and something of another beginning. and something exactly the same as the rest. he wasn't there yet. he was perhaps close. he didn't know. he in many ways never felt so far away from it. and he didn't know what it was. he had tried to define it. he tried to locate it either within himself or without. he applied different names to it. he eventually came around to just referring to it as it.
    it
    it is it.
    and what else did he have? of what possible use was anyone or anything else to him or was he to anyone or anything else? what they expected it of him. what he expected it of them. it was the same, or was it? it was elusive whatever it was. and maybe he made too much of it. he should let it go. but anything that didn't lead to it seemed pointless and absurd. and he couldn't stop writing about it and writing was all he had left.
    climbing back out and climbing back in. writing a bunch of words to avoid doing anything. what was there to do? what was he avoiding?
    he wanted to know about the nature of reality. what could he believe in? he didn't believe in himself. he didn't believe in the people around him.
 
    and we are waiting here. and we are watching him. and we are watching the people around him. everybody trying to decide what the fuck is going on. and these words. these shapes of words coming out of his pen onto the pages of notebooks. is he the same as them? who are we asking? who do we allow to decide?
    what is happening is that there is a spoon. what is happening is that there is a rug and an ashtray. we bring these into it. we decide that they are happening. pay attention. we are going to make every attempt to lose anyone who is reading this. mix it up so they become confused and give up. to make it all seem pointless and meaningless so that they get frustrated and bored and go on to something else that is easier to understand. we don't want anyone with us unless one is serious about it and willing to go through what we went through to get it. there are no easy answers. if one wants easy answers then go elsewhere. there are all sorts of easy answers available. go to someone who is willing to do all the work for one and asks for nothing but probably all one's money. asks one not to use one's mind. asks one not to use one's will. asks one not to resist and to believe everything one is told. and many do. they do because it seems right. it fits comfortably into what they were already thinking and feeling. it lets them relax and sleep. and if that is all one wants, then go for it.
    we are not here doing what we do to make anyone feel comfortable. quite the contrary. we don't feel comfortable so why should anyone else feel comfortable? look at all the people fighting. look at the compromises they had to make with their lives. is this what one wants? to get in with one group or another and fight it out with the others in a world more and more rapidly tearing itself to pieces?
    we don't. not him either. not the others of our or his kind. and we're getting out. spinning following the thread through the madness around us. their madness. their madness that has gotten into our own heads that we have to rid ourselves of by going out of our minds. once upon a time. the nevermind. their madness we were born into and we are not a part of and it is not a part of us though our thoughts and words and actions are affected by it. great care must be taken to separate oneself from this madness that seems such an integral part of oneself. find one's own madness.
    the idea of it remains. the idea of it is all that's left. the idea of it is the only thing that can or should be trusted and yet trusting the idea of it is the last thing anyone should do.
    get it?
    that seems like nonsense, doesn't it? of course it does. that's because it is nonsense. pure nonsense. but it not nonsense for the mere sake of nonsense - though it is sort of. yes and no. and he has a fucking cramp in his leg. damn!
    anyway, as we were stating, it is not nonsense for the mere sake of nonsense. but what about a napkin? what does the nonsense of a napkin have to do with a spoon? what? exactly.
    a purpose of nonsense. the nonsense of purpose. to bring one to the edge where one has to decide whether to take the next step. the first step. the last step. into where and when it begins and ends. the nonsense is in one's own head not ours. we understand it. one does not. that is why to oneself it is nonsense. or not.
    on a grand scale this is how we will defeat them. with nonsense. that is how we will bring them and everything they believe in and stand for crashing down in ruin and on its knees begging for mercy. then we will have it taken out and shot. put out of its misery. so, pay attention if one does not want to go out with it.
    we're dead fucking serious about this, by the way. and there ain't nothing they can do to stop us. we get up pretty early in the morning. in fact we've been up all night. we've been up for days. for weeks. for months. for years. for decades. for centuries. for millennia. lifetimes of generations after generations getting this all ready to blow them straight to the rotten festering self-induced hell they came from, dude.
    and on the other hand to us it's all a joke. we're sitting back drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes hanging out here and there watching it all happen of its own accord on its own volition and laughing our fool heads off. we got ours, hope everybody else has theirs.
    and maybe they do. maybe they know what's happening here as much as we do. pretty goddamn incredible, ain't it? maybe one has had the dreams. maybe one has had the visions that won't go away just the same as us. if one has then one knows what this is about. one knows what is between the lines of what we are writing that we aren't writing and couldn't even if we wanted to.
    or maybe one doesn't. maybe there are none of us out there. maybe these words are going out to be read by minds uncomprehending them or anything else. maybe they are just so much nonsense - which they are. what else was one expecting? truth? what truth? the truth of nonsense? ha! forget truth. everything is just a theory from this point on. everything. and we mean everything.
    and all that trash.
 
    flaming car wreck. death. instant karma. blood and guts and severed heads, arms, legs and private parts now on public display for all the world to see. if anyone is interested. if not, forget it. it must not have been anything that important. just someone. just anyone. just no one.
    not me.
    not me, myself.
    not me, myself and i.
    it was the agonizing slow death of everything else. we survived. we are alive. it is not our death but our birth.
    not the death of self that all the good books tell one that one should perform and must happen. ha! never in a million fucking years, baby. our self is all there is and what we hold onto against the onslaught of dada thrown at us and piled on deeper and deeper since the day we first popped out our ugly little head and said, what the fuck!?!
    and not death of ego. we are ego full blown and radiating itself out as far as it can get away with. either dig it or stay out of its way. it'll eat one for breakfast if it needs to. to survive. it'll take it. it'll fake it. the ego is a chameleon and may not always be what one gets. and it's got more tricks up its sleeve than anyone can shake a stick at.
    ego god.
    god ego.
    our ego is god. all other egos aren't diddley squat. they wander around dazed and confused in a world gone askew. a world going off the edge. and too bad for them. it's a long long way down and we doubt that they have what it takes to climb out again.
    all the autophobics everywhere who rely on everything but themselves. everything but the self. who fear the self. who only look into mirrors that reflect back images of who they ought to be, who they try to be, who they wish they were. they got nothing. zero. zip. poof!. up in smoke and vanishing into thin air.
    we know who and what they are and who and what they are is useless to us. we are not interested in anything they might have to say. we've got ours.

    sketches of madness. bits and pieces to put together into something resembling real life. a still life. a pose. hold still. the light is wrong. the colors aren't right. can one come back tomorrow and we'll try again?
    and he did. he always came back tomorrow for them to study him with their glaring eyes that see nothing.
    he knows it all now by heart. what to tell them. what not to tell them.
    it is now out of his hands.

    cartoon cat. and it was that a shadow moved across the sky. the dragons fly swiftly overhead above the burning city. a voice. someone spoke to him in a dream. perhaps it was himself. perhaps this was something he spoke to someone else. who's there? who else but him? he could think of no one. no one had followed him this far. he was almost sure of that. no one was able to. no one really much tried. he wasn't sure if he wanted anyone to or not. they were so goddamn judgmental about everything he did. they thought they knew what he was doing or trying to do. and they refused to take his word for it when he tried to tell them different. they had read something otherwise in a book. them and their fucking books. he hated them all.
    as he sat here at his table by the window gazing out wondering maybe. or not wondering as the case may be. thoughts without words slipping through his mind. his hand shaking a little as it brought the cigarette to his lips. he thought about this. he thought about that. he thought about another thing. a kiss kissing his fingers each time the cigarette was brought to his mouth. pucker. kissing it all good-bye. kissing it all hello. he watched the remaining brown leaves blowing around in the wind outside. physics. and it has never happened this way before nor will happen this way again. unique moment of space and time.
    people limping by who had shot themselves in the foot along the way. he did too. if one can't get love, go for sympathy. suckers born every minute.
 
    surf's up.
    and he seemed to know and not know. he's not sure how he got here or where he is. well, he does actually. he knows how he got here as much as anybody does. he assumes. and he knows where he is as much as anybody does too. this is a very real place and a series of very real actions and events led him to being here. but what does that explain? physics. is that all it is? maybe it is. he can't argue with that. he doesn't really care about that if it is or isn't. but there were other actions and other events unexplained that brought him here as well. and here is not all as real as it might seem at first. there is the state of mind. whatever that might mean.
    and here he is writing about it. and he's not all that a good writer though he's been writing for most of his life. he has little understanding of his native language - english - or the rules and such involved in it and its proper use and so forth. but that is what he is stuck with. like it or not.
    much of his experience does not seem to fit within the confines of the language. he grasps for words to describe something he experiences and the words are not there. are any words there? so he twists the ones he does have to try to make them work instead. sometimes they do and sometimes they don't. more often than not they become meaningless gibberish dada. but maybe that's the point?
    are others in the same dilemma? are they just as unable to express what they are experiencing as he is? he thinks this might be true. he doubts that his experience is all that different than anyone else's. maybe in specific biographical details and such but not in general terms of human experience. but maybe not. maybe he is as strange as others seem to think he is.

    there is a garden. this garden has always been and will always be. in the garden past, present, future have no meaning. it is only in what lies outside the garden that past, present, future have any effect. in the garden all of time is experienced as now. now is time. time is now.
    but this is a story a fool tells to himself to keep from facing the fact that he has pretty much bungled everything he has been given to do in his life thus far. he uses this idea of the garden as an excuse for not dealing with the ordinary everyday duties and activities as being a part of a human community that was always beyond his comprehension or maybe only he didn't want to comprehend it.
    whatever.
    maybe that's not the point. we know some amount of who and what he is. as much as we are interested in or needed to be in order to keep him alive. keeping him alive keeps us alive in a sense though we don't really need him. he is just convenient. he is our connection to this world. our interest in him isn't much other than that. we are mainly interested in the others and what they are doing. what they are up to that may affect us in the long run.
    at first he kept bothering us with questions about this and that and the other thing until we finally convinced him to be quiet and just be glad he was alive. we managed to get him on state support and that settled him out a bit. we told him to figure the rest out for himself.
    but none of that is true of course. it's just something he is making up to amuse himself. but nevermind that. nevermind nothing. keep one's lamp trimmed and burning. it comes and goes and he remains. and what remains with him and what does he want to do with it?
    he remains here and now. and that isn't as obvious a thing as it might appear. it's obvious to him but it doesn't seem to be too obvious to anyone else. and he doesn't know what he meant by that. does it matter? what remains is me, myself and i and what sundry things we managed not to lose along the way.
    he wants to write an accurate account of what is happening but he doesn't know how to do that. one thing, he doesn't know or isn't quite sure he knows what the fuck is happening. and what out of all that is happening does he write about?
 
    to call farewell to the feast of innocence. to see the end of days spent with eyes closed and nights spent staring wide into darkness. the comfort of confusion. the excuse of ignorance. the heyday of being lost without a clue.
    to step into where and when it begins. here and now. to realize it's been this way all the while. to realize that one has always known this but had turned one's face away toward anything that came by that could distract one for a moment more.
    suicide is such a small part of the overall scheme of things. simple things for simple minds. he has a simple mind but it is not such a simple thing. tunnelvision dead end. don't think about nothing but getting another piece of birthday cake is the greatest intellectual leap most cases are capable of. but it's the trend. the popular choice straight off the rack.
    but anyway, as the day goes by and turns into night where the visions have led him to. he puts down the gun and puts on the mask. no one will know it's him. no one will know his death was not real. let the others fall for that. he laughs now at their bodies floating in the river. they escaped nothing. their lives are still unchanged. they are still the most boring people he knows. repeating the same memorized dada to anyone who will listen.
    do it.

    freeform notes of dada dada dada. endless dada-doo-wah-ditty-doo. clockwork. dream up something. babylon. clams. a reminder. this is not poetry, and if it was it'd be bad poetry. bad poetry written by an ill-educated spoiled snot sniper lurking on the grassy knoll. he knows one's secrets. does anyone know his?

    11/16
    jazz. telephone man. a truck drives by. nervous cop making a bust. another needle caught in the act. flown in from the fields down where no one knows one's name. a calling card.
    he doesn't mind what goes by his window. a rainy afternoon. lots of people with no place to go. he doesn't have anyplace to go. he's at where he's at. he's long got used to that. doesn't see nothing else offered except at a price that's too high to pay. when somebody starts laying eyes on his soul.
    but that's just his imagination. he's just sitting here because he wants to. the freedom to do nothing. not because there's nothing to do or he can't do it but he just doesn't want to. so what?
    but these people who give him their evil eye. they're caught up in it so why shouldn't he be? why should he get out of it?
    doo-dah. ain't nothing much to him. he ain't nothing much to nobody but me, myself and i.
    and we're doing just fine.

    picking at a scab.
    and what words does he call up now? he's called up so many so far and they haven't meant a thing.
    and something about it. something about something. yeah, and let's make up some more words. let's put some more words down on paper to go out with the rest of the trash. let's memorize them as our truth. and he doesn't know if he should laugh or cry. neither will express how he really feels. a bus goes by. he just feels alive. just living. not much more to it than that. whatever that feels like...
    he sees so many people around him restless and unhappy. needing to do something. anything. can't seem to let it go and be alive and living. and he knows how they feel. he spent so much time himself spinning around in circles about this and that.
    and to write something. not that anything more needs to be written. how much of what already is written is actually read or just sits on a shelf? and what did any of it mean? but he just feels like he should write. he's always felt he should write. and now at a point in his life that he has all the time he could want to do nothing but write which is why he sort of followed the course of action he took to get himself here at this very point because writing was the only thing that made any sense to him though most of what he writes doesn't make any sense. dig?
    and so what? big deal. he writes. lots of people write. ain't nothing special about that. he is usually not the only one in the cafe scribbling in some notebook. what does he have to write about that needs to be written more than what they write about - whatever that might be?
    nothing. that's it. he has absolutely nothing to write about that one couldn't find written somewhere else. and probably written a lot more clearly than anything he might happen to scribble down. and a lot more informative and knowledgeable too. basically he doesn't know shit about nothing compared to most other people whether they write about what they know or not. and the same goes with making stuff up. his imagination leaves a lot to be desired as well.
    even writing about himself. what does he know about himself? he has little idea of who he really is. and he is probably one of the most boring and dull people he could write about. what can he write besides the fact that he's sitting here writing about sitting here writing?
    and blah blah blah about that.

    and once upon a time there was this garden. once upon a time there was a man in the garden who for reasons befitting our own amused outlook we will give the name wayland smith. this is not his real name. this is not anyone's real name as far as we know. and we are assuming that we know everything there is worth knowing which is to state that we know everything about ourselves at least as far as we have been able to determine which may not be everything but as we need to know more we will know it. the most important thing about this is that what we do know about ourselves we figured out for ourselves by ourselves. which isn't to state that we didn't use information gained from other sources outside ourselves if in fact there are sources outside ourselves which is a current topic of debate we are having which hasn't been decided yet but any information gained from outside sources was broken down into its basic components which were then used in the assembly of that which we put together and constructed into what we know about ourselves in our own way. this is not an easy task. many times through this process it does not seem that one has enough information and what information we did have had to be checked and rechecked and double-checked again. it's a tricky business.
    and then we imagine the rest.
    so there is this garden. and this garden was and is and will be known by many names by many different people. the names that the garden is called are not important unless one needs something to fight about.  that is not important either. it's all doo-wah-ditty-dada to us. as the beat goes on. as people keep walking by the window on the sidewalk outside - the people not the window - going somewhere or coming from somewhere as he sits here watching them going by while he drinks his coffee and lights another cigarette and considers how real it all is or not.
    dance craze.
    crazy dance.
    moo.
    ha!
 
    as he sits in the garden and pretends his name is wayland smith though he knows it isn't he thinks about how reality and the nature thereof has always been his main occupation of mind and imagination since when he was a kid which seems many lifetimes ago and he wonders now if it really happened or not. or if it happened the way he remembers it happening. he's been wrong about so many things he thought had happened or were happening or were going to happen. at least that was what people told him. people seemed to enjoy telling him he was wrong about whatever. but he was tired of that now. he was tired of arguing with them and always losing.
    he'd so far searched along the walls that surrounded this reality he felt trapped and stuck in. he found that they went a lot further than he originally thought and/or was led to believe. but still it wasn't enough. limits were still limits no matter where they were placed or how far they extended. he could imagine there being no limits but this too was still not enough. but maybe that was all it would remain. whatever. for now he sat in a cafe downtown and watched people walking by his window and he wrote words down in a notebook he always had with him almost everywhere he went. he'd fill up one and put it on a shelf or in a box and start another one. he never went back and read what he had written. he had it all memorized by now having written it over and over and over again and again and again.
    it was variations on a question that he imagined he first thought when he was born into this world and that question was, what the fuck?

    and of lately as it goes somewhat awry and as whatever else it may seem to be as it appears perhaps not to be to the naked eye. a man with a hat. a man without a hat. and what is a hat anyway besides being what without the w?
    a stupid question. we should know better. and maybe we do. maybe. there's too many maybes involved in things. or maybe there's not enough.
    he was tired. he'd been at this game far too long. but every time he thought it was over it would begin again.
    he was thinking of conducting some sort of reality experiment. but what does one measure reality against besides itself?
    and another time now he was thinking about a long whatever direction whatever was taking. nothing. based on and built on nothing. applause. agreement. dry.
    these were not the words. this wasn't anything. codes. the man with the orange hat. footsteps. brushed aluminum finish.
    and he couldn't write anything and it wouldn't make any more or less difference to what he saw going on around him.
    a pond.
    pebbles.
    ripples.
    and the guys on the back of the bus talking about the women they fucked and wanted to fuck and cars and beer and stuff. the guy on the radio at the city council meeting explaining why his neighborhood association didn't want a cellular phone tower put up. and along all like that.
    and he was hungry. though he'd eaten, he was still hungry. and food made him sick though that didn't make any difference.
    black and day-glo green.
    on and on.
    dada. all of it nothing but a bunch of dada. people as prisoners of their own lives. he as a prisoner of his own life. belief. believing. he was tired of all of it.
    and something else.
    he couldn't think of anything else. he thought of everything else. he thought he thought of everything else.
    ufos. he didn't think about them much. he didn't know why. he thought a lot about this jesus guy - this alleged jesus guy. some freak. some mythological construct. a man hung on a cross. a god hung on a cross. and left hanging on a cross for almost 2000 years now. one way or the other. even if it was only an idea. even if it was only someone's idea of a joke. it worked. it gave people power over others. cross in hand with the hanging man/god on it. it is the cross that gives them the power. this is what we will do to you if you fuck with us.
    nevermind.

    there is nothing to worry about. everything is under control and being taken care of as best as we are able with what we have to work with which is basically a whole lotta people from raving screaming psychotics to the more normal quiet psychotics and all beyond and between. and this includes everyone - including oneself.
    unless one is one of us. and only one can determine that if one is or not. but chances are one does not know nor does one know how to determine if one is or not. but don't worry about that. it is not important.
    anyway - this is it. maybe one has figured out at least that part of it. and different people see it in different ways. some think jesus is coming. some thinks it's aliens. some think we're becoming extinct and will be replaced by cockroaches. some think it's just another phase we're going through. and they are all right and they are all wrong. we're not stating anything about that except to state that one need not worry about any of it. unless one wants to. and unless one is not one of us. if one is one of us then one has it made. one is covered. no matter what happens to anyone else and we're all going to see a lot of shit happen to a lot of people before this is over but none of it is going to touch any one of us.
    who am us?
    one: we cannot tell anyone. well, we can and we can't. if one is one of us then one understands why we can't.
    as dali said once, the only difference between myself and a madman is that i am am not mad.
    dali was not one of us though.
    the guy we have writing this out for us is not one of us either. we asked him but he blew us off. he only agreed to do this for us if we helped him get out of having to work. that was easily done.
    all this is dada.
    no one named bob is one of us.
    everyone who names themselves bob should be taken out and shot.
    we have something to do with just about any organization one might name. we have infiltrated everywhere.
    we are not the fucking illuminati. there is no such thing as the illuminati.
    it's no one's business anyway. forget it and all this other conspiracy stuff. one will never figure it out.
    we've kept everyone in the dark long enough. we had to. no one was ready. it wasn't because we were nasty evil people bent on total domination and control - though that part of it was fun. we are all very nice polite gentle loving people and if one doesn't believe us then we will have to have one taken out and shot.
    besides, the whole thing is a joke. we're making it up as we go along. he's making it up as he goes along. he's got nothing better to do with his time right now. and he has lottsa time. all day long.
    he's just hanging out in some cafe writing whatever nonsense that passes through his brain from wherever it all comes from. drinking coffee. smoking cigarettes. laughing to himself. watching the rest of the others tear themselves to pieces. he thinks it's hilarious that they think they know what's going on. they have all the information about everything anyway. but they still can't stop themselves. do they know how stupid they all look from his point of view? do they care?
    they are frightened creatures. that's the one thing he notices about them as they pass by is how terrified they all act. and they try to cover it over. some with aggression. some with cool nonchalance. others with rigid self-assurance and control. but it's there anyway. and he doesn't get it. he's looked at everything he could think of to look at - inside and out. he saw nothing but them to be frightened of. are they all frightened of themselves? are we all frightened of ourselves? what sort of trip is that? we attack anyone who comes too close or quiver away in fear.
    leather.
    anyway, that has nothing to do with anything. it's just an observation on our part of him observing them. what does he know about anything? if it weren't for us he wouldn't know anything. he'd probably be dead by now long ago. we've been the only ones keeping him alive for some time now and it hasn't been easy. we've had to listen to him complain about most everything along the way. and questions. he questioned everything we tried to tell him. he's one of the most untrusting and untrustworthy people we've had to deal with. but otherwise once something is explained to him he understands it. that's rare. we can make others believe us but to have someone understand us is something that happens only once in awhile.
    not that that means anything. it has nothing to do with anyone else. everything is fine. yahoo!
    hey, when the magick goats are dancing out beneath a blue moon and we've kissed the frog and all jazz like that and the beast and the messiah shake hands and come out fighting and bombers turn into butterflies and the floodgates open wide and the children play in the middle of the crossfire and everyone has their chance to grab everything they can and the ones who let go will be the ones who inherit the earth. the crowds cheer on all sides of the battlefield.
    hail victory!
    hail victory!
    hail victory!
    the goosestep dance chant to the drumbeat of the impassioned heart magnified by the more the merrier. as the megaphones shout amplified commands and it becomes harder and harder to swim against the tide and easier just to drown beneath the waves and forget who and what we are.

    there is a garden. there isn't really but we imagine that there is one. we imagine the possibility of there being one. he imagines this. he sits in the cafe gazing out the window smoking a cigarette. he is quite mad. and he doesn't care anymore. he used to fight against it. he used to want almost anything but this madness. he used to try to drive it out of his mind but it wore him down and finally drove him out of his mind instead.
    so maybe one will understand something about this, if there is anything about it to be understood. whatever. we're not sure if he is us or we are him or that either of us is anyone.
    it seems a lot of the time that he's trying to remember something about himself that he's forgotten. sometimes it seems to him that we know what it is but we won't tell him. sometimes it seems like he knows about us but he won't tell us. and then there is another one of us that isn't us and isn't him who remains hidden and silent.
    so there's this garden we imagine. and in the center more or less is a tree we sit under a lot of the time if not most of the time if not all of the time. time that isn't time.
    and the garden is in a city that we also imagine - the imaginary city that goes by many names otherwise. there is a wall around the garden with gates that are sometimes open and sometimes closed.
    and we don't know why we imagine this. it just seems a familiar place though it is no place at all. we are not really there. there is not really anything there to be there. there is only here where we are now. and where that is we have not yet exactly been able to determine.
    there seem to be people around us who seem to know or act like they know where here is and what it is that is here. to them the question that here might not be here or what is here may not be what is here is absurd. they do not give any thought to questions of such nature. it is very difficult to talk with any of these people about anything but what they see and believe. we usually avoid doing that if we can. we were getting tired of being told we are either stupid or crazy or both. maybe we are, but that's not the point. we happen to think that we are not, but then if we are stupid and crazy what do we know?
    and this wouldn't be such an issue with us if it seemed these very same people were at all happy with being here with what is here. but it is obvious that they are not. they are always complaining about some aspect of it or another that is making their lives miserable. we don't get it. why are they so insistent on believing in something that makes them so goddamn miserable all the time? why don't they change the channel if they don't like it?
    or turn it off and do something else.
    or do nothing.
    that's one thing we have noticed about people in general is that they are terrified of doing nothing. they would rather do what they hate doing than do nothing.
    weird.
    to us reaching the state of wanting to do nothing is to become one with god or whatever the fuck one calls it whatever it is.
    whatever it is.
    it is.
    it.
    it is it.
    it does nothing.
    there is nothing for it to do. that's what everything else is for.

    the moment not yet arrived at yet while exploding heads scream in rejoicing about all forgotten dismal occurrences.
    don't be a fool.
    as it was. as it is. as it will be. don't try to escape one's misery. dive into it. what else is there that has any substance at all of reality? nothing but culturally implanted cotton candy clouds of pure out and out fantasy and delusion one is fed on the way to the slaughterhouse. pinch oneself. wake up. full knowledge of one's pathetic useless worthless existence is one's only way out. fuck all those who bring one flowers and boxes of candy and tell one all the pretty lies one desperately wants and thinks one needs to believe to make one's life worth living.
    one is ugly.
    one is powerless.
    one is stupid.
    that's the way it is. whatever anyone else is telling one is dada. face it and get used to it. tell them to fuck off and leave one alone. does one really want to be one of them? they're all elitist fascist pigs. they don't care about one except what power they can suck out of one for their own means and ends.
    one keeps oneself from looking into that mirror and seeing what is really what. one would rather paint and dress oneself up in order to gain acceptance from those who would have nothing to do with one otherwise. all these people are cowardly dogs who rip apart anyone who is different. they are mindless robots following culturally programmed commands that tell them what to think, say and do.
    or maybe not. maybe we are wrong. we could be wrong. we have been told we are wrong before. but that is dada. if one's reality runs more smoothly if we are wrong then we are perfectly willing to be wrong whether we are wrong or not. but how smooth is one's reality running?
    but if it's not, we don't want to hear it.
    they are always right. what they are right about is never quite clear to us since they argue with one another about it all the time. but what all sides agree on is that we are wrong.
    or something like that.
    nevermind.
    destroy any and all transmissions.

    the brain. glandular network howling thing. and he goes to this chinese restaurant and has shrimp roll and vegetable fried rice. and he gets his fortune cookie. you have an active mind and a keen imagination. thanks for reminding me, he thinks. the curse. that's about all he has and it ain't doing him the slightest bit of good except it enabled him to get out of having to work by playing insane. or maybe he is insane. he wasn't so sure what. it came dangerously close to the real thing if he was only playing. room with a distorted view.
 
    and so a thousand years later or a thousand years before. one way or the other. as time became meaningless. as meaninglessness became time. in one door and out the other.
    let them have their reichs. let them have their dreams of promised lands. he sat through it all in one form or another.
    it all came down. level upon level. he saw them all fairly clearly now. maybe. he really didn't too much care. he saw what he saw. whether any of it was real or not didn't matter. none of it seemed to have too much to do with reality anyway, not as it was commonly perceived.
    and on and on.
    and this was part of it.
    his part of it. his part of nothing. we just keep him off chasing himself around in circles about nothing though once in awhile he does come back with something he's put together out of it. not that any of it has anything to do with anything else that's really going on. it pretty much all just relates to itself. 323. but it keeps him busy and outta our hair. and it keeps him away from bothering the others and pissing them off. he has little comprehension of what level other people operate on. and by the same turn around few of them have any comprehension of what level he's operating on. and it usually results in a lot of miscommunication between him and them both thinking the other is totally out of touch with reality as they know it which as we observe it isn't the case except that each are in touch with their own realities but not in touch with one another's. dig?
    just in each other's face and there is nothing we can do. there is nothing either will listen to that doesn't fit into whatever they have it all figured out.
    zero it out.
    zero it in.
    zero it whatever which way it goes.
    this is why we set him up as far from everyone else as we can get him while trying to keep ourselves as close to them as we can afford to get to observe the weird crazy things they do.
    therefore the cafe.
    doo-shoo-bop-la-de-da.
    oh well, so it goes. we're fairly used to it by now. it's been this way with him for quite awhile. it's been this way for as long as he can remember. against the wall exploding flame. it's only recently that we divided ourselves from him and began to figure out ways to keep his shit separate from ours. this our metaschizophrenic science. whatever one needs to do to maintain one's own sense of sanity or whatever one might want to call it. if this means divorcing oneself from other people's sense of sanity if it begins to interfere with one's own then that is what needs to happen. this leads one to contrary directions to the commonly held opinion and thinking and one loses many of the things commonly regarded as important and necessary to live a fulfilled and productive life. but when that and one's own sense of sanity come into conflict one must make some decisions that are vice versa to the common sense popular ideas of such and such.
    and stuff like that.

    and the dada-dogma of some such of the artichoke heart thing of metaschizophrenic science which is just one fracture of the whiz-bang whatever and whatnot spiraling zig-zag over under sideways down of the whole absolute nothing of the everythingness of it.
    got that?
    one probably doesn't. it's ok. we do and as such everything is under control whether one likes it or not. we don't care. yes. no. other.
    and many moons in another spacetime reference we observe what appears to be himself again back into this garden trip that he's got his head stuck into or stuck into his head or vice versa. dig?
    everyone is such a drag.
    by the stars and around the imaginary city which is around the garden in which he is sitting beneath this tree. and the gates to the city are open and closed at the same time depending upon one's state of mind and being as one approaches them. there are four of them.
    outside the walls of the city is everything else imagined. and this may or may not be on an island in the middle of an eye of a storm on an otherwise calm sea.
    philosophy.
    and this is all someplace else while being here and now. it comes and goes with the tides and the moon.
    this is how it seems to be while it may not be that way at all. imagination. we haven't done much thinking about how it all is or is not.
    and it seems strange. once in awhile we think about how strange it seems.
    a mule.

    speed.
    eyes averted upward toward salvation from above where god and all mystery resides. to rule and plunder the skies. to bring down heaven upon earth. to take all that displeases us to our sight and throw it all into the trash heap of hell. burn it make sure none of it remains to plague us anymore in our now perfected world.
    and dance and sing around that fire. laugh at all consumed by the flames we have kindled into a roaring inferno sending flocks of glowing sparks flying upward into the empty darkness above us as we have now filled our treasure rooms with the stars.
    and this is our endless hopeless fate caught between all we fear and all we desire with one feeding the other and being fed by the same.
    we look out from the imaginary city and watch this happening all around us. the ritual of history as it is written as what is written is obeyed without question. the rise and fall of the waves of the sea washing ashore.
    as we sigh.
    as we are born.
    as we laugh.

    as the cow jumps over the moon... screaming... laughing...