It Snowed and I Survived

I thought this picture framed the weekend with a certain perfection. It was a long struggle with Netflix and junk food the likes of which I’m thinking many did not survive. My thoughts go out to those with family members who didn’t make it or are reliving some form of ‘shell-shock’ from having endured hours upon hours of ‘Family Guy’ or ‘Walking Dead’ reruns.

This is a view of the city from across the river. You see traffic and then a building that overlooks the riverfront property of Albany. Across from that is Rensselaer, which is my hometown. I’d like to say it looks much more welcoming without the snow, but really it’s always grey. I don’t mean that to sound as depressing as it does, but I don’t know how else to describe a city with very little to it. If anyone from the city was asked the same question, I’d bet it all on them either saying it exactly as I have or resorting to stories from their youth. They could call back ‘the good ole days’ or suggest you look at photos of their grandchildren, which, to me, is missing the point.

The point is… I’m out of shit to do in this damn town, so I’m taking pictures from undisclosed locations to make it seem greater than it is… so, here we are. I’m thinking that it’s only me who wants more, because the city’s been this boring for as long as I can remember. You get used to nothing changing. I’m sure it’ll settle into my bones with a few more years, but does anyone really want that? Shouldn’t there be something greater, some wisdom we reveal from years of experience with this or that? I’ve been trying to understand what deeper understanding of the self I might’ve come across from all my years in this town, on this earth, somewhere in the ether of creation and chaos… nope, still nothing.

Maybe some day I’ll get to that one post that brings it all together. Maybe some day this’ll all make sense. Until then…

The Drug Guy of Tartarus

Related imageNobody talks about ‘the underworld’ these days. I find that disturbing. I love the pictures drawn out of ancient mythology of new worlds that you can pass through only by making some chilling sacrifice to prove that you belong. I’ve been considering the sacrifices we make every day to belong. We get a little older, sacrificing our youth so that we might stay a little longer. We get comfortable with loss and learning what to lose. You sacrifice a little bit of that youthful energy and hopefulness so that you might exist in this realm for a while longer.

Ask yourself, “What have I done to prove that I belong?”

It’s the same for when you want to buy drugs. It’s never an easy endeavor. Sure, we could legalize it and all this underground tom-foolery would dissipate within a matter of months… but we don’t have time for rational suggestions. Instead, we have to preserve the underground. It’s an environment unlike any other, with its own set of rules that have to be followed. It can be dark, mysterious, mischievous and down-right shady, but it has to exist. There are demands that the world of the living cannot meet. For that, you have the underground.

My dealer is a relatively normal guy. He just talks a damn lot about shit that I don’t care about. The price you pay for entering the underworld is having to listen for hours on end. Your sacrifice is made ever-so much more difficult by the fact that he won’t give you any drugs while you’re listening. You have to sit there stone-sober, as he rattles off trivial minutiae that he notices on a daily basis. It’s like meeting a character out of a children’s fable: you can’t cross the bridge without answering a few riddles. He just seems like a lonely guy living out a riddle of his own. He has dozens of friends and yet he has no friends. Plenty of people come to see him, yet nobody stays. Every creature within the underworld must live by the laws that govern. He follows a curse, for although he provides for the underworld a source of great power, he, in himself, possesses none.

I listen for a while. He believes in ancient aliens. He believes they built up mankind as a sort of cattle. He thinks we’re being moved in place and the earth is one great big farm. It’s weird that these theories always find some bearing on our souls, something familiar to embed in our psyches, like a god damn tick. I can’t forget the idea of the ancient aliens. Part of me would really love to relax and believe whatever. It settles into you. Doesn’t anyone else notice the parasitic nature of belief? A tick doesn’t rest. It bites down and chews. It’s chomping through you with all its might. You might feel it as an itch, but on the part of the tick its intent is malicious. It wants to survive. It HAS to survive.

Once he runs out of steam you’ve passed the test presented by the underworld. You’re free to escape. He works through the conversation and reveals vast treasures of the underworld. He gathers them up in sandwich bags, ties them up and presents them to you without a riddle. I don’t even know the question. I take what I’ve come for and leave, like any businessman, I offer a proper handshake and goodbye. He never seems to care that you go, as he folds over onto his couch and continues watching whatever is on the television. It’s usually cartoons or the History channel.

We Built the Pyramids

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I was high when I wrote this…

Where I compose my scriptures can define this town, like Jesus’s sermon on a mount in a place that I can’t really comprehend. I know nothing of that time. Even in reading something out of a history book… reading and being are not one in the same. You have to feel it. I felt hell the other day. Hell is a karmic flow of energy when it tilts towards the negative. I’ve been tilting towards the negative all my life. I thought it was the worst, but it gets even better. The nightmare of life is what I’m talking about. If you don’t know, I’ll try to describe it as best I can.

For starters, we built the pyramids. It wasn’t ancient aliens. It wasn’t God. It was us. Skilled artisans crafted it with meticulous precision. A man with an intimate knowledge of how this should look drew up the plans. The plans were followed by workers who knew how to give instructions, while going along with the plans of the person above them. The workers followed in point. Laborers stacked the damn stones on top of each other based on what their bosses told them to do. It seems like such a simple explanation, but there’s really not that much to it. We built the pyramids.

Karmic justice is based on this same principle. Every nightmare is an inevitability, as well as every fantasy. We can’t comprehend in this life the consequences of the next, because we only know this life. Knowledge, no matter how powerful, has limitations. Those limitations expire when you die. When you die, you move to another wisdom. Some might say it’s a ‘greater wisdom’, but really it’s just another step along the path of something we’ll probably never, ever understand.

It’s not wisdom in the sense of knowing. Knowing attaches limitations. In this life, I refuse to believe in God. I refuse to follow a religion, because people have yet to relinquish the atavistic sense of the self. We’ve not reached that point of perfection that allows us to judge one another for what we consider a sin. Even in sharing what I’ve seen, it’s limited by senses that my mind views from a time that has such a limited, narrow scope. I mean… why the fuck would any of you listen to me?

Capitol in Albany. We built this shit too…


The Vision: I lived out such a short life that it had to be lived over and over again. This was hell. I was dropped into a terrarium with glass walls, roughly two feet wide, although space and time seemed irrelevant at this point. All that mattered was survival. We fell into a terrarium and our sole purpose was to die. A massive lizard came to ensure the price of our sin was paid. Heaven for the lizard meant hell for the cricket. Hundreds of us… imagine that… and N-O-N-E of us would survive. The creature tore one man apart. If you could see the horror on the man’s face and understand the true nature of anguish. The lizard was so damn happy, as he roamed the confines of this prison. This was paradise to him.

A young boy is God to the lizard. He’s so happy when he feeds him, but the lizard looks to him with veneration and terror. How can you not? The boy is massive.. roughly four feet tall. He grabs the lizard from the terrarium and lifts him to the boy’s heart. The poor lizard hovers in the air. Four feet off the ground is a mighty fall for such a minute figure. In this case, when you see the lizard between the tiny fingers of the young boy, you think that… our scale for all that we know is off. The boy is massive. The lizard is small in comparison. I’m at the bottom. I’m a cricket waiting to die in a terrarium full of sinners like me.

What is my sin? How do I prove to God that I don’t deserve to be here?

Proof… it’s not what we think. You don’t bow down and pray and make everything better. I learned that the hard way, as I waited for the young man… who seemed eternal, indomitable… at least as I lived as a cricket, to return the lizard. Proof that you deserve to live is in living. Fight for survival. I have nowhere to run. This is hell. This is to suffer. My mission is whatever I god damn feel. I feel terror. The lizard returned. He was bored for now. He shit out a few of my friends, as most of us cowered in the corner. I found the remains of some unlucky cricket resting at my feet. It was half an abdomen and a bit of a leg. He died without a name. It shows you what’s really worth a damn in this world. All your names and disappear with death.

Vision: I’m a worm. You’re never warm as a worm. Nobody understands that worms rule the earth. There are massive worms deep within the crest of the earth. The core itself is made up of one giant worm that has rolled himself into a knot. One day, he took a bite out of his tail and, in struggling to break free, made the knot even worse. He tried to eat himself and couldn’t stop. He wrapped himself around in one great big knot and this became our core. The friction of his body creates the super-heated essence, the delicate ether that has supported life for countless millennia.

The core is the mind. It moves everything. We think we have free will and absolute control of our destiny, but this is one great big lie. The core has control. It’s responsible for global catastrophes. It’s responsible for great works of art. You can look to any painting, any scripture, anything vital, anything destructive… you have the core to thank. It moves us based on a whim within itself… this is survival. The core wants to survive, just like I did when I was a cricket. The worms move with the seasons, which depend on the position for which they belong within the levels of the earth. There are entire ecosystems within the planet that we’ve yet to understand. There are black holes, which I can’t explain right now, just because I don’t have the time. There’s just so damn much to this universe and I’m just a god damn worm.

I’m a worm. I move through the earth blind, because I have no need to see. All I feel and know is cold. I’m moving along with the rhythm of the earths core, when I feel that jolt of energy, the essence, prana, ether, rippling through the earth. The delicate vibration can’t be explained, because it doesn’t belong to the core. It belongs to me. It’s within me. I’m moved by my own vibration. It’s a confusing feeling to be in control, especially when I have no mind. I have no face, but I believe I understand how I look. I have an image of myself and for the first time I see it. I’m ugly. I’m hideous. Years of chewing away at the earth has made my face a rounded off nub with no features. I’m featureless, because I decide to eat on an endless path, shitting along the way, trailing my mess behind me, as I carry out my quest.

I have no sense of direction. I break free of the earth and reach that other strata. A worm, if he had a basic understanding of a ‘religious experience’, would believe that he reached heaven. The sky opens in a light blue above me. I feel warmth for the first time. I’m blind, but I feel the sun. I don’t know it’s the sun. I feel it and know it all the same. In this context the sun is God, but what is the dagger?. The next phase is me squirming along the ground, because I can’t find the point of entry for me to escape into the ground. A crow jabs its sharp beak, which pierces our rubbery flesh like a dagger and picks up several worms and keeps them in his mouth. I can’t see him. I feel his sharp beak prodding. He tears me in half and two broken pieces of my self litter the ground. I feel nothing. The crow abandons me and steals more of my friends. I hear their moans of unremitting torment.

“This is the eternal torment of the Lord”… so sayeth the worm.

A sun shower is something altogether nightmarish, but for some reason we carry a sense of relief and hope when it comes. I’m brought to the surface, watching several other worms with faces, as their plucked free of the earth and swallowed by the crow. It flies off. We’re left alone. The crow is not God. I have a deeper understanding, for what I feel is beyond all that I’ve known. I feel the sun. I can’t see it, but I feel. It feels so great on my rubbery skin, until that vital essence inside me runs dry and I feel the truth. My body withers. The sun eats me alive. This is God. It isn’t the core. It isn’t the sun. It’s the constant movement of karmic justice. The core will wither away. So will the sun. So will the worm and crow and cricket and lizard.

Where is God? The pulse. The trigger. The heart-beat. It pumps blood from one second to the next. When it stops, when the flow is severed and we bleed out from an irreparable laceration… where is God. When everything goes silent. When everything ends. When we don’t have the capacity to question.

I return. Eternal return. I’m the pharaoh. I built the pyramid. I preached a bunch of bullshit, not because I knew it, but because this is the wisdom I’ve inherited. Pharaoh after pharaoh claimed the rank of God. Now, I return. Eternal return. I walk the steps shaped at such an odd angle, because, at this time, people believed that maintaining a direct link to certain stars and constellations allowed a man to possess some greater power than he deserves. I believe this, because this is the wisdom we’ve inherited. We’ve passed it on, generation to generation. As to what the generation that follows will believe, I have no say. I won’t make it. I can’t see beyond this point. This is the end. Eternal Return.

A Quick Shout-Out to All the Vermin in the World – The World is Yours

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The World is Yours 😉

Events of the past few weeks require a greater introspection. In the moment, they seem catastrophic and dire, but if you step back and reflect… yeah… still pretty shitty. I thought that using this photo I took of graffiti overlooking one of the bridges in my town would cheer me up. It did. I like to think there’s some hidden meaning and that maybe whoever wrote it had some significant ‘touch’ from a blessed, all-knowing spirit who wishes to guide us through the maelstrom that infests our world and threatens in every day to tear it to pieces.

God must speak right through the person responsible.

I come here to reflect, because I can look to all sides and be inspired. If I look one way, I see the entire town, with the Rensselaer Rail Station serving as a focal point. Everything revolves around it, which is somewhat symbolic for the entire town. Everything pales in comparison to the train station, with its parking lot laying flat despite the hills that make up its boundaries, which happen to be the streets and businesses that are our town. If I look to the opposite direction, I can see the tracks leading off into oblivion. They move south towards New York City, cutting a straight line from us to them. They leveled a path for progress for steel to tear through the wilderness that would otherwise overrun our city. We’d live like barbarians, eating other scavengers for sustenance, gaining no greater understanding of the self. Instead, the woods serve as our boundary, covering the town in a thick blanket of brush and trees, giving birth to myths and legends of monsters that wait for night.

Still, the maelstrom is all around me. If I follow another direction, I see house after house with people living within inches of each other. We’re living in a busted bee hive with shambles and debris making up our nests. How does society keep moving like this? Perpetual motion. If we stop now, we’ll never be able to gather enough momentum to get moving. We’ll be trapped here… and we all know what that means… death… decay… faltering into the abyss… the old goodbye… the grim reaper’s kiss… something fancy to kiss us all goodbye. We can’t afford to stop. We can’t afford to take a moment to reflect, when a moment’s all it takes.

We can’t afford to stop, reflect, repair. There’s only enough time to move forward. Sometimes I wonder if I keep moving forward I’ll end up right where I started. Then I realize that’s the point. Society can’t stop to reflect, because it has to make it’s way back around. We’re heading toward the Stone Age carrying what we believe is a deeper wisdom of the self, but is instead a bit of hot air that got caught up in our lungs. We thought it was a touch in the heart that could transcend every wisdom ever inherited. By the time we’ve reached the finish line, it’ll be gone. We’ll burp it up in time.

Pick a direction. I go down East Street towards South Street. Don’t stop until you hit the creek. Even then, why stop for anything? Society will implode within a few more years. Reflection is this narcissistic thing… after all.

Duality Point – The Blinding Stargate

Image result for sunlight forming a gatewayThere’s plenty of wonder in the world and for that which exists, for the most part, it can only be seen if one is to achieve even a slight understanding of its complexity. If you can, however, I would truly recommend that in that precious moment of time when you are in the midst of certain chaos and have seen something beyond our comprehension, allow it to invade all of the senses.

I found one just a few days ago in my town, for which I’ve lived for well over thirty years. It exists at the point where Partition street loops around, as one big hill, to which Third street then intersects.If you were to look down from this point on either side of Partition, you would be reminded of Sisyphus from Greek lore pushing a boulder up a hill only for it to drop down moments later. If that isn’t a fitting metaphor for this city I don’t know what is.

If you approach this point at the right time, you’ll witness an amazing sight, as a rift out of some unreality forms a mesmerizing stargate. Partition street becomes the horizon and captures at this most perfect moment the full majesty of the sun. The sun manages to shine down the entire length of Partition to a point where if you’re at the bottom coming up you’ll be blinded. You won’t be able to move, utterly humbled by the radiance of this blinding light. Many bow in reverence, while others flock to bear witness to its brilliance. It reminds one of the ‘Trial of Sysiphus’, in which he is forced to roll a boulder up a hill only for it to fall back down, repeating this over and over for all eternity. If you force yourself to the top of the hill, fighting the brilliance, deciding not to wait for it to pass, you will see the cataclysm that waits between worlds. You’ll enter the stargate and be taught every secret there is to know.

It only takes a moment for the gate to close. You’ll look down on the other side of Partition. There’s the Stewart’s Shop and the Broadway Bridge, as well as the empty field of rubble that used to be my high school. There’s also a laundromat that’s been closed since I was born. You’ll sit at the top of the hill and think maybe the stargate will return, but time and wonder are passing fads. You’ll learn just like Sisyphus and roll your ass back down the hill.

Inauguration Day

 

Image result for trump naziThe funeral pyre was lit, not to mourn the lives of those presidents who devoted their lives to serving this country, but to mourn the future. The sun refused to break through that unremitting wall of grey that lurked behind the clouds, something menacing and reverent, as if a storm sat beyond the wall of mortal vision. Life sat in wonder, as the pyres became the only light. Nothing good would come of it. The darkness eased back with a brief glimmer of light, if only to shine from within ourselves, as we must forsake that wall of grey in the sky. It seems immortal, but what can one truly say about immortality? For all we’ve known of the modern era, there is no such thing. Everything passes. Everything has its time, before it goes the way of the dinosaurs.

They brought out two sacrificial virgins, which had been laced with angel dust to make them more submissive. Their minds had been molded from days of sensation, being blessed with everything their hearts might desire. They were given food and drink, sexual depravity, riches for their families that they would never see in this lifetime, all for the show… all for the inauguration.

Grand Wizard Kali Ma brought up the male sacrifice first. They stood him facing the crowd, so they could admire the swift precision of Kali Ma’s knife, as he slit his throat. It was a clean cut, I have to give him that, but my appreciation for this ominous ‘death cult’ that seems to run our country has dwindled beneath a cynical amusement. It all becomes quite boring after a while… I mean… how many times can we really watch a beautiful virgin die before it all becomes… monotonous?

The female sacrifice broke almost immediately after watching her male counterpart. She drifted steadily into the sea of bodies, but was brought back by a few men wearing SS fatigues. They threw her to the ground, denying the obvious urge to rape and plunder, knowing that the ritual of this day was more important than their petty desires. Grand Wizard Kali Ma fell upon her and drove his dagger into her heart. He ripped it out and presented it to her. She took it in her hands for a few seconds, which seemed so impossible, as if her body reached an untouchable state that waited between life and death. It lasted only a few seconds, before the heart fell out of her hands. Grand Wizard Kali Ma was lucky to have caught it before it hit the ground. If it had, the ritual would be ruined and the fate of our nation in peril.

Blood had to be spilled along the red carpet, for which our new overlord would walk. They sprinkled it, as if throwing rice at a wedding. It covered the faces of those in the front row, who looked with vengeful, atavistic senses, lurking, menacing desires to rape and murder. The day… no… the years of struggle to get their master elected, along with all their prayers to their dark and venerable gods had finally paid off. Now was the time to come out of the darkness, because the darkness had shown itself in full. So it goes, as the moon enters a cycle of darkness, which might seem eternal. So it goes, that everything has a need to be returned.

Although we all know the eagle represents the freedom and grace of our nation, it couldn’t be so with this inaugural day. They chose instead a chicken that had been locked up for weeks in a Tyson processing center. Its beak had been cut off, legs broken, body emaciated from disrepair. It was thrown out onto the stage, where it cried out in obvious pain. We don’t speak the language of the chicken, but pain is the one universal tongue that we can all decipher. If only I was a good enough writer to describe the horror and pain in its eyes. It played the most beautiful symphony of cataclysm and death, something that the great gods of old, from Babylon, Sumeria… even deeper, back to days when man prayed to sticks fashioned to represent his ignorance and greed, his hunger to stay alive.

Then… came the blissful moment of revelation, as our new overlord took the stage. He mocked the chicken, as he saw it trembling before him and then stepped on its head. It was his first act as our messiah and it was one of vengeful mercy. He approached the podium and said some things, all of which I could not hear. I heard something far greater, which I thought was coming from the crowd, but was instead coming from the earth. A rift tore itself open and unleashed an unfathomable army of dark monstrosities that claimed to only want to change our healthcare. They promised to give it back, as they ripped out the tongues of all of those who questioned their intentions. They marched into our world and slaughtered everyone in their path. It was truly a terrible day for democracy.

Lost in the shuffle was our new overlord, who had scurried away so fast nobody had a good idea as to where he went. Nobody cared, for as the rift opened, it could not be undone. The army that entered our world could not be denied. This inauguration day had opened something, a can of worms, if you will, that could not be put back. Everything changed. From this day, everything as we know it will be forever changed. It seems terrible right now. The future might hold something different, but it always ends the same. A rift opens. An army of aliens kills us all. Rinse… repeat.

The end.

Song of the Hill People

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Look like crows to me…

Stretching around Partition St and going for miles, passed Central Park and out to Herkimer St is what historians have labeled ‘Land of the Hill People’. Starting at Partition, the streets become narrow and slanted, as this half of the city is constructed on a hill… well, a mountain. In the early seventies, a group of nomads conquered this section of the city, known as the ‘Comanchi Hill Squatters’. They took the south side of Partition by force, invading the Stewarts and forcing out indigenous people that had lived there for generations. From there, they sped along the hill, gathering a brute army that slaughtered hundreds, before the city evacuated to the south. An army had to be called in to monitor the growing strength of this invasion, which amassed so swiftly it could hardly continue with such energy. Military experts could do nothing to save those within the area of Partition to Herkimer St, and thus the hill people either murdered those left behind, enslaved them or used them as a type of broodmare for their rotten genes. Since that fateful time, the hill people have become a staple of this fair city, with their genes being so inter-spliced amidst one another that their DNA can hardly be differentiated between one another. They’ve made this central point of our town their kingdom, which slants at an awkward right angle and forces all who park here to use their emergency brake.

There is a great hymn that these people have preserved over the years, sometimes editing to make their heroes sound that much greater to the ears of their children. It’s an important piece of their history, protecting it from invaders, as the Hill People are oft to do. They don’t take to outsiders with affection. They’ve always been xenophobic to a point where even their neighbors become enemies, if only for a while, before they’re friends again. History is their bond and theirs is full of myth and superstition. There’s this song that has escaped their secrecy, for which plenty have heard. I will share it now. This is the ‘Song of the Hill People’:

Many deeds have bested belly Bibby Bobby Maroo

Who tied together both his strings and gave the world his shoe

Not one to bother ever more to see between his sneakers

and belly slim amidst the mass of unrepentent tweekers

To cringe a toss so delicate betwixt his bloody fingers

That wrapped around those blackened cords with not a twinge of singer

And Billy Bobby broke it down to dance before his rivals

as they cringed with crimson rage and tossed their shoes in piles

For victory had been denied, because of Bobby Maroo

Who tossed, just one, but plenty more, his bloody, busted shoe.

Going through the land of the Hill People, one will see these decorations, shoes tied at the laces, strewn about the power-lines, as a show of respect to Bobby Maroo. Outsiders aren’t welcome for good reason. We can’t possibly understand the complexity of their culture. It would take anthropologists decades to infiltrate and understand the superstitions and religious hierarchies of the Hill People. This seems an impossibility, since the core belief among all Hill People is that if they can’t trust you they can have nothing to do with you. Still, one has to wonder what occurs at night, when they sing these songs, howling at the moon and honoring their dark gods.

Where The Buffalo Roam

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Photo of me, circa 1995. I enjoy hay most times, but there’s just something about grass… Oh give me a home… where the buffalo roam…

Over time, I’ve grown accustomed to my cynical interpretations of the world, although I will admit for honesty’s sake that I don’t think it’s the proper way to view the world. Being a cynic is the same as being an optimist, is the same as being a broken clock… you’re likely to be right at least twice in a day. Still, when you see the amount of stupidity and arrogance and brutality it’s just impossible not to cling to your ideals. Most of us need them for comfort. I see the future in blips that my mind tries to decipher. I see a little bit of what I remember from history classes. Repetition is the way of the world. You’ll see a glorious Fourth Reich emerge under the guise of the ‘American Dream’ and that’ll be the end of it. Rome prospered as a Republic. It floundered as an Empire. The era of the Christian empire… we refer to that these days as the ‘Dark Ages’. And, for all my cynicism, I can’t shake the bitter truth that’s chewing on my insides… you know, that vital point where the gut calls out to those who refuse to accept it.

I woke up during a generation that wasn’t accustomed to such harsh realities. We knew the world around us from a twenty-inch television screen. We saw the horror appear between cartoons, when our fathers would flip the channels for a moment, and in this way we were exposed to the densely packed chicanery of the outside world. If anything separated us or made us unique when compared to the generations before it’s that our parents and various consignment of adults seemed to inspire the apathy that would cement our legacy. They wanted us to be less inspired. They wanted us to be comfortable, because they weren’t when they were at our age. We weren’t hippies, although we enjoyed the drug use. We weren’t our harsh conservative counterparts leading impetuous, vulgar crusades against any other forms of reality that might coincide with our belief structures. Simply put… we just were. We saw the worst of both worlds. We saw Columbine, when two teenage boys brought in assault rifles and made their school into a war-zone. We saw Bill Clinton and the amorality that accompanied him, although the macabre demeanor of the entire circus was something all the more vulgar, as those who persecuted him were outed as pederasts and conmen. This is the world that my generation knew. We heard the words of our doom and devastation, but none of it seemed so real as to shake us out of this spell, for which I have no words.

I’ll admit that all the dangers seemed far away. We were a generation that grew up playing as pirates and soldiers, while not knowing that children are age in worlds far away were playing these games for real. Child soldiers, child slaves, child abduction. There was no such thing as ‘a childhood’ in other worlds, where kids our same age were forced to grow up much too fast, while we were allowed to hold onto ours up to the age of… well… I’m thirty-one… so… I think I have a few more years.

If it was one issue… and only one… which is a stretch, as I’m sure you could pick several issues with how our society operates… I think that our culture developed some form of impenetrable, narcissistic wall around us. Our parents, along with various corporate sponsors and conservative, amoral senators, took special care in protecting their children, protecting us, although the harsh realities of the outside world still remained. We maintained a delicate, oblivious nature that continued into adulthood. That’s what I blame. Every generation has a struggle of self, something that would’ve been labeled a ‘spiritual dilemma’ in days of old. Our generation has no spirit. We have no struggle. This is the dilemma. We’ve never been challenged or at least, whenever we’ve been challenged, someone else comes to our aid in miraculous fashion.

The real price of our narcissism is a willingness to allow everything to fall apart, because we think it will illicit a response from a yet to be determined messiah. We’ll let the world fall apart, because we expect a winged figure, not an angel, but superman, batman, whoever, to put all our fears to rest. The problem with this belief is that the rest of the world isn’t in on the joke. Our parents let us believe in monsters for too long, while the rest of the world already knew. We have a lot of catching up to do, but I don’t see it happening. We’re far too cynical. Most likely, we’ll let it all fall apart, because the comfort of our situation has yet to be compromised.

Overcoming this era in our lives, when we’ve been set to such a moderate standard, for which the challenge was never necessary is, in itself, the greatest challenge of our generation. We have plenty of goals, we just have to accept them. We have far more goals than we do limits. We have far more opportunities than we’d like to admit. We have far more chances for greatness than we do possibilities to hide when the nightmare finally asserts control.

Rensselaer Little League

Image result for funny baseballDuality principle is allowed to work even when you don’t take the time to consider it. You don’t have to think about belonging, becoming, existing with the world around you. Every once in a while, the cosmos create a certain blending of delicate harmonies and the world functions as one. It doesn’t have to be made into anything spiritual. It’s just a perfect moment when time, place and opportunity unfold before your eyes to allow a certain unknown reality to unfold.

One of the worst things about revelation is that it can fold back into unreality in a moment’s notice. If you don’t understand it or take the time to think about it, the moment disperses and you’re left with nothing. You might maintain certain illusions about the moment and how it made you feel, but unless you examine and learn from it, you’ll never manifest it in your everyday life… unless luck allows for it, if only one last time.

When I was a kid, I remember having such a moment. It’s amazing and unforgettable, because it’s not just happening to you. It happens to everyone around you. They sense it in some way, but for some it doesn’t register as anything significant. It’s duality principle taking effect, although, it can happen in a flash, and often manifests in the form of chaos. Nobody notices that it’s an organized chaos. We just see the bomb going off, the aftermath, the devastation, but we never catch the essence of what occurred.

The forms that it takes can be the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. For me and for several of us who signed up… it occurred at the Rensselaer Little League. There aren’t as many ‘city-lines’ that divide us… which is to say, people from one part of town don’t hate those on another part of town. Our hatred is individualized. This is what gives it its power. A man can hate another man for any damn reason that he pleases. We’ve all heard horror stories about parents acting more like children during these games. It happened more than I care to remember during my time playing at the Rensselaer Little League. Parents didn’t seem to understand that this was a pointless endeavor. We played in a field that ended a cul de sac, with a crick just behind the outfield fences. Somehow, the parents thought we were playing at Yankee Stadium. They’d bicker among one another, argue with umpires or even manage to call-out other people’s children. Usually when the last thing happened, the parent of the child would get involved and a fight would have to be broken up.

I’m relatively certain that this ‘Parents Behaving Badly’ occurs enough that it could be made into its own reality show. I can’t even begin to try and understand what’s going on in their minds. The point is that instead of bringing us together for an enjoyable time, it was made into something that seemed to bring out the worst in people. It wasn’t every time, but once in a while, some underlying psychosis got the better of them all and just… POOF… our fun time was taken away. Baseball provides for many a scapegoat for the excitement one finds in life, capsulizing it to brief moments, where children steal home or hits his first home run. The Little League that hides within a cul de sac off of Partition provides a place for children of all walks of life to meet, to see that they have something in common with one another, while their parents maintain their cultural bias.

How duality principle presented itself to me can be explained by the clever adage, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’. The hatred in this town performed two amazing feats of mental gymnastics when the summer came on and a few of us made the ‘All-Star League’, which brought other teams to our field at the end of a cul de sac. The first amazing feat of our hatred was to bring us together. Our hatred became infectious, spreading throughout the parents and bringing them together in order to form a united front against the parents and children of the opposing teams. It wasn’t a good things. I know this, but it happened. You could see people who always hated one another working together to act like fools and bicker about how the other teams were getting all the good breaks, good calls, good things overall. In this respect, the second mental gymnastic that formed this day out of duality principle is that our people understood the necessity of a decent scapegoat. The parents and people who came to enjoy the game found something special in berating the outsiders that came to the end of our cul de sac. There was a real feeling that we lived in a place close to ‘Thunderdome’, where two teams enter and just one could leave. We never put together the reality… THEY were the ones that get to leave. It didn’t matter. We were full of a sense of pride for where we were, brought on by these foreign invaders with nicer uniforms. That never mattered. We didn’t want to be them. We wanted… well… who the hell knows.

Duality principle didn’t last too long in those trying times and god knows nobody learned anything from the moment that we had. I was too young to understand the significance and even now, several years down the road, all I can see is the blurry memories of losing a summer because baseball felt like the sport that would never end. The duality of it is this… we can walk around or bump into each other. We can bump into each other and pick each other up or knock ourselves out into space. We can crash and put each other together or pull one another apart. That’s what I learned in between watching parents act worse than kids and trying to figure out why the god damn summer league would never, ever end.

Embrace of Calliope

Image result for love jokeOur town isn’t known for much. It’s rare for us to get in the papers and when we do, it’s more likely for something terrible that will bring us great shame. After a while, you just sort of become numb to it. You laugh it off, not to laugh at yourself, but laugh at the regular humiliation of your people. It’s kinda like being a Cleveland Browns fan… for which I offer my deepest sympathies.

On the day in question, when we received our deepest veneration from the world, it took the death of two of our greatest patrons, Calliope the Immortal and Eseferon the Great. Their story was something that brought hope to the world, but their ending was what caught people’s attention. They died in each other’s arms. It was a beautiful moment, so much so that someone even took a picture and, someone even more morbid had it framed. It stood in our local library for a few days, before it appeared distasteful to some and had to be removed.

Now, what came as an even greater surprise and helped create a mythology about their love was that Eseferon the Great somewhat predicted their deaths. I don’t think he predicted it as much as hoped. He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep forever in her arms. Eseferon the Great told the world that he had cancer, stricken limbs with rigor before his death, pulsing pains here and there, but, so it goes, when Calliope moved her hands over his body he felt nothing more. He claimed to have a sore on his neck, but when she touched it the pain dispersed. He believed himself to have something terrible lurking in his sides, but with a gentle caress she made the pain go away. He claimed that her touch held mystical powers. He claimed that when he was around her he felt no more pain.

This was something he said over and over again. For years, he’d admit to believing that she had something special that he couldn’t put his finger on, although it was her love that truly drove him to feel better. Calliope the Immortal I never saw a picture of in her younger days, although she maintained an undeniable beauty in her declining years. She appeared above the fatigue of death, doom and old age. People thought they were both crazy, because Calliope never had a job and all she ever seemed to do was walk around. It was something to see, however, as if we had a guardian angel roaming the streets without concern. It almost seemed as if we should also live without concern. She’d walk through our Riverfront Park and disappear under the bridge, only to return, same upright stance, same graceful walk, as if above water.

The coroners said there was nothing wrong with Eseferon, although he was always the hypochondriac, but I’m sure he’d assume his lack of distress on his loving partner. Calliope called them back. Her gift must’ve run out. Either way, I believe they knew their time was running out. She’d held him together for so long. What do you do when you have no time left? They returned to what brought them here in the first place. They did what they loved to do.