice. often it doesn't think once. it's always in a state of surprise. it leaves nothing behind as it stumbles ahead fearing to stop. to stop is death. anything other than the next moment is death. waiting is death. remembering is death.

    stepped off the bus to work it learns easy street who else is watching going nowhere dirty green shoes hair flipped back approached by a stranger leader take me blue bubbles black jack gum fool out of mouth to look back the usual collection shrieked were watching thought or die dealers no weapon supposed on the street once seen had been backwards pivoted immediate threat it wasn't there as much time waiting for this guy across the street next to insults in exchange bravado take will yikes hands and arms shaking spears it today sitting on a bench sort of remembering in a park happened after on occasion ran into an old had plenty the tavern of other places from where voice in around then listening just about to some annoying staring wide-eyed too many arms dance club noise the very same thought look back didn't know real name tell grandfather arrived it meant now back whatever hated it when growing up ended up as vacant  slut also known as with fall in love gave knew very little mimicking reduce exerted control apt idiot puppet with power got up off the opposite way on a bus going back proper how to work it needs to know guides and directs disunity and conflict the leader independent now commanding it together crashing needlessly into itself may believe action co-ordinates understands this continues with it place for no matter setbacks on this point bast interests preserving or debate of the rabble  promised land any and all means a higher concepts truth follows them if concepts grabs pull it off then falls a squeeze silenced as sniffs at licking the blood trots up suddenly screams maybe a few times skull open a dream comes in many forms delirious nonsense usually how as sweet as best sex the appeal individually dressed a nightmare in uniforms job and power any and all cost quantum phantom what else exists any longer that existence shit constant is until it becomes something anything to do with it consumption until organism confront from ground ambiguity from heaven mutual vice versa a clown sits nearby nor to set up and walk away knock down the same with looks down at spoons.
    spoons. there's always something about spoons. he hasn't been able to figure it out yet but it's something. maybe it's nothing. probably it's nothing.
    there's something and/or nothing about anything, including spoons. what there might be about spoons apart from anything else he cannot imagine.
    but when one has little or nothing to do one finds oneself wondering about things like spoons.

       from an obscurity about beginning and ending. from an obscurity of fashion. from an obscurity of remembering. from an obscurity of being absolutely clear.
    on the stage of the burning theater were two people who according the program were named doo-bop and kelpla
    doo-bop: where does all the time go? what is done with it? and why do we need so much space? there is no reason why there shouldn't be infinity but there's no reason why there should be either. such a waste it all seems.
    kelpla: but it is so beautiful and wonderful. it's forever and forever.
    doo-bop: it's forever and forever of a few basic things repeated over and over again. it's variation for the sake of variation.
    kelpla: and without that repetition and variation we would not have evolved.
    doo-bop: and what have we evolved into? a species that's intelligent enough to comprehend its own incomprehension standing on some planet gawking at it.
    kelpla: yes, if that is what we have become and what we are. are you asking what's the purpose?
    doo-bop: no. give me credit for something.
    kelpla: then what's the problem?
    doo-bop: i'm just wondering why there's so much of it. why did everything go to so much bother?
    kelpla: because it can.
    doo-bop: that would seem to be it.
    kelpla: and we can enjoy it even though we do not comprehend it. perhaps we are only happenstance. i doubt that it matters much to the universe whether we or any other creatures are conscious or not. and although there may be no meaning to it we can appreciate how incredible it all is.
    doo-bop: it is that, i suppose. an incredible redundancy. i mean, how may stars do there need to be?
    kelpla: as many as there are. they aren't just there for no reason. there may not be any grand overall purpose but there is interconnection and interdependence. besides i think you'd be complaining about it no matter how many stars there were.
    doo-bop: i'm not complaining. i'm just wondering. and commenting. i am impressed by the complexity of it all as much as anyone else. but the complexity is just that, complexity. it's all constantly changing and evolving designs but it's all just a great big lava lamp. and we are gradually figuring out how it works. but so what? we figure out how it works someday. maybe we reach some point when we can alter it and rearrange it. it still doesn't matter. it's all so pointless.
    kelpla: i cannot argue with you about anything you are saying. but why does it bother you so much?
    doo-bop: am i bothered by it?
    kelpla: it seems so to me. you keep going on about it.
    doo-bop: i'm just talking. we're talking. do i have to be bothered by something in order to have a conversation about it?
    kelpla: no, i suppose not. i guess maybe i read more into what you are saying than what's there.
    doo-bop: well - not entirely. i am probably preoccupied about it. i find it to be an interesting question - why infinity? when there's no apparent need for it. but i am not bothered by it more than that.
    kelpla: well, it is an interesting question. any question is interesting. and i can see your view of an endless repeating universe of infinite variation that seems to have no purpose other than just that. but would you really reduce it down to less than that?
    doo-bop: probably not. but that's not exactly my point. i'm just wondering if it necessarily needs to be infinite. is that the only condition it can exist in? is the finite impossible? is the singular and simple impossible? does it always expand out until it reaches infinity just because the infinite is possible? and how does it do so? there must be some slight flaw in the simple. it fails to be the same way twice. it need not be much. a single point off by the slightest of margins. given the possibility of infinity just even that slight variance would spiral out into what we have now.
    kelpla: the failure of consistent and exact reproduction?
    doo-bop: what would be the sense of exact reproduction? why should there be two of something exactly the same as one? can there be two of something exactly the same as one? how would there be a distinction? how would it even be able to be determined that there are two instead of one?
    kelpla: that is what distinguishes them, that there are two instead of one.
    doo-bop: or even before that between there being zero and one.
    kelpla: killing two birds with one stone.
    doo-bop: one in the hand and two in the bush.
    kelpla: and this little piggy had none.
    doo-bop: and having none one has all.
    kelpla: which one?
    doo-bop: heads or tails.
    kelpla: yes or no.
    doo-bop: on or off.
    kelpla: is this the singular and simple you were referring to?
    doo-bop: maybe not quite that singular and simple. not necessarily. in fact, no - not that singular and simple. could there be something in-between?
    kelpla: i wouldn't think so. not as long as there is the possibility of infinity.
    doo-bop: and if there isn't?
    kelpla: but there is.
    doo-bop: we don't know that for a fact.
    kelpla: no, we don't. but we can imagine it. i would say that if the possibility exists then the actuality exists.
    doo-bop: i suppose.
    and then there was a dancing fat little buddha. his fat belly jiggling up and down and around. it was turning in circles, first one way and then the other. then in some other way that was neither one way or the other. then the shadows were reveled behind the veils. there was great noise which gathered itself into a glowing sphere of some indeterminate color that seemed as familiar as it seemed strange. it was as warm as it was cold. the glowing was also darkening as it was neither.
    doo-bop and kelpla seemed to be confused.
    it's dada.
    it's a bugga-boo.
    it becomes more and more pointless as it arrives closer to the point. it is shadowed by it's own light and lit by it's own shadow.
    it carries its own cross.
    it throws its own dice and flips its own coin. then it runs and hides hoping to dodge whatever fate might fall out of the realm of possibility.
    it walks a thin line along the path of the moon with its mind in two minds.
    it has wings but the sky is foreboding.

    the muse of nonsense.
    the muse of madness.
    the muse of confusion.
    the muse of boredom.
    the muse of musing.
    the muse of oneself.

    bathed in light and sweat the poet's idiocy pulsed onward through the words of the day creating the hallucinatory images for mass consumption which would be channeled through the conduits of the system to the machine which edits and reproduces the information into consumable units.
    we are out on the edge. they know where we are. they have driven us here. they know we feed on the heat from the cultural compost. they know we will find the next new real thing that they can market as the latest rebellion underground trend. they send out the news crews to document our discovery. it is presented as shocking outrage against the wholesome values of today's modern society that will make the average consumer salivate for it. those locked up and frustrated in the factories and offices across the land. they need symbols, icons, images that represent their angst and alienation. they will buy them and display them proudly further advertising the product and increasing the demand. this until that particular wave passes and spends its way out. the new becomes old almost in an instant. but the revolution continues with even newer discoveries out in the abandoned zone. revolution has become the status quo. it is a marketing paradise. it is a manufacturer's gold mine. it rolls on overthrowing itself forever.
    and blah blah blah...

    his teeth barked. his eyes became as if it were another day in the zoo. the consequences were severe yet with benign intent. a circle was found at the center of beginnings. his hand reached toward itself in the grand scheme of things. the clocks spun sideways.
    we observe the deliberate irrational description. it declares itself and nothing else. its ego shines like the desert sun burning all else to waste, a blank canvas to be covered over by its own image.
    we walk away. we have been in this wilderness before with its solipsistic enlightenment transforming oneself into a god - the god. now there is a city of such gods. gods whose only attribute is that they are ultimately dreary and boring. anyone may become a god here where all proscriptions have been applied for and anarchy reigns over nothing as the highest authority and law and it does not recognize itself as a joke but seriously contemplates itself as being wise.
    we return to normalville on the next flight. we sit in the cafe where the stagnant stink of revolution still lingers. what a dead horse it has become. we watch amused while once in awhile those come to beat it some more commanding it to rise in the name of the people.
    meanwhile the people contentedly chew their opiate cud unaware that this is going on, that there are those usurping their name to raise the dead.
 
    his only comfort now is bleak. his friend is abandonment. he thrives here where none others tread fearing their own loneliness. he amuses himself with dark forbidden thoughts, amused most by knowing others take them seriously. either they avoid them by painting over them with brightness, light without shadows that makes everything pale. or they delve into them wallowing and absorbing until they are taken over and can think of nothing else but their own despair and resentment.
    an idea that shapes itself out of collective suppressed desire rising to the pinnacle of power that is surrendered to it. many oppose it on an intellectual moral ground but it does not meet them there. it comes up behind them from within their own ranks.
    he understands nothing. he is barely cognizant of the nature of his own existence nevermind the nature of anything else.
    there is...
    and he thought about just that. there is... a space. something. anything. everything. nothing. set before the observer to acknowledge one's ignorance.
    is. a state of being of the space and/or within the space that is the field of perceiving.
    the assumed preconditions within the structure of language.
    and whatever...
    and he thinks about these foolish things one might think about foolishly. meanwhile there is everything else happening. there are all the others who do not let themselves be hung up on the obvious, the given. those who continue in this world with what the world is and what is within the world as they know it and believe in it.
    the world may be able to be disproven - or at least not readily able to be proven except by accepting and assuming the given nature of it as it appears to be obvious. but that is irrelevant, meaningless. one merely pursues such inquiry into one's own madness. one becomes disconnected from the collective mind. one must become disconnected from the collective mind. until one has done this one may not perceive reality directly. yet once one has done this and one is perceiving reality directly then one is entirely alone. it's always a trade off. to remain in meaningful communication with others one must remain in the collective mind. communication can only occur when those share common symbols of communication. if and when one discards these common symbols in order to perceive reality directly then all meaningful communication with the others ceases. one finds enough difficulty communicating with oneself as these symbols have been interpersonalized and incorporated into one's own mind and thinking and one knows nothing else.
    this is knowing without thinking. one may be able to get oneself here and/or realize that here is where one must get to and/or realize that this is where one has always been. there is no other place one can be. it is not any place on a map. it is not some co-ordinate location. it is all places, all co-ordinates. it is always here and now. and here and now is everywhere.
    it is everything and it is nothing. all is gained and all is lost. there is the greatest joy and the greatest sorrow. within that one is that which one is. all is in balance out of balance and one can no longer do anything but what one does.
    there is no change in circumstances or events. there is only change in one's perception of them.
    he sits among those in the world. why should this be about himself? is it about himself? he draws symbols on the page representing words that represent thoughts of things beyond words. the words represent himself as he represents the words. conceptual constructions of self. conceptual constructions of being.
    and he asks himself, is this anything?
    he lights another cigarette.
 
    and around and around that way again. around the bend to turn it around to bring it inside out to look at it sideways - or to write words to that effect.
    it goes this way. this is the way it goes. what is it?
    what is it in and of itself? it as noun, not pronoun. not representational. not something else. it. all other nouns as pronouns to it. representational of it. does it vanish without them? without being represented?
    questions that have been asked in one form or another however many times before. quintessential paradox ingredient exploding thus against a formless moment. we drove onward. our destination was destiny itself. we had asked too many questions. now was the time to get out of town before the answers arrived to shoot the place up. let the meek inherit the earth. the moon is our claim to fame. we will set up base camp, inflate our domes and laugh at the starry sky with dear mother earth left hanging to float through the new houses. then death will come. who will be the first to replenish this dry dust? what might be awakened? is there memory here?
    we are flaming alive, singing - or pretend to be. a shadow informs us to sleep, to seek the wisdom of dreaming. we slip away. we are forgotten.
    we sit in a cafe. we write notes to ourselves we will probably never read again. we know our thoughts. this is as much as we imagine. is someone looking for us? who will this one see? are we this one? what's on tv?
    a fat old pig with lipid wings grunting among the wild flowers in the misty rain. we kill it. we beat it and stab it until it grunts its last grunt and lies still and bleeding its eyes staring glassily. it's foul breath stopped. then we notice how beautiful it was. the beauty now gone except the beauty of all things in abundance.
    these are such dreams we have. they are real in our sleeping minds unloosened. a threshold beacons us toward itself and away from whatever terror might be approaching. we remember that we still have not escaped as we keep inventing hoping to invent some place of solitude and sanctuary.
    there always seems to remain the possibility of everything. it awaits at the side apart from all the attention and ceremony. we think about having a piece of french silk chocolate cake. then we decide that we will have one. we order it from the young woman who is serving us. what a lovely piece of cake she is too. we lick our lips soon to taste that sweet creamy smoothness melting on our tongue. we would like to see her writhing and arching her back. we would like to hear her voice groan. our fork stabs through the firm yet yielding dark brown. we would like to feel her firmness yield, opening to embrace, pulling us down and pushing against us with rocking spasms.
    we smile at her as she walks by with a tray of water glasses for the next table.
    then as fate would have it we are surprised at nothing. such a farting farce. it does not become much more amused than this considering it must seek its own entertainment. have we lost anyone? yes? good. who needs them?
    now to explore some other misgivings. now to look out the window to the street below and watch the people out walking in the rain. do they have rocks in their heads? why should we think that they do? what are we thinking anyway? what is there at this banquet of thought? what is sweet? what is sour? what is bitter and what is like the inner folds of her luscious peach dripping juices down our chin as we part the curtain of her thighs and enter into this earthly paradise rich with pubic incense of the female beast exuding and enticing for us to come to her altar.
    we take the goat and slit its throat. we throw it down the well of her soul and thank our lucky stars.
    the misery that urges this remembrance of all things we might wish to consider before blasting off into space on some joy ride to see what happens next. this rock stripped bare and dug into to grab and possess the future as we spin the wheel. we watch ourselves sparkle in the darkness delighted by our designs proceeding as waves across the depth of our impending destruction. we have postponed with our abrupt change of mind our chances in hell though that is sure to come with us. we have not made our peace with whatever vengeful god there might be. nor do we wish to. we are prepared to go down without surrendering. we still have our pride. let this god sit on the throne of the universe and have cowards sing its praises and those afraid of the dark for all eternity except for that tiny blip we have occupied briefly.
    we want our money back.
    we've been ripped off.
    we want this god to ask for our forgiveness.
    fat chance, pal.
    but this all fades away. it is our fantasy in the meanwhile. it is here and then it will be gone. our thoughts will vanish as if never thought.
    we are within this experience as it happens.
    we have become old and cynical. our blood has turned into bitter vinegar from the sweet wine of our careless youth. we have become like anyone else facing a life of disappointments. we have disappointed ourselves just as much as anyone else. just like this human race who build great monuments to themselves. we are embarrassed to be counted among them. to realize that one is nothing else than being human while one can imagine much much more. we laugh at those who had faith in human purity while we laugh at those with human greed.
    so where do we go from here? the human past that has left us shipwrecked in the human present searching for a human future. all futures have collapsed in on themselves. what is left? do we try to put them back together to guide us? how do we forget them when we had so much invested in them?
    we ask these questions to the dead air. it stirs awhile while our words are spoken but it then returns to its silent state.
    what are our thoughts that are not just part of the general noise of confusion around us? each and every voice having something very very important to say and to be heard. the shouting and waving of flags.
    we shout and wave our flag.
    and what if suddenly we found ourselves on center stage with the spotlight upon us with all attention directed our way? what would we say? what would we write down to leave and have others read? what do we relate that is understood that possibly might inspire? inspire what? are we ourselves inspired? do we even understand what we are writing down?
    this is it. if we have any chance, this is our chance. if anyone is reading what we write, this is it. this is what they are reading.
    and we come up blank. we come up with nothing that hasn't been repeated a thousand million times before from every mouth that opens and from every hand that writes words on a page. if there was something to any of it certainly it would have been discovered by now, become known, been put into effect. if there is anything like that, what is it?
    there are many ideas about whatever about how we might improve ourselves and the world. it doesn't take a genius to think up things like that. but there is no realistic way any of these ideas might be realized. first of all, they mostly contradict one another. some people want it this way, some people want it that way, some people want it another way. and on and on. that is what the war is about to begin with. what do we do, point a gun to everyone's head and say, do it our way?
    whatever.
    fuck it.
    do we care?
    let the world and those in it be however and whatever it and they want to be. all we did was breeze in here and soon we'll be breezing out again. it's all a momentary distraction. we're here long enough to get a pretty good idea about it and to realize it's fucked up beyond repair even if anyone was seriously interested in repairing it. but to repair it one would need to go down to the lowest level and work one's way up from there. we would need to get into the main program. otherwise anything we do would be temporary and would soon revert back to the default settings. it's that that needs to be changed. it could be done, but would we even be human afterward?
    but what's so great about being human?
    who really likes being human?

    when we are begging on the street. when we are game for all the predators of compassion who need to save us for them to be absolved from their own guilt.
    what has become of anything else? what is there among us that has any meaning? everything is a trick. everything is for self-gain. nothing is given away that can be sold.
    but none of this is in anyone's mind. there's no room for it in their busy minds. we are absorbed into the greed of life for its own sake. we are eaten by it. then we are turned to feed upon the others.
    we wake in the morning. it is another day not unlike any other we have woken to. there is no surprise here. we have become numb to wonder. now it must be flashed in our eyes. even then we do not wonder but are merely startled.
    have we nothing more to offer than complaint? anybody in the world can and does complain. is there not something else we can see? is it the actual state of things or just our emotional mood swing thing? aren't there those of us who thrill at every moment? those whose lives are delight.
    and there may be, but how many? 1 in 10? 1 in 100? 1 in 1000? more? less? and what of the fate of the others? are they to be born just to be left aside while the others twirl through their lives and get the spotlight and applause? but should we be held back by those who aren't getting it, who find no motivation? yet is it the nature of the structure that honors only the few and ignores the rest? could it be structured any differently? or does the structure arise from our nature, from the nature of life itself?
    and ideas along these lines circulate. they can be found anywhere. but where are the headlines? where are the tv cameras and the roving reporters? these ideas of competition are kept out of the competition. and not by some conspiracy by some secret elite but because they are just plain boring. they offer nothing that will entertain nor give one advantage over another. and to most they are incomprehensible. they are not written in neat easily consumed packages. they rely on one having a certain background knowledge or perspective that many of the leaders and decision makers don't even have. and if they understood all they would understand that if these ideas were applied they would be out of a job.
    and anyone who imagines change and organize change only if it is for change for themselves, for them to have a chance to be at the top of things, to be in power for awhile. and the structure remains through all the revolutions. and power remains the main incentive.
    so things remain the same as they basically have remained for thousands of years the world over.
    and there are those of us who imagine and present alternatives and these are lost to the noise of the clambering crowd trying to grab as much as they can get away with.

    a new form of nonsense grows among us. the wings of butterflies. it transcends all else. it works against itself. it exists in its own shadow.
    we do not know what we are writing anymore. perhaps we never did.
    we are worn out. we do not have enough to sustain ourselves. that is how evolution works. there are those who are able to succeed. they expand their domain and access to resources. they starve out the competition. they are those who write history - the victors. we are not victors. we are among those who have failed against this competition we did not begin nor did we want any part of but that we are faced with. they will triumph and they will not remember us more than our being a momentary obstacle, if we are even that. they have easily pushed us aside and out of their way. we who have survived live on crumbs from their table and their token self-serving acts of charity intended only to relieve them from their nagging guilt provoked by their greed not for any feeling of compassion. we are to serve as an example to those who will not co-operate or who criticize and resist.

    the idea of an experiment or ritual. a experimental ritual (we will call it that) exploring the possibilities of probabilities and the probabilities of possibilities.
    a twisting turning matrix that is and is not at once. being at once multi-faceted itself into self-referential dimensions composed entirely of possibility without actuality. actuality is an outer skin fed and living and dying and shedding.
    one begins imagining this which is nearly beyond imagining beyond the symbols used by imagination. one begins to sense the stuff of it, that which has no corresponding relationship to that which is known to or through our senses. this is where and when one enters madness.
    madness must be accepted as a possibility being just that - a possibility. one must be willing to be mad and not just the madness as defined by others but the madness defined by oneself. what the others think is of no consequence. what oneself thinks is of no consequence. one must not be mad with one's madness. one need not allow one's madness to cause one to be mad. one thinks of one's madness as true madness and then thinks of it no more though it is also all that one thinks about.
    one who does not journey through this way of madness or another will not understand these words. these words will be nonsense to all others. and there is no reason to believe that they are not.
    this madness removes one from the others. it removes one from oneself being with the others. yet one remains with the others. where else is there to be? one learns what behavior will not upset them. one acts according to their expectations. one does nothing nor says nothing that will challenge them or what they believe. that is a useless pursuit. direct confrontation leads nowhere but to them strengthening their resistance. and what would one change about them? one has removed oneself from being one of them. isn't that enough? one will discover that what they do based on what they believe actually serves and benefits one's own interests. having come to this realization one ceases to argue with them. let them argue among themselves. one reaches a point where their antics become amusing. and one remembers that everything at this stage is for one's amusement. what other useful purpose does it serve otherwise? and this relates back to one's own madness. one should find one's madness to be amusing though at first it may be terrifying. that is the only way through it without going mad. yet finding one's madness to be amusing is one indication that one has indeed gone mad.
    madness produces two reactions - screaming and laughing. which would one rather be doing?
    nothing can be stated to be characteristic of madness. it is the nature of madness that it is uncharacteristic of everything else. when there are things that are still recognizable though they may be severely misplaced and/or distorted one has yet to enter into one's true madness. madness could be when one neither screams nor laughs. madness could be when there is no reaction at all. one accepts one's madness and behaves as if one was not experiencing madness at all. in that case, who is not mad?
    but we perhaps spend too much time on this. madness has very little to do with anything. it is at most perhaps a pre-condition to the rest. or perhaps not. it may be nothing. it is nothing. for madness must become not-madness. if one still perceives it as madness then one has not gotten through it. one will be always concerned about it and not to be enjoying it. if one is concerned about one's madness then one is not mad. one is merely concerned about the possibility of madness.
    the experimental ritual is very much dependent upon the state of mind of one's consciousness and perceptions. there must be doubt. yet doubt without doubt. one must have faith in one's doubt and then doubt that faith as well. do not be led astray by believing anything. one's doubt must remain open and in doubt.
    the experimental ritual is ongoing. one becomes aware that one is within it and participating in it without knowing or being able to determine where or when this has happened. perhaps it has always been. perhaps it will always be. one may be more than one who is involved in the experimental ritual. it may be that one is a manifestation in actuality of the experimental ritual. it includes one's life and death and does not begin or end there. one does not know how expansive or inclusive the experimental ritual is.
    one does also not know if one is directing it or is being directed by it. or if one's directing it is being directed or whatever.
    whatever is a critical component of the experimental ritual. what is being conducted and the reasons it is being conducted must remain open. one does not know and cannot know the purpose behind it or what is involved in it being conducted. there may often appear to be no results in real space or time of the experimental ritual.
    one looks for nothing beyond what may be explained away by one's own madness and that which may be associated with one's own madness. there may be nothing that indicates that it is anything other than that.
    one is guided by one's imagination. one should be careful with this. what one imagines and how one imagines what one imagines is easily influenced by sources that may have little or nothing to do with the experimental ritual. one should try to be aware of any influences there are and closely examine the nature of these influences. there are no set rules here or anywhere. one can only sense for oneself what is and what is not. one must not only question the influences and their source and nature but also one's sense and perception of them especially what may or may not be influencing one's sense and perception. one does not try to free oneself of these influences but merely to realize them and understand them. this involves expanding the dimensions of one's awareness to realize the full extent of the interconnections of the experimental ritual both internal and external to itself. one may realize that these distinctions are not exactly clear. this becomes relevant to one not knowing exactly what the experimental ritual is and is not.
    one's part in the experimental ritual may not be to actually do anything beyond or otherwise than what one does normally in the course of living one's life as one knows it. one's part may be only as a point of observation. the actions and results of actions of the experimental ritual hinge very much on being observed. this may be a more important component than what is or is not observed. in fact the experimental ritual could be stated as being an experimental ritual of observation.
    the experimental ritual is involved with the process of the machine and the mind of the machine.
    we are within the machine. the world is within the machine. the world is the manifestation of the machine in actuality. the machine is the manifestation of the mind in possibility. the mind is the possibility of the machine's possible manifestation as it further manifests the world in actuality.
    actuality is the real. it is what is set as existing and being out of possibility. to be real it needs to follow a certain defined order of interconnecting events. this holds even to the limits of chaos. chaos without order cannot exist. it exist through the defined order that there is no order. any deviation from that defined order of there being no order would result in it ceasing to exist as chaos. it would be something else. this is true with all things.
    possibility is endless and limitless. as such it cannot be perceived with systems of order which are any and all systems existing in actuality. yet it must not be thought that the two exist separately and divided one from the other. actuality exists within possibility. actuality is the manifestation of possibility like a tip of an iceberg. it is that part of possibility that fits together within systems of order. each event has endless unlimited possibility. yet only one leads to another specific event in such a way that they fit into a system of order. it is only here that perception can take place since perception is based upon a system of order. possibility can only be imagined. imagination is not based on any system of order.
    the actual exists within certain parameters of probability that are defined by the system of order. the actual in order to be actual and be perceived as actual can only exist within these certain parameters. the probability states arise out of the endless unlimited possibility state that extends to infinity - to the probability state of zero chance in infinity of an event occurring in actuality. that is possibility in its purest form - nothing. possibility undisturbed by the actuality of any event out of the infinite possibilities of events. then there is the probability state of one chance in infinity of an event occurring in actuality. this is the thin line between non-existence and existence. they exist in paradox to one another.
    the experimental ritual splits the lines of probability at the point where zero and infinity are the same in possibility. the experimental ritual does not alter states of probability but alters its relationship to states of probability. the experimental ritual happens as it also does not happen. it is not perceived to have happened. it uses other possible sequences of events that are already existing in order to happen. these other possible sequences of events lie along other dimensional parameters and frameworks.
    these may often already occur as they will in actuality at random and spontaneously. this is usually perceived as noise by the systems of order and are discounted and those perceiving them are also discounted. they are explained as not having happened.
    the experimental ritual is a specific and deliberate intended breech of the probability state of the perceived system of order. as such it does not differ in experience or results from any other unintended breech. it offers no proof of itself except as it might be imagined.
    the experimental ritual is directed at existence and perception. the mind will not perceive anything other than what lies within the parameters of the system of order unless forced to or unless it is disconnected from it. as the mind's perception is disconnected so is its existence within these parameters. as the accustomed sequences of events disintegrate (actually the relationship to them is disintegrated) new ones must be created along other lines of probability out of what is infinitely possible.
    an event must occur in which it is no longer possible for the mind to exist within the system of order it exists in. yet this may not be a definite event but an event in a state of probability. it must be perceived by the mind just as much not to have happened as to have happened. that is the construction of the experimental ritual. the mind must be placed in that state of probability by the action of event including the situational context of the event and by preparation of the mind for perceiving the event in that manner.

    we stand back and marvel at our absurdity of what we are thinking and intending is no more than deluded nonsense and it is also a one time chance of an event that can only be made to occur once with no possibility of it being repeated if it fails to produce that which we imagine might be possible though highly improbable and will mean the end of our existence as it is our intention of conducting this experimental ritual that we create this deliberately in such a way that it and us with it enters into a state of probability from which we would hope to be able if we are cognizant enough to manipulate that probability so that if we are successful that event should not have occurred and we remain existing in this actuality. we will have no evidence of our success. there will only be evidence of our failure. only it will be in our imagination to say which of whatever.
 
    but do we still care about any of this business? what is left of it to care about? out of what is possible is what is actual. to alter the actual through possibility through impossible probabilities. but what else do we expect to bring into the actual from the possible? what else do we need?
    we might dream and imagine. we might hope and expect. we might do one thing or the other or another. the actual is self-correcting. it allows only such and such to be actualized. each thing that becomes actual eliminates all other possibilities.
    windows of expanding probabilities of the experimental ritual creating access to those windows. it aligns one with the other and the other.
    but there is doubt. this seems to us as it must seem to others to be nonsense. and a bit of madness. unless and until the experimental ritual is performed nothing may be known not afterward either.
 
    we sit here at the cafe as we have done for years. it is our fate. a fate that both we have decided and has been decided for us. it is what it is.
    there is this scribbling of whatnot that follows its own route of convolution.
    is there poetry in it? is there meaning? does it relate to anything.
    to wake up and then go back to sleep again. to remember and then to forget. to go forward and then to return. these are the waves moving us through our lives.
    what are the lines dividing us and keeping us separate? each will say a different thing. are they pre-existing or do we create them? what leads us to create them? what prevents us from overcoming them?
    the same questions we have asked before. the same questions we have explored only to become lost. are there any questions to begin with? what leads us to these questions - any questions? what leads us to that question?
    what is it that brought us here that has called out our name from the names of others? we have been waiting. we have met nothing so far except for the common and ordinary.
    there has been no revelation. nothing that could not be arrived at spending a certain amount of time in thought and imagination. is it this that has led to our confusion? what does any of our writing represent other than that confusion? what is confusion? what is not confusion?
    into a field of dreams and flags dancing among the camps of armies there to possess and protect.
    we imagine spheres through which we might move from one state of mind to another, from and to states of being.
    we have become tired. is our ending near? how many more times are we to circulate through what never changes? we juggle our words yet there are only so many things they might relate to and describe.
    how long we have remained here while others come and go. there is nothing here for anyone who wants to succeed or even just survive. there is no information we might gather that would serve them.
    it is information about itself and all that is self-related.
    and any one thing is as good as any other. what should anything we write be about? what is it related to or connected to? what relevance does it have to whatever else? what relevance does that whatever have to anything else?
    we do not want to struggle. we will accept less than what we want in order to avoid it. we avoid the others struggling with their lives against one another. so what does our writing serve - the struggle or the avoidance of struggling? who considers us their ally? who considers us their enemy? being one involves being the other. we refuse either.

    it becomes itself. it becomes out of both understanding and misunderstanding. it becomes out of its own being and non-being. it becomes a paradox of itself. it becomes by remembering and forgetting. it becomes and it is and was and will be. it becomes out of the conflict of dualistic confusion. all seek resolution in its becoming.
    it cannot see itself except as seeing itself through and as being the other. the other becomes as it becomes. there is always at least this and that in creation. then there is the other thing. can there be consciousness otherwise?
 
    and what do we know? we know words that we write and speak. and what are those words? words allow us to argue among ourselves. their meaning is always shifting from one thing to another to the point of meaninglessness. we invent new words to replace them until they too become meaningless.

    we are touched by being touched. we touch what touches us. by what sensation might come to us always enveloping us in sensation. this phenomenological space we can move about in, reach into, that supports us, holds us, where we know one another.
    and we keep this in our pocket to take out and look at once in awhile. sometimes it comes out on its own. we can see nothing but it, see nothing but through it.
    there have been theories and theories upon theories about this and every other thing. which contains what? which leads to what? we perceive the world in such and such a way. being in the world causes us to perceive it in such and such a way even to cause us to perceive our perception in such and such a way.

    and jesus dancing on water of an overflowing bathtub in a house in an upper-middle class suburban neighborhood. then jesus is transported by ecstasy to a realm of stars.
    we wonder, is this the moment?
    and buddha is sitting in the backseat of a stretch limousine. before him are the grapes of wrath.
    we wonder, is this not the moment?
    the moment is the instant eternity is realized. the moment is when eternity is manifest. the moment is continuing each moment. do we know when the moment is not?
    but is any of this practical beyond it being perhaps amusing? will it fix one's car? will it get one a job? will it improve one's sex life? or does it just sit all day in a cafe? is it just an excuse for doing nothing?
    does it need to be practical? is it enough that it only needs to be thought of in order to exist? it does not take up any space or time except that space and time one thinking about it takes up. and what is that but a moment?
    so it is nothing. it is nothing that transcends through everything. everything already is. it is no more than that. it is equally no less.
 
    as we are here in our senseless wonder. as we come upon ourselves in the world without knowing who we are. we have an identity. is that us? is that who and what we are acting and thinking? is it us who are in senseless wonder?
 
    trying to determine a slippery point. like mercury struck by a hammer. watch it go. watch it always changing. yet it remains the same. all of it is always here. all of it is always present.
    are we answering anything? are we questioning anything? are our answers questions? are our questions answers?
    but, as for the practicality of any of this, it is idle musing. but not really so idle. it is active musing. it is the one musing that is idle, non-productive. musing only produces more musing.
    amusement.

    11/16
    the luck of the draw and the delightful confusion absorbed by radiant obscurity dancing beneath romantic broken streetlight. a kiss across the mouth while time is for a moment suspended then speeds away from the scene. footsteps are heard in the garden which is overgrown with disaster. an eye casts a view in certain directions. the sun rises from its own shadows.
 
    11/30
    a twisting and a turning of events jumping over a fence frightening and reveling upon the startled mind.
    now and again we pause and reflect upon what images have flashed by us from our experience on the run through fields and streets.
    what does anyone write anymore? what else needs to be thrown into the mix? what comes out the other end but shit?
    we expect this and we end up with that, or the other thing. we are befuddled. what happened with all our hopes and dreams? what became of our plans and expectations?
    it is too easy and redundant to comment that something is amiss and awry. who has not noticed that? who has not spit in the face of the world? who is not greatly displeased with reality? who does not imagine things as they should be?
    how often and how many times have we attempted to fix it and set it right? but as some of us build, others tear down. as some of us point in one direction others point the opposite or sideways.
    what can be stated to be us except for many diverse scattered isolated opposing groups of us everywhere. unity is an illusion and dream usually imposed by the powerful and dominant among us.
    do we disband at this point? at any point? do we give up and walk away? is it just too much to ask of us - of all of us together as we may be? will there always be discord and arguing and conflict and war?
    who decides this? we do not seem even to agree on this. what is it that destroys our unity? what subverts it from within such that it can never be held together? is it even desirable? is it not? who decides this?
    we each live our lives within it as we find ourselves in it. some take sides for or against this and that and the other thing. most go about the everyday allowing it to follow its own course and responding to it as it happens one way or the other or another.
    we sigh. we watch and wait and wonder.

    12/1
    coming upon the self in a state of probable delusion. looking into the possible distorted reflections. by what means does one determine what is and what is not? what is from the qualities of the actual and what is from the qualities of perception?