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.

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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.