- AND -



The dada-ananda
da-Fritz Rainbow-da
The ArtChurch
The Island
The Biblia Dyslexikon
The Doubts of da
An Imagined Quasi One World Government
The dada-ananda on the Shroud of Turin
We Are Them

emailevening edge make very bought profession miserable servants music few love here back


The dada-ananda,
the one true false master

     The dada-ananda is always the dada-ananda, yet was not always the dada-ananda. Well, let us say that the dada-ananda always is, yet the one who was to become the dada-ananda was not always the dada-ananda. The rumors about this go along this way:

    Once upon a time, there was the la Madonna family living in what is now Spain. They may have been driven out by the Inquisition. Though they were neither Moors, nor Jews, nor, perhaps, witches, still, they were no longer welcome.
    They wandered around in Europe, being just as unwelcome in most of the places they came upon, steadily moving East. They eventually hid themselves and traveled among the gypsies. In what is now and then Poland, there lived the brood of Dadaski upon a great estate divided among them. It was told that it once belonged to a Count Alphonse Dadaski of long ago. The first born son of each generation of the Dadaskis was named Alphonse ever since, though how many of these there had been had been forgotten.
    It was a custom among the Dadaskis that whichever son among them produced the first born male-child of that generation would live in the manor house. So, there was always an Alphonse living there - and, most times, two or three. The young Alphonses would be taught to serve as the head of the brood as the elder Alphonses died away. They were still called, Count - though this was not usually recognized beyond the local villages of the old estate, nor outside the brood.
    Now, it came a time when a young Alphonse was entering into his 33rd year of life, and was soon to become the elder Alphonse, and to take on the title of Count. It was a very cold winter, and the present elder Alphonse, his father, lay upon his deathbed.
    It was this Alphonse who spied Maria la Madonna, who had come to the manor house with her mother. The la Madonnas had become the healers and diviners for the Dadaskis. Maria and her mother had come to ease the pain of the dying elder, and to read the fortune of the soon-to-be new Count. It was her mother who was to do this - Maria was still learning the ways of the family vocation.
    When Alphonse spied Maria, he fell madly in love. He forgot everything else - especially his coming obligations. Before the gods and everyone, he knelt before her and asked her hand in marrage. However, this was not to be done. Although the la Madonnas were welcome to apply their renowned gifts of healing and divining, they were also welcome to leave quickly afterward. They usually came and went at night. They had no place among the Dadaski brood, certainly not with the Alphonse who was to become the next Count.
    Maria was quickly grabbed away by her mother. For, as much as they were not welcomed by the Dadaskis, they did not seek to be welcomed. Their experiences with settled folk on their travels across the lands of Europe had bittered their taste toward them. Alphonse was also grabbed away by those present among his family, who were greatly angered and dismayed by his irresponsible act. He and Maria were kept far apart for the rest of the night - Alphonse in his rooms, Maria out in the gypsy wagon she and her mother had arrived in. Only her mother was allowed in the house to tend to the elders - and she was told do so quickly. The matter of reading the young Alphonse's fortune was no longer mentioned. Yet, when morning came, it was discovered that Alphonse and Maria, and the wagon were gone. Riders mounted horses and galloped off to find them. They never did.

    Alphonse and Maria came to America on a ship they boarded in Italy. They arrived in New York, and very soon began making their way West. Alphonse had taken what he could carry of old gold and jewelry from the manor house. These were kept to be worn for ceremonial occasions. They were not even locked up, for no one would think of stealing them. They were the ritual soul of the Dadaski brood - a symbolic mememory of their past greatness. This gold and jewelry had gotten Alphonse and Maria as far as Venus, Nebraska - with enough left to buy a small farm. There they came and stayed. On this farm, Maria gave birth to seven daughters by Alphonse. Then, she gave birth to an eighth child.
    This eighth child was born in the first hour of the first day of the twentith century. It was born a hermapodite. Alphonse pronounced it to be a son, as he had had enough of daughters by that time, and needed someone to help with the heavy work of the farm. The child was given the name, Elmo. The name Alphonse was rejected, since this was not exactly a male-child.

    Elmo grew up more among the family's cows. He tended to them, milking them, chasing them out into the field, where he would spend his time singing and dancing, and playing a flute he had fashioned from a bone he had found. He would chase them back at evening, and usually slept in the straw in the barn. For awhile, Alphonse would scold him, and try to get him to help with other chores, and sleep in the house. But, Elmo refused. Alphonse gave up. Elmo's seven sisters laughed at him and called him a freak - which he was. But, he did not know this, or why they called him that. No one told him that he was different - that his genitalia was both male and female. No one spoke of such things in those days - especially out on a farm in Nebraska. His sisters knew because they had each taken turns changing and bathing him as an infant. For all Elmo knew, he was a boy like any other. That may have been why, when America entered the Great War, he enlisted right away, without telling anyone. One day, he was gone.

    Later, somewhere, curled up in a bomb crater between the opposing trenches in Beligum, Elmo went shellshock. He transcended and manifested into an imagined imaginary state, and thus became the dada-anada (deliberite irrationality - bliss). Or, so the story of rumors goes.
    The imagined energy from this event radiated out across the very same lands of Europe the la Madonnas had traveled centuries before. It was recieved by those who translated it as dada. This may have been because Elmo, curled up in that bomb carter, was on his knees rocking to and fro. That was the image recieved.
    The story of rumors continues that out of the vision of dada came a wandering milkman, who was the imagined imaginary manifestation of the dada-ananda, who may have impregnated Jane Dobbs, thus giving conception and birth to J.R. "Bob" Dobbs. This has been denied by those in authority to deny such things.

the dada-ananda on the shroud of turin
more about the dada-ananda
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da-Fritz Rainbow-da,
doubtful follower of the dada-ananda

     However, it is known that during the heady years of the Reagan administration, a wanna-be performance artist was driving home from a visit with his friend and co-conspiritor. This was the year, 1984, specifically. While driving through a traffic light, which was more than likely red at the time, he recieved a dream of everything, and the name Fritz Rainbow was given to him. He laughed. He continued home and down into his dark basement, where he had a make-shift recording studio set up beside his wife's washer and dryer.
    Over the next days, as he worked on his endless reels of montage noise and such, the dream of everything pounded its way forward in his mind like a splitting migraine. He soon was unable to imagine anything else. So, he turned his imagining toward it. His tapes began talking to him in mysterious ways in a legion of voices all shouting to be heard. It was then he imagined what was to become the ArtChurch.

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The ArtChurch

    He was brought to the common book. He found a tattered copy of Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary. "If in doubt - look it up", a voice whispered among the shouting of the others.

   Redecorate - to freshen or change in appearance; to freshen or change a decorative scheme.Re-:again, anew, back, backward. Decorate: to add honor to; to furnish with something ornamental; to award a mark of honor to.

   Smorgasbord - a luncheon or supper buffet offering a variety of foods and dishes (as hors d'oeuvres, hot and cold meats, smoked and pickled fish, cheeses, salads, and relishes); a hetrogeneous mixture.

   Potluck - the regular meal available to a guest for whom no special preparations have been made; the luck or chance of succeding events or possibilities.

   Art - skill aquired by experience, study, or observation; an occupation requiring knowledge or skill; the conscious use of skill and creative imagination esp. in the production of aesthetic objects; works so produced; a skillful plan; the quality or state of being artful.

   Church - a building for public worship; the clergy or officialdom of a religious body; a body or organization of religious believers.

   Non-linear - non: not; reverse of; absense of; lacking the usual characteristics of the thing specified. 
              - linear: of, relating to, or resembling a line; involving a single dimension; of, relating to, or based on linear equations or linear functions.

   Propulsion - the action or process of propelling; something that propels. propel: to drive forward or onward by means of a force that imparts motion; to urge on.

   Metaschizophrenic - meta: occurring later than or in succession to; situated behind or beyond; later or more highly organized or specialized form of; change; transformation; more comprehensive; transcending; used with the name of a disipline to designate a new but related disipline designed to deal critically with the original one. 
                     - schizophrenic: a psychotic disorder characterized by loss of contact with the environment and by disintergration of personality expressed as disorder of feeling, thought, and conduct.

   Science - the state of knowing; knowledge as distinguished from ignorance or misunderstanding; knowledge attained through study or practice;a department of systematized knowledge as an object of study; something that may be studied or learned like systematized knowledge.

    It cracks somehow open. There are those who tell us that we are not serious enough. There are those who tell us that we are too serious. There are those who tell us that we are not serious/too serious about the wrong things that there are.
    It is too old. It is too new. It is too hot. It is too cold. It is one thing and another. All we know is that we have not come across any one who is happy, except in some deleriumistic dogmatic twisted convolutions from their hearts and bellys numbing out their brains so they cannot think, but only react. 
    Reaction is their manifesto. We have lost all the wars. We are living in prison camps we help build and maintain. There are no locked doors. No one is leaving. We would rather stay where there are cages to rattle and make a great noise. Everyone was right about everything. This is where it all leads to.

    We offer no hope against the popular dispair. We offer no promises for all the broken wills. We hold out no hand for those wallowing in misery.
    We really do not care. 
    Go away...

    This was how he felt. This was as far as he had been able to get when he really thought about it. Then, it flipped him over like a pancake.

    There is no light, but the grey light that washes away the distinctions between this and that like a fog. What does it matter how high a few of us may be able to reach? Let us stand and salute yet another corps (corpse) of the elite. And we of the lower ranks are to keep them balanced upon our backs and sholders. 
    Yet, this is not a universal vision. It is a very individual one. And, it does not aim high, but low - straight at the lowest common denominator. For, if the idiot cannot understand the genius, the genius cannot understand the idiot. And that is the essense of the dada-ananda. 
    There is nothing here to understand. There is only confusion and madness. There are no secrets - except the secrets reveled by ignorance. The ignorance of knowing what one already knows.

    The Artchurch is the collective body of experienced skill and knowledge that is the experience and knowing of the imagined state of the dada-ananda in the world, or mind, whichever comes first or last. 
    It is offered as a smorgasbord of dishes from any number of sources, from ancient texts to the Sunday comics. It is potluck, very ordinary everyday fare. 
    There is nothing that special about it. Anything one might need or want to experience or know about the dada-ananda is readily accessible. 
    There is no secret experience or knowledge - unless one cares to keep it secret from oneself, and/or allow oneself to be convinced by others that it is secret.
    Yet, there is no straight linear way to it, or straight linear formula for one to follow. There is no one direction, or even one goal. 
    One is propelled along whatever and whichever way - at times, several ways at once. One becomes redecorated, readorned with what has been neglected or lost. Progress is as much backward or sideways as much as it is forward. Backward, sideways and forward become turned around to each other and to oneself moving through them. 
    This is the way that is each and every way.

Metaschizophrenic Science

    The way is through the enlightenment of madness. It is through doubt - the madness of doubt, that doubts even its own madness. It swallows its own tail, until it both disappears and appears to itself. It eats its own shit. It is a hole that one can only dig deeper. 
    Once entered, there is no way out - though this is no guarantee that one will come to anything else. One may merely remain in the madness of doubt. One leaves the ways of others, even the others of the Artchurch. 
    Nothing from any other has any bearing upon oneself. It is all deception. One has only oneself - and the dada-ananda. Yet, as the dada-ananda is rumored to have spake thusly: 

"If one takes anything I say seriously, one has a much bigger problem than I've got."

    This is why the Artchurch is now defunct (or, de-funked). It served its purpose to bring those into it who were brought into it during its brief existence - an existence not measured in linear time (hint hint). It could not hold them. 
    The Artchurch was a temporary cocoon to those becoming butterflies - screaming butterflies. They scream in the agony ecstasy of becoming - becoming through the process of madness.
    When the mind is divorced from the senses, from even the sense of itself - when identity slips loose through the eye of the I (the I that is in the center of a storm raging on an otherwise calm sea) - when it is gone and is not coming back - then one finds oneself returned to oneself. That is all that remains. All else is stripped away.
    None of this, no word of it should be believed. It should be held in doubt. One must safeguard oneself against it. 
    The Artchurch does not offer a cure to any malady or disorder one might be presently suffering from. The Artchurch will add to it, and aggravate it to the point of madness. The Artchurch itself is a disease. The germ of the disease is the dada-ananda.

    The Artchurch is the body of the dada-ananda. It is the mind of the dada-ananda. It is the imagining of the dada-ananda. The dada-ananda is the imagining of the dada-ananda.
    The imagining of the dada-ananada is knowing the dada-ananada. Knowing the dada-ananda is being the dada-ananda.
    As for the Artchurch itslef, it was never quite usually able to come into actuality. It could only be manifest through imanination - as is the same with the dada-ananda, only more so, since even imagining the dada-ananda is imaginary.
    Neither the Artchurch nor the dada-ananda are of any particular substance - except imagination. As such, both could be the substance of anything, anywhere. Whatever is imagined to be one or the other, is one or the other. 
    What is sacred to the Artchurch is whatever is pronounced as being sacred.
    The Artchurch is the process of taking control on one's own imagination. The Artchurch stages a revolution in one's mind against all external imperial powers of imagination that have colonized one's mind since birth. 
    This means all external imperial powers. The Artchurch revolts against the staus quo consevrative mainstream and the radical progressive alternative, and all between and beyond. It rebels against heaven and hell, against God and Satan - and all the ships at sea. Against anything and everthing that is not directly from one's own experience.
    The Artchurch is the path of doubt that leads one to the mountains and jungles of madness in one's mind. From there, one conducts a gurrilla campain against one's most ingrained and trusted externally imposed conceptual instutions of belief, no matter what the source, no matter the rationality that supports them. 
    If they are not native and indigenous to oneself, or one's own experience, they must go or die. Nothing from the outside, or that originates from the outside is to be trusted. 
    This is a very difficult, if not impossible thing to do. We know of no one who has done it entirely. But, it is still the mission of the Artchurch.
    One need not necessarily isolate oneslf from external sources and influences. But, these should be translated to one's own experience, not one's experience translated to them. 
    One's own experience is the absolute final authority. It is the supreme dictator elected to command and purge the mind and imagination back to oneself. This is the madness one enters into - the madness of meglomanical facsist solipsistic egoism. 
    One must be relentless and cruel toward oneself. One must be taught to obey oneself.
    Of course, all of this is internal. It has nothing to do with one's external life. Externally, one proceeds with whatever business is usual for oneself. One does not impose oneself upon others, no more than one does not want to be imposed upon. 
    This is all more than most people can tolerate. They are unable, or unwilling to master themselves, and unable or unwilling not to impose on others. That is not the madness that they seek. They seek the madness of being out of control, of being a pain in the ass to all those around them. 
    This is to become lost in one's own madness - to believe in one's own madness. Those of the Artchurch do no believe in their own madness. They doubt it constantly. They doubt themselves constantly. And, they doubt their own doubt.

    This is to imagine the dada-ananda. The dada-ananda is not specific. What has been written about the dada-ananda is what has been imagined about the dada-ananda. Each imagines the dada-ananda in one's own way, according to one's own experience. 
    It does not matter what others believe or understand about the dada-ananda. The dada-ananda is not meant to be believed or understood. The dada-ananda is meant to be doubted and to be confusing. That is the madness of the dada-ananda. And, who would want such madness that is to be doubted and is confusing? Who seeks that?
   Yet, the madness of doubt and confusion of the dada-ananda is at the heart of the Artchurch, that which conducts the revolution against one's own mind. The madness is a fever that burns through the delusions of externally imposed imperialistic thought and concepts. It is the fire that consumes the false consciousness one has suffered under since one's birth. The madness is the dada-ananda. The Artchurch is that which is born from that madness.

   However, all about the Artchurch has become defunct within the confines of linear time. It is the moment that has passed. It is defunct in that it has fulfilled its purpose. It has brought sufficient energies of madness and confusion to their present self-generating levels throughut everywhere. 
   The Artchurch has been the magnification of the dada-ananda. The world that is created out of the madness of the dada-ananda can only be understood through the madness of the dada-ananda. This is understood irrationalogically. It is understood as not being madness at all. Only the rationalogical understands it as madness - and why would anyone want to be of such a mind that could only understand such things that are as madness? Is not the bliss from deliberate irrationality a better state to be in?
   Bliss is often misunderstood. It is imagined by most, especially those who kneejerkedly rebel against it, to be this warm fuzzy forgetful thing. It is not. It has cold razor-sharp edges cutting deep into one's mind exposing one's most dreaded memories. One screaming until finally one begins laughing - laughing with amused delightful madness that is untouchable.

   The Artchurch, being defunct, is not readily to be found - except mentioned on these pages. It was never meant to be directly found. It was meant to be imagined. Also, one does not find it - one does not even know one is looking for it. One is found by it. It sweeps through one's life on its way to nowhere (now here). One realizes it by realizing nothing (no thing).
   Its purpose is achieved in terms of particular space and time that is not. It came into being defunct. It does not operate historically. It operates through the imagined dream time -  that is something we, existing in history, have forgotten, and/or dismiss. It exists in the present her and now, yet, existing in the present it is imagined as existing in the past. In this way it moves toward the future - in which it does not exist at all, and never did. It is at all times complete, yet there is no proof of its existence. This is the way of non-linear propulsion - as clearly as it might be described. This is why it may only be understood by doubt.

   One finds oneself dreaming. One finds oneself dreaming within the dream one is dreaming. For some, this is unusual. For others, this is how it is - dreaming, or not dreaming. Can anyone say what is or is not the dream of dreaming within the dream? Who among us has found the way out of that one?
   The Artchurch is imagining the dada-ananda as the dreamer, knowing that the dada-ananda exists only in one's imagination. One feels oneself slipping away from the dream back into the here and now, which is within the dream one imagines the dada-ananda is dreaming. The dada-ananda takes over at the wheel. The dada-ananda writes the program. The dada-ananda is the imagined dreamer. The Artchurch is the vechicle the dada-ananda drives off the bridge into the depths of madness, where it explodes into flames. The flames reach up to the sky. The sky is burning with the flames of madness. Everyone is screaming, except those who are laughing. This is a re-run we have seen many times. The plot is simple - simple enough for those with simple imaginations. It all becomes nonsense.
   In the cafe, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, da scribbles this nonsense in endless notebooks, dreaming that the sky is on fire.

The Doubts of da

   The Artchurch is a ship of fools, commandeered by idiots, drifting in circles in the Sargasso Sea. Those of the Artchurch wander the streets pushing shopping carts full of dumpster trash they have collected along the way. These are the saints and prophets, no one with any sense of self-importance listens to. These are those who recite the babbling nonsense of the dada-ananda - never to be recorded, forever lost.
   The Artchurch is peering through impossiblilites at its own reflection. It dances like a bee with excitement. It laps up its own vomit like the dog it is.
   What can be said about the Artchurch? What needs to be said? What analogies and metaphors will suffice to sketch out its invisible presense? Yet, still, many come to its tables filled with a smorgasbord long gone to rot. These breathe in the lingering fumes of decay. These are enlightened by the madness of it. These stagger away along the non-linear path of stupored bliss, propelled by their own doubting drunkenness.
   To zoom into this scene. To zoom back out again. To encircle it, as it encircles oneself. Who is able to describe what is percieved? Who is able to percieve what is described? Everything has fallen away onto itself by its own dead weight. The wings of imagination have sprouted. They creak and groan, lifting the minds of the ignorant slightly above themselves before crashing face down on their knees, crumpling into tiny dots of dada-doo-wah-dada-dee...
   We wash our faces clean. We prepare to meet another day. We walk outside. Death strangles us. It does not kill us, but it also does not let us go. The Artchurch has nothing to do with this. This is the work of the god and the devil.

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The Island

    Once upon a time, it was a dark and stormy night...
    Da found himself upon the slippery sea. After suffering for many unceasing years from psychic attacks transmitted from the satellites, and running out the backdoor, guided to a little known path by a mystic healer in the woods, he had set sail into this imaginary sunset, searching for the sunrise by way of the moon.
    However, darkness had to be reckoned with first. It descended like fury. It was fury. The darkness of the mind enraged. No stars could be seen, though their maps still held. The moon was not seen, but could be felt pulling the tides. What gods there were had abandoned him, or possibly turned against him. He would not do their biding, nor sacrifice to their altars. The small ship that he had stolen from the harbor was sinking fast as the waves grew higher and deeper - until the sea pulled him down into itself.
    It was a long long time, that might have been only days, or even moments. He woke, laying in sand. He sat up to behold that he was on a beach. The waves were smoother now, tumbling and coming up to tickle his feet. Out all along the visible degrees of horizon he could see the dark gray wall of the storm, with the once in awhile flashes of lightning. Where he was, it was clear overhead. The sun was rising above from behind the distant darkness.
    He found a city, that seemed in some ways to be the one he had left, but the people were all strange, they seemed to be backwards from anyone he had known before. He knew none of them, and no one knew him. He wandered the city streets. He sold comics he had drawn to the passing strangers along the way. This gave him coffee and cigarette money. He sat in cafes gazing through the visions of doubtful bewilderment, no longer anywhere he had been before.
    Here he met a cast of through the looking glass characters who talked always in riddles. These too were abandoned and lost. These too had angered the gods, and become shipwrecked here. All they had left was the crystal clarity of their insanity and madness. They beckoned him to join them and hear their tales of misadventure, their own struggles against the fate set upon them.
    It was from them that he learned this place was an island. None of the others knew it as that. It was only known to those who had been shipwrecked here.  The island was in the center of imagination. An island in an eye of a storm raging on an otherwise calm sea. Around on the shores of the sea are camped the armies of the nations of the world, and the peoples of the earth, who prepare for and make war upon each other, and themselves.
    He stayed among these fellow castaways for awhile. But, this was not to be his final destination. This was no more than a refuge along the way. These ones he met were content with that. He was not. He wondered what more there was to the island.
    On the island is a forest. One goes into the forest on one of the many paths leading into it from the beach. Yet, all the paths leading in, lead back out again. This is fine for those who wish to spend their time on the beach, or only stroll through the forests on much traveled paths.
    There is much of the forest that the paths do not lead to. One must leave the paths and go through the forest on one's own - pathless. Even the insane have found and follow paths. In the midst of the forest, where none of the paths lead to, is a house. The house has been built by many, room upon room, and is never quite finished - except being finished up to how much it has been built when one comes upon it. The house is very haphazard, built from a variety of materials, in  a variety of ways. Inside, it can be a confusing maze of twisted hallways. It seems to be larger on the inside than it does from outside. One also finds that the house lies within the city, yet, until one has found it by going through the forest, one can never know which house in the city it might be. Once found, one need not go through the forest again to find it. This is one of the many tricks of the island.
    The house is built around a garden. The garden is abundant and limitless. It is another trick of the island that the forest and the garden are the same. Each contains the other, as each contain and are contained within the house. One does not know this without wandering off the paths lost in the forest, and coming upon the house. Then, as one wanders through the hallways of the house, one might come upon the gate of the garden. This may take some time. The gate is not easily found. When it is found, it is not often recognized. The gate is not in any particular place. It might be found anywhere.
    Where it is always found is between one's desire and fear. These are the two guardians that stand at either side that lure or frighten one away. Many have reached this point and have not gotten any further. Many do not know that there is any further to get. They are content having found the house, and spend their lives redesigning it and remodeling it to their liking. They go out and find their favorite things and bring them here. Da went back to the beach and found remains of the shipwreck and collected them together again. It was not much, but he treasured them above all else.
    The way between one's desire and fear is extremely narrow. It is the eye of the needle. Until one is on the way, it then expands out into a desolate wilderness. Time in this wilderness stands still. There are no distinguishable landmarks to guide one though it, or to tell how far one has gone. Every direction seems the same. One is neither found, nor lost. It is what is commonly referred to as limbo. It seems that Zeno's arguments against motion rule here. One may run as far and as fast as one is able to, and remain where it seems one had begun.
    This is from the remaining influence of one's desire and fear. The desire to get somewhere, to something, someone, and the fear to get away from somewhere, away from something, someone. There are no more names to anything one desires and/or fears - only the desires and fears themselves. One comes to realize that desire and fear are the same, fed by the same source of energy - ignorance.
    One must wait. One must wait for what seems to be a long time in a state in which there seems to be no time, where there is no reference to time. One waits until one comes to understand the moment, now, and the place of the moment, here.  This is how one loses what remains of one's desire and fear.
    As one waits, one begins to notice the wilderness is changing. Its former desolation begins to show signs of things coming alive, growing and blooming. As one waits, one begins to realize that one has been in the garden the whole time, even before one entered through the gate - before one came to the house, entered the forest or came to the island. Even before one set sail from the shores of the sea and into the storm. Before one imagined oneself falling from grace, being exiled from the garden to begin with.
    And, one realizes that one is sitting beneath a tree. One remembers having eaten the fruit of this tree. It was early in the season, when the fruit was hard and bitter. It caused one to fall into a spell having terrible nightmare visions of being in a world divided against itself and warring between good and evil - between desire and fear.
    And, one laughs at oneself. Such a fool one has been to be taken in by such an impossible thing - to have imagined that such a world was, or even could be real. How could it be real - a world constantly tearing itself apart? One realizes that such a world is absurd.
    It is now later in the season, and one is older. The fruit of the tree is now ripe, and full of life. One reaches up and takes it, and eats. One enters into a different dream.

    Here and now, da is sitting in a cafe, gazing out the window. He has been here for quite some time now. He has been playing a game of chess against himself. He is now in a stalemate, the board in balance, after having so many other times been in check, the board out of balance. He now understands the defeat in victory, and the victory in defeat. He comes to understand many such simple things that seemed so very much complex before.
    This is where he had come back to - the here and now, out of the there and then. He fell off his chair away from himself. It struck him like lightning charging up his spine, blowing his head off. Yet, this was a long long process. It was, even now, still happening. There is no completion to it - except, perhaps, with death.
    It all is in analogies and metaphors - ones that he obviously has borrowed from others who may or may not have been describing the same things. He has been scribbling about this, and whatever else for years now. He has filled notebooks full of his scribbling. It is from these notebooks that we are now transcribing, that comprise the main body of the Byblia Dyslexikon.

The Doubts of da
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The Byblia Dyslexikon

    The Byblia Dyslexikon is madness. None of it should be believed, but all of it doubted. This is the only way though it to what is the actuality manifest behind it. It is the inspired imagined writing of the doubtful followers of the dada-ananda. These writings are spread all over the place. It is quite an impossible task to collect them all, since we do not know who might be writing them, or what form they might take.
    But we have recently begun transcibing the Byblia Dyslexikon proper that hopefully will explain everything about the Artchurch and related but perhaps not.  
  Da has been writing what is referred to the trance poems. These are ongoing endless stream of doubtful consciousness, scribblings wandering through various aspect dimensions of the imagining of whatnot related to the dada-ananda and whatever. 
    Much of the majority of these writings still exist in their orignal form, as they were written by da. He has left them with us, and we are attempting to transpose them over to a more accessible medium. Go to here for what we've done so far.
    For other places where some pieces of the Byblia Dyslexikon might be found (if one has the doubt to recognize it) go to: links to elsewhere. Also, if one might find oneself writing what might be part of the Byblia Dyslexikon, please feel free to e-mail it to us so that we might publish it on these pages.

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An Imagined Quasi One World Government
Divided Peoples
Anarkist Republican Dictatorship
of the
One World Divine State Monarchy
(in exile)

    There is a government, and there is not a government. There is not war and there is not peace. There is not order and there is not chaos. There is the declaration of what is and is not. Should we know what that is? Do we have control of it?
    The DIVIDED PEOPLES revolt against one another, and have been doing so since history has been written. 
    At their heart is the ANARKIST thrust against all polar opposition and control - including itself. 
    From amongst themselves they have devised those who shall be the chiefs and rulers who shall build a great pyramid of REPUBLICAN structures of agencies and offices that beg the difference and form up and down and sideways. 
    Atop it all is the DICTATORSHIP of power seized from the mass desires of all. 
    And all monies shall lay the FOUNDATION thereof, so it shall continue.
    There is ONE that is one and many. 
    The WORLD is round and flat, except in the bumpy places. 
    It is all that is what we might say that is DIVINE
    It is in a STATE to itself. 
    It, by nature, bestows MONARCHY to all. 
    In this it is IN EXILE from all else.

    There are other explanations. There is much to be argued. Let no one proclaim victory too soon. We march beneath our banners. We admit to nothing. We have upon our heads crowns of ourselves. The grand temple is formed from our debris of ideas. FARGAR. A great sound is made from the stamping feet smashing idols. Those above spit on those below. Those below throw rocks at those above. There are many easy targets. Each may proclaim oneself king and/or queen - or both. Each is subject to the overall, and the overall is subject to ourselves. 
    If the answers were easy we would not have questions.
    Does anyone have no questions?

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