The Howl

This isn’t the Howl, as I thought taking a picture or preparing a false idol would be blasphemous.


For those who don’t know, I’m working on a story that revolves around this town, not just with this blog, but something that I consider close to true. I say ‘close to true’, because that’s the nicest way to say I’m full of shit. It can’t be a story about my town, because it’s a boring place. Yet, it can’t not be about it. Does that make sense? Have I lost you already? If people understood the boredom that occurs on a daily basis in a small town, well, they would lose interest and then, they’d miss out on something truly amazing. I’m still working on exposing exactly what I’m talking about, while only being a little full of shit, not completely. It’s a treacherous line that you have to walk, but I’m trying… this is the story.

There’s this place in my town called the Howl. It’s only a few miles long and wide, really nothing to talk about. When we were children, we’d run around and act like there were monsters hunting us or that we could find buried treasure or just have an adventure. The rest of the town was quite boring. We had a few parks, but nothing much else. We basically got to play in a massive back yard full of trees and a few hills and a creek. It was a safer place than most of the streets in the town. Our parents allowed us to go down there, although there were a few things about it that made it less than desirable. Teenagers went down into the Howl to do drugs… or other things. You could find used condom wrappers. You could find closed thrown in the trees, like something out of ‘Lord of the Flies’, but none of that mattered. We used it as part of the adventure. It was our chance to learn something about what grown-ups (including teenagers) made of this place.

At the time, we were too young to understand why anyone would want to be naked in this place, but when you get older you understand. The time came for us to claim the Howl as our kingdom, which came to us in our teens. It made the most amazing paintball range you could ever see. We decorated the trees, not just in paint, but with lights and ply-board signs. We did anything to make it ours. Sure, we did drugs as well. We did reckless things, because that’s just what happened down there. It was our time to act like fools, so we took it. I’m glad we never missed that opportunity, truly glad.

I’m glad we took that chance, because looking down into the Howl right now, I couldn’t do any of that shit. I’m a grown ass man… thirty one, and going down into this place from my youth would shatter the narrative I’ve worked years to create. That’s my struggle. I’ve been wrestling with the narrative in my head, while the truth is fighting, pressing against the precipice, fighting its way inside. I can’t deny it. As an adult, you come to understand that there aren’t monsters in the Howl, but an even more earth-shattering revelation comes, as to why your parents told you those stories. It’s the Howl. The Howl is a controlled arena of deceit and trivial joy. Your parents told you to go down there, so you wouldn’t get locked into the rat-race that happened on the streets of our city. Kids discovered a lot worse in our town. Some of these things they’ll never recover from… Some of it should’ve been prevented.

Looking back, the Howl was our protector. We shielded ourselves from the truth. Our parents could watch us without really watching us. There was certainly some danger in the Howl, but it was far more controlled than what we would’ve seen walking… well, not everywhere, but down the wrong street. This is the Howl… and I hope I’ve given you the most truthful interpretation that I can…

Kama, Patron Saint of the Doomed

 


Doom is the word. It holds a great deal of weight at the tip of your tongue. Sound it out and let it settle. Your ears don’t want to accept the presence of such a word in your vocabulary. It’s a word that everyone deals with in everyday life, yet only a few know the definition. Knowing is struggling. Knowing is being defeated by life or other forces that prove much stronger, greater, more capable of breaking you down and making you feel like less than what you are. Doom is the word. It can’t be written out of the dictionary. It belongs, just like hope and prosperity.

Doom is a symbol of greatest despair. It’s the ‘nothing left, game-over’ scenario, when you have nowhere else to turn. You’ve run out of options. You’ve failed in a way that nothing will ever get better. If anything, it’ll only get worse. A symbol of doom weighs heavy on the soul. You don’t often notice them right away. More often, you live such a life that you have to look back and see, before you can pinpoint the augury of your downfall. Think of the Statue of Liberty and what it’s supposed to mean to a person coming in after spending days at sea, locked shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, while you hold your child close to you and hope that you both can weather the storm. Imagine looking up over the horizon of ocean that you’ve seen for days and seeing that beautiful sign of hope: a distant flame in the endless ocean, her torch, held high above inequity and doom. Imagine what you feel, what you think, what you understand about your future. It’s enough to fill a man with hope. So too is that point when you’ve run out of hope. So too is that point when you have nothing, but to accept your fate.

The ocean is doom. Your old life is doom. Doom is the point of no return, when all hope is lost and nothing can be done to save you. It’s been symbolized by mythical places, like Hell or Hades, but in using symbols to define it, we’ve lost what it means for the truly doomed. True doom is reserved for those beyond reach. It’s for people so desperate they’d flee across an ocean for a better life.

What is hope? Hope is wishing for something better. The doomed have to hope that they can be absolved of whatever sin has caused their suffering. Hope is beyond the ocean, yet absolution is so much further.

If you walk beneath the Dunn Memorial Bridge in Rensselaer, New York, you’ll find several things. You’ll find a baseball field with a tremendous history to the sport, although you might not think it. You’ll find the noise insufferable, as cars speed above on their way to the highway. Of utmost importance are the pillars that keep the highway from crashing into the river. Several artists perfected their art against the sturdy concrete, as a proper reminder that almost anything can be made beautiful with a little effort. I found this one (Top Left) of utmost importance, not only to our town, but to the world. I call him, Kama, Patron Saint of the Doomed, because we all need hope in some form. The last time I walked passed this place beneath the highway, I saw its trash bins overflowing, while crows pulled out leftovers and made off with them like victorious scoundrels. I don’t understand that symbol, but I’d rather find meaning in something more beneficial.

For the lost souls that roam in our fair city, there is Kama, Patron Saint of the Doomed. The fallen angel, Kama, sacred returner of lost souls, watches over us all. Predators threaten. Call the city a haven and that’s what it becomes. Treat it like one and you live up to your word. Deliver on this promise and it is so. Kama is the protector. He pushes those forces that would cause us harm out into the ether, allowing us to remain, like a bubble along the river. After enough time, the bubble will pop and Kama will return from whence he came. Until then, he watches over us. Kama takes the form of the spider, but unlike most spiders he has not set this trap. This is not his web. Our web was empty, this empty city would’ve been picked apart if not for him. Every so often the web will tear, threatening a collapse into oblivion. Kama holds it together.

Outside forces work to tear down what we call sacred. It’s only a matter of time before they succeed and we are torn apart. That doesn’t matter. It’s not the point to preserve what is inherently doomed. It’s the point to try. It’s the point to try. It’s the point to try. Kama protects us. Still, even with him as our protector, our fate is sealed. We’ll collapse into oblivion, yet we have this time to enjoy our empire of dirt. Let his name, Kama, Patron Saint of the Doomed, be praised.

Eternal State of Boredom


The Eternal State of Boredom, so it goes or so it seems, from one bridge to another. It’s those things in between: houses, streets, cricks, parks, people, playgrounds that I wish to ignore. The entirety of these forms shall pass, yet, with any city, there can be said to be an ‘identity’ that’s all its own. It belongs to none of us, yet it has become who we are. This is the Eternal State of Boredom.

Every city has its identity. You can walk down a street in New York and feel the incessant rush of constant motion. If it’s not people moving it’s buses and cars, subways, trains, plains, taxis and people on bikes dragging tourists. They move in a million different directions. Everyone has somewhere to go and, what’s more, after that they have somewhere else to go. It’s constant motion, wanting more, needing more, and moving to sustain a society that would crumble to dust if the inertia ever stopped. I haven’t been to other cities, but they’ve all come up under different circumstances and it’s wrong to assume that every city is the same. Some are developed through ports and trades and find their identity in accepting a different form of culture from those that arise through other means. Others become ‘the party city’, like New Orleans, a place I hold close to my heart. New Orleans is a beautiful city full of all sorts of wild animals. You have rats in all forms. Some come along as ‘street beggars’, who act like musicians or do whatever they must to earn a dollar. I met a man who claimed to be a time-traveler needing a few bucks to fix his machine and get back home. He said he saw the bloody days of the French Revolution, as he went on about the clean precision of the guillotine, which he believed to be well ahead of its time. Now, how could I deny a man like that a single dollar?

Every city possesses an identity that, although it is also subject to change, this is something all its own. No other town can be like New Orleans. They can be similar, but nothing can compare. Can it be said, if I’m proposing an identity for every city, that these same cities can possess their own destiny? We’ve often thought a town to be something different, where people make up its identity and nothing else. If this is true, then what do we make of a town with a destiny? If this is true, we must look at the world in a new light, for what could be said to be the destiny of a town like New Orleans after Hurricane Sandy? While we’re on the subject, what about towns with horrifying scars on their past, like Hiroshima, Auschwitz or… well, how about you guys give me some fun one?

Salem, Massachusetts is a fun one that I’ve actually visited. I enjoy the town, because you can walk around the streets and have all the presence of a normal person walking around a simple, puritan town. It has the feel that nothing has ever happened ever to leave a black mark on their record. If you go down the right corner you can see what is an alleged ‘haunted house’ that belonged to the former mayor during the Salem Witch Trials. For those who don’t know, the Salem Witch Trials were a period of mass hysteria when people were believed to be manipulated by dark forces and thus, had to be tortured. It’s something that none of us would ever want to endure and thinking of that time sends a chill of fear, as you realize that sensible people can be denigrated to monsters with a whim of hysteria and terror. Now, of course, it’s become a show. They use their story to entertain the world, establishing their ‘pirate museum’, as well as their ‘torture museum’, where they show the dungeons that some of the people were kept to stew in their dark powers. It’s all entertainment, yet, during that time, the paranoia and mass hysteria created a far more sinister identity. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salem_witch_trials

As it goes for my city, I can see no destiny. I see what I wish it to be, sure, but as for an identity that the few thousand inhabitants would agree upon, well… it’s something I wouldn’t want to admit. It’s something ugly in, not only its laziness, but its apathy. I call it ‘The Eternal State of Boredom’. I’ve struggled to explain our identity to outsiders. You look in on our city and see a mess. You see nothing and that’s a fair point that comes to define who we are. We’ve nothing to manifest an identity, so we turn to the train. Tracks cut the city in half, yet none of us ever follow them out of here, far away, moving beyond toward a greater destiny than what we’ve been given for so long. If a city has a destiny, does it find it on its own? How does a city possess its own destiny? How do we help our city find where it belongs?

I’ve walked along these same tracks all my life. I’ve seen people and places change, all the while the city remained the same. The Eternal State of Boredom is a product of a mindset that has already given up. We’ve failed to change what we perceive to be of no importance. We’ve ignored the warnings of the world, as our city somehow sustains itself without falling into the abyss of time and impatience. Roanoke is another city with an interesting history. Its people abandoned it or so the story goes. Nobody knows what happened to the ‘lost colony’, although similar fates have come to several cities throughout history. Boom cities came up when gold was abundant in the western states, but when the gold disappeared so did the people. The cities remained. Everyone calls them ‘haunted’ now. Ancient cities had to be abandoned as well, when either their water source became depleted or marauders came and enslaved their people. We act like that can’t happen today, but really, it’s only the technology that’s advanced… and maybe the cities, but not the people.

It’s important to see different worlds before they disappear. For every city an identity. For every city a destiny. If you want, you can walk down South Street or any street, since the train goes through everyone’s backyard and sit and stare at the tracks. They run by at the same time each day, creating so much noise before it all disappears into the crippling nothingness of our culture. The trains are something to see, not exactly New Orleans or New York, but something in the least. A train is a relic of a time when man and technology forged an empire. They’re modern day petroglyphs, marking a city that might have to move on if it’s identity is somehow forgotten. Even worse, if the identity was never there in the first place. We sit in reverence of the trains, skipping stones along our quiet river, sharing a subtle appreciation for this Eternal State of Boredom.

S.nake O.il S.alesmen

Image result for trumpWe had a feller come to town

claiming he could turn water into wine

when he couldn’t he blamed the sun…

we didn’t think much of it…

The next day, he was gone

to the town of Kul

Where stories came about of a man

who turned water into wine

and they praised him as a king

and the world came to see

and the world came to understand his wisdom

What is the wisdom of a man who turns water into wine?

It’s the miracle

We all want to be a part of it.

And fools rush in – because it only takes one

Like those late-night telemarketers – they know if they get one

It might as well be a million

You get one disenfranchised, desperate citizen that feels like he’s been screwed into destitution by his country

That’s all it takes

Snake Oil – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snake_oil

There’s intellux and ‘male-growth hormones’ and viagra

and ‘making America great’ and ‘In God we Trust’

Boom – snake oil

How do you fight it?

When the people who are fool enough to use it

Praise its benefits

It’s deeper, deeper, deeper and deeper

Feel it to thrive, the instinct is to stay alive.

So… you’re saying… maybe they don’t believe?

Maybe their sense is more primal

Maybe they know to follow the one that swears to protect them

Because no one seems to want to protect

And so they buy the bullshit as a formal protest and claim to want to survive

And claim they want to survive… and claim they want to survive

Because America and Democracy come second to survival

And making America great means

turning back the clock

to when the KKK could march a million men strong on D.C.

And dogs and kittens lived in harmony

and every one every day one the lottery

and humble pie tasted like shit

and the Sun revolved around the Earth

and it only takes one to believe this shit

before we start thanking Ancient Aliens for the pyramids

and accuse scientists of hypocrisy

while we consume the oil of the snake

and thank the man

who brought it to our attention.

 

Lost Cultures of Columbia Turnpike: Kmart

Here it is… your moment of zen.

http://www.businessinsider.com/sears-obsession-with-wall-street-2016-3

For those who don’t remember (I haven’t written on this topic in a while), Columbia Turnpike is a long stretch of road that cuts through our town. I worked for many years in a store along this road. If you go up Columbia Turnpike now, you’ll see several abandoned buildings, some of which used to be thriving businesses or factories that helped to keep us afloat. Most of these factories packed up and left before I was born. These industries have an innate sense of survival. Unions gained momentum and threatened their ecosystem. The smart businesses went to China, while nothing became of those buildings… or the people who remained.

The fall of the Industrial Age has seen the rot of its decline seep into other facets of American life. Retail is no exception. The smart businesses aligned with China and other countries to get their wares for cheap, while exploiting labor that, while it might not be slave, still remains in question for morality’s sake. Factories shipped their business to other countries and invaded like a virus attacking a cell. You see this several times throughout history, especially with this being the time of ‘Giving Thanks’. The pilgrims left Europe, where they were certainly not welcome and had to kill many an ‘indigenous people’ to call this place home. It’s always been more a game of survival than anything…

I didn’t enjoy my time in retail, as is evident by the incessant nightmares that bubble up from time to time, where I feel the terror of being a part of that world. For those who haven’t endured it, I don’t know how to convince you of the terrible feelings that arise when I enter these places. I can’t walk into a Target or a Wal-Mart without feeling this sense of impending doom… most likely because I felt it for over a decade. I went into work without a sense that things could get better. Why should I? Every year that I was there things got worse. I grew accustomed to that feeling and, in all honesty, became numb. It’s the type of talk that a hardened soldier should use, not a man who worked far too long at a shitty store.

Again, I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes hell is the same to people and sometimes it’s different. Retail was my hell. More specifically, Kmart was hell. My coworkers and I endured something altogether baffling, as we watched our corporate elites exploit the minimal resources we had. They squandered and destroyed, like any other invading army. The corporate world is no different. It’s full of sociopaths and pederasts. They visited our store from time to time, always with a firm handshake, something vulgar when it comes to their touch. Businessmen use the handshake to fuck one another, because a firm grip assumes something masculine. It’s perverse. I wish they’d fuck and get it over with!

Trust was never established between us at the store level and those in corporate, but it didn’t seem to matter. We watched our store rot away, losing more and more of itself. We knew what was happening, but it all came with this sense of being overpowered. It was helpless… a lost cause. I didn’t give a shit at the time. If they were going to let this place fall I couldn’t care. I wanted it, same as them. I think that makes me at least a little responsible. I worked with ineptitude, sure, but maintained a bare-minimum within that same work ethic. I did what I had to, not what I could, because going ‘above and beyond’ was something a fool would do. Why work harder when you knew the outcome? Why work harder when you knew you weren’t going to get a raise? Why work harder when you knew that corporate had you by the balls and were just waiting for the right moment to squeeze?

The day that lives in infamy within the retail stratosphere is known as ‘Black Friday’. Thanksgiving is a pretty terrible day as well, but nothing compares. If you’re looking for a way to lose faith in humanity… go sit in front of a store around 530 in the morning and wait. What the public doesn’t know about this day is that three workers our chosen at random from corporate to be sacrificed in an effort to appease the crowd. The names come down from headquarters. We have no say in the matter, although we hope that the most inept employee gets picked, sort of to ‘cleanse our ranks’, if you will. The number of those chosen actually depends on the number of workers per store. We didn’t have many, so they went with three… but I digress.

Three sacrifices are chosen a week before the event. We honor their sacrifices, making them honorary guests at a party all for them. We get them drunk and provide for them plenty of escapes from the realization. The affair is always solemn. You’re about to lose a friend and while you’re happy it’s not you… well, you have to make the best of things.

Thanksgiving day everything changes. We surround them in a dark room and pummel them with socks full of bars of soap. We beat them within inches of their lives, strip them naked and tie them to posts outside the store. This all starts around 12 at night. We have to get ready for the day… this terrible day. People are already waiting by that time. The smell of the rotting flesh, as the sacrifices begin to chill on the November air is something I’ll never forget. They sit for hours. People change in that time. They can’t help themselves. It takes only a few hours, as more and more people come along and wait in the lines, before they attack. The sacrifices do enough to distract the people from our store. It gives us enough time to prepare and hope not to be their next victims.

Around the time that they finish with the three sacrifices, our store is ready to open. We wait at the front behind the doors, until they open and we run for our lives. There’s something in that hunger that is altogether human. It’s desperate and pathetic and… just a shame. I think of what it could mean to have so many people together and have it mean something. Instead, they fight for video games and bath robes. I wonder what it all means, but it’s like trying to make sense out of the movements of those little fruit flies. For some things… you’re just not allowed to know.

The building is still around for those to see. I could’ve taken a picture of it, but I found this one all the more endearing. It’s a husk of its former glory. For some reason, I get a calming sensation whenever I look at this photo. I had to share it with you all. I think of it rotting and collapsing to dust and feel really good. Most people will never understand the significance of this temple. I’m probably one of them. Nothing can describe what we endured. Nothing can describe the true horror of those days. If you’re curious, I’m sure you’ll see and think back to that time with a sense of wonder and, if I’ve done my job, hopefully an open mind.

Muck Mouth Scripture

Image result for muck mouth#FreeMuckMouth

What do we do with our doomed? Those citizens that don’t register in our psyches as human, for those few, we have a lesser understanding. We see them pushing carts down the street far from the stores that they belong. We see them staring off into an endless world that we cannot see and wonder what could go wrong in a mind to create such a person. What do we do with them? How do we help? How do we make the world a little less fucked-up, so that maybe such a person could fulfill his destiny?

 

Spits at the wind

Spit comes back, sprays his face in mucus

Doesn’t even flinch

Sees the sun setting – stars waking, moon taking control

A whole world order rising and falling, rising and falling

“Stanky ‘D’ on a way down.” Muck Mouth says

Say what?

“Little grits… tight pussy… ‘D’ hangin’ low, ya mean?”

No… no one knows what the hell you’re talking

“English mo-fo… ha! Do you speak it?”

I guess not

He points to the sun, traces a line through the stars that we have yet to see

He sees something, I might never know what

Muck Mouth has a brilliant mind

It’s trapped in his shit brain

like the rest of us

Limitation

It always gets the best of us

We’re all trapped in muck

Muck Mouth’s brain

No discernible truth to this world

Just words to chew, salivate over, drool on ourselves

“Stanky ‘D’… no salvation,” traces his hand in the sky

I notice the sun and a line that follows over the horizon

Not the horizon, another line

It seems to be a space where the darkness drops over the light

Like a blanket collapsing over our sleeping world

When Muck Mouth sees the understanding in my eyes

He smiles – busted teeth, some missing

Good guy, great teacher

He speaks in myths and riddles

Sacred gods and goddesses made of night and day, light and dark, sun and moon

Their actions are coercion, control, power dynamics that our puny minds

Will never understand

Muck Mouth understands

If only, for me, to tap into the root of his wisdom

This is his scripture. —-I have no idea what the fuck you’re saying… and I think you know that.

Lost Soul Scripture 

In this city and no other, the lost souls converge to celebrate. None can say what they’ll be celebrating, as a form of expression for the deceased seems unnecessary. We do it with funerals, but nothing for when the deceased are long-since passed and nothing for which the living are not allowed to get involved. This is a ‘dance for the dead’. The lost souls that clog the entryways between vast, unfathomable universes flood our great city. You can’t hear them over the sounds of the train or the stupid mechanics who test their engines all night down the road from my house, but the lost souls find us. They come to this city to celebrate, if not for being alive, then for being.

One thing you witness is what significance they apply to our fair city. We don’t see it so often, with so many abandoned buildings, infrastructure falling apart or little effort that gets directed towards our city. The souls find us in good company. They come to this place, because it’s the ‘way-station’. It’s neither a good city nor a bad. They call it ‘the greyest little city in the world’. They point us to all the grey buildings across the river, as well as the plaza with its vast pool surrounded by grey marble. I’ve lived here all my life and can tell you it IS the greyest little city in the world. They say that Albany is the grey and Rensselaer is its shadow. There’s a fair amount of truth to that. I don’t know what it means to be in the shadow of Albany, although I assume it offers those lost journeyman a place to exist without exorbitant rent or indiscriminate neighbors who leave their televisions on full blast all damn night.

The lost souls come to us, because we are the way-station, which is neither good nor bad. They can come and rejoice in their decadent mortification without the worry of onlookers studying, photographing, preserving any moment that might ruin their fun. We’re not here for that. We’re here to experience for as long as we can, before we’re allowed to move on to that ‘hopeful eternity in the sky’. We’re the American dream. Give us your tired and poor and we’ll let them celebrate with the dead who come to dance into eternity. It is for this and nothing else that we pray.

The Empty Scroll

Image result for zen symbolThe other day I got high and decided to meditate. I don’t often do this, although I’m trying to get back into the habit. Getting high opened up the experience in a different way and showed me things I probably wouldn’t have seen. Instead of going on some pedantic rant, I wanted to write it out, almost in the style of a zen koan.Granted, I’m definitely not a ‘holy man’, but I felt that the experience was genuine and didn’t know any other way to document it.

The Empty Scroll

Don’t read too much into this. These words are as hollow as your heart, as false as your convictions and as empty as your soul. You give them meaning. I offer no wisdom and you drink it to become full. You consume nothing and feel complete. Wisdom is your illusion. A healthy diet of illusions poisons your soul. You read empty words, learn empty lessons that flood your heart. Empty your soul. Wisdom is a black hole. Your heart is the event horizon. Step too far over the line and you will be consumed. We call it life; life is our mission. Step over the line and become consumed. Zealots. Prophets. Slaves. Desire at its darkest; complete, unquestioning devotion. Empty as these words. Hollow, alone. Empty as culture. Is there an image embedded between the lines, the spaces, the paragraphs? Is your mind making you see? Hallucinating culture, hallucinating wit and personality. The poison of illusion causes sepsis to the system; it drives you mad. You see the image, their totem and pray to their dark gods. Refuse it. Deny it. And become as empty. Emptiness. Condition of the soul.

Tale of the Eternally Blinking Light


Time goes faster when you find something to do that you love. To the contrary, when you do something you hate, time takes forever. It wastes time, each time. We’ve come to understand that how we spend our time has to be understood. We have to appreciate the time we have, because we can’t always be doing what we love. Nobody enjoys waiting in traffic or sitting in boredom at your desk. In those moments, we allow time to slip away, as we imagine ourselves on beaches under the sun. We spend our time being happy, even when, in reality, we’re not.

At the intersection of Ring Street and South, there’s a traffic light that’s been blinking for the past two years. There’s still a stop sign at the end of Ring Street leading into South, although the light was constructed at least two years ago. The entire thing makes no sense, but it’s there. It exists, such as time, only constructed to perplex and confuse. Thinking about it is like trying to understand time and space, while existing in that same strata. Simply put, it cannot be done.

I don’t know how the world does it, but for all the money we claim not to have there’s an awful amount that we manage to waste. For those things that we’ve wasted our time, we have no choice but to call them sacred. If not, then we’ve lost so much. We lose that most sacred thing… our time on this earth. Between South and Ring Street, sits the ‘Eternally Blinking Light’. It just appeared one day out of nowhere, like the rest of us. Its existence is ours. We’re born from the same nothing that spawned the cosmos. It sits there blinking, one red and one green to each side, without a purpose. Nobody knows where it came from. Nobody knows. Some say it was put there as a warning for those who belong to a secret society. Some believe it was a waste of money. Others just ignore it, like everything else in the city.

The passage of time waits for no one. We’ve wasted enough time concerning what is sacred and what is nothing. For those that hold the light sacred, they hold a few ritual orgies at the beginning and the end of the month. They meet under the light for a few hours, give or take, depending on the traffic. It’s a sight to see… or be a part of… with so many bodies coming together, brought together by absolutely nothing. I guess time has a way of bringing us together. It offers us momentary glimpses of the sacred, before the illusion falls and we’re exposed for what we are.

I’d hate to think of my soul as an eternal tourist in this life. I’d like to think that I never belonged in this place or that. I think I’ll make my time as well deserved compost in this area eventually. If I get a say in the matter, bury me beneath the ‘Eternally Blinking Light’, where the orgies happen twice a month and if you look at the right moment up to the stars, you see the galactic battle between constellations we’ve named and stars that know nothing of their struggle.

A Mild Case of Pedophilia


On Broadway in Albany, there’s this perfect spot for photos in front of our Capital Building. It’s down hill from the building, but the angle of the street is so perfect to frame a person and the building. The building sits so perfectly atop the hill it’s almost picturesque, as if maybe someone planned it. People seem infatuated with getting their photos right, when in reality you can’t take a bad photo. I love watching them pose in front of it or standing there trying to frame the angles of light, capturing space-time, before they lose the moment.

It’s the perfect spot for a photo or for other occurrences that are even more profound and life-altering. On this day, two women with four of their children framed their perfect photo. They shoved their children together in front of the Capital Building, until a nice fella walked up and asked if he could take a photo. Note: he didn’t say, “can I help?” He asked to take a photo. The women said ‘sure’ and even thanked the man, who then proceeded to snap photos of their kids… Anyway, the women stood horrified, watching as the man snapped a few photos of their kids and then politely thanked them. After that, he was gone… like a demon’s whisper. I held back laughter, as I also felt the more plausible disgust, so I went with that. The man walked out of sight, out of mind. People came up to the women and asked if that guy just did… what he did. It was all a memory by now, as the women gathered their children and walked off. They never did get their photo…