the one true false
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
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
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
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
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
dada-ananda on the shroud of turin
about the dada-ananda
of the dada-ananda
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
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.
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.
- 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.
- 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.
- the regular meal available to a guest for whom no special preparations
have been made; the luck or chance of succeding events or possibilities.
- 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.
- a building for public worship; the clergy or officialdom of a religious
body; a body or organization of religious believers.
- 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.
- the action or process of propelling; something that propels. propel:
to drive forward or onward by means of a force that imparts motion; to
- 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.
- 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.
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
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.
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.
"If one takes
anything I say seriously, one has a much bigger problem than I've got."
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:
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
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
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
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?
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.
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.
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?
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.
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).
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.
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?
Doubts of da
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.
drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, da scribbles this nonsense in endless
notebooks, dreaming that the sky is on fire.
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.
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
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.
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...
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
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
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
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
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.
Doubts of da
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
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
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.
Imagined Quasi One World Government
One World Divine
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
Atop it all is the DICTATORSHIP of power seized from the mass desires
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?